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Reflection: Courage in Prayer (26th Feb, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

Esther 14.1–5, 12–14 – Then Queen Esther, seized with deadly anxiety, fled to the Lord. She took off her splendid apparel and put on the garments of distress and mourning, and instead of costly perfumes she covered her head with ashes and dung, and she utterly humbled her body; every part that she loved to adorn she covered with her tangled hair. She prayed to the Lord God of Israel, and said: ‘O my Lord, you only are our king; help me, who am alone and have no helper but you, for my danger is in my hand. Ever since I was born I have heard in the tribe of my family that you, O Lord, took Israel out of all the nations, and our ancestors from among all their forebears, for an everlasting inheritance, and that you did for them all that you promised. Remember, O Lord; make yourself known in this time of our affliction, and give me courage, O King of the gods and Master of all dominion! Put eloquent speech in my mouth before the lion, and turn his heart to hate the man who is fighting against us, so that there may be an end of him and those who agree with him. But save us by your hand, and help me, who am alone and have no helper but you, O Lord.

Matthew 7.7–12 – ‘Ask, and it will be given to you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you. For everyone who asks receives, and everyone who searches finds, and for everyone who knocks, the door will be opened. Is there anyone among you who, if your child asks for bread, will give a stone? Or if the child asks for a fish, will give a snake? If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good things to those who ask him! ‘In everything do to others as you would have them do to you; for this is the law and the prophets.

Reflection

In our first reading today, we meet Queen Esther at a moment of absolute crisis. The future of her people hangs in the balance. A decree of destruction has been issued. Fear fills the air. And Esther – a young Jewish woman who has become queen in a foreign court – finds herself standing at a turning point in history.

As a result, we hear Esther pray. She does not begin with confidence in herself. She does not rehearse her influence or position. She simply turns to God.

“My Lord, our King, you alone are God.”

Her prayer is raw and honest. She speaks of fear. She speaks of isolation. She acknowledges her powerlessness. And yet she manages to ask for help. She asks for courage. She asks for the right words. She asks that her weakness might become the very place where God’s strength is revealed.

Esther’s prayer is not polite or distant. It is urgent. It is risky. It is the prayer of someone who knows that unless God acts, there is no hope.

Turning, then, to our Gospel reading, Jesus says something that almost sounds dangerously simple:

“Ask, and it will be given you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you.”

Ask. Search. Knock.

These are not passive words. They suggest persistence. They suggest trust. They suggest relationship.

Esther embodies exactly this kind of prayer. She asks. She seeks. She knocks. Not because she is certain of the outcome, but because she trusts the character of the One to whom she prays.

Jesus goes on to say that if earthly parents, imperfect as they are, know how to give good gifts to their children, how much more will our Father in heaven give good things to those who ask him.

Notice what Jesus does not promise. He does not promise ease. He does not promise immediate solutions. Esther’s story reminds us of that. Even after she prays, she must still act. She must still risk approaching the king uninvited. She must still step into danger.

Prayer does not remove her responsibility; it strengthens her for it.

And that is often how God answers our asking.

Sometimes we long for circumstances to change instantly. We knock on the door hoping it will swing open onto a clear and comfortable path. But often what we are given is courage. Clarity. The next step. The grace to speak when we are afraid.

Esther’s prayer begins in fear but moves towards trust. She places her life in God’s hands. And in doing so, she becomes part of God’s saving work.

Jesus concludes this passage with what we often call the Golden Rule: “In everything do to others as you would have them do to you.” Prayer and action are bound together. We ask for mercy; we are called to show mercy. We seek justice; we are called to practise justice. We knock on the door of God’s generosity; we are invited to become generous ourselves.

Perhaps today we each carry something that feels overwhelming — something in our family, our community, our world. Esther reminds us that fear does not disqualify us from prayer. In fact, it may be the very place where prayer begins.

And Jesus assures us that when we ask, we are not speaking into emptiness. We are speaking to a Father who hears. When we seek, we are not wandering aimlessly. We are searching in the presence of One who desires to be found. When we knock, we do so at a door that is not locked against us.

The invitation, then, is simple and yet profound: pray boldly. Act faithfully. Trust deeply.

For the God who strengthened Esther is the same God who hears us still.

Amen.

Reflection: Turn Towards God (25th Feb, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

Jonah 3 – The word of the Lord came to Jonah a second time, saying, ‘Get up, go to Nineveh, that great city, and proclaim to it the message that I tell you.’ So Jonah set out and went to Nineveh, according to the word of the Lord. Now Nineveh was an exceedingly large city, a three days’ walk across. Jonah began to go into the city, going a day’s walk. And he cried out, ‘Forty days more, and Nineveh shall be overthrown!’ And the people of Nineveh believed God; they proclaimed a fast, and everyone, great and small, put on sackcloth. When the news reached the king of Nineveh, he rose from his throne, removed his robe, covered himself with sackcloth, and sat in ashes. Then he had a proclamation made in Nineveh: ‘By the decree of the king and his nobles: No human being or animal, no herd or flock, shall taste anything. They shall not feed, nor shall they drink water. Human beings and animals shall be covered with sackcloth, and they shall cry mightily to God. All shall turn from their evil ways and from the violence that is in their hands. Who knows? God may relent and change his mind; he may turn from his fierce anger, so that we do not perish.’ When God saw what they did, how they turned from their evil ways, God changed his mind about the calamity that he had said he would bring upon them; and he did not do it.

Luke 11.29–32 – When the crowds were increasing, Jesus began to say, ‘This generation is an evil generation; it asks for a sign, but no sign will be given to it except the sign of Jonah. For just as Jonah became a sign to the people of Nineveh, so the Son of Man will be to this generation. The queen of the South will rise at the judgement with the people of this generation and condemn them, because she came from the ends of the earth to listen to the wisdom of Solomon, and see, something greater than Solomon is here! The people of Nineveh will rise up at the judgement with this generation and condemn it, because they repented at the proclamation of Jonah, and see, something greater than Jonah is here!’

Reflection

In our readings today we are given a reluctant prophet and a restless crowd, and both narratives are run through with themes that we find throughout this season of Lent: the emptying of ourselves; turning away from the things that separate us from God in repentance; turning towards God’s loving grace and mercy.

In Jonah chapter 3, we are told that the word of the Lord comes to Jonah a second time. That little phrase is full of grace in itself. Jonah has already run away. He has resisted, sulked, and very nearly drowned. And yet God speaks again. The call is not withdrawn. The mission is not cancelled. “Get up, go to Nineveh…”

Nineveh is vast, powerful, violent — the capital of an empire known for cruelty. And Jonah’s message is hardly elaborate: “Forty days more, and Nineveh shall be overthrown!” No miracles. No eloquence. No reassuring promises. Just a warning.

And astonishingly, the people of Nineveh believe God.

From the greatest to the least, they fast, they put on sackcloth, they turn from violence. Even the king rises from his throne, removes his robe, and sits in ashes. It is a picture of corporate repentance — a whole city humbled, a whole community turning around.

And God, we are told, sees what they do. God sees that they turn from their evil ways. And God changes his mind about the calamity. Mercy triumphs over destruction.

Then, in Luke’s Gospel, we meet another crowd — but this time the mood is different. They gather around Jesus, looking for a sign. Something spectacular. Something undeniable. Something to prove who Jesus really is.

Jesus calls them “an evil generation” — not because they are uniquely wicked, but because they refuse to see what is already before them. They want signs, but they will not recognise the sign they have been given.

“The only sign that will be given,” Jesus says, “is the sign of Jonah.”

What is that sign?

It is not simply the three days that Jonah spent in the belly of the fish, though the Church has long heard in that an echo of Good Friday and Easter. It is also the message that calls people to turn around; to turn away from evil and wickedness and return to God. It is the mercy of God that meets those who do.

The people of Nineveh responded to a reluctant prophet who had a short warning. Jesus stands before his hearers as one greater than Jonah, and yet the response he receives is hesitation, suspicion, demand.

The uncomfortable question for us is this: are we more like Nineveh, or more like the crowd?

Lent is not a season for demanding signs. It is a season for noticing the signs already given. The cross. The empty tomb. The quiet persistence of God’s word. The second chances that come to us again and again.

Jonah shows us that God’s purposes are not thwarted by human reluctance. Nineveh shows us that no situation is beyond repentance and restoration. And Jesus shows us that God’s mercy stands in our midst, whether we recognise it or not.

Because of course Christ himself is the sign. In him, God does not merely warn of judgement but bears it for us. In him, God does not stand at a distance but enters the city, enters the wilderness, enters death itself. The sign of Jonah becomes the sign of resurrection — mercy written into the very fabric of the world.

So perhaps the invitation today is simple.

We do not need to ask for more proof. We are invited to respond to the signs that we already have. To turn away, however slightly, from what diminishes life and towards God, in trust that God’s desire is always mercy and new life.

Because as we’ve heard, the word of the Lord still comes — sometimes quietly, sometimes persistently — and often more than once.

And when it does, the greatest miracle is not a sign in the sky.

It is a heart that turns towards God.

Amen.

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

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

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

Readings

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

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

Sermon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wonder — does that sound familiar?

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

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

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

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

And the disciples fall to the ground, afraid.

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

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

And then comes the most important part of the story.

They go down the mountain.

Because the mountain is not where the story ends.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lent is a bit like that journey down.

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

And here’s the really good news.

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

Which means it goes with us too.

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

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

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

“Get up. Do not be afraid.”

Amen.

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

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Readings

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

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

Reflection

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amen.