Sermon: Temptation in the Wilderness (22nd Feb, 2026, Year A)

February 23, 2026 / nevermindthebuzzsocks / Leave a comment

Readings

Genesis 2.15–17; 3.1–7 – The Lord God took the man and put him in the garden of Eden to till it and keep it. And the Lord God commanded the man, ‘You may freely eat of every tree of the garden; but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat, for in the day that you eat of it you shall die.’ Now the serpent was more crafty than any other wild animal that the Lord God had made. He said to the woman, ‘Did God say, “You shall not eat from any tree in the garden”?’ The woman said to the serpent, ‘We may eat of the fruit of the trees in the garden; but God said, “You shall not eat of the fruit of the tree that is in the middle of the garden, nor shall you touch it, or you shall die.” ’ But the serpent said to the woman, ‘You will not die; for God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.’ So when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was a delight to the eyes, and that the tree was to be desired to make one wise, she took of its fruit and ate; and she also gave some to her husband, who was with her, and he ate. Then the eyes of both were opened, and they knew that they were naked; and they sewed fig leaves together and made loincloths for themselves.

Romans 5.12–19 – Therefore, just as sin came into the world through one man, and death came through sin, and so death spread to all because all have sinned— sin was indeed in the world before the law, but sin is not reckoned when there is no law. Yet death exercised dominion from Adam to Moses, even over those whose sins were not like the transgression of Adam, who is a type of the one who was to come. But the free gift is not like the trespass. For if the many died through the one man’s trespass, much more surely have the grace of God and the free gift in the grace of the one man, Jesus Christ, abounded for the many. And the free gift is not like the effect of the one man’s sin. For the judgement following one trespass brought condemnation, but the free gift following many trespasses brings justification. If, because of the one man’s trespass, death exercised dominion through that one, much more surely will those who receive the abundance of grace and the free gift of righteousness exercise dominion in life through the one man, Jesus Christ. Therefore just as one man’s trespass led to condemnation for all, so one man’s act of righteousness leads to justification and life for all. For just as by the one man’s disobedience the many were made sinners, so by the one man’s obedience the many will be made righteous.

Matthew 4.1–11 – Jesus was led up by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil. He fasted for forty days and forty nights, and afterwards he was famished. The tempter came and said to him, ‘If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread.’ But he answered, ‘It is written, “One does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.” Then the devil took him to the holy city and placed him on the pinnacle of the temple, saying to him, ‘If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down; for it is written, “He will command his angels concerning you”, and “On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.” Jesus said to him, ‘Again it is written, “Do not put the Lord your God to the test.” Again, the devil took him to a very high mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the world and their splendour; and he said to him, ‘All these I will give you, if you will fall down and worship me.’ Jesus said to him, ‘Away with you, Satan! for it is written, “Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.” Then the devil left him, and suddenly angels came and waited on him.

Sermon

Lent begins in a wilderness.

On Ash Wednesday we were marked with ashes and reminded of our mortality: “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” Today, on the first Sunday in Lent, we follow Jesus into the desert. The Spirit leads him there — not by accident, not by mistake, but deliberately. Lent is not a spiritual detour. It is a necessary journey.

And the Church, in her wisdom, places alongside this Gospel the story of another garden, another testing, another encounter with temptation.

In Genesis, we see humanity placed in a garden of abundance. Adam is given meaningful work — “to till it and keep it.” There is beauty, provision, freedom. Only one boundary: “You shall not eat of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.” It is a gift wrapped in trust. Relationship with responsibility.

But then comes the whisper.

“Did God say…?”

That question is the seed of so much that follows. The serpent does not begin with outright rebellion. He begins with distortion. Doubt. A subtle reframing of God’s generosity as restriction.

“Did God say, ‘You shall not eat from any tree’?”

It is not true — God had given them every tree but one — but temptation often works by magnifying what we do not have and shrinking what we do have. The focus shifts from abundance to prohibition, from trust to suspicion.

And then comes the deeper lie: “You will not die… you will be like God.”

At its heart, the temptation in Eden is about grasping. About seizing what is not ours to take. About stepping out of trust in God into self-determination. It is the temptation to believe that God is withholding something essential, and that we must secure our own flourishing apart from him.

Now fast forward to Matthew’s Gospel.

Jesus stands in another place of testing — not a garden this time, but a wilderness. Not surrounded by abundance, but emptied by forty days of fasting. He is hungry. Vulnerable. Alone.

And again the whisper comes.

“If you are the Son of God…”

Notice how the temptation begins. Just before this episode, at his baptism, Jesus has heard the Father’s voice: “This is my beloved Son.” In the wilderness, that identity is immediately questioned.

“If you are…”

Temptation so often strikes at identity. At trust. At the relationship between the Father and the Son.

The first temptation: turn stones into bread. On the surface, it seems reasonable. He is hungry. What harm in using his power to meet a legitimate need?

But beneath it lies the same distortion as in Eden. It is an invitation to step outside the Father’s will. To grasp, rather than to receive. To satisfy hunger on our own terms rather than live in trust.

Jesus replies with words from Deuteronomy: “One does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.”

In Eden, humanity reaches for food in distrust. In the wilderness, Jesus refuses food in trust.

The second temptation: throw yourself down from the pinnacle of the temple. Force God’s hand. Demand spectacle. Even the Scriptures are twisted to support it.

Again, the distortion: testing God rather than trusting him.

The third: all the kingdoms of the world, offered without the cross. Power without suffering. Glory without obedience.

And here we see most clearly what is at stake. The serpent offered Adam and Eve the illusion of godlike autonomy. The devil offers Jesus a shortcut to kingship. Worship me, and you can have it all — no nails, no thorns, no Golgotha.

But Jesus refuses. “Away with you, Satan! For it is written, ‘Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.’”

Where Adam grasped, Jesus yields.
Where Adam doubted, Jesus trusts.
Where Adam hid, Jesus stands firm.

Saint Paul would later call Jesus the “second Adam.” In the wilderness, we see what that means. Jesus relives the human story — but this time, he lives it rightly. Faithfully. Obediently.

And that matters for us.

Because Lent is not merely a season for feeling guilty about temptation. It is a season for learning again how to trust.

The wilderness is not only a place of danger; it is also a place of clarity. When distractions are stripped away, we discover what truly shapes us. Hunger reveals what we rely upon. Silence reveals the voices we are listening to.

What are the whispers in your own wilderness?

“Did God really say?”
“Is God really good?”
“Shouldn’t you secure yourself?”
“Why wait?”
“Why trust?”

Temptation rarely looks dramatic. It often looks like self-protection. Like control. Like the small turning of the heart away from dependence.

And yet the good news of this Sunday is not simply that we should try harder to resist. It is that Christ has gone before us.

He enters the wilderness not merely as an example, but as a representative. He stands where we have fallen. He answers where we have been silent. He trusts where we have grasped.

And he does so for us.

This is why Lent is not a season of despair. It is a season of returning. We do not walk into the wilderness alone. The Spirit who led Jesus leads us. The Son who was faithful intercedes for us. The Father who declared his delight in Christ declares his mercy over us.

Perhaps this week, as we continue our Lenten journey, we might ask ourselves gently:

Where am I being invited to trust rather than grasp?
Where is God asking me to live by his word rather than by my immediate hunger?
Where have I begun to believe that he is withholding good from me?

The ashes on Wednesday reminded us that we are dust. The wilderness reminds us that we are dependent. But the Gospel reminds us that we are not abandoned.

At the end of Matthew’s account, after the devil leaves, we are told that angels came and waited on Jesus.

After the testing, there is ministry. After the wilderness, there is strengthening.

And beyond this wilderness lies another garden — Gethsemane — where once again Jesus will choose trust over self-preservation: “Not my will, but yours be done.” And beyond that, an empty tomb, where the consequences of Eden are completely undone.

So we begin Lent here: not in shame, but in hope. Not in self-reliance, but in repentance. Not alone, but in Christ.

The One who refused the false fruit of the wilderness now feeds us with true bread — his own life, given for the world.

May we follow him in trust.
May we resist the whisper with the truth.
May we learn again that we live not by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.

Amen.

Sermon: Remember You Are Dust (18th Feb, Ash Wednesday, 2026, Year A)

February 18, 2026 / nevermindthebuzzsocks / Leave a comment

2 Corinthians 5.20b – 6.10 – We entreat you on behalf of Christ, be reconciled to God. For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God. As we work together with him, we urge you also not to accept the grace of God in vain. For he says, ‘At an acceptable time I have listened to you, and on a day of salvation I have helped you.’ See, now is the acceptable time; see, now is the day of salvation! We are putting no obstacle in anyone’s way, so that no fault may be found with our ministry, but as servants of God we have commended ourselves in every way: through great endurance, in afflictions, hardships, calamities, beatings, imprisonments, riots, labours, sleepless nights, hunger; by purity, knowledge, patience, kindness, holiness of spirit, genuine love, truthful speech, and the power of God; with the weapons of righteousness for the right hand and for the left; in honour and dishonour, in ill repute and good repute. We are treated as impostors, and yet are true; as unknown, and yet are well known; as dying, and see—we are alive; as punished, and yet not killed; as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, and yet possessing everything.

Matthew 6.1–6, 16–21 – ‘Beware of practising your piety before others in order to be seen by them; for then you have no reward from your Father in heaven. ‘So whenever you give alms, do not sound a trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, so that they may be praised by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But when you give alms, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your alms may be done in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you. ‘And whenever you pray, do not be like the hypocrites; for they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners, so that they may be seen by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But whenever you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you. ‘And whenever you fast, do not look dismal, like the hypocrites, for they disfigure their faces so as to show others that they are fasting. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But when you fast, put oil on your head and wash your face, so that your fasting may be seen not by others but by your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you. ‘Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust consume and where thieves break in and steal; but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust consumes and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

Sermon

Ash Wednesday always begins by telling the truth.

Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.

There’s no softening that. No euphemism. No pretending. We come to church today knowing that life is fragile, time is limited, and that we are not as self-sufficient as we like to believe. The ash on our foreheads doesn’t flatter us. It doesn’t show us at our best. It tells the truth about who we are.

And that, strangely enough, is where grace begins.

In our reading from Corinthians, Paul pleads: “Be reconciled to God… now is the acceptable time; now is the day of salvation.”
Not tomorrow. Not once we’ve sorted ourselves out. Not when we feel more impressive, more faithful, more put together. Now. As we are.

Paul describes the Christian life in a way that feels deeply Ash Wednesday-shaped: sorrowful yet always rejoicing, poor yet making many rich, having nothing yet possessing everything. It’s a life that holds contradictions together. Weakness and hope. Loss and gift. Dust and glory.

Ash Wednesday invites us to stand honestly in those tensions — not pretending we are better than we are, but also refusing to believe that our brokenness is the final word.

That honesty matters because, as Jesus reminds us in the gospel, it’s very easy to perform religion rather than live it. To polish the outside while leaving the inside untouched.

Jesus talks about giving, praying, and fasting — all good things, all holy practices — and warns how easily they can become ways of managing appearances. Ways of reassuring ourselves, or others, that we’re doing rather well spiritually, thank you very much.

But Ash Wednesday cuts through that. The ashes are not a badge of achievement. They’re not a spiritual gold star. In fact, they undo performance altogether. Everyone comes forward the same. Everyone receives the same sign. Ashes don’t distinguish between the confident and the unsure, the regular and the occasional, the saint and the struggler. They level us.

And that’s exactly the point.

Jesus says, “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth.” Not because treasure is bad, but because earthly treasure is fragile. It rusts. It breaks. It doesn’t last. Ash Wednesday is the day the Church gently but firmly says: don’t build your life on things that can’t hold you.

Instead, Jesus invites us inward — into prayer that happens in secret, into fasting that makes space, into generosity that doesn’t need to be seen. Not because God prefers secrecy, but because that’s where honesty lives. That’s where we stop pretending.

And Paul’s words help us see what happens when we do stop pretending. “We commend ourselves… through endurance, in afflictions, hardships, calamities.” Not by looking impressive, but by staying faithful in the middle of real life. By trusting that God is at work even when the picture looks messy.

Ash Wednesday is not about self-loathing. It’s about truth-telling. And truth-telling is what makes reconciliation possible.

When we come forward for ashes, we’re not saying, “Look how bad I am.” We’re saying, “I need mercy.” And that’s a prayer God never ignores.

Later in the service, we’ll come forward again — this time not to receive ashes, but bread and wine. And that matters. Because the Church never leaves us with dust alone. The same hands that mark us with ashes also place in our hands the gift of Christ’s own life.

We move, in one service, from remember you are dust to the body of Christ, given for you. From mortality to mercy. From repentance to nourishment.

Paul says, “As servants of God we commend ourselves… in the Holy Spirit, genuine love, truthful speech, and the power of God.” Not because we have earned it, but because God insists on meeting us exactly where we are — dust and all.

So as Lent begins, we’re not being asked to perform holiness, or to collect spiritual achievements. We’re being invited to make space. To clear out what distracts us. To let go of what we cling to for security. To allow God to reconcile us — not just to God, but to ourselves, to one another, and to the truth of our own lives.

Now is the acceptable time.
Now is the day of salvation.

Today, we come as we are. Marked, fed, forgiven, and sent — carrying both the ash on our foreheads and the grace in our hands.

Amen.

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

February 12, 2026 / nevermindthebuzzsocks / Leave a comment

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.

Reflection: From Within (11th Feb, 2026, Year A)

February 11, 2026 / nevermindthebuzzsocks / Leave a comment

Readings

1 Kings 10.1–10 – When the queen of Sheba heard of the fame of Solomon, (fame due to the name of the Lord), she came to test him with hard questions. She came to Jerusalem with a very great retinue, with camels bearing spices, and very much gold, and precious stones; and when she came to Solomon, she told him all that was on her mind. Solomon answered all her questions; there was nothing hidden from the king that he could not explain to her. When the queen of Sheba had observed all the wisdom of Solomon, the house that he had built, the food of his table, the seating of his officials, and the attendance of his servants, their clothing, his valets, and his burnt-offerings that he offered at the house of the Lord, there was no more spirit in her. So she said to the king, ‘The report was true that I heard in my own land of your accomplishments and of your wisdom, but I did not believe the reports until I came and my own eyes had seen it. Not even half had been told me; your wisdom and prosperity far surpass the report that I had heard. Happy are your wives! Happy are these your servants, who continually attend you and hear your wisdom! Blessed be the Lord your God, who has delighted in you and set you on the throne of Israel! Because the Lord loved Israel for ever, he has made you king to execute justice and righteousness.’ Then she gave the king one hundred and twenty talents of gold, a great quantity of spices, and precious stones; never again did spices come in such quantity as that which the queen of Sheba gave to King Solomon.

Mark 7.14–23 – Then he called the crowd again and said to them, ‘Listen to me, all of you, and understand: there is nothing outside a person that by going in can defile, but the things that come out are what defile.’ When he had left the crowd and entered the house, his disciples asked him about the parable. He said to them, ‘Then do you also fail to understand? Do you not see that whatever goes into a person from outside cannot defile, since it enters, not the heart but the stomach, and goes out into the sewer?’ (Thus he declared all foods clean.) And he said, ‘It is what comes out of a person that defiles. For it is from within, from the human heart, that evil intentions come: fornication, theft, murder, adultery, avarice, wickedness, deceit, licentiousness, envy, slander, pride, folly. All these evil things come from within, and they defile a person.’

Reflection

In our first reading today, the Queen of Sheba travels a great distance to see King Solomon. She has heard reports of his wisdom, his wealth, and the blessing of God upon his kingdom, and she comes with questions—hard questions, Scripture says—to test him. What she encounters leaves her almost breathless. Solomon’s wisdom, the ordering of his court, the generosity of his hospitality, and the depth of his understanding all bear witness to a gift that comes from God. She recognises that this is not simply human cleverness or success, but something rooted in faithfulness to the Lord.

At first glance, this might sound like a celebration of outward splendour: gold, spices, fine buildings, and impressive answers. Yet the heart of the story is not really about riches at all. It is about wisdom that listens, wisdom that responds, and wisdom that points beyond itself to God. The Queen of Sheba praises the Lord not because Solomon is impressive, but because she discerns that his wisdom is a sign of God’s love for his people and God’s desire for justice and right-ordered relationships.

When we turn to the Gospel reading from Mark, the focus shifts sharply inward. Jesus addresses the crowd and tells them that nothing entering a person from outside can defile them. Instead, it is what comes out from within—from the human heart—that can truly defile. He then lists attitudes and actions that flow from disordered hearts: envy, pride, deceit, malice, and greed. These, he says, are the things that corrupt human life.

Placed side by side, these readings invite us to ask probing questions: where does true wisdom begin? Is it something we display outwardly, or something that takes root deep within us?

The Queen of Sheba sees wisdom expressed outwardly—in Solomon’s words and actions—but she recognises that its source is deeper. In the Gospel, Jesus reminds us that the deepest truths of our lives are not found in appearances, rituals, or even reputation, but in the condition of our hearts. A person may look impressive, religious, or successful, yet still be inwardly disordered. Equally, someone may appear ordinary or unimpressive, yet be shaped by a heart turned towards God.

This is challenging for us, because we live in a culture—perhaps not unlike Solomon’s court—that often values what can be seen: achievement, status, eloquence, and success. Even within the life of the Church, it can be tempting to focus on outward signs of health or holiness. Jesus does not dismiss outward practices altogether, but he insists that they are not enough on their own. Without inner transformation, they cannot give life.

True wisdom, then, is not simply about knowing the right answers, as impressive as Solomon’s answers were. It is about allowing God to shape our desires, our motivations, and our loves. It is about letting God’s Spirit work in the hidden places of our lives, where attitudes are formed and decisions are made.

The Queen of Sheba came with questions, and she left with praise—praise not just for Solomon, but for the Lord. In the Gospel, Jesus invites us to bring our own hearts into the light of God’s truth, trusting that God desires not to condemn but to heal and renew.

As we reflect on these readings today, we might ask ourselves: what would a wise heart look like in our own lives, in our communities, and in our Church? Where might God be inviting us to move beyond outward appearances and attend more carefully to what is going on within?

In the end, wisdom is not something we possess for our own glory. Like Solomon’s wisdom, at its best it points beyond us—to the God who longs for hearts made whole, and for lives that reflect God’s justice, mercy, and love.

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

February 8, 2026 / nevermindthebuzzsocks / Leave a comment

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.