Sermons

Sermon: Remembrance Sunday (2025, Year C)

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Readings

2 Thessalonians 2.1–5, 13–17 – As to the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ and our being gathered together to him, we beg you, brothers and sisters,not to be quickly shaken in mind or alarmed, either by spirit or by word or by letter, as though from us, to the effect that the day of the Lord is already here. Let no one deceive you in any way; for that day will not come unless the rebellion comes first and the lawless one is revealed, the one destined for destruction.He opposes and exalts himself above every so-called god or object of worship, so that he takes his seat in the temple of God, declaring himself to be God. Do you not remember that I told you these things when I was still with you? But we must always give thanks to God for you, brothers and sisters beloved by the Lord, because God chose you as the first fruits for salvation through sanctification by the Spirit and through belief in the truth. For this purpose he called you through our proclamation of the good news, so that you may obtain the glory of our Lord Jesus Christ. So then, brothers and sisters, stand firm and hold fast to the traditions that you were taught by us, either by word of mouth or by our letter. Now may our Lord Jesus Christ himself and God our Father, who loved us and through grace gave us eternal comfort and good hope, comfort your hearts and strengthen them in every good work and word.

Luke 20.27–38 – Some Sadducees, those who say there is no resurrection, came to him and asked him a question, ‘Teacher, Moses wrote for us that if a man’s brother dies, leaving a wife but no children, the man shall marry the widow and raise up children for his brother. Now there were seven brothers; the first married, and died childless; then the second and the third married her, and so in the same way all seven died childless. Finally the woman also died. In the resurrection, therefore, whose wife will the woman be? For the seven had married her.’ Jesus said to them, ‘Those who belong to this age marry and are given in marriage; but those who are considered worthy of a place in that age and in the resurrection from the dead neither marry nor are given in marriage. Indeed they cannot die any more, because they are like angels and are children of God, being children of the resurrection. And the fact that the dead are raised Moses himself showed, in the story about the bush, where he speaks of the Lord as the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob. Now he is God not of the dead, but of the living; for to him all of them are alive.’

Sermon

Today we gather, as generations have gathered before us, to remember. We remember those who have laid down their lives in war — men and women who faced fear and hardship so that others might live in freedom and peace.

We remember the suffering of civilians caught in the crossfire of history. We remember the grief of families, and the long shadow that conflict casts upon communities. And yet we remember not only with sorrow, but also with gratitude and with hope — hope rooted not in wishful thinking, but in the promises of God.

In our first reading from 2 Thessalonians, Paul writes to a community that is anxious and uncertain. Rumours were spreading; fear was taking hold. The Thessalonians thought the end might already have come, that perhaps they had been forgotten or left behind. Paul’s response is pastoral and steadying. He says:

“Do not be quickly shaken or alarmed… stand firm and hold fast to the traditions that you were taught.”
And then he offers these words of comfort: “May our Lord Jesus Christ himself and God our Father, who loved us and through grace gave us eternal comfort and good hope, comfort your hearts and strengthen them in every good work and word.”

Those are words we need to hear today. Because remembrance is not only about the past; it’s about how we live now and into the future. Paul calls us to “stand firm” — to hold fast to faith, to goodness, to compassion — even when the world feels unstable, even when evil and violence seem to prevail. That same steadfastness marked those we remember today — people who stood firm in dark times, often at great cost. Their courage reminds us that hope can endure even in the midst of great suffering.

And yet Paul’s message points beyond human courage to divine faithfulness. We are held, he says, in the love of God who gives “eternal comfort and good hope.” That word eternal is vital. It means that the hope we cling to today — for peace, for justice, for renewal — is not fragile or temporary. It is anchored in the very life of God, who brings life out of death.

That truth shines through our Gospel reading from Luke 20.

The Sadducees, who do not believe in the resurrection, come to Jesus with a question meant to trap him. They paint a rather absurd scenario about a woman who has had seven husbands, asking whose wife she will be in the resurrection. But Jesus sees through their argument. He tells them that life in the resurrection is not a simple continuation of this one — it is something new, transformed, beyond death’s reach. He ends with these extraordinary words:

“He is not God of the dead, but of the living; for to him all of them are alive.”

Those words are at the very heart of Christian remembrance. When we name before God those who have died, we do not do so as if they are gone into nothingness. We do so believing that they are alive to God — held in his eternal love, beyond the reach of death or decay.

The crosses in war cemeteries, the war graves in our own cemeteries, the names carved on memorials, the faces we hold in memory — all of them are alive to him. And one day, in the fullness of God’s kingdom, all will be made new.

That is the hope we proclaim in this service, and especially as we come to Holy Communion. At this table, heaven and earth meet. Here, we remember the sacrifice of Christ, through whom life has conquered death. Here, we are united with all the saints and with all who have gone before us in faith — those we remember today among them. For in Christ, time and distance and even death itself are overcome.

So as we remember today, let us do so with faith, gratitude, and courage. Let us remember and give thanks for those who stood firm in their generation. And let us resolve to stand firm in ours — to be people of peace in a world still torn by violence, to be people of hope in a world still shadowed by fear.

And may the God who is not the God of the dead but of the living — the God who gives eternal comfort and good hope — comfort our hearts, strengthen our hands, and guide our feet into the way of peace.

Amen.

Sermon: The Hope of the Saints (All Saints, 2nd Nov, 2025, Year C)

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Readings

Ephesians 1.11–23 – In Christ we have also obtained an inheritance, having been destined according to the purpose of him who accomplishes all things according to his counsel and will, so that we, who were the first to set our hope on Christ, might live for the praise of his glory. In him you also, when you had heard the word of truth, the gospel of your salvation, and had believed in him, were marked with the seal of the promised Holy Spirit; this is the pledge of our inheritance towards redemption as God’s own people, to the praise of his glory. I have heard of your faith in the Lord Jesus and your love towards all the saints, and for this reason I do not cease to give thanks for you as I remember you in my prayers. I pray that the God of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of glory, may give you a spirit of wisdom and revelation as you come to know him, so that, with the eyes of your heart enlightened, you may know what is the hope to which he has called you, what are the riches of his glorious inheritance among the saints, and what is the immeasurable greatness of his power for us who believe, according to the working of his great power. God put this power to work in Christ when he raised him from the dead and seated him at his right hand in the heavenly places, far above all rule and authority and power and dominion, and above every name that is named, not only in this age but also in the age to come. And he has put all things under his feet and has made him the head over all things for the church, which is his body, the fullness of him who fills all in all.

Luke 6.20–31 – Then he looked up at his disciples and said: ‘Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God. ‘Blessed are you who are hungry now, for you will be filled. ‘Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh. ‘Blessed are you when people hate you, and when they exclude you, revile you, and defame you on account of the Son of Man. Rejoice on that day and leap for joy, for surely your reward is great in heaven; for that is what their ancestors did to the prophets. ‘But woe to you who are rich, for you have received your consolation. ‘Woe to you who are full now, for you will be hungry. ‘Woe to you who are laughing now, for you will mourn and weep. ‘Woe to you when all speak well of you, for that is what their ancestors did to the false prophets. ‘But I say to you that listen, Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you. If anyone strikes you on the cheek, offer the other also; and from anyone who takes away your coat do not withhold even your shirt. Give to everyone who begs from you; and if anyone takes away your goods, do not ask for them again. Do to others as you would have them do to you.

Sermon

Today we celebrate All Saints — a day when the Church lifts its eyes beyond the present moment to the great company of men and women who have gone before us in faith. It is a day to give thanks for all the saints — known and unknown — who have shown us what it looks like to live in the light of Christ.

I wonder who you think about when you hear the word saint? It might be one of the apostles, those first followers of Jesus Christ who lived with and learned directly from him. It might be one of the great canon of saints that have been declared as such by the church in the thousands of years since. But it need not be either of those. It might be a member of your family; a friend; a colleague or a neighbour who has shown you in some way, big or small, what it means to live a life of faith and follow in the steps of Jesus.

In our reading from Ephesians, St Paul reminds us that the life of faith is not an accident or a passing choice, but part of God’s great purpose. “In Christ we have obtained an inheritance,” he says, “so that we might live for the praise of his glory.” And he prays that “the eyes of your heart may be enlightened, that you may know the hope to which he has called you, the riches of his glorious inheritance among the saints.”

That phrase — “among the saints” — is at the heart of today’s feast. The saints are not distant heroes of the past, carved in stone or painted in stained glass. They are the people, ordinary and extraordinary, through whom the light of Christ has shone. Some are well known — Mary, Peter, Francis, Julian: I am sure that these are names that you are more than familiar with. Others are remembered only by God. But together they form that great communion of saints — those who have lived and died in the hope of Christ.

Paul’s prayer is that we might share that same hope. That we might see ourselves as part of that communion, already drawn into God’s eternal purpose. The saints are not a separate class of Christians — they are the family to which we already belong. And our calling is to live as they lived: trusting in the power of God, not in the power of the world.

That is what Jesus shows us in our Gospel reading. In Luke’s version of the Beatitudes, he says: “Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God. Blessed are you who hunger now, for you will be filled.”

Here, Jesus describes the life of those who live by the values of his kingdom — a life turned upside down from the world’s standards. The saints, in every age, have come to live that reversal. They have come to know that true blessing is not found in wealth or comfort or success, but in the deep joy of belonging to Christ. They have loved their enemies, forgiven those who hurt them, and trusted that God’s power is made perfect in weakness.

And that same Spirit that filled them fills us today. As Paul says, it is “the immeasurable greatness of his power for us who believe—the same power that raised Christ from the dead.” The saints did not live holy lives by their own strength. They lived by grace — the grace that flows from Christ’s death and resurrection, the grace that is offered to us now at this holy table.

So when we come to Holy Communion today, we do so not alone but surrounded by the great cloud of witnesses — the saints in glory and the saints on earth. Heaven and earth meet as we share in the one bread and one cup. The boundaries between this world and the next grow thin, and we are reminded that we too share in that “glorious inheritance among the saints.”

At this Eucharist, we are given a foretaste of that inheritance. Here, rich and poor, strong and weak, come together as one body. We receive from Christ’s hand the bread of life and the cup of salvation, not because we deserve them, but because of his overflowing grace. This is the table where the Beatitudes come to life — a table where the hungry are fed, the mourning find comfort, and enemies are reconciled in peace.

All Saints calls us, then, both to gratitude and to hope:

Gratitude for the lives of those who have shown us Christ’s love — those who have blessed us by their faith, their courage, their compassion.

And hope — that we, too, might bear that light in our own time and place; that the eyes of our hearts might be enlightened to see the world as Christ sees it; and that, by his grace, we might live as citizens of his kingdom in the here and now.

So let us give thanks for all the saints, and pray that we may join with them in the life of heaven — living, as they did, for the praise of God’s glory.

Amen.

Sermon: The Grace of Humility in the Parable of the Pharisee and the Tax Collector (26th Oct, 2025, Year C)

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Readings

2 Timothy 4.6–8, 16–18 – As for me, I am already being poured out as a libation, and the time of my departure has come. I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. From now on there is reserved for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, will give to me on that day, and not only to me but also to all who have longed for his appearing. At my first defence no one came to my support, but all deserted me. May it not be counted against them! But the Lord stood by me and gave me strength, so that through me the message might be fully proclaimed and all the Gentiles might hear it. So I was rescued from the lion’s mouth. The Lord will rescue me from every evil attack and save me for his heavenly kingdom. To him be the glory for ever and ever. Amen.

Luke 18.9–14 – Jesus told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt: ‘Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax-collector. The Pharisee, standing by himself, was praying thus, “God, I thank you that I am not like other people: thieves, rogues, adulterers, or even like this tax-collector. I fast twice a week; I give a tenth of all my income.” But the tax-collector, standing far off, would not even look up to heaven, but was beating his breast and saying, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner!” I tell you, this man went down to his home justified rather than the other; for all who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted.’

Sermon

Both of our readings this morning draw us toward the same virtue — humility — that deep awareness of who we are before God, and the quiet confidence that flows from trusting not in ourselves, but in Jesus Christ.

In the Gospel, we meet two men at prayer in the Temple — one a Pharisee, the other a tax collector. The Pharisee stands tall, sure of himself, certain of his righteousness. He thanks God, yes — but his prayer is less a thanksgiving and more a self-congratulation: “I thank you that I am not like other people.” His eyes are lifted upward, but his heart looks only inward.

The tax collector, by contrast, cannot even raise his eyes to heaven. He stands at a distance and prays simply, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.” It’s a short prayer, a simple prayer — but it’s the one that reaches God’s heart. Jesus tells us that it is the tax collector, not the Pharisee, who goes home justified.

The difference lies not in who they are, but in how they come before God. The Pharisee’s prayer is about self-assurance; the tax collector’s prayer is about dependence. The first trusts in his own goodness; the second throws himself upon God’s mercy. And in that posture of humility, the tax collector finds grace, forgiveness, and peace.

Humility, then, is not self-hatred or false modesty. It’s not pretending we’re worse than we are. True humility is the recognition that all we have and all we are depend on God’s mercy. It’s the open-handedness that allows us to receive grace.

Saint Paul, writing to Timothy near the end of his life, shows us what that humility looks like in practice. “I am already being poured out as a libation,” he says, “and the time of my departure has come.” Paul knows his earthly ministry is drawing to a close. Yet he looks back, not with pride in his own achievements, but with confidence in God’s faithfulness. “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith… The Lord stood by me and gave me strength.”

Paul doesn’t boast of his endurance; he gives glory to the One who sustained him. Even when he was abandoned, when no one came to his defence, he could say, “The Lord stood by me.” His humility springs not from despair, but from faith — a faith that knows our strength, our righteousness, even our perseverance, come from Christ alone.

That is the same humility we are called to bring — to our prayers, and to our daily living. When we kneel at the altar today to receive the bread and wine, we come as those who have nothing to offer except our need of God’s grace. We come not boasting of our worthiness, but trusting in Christ’s mercy: “We are not worthy so much as to gather up the crumbs under thy table, but thou art the same Lord whose nature is always to have mercy.” And when we rise from the table, we are sent out to live humbly — not self-reliant, but Christ-reliant.

To be humble in prayer is to be honest: honest about our failures, our dependence, our gratitude. To be humble in daily life is to listen before speaking, to serve before seeking recognition, to forgive as we have been forgiven.

Humility doesn’t mean weakness. Paul was anything but weak. It means knowing where our strength comes from — from the Lord who “rescued me from every evil attack and will bring me safely to his heavenly kingdom.” It means living with the quiet assurance that God’s grace is enough; that in it is truth and that the truth of his mercy defines us more than our own strength or our mistakes ever could.

That’s an idea that God pointed me to elsewhere this week. Philippa Smethurst, a psychotherapist who specialises in trauma therapy wrote an article in the latest edition of the Church Times that I commend to you. It is titled “Freedom is found in Facing Reality.” In it Smethurst writes that humanity’s collective refusal to face reality has grown into one of the great spiritual crises of our age; that we need to face truth objectively, and – as St. Paul alludes to in our reading today – that we need to face it as if it were a long race, rather than a sprint. Smethurst also says that for our facing truth to be sustainable, meaningful and for it to do us all good, we need to do it with humility. To quote Smethurst directly:

“Humility is not timidity or weakness: it is the courage to stand before the vastness of reality — and before God — without trying to control it. One moment of cosmic wonder each day reminds us that we do not make truth, or will it: we serve it.”

And so, as we continue our journey of faith together — it is my prayer for us all that through joys and hardships, successes and stumblings — we learn to pray together with the tax collector’s honesty and humility, to serve with Paul’s courage, and to trust with the same humble faith that knows Christ will stand by us and bring us safely home, for he is our truth.

To him be glory forever and ever. Amen.

Sermon: The Destruction of the Temple and Safeguarding Sunday (17th Nov, 2024, Year B)

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Reading

Mark 13.1–8 – As Jesus came out of the temple, one of his disciples said to him, ‘Look, Teacher, what large stones and what large buildings!’ Then Jesus asked him, ‘Do you see these great buildings? Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.’

When he was sitting on the Mount of Olives opposite the temple, Peter, James, John, and Andrew asked him privately, ‘Tell us, when will this be, and what will be the sign that all these things are about to be accomplished?’ Then Jesus began to say to them, ‘Beware that no one leads you astray. Many will come in my name and say, “I am he!” and they will lead many astray. When you hear of wars and rumours of wars, do not be alarmed; this must take place, but the end is still to come. For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; there will be earthquakes in various places; there will be famines. This is but the beginning of the birth pangs.’

Sermon

As I began preparing for this morning’s sermon, I found myself wondering why this particular passage from Mark’s Gospel appears in the lectionary. The whole of Mark chapter 13 deals with the signs of the end of the age — yet these opening verses seem focused only on the coming destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem and a warning to beware of being led astray.

So, let’s pause for a moment and try to capture the scene as it unfolds.

As the disciples leave the Temple in Jerusalem, they can’t help but marvel at it. “Look, Teacher!” they say. “What massive stones! What magnificent buildings!” Jesus stops, looks back with them at the splendour of the Temple, and then replies, “Do you see all these great buildings? Not one stone here will be left upon another; every one will be thrown down.”

And, to put it bluntly, the disciples are gobsmacked.

The Temple wasn’t just any building — it was the very foundation of their faith, the centre of Jewish life and worship. This was the place where Jesus himself had been dedicated as a baby, where as a young boy he had discussed the Law with the teachers, and where, throughout his ministry, he had come to pray and to teach.

Now he is saying that it will all be destroyed. How could that be? Surely nothing could bring down those massive walls. Surely this, of all places, was safe — this was God’s place.

Has anyone here ever been to Jerusalem? Today, only the base of that great Temple remains — the Temple Mount, on part of which the Dome of the Rock now stands. Even the base itself is awe-inspiring: vast blocks of stone that tower over the streets below. If the foundation is that impressive, imagine what the Temple must have looked like in its glory days!

The smallest stones in the structure weighed two or three tons. Many weighed fifty tons or more. The largest surviving stone measures some twelve metres long and three metres high — hundreds of tons in weight!

The builders didn’t even use mortar; the stones’ sheer weight held the whole structure together. The Temple walls rose high above the city — in one section, more than 400 feet. Inside those walls lay 45 acres of mountain top, levelled flat, large enough to hold a quarter of a million people at once.

Even now, standing before the remains, you can easily imagine how magnificent it must have been. And yet, Jesus’ prophecy came true. About forty years later, in 70 AD, the Temple and much of Jerusalem were destroyed when the Romans, under Titus, besieged the city.

The people had indeed been led astray — by false hopes, by worldly concerns, by those who promised salvation apart from God.

So what does this passage mean for us today?

For me, it speaks about a new foundation.

In the Old Testament, the Temple was the dwelling place of God, fixed in one location — Jerusalem. But when Jesus came, everything changed. In the New Testament, the presence of God is no longer centred in a single building or city. Instead, there is a new Temple: the dwelling place of God within each believer’s heart.

Through faith in Jesus Christ, and through the gift of the Holy Spirit, God now lives in us.

As that great hymn reminds us,

“The Church’s one foundation is Jesus Christ her Lord;
she is his new creation, by water and the Word.”

St Paul puts it plainly in his letter to the Corinthians:

“Don’t you know that you yourselves are God’s temple and that God’s Spirit lives in you?” (1 Corinthians 3:16)

The focus of the new covenant in Christ is not on buildings — however beautiful they may be — but on God himself, living and active in his people.

If we are God’s temple, what does that mean for the way we live?

We might no longer need the Temple rituals or the ceremonial law, but that doesn’t mean God’s moral or spiritual law no longer matters. Paul urges us,

“Present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship. Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind.” (Romans 12:1–2)

As Christians today, we can appreciate the beauty and usefulness of our church buildings — after all, we’ve just spent a good deal of money ensuring that this one doesn’t collapse around us! But as we discussed in our recent mission planning meeting, we also recognised that we must spend less time worrying about the fabric of our buildings, and more time nurturing the spiritual health of our people and our community.

This passage from Mark gives us encouragement in that. It isn’t meant to make us anxious about the future, nor to keep us up at night worrying about our buildings. It was originally written to comfort early believers who were struggling to make sense of their world — and it offers that same comfort to us.

Our calling is to remain faithful, to keep our eyes fixed not on worldly events or human institutions, but on Christ himself, our firm foundation and our hope for the future.

Postscript

I’d like to add a brief postscript, because today’s reading — with its themes of buildings, foundations, and misplaced confidence — feels especially relevant this week.

Many of you will have been following the news about the publication of the Makin Report, which exposes the appalling abuse carried out by John Smyth and the Church’s failure to act. I use the word horrific quite deliberately. I’ve read every one of its 253 pages, and it truly is 253 pages of horror. As Bishop Nick wrote recently, there can be no mitigation, no defence, for what has been revealed.

And it is a painful irony that today — long before the report’s publication was scheduled — has been designated Safeguarding Sunday.

The report, and indeed Archbishop Justin Welby’s resignation, affect us all as members of the Church of England. They remind us that the Church must never hide behind failure or defensiveness. Instead, our confidence must rest in our continuing vocation — to worship faithfully, to follow Christ in discipleship, and to serve others with integrity.

Even in the face of such terrible wrongdoing, we are called not to conceal or to pretend, but to bring light into the darkness — to commend what is good and true.

Scripture is clear: Christ’s followers are called to support and protect those who are weak, vulnerable, or wounded. This is how the world will know the truth of our Gospel.

Safeguarding, then, is everyone’s responsibility. It isn’t a bureaucratic burden or a distraction from our mission — it’s a vital expression of what the Church is meant to be: a place of safety, compassion, and truth.

So, just as Jesus called his disciples to look beyond the splendour of the Temple and to place their trust in him, so we too are called to look beyond our buildings and institutions, and to place our trust firmly in Christ — the cornerstone of our faith.

If we do that, then the Church truly can become a safe place for all people, and those who have suffered abuse can know that the light of truth will never again be hidden.

Amen.

Sermon: The Transfiguration and Racial Justice Sunday (11th Feb, 2024, Year B)

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Readings

2 Corinthians 4.3–6 – And even if our gospel is veiled, it is veiled to those who are perishing. In their case the god of this world has blinded the minds of the unbelievers, to keep them from seeing the light of the gospel of the glory of Christ, who is the image of God. For we do not proclaim ourselves; we proclaim Jesus Christ as Lord and ourselves as your slaves for Jesus’ sake. For it is the God who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness’, who has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.

Mark 9.2–9 – Six days later, Jesus took with him Peter and James and John, and led them up a high mountain apart, by themselves. And he was transfigured before them, and his clothes became dazzling white, such as no one on earth could bleach them. And there appeared to them Elijah with Moses, who were talking with Jesus. Then Peter said to Jesus, ‘Rabbi, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.’ He did not know what to say, for they were terrified. Then a cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud there came a voice, ‘This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!’ Suddenly when they looked around, they saw no one with them any more, but only Jesus. As they were coming down the mountain, he ordered them to tell no one about what they had seen, until after the Son of Man had risen from the dead.

Sermon

In the passages of Mark’s gospel that I’ve just read aloud here in church, we’ve heard the perhaps familiar story of Jesus’ transfiguration before Peter, James and John on the side of a mountain; a story in which Jesus’ clothes suddenly become a supernatural dazzling white and the disciples – terrified, the passage tells us, with Peter, as he usually does, blurting out the first thing that comes into his head – witnessing Jesus talking to the prophets Elijah and Moses. And as if that isn’t enough to send the disciples scurrying back down the mountain as fast as they can go, we’ve heard that a cloud then appears and overshadows them, and a voice comes from the cloud: “This is my Son, the Beloved. Listen to him!” The voice must have spoken with some volume or urgency, because as the Bible has it, that command from the cloud finishes with an exclamation mark, so we had better listen up!

Now that could all seem pretty confusing and overwhelming, couldn’t it? Presumably not least to the disciples, who have just witnessed the latest in an increasingly long line of extraordinary events concerning Jesus, only for him to tell them as they come back down the mountain that they mustn’t tell anyone what they have seen. So, let’s take a cautious and humble step back, shall we, and see if we can make some sense of it all.

What has happened in Mark’s gospel so far, up until this point in the story? Well, Jesus has, metaphorically speaking, led the disciples up a mountainside to give them a new perspective; a clearer view of the work God is doing and what God’s kingdom looks like. As such, they have had their eyes opened so that they can see – for the very first time – the inner reality of God’s kingdom and the central truth that Jesus really is the Messiah. The gospel has told us several times about eyes being opened in several different senses and, every time, it all comes back to Jesus himself, and the Kingdom of God that he is ushering in.

Now, though, as we have heard in our Gospel reading, Jesus has literally taken the disciples up a mountainside (maybe Mount Hermon just north of Caesarea Philippi, maybe Mount Tabor in central Galilee, we aren’t sure). And here, something similar in nature happens, though this time it happens on another, far more profound level; just like a microscope revealing the atomic structure of the smallest matter that makes up the earth beneath us, or a telescope revealing the greatest and largest cosmic realities of the universe that towers above us, the many layers of Jesus’ being are peeled back for Peter, James and John to see, and their eyes are truly opened to the inner reality of Jesus’ work; that is continuing, and then completing, the work of the great prophet, Elijah, and the greatest prophet, Moses.

So, what might this mean to the disciples, or to us today? Well, theologian Tom Wright suggests that the transfiguration isn’t about the revelation of Jesus’ divinity. If this was the meaning behind the event, then it would be implying that Elijah and Moses were some how divine, too. Rather, the transfiguration is a sign of Jesus being entirely caught up with, bathed in, the love, power and Kingdom of God, so that it transforms his whole being with light, in the way perhaps that music transforms the meaning of the words of a song. This is a sign that Jesus isn’t just indulging in nice and benign fantasies, but that he is speaking and doing the truth in a way that will transform the world.

But even this could leave us feeling puzzled, couldn’t it? We don’t generally experience things in our lives as dramatic as this story – as possible as such dramatic things might be. We don’t often try to interpret the details of our lives and times according to a detailed scriptural plot. Though perhaps we should, because I believe that each of us is called to do what the heavenly voice towards the end of our Gospel passage said: listen to Jesus, because he is God’s beloved Son.

Now, as well as being the Sunday Next before Lent – doesn’t that sound exciting! – today is Racial Justice Sunday. Our own Bishop of Huddersfield, Bishop Smitha, who heads up the Church of England’s Anglican Minority Ethnic Network was talking to a group of us clergy about Racial Justice Sunday at Church House in Leeds a couple of weeks ago. She was encouraging us to reflect upon the meaning of the day, engage with it and share it in the communities in which we serve. Indeed, in conversation, she gave me a forceful look as only Bishops can and noted something earlier in the day where I had shared that I was preaching today. “Oh, you’re preaching on Racial Justice Sunday. How opportune!” And yes, just like the voice from the overshadowing cloud that we heard about in Mark’s gospel, I’m pretty sure her sentence ended with an exclamation mark!

“Uh oh”, I hear you say. Where’s Graeme going with this? Is he a fully paid-up member of Suella Braverman’s Guardian-reading, tofu-eating, wokerati?! Well, bear with me for just a minute or two longer, and you can decide for yourselves.

I am in no doubt at all that I am blessed. Blessed, and deeply privileged. I am a white, middle-class, educated, cis-gendered, heterosexual man. I am of the Christian faith, and I am now a member of the clergy serving a largely affluent parish in the Church of England who have welcomed me with open arms. I have a loving family who support me in everything – well, most things – that I do. I do not want for anything much at all, and NONE of these things that I have just mentioned are a barrier to me going about my life. That’s not the case for everyone in the world. It’s certainly not the case for everyone in the UK. It may not even be the case for everyone in Mirfield, though available data suggests that for the majority of people in this town, it is. So what? What does that have to do with you as you sit here in the stunning surrounds of this church in this village and this town? What does that have to do with us here in what we only half-jokingly call God’s own county? And what on earth does it have to do with today’s gospel reading?

One of the first questions so many of you asked me as I came to serve in Mirfield Team Parish was where would Sally and the children – and Val – and I be living. My answer was always the same. Well, the house we were due to move into wasn’t ready in time, so the Diocese moved us to Cleckheaton. But when the house is ready, we’ll be moving to Ravensthorpe and the St. Saviour’s Vicarage. Here’s a selection of just some of the responses that I got and the exchanges that followed:

  1. Ooof. You’re better off staying in Cleckheaton!
  2. Oh no. Ravensthorpe isn’t what it used to be. Oh really? Why’s that? Well, you know. I don’t have to tell you.
  3. You’d better keep your cats in doors once you’ve moved, otherwise they’ll be made into a curry.

Even when people weren’t speaking directly to me, I often overheard, and still overhear, comments about Ravensthorpe when people either don’t know I can hear them, or don’t think there is anything untoward about what they are saying. Some more lived examples from my own personal experience:

  1. You must be mad to even think about living in Ravensthorpe.
  2. Well, the traffic was really busy, and I could either turn back, or turn towards Ravensthorpe. And who in their right mind would want to go to Ravensthorpe.
  3. Use the laundrette in Ravensthorpe? Yeah, right! And get held up at gunpoint and your car nicked for the sake of washing a thirty quid duvet? I’ll just buy a new duvet.
  4. Ravensthorpe is a dunghole. (Spoiler alert for you, my brothers and sisters, “dunghole” may not be the word that was actually used.)

Why do I mention any of this? Well, on this Racial Justice Sunday, that coincides with our hearing of the story of Jesus’ transfiguration, I’d like to prompt us all – myself very much included, I’m not somehow off the hook here because I’m the one speaking from the lectern – to peel back the layers of the world around us, and see as clearly as we can, the reality that we live in.

This reality includes the fact that yes, even here in the Mirfield Team Parish, we say and do things that can be described as racist every day of the week, at the same time as we do the things that are loving and welcoming and Christlike. These two features of our life in this Christian community it turns out, shock horror, are not somehow mutually exclusive. One does not automatically cancel out the other.

As someone who lives there and experiences the place and its people on a daily basis, I can tell you that this reality includes the fact that Ravensthorpe is a community that has its challenges, socially, economically, but is also a place that is full of faithful, loving, hard-working and hopeful people who are let down every time someone a  mile up the road perpetuates myths about the community of Ravensthorpe and the people who live there. It’s not lost on me that when I walk around Ravensthorpe wearing my dog-collar, I am welcomed with open arms there, too. In fact, I am far more likely to receive a smile and a nod, a handshake or end up having a deep and meaningful conversation about God in Ravensthorpe than I am in Mirfield, where the response is more often than not for the passer by to see me, clock the dog collar, and immediately turn their gaze to pavement, walking a little quicker to get away from me as quickly as they can.

This reality includes the fact that this is now a mobile world. People are on the move and places and communities are connected in ways that they never have been before. Everywhere and everything is more accessible than it was 100 years ago, and that isn’t going to change.

Much like the disciples might have been feeling on that mountainside, that sounds like a lot. It sounds overwhelming. So how, as Christians, are we to respond? What, if anything, should we do?

We could start with the Bible and the book of Genesis and its assertion that we are – ALL of us – made in the image of God. We can turn through the pages of the first five books of the Bible and take note of reference after reference after reference telling us how we are to welcome strangers. We can pay attention when Jesus tells us that when we welcome strangers and care for them in their hour of need, we are welcoming and caring for Jesus himself. We can turn to Jesus’ story of the workers in the vineyard and see how all of them are treated fairly, no matter when or how they arrived to do their work.

Ultimately, however, what it ALL boils down to, ALL of it, is that our Christian response should be to love one another. As an ordained Deacon I have the immense privilege of saying several times a week: “Our Lord, Jesus Christ, said: the first commandment is this. Hear, O Israel: the Lord your God, is the only Lord; 30 you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind and with all your strength.’ 31 The second is this, ‘You shall love your neighbour as yourself.’ There is no other commandment greater than these.” I shall go on saying those words at every opportunity that I have. The question is, do I – DO YOU – really believe them?

So the Bible and Christ himself tell us that our Christian response to this reality should be based on mercy, compassion and love: to see the image of God in ALL people. It tells us that our response should be about action, too, and that we are required to take risks: perhaps for us this might be about speaking out, challenging and changing the language that is used to talk about people who live just down the road, or come to our neighbourhoods seeking sanctuary, regardless of the pushback that might follow. Perhaps that is the risk that I am taking this morning. We shall see.

It tells us that we should use the resources we have to help those who flee from persecution, conflict and crisis. These might be our own personal resources, those of our churches or our collective national resources. And the teaching of Jesus tells us that we should do all of this regardless of difference: no partiality.

So perhaps, just as Jesus led his disciples up a mountain and opened their eyes to the truth,  the reality lying behind the layers upon layers upon layers of the world, we as Christians who have come in their wake, might let God in Jesus Christ open our eyes too to the truth that is all around us if only we are prepared to see it. Perhaps, in that way, we too will be blessed, our community will be enriched, our economy and everything else will be given added value. People born in other cultures and other parts of the world have so much to give, so much to bring into our lives together. We miss out on all this if we overlook the Christian imperative that we should love our neighbour as we love ourselves. Perhaps finally, in this loving and hopeful, Christian response, in our witness to the truth of Jesus seen in his transfiguration, we might transfigure ourselves and the contested world in which we live, drawn by hope, not driven by fear; like Christ himself, entirely caught up in, bathed in, the love, power and Kingdom of God. AMEN.