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

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Readings

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

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

Sermon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amen.

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.