christianity

Sermon: Who do you say that I am? (23rd Aug, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

Romans 12.1–8 – I appeal to you therefore, brothers and sisters, by the mercies of God, to 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 renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God—what is good and acceptable and perfect. For by the grace given to me I say to everyone among you not to think of yourself more highly than you ought to think, but to think with sober judgement, each according to the measure of faith that God has assigned. For as in one body we have many members, and not all the members have the same function, so we, who are many, are one body in Christ, and individually we are members one of another. We have gifts that differ according to the grace given to us: prophecy, in proportion to faith; ministry, in ministering; the teacher, in teaching; the exhorter, in exhortation; the giver, in generosity; the leader, in diligence; the compassionate, in cheerfulness.

Matthew 16.13–20 – Now when Jesus came into the district of Caesarea Philippi, he asked his disciples, ‘Who do people say that the Son of Man is?’ And they said, ‘Some say John the Baptist, but others Elijah, and still others Jeremiah or one of the prophets.’ He said to them, ‘But who do you say that I am?’ Simon Peter answered, ‘You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.’ And Jesus answered him, ‘Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah! For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my Father in heaven. And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not prevail against it. I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.’ Then he sternly ordered the disciples not to tell anyone that he was the Messiah.

Sermon

There are some questions where the answer doesn’t matter very much once the moment is passed. “What shall we have for tea?” “Where did I put my keys?” “Who left the lights on?” They may feel urgent at the time, but life carries on whatever the answer. And then there are questions which get right underneath everything. Questions whose answers shape the way we understand ourselves and the way we live. Jesus asks one of those questions in today’s Gospel.

He and the disciples have come to Caesarea Philippi, and he asks them: “Who do people say that the Son of Man is?” It’s an easy enough question to begin with, because it’s about what other people think. And the disciples have clearly been listening. They’ve heard the rumours and the conversations. Some say John the Baptist. Others Elijah. Others Jeremiah, or one of the prophets. Plenty of opinions. Plenty of speculation.

And then Jesus changes the question. “But who do you say that I am?” Suddenly it’s personal. Jesus isn’t asking what the crowds think. He isn’t asking what the religious experts have written. He isn’t even asking the disciples what they were taught as children. Who do you say that I am?

And Peter answers: “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.” It is one of the great moments in Matthew’s Gospel. Peter gets it. Or at least, Peter gets it for a moment. Because one of the things I love about Peter is that the Gospels never tidy him up. He can make a magnificent confession of faith one minute and get things spectacularly wrong the next.

In fact, that is exactly what happens here. We stop reading at verse 20 this morning, but if we carried on for only a few more verses, Peter would be rebuking Jesus for talking about suffering and death, and Jesus would say to him, “Get behind me, Satan!”

Quite a turnaround. “You are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church.” And then, moments later: “Get behind me, Satan!” Which is worth remembering whenever we imagine that being a faithful Christian means having everything sorted out. Peter certainly didn’t.

He had faith. He also had doubts. He could be brave and frightened, perceptive and completely mistaken. He promised Jesus that he would never desert him and then denied three times that he even knew him. And yet Jesus says: “On this rock I will build my church.” There is hope for all of us in that.

Because the Church is not built out of perfect people. It never has been. The Church is built out of people who, like Peter, are learning what it means to say, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God,” and then trying to work out what that confession means on Monday morning.

And perhaps that is where Paul’s words to the Romans help us. Paul writes: “Present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God.” In other words, faith cannot remain simply an answer to a question.

Peter says who Jesus is. Paul asks what happens next.

If Jesus really is the Christ, then that changes something. Not simply what we believe in our heads, but how we live. How we spend our time. How we use what we have. How we treat people. What we do with the gifts God has given us.

“Do not be conformed to this world,” Paul says, “but be transformed by the renewing of your minds.”

That transformation is not about becoming some impossibly holy version of ourselves. It is about allowing our encounter with Christ gradually to reshape us. And Paul immediately makes that very practical. We have different gifts, he says. Prophecy. Ministry. Teaching. Encouragement. Giving. Leadership. Compassion. Not everyone does everything.

That matters enormously for the life of the Church. Sometimes we can slip into thinking that there are a few people who “do ministry” while everybody else comes along to receive it. But that isn’t Paul’s picture of the Church at all. For Paul, the Church is a body. Different people, different gifts, different callings — but each one belonging to the others.

And that takes us back to Peter. “On this rock I will build my church.” Notice whose Church it is. Not Peter’s. Not the disciples’. Not the clergy’s. Not ours. Christ says, “I will build my church.” That can be both challenging and wonderfully liberating.

Because we can become terribly anxious about the Church. We worry about congregations and buildings and money and volunteers. We worry about whether younger generations will come. We worry about what things might look like in five or ten or twenty years. Some of those concerns are perfectly reasonable. We have responsibilities and we should take them seriously.

But the future of the Church does not ultimately rest upon our ability to keep everything going. “I will build my church,” says Jesus. Our task is not to save the Church. Our task is to be the Church. To worship Christ. To love our neighbours. To serve our communities. To recognise and use the gifts God has given us. To welcome people. To forgive one another. To speak of hope. To notice those whom everybody else overlooks.

And, through all of that, to keep answering Jesus’ question: “Who do you say that I am?”

Because that question never really goes away. We may have recited the Creed hundreds of times. We may have worshipped in church for decades. We may know the stories and the hymns and the prayers by heart. But Jesus still asks: Who do you say that I am?

Not simply with your lips. With your life. Who do you say that I am in the way you treat the difficult neighbour? Who do you say that I am in the way you use your money? Who do you say that I am when somebody needs your time? Who do you say that I am when you are frightened about the future? Who do you say that I am when faith feels uncertain and prayer feels difficult?

Peter’s answer was not the end of his journey. In many ways, it was only the beginning. He still had an enormous amount to learn about what kind of Messiah Jesus would be. He would fail. He would misunderstand. He would run away.

But Christ did not give up on him. And Christ built his Church with people like him. People like us. Ordinary, complicated, gifted, fallible people who have heard Christ’s question and, however imperfectly, have found themselves saying: “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.”

And if it is his Church, then perhaps we can hold it a little less anxiously and serve it a little more joyfully. Because the foundation of the Church is not our competence, our strength or even the certainty of our faith. The foundation is Christ himself. The Messiah. The Son of the living God.

And the one who is still building his Church through wonderfully imperfect people like us.

Amen.

Sermon: Faith in Abundance (16th Aug, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

Romans 11.1–2a, 29–32 – I ask, then, has God rejected his people? By no means! I myself am an Israelite, a descendant of Abraham, a member of the tribe of Benjamin. God has not rejected his people whom he foreknew. For the gifts and the calling of God are irrevocable. Just as you were once disobedient to God but have now received mercy because of their disobedience, so they have now been disobedient in order that, by the mercy shown to you, they too may now receive mercy. For God has imprisoned all in disobedience so that he may be merciful to all.

Matthew 15.10 –28 – Then he called the crowd to him and said to them, ‘Listen and understand: it is not what goes into the mouth that defiles a person, but it is what comes out of the mouth that defiles.’ Then the disciples approached and said to him, ‘Do you know that the Pharisees took offence when they heard what you said?’ He answered, ‘Every plant that my heavenly Father has not planted will be uprooted. Let them alone; they are blind guides of the blind. And if one blind person guides another, both will fall into a pit.’ But Peter said to him, ‘Explain this parable to us.’ Then he said, ‘Are you also still without understanding? Do you not see that whatever goes into the mouth enters the stomach, and goes out into the sewer? But what comes out of the mouth proceeds from the heart, and this is what defiles. For out of the heart come evil intentions, murder, adultery, fornication, theft, false witness, slander. These are what defile a person, but to eat with unwashed hands does not defile.’ Jesus left that place and went away to the district of Tyre and Sidon. Just then a Canaanite woman from that region came out and started shouting, ‘Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David; my daughter is tormented by a demon.’ But he did not answer her at all. And his disciples came and urged him, saying, ‘Send her away, for she keeps shouting after us.’ He answered, ‘I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.’ But she came and knelt before him, saying, ‘Lord, help me.’ He answered, ‘It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.’ She said, ‘Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters’ table.’ Then Jesus answered her, ‘Woman, great is your faith! Let it be done for you as you wish.’ And her daughter was healed instantly.

Sermon

There are some Gospel stories that are comforting almost from the first sentence. And then there are others which make us shift uncomfortably in our seats. Today’s Gospel is definitely one of the latter.

A Canaanite woman comes to Jesus desperate for help. Her daughter is tormented. We aren’t told exactly what is wrong with her, and perhaps that doesn’t matter. What matters is that her mother is frightened for her and has reached the point where she will try anything.

She has heard about Jesus. So she cries out: “Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David; my daughter is tormented by a demon.” And Jesus says nothing. That silence is difficult. Then the disciples get involved, and they are no help at all. “Send her away,” they say, “for she keeps shouting after us.”

Eventually Jesus speaks, but what he says hardly makes things easier. He tells her that he has been sent to the lost sheep of Israel. When she persists — “Lord, help me” — he replies with words that sound painfully harsh: “It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”

This is not the Jesus we are used to hearing. And I don’t think there is much point pretending otherwise. But we shouldn’t rush too quickly to explain the awkwardness away. Matthew has given us a difficult encounter, and perhaps we need to allow it to remain difficult for a while.

Because the woman does. She doesn’t storm off. She doesn’t give up. Nor does she meekly accept what has been said to her. Instead, she answers Jesus. “Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters’ table.” It is a remarkable reply.

She takes the image Jesus has given her and turns it around. If there is a table, and if there is bread, then surely there is enough. Even the crumbs will do. She is so convinced of the goodness and abundance she has seen in Jesus that she refuses to believe there can be nothing for her daughter.

And Jesus responds: “Woman, great is your faith! Let it be done for you as you wish.” And her daughter is healed.

There are different ways Christians have understood this conversation over the centuries. Some have argued that Jesus is testing the woman, drawing out a faith he already knows is there. Others have taken the story more straightforwardly and suggested that we are seeing something genuinely unfolding in the encounter; that in his full humanity Jesus allows this woman’s persistence to push the boundaries of his mission into clearer view.

Whichever way we understand that difficult exchange, Matthew seems to want us to notice what happens here. A boundary is crossed. This woman is a Canaanite. That is not a casual detail. Matthew could simply have called her a Gentile, but he chooses an ancient name loaded with history. Canaanites were the old enemies of Israel. She is, religiously and ethnically, about as much an outsider as Matthew could make her. And yet she recognises something in Jesus.

She calls him “Lord” and “Son of David”. She kneels before him. She trusts him. And while the disciples — the insiders, the people who have been travelling with Jesus and listening to his teaching — want her sent away, this supposed outsider shows extraordinary faith. There is something wonderfully unsettling about that.

Because churches, like every other human community, become very good at deciding who belongs.

We may not say it aloud. Usually we don’t. But we develop our expectations. We know how church works. We know when to stand and sit. We know the prayers. We know where things are kept. We know which traditions matter and why. We know the stories behind decisions made fifteen or twenty years ago. And none of that is bad. Belonging to a community means acquiring a shared memory and a shared language.

The danger comes when we begin to confuse our familiarity with the Church with God’s ownership of the Church. Because they are not the same thing.

The disciples thought they knew who Jesus had come for. And, to be fair to them, there were good reasons for thinking it. Jesus himself speaks here about being sent to the lost sheep of Israel. But standing in front of them is a woman who doesn’t fit the expected pattern and who nevertheless has grasped something essential about God: there is enough mercy to go round. That is the heart of her argument. Even the crumbs are enough.

She has somehow understood the abundance of God before the disciples have fully understood it themselves. And perhaps that helps us make sense of the slightly strange passage immediately before this encounter.

Jesus has been arguing with the Pharisees about purity. They are concerned about what goes into the mouth, about eating with unwashed hands, about the boundaries between clean and unclean. Jesus turns the whole thing around. It is not what goes into the mouth that defiles, he says, but what comes out of it, because what comes out reveals what is going on in the heart.

And then, almost immediately, Jesus meets someone whom his religious world would have regarded as outside the boundaries. A Canaanite woman. And what comes out of her mouth? Faith. Courage. Persistence. Love for her daughter.

It is as though the story itself asks: who, then, is clean and who is unclean? Who is inside and who is outside? Who really understands what God is doing? The answer is not as obvious as the disciples imagined. And neither, perhaps, is it always as obvious as we imagine.

One of the great privileges of parish ministry is meeting people whose faith does not fit neatly into the boxes the Church sometimes creates. Someone says, “I’m not really religious, Vicar, but…” and then tells you about a prayer they have been saying every night for thirty years.

Someone who hardly ever enters a church building speaks with extraordinary tenderness about God. Someone arrives at a funeral, a baptism, a school service, a foodbank, a community event — somewhere around the edges of church life — and you suddenly realise that God has been at work in their life long before you arrived.

We need to be careful about deciding where faith is and where it isn’t, because God has a habit of turning up beyond the boundaries we have drawn for him.

Amen.

Sermon: The One Who Never Lets Us Go (9th Aug, 2026, Year A)

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The below is the text of the first sermon I gave this past weekend after being inducted and installed as the Vicar of Marsden and Slaithwaite with East Scammonden. It was shared as part of an all-benefice service at Upper Slaithwaite Church, known locally and lovingly as ‘Shred.’

Reading

Matthew 14.22–33 – Immediately he made the disciples get into the boat and go on ahead to the other side, while he dismissed the crowds. And after he had dismissed the crowds, he went up the mountain by himself to pray. When evening came, he was there alone, but by this time the boat, battered by the waves, was far from the land, for the wind was against them. And early in the morning he came walking towards them on the lake. But when the disciples saw him walking on the lake, they were terrified, saying, ‘It is a ghost!’ And they cried out in fear. But immediately Jesus spoke to them and said, ‘Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.’ Peter answered him, ‘Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.’ He said, ‘Come.’ So Peter got out of the boat, started walking on the water, and came towards Jesus. But when he noticed the strong wind, he became frightened, and beginning to sink, he cried out, ‘Lord, save me!’ Jesus immediately reached out his hand and caught him, saying to him, ‘You of little faith, why did you doubt?’ When they got into the boat, the wind ceased. And those in the boat worshipped him, saying, ‘Truly you are the Son of God.’

Sermon

I had a wry smile to myself when I saw the Gospel reading for this morning’s service. Because there can hardly be a more fitting Gospel reading for a first Sunday with a new vicar than this one. Before you jump to conclusions, I’m not suggesting that becoming your new vicar is exactly like stepping onto a stormy sea. At least, I hope it isn’t! But there is something here that speaks powerfully to the beginning we are making together.

The story begins with Jesus sending the disciples out ahead of him. They are doing what he has asked, and yet they find themselves struggling. The boat is far from land, the wind is against them, and the journey has become exhausting.

I think that detail is worth sitting with for a moment, noticing the implication that following Jesus does not guarantee calm waters. But difficulty is not necessarily a sign that we have taken a wrong turn or that God has abandoned us. Sometimes we can be exactly where we have been called to be and still find the wind blowing against us.

Our lives, and indeed church life can be like that. We make plans, offer our gifts, say our prayers and try to be faithful, but things do not always unfold as we hoped. Congregations change. Familiar faces disappear and new ones appear. Money becomes tight. Buildings demand attention. New ideas do not always work. The world around us changes, and we are left wondering how the Church should respond.

And a new beginning brings its own questions. What will this new chapter be like? What might change? What will stay the same? Will we understand one another? Will the new vicar remember everybody’s name? Spoiler alert, I won’t. At least not immediately anyway. Hopefully there’s excitement about what lies ahead, but there may also be uncertainty. That is true for me as well as for you. New beginnings are rarely made up of confidence alone. Usually hope and nervousness arrive together.

But as we heard in our Gospel reading, into the middle of the disciples’ struggle, Jesus comes.

At first they do not recognise him. They see only a figure on the water, and they are terrified. The presence of Jesus is mistaken for some kind of threat. Perhaps that happens more often than we realise. God comes to us in unfamiliar circumstances, through unexpected people or in changes we would never have chosen for ourselves, and our first response is fear. We are so accustomed to looking for danger that we struggle to recognise God’s grace.

And so Jesus recognises this and speaks: “Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.” He does not begin by explaining the storm. He does not tell the disciples why the wind is against them or how long it will last. He gives them something better: himself. “It is I.” I am here. You are not alone. The storm may be real, but so is my presence.

That is the promise at the heart of this new beginning. The future of these churches does not rest upon a new vicar arriving with all the answers. Which is fortunate, because I haven’t brought them. Nor does it rest upon any one person, however gifted or committed.

Our hope rests in Jesus Christ.

He has been present here long before I arrived. He has been at work through generations of prayer, worship, service and quiet faithfulness. He has been present in baptisms and weddings, at bedsides and funerals, in school assemblies, community gatherings and ordinary conversations. He has been present in moments of joy and in times when the wind seemed firmly against you.

And he is present now.

Peter hears the voice of Jesus and does something wonderfully brave and slightly reckless. “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.” Jesus says, “Come.” So Peter steps out of the boat.

We often speak about stepping out in faith as though it means feeling completely confident. But Peter is not free from fear. He simply trusts the voice of Jesus enough to take the next step. Faith is not the absence of doubt or anxiety. Faith is deciding where to place our trust while those things are still present.

That matters as we begin our ministry together. I hope we will be willing to step out in faith. I hope we will ask what God may be calling us to do in Marsden, Slaithwaite and here at Shred. I hope we will be ready to try things, to welcome new people, to serve our communities and to share the love of Christ with generosity and confidence.

Some of what we try will flourish. Some of it may not. Occasionally we may discover, halfway through, that we have stepped out of the boat and have no clear idea what we are doing. But that is not necessarily failure. A church that never risks anything may remain safely inside the boat, but it will never discover what may become possible when Jesus says, “Come.”

Peter does walk on the water. Matthew is quite clear about that. For a few extraordinary moments, he does what should be impossible. Then he notices the wind. Of course he notices it. The wind is loud, the waves are high, and the boat is no longer beneath his feet. Fear takes hold and he begins to sink. “Lord, save me!” It is one of the shortest and most honest prayers in Scripture. There is no polished language and no attempt to appear composed. Peter simply cries out from his need.

And immediately Jesus reaches out his hand. Immediately. Jesus does not wait for Peter to recover his confidence. He does not demand a better explanation or a more impressive statement of faith. He catches him.

There will be times in the years ahead when our faith feels strong and the path seems clear. There will also be times when we notice the wind, lose confidence and wonder whether we have made a terrible mistake. As Bishop Smitha alluded to on Thursday night, there may be days when our prayer is little more than, “Lord, save us.”

The good news is that Christ does not abandon us in those moments. When faith falters, his faithfulness does not. When our grip weakens, his does not. Grace is not a reward for keeping ourselves above water. Grace is the hand that catches us when we cannot.

Jesus asks Peter, “Why did you doubt?” I do not hear that as a cruel rebuke. Jesus is holding Peter as he says it. It is less an accusation and more an invitation: Peter, you trusted me enough to step out. Could you also trust that I would not let you go?

That is a question for all of us.

Can we trust Christ enough to take the next step? Can we trust him when the future is exciting, and when it is uncertain? Can we trust him when our plans succeed, and when they need to be changed? Can we trust that even when we falter, he will still take hold of us?

When Jesus and Peter climb into the boat, the wind ceases. The disciples worship him and say, “Truly you are the Son of God.”

That is where this particular story ends: not with Peter’s bravery, nor with his failure, but with Jesus being recognised and worshipped. And that must be the purpose of our life together.

This new chapter is not about what I will do, what you will do, or even about what we will achieve together. It is about learning to recognise Jesus in our midst. It is about worshipping him, following him and helping others to discover that his love is very real.

I come among you with hope and excitement. I also come knowing that I have much to learn: about these churches, these communities, and each and every one of you. We will need patience with one another. We will sometimes see things differently. There will be moments of courage and moments of doubt.

But we do not make this journey alone.

Christ comes to us across the water. He speaks through the noise of the wind: “Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.”

He calls us out of the places where we have grown comfortable. He invites us to trust him. And when we begin to sink—as, from time to time, we surely will—he reaches out his hand.

So, as we begin this new chapter together, let us listen for his voice. Let us be honest about our fears but not ruled by them. Let us be patient with our doubts but not imprisoned by them. Let us be ready, when Christ calls, to step out together in faith.

And whether the water is calm or the wind is against us, may we keep our eyes fixed upon Jesus, the one who calls us, catches us and will never let us go.

Amen.

Sermon: Callings and Encounters (7th Jun, 2026, Year A)

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Reading

Matthew 9.9–13, 18–26 – As Jesus was walking along, he saw a man called Matthew sitting at the tax booth; and he said to him, ‘Follow me.’ And he got up and followed him. And as he sat at dinner in the house, many tax-collectors and sinners came and were sitting with him and his disciples. When the Pharisees saw this, they said to his disciples, ‘Why does your teacher eat with tax-collectors and sinners?’ But when he heard this, he said, ‘Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick. Go and learn what this means, “I desire mercy, not sacrifice.” For I have come to call not the righteous but sinners.’ While he was saying these things to them, suddenly a leader of the synagogue came in and knelt before him, saying, ‘My daughter has just died; but come and lay your hand on her, and she will live.’ And Jesus got up and followed him, with his disciples. Then suddenly a woman who had been suffering from haemorrhages for twelve years came up behind him and touched the fringe of his cloak, for she said to herself, ‘If I only touch his cloak, I will be made well.’ Jesus turned, and seeing her he said, ‘Take heart, daughter; your faith has made you well.’ And instantly the woman was made well. When Jesus came to the leader’s house and saw the flute-players and the crowd making a commotion, he said, ‘Go away; for the girl is not dead but sleeping.’ And they laughed at him. But when the crowd had been put outside, he went in and took her by the hand, and the girl got up. And the report of this spread throughout that district.

Sermon

Today’s Gospel contains three remarkable stories woven together into one account. At first glance they may seem quite different: the calling of Matthew the tax collector, the healing of a woman who has been suffering for twelve years, and the raising of a young girl from death. Yet there is a common thread running through all of them.

In each case, Jesus encounters someone whom others might have overlooked, avoided, or even given up on. And in each case, Jesus brings life.

The reading begins with Matthew sitting at his tax booth. We know the story so well that it is easy to miss how shocking it would have seemed at the time. Tax collectors were not popular figures. They worked for the occupying Roman authorities and were often suspected of enriching themselves at the expense of their own people. Matthew was not someone most respectable religious leaders would have wanted among their followers. Yet Jesus walks up to him and says just two words: “Follow me.”

No lecture. No interrogation. No list of conditions. Simply an invitation. And Matthew gets up and follows.

It is a wonderfully simple scene, but it tells us something important about Jesus. He sees possibilities where others see only problems. He sees a disciple where others see a sinner. He sees a future where others see only a person’s past.

That is often the way God works, I think. Human beings can become very skilled at defining one another by labels. We identify people by their successes or failures, their mistakes, their weaknesses, or by the other categories into which society places them. Jesus does something different. He sees people as they can become through the grace of God.

Matthew’s story reminds us that discipleship does not begin because we are perfect. It begins because Christ calls us.

The religious leaders are scandalised by what follows. Jesus sits down to eat with tax collectors and sinners. In the ancient world, sharing a meal was a sign of acceptance and fellowship. By sitting at table with these people, Jesus is making a statement about the sort of kingdom he has come to establish.

When challenged, Jesus responds: “Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick.” He then adds, “I desire mercy, not sacrifice.” Those words lie at the heart of the Gospel.

Jesus is not dismissing worship or religious devotion. Rather, he is reminding his hearers that the purpose of faith is not to build barriers but to reveal God’s mercy. God’s desire is always to draw people closer, to heal, restore, and reconcile, not to create or perpetuate division.

And it is no accident that the next two stories are stories of healing.

As Jesus travels on, a synagogue leader approaches him in desperation. His daughter has died. In the midst of his grief he falls at Jesus’ feet and asks for help. Jesus immediately sets off with him.

But along the way another story interrupts the first. A woman who has suffered from haemorrhages for twelve years quietly approaches Jesus, out of his sight. For twelve years she has lived with pain, uncertainty, and social exclusion. For twelve years she has carried a burden that no one else has been able to lift.

She tells herself that if she can only touch the fringe of Jesus’ cloak, she will be healed.

And she is.

What strikes me most about this moment is that Jesus stops. There is every reason for him to hurry on. A grieving father is waiting. Time seems desperately short. Yet Jesus notices the woman standing before him. He does not allow her healing to remain anonymous. Instead, he speaks to her: “Take heart, daughter; your faith has made you well.”

“Daughter.” A word of affection. A word of belonging. A word of dignity. For twelve years the woman of the story has been defined by illness. In a single moment Jesus restores not only her health but her place within the community. Only then does he continue to the ruler’s house.

By the time he arrives, the mourners have gathered. Professional flute players are already there. Everyone assumes that the story is over. Death has had the final word. Yet Jesus sees the situation differently.

He enters the house, takes the girl by the hand, and she rises. Throughout Matthew’s Gospel, this is what Jesus does. He brings life. He brings life to Matthew, trapped in a profession that had distanced him from his neighbours. He brings life to a woman whose suffering had isolated her for years. He brings life to a grieving family who thought all hope had gone. And he continues to do the same today.

Of course, we know that not every illness is cured. Not every sorrow is immediately lifted. Not every prayer is answered in the way we might wish. We know that from our own experience.

Yet these stories point us towards a deeper truth.

Wherever Jesus is present, despair does not have the final word. Sin does not have the final word. Worldly failure does not have the final word. Even death does not have the final word.

The ministry of Jesus is always directed towards life in its fullest sense: restored relationships, renewed hope, forgiven sins, transformed hearts, and ultimately the promise of resurrection itself.

As disciples, we are called not only to receive that life but also to share it.

Like Jesus, we are called to see possibilities where others see only problems. Like Jesus, we are called to practise mercy rather than judgement. Like Jesus, we are called to notice those whom others overlook. And like Jesus, we are called to become bearers of hope in a world that can often seem overwhelmed by fear, division, and despair.

The good news of today’s Gospel is that Christ still calls people to follow him. He still reaches out to those who feel excluded. He still brings healing, hope, and new life.

And he still invites each one of us to rise and follow him.    

Amen.

Sermon: Pentecost (24th May, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

Acts 2.1–21 – When the day of Pentecost had come, they were all together in one place. And suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the rush of a violent wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting. Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, and a tongue rested on each of them. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability. Now there were devout Jews from every nation under heaven living in Jerusalem. And at this sound the crowd gathered and was bewildered, because each one heard them speaking in the native language of each. Amazed and astonished, they asked, ‘Are not all these who are speaking Galileans? And how is it that we hear, each of us, in our own native language? Parthians, Medes, Elamites, and residents of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of Libya belonging to Cyrene, and visitors from Rome, both Jews and proselytes, Cretans and Arabs—in our own languages we hear them speaking about God’s deeds of power.’ All were amazed and perplexed, saying to one another, ‘What does this mean?’ But others sneered and said, ‘They are filled with new wine.’ But Peter, standing with the eleven, raised his voice and addressed them: ‘Men of Judea and all who live in Jerusalem, let this be known to you, and listen to what I say. Indeed, these are not drunk, as you suppose, for it is only nine o’clock in the morning. No, this is what was spoken through the prophet Joel:
“In the last days it will be, God declares,
that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh,
   and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy,
and your young men shall see visions,
   and your old men shall dream dreams.
Even upon my slaves, both men and women,
   in those days I will pour out my Spirit;
     and they shall prophesy.
And I will show portents in the heaven above
   and signs on the earth below,
     blood, and fire, and smoky mist.
The sun shall be turned to darkness
   and the moon to blood,
     before the coming of the Lord’s great and glorious day.
Then everyone who calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved.”

John 20.19–23 – When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you.’ After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. Jesus said to them again, ‘Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.’ When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, ‘Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.’

Sermon

Pentecost is often described as the birthday of the Church. It is the day when frightened and uncertain disciples become something new: people filled with the life and power of the Holy Spirit. But if we listen carefully to the story from Acts, we discover that Pentecost is not only about power. It is also about welcome. It is about barriers falling. It is about people hearing, perhaps for the first time, that the good news of God includes them.

The scene in Acts begins with uncertainty. The disciples are gathered together in one place, waiting, unsure what comes next. And then suddenly, there is wind. Fire. Noise. Energy. The Holy Spirit arrives not quietly, not privately, but publicly and dramatically.

And what happens first? Not preaching. Not organising. Not building structures (or maintaining them!) What happens first is that people understand one another. And I think that’s really important to notice.

The miracle of Pentecost is not that everybody suddenly speaks the same language. The miracle is that each person hears in their own language. Parthians, Medes, Elamites, visitors from Rome, Egypt, Libya, Cappadocia; all these different people hear the disciples speaking “about God’s deeds of power” in ways they can understand.

The Holy Spirit does not erase difference. The Holy Spirit speaks through difference. That is a profoundly important thing for the Church to remember.

Sometimes Christians have behaved as though unity means sameness. As though belonging depends upon fitting a particular mould, speaking with a particular voice, presenting yourself in a particular way. But Pentecost tells another story entirely. At Pentecost, God does not ask the crowd to become identical before they can receive grace. Instead, God meets them exactly where they are in exactly who they are: in their own language. In their own experience. In their own lives. And perhaps that matters especially today, in a fractious and contested world.

Because many Christians know what it feels like to stand in a crowd and wonder whether the Church truly speaks a language they can hear as good news. Many know what it is to fear that faith communities may demand silence, disguise, or distance before welcome can be offered. Some have experienced churches where difference was treated not as something through which God might work, but as a problem to overcome.

Yet Pentecost pushes against all of that. The Spirit descends not upon one kind of person, but upon a diverse and bewilderingly mixed crowd. The Spirit does not narrow the family of God. The Spirit expands it.

And Peter, trying to explain what is happening, reaches for the words of the prophet Joel: “I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh.” All flesh.

Not some flesh. Not approved flesh. Not people who fit neatly into categories flesh. All flesh.

There is something gloriously expansive about that promise. God’s Spirit poured out extravagantly upon humanity in all its variety and complexity. Sons and daughters. Young and old. Men and women. People across all the boundaries that society constantly tries to police and reinforce.

The movement of the Spirit in Acts is always outward. Again and again in the book of Acts, the Spirit pushes the Church beyond the limits it would otherwise choose for itself. Beyond fear. Beyond prejudice. Beyond assumptions about who belongs.

And that movement begins here, at Pentecost.

Of course, the reality is that many people still live behind locked doors. That is where the Gospel reading meets us. In John’s Gospel, the disciples are hiding. The doors are locked because of fear. Fear has enclosed them. Fear has made their world smaller.

And yet Jesus comes anyway. The locked doors do not stop him.

That detail matters deeply. Because there are many kinds of locked doors. Some are external: rejection, hostility, exclusion. Some are internal: shame, anxiety, fear of being known fully. Many people have lived and still live with both.

But the risen Christ walks through locked doors. He comes into places of fear and says, “Peace be with you.”

He doesn’t come with condemnation. He doesn’t come with suspicion. He doesn’t come to interrogate. He comes to bring peace.

And then he breathes the Holy Spirit upon them. It is a deeply intimate image. The breath of God filling frightened people with new life. The same Spirit that rushes like wind through the house at Pentecost is here given quietly, personally, lovingly, to people who are afraid. That too is good news.

Because the Holy Spirit is not given only to the confident or the certain or the publicly triumphant. The Spirit is also given to those still hiding. To those still healing. To those still wondering whether there is room for them in the story of God. And the answer Pentecost gives is a resounding and unequivocal yes.

Yes, because the Spirit speaks every language. Yes, because the Spirit crosses every barrier. Yes, because the Spirit is poured out upon all flesh.

The Church is at its most faithful not when it builds higher walls, but when it opens wider doors. Not when it fears difference, but when it recognises that the image of God is reflected through the rich diversity of humanity God has created and loves.

That does not mean difference disappears. Pentecost is noisy precisely because diversity remains. Different voices are still speaking. Different histories and identities still exist. But somehow, through the work of the Spirit, communion becomes possible.

And that is what we celebrate at this table.

A Eucharist where none of us comes because we are flawless. None of us comes because we have everything figured out. None of us comes because we have earned our place. We come because Christ invites us. We come because the Spirit gathers us. We come because the love of God is wider than human fear.

At Pentecost, the Church discovers its voice. And its first words are words that people from every background can hear as good news. May we be that kind of Church still.

A Church where people hear grace in their own language. A Church where locked doors are not the end of the story. A Church courageous enough to believe that when God says “all flesh,” God truly means all flesh.

In the name of God, who is creator, redeemer and life-giving Holy Spirt. Amen.