Sermon: Remember You Are Dust (18th Feb, Ash Wednesday, 2026, Year A)

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2 Corinthians 5.20b – 6.10 – We entreat you on behalf of Christ, be reconciled to God. For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God. As we work together with him, we urge you also not to accept the grace of God in vain. For he says, ‘At an acceptable time I have listened to you,    and on a day of salvation I have helped you.’ See, now is the acceptable time; see, now is the day of salvation! We are putting no obstacle in anyone’s way, so that no fault may be found with our ministry, but as servants of God we have commended ourselves in every way: through great endurance, in afflictions, hardships, calamities, beatings, imprisonments, riots, labours, sleepless nights, hunger; by purity, knowledge, patience, kindness, holiness of spirit, genuine love, truthful speech, and the power of God; with the weapons of righteousness for the right hand and for the left; in honour and dishonour, in ill repute and good repute. We are treated as impostors, and yet are true; as unknown, and yet are well known; as dying, and see—we are alive; as punished, and yet not killed; as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, and yet possessing everything.

Matthew 6.1–6, 16–21 – ‘Beware of practising your piety before others in order to be seen by them; for then you have no reward from your Father in heaven. ‘So whenever you give alms, do not sound a trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, so that they may be praised by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But when you give alms, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your alms may be done in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you. ‘And whenever you pray, do not be like the hypocrites; for they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners, so that they may be seen by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But whenever you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you. ‘And whenever you fast, do not look dismal, like the hypocrites, for they disfigure their faces so as to show others that they are fasting. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But when you fast, put oil on your head and wash your face, so that your fasting may be seen not by others but by your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you. ‘Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust consume and where thieves break in and steal; but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust consumes and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

Sermon

Ash Wednesday always begins by telling the truth.

Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.

There’s no softening that. No euphemism. No pretending. We come to church today knowing that life is fragile, time is limited, and that we are not as self-sufficient as we like to believe. The ash on our foreheads doesn’t flatter us. It doesn’t show us at our best. It tells the truth about who we are.

And that, strangely enough, is where grace begins.

In our reading from Corinthians, Paul pleads: “Be reconciled to God… now is the acceptable time; now is the day of salvation.”
Not tomorrow. Not once we’ve sorted ourselves out. Not when we feel more impressive, more faithful, more put together. Now. As we are.

Paul describes the Christian life in a way that feels deeply Ash Wednesday-shaped: sorrowful yet always rejoicing, poor yet making many rich, having nothing yet possessing everything. It’s a life that holds contradictions together. Weakness and hope. Loss and gift. Dust and glory.

Ash Wednesday invites us to stand honestly in those tensions — not pretending we are better than we are, but also refusing to believe that our brokenness is the final word.

That honesty matters because, as Jesus reminds us in the gospel, it’s very easy to perform religion rather than live it. To polish the outside while leaving the inside untouched.

Jesus talks about giving, praying, and fasting — all good things, all holy practices — and warns how easily they can become ways of managing appearances. Ways of reassuring ourselves, or others, that we’re doing rather well spiritually, thank you very much.

But Ash Wednesday cuts through that. The ashes are not a badge of achievement. They’re not a spiritual gold star. In fact, they undo performance altogether. Everyone comes forward the same. Everyone receives the same sign. Ashes don’t distinguish between the confident and the unsure, the regular and the occasional, the saint and the struggler. They level us.

And that’s exactly the point.

Jesus says, “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth.” Not because treasure is bad, but because earthly treasure is fragile. It rusts. It breaks. It doesn’t last. Ash Wednesday is the day the Church gently but firmly says: don’t build your life on things that can’t hold you.

Instead, Jesus invites us inward — into prayer that happens in secret, into fasting that makes space, into generosity that doesn’t need to be seen. Not because God prefers secrecy, but because that’s where honesty lives. That’s where we stop pretending.

And Paul’s words help us see what happens when we do stop pretending. “We commend ourselves… through endurance, in afflictions, hardships, calamities.” Not by looking impressive, but by staying faithful in the middle of real life. By trusting that God is at work even when the picture looks messy.

Ash Wednesday is not about self-loathing. It’s about truth-telling. And truth-telling is what makes reconciliation possible.

When we come forward for ashes, we’re not saying, “Look how bad I am.” We’re saying, “I need mercy.” And that’s a prayer God never ignores.

Later in the service, we’ll come forward again — this time not to receive ashes, but bread and wine. And that matters. Because the Church never leaves us with dust alone. The same hands that mark us with ashes also place in our hands the gift of Christ’s own life.

We move, in one service, from remember you are dust to the body of Christ, given for you. From mortality to mercy. From repentance to nourishment.

Paul says, “As servants of God we commend ourselves… in the Holy Spirit, genuine love, truthful speech, and the power of God.” Not because we have earned it, but because God insists on meeting us exactly where we are — dust and all.

So as Lent begins, we’re not being asked to perform holiness, or to collect spiritual achievements. We’re being invited to make space. To clear out what distracts us. To let go of what we cling to for security. To allow God to reconcile us — not just to God, but to ourselves, to one another, and to the truth of our own lives.

Now is the acceptable time.
Now is the day of salvation.

Today, we come as we are. Marked, fed, forgiven, and sent — carrying both the ash on our foreheads and the grace in our hands.

Amen.

Sermon: Mountaintop Moments (15th Feb, 2026, Year A)

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This sermon was preached at Christ The King, Battyeford at their all-age “Family at 10” service.

Readings

Exodus 24.12–end – The Lord said to Moses, ‘Come up to me on the mountain, and wait there; and I will give you the tablets of stone, with the law and the commandment, which I have written for their instruction.’ So Moses set out with his assistant Joshua, and Moses went up into the mountain of God. To the elders he had said, ‘Wait here for us, until we come to you again; for Aaron and Hur are with you; whoever has a dispute may go to them.’ Then Moses went up on the mountain, and the cloud covered the mountain. The glory of the Lord settled on Mount Sinai, and the cloud covered it for six days; on the seventh day he called to Moses out of the cloud. Now the appearance of the glory of the Lord was like a devouring fire on the top of the mountain in the sight of the people of Israel. Moses entered the cloud, and went up on the mountain. Moses was on the mountain for forty days and forty nights.

Matthew 17.1–9 – Six days later, Jesus took with him Peter and James and his brother John and led them up a high mountain, by themselves. And he was transfigured before them, and his face shone like the sun, and his clothes became dazzling white. Suddenly there appeared to them Moses and Elijah, talking with him. Then Peter said to Jesus, ‘Lord, it is good for us to be here; if you wish, I will make three dwellings here, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.’ While he was still speaking, suddenly a bright cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud a voice said, ‘This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!’ When the disciples heard this, they fell to the ground and were overcome by fear. But Jesus came and touched them, saying, ‘Get up and do not be afraid.’ And when they looked up, they saw no one except Jesus himself alone. As they were coming down the mountain, Jesus ordered them, ‘Tell no one about the vision until after the Son of Man has been raised from the dead.’

Sermon

I wonder if you can help me to think about the Transfiguration today.

Can anyone tell me about a time when something ordinary suddenly felt extraordinary?

It might have been a place you’ve been lots of times before — a beach, a hill, your own garden — but one day it just felt different. More special. More alive.

Because that’s something like what’s happening in our gospel reading today.

Jesus takes Peter, James and John up a mountain. Mountains in the Bible are often places where heaven and earth seem to come closer together — places where people meet God in unexpected ways.

At first, it probably felt like a normal climb. Dusty feet. Steep paths. Maybe a bit of grumbling. But then — suddenly — everything changes.

Jesus is transfigured before them. His face shines. His clothes become dazzling white. And then, as if that weren’t enough, Moses and Elijah appear, talking with him.

This is not just a nice moment. This is a glimpse behind the curtain. For a moment, the disciples see who Jesus really is — not just a teacher, not just a healer, but God’s beloved Son, full of glory.

And Peter does what many of us would do in a moment like that. He tries to hold onto it.

“Lord, it is good for us to be here. If you wish, I will make three tents…”

Peter wants to stay on the mountain. He wants to freeze the moment. He wants to build something solid so this feeling never goes away.

I wonder — does that sound familiar?

How many of us have had moments we wish we could stay in forever?
A holiday. A celebration. A sense that everything is finally right.

If you could press pause on one really good moment in your life, what might it be?

Peter’s instinct makes sense. But while he’s still speaking, a cloud overshadows them, and a voice says:

“This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him.”

And the disciples fall to the ground, afraid.

Then Jesus does something very gentle. He comes to them. He touches them. And he says, “Get up and do not be afraid.”

And when they look up — it’s just Jesus. No Moses. No Elijah. No shining cloud.

And then comes the most important part of the story.

They go down the mountain.

Because the mountain is not where the story ends.

This Sunday — the Sunday next before Lent — always stands at a turning point in the church year. We’re given this dazzling, glorious moment just before we begin the quieter, harder journey of Lent.

The disciples don’t yet know what lies ahead. But Jesus does. He knows that the road from this mountain leads eventually to Jerusalem, to suffering, to the cross.

And that’s why they can’t stay where they are.

The mountain is for seeing clearly.
But the valley is where the work happens.

This is really important for us, especially in a church that brings people of all ages and backgrounds together.

Because faith isn’t just about special moments — the songs we love, the festivals, the sense that God feels close. Those moments matter. They strengthen us. They remind us who Jesus is.

But faith is also about Monday mornings. About school and work and caring and worrying and forgiving and trying again.

Jesus doesn’t say, “Build tents and stay here.”
He says, “Listen to me.”
And then he leads them back down the mountain.

Lent is a bit like that journey down.

Over the coming weeks, we’ll be invited to listen more carefully to Jesus. To walk with him. To notice where God is at work not just in the shining moments, but in the ordinary ones too.

And here’s the really good news.

The glory the disciples see on the mountain doesn’t disappear. It goes with Jesus — even when it’s hidden. Even on the cross. Even in the darkest places.

Which means it goes with us too.

So let me finish with a question — and this one really is for everyone, whatever your age.

As we begin the journey towards Lent:
Where might Jesus be inviting you to listen more closely to him?
And where might he be asking you to follow him — not staying where it’s comfortable, but trusting him on the way down the mountain?

Because the same Jesus who shines with glory is the one who comes close, touches us, and says:

“Get up. Do not be afraid.”

Amen.

Reflection: Integrity of Heart (12th Feb, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

1 Kings 11.4–13 – For when Solomon was old, his wives turned away his heart after other gods; and his heart was not true to the Lord his God, as was the heart of his father David. For Solomon followed Astarte the goddess of the Sidonians, and Milcom the abomination of the Ammonites. So Solomon did what was evil in the sight of the Lord, and did not completely follow the Lord, as his father David had done. Then Solomon built a high place for Chemosh the abomination of Moab, and for Molech the abomination of the Ammonites, on the mountain east of Jerusalem. He did the same for all his foreign wives, who offered incense and sacrificed to their gods. Then the Lord was angry with Solomon, because his heart had turned away from the Lord, the God of Israel, who had appeared to him twice, and had commanded him concerning this matter, that he should not follow other gods; but he did not observe what the Lord commanded. Therefore the Lord said to Solomon, ‘Since this has been your mind and you have not kept my covenant and my statutes that I have commanded you, I will surely tear the kingdom from you and give it to your servant. Yet for the sake of your father David I will not do it in your lifetime; I will tear it out of the hand of your son. I will not, however, tear away the entire kingdom; I will give one tribe to your son, for the sake of my servant David and for the sake of Jerusalem, which I have chosen.’

Mark 7.24–30 – From there he set out and went away to the region of Tyre. He entered a house and did not want anyone to know he was there. Yet he could not escape notice, but a woman whose little daughter had an unclean spirit immediately heard about him, and she came and bowed down at his feet. Now the woman was a Gentile, of Syrophoenician origin. She begged him to cast the demon out of her daughter. He said to her, ‘Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.’ But she answered him, ‘Sir, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.’ Then he said to her, ‘For saying that, you may go—the demon has left your daughter.’ So she went home, found the child lying on the bed, and the demon gone.

Reflection

Our two readings today place before us a fascinating contrast: the slow turning away of a heart that once knew God well, and the bold, persistent faith of someone who seems, at first, to stand far outside God’s people.

In the reading from Kings, we meet Solomon at the end of a long journey. Earlier in his life, Solomon prayed for wisdom rather than power or wealth, and God delighted in that request. He built the temple, led the people, and was known throughout the world for his insight and discernment. Yet today’s passage is deeply unsettling. We are told that “when Solomon was old, his heart turned after other gods.” Not all at once. Not in a dramatic rejection. But gradually, subtly, his heart is “not true to the Lord his God”.

What makes this passage so uncomfortable is that Solomon does not appear to have stopped believing in God altogether. Rather, his devotion becomes divided. He accommodates other loyalties, other voices, other priorities, until God is no longer at the centre. The problem is not just the presence of other gods, but the erosion of his wholehearted faith. The God who asked Solomon to walk before him “with integrity of heart” now finds that heart pulled in many directions. So Solomon’s story reminds us that faith is not only tested in moments of crisis, but in long seasons of success and comfort, too.

When we turn to the Gospel reading, we encounter someone very different. The woman who approaches Jesus is a Gentile, a Syrophoenician by birth, and she knows exactly how far outside the religious boundaries she stands. Yet she does not hesitate. She seeks Jesus out, enters the house, and interrupts him. Mark tells us that she begs him to cast the demon out of her daughter – the word carries a sense of insistence and urgency. This is not a quiet appeal from the margins, but a deliberate act of courage.

Jesus’ reply is challenging, even confrontational. He speaks of children and dogs, of priority and exclusion. But the woman does not retreat, and she does not accept silence as an answer. Instead, she engages him. She listens carefully, and then she answers back – quickly, intelligently, and with wit. “Even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.” It is a bold, incisive response. She takes Jesus’ image and turns it, not in self-pity, but in confidence that God’s generosity cannot be contained. If there is abundance at the table, she trusts that it will spill over. She knows exactly who Jesus is and exactly where her hope lies.

What Jesus recognises here is not resignation but faith with backbone. The woman refuses to be dismissed, refuses to accept that mercy must be some scarce or tightly guarded thing kept behind exclusive walls. Her persistence and insight becomes the very sign of her faith, and Jesus responds accordingly: her daughter is healed.

Placed together, these readings remind us that faith is not primarily about where we start, but about the direction in which we are turning. Solomon’s life warns us that wisdom and blessing do not make us immune to drift. The Syrophoenician woman encourages us that even from the edges, a determined trust in God can open the door to healing and life. Solomon moves from wisdom to compromise, from attentiveness to distraction. The woman moves from exclusion to encounter, from boundary to breakthrough.

In our own lives, this invites us to pause and reflect. Where are we becoming divided in heart? Where might we be accommodating just enough of God to be comfortable, without allowing God to challenge and transform us? And at the same time, where might we need the courage of this unnamed woman: to come to God as we are, to speak honestly and to persist in prayer, trusting that God’s mercy is wider than we imagine?

Amen.

Reflection: From Within (11th Feb, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

1 Kings 10.1–10 – When the queen of Sheba heard of the fame of Solomon, (fame due to the name of the Lord), she came to test him with hard questions. She came to Jerusalem with a very great retinue, with camels bearing spices, and very much gold, and precious stones; and when she came to Solomon, she told him all that was on her mind. Solomon answered all her questions; there was nothing hidden from the king that he could not explain to her. When the queen of Sheba had observed all the wisdom of Solomon, the house that he had built, the food of his table, the seating of his officials, and the attendance of his servants, their clothing, his valets, and his burnt-offerings that he offered at the house of the Lord, there was no more spirit in her. So she said to the king, ‘The report was true that I heard in my own land of your accomplishments and of your wisdom, but I did not believe the reports until I came and my own eyes had seen it. Not even half had been told me; your wisdom and prosperity far surpass the report that I had heard. Happy are your wives! Happy are these your servants, who continually attend you and hear your wisdom! Blessed be the Lord your God, who has delighted in you and set you on the throne of Israel! Because the Lord loved Israel for ever, he has made you king to execute justice and righteousness.’ Then she gave the king one hundred and twenty talents of gold, a great quantity of spices, and precious stones; never again did spices come in such quantity as that which the queen of Sheba gave to King Solomon.

Mark 7.14–23 – Then he called the crowd again and said to them, ‘Listen to me, all of you, and understand: there is nothing outside a person that by going in can defile, but the things that come out are what defile.’ When he had left the crowd and entered the house, his disciples asked him about the parable. He said to them, ‘Then do you also fail to understand? Do you not see that whatever goes into a person from outside cannot defile, since it enters, not the heart but the stomach, and goes out into the sewer?’ (Thus he declared all foods clean.) And he said, ‘It is what comes out of a person that defiles. For it is from within, from the human heart, that evil intentions come: fornication, theft, murder, adultery, avarice, wickedness, deceit, licentiousness, envy, slander, pride, folly. All these evil things come from within, and they defile a person.’

Reflection

In our first reading today, the Queen of Sheba travels a great distance to see King Solomon. She has heard reports of his wisdom, his wealth, and the blessing of God upon his kingdom, and she comes with questions—hard questions, Scripture says—to test him. What she encounters leaves her almost breathless. Solomon’s wisdom, the ordering of his court, the generosity of his hospitality, and the depth of his understanding all bear witness to a gift that comes from God. She recognises that this is not simply human cleverness or success, but something rooted in faithfulness to the Lord.

At first glance, this might sound like a celebration of outward splendour: gold, spices, fine buildings, and impressive answers. Yet the heart of the story is not really about riches at all. It is about wisdom that listens, wisdom that responds, and wisdom that points beyond itself to God. The Queen of Sheba praises the Lord not because Solomon is impressive, but because she discerns that his wisdom is a sign of God’s love for his people and God’s desire for justice and right-ordered relationships.

When we turn to the Gospel reading from Mark, the focus shifts sharply inward. Jesus addresses the crowd and tells them that nothing entering a person from outside can defile them. Instead, it is what comes out from within—from the human heart—that can truly defile. He then lists attitudes and actions that flow from disordered hearts: envy, pride, deceit, malice, and greed. These, he says, are the things that corrupt human life.

Placed side by side, these readings invite us to ask probing questions: where does true wisdom begin? Is it something we display outwardly, or something that takes root deep within us?

The Queen of Sheba sees wisdom expressed outwardly—in Solomon’s words and actions—but she recognises that its source is deeper. In the Gospel, Jesus reminds us that the deepest truths of our lives are not found in appearances, rituals, or even reputation, but in the condition of our hearts. A person may look impressive, religious, or successful, yet still be inwardly disordered. Equally, someone may appear ordinary or unimpressive, yet be shaped by a heart turned towards God.

This is challenging for us, because we live in a culture—perhaps not unlike Solomon’s court—that often values what can be seen: achievement, status, eloquence, and success. Even within the life of the Church, it can be tempting to focus on outward signs of health or holiness. Jesus does not dismiss outward practices altogether, but he insists that they are not enough on their own. Without inner transformation, they cannot give life.

True wisdom, then, is not simply about knowing the right answers, as impressive as Solomon’s answers were. It is about allowing God to shape our desires, our motivations, and our loves. It is about letting God’s Spirit work in the hidden places of our lives, where attitudes are formed and decisions are made.

The Queen of Sheba came with questions, and she left with praise—praise not just for Solomon, but for the Lord. In the Gospel, Jesus invites us to bring our own hearts into the light of God’s truth, trusting that God desires not to condemn but to heal and renew.

As we reflect on these readings today, we might ask ourselves: what would a wise heart look like in our own lives, in our communities, and in our Church? Where might God be inviting us to move beyond outward appearances and attend more carefully to what is going on within?

In the end, wisdom is not something we possess for our own glory. Like Solomon’s wisdom, at its best it points beyond us—to the God who longs for hearts made whole, and for lives that reflect God’s justice, mercy, and love.

Sermon: In Hope We Are Saved (8th Feb, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

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

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

Sermon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that is where hope comes in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amen.