christianity

Reflection: The Dragon and The Lamb (23rd Apr, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

Revelation 12.7–12 – War broke out in heaven; Michael and his angels fought against the dragon. The dragon and his angels fought back, but they were defeated, and there was no longer any place for them in heaven. The great dragon was thrown down, that ancient serpent, who is called the Devil and Satan, the deceiver of the whole world—he was thrown down to the earth, and his angels were thrown down with him. Then I heard a loud voice in heaven, proclaiming, ‘Now have come the salvation and the power and the kingdom of our God and the authority of his Messiah, for the accuser of our comrades has been thrown down, who accuses them day and night before our God. But they have conquered him by the blood of the Lamb and by the word of their testimony, for they did not cling to life even in the face of death. Rejoice then, you heavens and those who dwell in them! But woe to the earth and the sea, for the devil has come down to you with great wrath,  because he knows that his time is short!’

John 15.18–21 – ‘If the world hates you, be aware that it hated me before it hated you. If you belonged to the world, the world would love you as its own. Because you do not belong to the world, but I have chosen you out of the world—therefore the world hates you. Remember the word that I said to you, “Servants are not greater than their master.” If they persecuted me, they will persecute you; if they kept my word, they will keep yours also. But they will do all these things to you on account of my name, because they do not know him who sent me.

Reflection

Today, as we mark St. George’s Day, we hold together two striking images from our readings: the cosmic battle of heaven in the book of Revelation, and Jesus’ sober words to his disciples in the Gospel of John.

In the book of Revelation, we hear of war in heaven. St Michael and his angels fight against the dragon, that ancient symbol of evil, accusation, and destruction. It is vivid, dramatic language, full of conflict and, ultimately, victory. And yet, at its heart, the passage tells us something deeply simple: that evil does not have the final word. The accuser is cast down. Salvation and power belong to God. The victory is already won.

Tradition tells us that the familiar story of St. George slaying the dragon may well have its roots in a blending of George’s story with that of St. Michael. Whether or not that is historically precise, the image endures because it speaks to something we recognise: the longing for good to overcome evil, for courage to face what threatens life, for faith to stand firm.

But then we turn to the Gospel, and the tone shifts. Jesus does not speak of dramatic battles in the heavens, but of something quieter and perhaps more challenging. In the Gospel of John, he tells his disciples that they will be hated because they belong to him. There is no dragon to be slain with a sword, no visible enemy to defeat. Instead, there is the reality of rejection, misunderstanding, and the cost of faithfulness.

And so we begin to see that the victory described in Revelation does not always look like victory in the way we might expect. The triumph of God is not worked out through force or domination, but through steadfast witness; through those who remain faithful, even when it is difficult.

“By the blood of the Lamb and by the word of their testimony,” the voice in Revelation declares, “they have conquered.” Not by strength of arms, but by faith, by truth, by lives shaped by Christ.

That reframes how we might understand St. George’s witness. Whatever the historical details, George is remembered not primarily as a warrior, but as a martyr; one who remained faithful to Christ in the face of opposition, even unto death. The dragon he faced was not a creature of scales and fire, but the very real pressures of a world that resisted the claims of Christ.

And that brings this close to home for us.

Because most of us will not face dramatic, mythical battles. But we do know what it is to live faithfully in a world that does not always understand or welcome that faith. We know what it is to hold to truth when it would be easier to remain silent, to choose compassion when indifference would be simpler, to follow Christ when it sets us at odds with the prevailing culture.

The call of today is not to go out and slay dragons, but to recognise where the quiet, daily struggles of faith are being lived out; in our choices, our words, our relationships. In doing so we trust that, in those places, the victory of Christ is already at work.

As it turns out, the dragon is not defeated by spectacle, but by faithfulness. Not by power as the world understands it, but by lives shaped by the Lamb.

So on this St. George’s Day, we give thanks not just for stories of courage, but for the deeper truth they point towards: that in Christ, evil is overcome; that in Christ, we are given strength to endure; and that in Christ, even the smallest act of faithful witness shares in the victory of heaven.

Amen.

Reflection: Light Rooted in Love, a homily on John 3:16

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Reading

John 3.16–21 – ‘For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life. ‘Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him. Those who believe in him are not condemned; but those who do not believe are condemned already, because they have not believed in the name of the only Son of God. And this is the judgement, that the light has come into the world, and people loved darkness rather than light because their deeds were evil. For all who do evil hate the light and do not come to the light, so that their deeds may not be exposed. But those who do what is true come to the light, so that it may be clearly seen that their deeds have been done in God.’

Reflection

If I were to switch off all the lights in this room, it wouldn’t take long before things became uncomfortable.

We’d still be here. The room wouldn’t have changed. But suddenly we’d be unsure of where we were stepping, unsure of what was around us. Darkness has that effect.

And it’s interesting that in this well-known passage from the Gospel of John, Jesus speaks not only about love (though of course this most famous of verses begins there) but also about light and darkness.

“God so loved the world that he gave his only Son.”

These words come from a conversation Jesus is having with Nicodemus, a Jewish Pharisee who comes to Jesus at night, in the dark, uncertain and searching. And for many people still today, these words are the very heart of the Christian faith.

Not that God tolerated the world. Not that God judged the world from a distance. But that God loved the world, this world, with all its beauty and all its brokenness, enough to come among us in Christ.

And that love has a purpose. Not condemnation. Not rejection. But salvation.

Jesus then goes on to say something really striking: that the coming of Christ into the world is like light shining into darkness.

Light changes things. The moment light appears, we begin to see clearly. What was hidden becomes visible. What was uncertain becomes known. And that can be both comforting and unsettling.

Jesus says that people sometimes prefer darkness to light because the light reveals things we might rather keep hidden. That’s a deeply human truth. All of us carry things we’d rather not expose: mistakes we regret, failures we wish we could undo, parts of ourselves we would rather keep in the shadows.

And yet the remarkable thing about this passage is that the light comes because of love. Christ does not shine light into our lives in order to shame us or condemn us. Christ shines light to heal and to guide. To show us the path that leads to life and salvation.

It’s a little like walking along a dark path at night. Without light we hesitate, unsure where to place our feet. But with even a small light, suddenly we can move forward with confidence.

And the invitation of this passage is in many ways simple. To step into the light. Not because we are perfect. Not because we have everything sorted out. But because we come to trust and believe in the one who is the light.

In parish life to-date I have often met people who assume faith is something you come to once you’ve sorted everything out; once life is tidy and the questions are answered. But this passage suggests the opposite. Faith is first about simply stepping into the light. It is allowing Christ to illuminate our lives, gently, patiently, and trusting that the God who loved the world enough to send his Son is the same God who meets us exactly where we are.

“For God so loved the world…”

Those words are so familiar that we sometimes forget how extraordinary they are. The Christian story begins not with our human effort, but with divine love. And it continues with that simple, yet profound invitation:

Come into the light.
Walk in the light.
Live in the light.

Because the light that Christ brings is not there to expose us to judgment and condemnation. It is there to save us and to lead us home.

Amen.

Sermon: Hospitality on the Road (19th April, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

Acts 2.14a, 36–41 – Peter, standing with the eleven, raised his voice and addressed the crowd in Jerusalem: ‘Let the entire house of Israel know with certainty that God has made him both Lord and Messiah, this Jesus whom you crucified.’ Now when they heard this, they were cut to the heart and said to Peter and to the other apostles, ‘Brothers, what should we do?’ Peter said to them, ‘Repent, and be baptized every one of you in the name of Jesus Christ so that your sins may be forgiven; and you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit. For the promise is for you, for your children, and for all who are far away, everyone whom the Lord our God calls to him.’ And he testified with many other arguments and exhorted them, saying, ‘Save yourselves from this corrupt generation.’ So those who welcomed his message were baptized, and that day about three thousand persons were added.

Luke 24.13–35 – Now on that same day two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem, and talking with each other about all these things that had happened. While they were talking and discussing, Jesus himself came near and went with them, but their eyes were kept from recognizing him. And he said to them, ‘What are you discussing with each other while you walk along?’ They stood still, looking sad.Then one of them, whose name was Cleopas, answered him, ‘Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have taken place there in these days?’ He asked them, ‘What things?’ They replied, ‘The things about Jesus of Nazareth, who was a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people, and how our chief priests and leaders handed him over to be condemned to death and crucified him. But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel. Yes, and besides all this, it is now the third day since these things took place. Moreover, some women of our group astounded us. They were at the tomb early this morning, and when they did not find his body there, they came back and told us that they had indeed seen a vision of angels who said that he was alive. Some of those who were with us went to the tomb and found it just as the women had said; but they did not see him.’ Then he said to them, ‘Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared! Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and then enter into his glory?’ Then beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them the things about himself in all the scriptures. As they came near the village to which they were going, he walked ahead as if he were going on. But they urged him strongly, saying, ‘Stay with us, because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over.’ So he went in to stay with them. When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him; and he vanished from their sight. They said to each other, ‘Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?’ That same hour they got up and returned to Jerusalem; and they found the eleven and their companions gathered together. They were saying, ‘The Lord has risen indeed, and he has appeared to Simon!’ Then they told what had happened on the road, and how he had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.

Sermon

At the heart of the road to Emmaus is a simple invitation: “Stay with us.” It is easy to miss how important that moment is.

Two disciples are walking away from Jerusalem, carrying confusion and disappointment with them. A stranger comes alongside them. He listens. He speaks. He walks with them. And then, as they reach their destination, he appears ready to go on. The encounter could have ended there. A conversation on the road. Nothing more. But instead, they say: “Stay with us.” They make room.

That act of making room is where the story turns. Not in the conversation, however meaningful it has been. Not even in the explanation of the Scriptures. But in the decision to extend hospitality. “Stay with us.”

It is a simple gesture. The kind of thing offered at the end of a long day’s walk. A meal. A place to rest. A sign of welcome. And yet, in this moment, it becomes the place where Christ is made known.

Because when they sit down at the table, something happens that goes beyond ordinary expectations. They have offered the invitation. They have opened their home. They are, in every sense, the hosts. And yet, when the bread is taken, blessed, broken and given, it is Jesus who does it. The guest takes the place of the host. The one who was invited in becomes the one who gives. And it is in that exchange—in that quiet, shared act—that their eyes are opened. They recognise him.

This is not simply a story about kindness to a stranger. It shows us something about the nature of Christian hospitality. Hospitality, in its deepest sense, is not only about what we offer. It is about what we are willing to receive.

The disciples begin by offering shelter. They end by receiving Christ. They prepare a table.
They find themselves being fed. They welcome someone into their space. They discover that they themselves are being welcomed into a new understanding of God’s presence.

And this is where the story speaks directly to us. Because it is possible to think of hospitality as a one-way movement. We give. We provide. We offer. But the Emmaus story unsettles that idea. In the presence of Christ, hospitality becomes something shared. It becomes an encounter in which both host and guest are changed and interchangeable. The one who welcomes is also drawn into receiving. The one who gives discovers that they are being given to.

This has something important to say about the life of the Church.

We speak often about being welcoming communities. About opening our doors. About inviting others in. And all of that matters. But the Emmaus story suggests that something more is at stake. Because to offer hospitality in the name of Christ is also to take a risk.

It is to recognise that Christ may meet us in the one we welcome. It is to accept that the encounter may not leave us unchanged. It is to be open not only to giving, but to receiving—to being surprised, challenged, even reshaped.

We see this most clearly at the table. Week by week, we gather and bring what we have. Bread. Wine. Ourselves. It can feel as though we are the ones offering something. And yet, as the Eucharist unfolds, it becomes clear that Christ is the one who hosts us.

He takes what is given. He blesses it. He shares it. And we are the ones who receive. The pattern of Emmaus continues here. We come as hosts, and find ourselves guests.

The invitation, then, is not only to offer hospitality, but to live within this movement of exchange. To say, in whatever way we can: “Stay with us.” To make space—for Christ, and for one another. To trust that in doing so, something may be revealed that we could not have seen on our own.

And when that happens, it changes the direction of our lives. The disciples do not remain where they are. They return to Jerusalem. They go back to the place they had left behind. Because once Christ is recognised, the journey cannot continue as it was.

In Acts, we see the same pattern in a different form. Peter speaks, and the people ask, “What should we do?” And the answer is simple: turn around. Begin again. It is the same movement. A recognition that leads to response. An encounter that leads to change.

So perhaps the question this Gospel places before us is not complicated. Where are we being invited to make room? Where are we being asked to say, “Stay with us”? And are we willing to do so, knowing that we may not remain the same?

Because in the life of faith, hospitality is never just about opening a door. It is about allowing Christ to meet us in the act of welcome. It is about discovering that, in offering space to another, we are being drawn into the life of God.

And so, as we come to the table today, we do so with that simple prayer:

That Christ would stay with us.
That in the sharing of bread, we might recognise him.
And that, in welcoming him, we might find ourselves welcomed in return. Alleluia. Christ is risen.
He is risen indeed. Alleluia.

Reflection: Trust in Eternity (26th Mar, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

Genesis 17.3–9 – Then Abram fell on his face; and God said to him, ‘As for me, this is my covenant with you: You shall be the ancestor of a multitude of nations. No longer shall your name be Abram, but your name shall be Abraham; for I have made you the ancestor of a multitude of nations. I will make you exceedingly fruitful; and I will make nations of you, and kings shall come from you. I will establish my covenant between me and you, and your offspring after you throughout their generations, for an everlasting covenant, to be God to you and to your offspring after you. And I will give to you, and to your offspring after you, the land where you are now an alien, all the land of Canaan, for a perpetual holding; and I will be their God.’ God said to Abraham, ‘As for you, you shall keep my covenant, you and your offspring after you throughout their generations.

John 8.51–end – Very truly, I tell you, whoever keeps my word will never see death.’ The Jews said to him, ‘Now we know that you have a demon. Abraham died, and so did the prophets; yet you say, “Whoever keeps my word will never taste death.” Are you greater than our father Abraham, who died? The prophets also died. Who do you claim to be?’ Jesus answered, ‘If I glorify myself, my glory is nothing. It is my Father who glorifies me, he of whom you say, “He is our God”, though you do not know him. But I know him; if I were to say that I do not know him, I would be a liar like you. But I do know him and I keep his word. Your ancestor Abraham rejoiced that he would see my day; he saw it and was glad.’ Then the Jews said to him, ‘You are not yet fifty years old, and have you seen Abraham?’Jesus said to them, ‘Very truly, I tell you, before Abraham was, I am.’ So they picked up stones to throw at him, but Jesus hid himself and went out of the temple.

Reflection

There is a moment in both of our readings today where something eternal and perhaps beyond our comprehension breaks into the present day and our limited human understanding of time.

In our reading from Genesis, Abram falls on his face before God. And in that moment, everything changes. A new covenant is spoken. A new future is promised. Even a new name is given: Abraham, “father of many nations.” What God is doing is not just about Abram’s private faith; it is about a promise that stretches far beyond him, into generations he will never see or know.

And in John’s Gospel, we hear Jesus speak words that are just as staggering: “Very truly, I tell you, whoever keeps my word will never see death.” It is no wonder that those listening are confused, even offended. They hear these words in ordinary time, in an ordinary place; and yet Jesus is speaking about something far from ordinary.

At the heart of both readings is the question of identity and of trust.

Abraham is asked to trust in a promise that seems impossible. He is old, his circumstances are fixed, his future looks limited. And yet God speaks a different word over his life; a word of covenant, of faithfulness, of life beyond what he can see.

And in John’s Gospel, Jesus takes that same thread and draws it even further. He speaks not just of future generations, but of eternal life; life that begins now and cannot be taken away, even by death itself.

But the people around him struggle. They say, “Abraham died… the prophets also died… so who do you think you are?” It’s a very human question. Because what Jesus is saying doesn’t fit easily within the boundaries of what they know, or what they expect. And perhaps it doesn’t always fit easily for us, either. Because we live, most of the time, within what we can see and measure. We make sense of life through what feels immediate and tangible. And yet both of these readings invite us to lift our gaze; to see that God’s purposes are always larger, deeper, and more enduring than we might first imagine. When Jesus says, “before Abraham was, I am,” he is not simply making a statement about time. He is revealing something about who he is; the one in whom God’s promises are not just spoken, but fulfilled. The one in whom eternity meets us, here and now.

And so the question for us is not simply, “Do we understand this?” but “Do we trust this?”

Do we trust that God’s covenant faithfulness, first spoken to Abraham, still holds? Do we trust that in Christ, life is stronger than death? Do we trust that when we follow his word, we are drawn into something that will outlast everything else we know?

Because that is the invitation at the heart of these readings. Not just to admire Abraham’s faith, or to puzzle over Jesus’ words, but to step into that same relationship of trust. A trust that says: God is at work, even when I cannot see the outcome. A trust that says: my life is held within a promise that is bigger than my present circumstances. A trust that says: in Christ, I am drawn into life that does not end.

And perhaps that changes how we live now.

It gives us courage to be faithful in small things. It gives us hope in moments of uncertainty or fear. And it reminds us that our story is not bounded by what is immediate but held within the eternal purposes of God. Abraham could not see the fullness of the promise he was given. Those listening to Jesus could not yet grasp the fullness of who he was. And we, too, see only in part. But still, the invitation remains the same: To trust the God who makes covenant. To listen to the voice of Christ. And to live, even now, in the light of eternal life.

Amen.

Reflection: A Call to Clarity (12th Mar, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

Jeremiah 7.23–28 – But this command I gave them, ‘Obey my voice, and I will be your God, and you shall be my people; and walk only in the way that I command you, so that it may be well with you.’ Yet they did not obey or incline their ear, but, in the stubbornness of their evil will, they walked in their own counsels, and looked backwards rather than forwards. From the day that your ancestors came out of the land of Egypt until this day, I have persistently sent all my servants the prophets to them, day after day; yet they did not listen to me, or pay attention, but they stiffened their necks. They did worse than their ancestors did. So you shall speak all these words to them, but they will not listen to you. You shall call to them, but they will not answer you. You shall say to them: This is the nation that did not obey the voice of the Lord their God, and did not accept discipline; truth has perished; it is cut off from their lips.

Luke 11.14–23 – Now he was casting out a demon that was mute; when the demon had gone out, the one who had been mute spoke, and the crowds were amazed. But some of them said, ‘He casts out demons by Beelzebul, the ruler of the demons.’ Others, to test him, kept demanding from him a sign from heaven. But he knew what they were thinking and said to them, ‘Every kingdom divided against itself becomes a desert, and house falls on house. If Satan also is divided against himself, how will his kingdom stand? —for you say that I cast out the demons by Beelzebul. Now if I cast out the demons by Beelzebul, by whom do your exorcists cast them out? Therefore they will be your judges. But if it is by the finger of God that I cast out the demons, then the kingdom of God has come to you. When a strong man, fully armed, guards his castle, his property is safe. But when one stronger than he attacks him and overpowers him, he takes away his armour in which he trusted and divides his plunder. Whoever is not with me is against me, and whoever does not gather with me scatters.

Reflection

There is something very direct, uncomfortable even, about today’s readings. In both Jeremiah and Luke, we hear a call to clarity: clarity about listening to God, clarity about where we stand; clarity about the direction of our hearts.

In Jeremiah, God speaks with a mixture of longing and sorrow. The command is simple: “Listen to my voice, and I will be your God, and you shall be my people.” It is not complicated. Not a matter of elaborate ritual or clever theology. Simply this: listen, walk in the way God shows you, and life will flourish.

And yet, the prophet tells us, the people did not listen. Instead, they “walked in their own counsels,” following what Jeremiah calls “the stubbornness of their evil will.” It is a striking phrase. Because it reminds us that faithfulness is often not undone by ignorance but by resistance; by that quiet, persistent preference for our own way over God’s.

Jeremiah’s lament is not only about ancient Israel. It is about every age and, if we are honest, about us too. We know what it is to hear God’s voice in Scripture, in conscience, in prayer, and still find ourselves turning aside. Sometimes gently, sometimes deliberately, but often repeatedly.

Then we turn to the Gospel, and the tone sharpens further. Jesus has just freed a man from a mute spirit; a clear act of healing and restoration. Yet instead of rejoicing, some accuse him of working by the power of evil. Others demand more signs, as though what they have just witnessed were not enough.

Jesus responds with a simple and searching truth: a divided kingdom cannot stand. If his work is bringing freedom, restoration, and life, then it bears the mark of God’s kingdom. And if God’s kingdom is breaking in, then neutrality is no longer possible. As he puts it starkly: “Whoever is not with me is against me, and whoever does not gather with me scatters.”

It is a hard saying. We often prefer softer edges with space for ambiguity, for keeping our options open. But Jesus speaks into that hesitation. His words suggest that faith is not merely a private sympathy or quiet admiration. It is allegiance. It is direction. It is a way of living that gathers rather than scatters.

When we place these readings side by side, a pattern emerges. Jeremiah shows us the danger of refusing to listen; Luke shows us the danger of refusing to decide. Both point us toward the same question: where, and to whom, are we really listening?

Because the truth is, we are always listening to something. The voice of habit. The voice of fear. The voice of convenience. The voice of the crowd. The question is whether, beneath all that noise, we are making space to listen for God.

The good news in both readings is that God has not stopped speaking. The same God who spoke through Jeremiah continues to call his people back into relationship. The same Jesus who freed the man from silence continues to bring freedom and clarity into our lives.

So perhaps our prayer today is a that God would give us ears to hear, courage to choose, and grace to follow. That we might not walk in stubbornness, but in trust. Not scattered, but gathered into the life of Christ. And in that listening and following, discover again the life and peace God longs to give.

Amen.