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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.

Sermon: Peace Be With You (12th April, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

Acts 2.14a, 22–32 – Peter, standing with the eleven, raised his voice and addressed the crowd in Jerusalem: ‘You that are Israelites, listen to what I have to say: Jesus of Nazareth, a man attested to you by God with deeds of power, wonders, and signs that God did through him among you, as you yourselves know— this man, handed over to you according to the definite plan and foreknowledge of God, you crucified and killed by the hands of those outside the law. But God raised him up, having freed him from death, because it was impossible for him to be held in its power. For David says concerning him, “I saw the Lord always before me, for he is at my right hand so that I will not be shaken; therefore my heart was glad, and my tongue rejoiced; moreover, my flesh will live in hope. For you will not abandon my soul to Hades, or let your Holy One experience corruption. You have made known to me the ways of life; you will make me full of gladness with your presence.”‘Fellow Israelites, I may say to you confidently of our ancestor David that he both died and was buried, and his tomb is with us to this day. Since he was a prophet, he knew that God had sworn with an oath to him that he would put one of his descendants on his throne. Foreseeing this, David spoke of the resurrection of the Messiah, saying, “He was not abandoned to Hades, nor did his flesh experience corruption.” This Jesus God raised up, and of that all of us are witnesses.’

John 20.19–end – 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.’ But Thomas (who was called the Twin), one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. So the other disciples told him, ‘We have seen the Lord.’ But he said to them, ‘Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.’ A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you.’ Then he said to Thomas, ‘Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.’ Thomas answered him, ‘My Lord and my God!’ Jesus said to him, ‘Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.’ Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not written in this book. But these are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.

Sermon

Alleluia! Christ is risen! He is risen indeed, alleluia!

There is something deeply human about locked doors because they can symbolise so many different things. In our Gospel reading from John this morning, we find the disciples gathered together behind them, the doors shut, locked, secured, out of fear. Fear of what might happen next. Fear that what happened to Jesus might now happen to them. Fear that everything they had hoped for had come undone.

And perhaps, if we are honest, that image does not feel so distant from our own experience sometimes. There are times in life when we, too, draw the doors closed. Times when uncertainty, grief, disappointment, or anxiety lead us to retreat, to protect ourselves, to keep the world, and perhaps even God, at a distance.

And yet as our Gospel shows us today it is into that very space that the risen Christ comes.

Not when the disciples have sorted themselves out. Not when their faith is strong and confident. Not when they have everything neatly resolved. But while the doors are still locked. “Peace be with you,” Jesus says.

It is a simple greeting, and yet it is anything but simple. Because this is not merely the absence of fear or conflict. This is the presence of Christ himself. This is the peace that comes not from circumstances being easy, but from knowing that death does not have the final word.

And then, significantly, Jesus shows them his hands and his side. The wounds remain. The resurrection does not erase the crucifixion — it transforms it. The marks of suffering are still visible, but they are no longer signs of defeat. They have become signs of victory, of love poured out, of life that cannot be overcome.

And then comes the sending: “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.”

The frightened disciples, still only beginning to understand what has happened, are entrusted with a mission. Not because they are ready, but because they are called. Not because they are fearless, but because they are filled with the Spirit. And breathing on them, Jesus gives them that Spirit, the very life of God, and sends them out into the world.

It is a remarkable moment. From locked room to open mission. From fear to purpose. From hiding to witness.

And yet, as we know, not everyone is there. Thomas is absent. And when he hears the testimony of the others, he cannot accept it. “Unless I see… unless I touch… I will not believe.”

Thomas is often remembered for his doubt. But perhaps we might see something else in him as well — honesty. A refusal to pretend. A desire for faith that is real, embodied, grounded. And a week later, once again, the disciples are gathered. Once again, the doors are shut. And once again, Jesus comes and stands among them. And this time, he speaks directly to Thomas.

“Put your finger here… see my hands… do not doubt but believe.”

There is no rebuke, no dismissal. Instead, there is an invitation. And Thomas responds with one of the most profound declarations in all of Scripture: “My Lord and my God.”

In that moment, doubt is not crushed; it is transformed. It becomes the doorway to deeper faith. And perhaps that is something we need to hear.

Because faith is not always neat or straightforward. It is not always a steady, unwavering certainty. Sometimes it includes questions. Sometimes it involves wrestling. Sometimes it looks like standing in a locked room, unsure of what comes next.

And yet Christ comes, again and again, into those very places.

He does not wait for perfect belief. He meets us where we are. He speaks peace into our fear.
He shows us his wounded, risen life. And he calls us forward.

When we place this alongside our other readings today, a pattern begins to emerge.

In Exodus, the people of Israel stand at the edge of the sea, trapped between the waters ahead and the army behind. Fear again. Uncertainty again. And yet God makes a way where there is no way — opening the sea, leading them through, bringing them into freedom. And on the other side, Miriam leads the people in song: a song of deliverance, of victory, of God’s saving power.

In Acts, Peter stands before the crowd, no longer hidden, no longer afraid, proclaiming boldly that Jesus, whom they crucified, has been raised by God. The same Peter who once denied Jesus now bears witness to him with courage and clarity.

From fear to faith. From silence to proclamation. From death to life.

And at the heart of it all is the risen Christ, who meets his people in their fear and sends them out in his peace.

So what might this mean for us, here, today, on this Second Sunday of Easter? Perhaps it begins with recognising our own locked doors.

What are the places where we feel afraid? Where are we holding back? Where do we struggle to believe that resurrection life is possible? And into those places, Christ comes. Not with condemnation, but with peace. Not with impatience, but with invitation. Not with distance, but with presence. “Peace be with you.”

And then, just as he did with the first disciples, he sends us, because the world needs the witness of resurrection. A witness that says fear does not have the final word. That wounds can be transformed. That death is not the end. That Christ is risen, present, and at work among us.

And perhaps, like Thomas, we are invited not simply to hear that truth, but to encounter it for ourselves. To see. To touch. To know. And to respond:

“My Lord and my God.”

Alleluia! Christ is risen! He is risen indeed, alleluia!

Sermon: Easter Day (5th April, 2026, Year A)

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Reading

John 20.1–18 – Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from the tomb. So she ran and went to Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved, and said to them, ‘They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him.’ Then Peter and the other disciple set out and went towards the tomb. The two were running together, but the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first. He bent down to look in and saw the linen wrappings lying there, but he did not go in. Then Simon Peter came, following him, and went into the tomb. He saw the linen wrappings lying there, and the cloth that had been on Jesus’ head, not lying with the linen wrappings but rolled up in a place by itself. Then the other disciple, who reached the tomb first, also went in, and he saw and believed; for as yet they did not understand the scripture, that he must rise from the dead. Then the disciples returned to their homes. But Mary stood weeping outside the tomb. As she wept, she bent over to look into the tomb; and she saw two angels in white, sitting where the body of Jesus had been lying, one at the head and the other at the feet. They said to her, ‘Woman, why are you weeping?’ She said to them, ‘They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.’ When she had said this, she turned round and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not know that it was Jesus. Jesus said to her, ‘Woman, why are you weeping? For whom are you looking?’ Supposing him to be the gardener, she said to him, ‘Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.’ Jesus said to her, ‘Mary!’ She turned and said to him in Hebrew, ‘Rabbouni!’ (which means Teacher). Jesus said to her, ‘Do not hold on to me, because I have not yet ascended to the Father. But go to my brothers and say to them, “I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.” ’ Mary Magdalene went and announced to the disciples, ‘I have seen the Lord’; and she told them that he had said these things to her.

Sermon

Alleluia! Christ is risen! He is risen indeed, alleluia!

It was only three short days ago that we were sitting in the side chapel here at St. Mary’s observing the Watch, that time on the evening of Maundy Thursday when we enter into Jesus’ time in the Garden of Gethsemane, the disciples having been asked to stay awake with Christ as he prayed in anguish to his Father. Even during the solemnity of that observance, I had to have a wry smile. As Hugh and I were leaving church afterward, I looked down at my not-so-smart watch to check the time, whereupon it informed me that I had been so still and calm that it had added a nap to my activity schedule! A resonance in this digital age with the disciples inability to stay awake with Jesus. Nevertheless I assure you that I did stay awake for the whole of the Watch!

What a contrast with this morning, then. Oh, my goodness, there was a lot of running going on that ‘first day of the week’! What would it have been like if the disciples had smart watches or a Fitbit. Their heart rate and blood-oxygen data would have been all over the place that morning! I don’t know about you but – purely in terms of my fitness – I think I would be like Simon Peter, lagging behind a younger, fitter disciple racing to the empty tomb before me, me pitching up puffing and wheezing in a solid last place. But I digress….

Because the first of our runners that first Easter Day was Mary Magdalene, running back to the disciples as soon as she realised the stone had been rolled away from the tomb. Though Mary is the only woman mentioned in John’s version of this story, we get the sense that there were other women with her from the other gospels, So perhaps they were running with her as she raced back to tell the others what she had found.

John doesn’t even tell us if Mary had looked inside the tomb before jumping to the conclusion that someone had taken the body away. It’s hard to tell why she assumed the body was gone. Maybe she thought the tomb had only been ‘on loan’ as a temporary burial place, just to get through the Sabbath, and its actual owner had removed the body. Maybe she thought the religious leaders had moved the body before this tomb became some kind of unwelcome shrine. What is clear is that Mary thinks Jesus is still dead.

But Mary’s words crack like a starting pistol – BANG! – sending Peter and the other disciple racing toward the garden to see for themselves. And this is where the scene becomes almost comical. You can practically hear the chase music as one disciple gets there first, but doesn’t go in, and the other runs right past him to duck into the empty tomb! Well, how about that! There is no body here. Just some grave clothes lying around and a head cloth that has been carefully rolled up and placed on the ground. Peter and his friend simply cannot comprehend that the impossible has happened. So, they leave.

Before we condemn them for their lack of faith, or even for their short memories that can’t remember Jesus’ own words about being the resurrection and the life, we might want to stop and consider how we, too, walk away from the things we can’t explain. When our view of God is challenged, when God doesn’t work in our lives the way we think God ought to work, how often do we give up and walk away, muttering to ourselves and anyone else who will listen?

But Mary comes back into the story just in time, to remind us that there is more than one way to miss the miracle of resurrection. She must have run right back to the tomb behind those racing disciples, because later in John’s version of the resurrection story here she is again, weeping as they walk away. As she bends over to peer into the empty tomb, she discovers that it is no longer empty. It was empty just a moment ago, but now there are two – not one, but two – angels, sitting there calmly, asking a simple question: “Woman, why are you weeping?”

This might seem an odd question, since Mary is standing in front of a new grave. It’s a place where people normally weep. But they know something she hasn’t quite accepted yet. Mary is still stuck in the “He’s dead” reality of her own limited understanding. She has not grasped the impossible fact that Jesus is alive. She can only answer, “They’ve taken him away, and I don’t know where they’ve put him.”

As she turns around, she sees a man standing there, who asks her the same question, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?”

Her answer is a repetition, “I don’t know where they’ve taken him.” She is stuck in her grief, this firm belief that Jesus is dead, and she says the same thing she has been saying all along to this man she doesn’t recognise, so she thinks he must be the gardener.

And aren’t we all sometimes like Mary, too? When God does not fit neatly into the box of our beliefs, we might just walk away, as those racing disciples did, or we might act like Mary: senselessly, stubbornly repeating our view of truth, even when evidence to the contrary stands right in front of us.

Then, Jesus says her name. “Mary,” is all it takes for the sheep to recognise the shepherd’s voice. And everything changes. In that moment, the darkness begins to lift. In that moment, death no longer has the final word. In that moment, the world is remade, not through spectacle, not through power as we might imagine it, but through recognition, through relationship, through love that refuses to let go.

“Rabbouni!” She turns. She sees. She knows. Christ is risen. And this is not simply a private moment of comfort. It is the beginning of a proclamation that will echo through the ages. Because the risen Jesus sends her: “Go to my brothers and say to them…” Mary Magdalene becomes the first apostle to the apostles, the first witness of the resurrection, the first to carry the news that changes everything.

It is the news that Peter speaks of in the reading from Acts: that Jesus Christ, who was put to death on a tree, has been raised by God on the third day; that he is Lord of all; that through him forgiveness of sins is proclaimed to all who believe.

This is not just a story of something that happened long ago. This is the turning point of all history. Because Christ is risen, death is not the end. Because Christ is risen, sin does not have the final word. Because Christ is risen, nothing, nothing in all creation, can ultimately separate us from the love of God.

And perhaps most astonishing of all: because Christ is risen, then God meets us not in spite of our brokenness, but within it. Mary does not arrive at the tomb with perfect faith. She arrives with tears. And it is there that she encounters the risen Lord. Which means that Easter is not just for the strong in faith, or the certain, or the joyful. Easter is for all of us.

For those who come this morning full of joy, Christ is risen. For those who come weary, uncertain, carrying burdens, Christ is risen. For those who feel as though they are still standing at the tomb, wondering what has been lost, Christ is risen. And the invitation of Easter is this: to hear our name spoken by the risen Christ. To recognise him calling us, meeting us, sending us.

Because the world still needs this good news. A world still marked by suffering, by conflict, by uncertainty. A world where grief and fear so often seem to have the upper hand. Into that world, we are sent. Not with all the answers. Not with perfect understanding. But with a message. “I have seen the Lord.” That is enough. Because that is everything.

Alleluia! Christ is risen! He is risen indeed, alleluia!