Sermons

Sermon: Pentecost (24th May, 2026, Year A)

/ nevermindthebuzzsocks / Leave a comment

Readings

Acts 2.1–21 – When the day of Pentecost had come, they were all together in one place. And suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the rush of a violent wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting. Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, and a tongue rested on each of them. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability. Now there were devout Jews from every nation under heaven living in Jerusalem. And at this sound the crowd gathered and was bewildered, because each one heard them speaking in the native language of each. Amazed and astonished, they asked, ‘Are not all these who are speaking Galileans? And how is it that we hear, each of us, in our own native language? Parthians, Medes, Elamites, and residents of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of Libya belonging to Cyrene, and visitors from Rome, both Jews and proselytes, Cretans and Arabs—in our own languages we hear them speaking about God’s deeds of power.’ All were amazed and perplexed, saying to one another, ‘What does this mean?’ But others sneered and said, ‘They are filled with new wine.’ But Peter, standing with the eleven, raised his voice and addressed them: ‘Men of Judea and all who live in Jerusalem, let this be known to you, and listen to what I say. Indeed, these are not drunk, as you suppose, for it is only nine o’clock in the morning. No, this is what was spoken through the prophet Joel:
“In the last days it will be, God declares,
that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh,
   and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy,
and your young men shall see visions,
   and your old men shall dream dreams.
Even upon my slaves, both men and women,
   in those days I will pour out my Spirit;
     and they shall prophesy.
And I will show portents in the heaven above
   and signs on the earth below,
     blood, and fire, and smoky mist.
The sun shall be turned to darkness
   and the moon to blood,
     before the coming of the Lord’s great and glorious day.
Then everyone who calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved.”

John 20.19–23 – When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you.’ After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. Jesus said to them again, ‘Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.’ When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, ‘Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.’

Sermon

Pentecost is often described as the birthday of the Church. It is the day when frightened and uncertain disciples become something new: people filled with the life and power of the Holy Spirit. But if we listen carefully to the story from Acts, we discover that Pentecost is not only about power. It is also about welcome. It is about barriers falling. It is about people hearing, perhaps for the first time, that the good news of God includes them.

The scene in Acts begins with uncertainty. The disciples are gathered together in one place, waiting, unsure what comes next. And then suddenly, there is wind. Fire. Noise. Energy. The Holy Spirit arrives not quietly, not privately, but publicly and dramatically.

And what happens first? Not preaching. Not organising. Not building structures (or maintaining them!) What happens first is that people understand one another. And I think that’s really important to notice.

The miracle of Pentecost is not that everybody suddenly speaks the same language. The miracle is that each person hears in their own language. Parthians, Medes, Elamites, visitors from Rome, Egypt, Libya, Cappadocia; all these different people hear the disciples speaking “about God’s deeds of power” in ways they can understand.

The Holy Spirit does not erase difference. The Holy Spirit speaks through difference. That is a profoundly important thing for the Church to remember.

Sometimes Christians have behaved as though unity means sameness. As though belonging depends upon fitting a particular mould, speaking with a particular voice, presenting yourself in a particular way. But Pentecost tells another story entirely. At Pentecost, God does not ask the crowd to become identical before they can receive grace. Instead, God meets them exactly where they are in exactly who they are: in their own language. In their own experience. In their own lives. And perhaps that matters especially today, in a fractious and contested world.

Because many Christians know what it feels like to stand in a crowd and wonder whether the Church truly speaks a language they can hear as good news. Many know what it is to fear that faith communities may demand silence, disguise, or distance before welcome can be offered. Some have experienced churches where difference was treated not as something through which God might work, but as a problem to overcome.

Yet Pentecost pushes against all of that. The Spirit descends not upon one kind of person, but upon a diverse and bewilderingly mixed crowd. The Spirit does not narrow the family of God. The Spirit expands it.

And Peter, trying to explain what is happening, reaches for the words of the prophet Joel: “I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh.” All flesh.

Not some flesh. Not approved flesh. Not people who fit neatly into categories flesh. All flesh.

There is something gloriously expansive about that promise. God’s Spirit poured out extravagantly upon humanity in all its variety and complexity. Sons and daughters. Young and old. Men and women. People across all the boundaries that society constantly tries to police and reinforce.

The movement of the Spirit in Acts is always outward. Again and again in the book of Acts, the Spirit pushes the Church beyond the limits it would otherwise choose for itself. Beyond fear. Beyond prejudice. Beyond assumptions about who belongs.

And that movement begins here, at Pentecost.

Of course, the reality is that many people still live behind locked doors. That is where the Gospel reading meets us. In John’s Gospel, the disciples are hiding. The doors are locked because of fear. Fear has enclosed them. Fear has made their world smaller.

And yet Jesus comes anyway. The locked doors do not stop him.

That detail matters deeply. Because there are many kinds of locked doors. Some are external: rejection, hostility, exclusion. Some are internal: shame, anxiety, fear of being known fully. Many people have lived and still live with both.

But the risen Christ walks through locked doors. He comes into places of fear and says, “Peace be with you.”

He doesn’t come with condemnation. He doesn’t come with suspicion. He doesn’t come to interrogate. He comes to bring peace.

And then he breathes the Holy Spirit upon them. It is a deeply intimate image. The breath of God filling frightened people with new life. The same Spirit that rushes like wind through the house at Pentecost is here given quietly, personally, lovingly, to people who are afraid. That too is good news.

Because the Holy Spirit is not given only to the confident or the certain or the publicly triumphant. The Spirit is also given to those still hiding. To those still healing. To those still wondering whether there is room for them in the story of God. And the answer Pentecost gives is a resounding and unequivocal yes.

Yes, because the Spirit speaks every language. Yes, because the Spirit crosses every barrier. Yes, because the Spirit is poured out upon all flesh.

The Church is at its most faithful not when it builds higher walls, but when it opens wider doors. Not when it fears difference, but when it recognises that the image of God is reflected through the rich diversity of humanity God has created and loves.

That does not mean difference disappears. Pentecost is noisy precisely because diversity remains. Different voices are still speaking. Different histories and identities still exist. But somehow, through the work of the Spirit, communion becomes possible.

And that is what we celebrate at this table.

A Eucharist where none of us comes because we are flawless. None of us comes because we have everything figured out. None of us comes because we have earned our place. We come because Christ invites us. We come because the Spirit gathers us. We come because the love of God is wider than human fear.

At Pentecost, the Church discovers its voice. And its first words are words that people from every background can hear as good news. May we be that kind of Church still.

A Church where people hear grace in their own language. A Church where locked doors are not the end of the story. A Church courageous enough to believe that when God says “all flesh,” God truly means all flesh.

In the name of God, who is creator, redeemer and life-giving Holy Spirt. Amen.

Sermon: Endings and Beginnings (17th May, 2026, Year A)

/ nevermindthebuzzsocks / Leave a comment

Acts 1.6–14 – So when they had come together, they asked him, ‘Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel?’ He replied, ‘It is not for you to know the times or periods that the Father has set by his own authority. But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.’ When he had said this, as they were watching, he was lifted up, and a cloud took him out of their sight. While he was going and they were gazing up towards heaven, suddenly two men in white robes stood by them. They said, ‘Men of Galilee, why do you stand looking up towards heaven? This Jesus, who has been taken up from you into heaven, will come in the same way as you saw him go into heaven.’ Then they returned to Jerusalem from the mount called Olivet, which is near Jerusalem, a sabbath day’s journey away. When they had entered the city, they went to the room upstairs where they were staying, Peter, and John, and James, and Andrew, Philip and Thomas, Bartholomew and Matthew, James son of Alphaeus, and Simon the Zealot, and Judas son of James. All these were constantly devoting themselves to prayer, together with certain women, including Mary the mother of Jesus, as well as his brothers.

John 17.1–11 – After Jesus had spoken these words, he looked up to heaven and said, ‘Father, the hour has come; glorify your Son so that the Son may glorify you, since you have given him authority over all people, to give eternal life to all whom you have given him. And this is eternal life, that they may know you, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom you have sent. I glorified you on earth by finishing the work that you gave me to do. So now, Father, glorify me in your own presence with the glory that I had in your presence before the world existed. ‘I have made your name known to those whom you gave me from the world. They were yours, and you gave them to me, and they have kept your word. Now they know that everything you have given me is from you; for the words that you gave to me I have given to them, and they have received them and know in truth that I came from you; and they have believed that you sent me. I am asking on their behalf; I am not asking on behalf of the world, but on behalf of those whom you gave me, because they are yours. All mine are yours, and yours are mine; and I have been glorified in them. And now I am no longer in the world, but they are in the world, and I am coming to you. Holy Father, protect them in your name that you have given me, so that they may be one, as we are one.

Sermon

In the days between Ascension and Pentecost, we find ourselves in an unusual place. The risen Christ has now ascended to the Father. Pentecost, when the Holy Spirit descends to us, has not yet arrived. The disciples are waiting. Praying. Wondering what comes next.

Perhaps you know what waiting and not knowing what comes next feels like. Indeed, I think many of us know what it feels like to live in between things. Between endings and beginnings. Between uncertainty and clarity. Between prayer and fulfilment. Between what God has done and what God might be about to do.

The disciples in our reading from Acts are standing in precisely that place. Jesus has ascended from their sight. The angels tell them not to stand looking into heaven forever, and so they return to Jerusalem. And what do they do there? They pray. Not strategically. Not triumphantly. Not with some perfect understanding of what’s gone on. They simply gather together faithfully and devote themselves to prayer.

It is our gospel reading from John that helps us understand how they are able to do that. Because in John 17 we overhear something extraordinary: Jesus praying for his disciples.

This chapter of John’s gospel is sometimes called the High Priestly Prayer. It comes just before Jesus goes out into the garden at Gethsemane, before his arrest and crucifixion. In other words, these are among the last words Jesus speaks before the cross. And remarkably, he spends those moments praying not for himself alone, but for those whom the Father has given him.

“I am asking on their behalf.” There is something deeply moving about Jesus’ words. The disciples are confused. Before long they will fail Jesus, scatter, deny him, abandon him. They do not fully understand who he is or what lies ahead. And yet Jesus prays for them lovingly and faithfully. Not once do we hear irritation in his voice. Not once does he speak as though the disciples are a disappointment. Instead, he entrusts them to the Father’s care.

“Holy Father, protect them in your name that you have given me, so that they may be one, as we are one.” That prayer really matters because the disciples are about to face a world that will test them. The protection Jesus speaks about is not protection from difficulty or suffering. After all, many of those disciples will go on to endure persecution and martyrdom. Rather, Jesus prays that they will be kept faithful. Kept united. Kept within the life of God.

And perhaps that is important for us to hear too. We sometimes imagine that faithfulness becomes easier once we have enough certainty, enough confidence, enough answers. But the disciples do not have those things yet. At this point, they are still waiting. Still uncertain. Still praying together in an upstairs room. And yet Jesus already calls them his own.

That is one of the great comforts of this passage: the security of Christ’s Church does not ultimately rest upon the strength of the disciples; it does nor rest upon our strength; it rests upon the faithfulness of Christ. The Church exists because Christ holds it, prays for it, and entrusts it to the Father.

That matters in every age, but perhaps especially now. We live in a time when the Church often feels fragile. We worry about numbers of the faithful and of our resources. We sometimes feel uncertain about the future. Society itself is increasingly fragmented and anxious. And into that reality comes the prayer of Jesus: “Holy Father, protect them… so that they may be one.”

Notice that unity sits at the heart of Christ’s prayer. Not uniformity. Not everyone becoming identical. The disciples themselves were certainly not identical people. But they were called into a shared life rooted in God.

Christian unity is not about always agreeing with one another or avoiding conflict. It is about sharing together in the life and love of God himself. The unity of the Church is meant to reflect something of the unity between the Father and the Son.

And that means unity is not a superficial thing. Crucially, it means that unity is God’s gift to us before it becomes our holy work. Every act of patience. Every moment of forgiveness. Every refusal to caricature or dismiss another person. Every decision to remain together when it would be easier not to; all of these become part of the answer to Christ’s prayer. Because unity is not something we manufacture by ourselves. It is something we are continually drawn back into by God’s grace.

And perhaps that is why the disciples, after the Ascension, devote themselves to prayer. Prayer keeps them together. Prayer teaches them dependence upon one another. Prayer creates space for the coming of the Spirit. Before the Church can become active, it first must become prayerful.

That is striking because we often prefer activity to waiting. We want plans, movement, visible progress. Yet these days between Ascension and Pentecost remind us that the Church is not sustained simply by energy or efficiency. The Church lives by remaining close to Christ. And that closeness is sustained through prayer.

Not polished prayer. Not impressive prayer. Just faithful prayer. The kind of prayer that says: “Lord, we do not fully know what comes next. But we are still here. Still listening. Still waiting upon you.”

And perhaps that is where these readings meet us today.

Some of us may be carrying uncertainty. Some may feel caught between stages of life. Some may be waiting for guidance, strength, healing, or hope. The good news of this Sunday is that Christ prays for his people even in the waiting.

Before the disciples preach, before Pentecost comes, before the Church bursts into life, Jesus already holds them in love. And he holds us too. The ascended Christ has not abandoned his Church. He intercedes for it still.

And so, like those first disciples, we continue together: praying, waiting, trusting, and learning again that our life rests safely in the hands of God.

Amen.

Sermon: I Will Not Leave You Orphaned (10th May, 2026, Year A)

/ nevermindthebuzzsocks / Leave a comment

Readings

Acts 17.22–31 – Then Paul stood in front of the Areopagus and said, ‘Athenians, I see how extremely religious you are in every way. For as I went through the city and looked carefully at the objects of your worship, I found among them an altar with the inscription, “To an unknown god.” What therefore you worship as unknown, this I proclaim to you. The God who made the world and everything in it, he who is Lord of heaven and earth, does not live in shrines made by human hands, nor is he served by human hands, as though he needed anything, since he himself gives to all mortals life and breath and all things. From one ancestor he made all nations to inhabit the whole earth, and he allotted the times of their existence and the boundaries of the places where they would live, so that they would search for God and perhaps grope for him and find him—though indeed he is not far from each one of us. For “In him we live and move and have our being”; as even some of your own poets have said, “For we too are his offspring.” Since we are God’s offspring, we ought not to think that the deity is like gold, or silver, or stone, an image formed by the art and imagination of mortals. While God has overlooked the times of human ignorance, now he commands all people everywhere to repent, because he has fixed a day on which he will have the world judged in righteousness by a man whom he has appointed, and of this he has given assurance to all by raising him from the dead.’

John 14.15–21 – ‘If you love me, you will keep my commandments. And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate, to be with you for ever. This is the Spirit of truth, whom the world cannot receive, because it neither sees him nor knows him. You know him, because he abides with you, and he will be in you. ‘I will not leave you orphaned; I am coming to you. In a little while the world will no longer see me, but you will see me; because I live, you also will live. On that day you will know that I am in my Father, and you in me, and I in you. They who have my commandments and keep them are those who love me; and those who love me will be loved by my Father, and I will love them and reveal myself to them.’

Sermon

There are moments in life when absence is felt very sharply. A loved one leaves the room. A familiar voice falls silent. A season of life comes to an end. And even when we know that change is necessary, there is still a sense of uncertainty: What happens now? Who will guide us? How will we manage without them?

That is very much the atmosphere surrounding today’s gospel reading from Gospel of John. Jesus is preparing his disciples for his departure. These chapters of John’s gospel are intimate and tender. The disciples know that something is changing, even if they do not yet fully understand what. Jesus has spoken of betrayal, denial, suffering and death. Their world is beginning to wobble beneath their feet.

And into that uncertainty Jesus says: “I will not leave you orphaned.”

It is an extraordinarily gentle promise. Not: I will make everything easy. Not: You will never struggle. Not even: You will always understand what God is doing. But: I will not leave you alone. That promise sits at the heart of today’s gospel.

Jesus also speaks about love and commandments, but not in the sense of cold rule-keeping. “If you love me, you will keep my commandments,” he says. In John’s gospel, the commandment above all others is this: to love as Christ has loved. The obedience Jesus speaks about is not mechanical obedience. It is the natural shape of a relationship rooted in love.

We can probably recognise the difference instinctively. There is a world of difference between doing something merely because we are forced to and doing something because we love someone deeply. Love changes the character of obedience. It transforms duty into devotion.

And then Jesus speaks of “another Advocate,” the Spirit of truth. The word “Advocate” can also mean comforter, helper, companion, encourager. Jesus promises that the Holy Spirit will continue his presence among the disciples. Christ may no longer be physically beside them in the same way, but God will remain profoundly close to them.

That matters because the Christian life is not simply about trying harder to be good people. It is about God dwelling with us and within us. “I am in my Father,” Jesus says, “and you in me, and I in you.” This is not distant religion. It is relationship. Communion. Participation in the life of God.

And perhaps that is where today’s reading from Acts of the Apostles becomes especially illuminating. Paul stands in Athens surrounded by altars, philosophies and competing visions of truth. He notices even an altar “To an unknown god.” The Athenians are searching. Reaching out. Trying somehow to name what they cannot quite grasp.

Paul does not begin by condemning them for that longing. Instead, he begins with recognition. He sees their hunger for God. And then he declares that the God they are searching for is not distant after all. “He is not far from each one of us.”

That line could almost stand as a commentary on today’s gospel. The God revealed in Jesus Christ is not remote or hidden away in some inaccessible heaven. God is near. God is active. God is present through the Holy Spirit.

Sometimes we imagine faith means managing to climb our way up to God. But the gospel tells a different story. Again and again, God is the one who comes towards us first.

That is the pattern of Easter.

The risen Christ comes to frightened disciples behind locked doors. The risen Christ walks alongside confused travellers on the road to Emmaus. And now, before his ascension, Christ promises that his presence will continue through the Spirit. “I will not leave you orphaned.”

For the Church, that promise has always mattered enormously. Because there are many times when Christians have felt uncertain or overwhelmed. The early disciples certainly did. After the ascension, they could no longer rely on simply turning around and physically seeing Jesus beside them. They would have to learn what it meant to trust the Spirit’s guidance.

The Church in every age has had to learn the same lesson. And so do we.

There are times when God can seem obvious and close. And there are other times when faith feels quieter and harder. Times when prayer feels dry. Times when the future is unclear. Times when the Church itself feels fragile or anxious.

Yet the promise of Christ remains unchanged. Not abandoned. Not orphaned. Not alone. The Spirit of God continues to work; sometimes dramatically, but often gently and quietly.

In courage that arrives when we thought we had none left. In forgiveness that softens a hardened heart. In compassion shown to a neighbour. In worship, sacrament and prayer. In moments of unexpected peace. In the steady faithfulness of ordinary Christian life. Very often, the Spirit’s work is less like a lightning bolt and more like breath: unseen, but life-giving.

And perhaps that image of breath is helpful in Eastertide. Breath sustains us constantly, even when we barely notice it. Most of the time we are not consciously thinking about breathing at all. Yet every moment of life depends upon it.

So too with the presence of God. The Spirit quietly sustains the Church, generation after generation. Quietly sustains our faith. Quietly draws us back towards Christ again and again. And this matters not only for us individually, but for the world.

In Athens, Paul proclaims that all people ultimately live within the reality of God: “In him we live and move and have our being.” The gospel is not about escaping the world, but about discovering God already at work within it.

That means Christians are called to live as people attentive to God’s presence; in our communities, in our relationships, in our care for one another, and in our witness to Christ. Because if God is not far from each one of us, then no person is beyond the reach of his love.

And perhaps that is finally where today’s gospel leads us: not simply towards reassurance, but towards confidence. The disciples are anxious about losing Jesus. Yet Jesus is preparing them not for abandonment, but for mission. The Spirit will enable them to continue Christ’s work in the world. And the same is true for the Church today.

We do not follow a dead teacher preserved only in memory. We follow the risen Christ, who continues to dwell with his people through the Holy Spirit. The Church lives because Christ is alive.

And so, even amid uncertainty, the words of Jesus still speak with quiet power: “I will not leave you orphaned.”

Amen.

Sermon: Do Not Let Your Hearts Be Troubled (3rd May, 2026, Year A)

/ nevermindthebuzzsocks / Leave a comment

Readings

Acts 7.55–end – Filled with the Holy Spirit, Stephen gazed into heaven and saw the glory of God and Jesus standing at the right hand of God. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I see the heavens opened and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God!’ But they covered their ears, and with a loud shout all rushed together against him. Then they dragged him out of the city and began to stone him; and the witnesses laid their coats at the feet of a young man named Saul. While they were stoning Stephen, he prayed, ‘Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.’ Then he knelt down and cried out in a loud voice, ‘Lord, do not hold this sin against them.’ When he had said this, he died.

John 14.1–14 – Jesus said to his disciples, ‘Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house there are many dwelling-places. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you?And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also. And you know the way to the place where I am going.’Thomas said to him, ‘Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?’ Jesus said to him, ‘I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me. If you know me, you will know my Father also. From now on you do know him and have seen him.’ Philip said to him, ‘Lord, show us the Father, and we will be satisfied.’ Jesus said to him, ‘Have I been with you all this time, Philip, and you still do not know me? Whoever has seen me has seen the Father. How can you say, “Show us the Father”? Do you not believe that I am in the Father and the Father is in me? The words that I say to you I do not speak on my own; but the Father who dwells in me does his works. Believe me that I am in the Father and the Father is in me; but if you do not, then believe me because of the works themselves. Very truly, I tell you, the one who believes in me will also do the works that I do and, in fact, will do greater works than these, because I am going to the Father. I will do whatever you ask in my name, so that the Father may be glorified in the Son. If in my name you ask me for anything, I will do it.’

Sermon

“Do not let your hearts be troubled.”

Jesus speaks these words into a moment of deep uncertainty. The disciples can sense that something is ending. The shape of their life with him is changing, and they do not yet understand what comes next. And it is into that uncertainty, not after it has been resolved, that Jesus says: “Do not let your hearts be troubled.”

I think the timing of Jesus’ words matter, because it tells us that this is not a command to feel calm. It is an invitation to trust. Trust, not because the situation is straightforward, but because of who he is. And that becomes clearer as the conversation unfolds. Thomas asks the question that perhaps everyone is thinking: “Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?”

It is a question about direction, about certainty, about wanting something solid to hold onto. And Jesus responds, not by clarifying the route, but by redefining the question: “I am the way, and the truth, and the life.” He does not offer a map or a plan. He offers himself. Which means that the “way” is not something we master. It is someone we follow.

And that changes how we understand what it means to live faithfully. Because it means that the heart of the Christian life is not about having clarity over every step ahead. It is about relationship; about remaining in Christ, trusting him, walking with him. “Do not let your hearts be troubled… believe in God, believe also in me.”

Now hold that alongside what we have heard from Acts.

Stephen stands before a crowd that has already decided his fate. The situation is not uncertain in the way the disciples’ is. It is, if anything, brutally clear. There is no ambiguity about what is coming. And yet, in that moment, Stephen is described as “full of the Holy Spirit.” He gazes into heaven and sees “the glory of God and Jesus standing at the right hand of God.”

That detail is worth pausing over. Elsewhere in the New Testament, Jesus is described as seated at the right hand of God. Here, he is standing. It is a small shift, but a significant one. It suggests attentiveness. Presence. A readiness to receive. Stephen is not alone. And because he knows that, because his gaze is fixed on Christ, his response is transformed. He entrusts his spirit to Jesus. And he prays for those who are killing him.

This is not detachment from reality. It is not denial of what is happening. Stephen is fully present to the moment. But his vision is larger than the moment. He sees beyond what is immediately in front of him.

And that, I think, is where these two readings meet.

In John’s Gospel, Jesus calls his disciples to trust him as the way, specially when the path ahead is unclear. In Acts, Stephen shows us what that trust can look like when it is lived out, when everything seems to be closing in rather than opening up. In both cases, the key is where the gaze is directed. The disciples are invited to look to Christ. Stephen actually does.

And that changes everything; not by altering the circumstances, but by reshaping how those circumstances are held.

“Do not let your hearts be troubled.” That does not mean that trouble will not come. It does not mean that we will not face moments of fear, confusion, or even profound loss. But it does mean that those moments do not have the final word. Because the one who is the way has gone ahead of us.

“In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places… I go to prepare a place for you.” These are not just comforting words about the future. They are words that reframe the present. They tell us that our lives are held within a larger reality—a reality shaped by the life, death, resurrection, and ascension of Christ. And so, even now, our lives are oriented somewhere. We are not wandering aimlessly. We are being drawn. Drawn into the life of God.

And that has implications for how we live. It means that when we find ourselves asking, “What is the way forward?” the answer may not come as a clear set of directions. Instead, the question becomes: Where is Christ in this? And how do I remain with him? It means that when we face situations that feel overwhelming, the invitation is not first to solve them, but to fix our gaze. To look again to Christ.

Not in a vague or abstract sense, but in the concrete practices of faith: in prayer, in Scripture, in the sacraments, in the life of the Church. Because these are the places where we learn to recognise his presence. These are the places where our vision is gently reshaped.

And, perhaps most challengingly, it means that as our vision is reshaped, so too is our response.

Stephen’s final prayer, “Lord, do not hold this sin against them”, is not an isolated moment of heroism. It is the fruit of a life oriented towards Christ. It is what happens when the way we follow begins to shape the way we love. That kind of response does not come easily. It stretches us. It exposes our limits. But it also points to the depth of what it means to follow the one who is the way.

“Do not let your hearts be troubled.” These are not light words. They are spoken into the reality of fear and uncertainty. But they are also spoken by the one who has overcome death. The one who prepares a place for us. The one who stands to receive us. And the one who, even now, calls us to follow.

Not with everything mapped out, but with our eyes fixed on him.

Amen.

Sermon: Hospitality on the Road (19th April, 2026, Year A)

/ nevermindthebuzzsocks / Leave a comment

Readings

Acts 2.14a, 36–41 – Peter, standing with the eleven, raised his voice and addressed the crowd in Jerusalem: ‘Let the entire house of Israel know with certainty that God has made him both Lord and Messiah, this Jesus whom you crucified.’ Now when they heard this, they were cut to the heart and said to Peter and to the other apostles, ‘Brothers, what should we do?’ Peter said to them, ‘Repent, and be baptized every one of you in the name of Jesus Christ so that your sins may be forgiven; and you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit. For the promise is for you, for your children, and for all who are far away, everyone whom the Lord our God calls to him.’ And he testified with many other arguments and exhorted them, saying, ‘Save yourselves from this corrupt generation.’ So those who welcomed his message were baptized, and that day about three thousand persons were added.

Luke 24.13–35 – Now on that same day two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem, and talking with each other about all these things that had happened. While they were talking and discussing, Jesus himself came near and went with them, but their eyes were kept from recognizing him. And he said to them, ‘What are you discussing with each other while you walk along?’ They stood still, looking sad.Then one of them, whose name was Cleopas, answered him, ‘Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have taken place there in these days?’ He asked them, ‘What things?’ They replied, ‘The things about Jesus of Nazareth, who was a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people, and how our chief priests and leaders handed him over to be condemned to death and crucified him. But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel. Yes, and besides all this, it is now the third day since these things took place. Moreover, some women of our group astounded us. They were at the tomb early this morning, and when they did not find his body there, they came back and told us that they had indeed seen a vision of angels who said that he was alive. Some of those who were with us went to the tomb and found it just as the women had said; but they did not see him.’ Then he said to them, ‘Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared! Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and then enter into his glory?’ Then beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them the things about himself in all the scriptures. As they came near the village to which they were going, he walked ahead as if he were going on. But they urged him strongly, saying, ‘Stay with us, because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over.’ So he went in to stay with them. When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him; and he vanished from their sight. They said to each other, ‘Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?’ That same hour they got up and returned to Jerusalem; and they found the eleven and their companions gathered together. They were saying, ‘The Lord has risen indeed, and he has appeared to Simon!’ Then they told what had happened on the road, and how he had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.

Sermon

At the heart of the road to Emmaus is a simple invitation: “Stay with us.” It is easy to miss how important that moment is.

Two disciples are walking away from Jerusalem, carrying confusion and disappointment with them. A stranger comes alongside them. He listens. He speaks. He walks with them. And then, as they reach their destination, he appears ready to go on. The encounter could have ended there. A conversation on the road. Nothing more. But instead, they say: “Stay with us.” They make room.

That act of making room is where the story turns. Not in the conversation, however meaningful it has been. Not even in the explanation of the Scriptures. But in the decision to extend hospitality. “Stay with us.”

It is a simple gesture. The kind of thing offered at the end of a long day’s walk. A meal. A place to rest. A sign of welcome. And yet, in this moment, it becomes the place where Christ is made known.

Because when they sit down at the table, something happens that goes beyond ordinary expectations. They have offered the invitation. They have opened their home. They are, in every sense, the hosts. And yet, when the bread is taken, blessed, broken and given, it is Jesus who does it. The guest takes the place of the host. The one who was invited in becomes the one who gives. And it is in that exchange—in that quiet, shared act—that their eyes are opened. They recognise him.

This is not simply a story about kindness to a stranger. It shows us something about the nature of Christian hospitality. Hospitality, in its deepest sense, is not only about what we offer. It is about what we are willing to receive.

The disciples begin by offering shelter. They end by receiving Christ. They prepare a table.
They find themselves being fed. They welcome someone into their space. They discover that they themselves are being welcomed into a new understanding of God’s presence.

And this is where the story speaks directly to us. Because it is possible to think of hospitality as a one-way movement. We give. We provide. We offer. But the Emmaus story unsettles that idea. In the presence of Christ, hospitality becomes something shared. It becomes an encounter in which both host and guest are changed and interchangeable. The one who welcomes is also drawn into receiving. The one who gives discovers that they are being given to.

This has something important to say about the life of the Church.

We speak often about being welcoming communities. About opening our doors. About inviting others in. And all of that matters. But the Emmaus story suggests that something more is at stake. Because to offer hospitality in the name of Christ is also to take a risk.

It is to recognise that Christ may meet us in the one we welcome. It is to accept that the encounter may not leave us unchanged. It is to be open not only to giving, but to receiving—to being surprised, challenged, even reshaped.

We see this most clearly at the table. Week by week, we gather and bring what we have. Bread. Wine. Ourselves. It can feel as though we are the ones offering something. And yet, as the Eucharist unfolds, it becomes clear that Christ is the one who hosts us.

He takes what is given. He blesses it. He shares it. And we are the ones who receive. The pattern of Emmaus continues here. We come as hosts, and find ourselves guests.

The invitation, then, is not only to offer hospitality, but to live within this movement of exchange. To say, in whatever way we can: “Stay with us.” To make space—for Christ, and for one another. To trust that in doing so, something may be revealed that we could not have seen on our own.

And when that happens, it changes the direction of our lives. The disciples do not remain where they are. They return to Jerusalem. They go back to the place they had left behind. Because once Christ is recognised, the journey cannot continue as it was.

In Acts, we see the same pattern in a different form. Peter speaks, and the people ask, “What should we do?” And the answer is simple: turn around. Begin again. It is the same movement. A recognition that leads to response. An encounter that leads to change.

So perhaps the question this Gospel places before us is not complicated. Where are we being invited to make room? Where are we being asked to say, “Stay with us”? And are we willing to do so, knowing that we may not remain the same?

Because in the life of faith, hospitality is never just about opening a door. It is about allowing Christ to meet us in the act of welcome. It is about discovering that, in offering space to another, we are being drawn into the life of God.

And so, as we come to the table today, we do so with that simple prayer:

That Christ would stay with us.
That in the sharing of bread, we might recognise him.
And that, in welcoming him, we might find ourselves welcomed in return. Alleluia. Christ is risen.
He is risen indeed. Alleluia.