faith

Reflection: Public and Private Faith (17th Jun, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

2 Kings 2.1, 6–14: Now when the Lord was about to take Elijah up to heaven by a whirlwind, Elijah and Elisha were on their way from Gilgal. Then Elijah said to him, ‘Stay here; for the Lord has sent me to the Jordan.’ But he said, ‘As the Lord lives, and as you yourself live, I will not leave you.’ So the two of them went on. Fifty men of the company of prophets also went, and stood at some distance from them, as they both were standing by the Jordan. Then Elijah took his mantle and rolled it up, and struck the water; the water was parted to the one side and to the other, until the two of them crossed on dry ground. When they had crossed, Elijah said to Elisha, ‘Tell me what I may do for you, before I am taken from you.’ Elisha said, ‘Please let me inherit a double share of your spirit.’ He responded, ‘You have asked a hard thing; yet, if you see me as I am being taken from you, it will be granted you; if not, it will not.’ As they continued walking and talking, a chariot of fire and horses of fire separated the two of them, and Elijah ascended in a whirlwind into heaven. Elisha kept watching and crying out, ‘Father, father! The chariots of Israel and its horsemen!’ But when he could no longer see him, he grasped his own clothes and tore them in two pieces. He picked up the mantle of Elijah that had fallen from him, and went back and stood on the bank of the Jordan. He took the mantle of Elijah that had fallen from him, and struck the water, saying, ‘Where is the Lord, the God of Elijah?’ When he had struck the water, the water was parted to the one side and to the other, and Elisha went over.

Matthew 6.1–6, 16–18: ‘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.

Reflection

The story from 2 Kings is one of the most memorable in the Old Testament. Elijah, the great prophet, is coming to the end of his earthly ministry. Elisha refuses to leave his side. He follows him faithfully from place to place, and when Elijah is finally taken from him in a whirlwind, Elisha picks up the prophet’s fallen cloak and continues the work that God has given him to do.

It is a dramatic scene. There are prophets watching. The Jordan is divided. The mantle changes hands. It would be difficult to imagine anything more visible or spectacular.

Then we turn to the words of Jesus in Matthew’s Gospel, and at first they seem to pull us in a very different direction. Jesus says: when you give alms, do not sound a trumpet before you. When you pray, do not stand on street corners to be seen by others. When you fast, do not make a show of your suffering. Instead, go into your room and pray in secret. Wash your face. Let your devotion be known to your Father in heaven rather than displayed for human applause.

Jesus is not saying that faith should always be private. After all, he himself taught publicly, healed publicly, and called people to follow him openly. Rather, he is asking a deeper question: for whose benefit are we doing these things? Are we seeking God’s glory, or our own? Are we trying to draw closer to God, or simply hoping to be noticed by other people?

Elijah and Elisha offer an answer to that question. Although Elijah’s departure is spectacular, neither he nor Elisha seeks attention for its own sake. Elisha’s request is not for status or recognition but for “a double share” of Elijah’s spirit – not double honour, but the spiritual resources needed to serve faithfully. When he picks up Elijah’s cloak and strikes the waters of the Jordan, it is not a performance. It is an act of trust, a continuation of God’s work.

Perhaps that is the challenge and encouragement for us today. The Christian life is not about cultivating an image of holiness. It is not about appearing prayerful, generous or devout. Instead, it is about quiet faithfulness: the prayers whispered when no one else hears; the acts of kindness that nobody notices; the sacrifices made without recognition; the steady obedience that picks up the cloak of discipleship day after day.

Most of the time, the kingdom of God advances not through whirlwinds and spectacles, but through ordinary people who love God sincerely and seek to serve him faithfully.

And yet, whether our calling places us in moments of public visibility or hidden service, the same question remains: who are we doing it for?

May we seek not the praise of others, but the reward of knowing God more deeply. And may we, like Elisha, take up the calling entrusted to us with humility, courage and trust, knowing that the God who was with Elijah remains with his people still.

Amen.

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

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Reading

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

Sermon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And she is.

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

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

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

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

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

Yet these stories point us towards a deeper truth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amen.

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

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Readings

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

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

Sermon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that movement begins here, at Pentecost.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that is what we celebrate at this table.

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

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

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

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

Sermon: Endings and Beginnings (17th May, 2026, Year A)

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Acts 1.6–14 – So when they had come together, they asked him, ‘Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel?’ He replied, ‘It is not for you to know the times or periods that the Father has set by his own authority. But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.’ When he had said this, as they were watching, he was lifted up, and a cloud took him out of their sight. While he was going and they were gazing up towards heaven, suddenly two men in white robes stood by them. They said, ‘Men of Galilee, why do you stand looking up towards heaven? This Jesus, who has been taken up from you into heaven, will come in the same way as you saw him go into heaven.’ Then they returned to Jerusalem from the mount called Olivet, which is near Jerusalem, a sabbath day’s journey away. When they had entered the city, they went to the room upstairs where they were staying, Peter, and John, and James, and Andrew, Philip and Thomas, Bartholomew and Matthew, James son of Alphaeus, and Simon the Zealot, and Judas son of James. All these were constantly devoting themselves to prayer, together with certain women, including Mary the mother of Jesus, as well as his brothers.

John 17.1–11 – After Jesus had spoken these words, he looked up to heaven and said, ‘Father, the hour has come; glorify your Son so that the Son may glorify you, since you have given him authority over all people, to give eternal life to all whom you have given him. And this is eternal life, that they may know you, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom you have sent. I glorified you on earth by finishing the work that you gave me to do. So now, Father, glorify me in your own presence with the glory that I had in your presence before the world existed. ‘I have made your name known to those whom you gave me from the world. They were yours, and you gave them to me, and they have kept your word. Now they know that everything you have given me is from you; for the words that you gave to me I have given to them, and they have received them and know in truth that I came from you; and they have believed that you sent me. I am asking on their behalf; I am not asking on behalf of the world, but on behalf of those whom you gave me, because they are yours. All mine are yours, and yours are mine; and I have been glorified in them. And now I am no longer in the world, but they are in the world, and I am coming to you. Holy Father, protect them in your name that you have given me, so that they may be one, as we are one.

Sermon

In the days between Ascension and Pentecost, we find ourselves in an unusual place. The risen Christ has now ascended to the Father. Pentecost, when the Holy Spirit descends to us, has not yet arrived. The disciples are waiting. Praying. Wondering what comes next.

Perhaps you know what waiting and not knowing what comes next feels like. Indeed, I think many of us know what it feels like to live in between things. Between endings and beginnings. Between uncertainty and clarity. Between prayer and fulfilment. Between what God has done and what God might be about to do.

The disciples in our reading from Acts are standing in precisely that place. Jesus has ascended from their sight. The angels tell them not to stand looking into heaven forever, and so they return to Jerusalem. And what do they do there? They pray. Not strategically. Not triumphantly. Not with some perfect understanding of what’s gone on. They simply gather together faithfully and devote themselves to prayer.

It is our gospel reading from John that helps us understand how they are able to do that. Because in John 17 we overhear something extraordinary: Jesus praying for his disciples.

This chapter of John’s gospel is sometimes called the High Priestly Prayer. It comes just before Jesus goes out into the garden at Gethsemane, before his arrest and crucifixion. In other words, these are among the last words Jesus speaks before the cross. And remarkably, he spends those moments praying not for himself alone, but for those whom the Father has given him.

“I am asking on their behalf.” There is something deeply moving about Jesus’ words. The disciples are confused. Before long they will fail Jesus, scatter, deny him, abandon him. They do not fully understand who he is or what lies ahead. And yet Jesus prays for them lovingly and faithfully. Not once do we hear irritation in his voice. Not once does he speak as though the disciples are a disappointment. Instead, he entrusts them to the Father’s care.

“Holy Father, protect them in your name that you have given me, so that they may be one, as we are one.” That prayer really matters because the disciples are about to face a world that will test them. The protection Jesus speaks about is not protection from difficulty or suffering. After all, many of those disciples will go on to endure persecution and martyrdom. Rather, Jesus prays that they will be kept faithful. Kept united. Kept within the life of God.

And perhaps that is important for us to hear too. We sometimes imagine that faithfulness becomes easier once we have enough certainty, enough confidence, enough answers. But the disciples do not have those things yet. At this point, they are still waiting. Still uncertain. Still praying together in an upstairs room. And yet Jesus already calls them his own.

That is one of the great comforts of this passage: the security of Christ’s Church does not ultimately rest upon the strength of the disciples; it does nor rest upon our strength; it rests upon the faithfulness of Christ. The Church exists because Christ holds it, prays for it, and entrusts it to the Father.

That matters in every age, but perhaps especially now. We live in a time when the Church often feels fragile. We worry about numbers of the faithful and of our resources. We sometimes feel uncertain about the future. Society itself is increasingly fragmented and anxious. And into that reality comes the prayer of Jesus: “Holy Father, protect them… so that they may be one.”

Notice that unity sits at the heart of Christ’s prayer. Not uniformity. Not everyone becoming identical. The disciples themselves were certainly not identical people. But they were called into a shared life rooted in God.

Christian unity is not about always agreeing with one another or avoiding conflict. It is about sharing together in the life and love of God himself. The unity of the Church is meant to reflect something of the unity between the Father and the Son.

And that means unity is not a superficial thing. Crucially, it means that unity is God’s gift to us before it becomes our holy work. Every act of patience. Every moment of forgiveness. Every refusal to caricature or dismiss another person. Every decision to remain together when it would be easier not to; all of these become part of the answer to Christ’s prayer. Because unity is not something we manufacture by ourselves. It is something we are continually drawn back into by God’s grace.

And perhaps that is why the disciples, after the Ascension, devote themselves to prayer. Prayer keeps them together. Prayer teaches them dependence upon one another. Prayer creates space for the coming of the Spirit. Before the Church can become active, it first must become prayerful.

That is striking because we often prefer activity to waiting. We want plans, movement, visible progress. Yet these days between Ascension and Pentecost remind us that the Church is not sustained simply by energy or efficiency. The Church lives by remaining close to Christ. And that closeness is sustained through prayer.

Not polished prayer. Not impressive prayer. Just faithful prayer. The kind of prayer that says: “Lord, we do not fully know what comes next. But we are still here. Still listening. Still waiting upon you.”

And perhaps that is where these readings meet us today.

Some of us may be carrying uncertainty. Some may feel caught between stages of life. Some may be waiting for guidance, strength, healing, or hope. The good news of this Sunday is that Christ prays for his people even in the waiting.

Before the disciples preach, before Pentecost comes, before the Church bursts into life, Jesus already holds them in love. And he holds us too. The ascended Christ has not abandoned his Church. He intercedes for it still.

And so, like those first disciples, we continue together: praying, waiting, trusting, and learning again that our life rests safely in the hands of God.

Amen.

A reflection following elections in the UK on the 7th May

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Following last week’s local elections in England, along with elections in the Welsh Senedd and the Scottish Parliament, there is a particular sadness in recognising how divided we have become.

The results of last week’s elections across the United Kingdom revealed not simply changing political loyalties, but a deeper mood within the nation: frustration, weariness, anger, distrust and, in many places, a profound sense that people no longer feel heard. The elections saw significant losses for both Labour and Conservative candidates, alongside major gains for smaller parties including Reform UK and the Greens. Commentators have spoken of the increasing fragmentation of British politics and the collapse of old certainties.

Of course, Christians will hold differing political convictions. Faithful discipleship does not require uniformity of political opinion, nor should the Church ever become the mouthpiece of a single party or ideology. Yet moments like these do force us to ask difficult questions about the kind of society we are becoming.

Public life increasingly feels shaped by suspicion and hostility. Debate hardens into contempt. Opponents become enemies. Social media rewards outrage over understanding. Fear becomes easier to stir than hope. Many people now carry a lingering sense of unease about the future of the country, the stability of communities and the possibility of genuine common life together.

Into such a climate, the words of Jesus in John 17 that the Church of England will reflect upon this coming Sunday (17th of May) speak with remarkable clarity and urgency.

On the night before his crucifixion, Jesus prays for his disciples. And at the heart of that prayer is a plea for unity:

“That they may all be one.”

This is not a call for bland agreement or the erasure of difference. Christian unity has never meant uniformity. The disciples themselves were strikingly different people: impulsive and cautious, political and apolitical, faithful and fearful. Yet Christ calls them together into something deeper than preference or ideology. He calls them into communion rooted in him.

That matters enormously.

Because the unity Jesus prays for is not simply about the internal life of the Church. It is part of the Church’s witness to the world. Jesus continues:

“So that the world may believe.”

In other words, the credibility of Christian witness is tied, in part, to whether we are capable of loving one another across our differences.

That is challenging enough within the Church itself. But it also speaks into the wider culture in which we live. Christians are called to resist the temptation to mirror the divisions around us. We are not called to deepen hostility, baptise tribalism or retreat into ideological camps where we only speak to those who already agree with us.

Instead, Christians are called to be people of reconciliation.

That does not mean avoiding difficult conversations or pretending disagreements do not matter. It does not mean abandoning conviction. But it does mean recognising the humanity of those with whom we differ. It means listening carefully. Speaking truthfully and graciously. Refusing to delight in outrage. Refusing to reduce people to caricatures.

And perhaps most importantly, it means remembering that our deepest identity is not ultimately found in political tribes, national anxieties or cultural battles, but in Christ himself.

That is particularly important in moments of social uncertainty. When people feel anxious or unheard, division can become very seductive. It offers simple explanations, easy scapegoats and the comforting illusion that all problems are caused by “them.” History repeatedly shows how dangerous that can become.

The Church must offer something better.

Not naïve optimism. Not political withdrawal. But a different way of being human together.

The unity Jesus prays for is costly. It is shaped by forgiveness, humility, patience and sacrifice. It is the kind of unity only possible through grace. And it stands in sharp contrast to a culture increasingly tempted towards anger and fragmentation.

In the coming weeks, there will no doubt be endless analysis of electoral swings, party strategy and leadership crises. Much of that matters. Politics matters because people matter. Decisions made in councils and parliaments shape real lives and real communities.

But beneath the headlines lies a deeper spiritual question: what kind of people are we becoming?

As Christians, we are called to answer that question not simply with words, but with lives shaped by Christ’s prayer “that they may all be one.”

In an anxious and divided age, that calling may be more important than ever.