Readings

Romans 8.18–25 – I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory about to be revealed to us. For the creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the children of God; for the creation was subjected to futility, not of its own will but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to decay and will obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God. We know that the whole creation has been groaning in labour pains until now; and not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly while we wait for adoption, the redemption of our bodies. For in hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what is seen? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience.

Matthew 6.25–34 – Jesus said to his disciples, ‘Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? And can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life?And why do you worry about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you—you of little faith? Therefore do not worry, saying, “What will we eat?” or “What will we drink?” or “What will we wear?” For it is the Gentiles who strive for all these things; and indeed your heavenly Father knows that you need all these things. But strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. ‘So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today’s trouble is enough for today.’

Sermon

May I speak in the name of God: Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Amen.

There is something deeply human about worry. We worry about money, about health, about our children, about the future of the world. We worry about things we can change, and things we absolutely cannot. Some of us worry quietly and inwardly; others of us worry loudly and persistently. But almost all of us worry.

So when Jesus says in our Gospel reading, “Do not worry about your life”, it can feel almost unreal. Perhaps even a little unkind. After all, Jesus, have you seen the state of things? Have you noticed the cost of living, the climate crisis, the pressures on families, the anxieties that sit heavy on so many shoulders?

And yet Jesus does not speak these words from a place of naivety. He speaks them into a world that knew poverty, illness, political oppression, and deep uncertainty. His words are not a denial of reality. They are an invitation to see reality differently.

Paul, in his letter to the Romans, helps us to hold that bigger picture. He does not pretend that suffering isn’t real. On the contrary, he names it honestly. “The sufferings of this present time,” he says. And he goes further still, describing creation itself as groaning, as if in the pains of childbirth. This is a vivid, uncomfortable image. The world, Paul tells us, is not as it should be. It is strained, frustrated, aching for something more.

Many of us will recognise that groaning. We hear it in the news. We feel it in our own bodies and lives. We sense it in the fragile state of the natural world, and in the quiet exhaustion of people who are simply trying to keep going. Christianity, at its best, never denies this groaning. It never offers cheap optimism or easy answers.

But Paul refuses to stop there. The groaning of creation, he says, is not the groaning of despair. It is the groaning of labour pains. Something is being born. Something is on the way.

And that is where hope comes in.

Christian hope is not the same as optimism. Optimism says, “Things will probably turn out all right.” Hope says, “God is at work, even when things are not all right.” Hope is not based on what we can see or control. It is rooted in God’s promises, and in God’s faithfulness.

Paul reminds us that “in hope we were saved.” Not in certainty. Not in comfort. But in hope. A hope that is patient, that endures, that waits.

And that brings us back to Jesus and his words about worry.

When Jesus tells his listeners to look at the birds of the air and the lilies of the field, he is not suggesting that human beings should abandon responsibility or stop working. After all, birds are busy creatures, and flowers grow within the rhythms of the seasons. What Jesus is challenging is the idea that our lives are held together solely by our own anxious effort.

Worry, Jesus suggests, can become a kind of false worship. It tempts us to believe that everything depends on us: our planning, our striving, our control. And when we believe that, the weight becomes unbearable.

Instead, Jesus invites us to trust in a God who knows our needs before we ask. A God whose care extends not only to human beings, but to the whole of creation. A God whose kingdom is not built on fear, but on righteousness, justice, and peace.

“Strive first for the kingdom of God,” Jesus says, “and all these things will be given to you as well.” In other words, re-order your priorities. Lift your eyes. Remember what really matters.

That is a particularly important word as we approach Lent. This season before us is not simply about giving things up or trying harder to be good. It is about learning, again, where our true security lies. It is about loosening our grip on the things we cling to in fear, and opening our hands to receive what God longs to give.

Both Paul and Jesus are calling us away from anxiety and towards trust — not because life is easy, but because God is faithful. Not because suffering is unreal, but because it is not the final word.

The future Paul points to is not an escape from the world, but the renewal of it. Creation itself, he says, will be set free. This is a hope that embraces the whole cosmos: every creature, every landscape, every wounded place. And we, as God’s children, are caught up in that hope.

So when we feel the weight of worry — as we inevitably will — we are invited to bring it into the light of prayer. To place it within the wider story of God’s redeeming love. To remember that we are not alone, and that the future does not rest solely on our shoulders.

We live, as Paul says, in the space between promise and fulfilment. We wait. We hope. We trust. And in that waiting, God is already at work.

May God grant us grace to live not as prisoners of anxiety, but as people of hope. People who seek God’s kingdom, who care for God’s world, and who trust in God’s tomorrow.

Amen.

Readings

Isaiah 9.1–4 – But there will be no gloom for those who were in anguish. In the former time he brought into contempt the land of Zebulun and the land of Naphtali, but in the latter time he will make glorious the way of the sea, the land beyond the Jordan, Galilee of the nations. The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness — on them light has shined. You have multiplied the nation, you have increased its joy; they rejoice before you as with joy at the harvest, as people exult when dividing plunder. For the yoke of their burden, and the bar across their shoulders, the rod of their oppressor, you have broken as on the day of Midian.

Matthew 4.12–23 – Now when Jesus heard that John had been arrested, he withdrew to Galilee. He left Nazareth and made his home in Capernaum by the lake, in the territory of Zebulun and Naphtali, so that what had been spoken through the prophet Isaiah might be fulfilled: ‘Land of Zebulun, land of Naphtali, on the road by the sea, across the Jordan, Galilee of the Gentiles — the people who sat in darkness have seen a great light, and for those who sat in the region and shadow of death light has dawned.’
From that time Jesus began to proclaim, ‘Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.’ As he walked by the Sea of Galilee, he saw two brothers, Simon, who is called Peter, and Andrew his brother, casting a net into the lake—for they were fishermen. And he said to them, ‘Follow me, and I will make you fish for people.’ Immediately they left their nets and followed him. As he went from there, he saw two other brothers, James son of Zebedee and his brother John, in the boat with their father Zebedee, mending their nets, and he called them. Immediately they left the boat and their father, and followed him. Jesus went throughout Galilee, teaching in their synagogues and proclaiming the good news of the kingdom and curing every disease and every sickness among the people.

Sermon

The season of Epiphany is all about light. It is about God making himself known — not hidden away, not distant, but revealed, shining out into the world as it really is. Each week of Epiphany we are invited to notice where that light falls, and what it shows us.

Today’s readings speak very clearly into that theme. Isaiah proclaims that “the people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.” And Matthew tells us that Jesus begins his public ministry in Galilee, fulfilling that ancient promise: light dawning in a place long associated with darkness, hardship, and neglect.

This is not accidental. God’s light does not first appear in the centres of power or prestige. It appears on the margins.

Isaiah is speaking to a people who know what darkness feels like. They are not imagining it. This is not poetic exaggeration. They have known invasion, loss, exile, and fear. They have walked in the shadow of death — not as a metaphor, but as lived reality. And it is precisely there that God promises light.

Notice what kind of light Isaiah describes. It is not just comfort for private sorrow. It is a light that changes reality. It brings joy like the joy of harvest. It breaks the yoke of oppression. It shatters the rod of the tyrant. This is not a gentle glow to help people cope — it is a light that transforms the world.

Hold that in mind as we turn to the gospel.

Matthew tells us that after John the Baptist is arrested, Jesus withdraws to Galilee and makes his home in Capernaum — “by the sea, in the territory of Zebulun and Naphtali” – quoting the prophet Isaiah. Matthew is careful, deliberate, almost scholarly here. He wants us to see that this is the fulfilment of Isaiah’s prophecy. But more than that, he wants us to understand what kind of Messiah Jesus is going to be.

Galilee was not the obvious place for the kingdom of God to begin. It was politically unstable, economically poor, religiously suspect in the eyes of the Jerusalem elite. If you wanted to launch a movement of spiritual renewal, Galilee would not have been top of the list. And yet — this is where Jesus begins.

The light dawns where people are tired, overlooked, and uncertain.

And what does Jesus say as he begins his ministry? Not a long explanation. Not a theological lecture. Just this: “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.”

That word “repent” can easily be misunderstood. It is not about self-loathing or fear. At heart, it means to turn — to change direction, to reorient your life because something new has arrived. Jesus is saying: God is closer than you think. Life can be different now. Turn towards it.

The kingdom of heaven is not something distant, postponed, or abstract. It has come near — near enough to touch, near enough to follow, near enough to change everything.

And immediately, Matthew gives us an example of what that looks like.

Jesus walks by the Sea of Galilee and calls Simon Peter and Andrew, James and John. Ordinary working people, busy with nets and boats and family responsibilities. And he says to them, “Follow me, and I will make you fish for people.”

And they do something extraordinary. They leave their nets. They leave their boats. James and John even leave their father. And they follow him.

Now, this is not meant to shame us. This is not a test of whether we could do the same tomorrow. It is a picture of what happens when light breaks into darkness — when the kingdom comes near enough to be recognised.

These men are not responding to an idea. They are responding to a person. They are drawn by the presence of Jesus himself. In him, they glimpse a different future, a different way of being human, a different ordering of priorities. And somehow, they know it is worth everything.

That same pattern continues as Jesus goes throughout Galilee: teaching, proclaiming the good news of the kingdom, and healing every disease and sickness among the people. Word and action together. Truth spoken, and compassion embodied. Light not only proclaimed, but lived.

This is Epiphany faith. Not faith that stays safely inside walls, but faith that steps into real places of pain, confusion, and need. Faith that speaks hope and also does something about it.

So what does all this mean for us, here, today?

First, it reminds us that God’s light still shines in dark places. Not just “out there” in the world’s great crises, but in the quieter, more personal shadows we carry with us. Grief, anxiety, loneliness, uncertainty about the future. Isaiah does not say the people stopped walking in darkness before they saw the light. The light came while they were still walking.

If you are walking in darkness today — unsure, weary, or afraid — the gospel reading today hopefully provides you with assurance that Christ has already come near.

Secondly, this passage invites us to ask what it means to follow Jesus where we are. Most of us are not being asked to leave fishing boats behind. But we are all asked to reorient our lives — to let go of what binds us and holds us back, and to trust that God’s kingdom is more real, more lasting, than the things we cling to for security.

Following Jesus is not about having everything figured out. Peter and Andrew certainly didn’t. It is about responding to the light we have been given and taking that next faithful step.

And finally, these readings remind us that the church is called to be a sign of that light. Not the source of it — Christ is the light — but a reflection of it. A community where burdens are lifted, where healing is sought and found, where good news is spoken in word and deed.

In a world that still knows deep darkness, the message of Epiphany is not naïve optimism. It is hard-won hope. It is the conviction that God has entered fully into the mess of human life, and that nothing is beyond the reach of his redeeming love.

The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light. That light is Jesus Christ. And he still walks by the shores of ordinary lives, still says “Follow me,” still proclaims that the kingdom of heaven has come near.

May we have eyes to see that light, hearts ready to turn towards it, and lives willing to reflect it — for the sake of the world God loves.

Amen.

Readings

Ephesians 4:1-13 – I therefore, the prisoner in the Lord, beg you to lead a life worthy of the calling to which you have been called, with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love, making every effort to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace. There is one body and one Spirit, just as you were called to the one hope of your calling, one Lord, one faith, one baptism, one God and Father of all, who is above all and through all and in all. But each of us was given grace according to the measure of Christ’s gift. Therefore it is said, ‘When he ascended on high he made captivity itself a captive; he gave gifts to his people.’ (When it says, ‘He ascended’, what does it mean but that he had also descended into the lower parts of the earth? He who descended is the same one who ascended far above all the heavens, so that he might fill all things.) The gifts he gave were that some would be apostles, some prophets, some evangelists, some pastors and teachers, to equip the saints for the work of ministry, for building up the body of Christ, until all of us come to the unity of the faith and of the knowledge of the Son of God, to maturity, to the measure of the full stature of Christ.

John 12:31-36 – Now is the judgement of this world; now the ruler of this world will be driven out. And I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all people to myself.’ He said this to indicate the kind of death he was to die. The crowd answered him, ‘We have heard from the law that the Messiah remains for ever. How can you say that the Son of Man must be lifted up? Who is this Son of Man?’ Jesus said to them, ‘The light is with you for a little longer. Walk while you have the light, so that the darkness may not overtake you. If you walk in the darkness, you do not know where you are going. While you have the light, believe in the light, so that you may become children of light.’ After Jesus had said this, he departed and hid from them.

Sermon

One of the great challenges of our time is learning how to live well with difference. We live in a world that often feels fragmented — divided by opinions, identities, backgrounds, and experiences. Even within families or communities, it can feel hard to stay connected when we see things differently. Against that backdrop, today’s readings speak with surprising clarity about unity — not as wishful thinking, but as something real, costly, and deeply rooted in Jesus Christ.

In the letter to the Ephesians, Paul urges Christians to “live a life worthy of the calling you have received.” That calling is not first about what we believe or what we do individually, but about who we are becoming together. From the very beginning, Christianity understood itself as a shared life — a community drawn together by God.

The qualities that are named next tell us a lot about the kind of unity being imagined: “Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love.” These are not abstract virtues. They are the skills needed for living closely with other people, especially people who are not the same as us. Unity, the Bible suggests, is not automatic. It requires effort, patience, and grace.

Crucially, this unity does not depend on everyone thinking alike. In fact, the passage goes on to celebrate difference. We hear about different gifts and roles, all given for a shared purpose: “to equip his people for works of service, so that the body of Christ may be built up.” The image of the body makes it clear — unity is not uniformity. A body needs different parts, doing different things, if it is to be alive and healthy.

But if unity is not created by sameness, what holds it together?

This is where the reading from John’s Gospel becomes essential. Jesus speaks about what is about to happen to him — his death on the cross — and he says something remarkable: “And I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all people to myself.” Notice that phrase: all people. Not people who are alike. Not people who agree on everything. All people.

For Christians, unity does not begin with us reaching out to one another, as important as that is. It begins with Jesus drawing us to himself. The cross stands at the centre of Christian unity because it is there that God’s self-giving love is revealed most fully. It is there that barriers are broken down — between God and humanity, and between people themselves.

Jesus speaks of light and darkness: “Walk while you have the light.” In John’s Gospel, light represents truth, life, and the presence of God. To walk in the light is to allow our lives to be shaped by what we see in Jesus — a love that gives itself for others. When we walk in that light, we discover that we are walking alongside others who are also being drawn towards him.

This helps us understand what the letter to the Ephesians means by unity. Unity is not something we manufacture by trying harder to get along. Nor is it something we achieve by ignoring real differences. Christian unity is something we receive, as we gather around Jesus Christ. We are united not because we are the same, but because we are held by the same love.

That is why the passage speaks of “one body and one Spirit … one Lord, one faith, one baptism.” The focus is not on us, but on God’s action. Unity is God’s gift before it is our task. Our calling is to live into that gift — to protect it, nurture it, and allow it to shape how we treat one another.

Particularly for those who are new to Christian faith, this is an important point. The church is not a gathering of people who have everything sorted out. It is a community of people who are learning, often slowly and imperfectly, what it means to live together in the light of Christ. Differences of background, personality, experience, and understanding do not disqualify us. They are part of what God brings together.

The reading from Ephesians speaks of growth — “until we all reach unity in the faith and in the knowledge of the Son of God.” That word “until” reminds us that unity is not a finished achievement. It is a journey we take together, guided by Christ. Along the way, we will misunderstand one another, disagree, and sometimes fail. But unity is sustained not by our perfection, but by Christ’s faithfulness.

So what does this mean for us today?

It means that Christian unity begins by keeping Christ at the centre. When we lose sight of him, our differences easily become divisions. When we stay close to him, those same differences can become gifts.

It means that humility and patience are not optional extras, but essential expressions of unity. Bearing with one another in love is not a sign that something has gone wrong; it is a sign that we are truly living together.

And it means that unity is always something we do together. No one walks in the light alone. We are drawn, side by side, towards Jesus Christ, who gathers us into one body and calls us to grow into his likeness.

As Jesus says, “Believe in the light … so that you may become children of light.” To believe is to trust him enough to walk together — not despite our differences, but through them — held in the unity that only he can give.

May God give us grace to live that unity, for his glory and for the good of the world.