Sermons

Sermon: Good News in the Dark (Christmas Eve Midnight Mass, 2025, Year A)

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Readings

Isaiah 52:7-10 – How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of the messenger who announces peace, who brings good news, who announces salvation, who says to Zion, “Your God reigns.” Listen! Your sentinels lift up their voices; together they shout for joy, for in plain sight they see the return of the Lord to Zion. Break forth; shout together for joy, you ruins of Jerusalem, for the Lord has comforted his people; he has redeemed Jerusalem. The Lord has bared his holy arm before the eyes of all the nations, and all the ends of the earth shall see the salvation of our God.

John 1:1-14 – In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it. There was a man sent from God whose name was John. He came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe through him. He himself was not the light, but he came to testify to the light. The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world. He was in the world, and the world came into being through him, yet the world did not know him. He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him. But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God, who were born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God. And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth.

Sermon

“How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of the messenger who announces peace, who brings good news.”

Those words from Isaiah that we’ve heard tonight were written for people who had known long years of waiting. People who had wondered whether God had forgotten them. People who had lived with loss, uncertainty, and the sense that the world was not as it should be. And into that weariness comes a messenger, not with arguments or explanations, but with good news: God reigns. Comfort has come. Salvation is near.

That is why these words are read tonight, at this Midnight Mass. Because this service happens at a particular moment: the day has ended, the world outside is quiet. Many of us arrive carrying the weight of the year that has been. Some of us come full of joy. Some come with grief close to the surface. Some come simply because this night matters, even if faith feels fragile or distant.

And into this night, the Church dares to say: Good news.

John’s Gospel tells that good news in a particular and poetic way. He doesn’t speak of a stable, shepherds, or angels singing. Instead, John takes us right back to the beginning of everything:

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”

Before time, before history, before our joys and sorrows, there is God, speaking, creating, calling life into being. And John tells us that this Word, this divine life and light, does not stay far away.

“The Word became flesh and lived among us.”

Not appeared briefly. Not visited from a safe distance. Became flesh. Shared our life. Knew tiredness and joy, friendship and rejection, pain and love. God does not shout good news from the mountains only; God comes close enough to be held.

That matters, especially tonight.

Christmas is not just about sentiment, though it has its place. It is about a claim at the heart of our faith: that God meets us not by escaping the darkness, but by entering into it.

John says, “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.” He says the light shines — and keeps shining — even when the darkness is real.

That is a word many of us need to hear.

Because Christmas comes whether life is tidy or not. It comes into a world still marked by conflict and fear. It comes into families that are complicated, into hearts that are anxious, into lives that feel unfinished. Midnight Mass does not pretend otherwise. But it lights a candle and says: God is here.

And in the familiar Christmas story that we tell afresh each year, God’s great announcement of Good News is not delivered to kings in palaces, but to shepherds keeping watch at night. Ordinary people, doing an ordinary job, in the dark. God seems to delight in meeting us where we already are.

That may be reassuring if you are here tonight feeling unsure about faith. You do not need to have everything sorted. You do not need to have the right words or the right feelings. The good news is not something you achieve; it is something you receive.

And what is that good news?

Isaiah puts it beautifully: comfort, peace, redemption, joy. John puts it boldly: grace and truth, light and life, God-with-us.

Christmas tells us that God’s response to the brokenness of the world is not distance, but closeness. Not condemnation, but compassion. Not silence, but the Word made flesh.

And that has consequences.

If God has chosen to meet us in vulnerability, then our own vulnerability is not something to be ashamed of. If God comes as a child, then gentleness is not weakness. If God brings light into darkness, then even small acts of kindness, forgiveness, and hope matter more than we know.

This Midnight Mass is not only about remembering what happened long ago. It is about trusting that God is still at work now, today — in ways we may not yet see, but which are no less real.

In a few moments, we will move from listening to words to sharing bread and wine — signs of a God who continues to give himself to us. God still comes to us in ordinary things, made holy by love.

So tonight, whether you come full of faith or full of questions, whether church feels like home or like unfamiliar territory, hear this good news:

God has not stayed far away.
Grace has entered the world.
And nothing — not darkness, not fear, not even death — will have the final word.

“How beautiful,” says Isaiah, “are the feet of the messenger who announces peace.”

Tonight, once again at Christmastime, that messenger is not only a prophet or an evangelist. It is a child, Jesus Christ, Emmanuel – God with us – born in the dark, bringing light into the world.

Thanks be to God.

Amen.

Sermon: God With Us (21st Dec, 2025, Year A)

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Readings

Isaiah 7.10–16 – Again the Lord spoke to Ahaz, saying, Ask a sign of the Lord your God; let it be deep as Sheol or high as heaven. But Ahaz said, I will not ask, and I will not put the Lord to the test. Then Isaiah said: ‘Hear then, O house of David! Is it too little for you to weary mortals, that you weary my God also? Therefore the Lord himself will give you a sign. Look, the young woman is with child and shall bear a son, and shall name him Immanuel.He shall eat curds and honey by the time he knows how to refuse the evil and choose the good. For before the child knows how to refuse the evil and choose the good, the land before whose two kings you are in dread will be deserted.

Matthew 1.18–end – Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way. When his mother Mary had been engaged to Joseph, but before they lived together, she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit. Her husband Joseph, being a righteous man and unwilling to expose her to public disgrace, planned to dismiss her quietly. But just when he had resolved to do this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, ‘Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will bear a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.’ All this took place to fulfil what had been spoken by the Lord through the prophet: ‘Look, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall name him Emmanuel’, which means, ‘God is with us.’ When Joseph awoke from sleep, he did as the angel of the Lord commanded him; he took her as his wife, but had no marital relations with her until she had borne a son; and he named him Jesus.

Sermon

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Advent is a season of waiting, but it is not a passive waiting. It is a season charged with expectation, uncertainty, and hope. We wait not because nothing is happening, but because something is happening—often quietly, often hidden, often in ways we do not yet understand.

Our readings this morning place us in two moments of deep uncertainty.

In Isaiah, we meet King Ahaz of Judah, a ruler under immense pressure. His kingdom is threatened by powerful enemies; his future feels fragile; fear hangs thick in the air. God speaks to him through the prophet Isaiah and offers him reassurance. “Ask the Lord your God for a sign,” Isaiah says—any sign, “as deep as Sheol or as high as heaven.”

But Ahaz refuses. “I will not ask,” he says. “I will not put the Lord to the test.”

At first glance, this sounds pious. It sounds faithful. But Isaiah knows better. Ahaz’s refusal is not humility; it is fear. He has already decided where his trust will lie—not in God, but in political alliances and human power. He does not want a sign, because a sign would demand faith, obedience, and courage.

So God gives a sign anyway.

“Look,” Isaiah says, “the young woman is with child and shall bear a son, and shall name him Immanuel.”

God with us.

Not a military victory. Not instant safety. But a child. A promise wrapped in vulnerability. A sign that God is present within the mess, not magically removing it.

Fast forward several centuries, and once again we find ourselves in a moment of fear and uncertainty—this time with Joseph.

Joseph is not a king. He has no throne to protect, no army to command. He is an ordinary man, quietly living a righteous life. And then his world begins to unravel.

Mary, to whom he is engaged, is found to be pregnant. Matthew tells us simply that Joseph is “a righteous man.” He does not want to expose Mary to public disgrace, but neither can he see a way forward. So he resolves to dismiss her quietly.

It is a deeply human moment. Joseph stands at the edge of a future he did not choose and does not understand. His plans—good, faithful plans—are collapsing. He is caught between compassion and obedience, love and law.

And it is here, in Joseph’s confusion and sorrow, that God speaks.

An angel appears to him in a dream and says, “Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid.”

Do not be afraid.

How often those words echo through Scripture. To frightened shepherds. To trembling prophets. To bewildered disciples. And here, to a man whose life has taken an unexpected turn.

“Do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife,” the angel says, “for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will bear a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.”

And Matthew adds that all this took place to fulfil what the Lord had spoken through the prophet: “Look, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall name him Emmanuel”—which means, God with us.

This is not a new idea suddenly appearing in the New Testament. It is the fulfilment of a promise spoken centuries earlier into a fearful political crisis. The sign given to Ahaz becomes the salvation offered to the world.

But notice something important: in both Isaiah and Matthew, God’s promise does not remove uncertainty—it enters into it.

Ahaz’s kingdom will still face hardship. Joseph’s life will still be complicated. Mary will still face misunderstanding. The child Jesus will still be born into poverty, flee as a refugee, and grow up under occupation.

God with us does not mean a trouble-free life. It means a transformed life.

For Joseph, obedience requires courage. Matthew tells us that when Joseph wakes from sleep, he does exactly as the angel commanded. He takes Mary as his wife. Together they name the child Jesus. In doing so, both Joseph and Mary accept roles they did not expect and a future they did not plan.

Joseph says nothing in this Gospel. Not a single recorded word. His faith is shown not through speech, but through action—through quiet, steadfast obedience.

Advent invites us into that same posture.

We are a people who wait. We wait for Christ’s coming at Christmas. We wait for his coming again in glory. And many of us wait in very personal ways—for healing, for clarity, for reconciliation, for peace.

Like Ahaz, we may be tempted to rely on our own strategies, our own control. Like Joseph, we may feel caught in circumstances we did not choose. And into those places, God speaks not first with explanations, but with presence.

God with us.

Not God above us, distant and untouched. Not God instead of us, removing all difficulty. But God with us—in uncertainty, in vulnerability, in flesh and blood.

This is the heart of the Incarnation. The eternal God chooses not to remain remote, but to be born of a woman, entrusted to human care, dependent on love.

And this changes how we wait.

Advent waiting is not empty. It is attentive. It listens for God’s voice in dreams and in Scripture, in silence and in surprising places. It asks not only, “What will happen?” but “How is God with me here?”

As we move closer to Christmas, we do so knowing that the story does not rush to resolution. The promise unfolds slowly. The child grows. The cross looms in the distance even as the cradle waits.

But the name endures.

Jesus. Emmanuel.

God saves.
God is with us.

This Advent, may we have the courage of Joseph—to trust when we do not fully understand, to obey when the cost is real, and to believe that God is present even when the way forward feels uncertain.

And may we learn again that the greatest sign God gives us is not power, but presence.

Thanks be to God. Amen.

Sermon: Are you the One who is to come? (14th Dec, 2025, Year A)

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Readings

Isaiah 35:1-10 – The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad, the desert shall rejoice and blossom; like the crocus it shall blossom abundantly, and rejoice with joy and singing. The glory of Lebanon shall be given to it, the majesty of Carmel and Sharon. They shall see the glory of the LORD, the majesty of our God. Strengthen the weak hands, and make firm the feeble knees. Say to those who are of a fearful heart, ‘Be strong, do not fear! Here is your God. He will come with vengeance, with terrible recompense. He will come and save you.’ Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped; then the lame shall leap like a deer, and the tongue of the speechless sing for joy. For waters shall break forth in the wilderness, and streams in the desert; the burning sand shall become a pool, and the thirsty ground springs of water; the haunt of jackals shall become a swamp, the grass shall become reeds and rushes. A highway shall be there, and it shall be called the Holy Way; the unclean shall not travel on it, but it shall be for God’s people; no traveller, not even fools, shall go astray. No lion shall be there, nor shall any ravenous beast come up on it; they shall not be found there, but the redeemed shall walk there. And the ransomed of the LORD shall return, and come to Zion with singing; everlasting joy shall be upon their heads; they shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.

Matthew 11:2-11 – When John heard in prison what the Messiah was doing, he sent word by his disciples and said to Jesus, ‘Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?’ Jesus answered them, ‘Go and tell John what you hear and see: the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them. And blessed is anyone who takes no offence at me.’ As they went away, Jesus began to speak to the crowds about John: ‘What did you go out into the wilderness to look at? A reed shaken by the wind? What then did you go out to see? Someone dressed in soft robes? Look, those who wear soft robes are in royal palaces. What then did you go out to see? A prophet? Yes, I tell you, and more than a prophet. This is the one about whom it is written, “See, I am sending my messenger ahead of you, who will prepare your way before you.” Truly I tell you, among those born of women no one has arisen greater than John the Baptist; yet the least in the kingdom of heaven is greater than he.’

Sermon

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

In my sermon last week as we considered the beginning of John the Baptist’s public ministry, I commented that Advent is a season that invites us to sit in the tension of two things that are seemingly opposed to one another. Because Advent is a season of waiting, but not the passive waiting of killing time that the word might suggest. Rather it is an active waiting of hope — waiting with eyes open, with hearts alert, with lives turned towards God’s future. And today’s readings place us right in the middle of that tension: between promise and fulfilment, between longing and uncertainty, between faith and doubt.

Our Gospel reading opens in a place we might not expect during Advent. Not in Bethlehem, not with angels or shepherds, but in a prison. John the Baptist — the fiery prophet, the desert preacher, the one who proclaimed with such certainty that the Messiah was at hand — now sits behind bars. And from that place, John sends a question to Jesus that is as simple as it is unsettling:

“Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?”

This is not the voice of a casual enquirer. This is the voice of someone who has staked his whole life on the answer. John had proclaimed judgement and fire, the axe laid to the root of the trees, the coming wrath of God. And now he hears reports of Jesus — healing the sick, eating with sinners, showing mercy — and it does not quite match what he expected.

Advent allows space for this question. It gives us permission to ask it ourselves. Are you really the one, Lord? Are you really at work in this world? Are you really coming to set things right?

Jesus does not answer John with a simple yes or no. Instead, he points to what is happening:

“Go and tell John what you hear and see: the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them.”

In other words, look — look at the signs of God’s kingdom breaking in.

And as we hear those words, we are taken straight back to our reading from Isaiah. The prophet speaks to a people who are weary, displaced, uncertain of their future. And into that situation comes a vision of astonishing hope:

“The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad, the desert shall rejoice and blossom.”

This is not just about individual healing, but about the renewal of all creation. The landscape itself is transformed. Water breaks forth in the wilderness. Streams flow in the desert. What was lifeless becomes abundant with life.

Isaiah’s vision is not sentimental optimism. It is hope spoken into devastation. It is God saying that barrenness is not the final word, that exile will not last forever, that joy will come where sorrow has settled in.

And crucially, Isaiah speaks of a highway — “the Holy Way” — a path on which the redeemed will walk. A way home. A way forward. A way that leads to singing, to joy, to the end of sighing and sorrow.

When Jesus points to the signs of healing and restoration, he is saying: this vision is beginning to be fulfilled. Not in the way people expected. Not all at once. But truly, deeply, and unmistakably.

And yet, even as the signs are present, John remains in prison. The kingdom comes, but the chains are not immediately broken. The desert blooms, but there are still dry places. The blind see, but the world is not yet whole.

This is an Advent truth.

We live between promise and fulfilment. We know the Messiah has come, and yet we still pray, “Come, Lord Jesus.” We glimpse God’s kingdom, and yet we feel its absence keenly. We hear good news, and yet we also know grief, injustice, and fear.

Jesus ends his message to John with a gentle but searching line: “Blessed is anyone who takes no offence at me.”

Blessed is the one who does not stumble when God’s ways do not match their expectations. Blessed is the one who trusts even when the story unfolds differently than hoped.

Then Jesus turns to the crowd and speaks about John himself. He honours him, not despite his question, but alongside it. John is not diminished by his doubt. He is praised as a prophet — more than a prophet — the one who prepared the way.

This is important. Doubt does not disqualify faith. Questioning does not cancel calling. John’s question is not a failure; it is a sign of faith seeking understanding.

Advent faith is not about having everything neatly resolved. It is about holding on to hope even when the answer is not yet clear.

For us, in this season, these readings ask us where we are looking for God’s coming. Are we expecting spectacle, or are we paying attention to signs of quiet transformation? Are we looking only for dramatic rescue, or can we see God at work in small acts of healing, mercy, and justice? Is a big London rally claiming to put Christ back into Christmas necessary? Or has Christ been faithfully, quietly at work in our communities all this time?

Isaiah speaks of strengthening weak hands and firming feeble knees. Of saying to those who are fearful, “Be strong, do not fear! Here is your God.” That is a word not only for ancient Israel, but for us. For a world anxious about the future. For communities feeling stretched and weary. For individuals carrying silent burdens into church this morning.

Advent does not deny the reality of fear, but it insists that fear does not have the final word.

The good news brought to the poor — which Jesus highlights — is not just material, but spiritual. It is the announcement that God sees, God knows, and God has come near. That the kingdom is not reserved for the powerful or the confident, but given to those who are open enough to receive it.

And that brings us back to the image of the highway in Isaiah. The Holy Way is not a path for the perfect, but for the redeemed. It is a way marked not by our strength, but by God’s faithfulness.

As we continue our Advent journey, we walk that road together. We carry questions, like John. We carry hopes, like Isaiah’s people. We carry longing — for peace, for healing, for justice, for joy.

And we do so trusting that the one who has come, and who will come again, is already at work among us. In small signs and great ones. In deserts beginning to bloom. In lives quietly being restored. In a Saviour who meets doubt not with condemnation, but with invitation.

So may this Advent be a season in which our eyes are opened to what God is doing. May our hands be strengthened to serve. May our hearts be steady in hope. And may we be among those who are blessed — not because we have no questions, but because we trust the one who comes to meet us on the way.

Amen.

Sermon: God’s Hope in Unexpected Places (7th Dec, 2025, Year A)

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Readings

Isaiah 11.1–10 – A shoot shall come out from the stock of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots. The spirit of the Lord shall rest on him, the spirit of wisdom and understanding, the spirit of counsel and might, the spirit of knowledge and the fear of the Lord. His delight shall be in the fear of the Lord. He shall not judge by what his eyes see, or decide by what his ears hear; but with righteousness he shall judge the poor, and decide with equity for the meek of the earth; he shall strike the earth with the rod of his mouth, and with the breath of his lips he shall kill the wicked. Righteousness shall be the belt around his waist, and faithfulness the belt around his loins. The wolf shall live with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid, the calf and the lion and the fatling together, and a little child shall lead them. The cow and the bear shall graze, their young shall lie down together; and the lion shall eat straw like the ox. The nursing child shall play over the hole of the asp, and the weaned child shall put its hand on the adder’s den. They will not hurt or destroy on all my holy mountain; for the earth will be full of the knowledge of the Lord as the waters cover the sea. On that day the root of Jesse shall stand as a signal to the peoples; the nations shall inquire of him, and his dwelling shall be glorious.

Matthew 3.1–12 – In those days John the Baptist appeared in the wilderness of Judea, proclaiming, ‘Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.’ This is the one of whom the prophet Isaiah spoke when he said, ‘The voice of one crying out in the wilderness: “Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight.” ’Now John wore clothing of camel’s hair with a leather belt around his waist, and his food was locusts and wild honey. Then the people of Jerusalem and all Judea were going out to him, and all the region along the Jordan, and they were baptized by him in the river Jordan, confessing their sins. But when he saw many Pharisees and Sadducees coming for baptism, he said to them, ‘You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? Bear fruit worthy of repentance. Do not presume to say to yourselves, “We have Abraham as our ancestor”; for I tell you, God is able from these stones to raise up children to Abraham. Even now the axe is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire. ‘I baptize you with water for repentance, but one who is more powerful than I is coming after me; I am not worthy to carry his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing-fork is in his hand, and he will clear his threshing-floor and will gather his wheat into the granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.’

Sermon

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

I’ve often thought that a key indicator of a mature Christian faith is being able to hold two seemingly opposing ideas in tension with one another and being okay with that. And in many ways, this is embodied in this season of Advent. Because Advent is a season that invites us to stand in two places at once: looking back and looking forward; remembering and hoping while also longing and preparing. It is the season that teaches us how to wait— not passively as the word suggests, but with expectation, with purpose, with hearts awake to what God is doing.

Our readings this morning hold these Advent tensions together beautifully. Isaiah gives us a deeply cherished vision: “A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse.” Matthew, meanwhile, confronts us with the unsettling figure of John the Baptist—wild, urgent, uncompromising—crying out in the wilderness, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near!”

Isaiah speaks of a future that is tender, surprising, and full of hope. John the Baptist speaks of a present moment that is sharp, demanding, and impossible to ignore. And between them, we discover the Advent truth: God’s hope arrives both as comfort and as challenge.

The Stump and the Shoot: God’s Hope in Unexpected Places

Isaiah begins with an image of devastation. A stump is what remains after a tree has been felled—lifeless, cut down, apparently finished. For Isaiah’s first hearers, that stump represented the collapse of the monarchy, the failure of leadership, the disappointment of what had once seemed full of promise.

And yet, out of that dead stump, Isaiah sees a green shoot—a sign of new life where no life was expected.

This is one of Advent’s most important messages:
God’s hope does not grow out of our strength but often from our very places of loss.
Where we see an ending, God sees a beginning. Where we see failure, God plants redemption. Where we see a stump, God brings forth a shoot.

And the shoot Isaiah describes is no ordinary sprout. It is the Messiah—the one filled with the Spirit of wisdom, understanding, counsel, and might. The one who judges not by appearances but with righteousness and equity. The one who brings peace so deep and so strange that natural enemies dwell together: wolves and lambs, leopards and goats, lions eating straw, and a little child leading them.

Isaiah dares to imagine a world reordered by the peace of God. Not a peace that papers over conflict, but a deep healing of creation itself.

John the Baptist: Preparing the Way

If Isaiah’s vision feels like a dream of what could be, John the Baptist drags us into the urgent present. Matthew tells us he appears in the wilderness proclaiming, with no smoothing of the edges, “Repent!”

We might be tempted to hear that word as a scolding. But repentance in Scripture is much more than guilt or regret. It means turning around, reorienting, realigning ourselves with the way of God.

John is not shaming the crowds; he is inviting them.

Inviting them—inviting us—to live in such a way that we can actually recognise the One who is coming.

Because here is another Advent truth:
Hope requires preparation.
If Isaiah shows us God’s promise, John shows us our response.

We prepare the way of the Lord not by frantic activity, but by clearing the clutter of our hearts. We make straight the paths of the Lord by attending to what in our lives has become crooked, hardened, or tangled.

John’s warning to the Pharisees and Sadducees is sharp: “Do not presume.” Advent is not a season for presumption. We do not presume that heritage, habit, or tradition alone prepare us for Christ. We prepare by turning—freshly, willingly—toward the light.

Advent Hope: Consolation and Challenge

If we allow Isaiah and John to speak together, something profound emerges.

Isaiah says:
God is bringing new life, new peace, a new world.
John says:
So live as if that world is truly coming.

Isaiah reveals the hope.
John summons the response.
And Jesus—the One whom both point toward—embodies the promise and fulfils it.

Advent hope is not vague optimism. It is the conviction that God is already at work renewing creation—sometimes quietly, like a shoot from a stump; sometimes dramatically, like a prophet in the wilderness.

The question for us is not whether God is at work, but whether we are ready to receive what God is doing.

What Might This Look Like for Us Today?

First, it might mean allowing God to speak into places that feel like stumps—places where hope seems cut down.
• In our world, that may be conflict, injustice, or division.
• In our communities, it might be weariness or uncertainty.
• In our own lives, it may be disappointment, grief, or fear.

Advent invites us to look again and see that God can bring life from what seems lifeless.

Second, it might mean taking John’s call to repentance seriously. Not as a burden, but as liberation.
Repentance is God’s gift to help us travel light—to let go of what hinders love, justice, and joy.

Third, it might mean committing ourselves to the peace Isaiah describes. The peace of the Messiah is not sentimental; it is courageous. It calls us to seek reconciliation where there has been conflict, to act justly where there has been inequity, to embody gentleness in a world that often rewards harshness.

This is not easy work. But it is the work of those who follow Jesus, the Prince of Peace.

The Table: Where Hope and Repentance Meet

In a moment, we will come to the Lord’s Table. And there, the message of Advent becomes visible and tangible.

At this table, Christ meets us not because we have perfectly prepared ourselves, but because we are hungry.
Here, the shoot from the stump of Jesse nourishes us with grace.
Here, our repentance is met with mercy.
Here, the future hope of God touches the present moment.

And as we receive the bread and wine, we are invited to become, in God’s hands, signs of the same hope Isaiah saw—small shoots of God’s kingdom growing in the world.

Conclusion

So, this Advent:
May Isaiah open our eyes to God’s surprising hope.
May John the Baptist open our hearts to God’s transforming call.
And may Christ, whose coming we await, make us ready—ready to receive him, ready to follow him, ready to bear his light into the world.

Amen.

Sermon: Christ the King (23rd Nov, 2025, Year C)

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Readings

Colossians 1.11–20 – May you be made strong with all the strength that comes from his glorious power, and may you be prepared to endure everything with patience, while joyfully giving thanks to the Father, who has enabled you to share in the inheritance of the saints in the light. He has rescued us from the power of darkness and transferred us into the kingdom of his beloved Son, in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins. He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation; for in him all things in heaven and on earth were created, things visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or powers—all things have been created through him and for him. He himself is before all things, and in him all things hold together. He is the head of the body, the church; he is the beginning, the firstborn from the dead, so that he might come to have first place in everything. For in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through him God was pleased to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, by making peace through the blood of his cross.

Luke 23.33–43 – When they came to the place that is called The Skull, they crucified Jesus there with the criminals, one on his right and one on his left. [[ Then Jesus said, ‘Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.’]] And they cast lots to divide his clothing. And the people stood by, watching; but the leaders scoffed at him, saying, ‘He saved others; let him save himself if he is the Messiah of God, his chosen one!’ The soldiers also mocked him, coming up and offering him sour wine, and saying, ‘If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!’ There was also an inscription over him, ‘This is the King of the Jews.’ One of the criminals who were hanged there kept deriding him and saying, ‘Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!’ But the other rebuked him, saying, ‘Do you not fear God, since you are under the same sentence of condemnation? And we indeed have been condemned justly, for we are getting what we deserve for our deeds, but this man has done nothing wrong.’ Then he said, ‘Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.’ He replied, ‘Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.’

Sermon

The crucifixion in November? What’s that all about? I think you’d be forgiven for asking the question on this day that we call the Feast of Christ the King. And I completely understand the question being asked. It seems strange that on the last Sunday of the church year we are again watching Jesus on the cross. Most of us are probably already focusing on Christmas. Besides we’ve already heard the Good Friday story once this year and that’s usually enough for most of us. Why do we need to hear it again?

Maybe we need to hear it again because the injustice and violence revealed in today’s gospel are an everyday occurrence in our lives and the world. Maybe we need to hear it again because we too often and too easily ignore or accommodate that injustice and violence.

So today, on the Feast of Christ the King, the Church draws our eyes to the true nature of Christ’s kingship. It is a kingship unlike any other the world has known—a kingship revealed not through conquest or splendour, but through reconciliation, mercy, and self-giving love.

Our readings hold these truths before us with vivid clarity.

In Colossians, St Paul paints a breathtaking portrait of Christ:
“He is the image of the invisible God…”
“In him all things hold together…”
“Through him God was pleased to reconcile all things.”

These are words full of cosmic grandeur. Christ is the One through whom all creation came into being. He is before all things; he is the head of the Church; he is the fullness of God dwelling among us as one of us. If ever there were a passage meant to lift our hearts in awe, it is this one. Christ is King not simply over a nation or a people, but over the whole universe.

And yet—having heard this majestic vision—we then turn to Luke’s Gospel, and we find this King enthroned on a cross.

There he hangs between two criminals, exposed to ridicule and agony. The leaders sneer, the soldiers mock, and one of the criminals hurls insults. The sign above his head reads “This is the King of the Jews”—intended as a taunt, but truer than anyone realised.

Here, at the place called The Skull, two visions of kingship collide.
The world expects kings to rule with power; Christ rules with sacrifice.
The world expects kings to be served; Christ serves.
The world expects kings to save themselves; Christ saves others.

And it is in this place of suffering that we witness one of the most beautiful moments in all of Scripture. One of the criminals turns to Jesus and says, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” In those few words he recognises something far greater than the scene of defeat before him. He sees a King whose kingdom is not abolished by death, but established through it.

Jesus replies, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.”
It is a royal proclamation—an announcement of mercy, restoration, and welcome.

This is what Christ’s kingship looks like:
A King who will not turn away even from a dying criminal.
A King whose authority is expressed through forgiveness.
A King who conquers not by inflicting suffering, but by bearing it.

When St Paul speaks in Colossians of God reconciling all things—making peace through the blood of the cross—it is this moment on Calvary that reveals how that reconciliation is accomplished. Christ the King gathers the lost, breaks the power of sin, and opens the way to life by giving himself fully and freely for the world he loves.

So what does this mean for us, as we celebrate this feast?

First, it reminds us that Christ’s kingdom is not built on the values that often dominate our society—ambition, status, self-protection—but on compassion, justice, and humility. To serve this King is to let go of the need to be first, to win, or to appear strong. It is to follow the way of mercy.

Second, it invites us to trust. Colossians tells us that in Christ all things hold together. Even when the world feels chaotic – and it surely does right now, – even when our own lives feel fragile, Christ remains sovereign. His kingship is not threatened by the darkness around us. He holds us, and he holds creation, in hands marked by sacrifice.

And finally, this feast invites us to hope. The criminal on the cross had nothing to offer—no record of achievement, no good works to present—only a plea: “Remember me.” And Christ answered him with immediate, overflowing grace. If that is how the King receives a dying criminal, how much more will he receive us when we turn to him? This is a kingdom of hope for the broken, the weary, the repentant, and the lost.

Christ is King—not in spite of the cross, but because of it.
A King who reconciles.
A King who forgives.
A King who remembers us.

And so today, as we proclaim Jesus Christ as King of kings and Lord of lords, we do so with gratitude, with reverence, and with renewed commitment to walk in his way—the way of the crucified and risen King, who reigns in love now and forever.

Amen.