Sermons

Sermon: Towel and Basin, Bread and Wine (Maundy Thursday, 2026)

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Readings

1 Corinthians 11.23–26 – For I received from the Lord what I also handed on to you, that the Lord Jesus on the night when he was betrayed took a loaf of bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, ‘This is my body that is for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’ In the same way he took the cup also, after supper, saying, ‘This cup is the new covenant in my blood. Do this, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me.’ For as often as you eat this bread and drink the cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.

John 13.1–17, 31b–35 – Before the festival of the Passover, Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart from this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end. The devil had already put it into the heart of Judas son of Simon Iscariot to betray him. And during supper Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands, and that he had come from God and was going to God, got up from the table, took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet and to wipe them with the towel that was tied around him. He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, ‘Lord, are you going to wash my feet?’ Jesus answered, ‘You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand.’ Peter said to him, ‘You will never wash my feet.’ Jesus answered, ‘Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.’ Simon Peter said to him, ‘Lord, not my feet only but also my hands and my head!’ Jesus said to him, ‘One who has bathed does not need to wash, except for the feet, but is entirely clean. And you are clean, though not all of you.’ For he knew who was to betray him; for this reason he said, ‘Not all of you are clean.’ After he had washed their feet, had put on his robe, and had returned to the table, he said to them, ‘Do you know what I have done to you? You call me Teacher and Lord—and you are right, for that is what I am. So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you. Very truly, I tell you, servants are not greater than their master, nor are messengers greater than the one who sent them. If you know these things, you are blessed if you do them. Now the Son of Man has been glorified, and God has been glorified in him. If God has been glorified in him, God will also glorify him in himself and will glorify him at once. Little children, I am with you only a little longer. You will look for me; and as I said to the Jews so now I say to you, “Where I am going, you cannot come.” I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.’

Sermon

Tonight, we gather in the quiet shadow of the Upper Room.

We come as those who know what lies ahead: the betrayal, the arrest, the cross. And yet, in the gospel we have heard, Jesus does not begin with suffering. He begins with love.

“Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end.”

That is the note that sets the tone for everything that follows this night. Not fear. Not anger. Not even sorrow. But love — a love that goes to the very limit; a love that does not turn away.

And what does that love look like?

Surprisingly for the Son of God, it looks like a towel and a basin.

It is a striking thing that, in John’s Gospel, where we might expect an account of the institution of the eucharist, we are instead given this: Jesus rising from the table, removing his outer robe, kneeling at the feet of his disciples, and washing them. The one whom they call Lord and Teacher takes the place of a servant. The one through whom all things were made bends down to wash the dust from their feet.

And perhaps most striking of all, he does this knowing exactly who sits before him. He knows Judas will betray him. He knows Peter will deny him. He knows the others will scatter and abandon him. And still, he kneels. Still, he washes. Still, he loves.

This is not love offered because it is deserved. It is love given because it is who he is.

Peter, understandably, recoils. “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?” And then, more strongly, “You will never wash my feet.” There is something in us that resists this kind of love. It unsettles us. It overturns our instincts about dignity and worthiness. We would rather serve than be served; rather offer than receive — especially when receiving places us in a position of vulnerability.

But Jesus insists: “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.” Before we can follow him, before we can serve in his name, we must first allow ourselves to be served by him. We must allow him to draw close to the parts of our lives that are dusty, tired, and worn. We must allow him to love us; not as we imagine we ought to be, but as we truly are.

Only then can we begin to understand what he asks of us. “For I have set you an example,” he says, “that you also should do as I have done to you.”

This is the heart of Maundy Thursday. The word “Maundy” comes from the Latin mandatum, meaning a commandment. And the commandment Jesus gives is this: “Love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.” Not in the abstract. Not in fine words alone. But in concrete, embodied acts of humility and care. To love as Jesus loves is to kneel where the world expects us to stand. It is to notice the overlooked, to tend to the weary, to serve without seeking recognition. It is to offer ourselves, not only when it is convenient or comfortable, but precisely when it is costly.

And that brings us to the words of First Epistle to the Corinthians that we have heard this evening. “For I received from the Lord what I also handed on to you…” Here, we are given the familiar words of the Last Supper: bread taken, blessed, broken; a cup shared, a covenant sealed: “Do this in remembrance of me.”

On this night, we hold together these two great gifts: the washing of feet, and the breaking of bread. Both speak of the same self-giving love.

In the washing of feet, Jesus shows us what love looks like in action — humble, practical, attentive.

In the bread and the cup, he gives us himself — his body broken, his blood poured out.

And we are not only to receive these gifts, but to be shaped by them.

Each time we come to the Eucharist, we are drawn again into this pattern of life: to receive the love of Christ, and to become, in turn, people who love as he loves.

We cannot separate the altar from the basin. We cannot receive the bread of heaven and refuse the call to serve one another on earth. For the same Lord who says, “This is my body, given for you,” also says, “I have set you an example.”

And so tonight, as we remember, we are also invited. Invited to come to Christ, not because we are worthy, but because we are loved. Invited to receive from him what we cannot give ourselves: grace, mercy, forgiveness, life. And invited to follow him; not in grand gestures alone, but in the quiet, faithful acts of love that shape a life.

In a world that so often prizes power, status, and self-assertion, Christ shows us another way. The way of the towel. The way of the cross. The way of love that endures to the end. And it is by this, he tells us, that all will know that we are his disciples: if we have love for one another.

So, as we move from this place into the stillness of this holy night, may we carry with us not only the memory of what Christ has done, but the call to become what we have received. Servants of his love. Bearers of his grace. And witnesses, in word and deed, to the One who loved us to the end.

Amen.

Sermon: Lazarus, Come Out (22nd Mar, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

Ezekiel 37.1–14 – The hand of the Lord came upon me, and he brought me out by the spirit of the Lord and set me down in the middle of a valley; it was full of bones. He led me all round them; there were very many lying in the valley, and they were very dry. He said to me, ‘Mortal, can these bones live?’ I answered, ‘O Lord God, you know.’ Then he said to me, ‘Prophesy to these bones, and say to them: O dry bones, hear the word of the Lord. Thus says the Lord God to these bones: I will cause breath to enter you, and you shall live. I will lay sinews on you, and will cause flesh to come upon you, and cover you with skin, and put breath in you, and you shall live; and you shall know that I am the Lord.’ So I prophesied as I had been commanded; and as I prophesied, suddenly there was a noise, a rattling, and the bones came together, bone to its bone. I looked, and there were sinews on them, and flesh had come upon them, and skin had covered them; but there was no breath in them. Then he said to me, ‘Prophesy to the breath, prophesy, mortal, and say to the breath: Thus says the Lord God: Come from the four winds, O breath, and breathe upon these slain, that they may live.’ I prophesied as he commanded me, and the breath came into them, and they lived, and stood on their feet, a vast multitude. Then he said to me, ‘Mortal, these bones are the whole house of Israel. They say, “Our bones are dried up, and our hope is lost; we are cut off completely.” Therefore prophesy, and say to them, Thus says the Lord God: I am going to open your graves, and bring you up from your graves, O my people; and I will bring you back to the land of Israel. And you shall know that I am the Lord, when I open your graves, and bring you up from your graves, O my people. I will put my spirit within you, and you shall live, and I will place you on your own soil; then you shall know that I, the Lord, have spoken and will act, says the Lord.’

Romans 8.6–11 – To set the mind on the flesh is death, but to set the mind on the Spirit is life and peace. For this reason the mind that is set on the flesh is hostile to God; it does not submit to God’s law—indeed it cannot, and those who are in the flesh cannot please God. But you are not in the flesh; you are in the Spirit, since the Spirit of God dwells in you. Anyone who does not have the Spirit of Christ does not belong to him. But if Christ is in you, though the body is dead because of sin, the Spirit is life because of righteousness. If the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, he who raised Christ from the dead will give life to your mortal bodies also through his Spirit that dwells in you.

John 11.1–45 – Now a certain man was ill, Lazarus of Bethany, the village of Mary and her sister Martha. Mary was the one who anointed the Lord with perfume and wiped his feet with her hair; her brother Lazarus was ill. So the sisters sent a message to Jesus, ‘Lord, he whom you love is ill.’ But when Jesus heard it, he said, ‘This illness does not lead to death; rather it is for God’s glory, so that the Son of God may be glorified through it.’ Accordingly, though Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus, after having heard that Lazarus was ill, he stayed two days longer in the place where he was.Then after this he said to the disciples, ‘Let us go to Judea again.’ The disciples said to him, ‘Rabbi, the Jews were just now trying to stone you, and are you going there again?’ Jesus answered, ‘Are there not twelve hours of daylight? Those who walk during the day do not stumble, because they see the light of this world. But those who walk at night stumble, because the light is not in them.’ After saying this, he told them, ‘Our friend Lazarus has fallen asleep, but I am going there to awaken him.’ The disciples said to him, ‘Lord, if he has fallen asleep, he will be all right.’ Jesus, however, had been speaking about his death, but they thought that he was referring merely to sleep. Then Jesus told them plainly, ‘Lazarus is dead. For your sake I am glad I was not there, so that you may believe. But let us go to him.’ Thomas, who was called the Twin, said to his fellow-disciples, ‘Let us also go, that we may die with him.’When Jesus arrived, he found that Lazarus had already been in the tomb for four days. Now Bethany was near Jerusalem, some two miles away, and many of the Jews had come to Martha and Mary to console them about their brother. When Martha heard that Jesus was coming, she went and met him, while Mary stayed at home. Martha said to Jesus, ‘Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask of him.’ Jesus said to her, ‘Your brother will rise again.’ Martha said to him, ‘I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.’ Jesus said to her, ‘I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?’ She said to him, ‘Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world.’When she had said this, she went back and called her sister Mary, and told her privately, ‘The Teacher is here and is calling for you.’ And when she heard it, she got up quickly and went to him. Now Jesus had not yet come to the village, but was still at the place where Martha had met him. The Jews who were with her in the house, consoling her, saw Mary get up quickly and go out. They followed her because they thought that she was going to the tomb to weep there. When Mary came where Jesus was and saw him, she knelt at his feet and said to him, ‘Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.’ When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who came with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved. He said, ‘Where have you laid him?’ They said to him, ‘Lord, come and see.’ Jesus began to weep. So the Jews said, ‘See how he loved him!’ But some of them said, ‘Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?’Then Jesus, again greatly disturbed, came to the tomb. It was a cave, and a stone was lying against it. Jesus said, ‘Take away the stone.’ Martha, the sister of the dead man, said to him, ‘Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead for four days.’ Jesus said to her, ‘Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?’ So they took away the stone. And Jesus looked upwards and said, ‘Father, I thank you for having heard me. I knew that you always hear me, but I have said this for the sake of the crowd standing here, so that they may believe that you sent me.’ When he had said this, he cried with a loud voice, ‘Lazarus, come out!’ The dead man came out, his hands and feet bound with strips of cloth, and his face wrapped in a cloth. Jesus said to them, ‘Unbind him, and let him go.’Many of the Jews therefore, who had come with Mary and had seen what Jesus did, believed in him.

Sermon

“Lazarus, come out.”

Those three words sit at the very heart of today’s Gospel; and, in many ways, at the heart of this season as we begin to turn decisively toward the cross. But before Jesus speaks those words, something else happens; something quieter, more human, and perhaps more unsettling.

“Jesus began to weep.”

This is a remarkable moment. Jesus knows what he is about to do. He knows that Lazarus will be raised. He has already told the disciples that this illness will not end in death. And yet, when he stands before the tomb, he does not rush to the miracle. He pauses. He sees Mary weeping, and the crowd with her. He sees grief in all its rawness; confusion, loss, anger, heartbreak. And instead of standing apart from it, instead of correcting it or explaining it away, he enters into it. He weeps.

This is not a distant God, unmoved by suffering. This is God who stands at the graveside and shares in human sorrow. And that matters. Because sometimes we imagine that faith should protect us from grief — or at least tidy it up. We might feel that if we trusted more, we would be less shaken by loss, less affected by fear, less burdened by sorrow.

But this Gospel tells a different story. Even in the presence of resurrection, there is still weeping. Even in the presence of hope, grief is real. And even the Son of God does not stand apart from it.

But the story does not end there.

After the tears, after the silence, after the stone is rolled away, Jesus cries out:

“Lazarus, come out.” And Lazarus does come out; still bound in grave clothes, still marked by death, but alive. This is not just a miracle story. It is a sign, as John calls it, pointing us toward something deeper. Because Lazarus will, in time, die again. This is not the final victory over death, but a glimpse of it. A foretaste. A promise.

And that promise is not only about what happens at the end of our lives. It speaks into the present. “Come out.” These are words not only for Lazarus, but for all who are bound; by fear, by despair, by sin, by anything that diminishes life. “Unbind him, and let him go.” The work of resurrection is not only God’s. The community is drawn into it too; called to help unbind, to release, to restore.

And when we place this Gospel alongside our other readings, the picture deepens. In Ezekiel, we are taken into the valley of dry bones; a place of utter lifelessness, where hope has long since faded. “Our bones are dried up,” the people say. “Our hope is lost.”

And yet, God breathes life into what seemed beyond recovery. Bones come together. Flesh returns. Breath enters. Life where there was none.

And in Romans, Paul speaks of that same Spirit; the Spirit who raised Jesus from the dead, now dwelling within us. Not just a future promise, but a present reality. “The Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you.” This is extraordinary. The power of resurrection is not only something we wait for. It is something already at work within us; often quietly, often gradually, but truly.

And yet — and this is where Passion Sunday speaks most clearly — this story of Lazarus also sets something else in motion.

Immediately after this miracle, the tension around Jesus reaches its breaking point. The raising of Lazarus is the moment that leads directly to the decision to put Jesus to death. In giving life to Lazarus, Jesus sets his own path toward the cross. Life and death are now intertwined. And so as we hear “Lazarus, come out,” we must also hear the echo of what lies ahead. Because the one who calls Lazarus out of the tomb will soon enter a tomb himself. The one who stands before death with authority will soon submit to it. And the one who brings life will do so at great cost.

So where does this leave us?

Perhaps with three things to hold onto as we continue our journey through Lent.

First: that God meets us in our grief. Whatever burdens we carry, be they personal losses, quiet fears, the weight of the world’s suffering, we do not face them alone. Christ stands with us, not at a distance, but alongside us, sharing in our sorrow.

Second: that God calls us into life. Even now, there are places in our lives that feel closed, sealed, perhaps even beyond hope. And into those places, Christ speaks: “Come out.” Not all at once, perhaps. Not dramatically, perhaps. But persistently, faithfully, calling us toward life.

And third: that we are part of one another’s unbinding. “Unbind him, and let him go.” We are called to be a community that helps release one another from whatever holds us fast; through kindness, through forgiveness, through patience, through love.

As we approach Holy Week, the raising of Lazarus stands as both promise and sign. It reminds us that death does not have the final word. But it also prepares us to walk with Christ into the shadow of the cross, where that promise will be tested, deepened, and ultimately fulfilled.

For now, we stand at the tomb with Mary and Martha. We hear the weeping. We hear the call. And we begin to glimpse the life that is to come.

Amen.

Sermon: New Journeys (1st March, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

Genesis 12.1–4a – The Lord said to Abram, ‘Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you. I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you, and make your name great, so that you will be a blessing. I will bless those who bless you, and the one who curses you I will curse; and in you all the families of the earth shall be blessed.’ So Abram went, as the Lord had told him; and Lot went with him.

John 3.1–17 – Now there was a Pharisee named Nicodemus, a leader of the Jews. He came to Jesus by night and said to him, ‘Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God; for no one can do these signs that you do apart from the presence of God.’ Jesus answered him, ‘Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.’Nicodemus said to him, ‘How can anyone be born after having grown old? Can one enter a second time into the mother’s womb and be born?’ Jesus answered, ‘Very truly, I tell you, no one can enter the kingdom of God without being born of water and Spirit. What is born of the flesh is flesh, and what is born of the Spirit is spirit.Do not be astonished that I said to you, “You must be born from above.”The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.’ Nicodemus said to him, ‘How can these things be?’ Jesus answered him, ‘Are you a teacher of Israel, and yet you do not understand these things? ‘Very truly, I tell you, we speak of what we know and testify to what we have seen; yet you do not receive our testimony. If I have told you about earthly things and you do not believe, how can you believe if I tell you about heavenly things? No one has ascended into heaven except the one who descended from heaven, the Son of Man.And just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life. ‘For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life. ‘Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.

Sermon

In this season of Lent, we are invited to travel. Not simply to mark time between Ash Wednesday and Easter, but to journey—heart and soul—towards the God who calls us onward.

This morning’s readings place before us two journeys. One is the journey of Abram, called by God to leave everything familiar behind. The other is the quieter, more interior journey of Nicodemus, who comes to Jesus by night, seeking understanding.

Both are stories of new beginnings. Both are stories of trust. And both speak powerfully to us in Lent.

In Genesis, we hear those stark, commanding words: “Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you.” There is no map. No timetable. No detailed plan. Only a promise.

“I will make of you a great nation… I will bless you… and in you all the families of the earth shall be blessed.”

Abram is called to step away from security and into uncertainty. The life he has known, the identity he has inherited, the systems that have defined him—all must be loosened. He is summoned into a future that exists, for now, only in the promise of God.

And remarkably, we are told simply: “So Abram went.”

It is an act of extraordinary faith. Not certainty, not control—faith. Trusting not in what he can see, but in the One who calls him.

Then we turn to John’s Gospel, and we meet Nicodemus. A leader, a teacher, a man of learning and religious seriousness. Yet he comes to Jesus at night—perhaps out of caution, perhaps out of confusion, perhaps because something within him is restless.

He recognises that God is at work in Jesus, but he does not yet understand how or why. And Jesus speaks to him in words that unsettle and stretch him: “No one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.”

Born again. Born from above. Born of water and Spirit.

Nicodemus struggles. He thinks literally. He tries to fit Jesus’ words into the categories he already knows. But Jesus is speaking of something deeper: a transformation not of biology but of being. A re-creation. A new beginning given by God’s Spirit.

And here, perhaps, we begin to see how these two readings speak to one another.

Abram is called to leave his old life and walk into God’s promise. Nicodemus is called to allow his old assumptions to be reshaped by the Spirit’s work. Both are invited into something radically new.

Lent is precisely this kind of invitation.

We often think of Lent as a time of giving things up. Chocolate. Alcohol. Social media. And there is value in discipline. But at its heart, Lent is about making space—space to hear again the call of God. Space to allow the Spirit to do new work within us.

Abram’s journey was not simply geographical. It was spiritual. It meant relinquishing control and discovering that his future rested not in his own planning but in God’s promise.

Nicodemus’ journey was not simply intellectual. It was spiritual. It meant accepting that even a learned teacher must be made new by grace.

And we too are called to such journeys.

There are moments in life—and perhaps Lent sharpens our awareness of them—when God seems to say to us: “Go.” Go beyond what is comfortable. Go beyond what is familiar. Go beyond what you thought defined you.

Sometimes that “going” is dramatic: a change in vocation, a new chapter, a difficult step of obedience. But often it is quieter. It may be the call to forgive when resentment feels safer. The call to generosity when caution feels wiser. The call to prayer when busyness seems more urgent.

To follow Christ is always, in some sense, to leave something behind.

And yet, as with Abram, the call is always grounded in promise. “I will bless you.” The God who calls is the God who gives. The God who unsettles is the God who sustains.

In John’s Gospel, the promise becomes even more explicit. For this conversation with Nicodemus leads us to perhaps the most famous words in all of Scripture: “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son…”

The new birth Jesus speaks of is not something we engineer. It is a gift flowing from the love of God. It is not achieved by moral effort or religious status. It is received by trust.

Just as Abram trusted the promise and set out, so we are invited to trust the love revealed in Christ.

Abram is told that in him “all the families of the earth shall be blessed.” In Christ, that promise comes into its fullness. The blessing is not limited; it overflows.

On this Second Sunday in Lent, we stand between promise and fulfilment. We know the story does not end in uncertainty. It ends in the cross and resurrection. But we are still, like Abram and Nicodemus, learners on the way.

Perhaps the question for us this morning is: where is God inviting us to newness?

Where is the Spirit stirring, even if we do not fully understand? What assumptions might need to be surrendered? What securities might need to be loosened? What fears might need to be entrusted to God?

New birth can feel unsettling. Journeying into the unknown can feel risky. But the heart of these readings assures us that we do not step out alone.

The God who called Abram walks with him. The Spirit who speaks of new birth is already at work. The Son who is given is given not to condemn but to save.

“So Abram went.”

May we, too, have courage to go where God calls.

May we be willing to be made new.

And may our lives, like Abram’s, become part of God’s blessing for the world.

Amen.

Sermon: Temptation in the Wilderness (22nd Feb, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

Genesis 2.15–17; 3.1–7 – The Lord God took the man and put him in the garden of Eden to till it and keep it. And the Lord God commanded the man, ‘You may freely eat of every tree of the garden; but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat, for in the day that you eat of it you shall die.’ Now the serpent was more crafty than any other wild animal that the Lord God had made. He said to the woman, ‘Did God say, “You shall not eat from any tree in the garden”?’ The woman said to the serpent, ‘We may eat of the fruit of the trees in the garden; but God said, “You shall not eat of the fruit of the tree that is in the middle of the garden, nor shall you touch it, or you shall die.” ’ But the serpent said to the woman, ‘You will not die; for God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.’ So when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was a delight to the eyes, and that the tree was to be desired to make one wise, she took of its fruit and ate; and she also gave some to her husband, who was with her, and he ate. Then the eyes of both were opened, and they knew that they were naked; and they sewed fig leaves together and made loincloths for themselves.

Romans 5.12–19 – Therefore, just as sin came into the world through one man, and death came through sin, and so death spread to all because all have sinned— sin was indeed in the world before the law, but sin is not reckoned when there is no law. Yet death exercised dominion from Adam to Moses, even over those whose sins were not like the transgression of Adam, who is a type of the one who was to come. But the free gift is not like the trespass. For if the many died through the one man’s trespass, much more surely have the grace of God and the free gift in the grace of the one man, Jesus Christ, abounded for the many. And the free gift is not like the effect of the one man’s sin. For the judgement following one trespass brought condemnation, but the free gift following many trespasses brings justification. If, because of the one man’s trespass, death exercised dominion through that one, much more surely will those who receive the abundance of grace and the free gift of righteousness exercise dominion in life through the one man, Jesus Christ. Therefore just as one man’s trespass led to condemnation for all, so one man’s act of righteousness leads to justification and life for all. For just as by the one man’s disobedience the many were made sinners, so by the one man’s obedience the many will be made righteous.

Matthew 4.1–11 – Jesus was led up by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil. He fasted for forty days and forty nights, and afterwards he was famished. The tempter came and said to him, ‘If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread.’ But he answered, ‘It is written, “One does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.” Then the devil took him to the holy city and placed him on the pinnacle of the temple, saying to him, ‘If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down; for it is written, “He will command his angels concerning you”, and “On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.” Jesus said to him, ‘Again it is written, “Do not put the Lord your God to the test.” Again, the devil took him to a very high mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the world and their splendour; and he said to him, ‘All these I will give you, if you will fall down and worship me.’ Jesus said to him, ‘Away with you, Satan! for it is written, “Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.” Then the devil left him, and suddenly angels came and waited on him.

Sermon

Lent begins in a wilderness.

On Ash Wednesday we were marked with ashes and reminded of our mortality: “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” Today, on the first Sunday in Lent, we follow Jesus into the desert. The Spirit leads him there — not by accident, not by mistake, but deliberately. Lent is not a spiritual detour. It is a necessary journey.

And the Church, in her wisdom, places alongside this Gospel the story of another garden, another testing, another encounter with temptation.

In Genesis, we see humanity placed in a garden of abundance. Adam is given meaningful work — “to till it and keep it.” There is beauty, provision, freedom. Only one boundary: “You shall not eat of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.” It is a gift wrapped in trust. Relationship with responsibility.

But then comes the whisper.

“Did God say…?”

That question is the seed of so much that follows. The serpent does not begin with outright rebellion. He begins with distortion. Doubt. A subtle reframing of God’s generosity as restriction.

“Did God say, ‘You shall not eat from any tree’?”

It is not true — God had given them every tree but one — but temptation often works by magnifying what we do not have and shrinking what we do have. The focus shifts from abundance to prohibition, from trust to suspicion.

And then comes the deeper lie: “You will not die… you will be like God.”

At its heart, the temptation in Eden is about grasping. About seizing what is not ours to take. About stepping out of trust in God into self-determination. It is the temptation to believe that God is withholding something essential, and that we must secure our own flourishing apart from him.

Now fast forward to Matthew’s Gospel.

Jesus stands in another place of testing — not a garden this time, but a wilderness. Not surrounded by abundance, but emptied by forty days of fasting. He is hungry. Vulnerable. Alone.

And again the whisper comes.

“If you are the Son of God…”

Notice how the temptation begins. Just before this episode, at his baptism, Jesus has heard the Father’s voice: “This is my beloved Son.” In the wilderness, that identity is immediately questioned.

“If you are…”

Temptation so often strikes at identity. At trust. At the relationship between the Father and the Son.

The first temptation: turn stones into bread. On the surface, it seems reasonable. He is hungry. What harm in using his power to meet a legitimate need?

But beneath it lies the same distortion as in Eden. It is an invitation to step outside the Father’s will. To grasp, rather than to receive. To satisfy hunger on our own terms rather than live in trust.

Jesus replies with words from Deuteronomy: “One does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.”

In Eden, humanity reaches for food in distrust. In the wilderness, Jesus refuses food in trust.

The second temptation: throw yourself down from the pinnacle of the temple. Force God’s hand. Demand spectacle. Even the Scriptures are twisted to support it.

Again, the distortion: testing God rather than trusting him.

The third: all the kingdoms of the world, offered without the cross. Power without suffering. Glory without obedience.

And here we see most clearly what is at stake. The serpent offered Adam and Eve the illusion of godlike autonomy. The devil offers Jesus a shortcut to kingship. Worship me, and you can have it all — no nails, no thorns, no Golgotha.

But Jesus refuses. “Away with you, Satan! For it is written, ‘Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.’”

Where Adam grasped, Jesus yields.
Where Adam doubted, Jesus trusts.
Where Adam hid, Jesus stands firm.

Saint Paul would later call Jesus the “second Adam.” In the wilderness, we see what that means. Jesus relives the human story — but this time, he lives it rightly. Faithfully. Obediently.

And that matters for us.

Because Lent is not merely a season for feeling guilty about temptation. It is a season for learning again how to trust.

The wilderness is not only a place of danger; it is also a place of clarity. When distractions are stripped away, we discover what truly shapes us. Hunger reveals what we rely upon. Silence reveals the voices we are listening to.

What are the whispers in your own wilderness?

“Did God really say?”
“Is God really good?”
“Shouldn’t you secure yourself?”
“Why wait?”
“Why trust?”

Temptation rarely looks dramatic. It often looks like self-protection. Like control. Like the small turning of the heart away from dependence.

And yet the good news of this Sunday is not simply that we should try harder to resist. It is that Christ has gone before us.

He enters the wilderness not merely as an example, but as a representative. He stands where we have fallen. He answers where we have been silent. He trusts where we have grasped.

And he does so for us.

This is why Lent is not a season of despair. It is a season of returning. We do not walk into the wilderness alone. The Spirit who led Jesus leads us. The Son who was faithful intercedes for us. The Father who declared his delight in Christ declares his mercy over us.

Perhaps this week, as we continue our Lenten journey, we might ask ourselves gently:

Where am I being invited to trust rather than grasp?
Where is God asking me to live by his word rather than by my immediate hunger?
Where have I begun to believe that he is withholding good from me?

The ashes on Wednesday reminded us that we are dust. The wilderness reminds us that we are dependent. But the Gospel reminds us that we are not abandoned.

At the end of Matthew’s account, after the devil leaves, we are told that angels came and waited on Jesus.

After the testing, there is ministry. After the wilderness, there is strengthening.

And beyond this wilderness lies another garden — Gethsemane — where once again Jesus will choose trust over self-preservation: “Not my will, but yours be done.” And beyond that, an empty tomb, where the consequences of Eden are completely undone.

So we begin Lent here: not in shame, but in hope. Not in self-reliance, but in repentance. Not alone, but in Christ.

The One who refused the false fruit of the wilderness now feeds us with true bread — his own life, given for the world.

May we follow him in trust.
May we resist the whisper with the truth.
May we learn again that we live not by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.

Amen.

Sermon: Remember You Are Dust (18th Feb, Ash Wednesday, 2026, Year A)

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2 Corinthians 5.20b – 6.10 – We entreat you on behalf of Christ, be reconciled to God. For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God. As we work together with him, we urge you also not to accept the grace of God in vain. For he says, ‘At an acceptable time I have listened to you,    and on a day of salvation I have helped you.’ See, now is the acceptable time; see, now is the day of salvation! We are putting no obstacle in anyone’s way, so that no fault may be found with our ministry, but as servants of God we have commended ourselves in every way: through great endurance, in afflictions, hardships, calamities, beatings, imprisonments, riots, labours, sleepless nights, hunger; by purity, knowledge, patience, kindness, holiness of spirit, genuine love, truthful speech, and the power of God; with the weapons of righteousness for the right hand and for the left; in honour and dishonour, in ill repute and good repute. We are treated as impostors, and yet are true; as unknown, and yet are well known; as dying, and see—we are alive; as punished, and yet not killed; as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, and yet possessing everything.

Matthew 6.1–6, 16–21 – ‘Beware of practising your piety before others in order to be seen by them; for then you have no reward from your Father in heaven. ‘So whenever you give alms, do not sound a trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, so that they may be praised by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But when you give alms, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your alms may be done in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you. ‘And whenever you pray, do not be like the hypocrites; for they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners, so that they may be seen by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But whenever you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you. ‘And whenever you fast, do not look dismal, like the hypocrites, for they disfigure their faces so as to show others that they are fasting. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But when you fast, put oil on your head and wash your face, so that your fasting may be seen not by others but by your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you. ‘Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust consume and where thieves break in and steal; but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust consumes and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

Sermon

Ash Wednesday always begins by telling the truth.

Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.

There’s no softening that. No euphemism. No pretending. We come to church today knowing that life is fragile, time is limited, and that we are not as self-sufficient as we like to believe. The ash on our foreheads doesn’t flatter us. It doesn’t show us at our best. It tells the truth about who we are.

And that, strangely enough, is where grace begins.

In our reading from Corinthians, Paul pleads: “Be reconciled to God… now is the acceptable time; now is the day of salvation.”
Not tomorrow. Not once we’ve sorted ourselves out. Not when we feel more impressive, more faithful, more put together. Now. As we are.

Paul describes the Christian life in a way that feels deeply Ash Wednesday-shaped: sorrowful yet always rejoicing, poor yet making many rich, having nothing yet possessing everything. It’s a life that holds contradictions together. Weakness and hope. Loss and gift. Dust and glory.

Ash Wednesday invites us to stand honestly in those tensions — not pretending we are better than we are, but also refusing to believe that our brokenness is the final word.

That honesty matters because, as Jesus reminds us in the gospel, it’s very easy to perform religion rather than live it. To polish the outside while leaving the inside untouched.

Jesus talks about giving, praying, and fasting — all good things, all holy practices — and warns how easily they can become ways of managing appearances. Ways of reassuring ourselves, or others, that we’re doing rather well spiritually, thank you very much.

But Ash Wednesday cuts through that. The ashes are not a badge of achievement. They’re not a spiritual gold star. In fact, they undo performance altogether. Everyone comes forward the same. Everyone receives the same sign. Ashes don’t distinguish between the confident and the unsure, the regular and the occasional, the saint and the struggler. They level us.

And that’s exactly the point.

Jesus says, “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth.” Not because treasure is bad, but because earthly treasure is fragile. It rusts. It breaks. It doesn’t last. Ash Wednesday is the day the Church gently but firmly says: don’t build your life on things that can’t hold you.

Instead, Jesus invites us inward — into prayer that happens in secret, into fasting that makes space, into generosity that doesn’t need to be seen. Not because God prefers secrecy, but because that’s where honesty lives. That’s where we stop pretending.

And Paul’s words help us see what happens when we do stop pretending. “We commend ourselves… through endurance, in afflictions, hardships, calamities.” Not by looking impressive, but by staying faithful in the middle of real life. By trusting that God is at work even when the picture looks messy.

Ash Wednesday is not about self-loathing. It’s about truth-telling. And truth-telling is what makes reconciliation possible.

When we come forward for ashes, we’re not saying, “Look how bad I am.” We’re saying, “I need mercy.” And that’s a prayer God never ignores.

Later in the service, we’ll come forward again — this time not to receive ashes, but bread and wine. And that matters. Because the Church never leaves us with dust alone. The same hands that mark us with ashes also place in our hands the gift of Christ’s own life.

We move, in one service, from remember you are dust to the body of Christ, given for you. From mortality to mercy. From repentance to nourishment.

Paul says, “As servants of God we commend ourselves… in the Holy Spirit, genuine love, truthful speech, and the power of God.” Not because we have earned it, but because God insists on meeting us exactly where we are — dust and all.

So as Lent begins, we’re not being asked to perform holiness, or to collect spiritual achievements. We’re being invited to make space. To clear out what distracts us. To let go of what we cling to for security. To allow God to reconcile us — not just to God, but to ourselves, to one another, and to the truth of our own lives.

Now is the acceptable time.
Now is the day of salvation.

Today, we come as we are. Marked, fed, forgiven, and sent — carrying both the ash on our foreheads and the grace in our hands.

Amen.