Sermon: The Baptism of Christ (11th Jan, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

Acts 10.34–43 – Then Peter began to speak to them: ‘I truly understand that God shows no partiality, but in every nation anyone who fears him and does what is right is acceptable to him. You know the message he sent to the people of Israel, preaching peace by Jesus Christ—he is Lord of all. That message spread throughout Judea, beginning in Galilee after the baptism that John announced: how God anointed Jesus of Nazareth with the Holy Spirit and with power; how he went about doing good and healing all who were oppressed by the devil, for God was with him. We are witnesses to all that he did both in Judea and in Jerusalem. They put him to death by hanging him on a tree; but God raised him on the third day and allowed him to appear, not to all the people but to us who were chosen by God as witnesses, and who ate and drank with him after he rose from the dead. He commanded us to preach to the people and to testify that he is the one ordained by God as judge of the living and the dead. All the prophets testify about him that everyone who believes in him receives forgiveness of sins through his name.’

Matthew 3.13–end – Then Jesus came from Galilee to John at the Jordan, to be baptized by him. John would have prevented him, saying, ‘I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?’ But Jesus answered him, ‘Let it be so now; for it is proper for us in this way to fulfil all righteousness.’ Then he consented. And when Jesus had been baptized, just as he came up from the water, suddenly the heavens were opened to him and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting on him. And a voice from heaven said, ‘This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.’

Sermon

Today we stand at a turning point in the Christian year. The Christmas celebrations are drawing to a close, Epiphany light still shines, and we find ourselves by the waters of the River Jordan. The Feast of the Baptism of Christ invites us to watch Jesus step forward from the quiet years of Nazareth and into the public life that will lead him to the cross and beyond.

Matthew tells us that Jesus comes to John the Baptist to be baptised. This is surprising. John’s baptism was a baptism of repentance, a sign of turning away from sin and preparing for the coming of God’s kingdom. John himself is baffled: “I need to be baptised by you, and do you come to me?” Why would the one who is without sin submit to a baptism meant for sinners?

Jesus’ answer is brief but profound: “Let it be so now; for it is proper for us in this way to fulfil all righteousness.” In other words, Jesus chooses to stand exactly where humanity stands. He does not remain at a distance. He does not begin his ministry with power or spectacle, but with humility and solidarity. He steps into the water with everyone else.

This moment at the Jordan tells us something essential about who Jesus is and how God chooses to work. Jesus does not save us from afar; he saves us by entering fully into our life. He goes down into the water not because he needs cleansing, but because we do. From the very start of his ministry, Jesus aligns himself with the broken, the searching, the repentant, and the hopeful.

And then something extraordinary happens. As Jesus comes up from the water, the heavens are opened, the Spirit descends like a dove, and a voice from heaven declares: “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.” This is one of the great revealing moments of the gospel. Here, at the river, the identity of Jesus is made known. He is God’s Son. He is beloved. He is pleasing to the Father.

It is important to notice when this affirmation comes. It comes before Jesus has preached a sermon, before he has healed the sick, before he has challenged the authorities or gone to the cross. God’s declaration of love does not depend on Jesus’ achievements; it rests on who he is. This is not only a truth about Jesus—it is a truth that echoes into our own baptismal identity.

The Feast of the Baptism of Christ is not only about Jesus; it is also about us. In our own baptism, we are joined to Christ, united with him in his life, death, and resurrection. We, too, are named and claimed by God. We, too, are called beloved—not because we have earned it, but because God has chosen us in Christ.

Our reading from Acts helps us see how far-reaching this truth is. Peter, speaking in the house of Cornelius, makes a remarkable confession: “I truly understand that God shows no partiality, but in every nation anyone who fears him and does what is right is acceptable to him.” This is a watershed moment in the life of the early Church. Peter realises that the good news of Jesus is not limited by ethnicity, culture, or background. The Spirit who descended on Jesus at the Jordan is being poured out far beyond the boundaries people expected.

Peter goes on to summarise the heart of the gospel: Jesus was anointed with the Holy Spirit and with power; he went about doing good and healing those oppressed by evil; he was put to death; and God raised him on the third day. This is the story that begins at the Jordan. Baptism marks the beginning of Jesus’ public ministry, a ministry shaped by the Spirit and characterised by compassion, justice, and life-giving love.

What connects the river Jordan and the house of Cornelius is this: God’s saving work is for all, and it begins in humility. Jesus steps into the water. Peter steps across cultural and religious boundaries. In both cases, God is doing something new—opening up the heavens, opening up the Church, opening up the possibility of life for all people.

For us, this feast is an invitation to remember who we are and whose we are. Baptism is not just something that happened in the past; it is a present reality that shapes how we live. To be baptised into Christ is to share in his way of life: a life of humility, service, and trust in the Father’s love.

It also challenges us. If Jesus, the beloved Son, was willing to stand in solidarity with sinners, where are we being called to stand? If God shows no partiality, how are we called to widen our hearts, our churches, and our communities? Baptism sends us out into the world, just as Jesus was sent out from the Jordan, to bear witness to God’s love in word and action.

As we reflect today, we might hold onto that voice from heaven: “This is my Son, the Beloved.” Through Christ, those words are spoken over us too. In a world that often measures worth by success, status, or strength, baptism reminds us that our deepest identity is gift, not achievement. We are loved before we do anything at all.

So, on this Feast of the Baptism of Christ, we give thanks for the waters that cleanse, the Spirit that empowers, and the voice that calls us beloved. And we pray that, like Jesus, we may step faithfully into the life God sets before us—trusting that the heavens are still open, and that God is still at work in us and through us.

Amen.

Reflection: Fear and Love in Faith (Jan 7th, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

1 John 4.11–18 – Beloved, since God loved us so much, we also ought to love one another. No one has ever seen God; if we love one another, God lives in us, and his love is perfected in us. By this we know that we abide in him and he in us, because he has given us of his Spirit. And we have seen and do testify that the Father has sent his Son as the Saviour of the world. God abides in those who confess that Jesus is the Son of God, and they abide in God. So we have known and believe the love that God has for us. God is love, and those who abide in love abide in God, and God abides in them. Love has been perfected among us in this: that we may have boldness on the day of judgement, because as he is, so are we in this world. There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear; for fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not reached perfection in love.

Mark 6.45–52 – Immediately he made his disciples get into the boat and go on ahead to the other side, to Bethsaida, while he dismissed the crowd. After saying farewell to them, he went up on the mountain to pray. When evening came, the boat was out on the lake, and he was alone on the land. When he saw that they were straining at the oars against an adverse wind, he came towards them early in the morning, walking on the lake. He intended to pass them by. But when they saw him walking on the lake, they thought it was a ghost and cried out; for they all saw him and were terrified. But immediately he spoke to them and said, ‘Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.’ Then he got into the boat with them and the wind ceased. And they were utterly astounded, for they did not understand about the loaves, but their hearts were hardened.

Reflection

In our two readings today, we are invited to reflect on fear and love, and on what it means to trust God when the way ahead feels uncertain.

In the Gospel reading from Mark, the disciples find themselves in a boat, battling against the wind. They are doing exactly what Jesus has told them to do, yet the journey is hard and frightening. The wind is against them, and they are making little progress. It is in the middle of this struggle, in the darkness of the night, that Jesus comes to them, walking on the sea.

Mark tells us that when the disciples see him, they are terrified. They have been with Jesus for some time now, yet in this moment of fear they do not recognise him for who he is. They think he is a ghost. Fear clouds their vision and overwhelms their understanding. And so Jesus speaks those gentle but powerful words: ‘Take heart; it is I; do not be afraid.’ As soon as he gets into the boat, the wind ceases, and they are utterly astounded.

This scene perhaps resonates deeply with our own experience of life and faith. Many of us know what it is to feel as though we are rowing against the wind; trying to be faithful, trying to do what is right, yet finding ourselves tired, anxious, or afraid. Sometimes we pray and wonder why the struggle continues. Like the disciples, we may fail to recognise that Christ is nearer than we think, present even in the midst of the storm.

The letter of 1 John speaks directly into this experience. ‘Beloved, since God loved us so much, we also ought to love one another.’ John reminds us that God’s love is not abstract or distant. It is made real in Jesus Christ, and it grows in us as we live in love. Most strikingly, we are told that ‘there is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear.’

Fear, in the Bible, is not just about being startled or anxious; it is also about what happens when we forget who God is and how deeply we are loved. The disciples’ fear on the lake is not just fear of the wind and the waves, it is fear born of not fully understanding who Jesus is. They had not yet grasped the depth of God’s love revealed in Christ.

In his letter, John, writing to a community learning how to live as God’s people, reassures them that abiding in God’s love changes us. When we abide in love – when we trust that God’s love holds us – fear loosens its grip. This does not mean that life becomes easy or that storms vanish immediately. But it does mean that we are not alone in the boat.

For us, in the life of the Church and in our daily lives, these readings invite us to ask: where are we rowing against the wind? Where are we anxious or afraid? And can we hear again Jesus’ words spoken into those places: ‘Take heart; it is I; do not be afraid.’

So today we are invited to trust more deeply in God’s perfect love, to allow it to calm our fears, and to live it out in the way we care for one another. The wind may still blow, and the night may feel long, but Christ is near, and his love is stronger than our fear.

Amen.

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.

Reflection: The Days are Surely Coming (18th Dec, 2025, Year A)

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Readings

Jeremiah 23.5–8 – The days are surely coming, says the Lord, when I will raise up for David a righteous Branch, and he shall reign as king and deal wisely, and shall execute justice and righteousness in the land. In his days Judah will be saved and Israel will live in safety. And this is the name by which he will be called: ‘The Lord is our righteousness.’ Therefore, the days are surely coming, says the Lord, when it shall no longer be said, ‘As the Lord lives who brought the people of Israel up out of the land of Egypt’, but ‘As the Lord lives who brought out and led the offspring of the house of Israel out of the land of the north and out of all the lands where he had driven them.’ Then they shall live in their own land.

Matthew 1.18–24 – 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.

Reflection

The prophet Jeremiah speaks to a people who are weary and disillusioned. They have known poor leadership, broken promises, and the painful consequences of exile. Into this uncertainty, God makes a quiet but astonishing promise: “The days are surely coming.” Not tomorrow, not on our timetable, but on God’s. A new king will arise from David’s line — a righteous Branch — one who will reign with wisdom, justice, and integrity. His very name will declare what the people long to hear: “The Lord is our righteousness.”

This promise is not merely about political stability or national pride. It is about restoration — about God setting all things right again. The Lord who once delivered Israel from Egypt will act anew, bringing people home, healing what has been fractured, and renewing hope where it has been worn thin.

When we turn to Matthew’s Gospel, we see how this promise begins to take flesh in an unexpected way. There is no throne room, no royal procession. Instead, we meet Joseph — a quiet, faithful man faced with confusion and heartbreak. Mary is pregnant, and Joseph knows the child is not his. In a culture where shame and punishment were real and dangerous, Joseph chooses mercy. He resolves to dismiss Mary quietly, protecting her as best he can.

But God is already at work beyond Joseph’s understanding. In a dream, the angel speaks: “Do not be afraid.” Words that echo throughout scripture whenever God’s purposes unfold. Joseph is told that this child is conceived by the Holy Spirit, and that his name will be Jesus — “for he will save his people from their sins.” Here, the promise of Jeremiah comes into focus. This king will not rule by force or domination. He will rule by saving, by restoring, by drawing people back into right relationship with God.

Matthew reminds us that this child will also be called Emmanuel — “God with us.” The righteousness promised by Jeremiah is not something we achieve or earn; it is something God brings to us, choosing to dwell among us in vulnerability and love.

Joseph’s response is as important as the prophecy itself. He wakes, and he obeys. He takes Mary as his wife. He names the child. In doing so, Joseph gives Jesus a place within the line of David, allowing God’s ancient promise to continue through ordinary human faithfulness. God’s great purposes move forward through quiet acts of trust.

These readings invite us to reflect on the kind of king we are waiting for — and the kind of people we are called to be. In a world still marked by injustice, fear, and uncertainty, God’s promise remains: “The days are surely coming.” Christ reigns not from a distant throne, but from within our human story, present with us, calling us to trust, to mercy, and to obedience.

As we gather in worship, we are reminded that the Lord is our righteousness. Our hope does not rest in our strength or wisdom, but in the God who comes to be with us — and who is even now bringing his promises to fulfilment.