Reflection: The Narrow Door (29th Oct, 2025, Year C)

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Readings

Romans 8.26–30 – Likewise, the Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words. And God, who searches the heart, knows what is the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints according to the will of God. We know that all things work together for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose. For those whom he foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the image of his Son, in order that he might be the firstborn within a large family. And those whom he predestined he also called; and those whom he called he also justified; and those whom he justified he also glorified.

Luke 13.22–30 – Jesus went through one town and village after another, teaching as he made his way to Jerusalem. Someone asked him, ‘Lord, will only a few be saved?’ He said to them, ‘Strive to enter through the narrow door; for many, I tell you, will try to enter and will not be able. When once the owner of the house has got up and shut the door, and you begin to stand outside and to knock at the door, saying, “Lord, open to us”, then in reply he will say to you, “I do not know where you come from.” Then you will begin to say, “We ate and drank with you, and you taught in our streets.” But he will say, “I do not know where you come from; go away from me, all you evildoers!” There will be weeping and gnashing of teeth when you see Abraham and Isaac and Jacob and all the prophets in the kingdom of God, and you yourselves thrown out. Then people will come from east and west, from north and south, and will eat in the kingdom of God. Indeed, some are last who will be first, and some are first who will be last.’

Reflection

In our readings today, both Saint Paul and Jesus remind us that following God’s call is both a gift and a challenge — a journey shaped by grace, but also by perseverance.

In the passage from Luke, Jesus speaks of the narrow door — that striking image of a way that is not wide or easy, but one that demands attention, humility, and effort. He warns that not everyone who claims to know him will enter the kingdom, but those who strive to do so — those who live out his teaching, who seek justice, mercy, and love. The Christian path is not a broad highway of comfort, but a narrow way that sometimes asks of us courage, forgiveness, and sacrifice. It also one where, as Jesus reminds us, “Indeed, some are last who will be first, and some are first who will be last.”

And yet, Saint Paul reminds us in Romans that we do not walk that path alone. When the road feels steep and the way unclear, “the Spirit helps us in our weakness.” Even when we do not know how to pray, or what to say, the Spirit intercedes for us — expressing to God the prayers we cannot form ourselves. What a comfort that is: that God’s own Spirit prays within us, guiding, strengthening, and transforming us so that we may be conformed to the likeness of Christ.

The narrow way, then, is not a test to be passed by our own strength, but a journey walked with divine companionship. The Spirit walks beside us, within us, drawing us closer to the heart of God. And as Paul assures us, “all things work together for good for those who love God.” Even our struggles, even our failures, can be woven by God into his purpose of love.

So, as we come to the Lord’s table today, we come not as those who have perfectly walked the narrow way, but as those who long to be shaped more fully by it. Here, in the bread and wine, we meet the One who has already gone before us — who walked the hardest road, and who now gives us his Spirit to help us follow.

May we have grace to walk that way faithfully, trusting that the Spirit intercedes for us, and that Christ himself welcomes us through the narrow door into the joy of his kingdom.

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.

Reflection: Blessed are the Peacemakers, a reflection following the ‘Unite the Kingdom’ march

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Continuing to talk to people, read, watch and listen to accounts of this past weekend’s “Unite the Kingdom” march, it seems that many of the reasons people are giving for supporting it are the same as those that people gave for supporting Brexit.

I’ve heard people share that they are poorer; that public services are worse than they used to be, if they can be accessed at all; that they feel overlooked and left behind; that they are losing a sense of their own story and identity; that they want to get back something that they feel has gone, even if they can’t quite articulate what that is.

Why has Brexit disappeared from our discourse? Has it been fumbled by those who were to deliver its promises? Were those promises hollow to begin with? Both? Has it simply been lost to the mists of time? Something else entirely? Because it seems clear that these yearnings and needs of many have not been addressed or satisfied and are therefore continuing to concern us all.

I’m lucky compared to some. While I’ve had direct recent experience of highly strained public services (of family being denied access to treatment via the NHS for example), and while – like so many of us – I’m directly feeling the challenges of the current economic climate, I’m not destitute or without hope.

Nevertheless, I am deeply disheartened that we are seemingly so ready to blame the ‘other’ for our current woes; that those in positions of power and influence in our local communities, our nation and other nations are prepared to fan those flames, and that we are so willing to uncritically accept and share inaccurate information or deliberate misinformation if it seems to fit our existing worldview or somehow make us feel better about ourselves, however fleetingly. For what it might be worth, I know that I am not somehow above doing the same.

If we are to ease the simmering tensions that we see all around us, locally, nationally and internationally, it is beholden upon us all to try and identify our problems clearly and without prejudice; to examine ourselves and our own motivations honestly and not seek to point the finger at others; to be gracious in our dialogue, slow to anger and abounding in love; to be courageous, fair and creative in seeking to identify solutions to our problems that will benefit the common good rather than the interests of a few; to find and share what we have in common rather than pull up the drawbridge to hoard and hide. I’m not convinced that I see this approach anywhere much in our society right now, including in some Christian communities and in protests and counter-protests.

As a Christian minister, I’m heartbroken to see the name of Jesus Christ being invoked to try and justify the deliberate stoking of division, tension and national exceptionalism. Christ clearly wasn’t above putting the noses of the powerful and influential out of joint in righteous anger, but not in the name of a nation’s borders or boundaries as we understand them today. Christ put noses out of joint to draw ALL people back to God and turn them away from sin (the things that separate us from God and each other), championing a way of life based in justice, peace, mercy, hospitality and a love of neighbour. As Tom Wright puts it: “We must resist Christian nationalism as giving a Christian facade to nakedly political, ethnocentric and impious ventures.” I hope that Christians will find their identity and hope in Jesus Christ and the example of his teaching and way of life, rather than a flag or a man-made border.

I don’t pretend to have immediate answers or clear solutions for the many complex problems that our world is currently facing. I do know that trying to live a life of faith after the example of Jesus Christ helps me find a sure and certain hope in these difficult and uncertain times. Perhaps it might help you too. Those who have been at services that I’ve led recently will know that the introduction to the sharing of Christ’s peace that I use most often is “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God. We meet in Christ’s name and we share his peace.” If nothing else, I will continue to do my best to live a life based in love, faith and the example of Christ, and will endeavour to be a peacemaker wherever I go and in whatever I do as opportunity and ability afford. It’s the best I have to offer.

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.