christianity

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

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

Readings

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

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

Sermon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wonder — does that sound familiar?

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

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

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

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

And the disciples fall to the ground, afraid.

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

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

And then comes the most important part of the story.

They go down the mountain.

Because the mountain is not where the story ends.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lent is a bit like that journey down.

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

And here’s the really good news.

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

Which means it goes with us too.

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

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

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

“Get up. Do not be afraid.”

Amen.

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

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Readings

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

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

Reflection

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amen.

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

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Readings

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

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

Sermon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that is where hope comes in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amen.

Reflection: Words of Grace (28th Jan, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

2 Samuel 7.4–17 – But that same night the word of the Lord came to Nathan: Go and tell my servant David: Thus says the Lord: Are you the one to build me a house to live in? I have not lived in a house since the day I brought up the people of Israel from Egypt to this day, but I have been moving about in a tent and a tabernacle. Wherever I have moved about among all the people of Israel, did I ever speak a word with any of the tribal leaders of Israel, whom I commanded to shepherd my people Israel, saying, ‘Why have you not built me a house of cedar?’ Now therefore thus you shall say to my servant David: Thus says the Lord of hosts: I took you from the pasture, from following the sheep to be prince over my people Israel; and I have been with you wherever you went, and have cut off all your enemies from before you; and I will make for you a great name, like the name of the great ones of the earth. And I will appoint a place for my people Israel and will plant them, so that they may live in their own place, and be disturbed no more; and evildoers shall afflict them no more, as formerly, from the time that I appointed judges over my people Israel; and I will give you rest from all your enemies. Moreover, the Lord declares to you that the Lord will make you a house. When your days are fulfilled and you lie down with your ancestors, I will raise up your offspring after you, who shall come forth from your body, and I will establish his kingdom. He shall build a house for my name, and I will establish the throne of his kingdom for ever. I will be a father to him, and he shall be a son to me. When he commits iniquity, I will punish him with a rod such as mortals use, with blows inflicted by human beings. But I will not take my steadfast love from him, as I took it from Saul, whom I put away from before you. Your house and your kingdom shall be made sure for ever before me; your throne shall be established for ever. In accordance with all these words and with all this vision, Nathan spoke to David.

Mark 4.1–20 – Again he began to teach beside the lake. Such a very large crowd gathered around him that he got into a boat on the lake and sat there, while the whole crowd was beside the lake on the land. He began to teach them many things in parables, and in his teaching he said to them: ‘Listen! A sower went out to sow. And as he sowed, some seed fell on the path, and the birds came and ate it up. Other seed fell on rocky ground, where it did not have much soil, and it sprang up quickly, since it had no depth of soil. And when the sun rose, it was scorched; and since it had no root, it withered away. Other seed fell among thorns, and the thorns grew up and choked it, and it yielded no grain. Other seed fell into good soil and brought forth grain, growing up and increasing and yielding thirty and sixty and a hundredfold.’ And he said, ‘Let anyone with ears to hear listen!’ When he was alone, those who were around him along with the twelve asked him about the parables. And he said to them, ‘To you has been given the secret of the kingdom of God, but for those outside, everything comes in parables; in order that “they may indeed look, but not perceive, and may indeed listen, but not understand; so that they may not turn again and be forgiven.” ’ And he said to them, ‘Do you not understand this parable? Then how will you understand all the parables? The sower sows the word. These are the ones on the path where the word is sown: when they hear, Satan immediately comes and takes away the word that is sown in them. And these are the ones sown on rocky ground: when they hear the word, they immediately receive it with joy. But they have no root, and endure only for a while; then, when trouble or persecution arises on account of the word, immediately they fall away.And others are those sown among the thorns: these are the ones who hear the word, but the cares of the world, and the lure of wealth, and the desire for other things come in and choke the word, and it yields nothing. And these are the ones sown on the good soil: they hear the word and accept it and bear fruit, thirty and sixty and a hundredfold.’

Reflection

In our two readings this morning we hear about God’s word being spoken — and about how that word is received.

In the reading from 2 Samuel, King David has settled into his palace. Life feels secure. Looking around, David realises something feels wrong: he lives in comfort, while the ark of God still rests in a tent. David’s instinct is a good one. He wants to do something for God. He wants to build a house for the Lord.

At first, the prophet Nathan affirms him. But then God speaks again — and gently turns the whole idea on its head. God does not ask David to build him a house. Instead, God promises to build David a house — not of stone and cedar, but a living house: a dynasty, a future, a people held within God’s faithfulness.

It is a striking moment. David’s plans are not wrong, but they are not the point. God reminds David that it has always been God who acts first: I took you from the pasture… I have been with you wherever you went… I will make for you a great name. God’s purposes do not depend on human effort or impressive structures, but on God’s own gracious initiative.

That theme carries through into the Gospel reading.

Jesus sits beside the lake and tells a story about a sower scattering seed. The seed is generously sown, almost wastefully so. It falls on all kinds of ground: the path, rocky places, among thorns, and finally on good soil. The focus of the parable is not really on the skill of the sower, or even on the seed itself — but on the soil that receives it.

Jesus explains that the seed is the word of God. The same word is offered to all, but it is received in very different ways. Some hear it and it barely touches them before it is lost. Others receive it gladly, but it never puts down roots. Some allow it to grow, but other things — worry, wealth, distraction — slowly choke it. And then there are those who hear the word, hold onto it, and allow it to bear fruit.

When we hear these words in church, it is tempting to place ourselves immediately in the category of “good soil”. But Jesus tells this parable not to reassure us, but to invite us to honesty. What kind of soil are we today?

Like David, we may come to God with good intentions. We may want to do the right things, to build something worthwhile, to be faithful. But both readings remind us that faith is not first about what we do for God, but about how open we are to what God is doing in us.

The promise to David is not built by David’s effort; it is received by trust. The harvest in Jesus’ parable does not come from frantic activity, but from soil that is deep, open, and receptive.

In a Church of England context — with our long traditions, our beautiful buildings, our busy diaries — this is an important word. God does not reject our plans or our structures, but neither are they the heart of the matter. What matters is whether God’s word is finding room to take root in us: in our worship, in our common life, and in the quiet, unseen places of our hearts.

So this morning’s question is a gentle one. Where might the soil of our lives have become compacted, shallow, or crowded? And where might God be patiently at work, preparing deeper ground?

The good news, in both readings, is that God is faithful. God continues to speak. God continues to sow. And God delights to bring growth — not by our strength, but by grace.

May we be given ears to hear, hearts ready to receive, and lives in which God’s promise can truly take root and bear fruit for our community.

Amen.

Sermon: Light Dawning, Kingdom Near (Sun 25th Jan, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

Isaiah 9.1–4 – But there will be no gloom for those who were in anguish. In the former time he brought into contempt the land of Zebulun and the land of Naphtali, but in the latter time he will make glorious the way of the sea, the land beyond the Jordan, Galilee of the nations. The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness — on them light has shined. You have multiplied the nation, you have increased its joy; they rejoice before you as with joy at the harvest, as people exult when dividing plunder. For the yoke of their burden, and the bar across their shoulders, the rod of their oppressor, you have broken as on the day of Midian.

Matthew 4.12–23 – Now when Jesus heard that John had been arrested, he withdrew to Galilee. He left Nazareth and made his home in Capernaum by the lake, in the territory of Zebulun and Naphtali, so that what had been spoken through the prophet Isaiah might be fulfilled: ‘Land of Zebulun, land of Naphtali, on the road by the sea, across the Jordan, Galilee of the Gentiles — the people who sat in darkness have seen a great light, and for those who sat in the region and shadow of death light has dawned.’
From that time Jesus began to proclaim, ‘Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.’ As he walked by the Sea of Galilee, he saw two brothers, Simon, who is called Peter, and Andrew his brother, casting a net into the lake—for they were fishermen. And he said to them, ‘Follow me, and I will make you fish for people.’ Immediately they left their nets and followed him. As he went from there, he saw two other brothers, James son of Zebedee and his brother John, in the boat with their father Zebedee, mending their nets, and he called them. Immediately they left the boat and their father, and followed him. Jesus went throughout Galilee, teaching in their synagogues and proclaiming the good news of the kingdom and curing every disease and every sickness among the people.

Sermon

The season of Epiphany is all about light. It is about God making himself known — not hidden away, not distant, but revealed, shining out into the world as it really is. Each week of Epiphany we are invited to notice where that light falls, and what it shows us.

Today’s readings speak very clearly into that theme. Isaiah proclaims that “the people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.” And Matthew tells us that Jesus begins his public ministry in Galilee, fulfilling that ancient promise: light dawning in a place long associated with darkness, hardship, and neglect.

This is not accidental. God’s light does not first appear in the centres of power or prestige. It appears on the margins.

Isaiah is speaking to a people who know what darkness feels like. They are not imagining it. This is not poetic exaggeration. They have known invasion, loss, exile, and fear. They have walked in the shadow of death — not as a metaphor, but as lived reality. And it is precisely there that God promises light.

Notice what kind of light Isaiah describes. It is not just comfort for private sorrow. It is a light that changes reality. It brings joy like the joy of harvest. It breaks the yoke of oppression. It shatters the rod of the tyrant. This is not a gentle glow to help people cope — it is a light that transforms the world.

Hold that in mind as we turn to the gospel.

Matthew tells us that after John the Baptist is arrested, Jesus withdraws to Galilee and makes his home in Capernaum — “by the sea, in the territory of Zebulun and Naphtali” – quoting the prophet Isaiah. Matthew is careful, deliberate, almost scholarly here. He wants us to see that this is the fulfilment of Isaiah’s prophecy. But more than that, he wants us to understand what kind of Messiah Jesus is going to be.

Galilee was not the obvious place for the kingdom of God to begin. It was politically unstable, economically poor, religiously suspect in the eyes of the Jerusalem elite. If you wanted to launch a movement of spiritual renewal, Galilee would not have been top of the list. And yet — this is where Jesus begins.

The light dawns where people are tired, overlooked, and uncertain.

And what does Jesus say as he begins his ministry? Not a long explanation. Not a theological lecture. Just this: “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.”

That word “repent” can easily be misunderstood. It is not about self-loathing or fear. At heart, it means to turn — to change direction, to reorient your life because something new has arrived. Jesus is saying: God is closer than you think. Life can be different now. Turn towards it.

The kingdom of heaven is not something distant, postponed, or abstract. It has come near — near enough to touch, near enough to follow, near enough to change everything.

And immediately, Matthew gives us an example of what that looks like.

Jesus walks by the Sea of Galilee and calls Simon Peter and Andrew, James and John. Ordinary working people, busy with nets and boats and family responsibilities. And he says to them, “Follow me, and I will make you fish for people.”

And they do something extraordinary. They leave their nets. They leave their boats. James and John even leave their father. And they follow him.

Now, this is not meant to shame us. This is not a test of whether we could do the same tomorrow. It is a picture of what happens when light breaks into darkness — when the kingdom comes near enough to be recognised.

These men are not responding to an idea. They are responding to a person. They are drawn by the presence of Jesus himself. In him, they glimpse a different future, a different way of being human, a different ordering of priorities. And somehow, they know it is worth everything.

That same pattern continues as Jesus goes throughout Galilee: teaching, proclaiming the good news of the kingdom, and healing every disease and sickness among the people. Word and action together. Truth spoken, and compassion embodied. Light not only proclaimed, but lived.

This is Epiphany faith. Not faith that stays safely inside walls, but faith that steps into real places of pain, confusion, and need. Faith that speaks hope and also does something about it.

So what does all this mean for us, here, today?

First, it reminds us that God’s light still shines in dark places. Not just “out there” in the world’s great crises, but in the quieter, more personal shadows we carry with us. Grief, anxiety, loneliness, uncertainty about the future. Isaiah does not say the people stopped walking in darkness before they saw the light. The light came while they were still walking.

If you are walking in darkness today — unsure, weary, or afraid — the gospel reading today hopefully provides you with assurance that Christ has already come near.

Secondly, this passage invites us to ask what it means to follow Jesus where we are. Most of us are not being asked to leave fishing boats behind. But we are all asked to reorient our lives — to let go of what binds us and holds us back, and to trust that God’s kingdom is more real, more lasting, than the things we cling to for security.

Following Jesus is not about having everything figured out. Peter and Andrew certainly didn’t. It is about responding to the light we have been given and taking that next faithful step.

And finally, these readings remind us that the church is called to be a sign of that light. Not the source of it — Christ is the light — but a reflection of it. A community where burdens are lifted, where healing is sought and found, where good news is spoken in word and deed.

In a world that still knows deep darkness, the message of Epiphany is not naïve optimism. It is hard-won hope. It is the conviction that God has entered fully into the mess of human life, and that nothing is beyond the reach of his redeeming love.

The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light. That light is Jesus Christ. And he still walks by the shores of ordinary lives, still says “Follow me,” still proclaims that the kingdom of heaven has come near.

May we have eyes to see that light, hearts ready to turn towards it, and lives willing to reflect it — for the sake of the world God loves.

Amen.