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Reflection: Light Rooted in Love, a homily on John 3:16

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Reading

John 3.16–21 – ‘For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life. ‘Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him. Those who believe in him are not condemned; but those who do not believe are condemned already, because they have not believed in the name of the only Son of God. And this is the judgement, that the light has come into the world, and people loved darkness rather than light because their deeds were evil. For all who do evil hate the light and do not come to the light, so that their deeds may not be exposed. But those who do what is true come to the light, so that it may be clearly seen that their deeds have been done in God.’

Reflection

If I were to switch off all the lights in this room, it wouldn’t take long before things became uncomfortable.

We’d still be here. The room wouldn’t have changed. But suddenly we’d be unsure of where we were stepping, unsure of what was around us. Darkness has that effect.

And it’s interesting that in this well-known passage from the Gospel of John, Jesus speaks not only about love (though of course this most famous of verses begins there) but also about light and darkness.

“God so loved the world that he gave his only Son.”

These words come from a conversation Jesus is having with Nicodemus, a Jewish Pharisee who comes to Jesus at night, in the dark, uncertain and searching. And for many people still today, these words are the very heart of the Christian faith.

Not that God tolerated the world. Not that God judged the world from a distance. But that God loved the world, this world, with all its beauty and all its brokenness, enough to come among us in Christ.

And that love has a purpose. Not condemnation. Not rejection. But salvation.

Jesus then goes on to say something really striking: that the coming of Christ into the world is like light shining into darkness.

Light changes things. The moment light appears, we begin to see clearly. What was hidden becomes visible. What was uncertain becomes known. And that can be both comforting and unsettling.

Jesus says that people sometimes prefer darkness to light because the light reveals things we might rather keep hidden. That’s a deeply human truth. All of us carry things we’d rather not expose: mistakes we regret, failures we wish we could undo, parts of ourselves we would rather keep in the shadows.

And yet the remarkable thing about this passage is that the light comes because of love. Christ does not shine light into our lives in order to shame us or condemn us. Christ shines light to heal and to guide. To show us the path that leads to life and salvation.

It’s a little like walking along a dark path at night. Without light we hesitate, unsure where to place our feet. But with even a small light, suddenly we can move forward with confidence.

And the invitation of this passage is in many ways simple. To step into the light. Not because we are perfect. Not because we have everything sorted out. But because we come to trust and believe in the one who is the light.

In parish life to-date I have often met people who assume faith is something you come to once you’ve sorted everything out; once life is tidy and the questions are answered. But this passage suggests the opposite. Faith is first about simply stepping into the light. It is allowing Christ to illuminate our lives, gently, patiently, and trusting that the God who loved the world enough to send his Son is the same God who meets us exactly where we are.

“For God so loved the world…”

Those words are so familiar that we sometimes forget how extraordinary they are. The Christian story begins not with our human effort, but with divine love. And it continues with that simple, yet profound invitation:

Come into the light.
Walk in the light.
Live in the light.

Because the light that Christ brings is not there to expose us to judgment and condemnation. It is there to save us and to lead us home.

Amen.

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

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Readings

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

John 20.19–end – When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you.’ After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. Jesus said to them again, ‘Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.’ When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, ‘Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.’ But Thomas (who was called the Twin), one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. So the other disciples told him, ‘We have seen the Lord.’ But he said to them, ‘Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.’ A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you.’ Then he said to Thomas, ‘Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.’ Thomas answered him, ‘My Lord and my God!’ Jesus said to him, ‘Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.’ Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not written in this book. But these are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.

Sermon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My Lord and my God.”

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

Sermon: Towel and Basin, Bread and Wine (Maundy Thursday, 2026)

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Readings

1 Corinthians 11.23–26 – For I received from the Lord what I also handed on to you, that the Lord Jesus on the night when he was betrayed took a loaf of bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, ‘This is my body that is for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’ In the same way he took the cup also, after supper, saying, ‘This cup is the new covenant in my blood. Do this, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me.’ For as often as you eat this bread and drink the cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.

John 13.1–17, 31b–35 – Before the festival of the Passover, Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart from this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end. The devil had already put it into the heart of Judas son of Simon Iscariot to betray him. And during supper Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands, and that he had come from God and was going to God, got up from the table, took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet and to wipe them with the towel that was tied around him. He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, ‘Lord, are you going to wash my feet?’ Jesus answered, ‘You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand.’ Peter said to him, ‘You will never wash my feet.’ Jesus answered, ‘Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.’ Simon Peter said to him, ‘Lord, not my feet only but also my hands and my head!’ Jesus said to him, ‘One who has bathed does not need to wash, except for the feet, but is entirely clean. And you are clean, though not all of you.’ For he knew who was to betray him; for this reason he said, ‘Not all of you are clean.’ After he had washed their feet, had put on his robe, and had returned to the table, he said to them, ‘Do you know what I have done to you? You call me Teacher and Lord—and you are right, for that is what I am. So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you. Very truly, I tell you, servants are not greater than their master, nor are messengers greater than the one who sent them. If you know these things, you are blessed if you do them. Now the Son of Man has been glorified, and God has been glorified in him. If God has been glorified in him, God will also glorify him in himself and will glorify him at once. Little children, I am with you only a little longer. You will look for me; and as I said to the Jews so now I say to you, “Where I am going, you cannot come.” I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.’

Sermon

Tonight, we gather in the quiet shadow of the Upper Room.

We come as those who know what lies ahead: the betrayal, the arrest, the cross. And yet, in the gospel we have heard, Jesus does not begin with suffering. He begins with love.

“Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end.”

That is the note that sets the tone for everything that follows this night. Not fear. Not anger. Not even sorrow. But love — a love that goes to the very limit; a love that does not turn away.

And what does that love look like?

Surprisingly for the Son of God, it looks like a towel and a basin.

It is a striking thing that, in John’s Gospel, where we might expect an account of the institution of the eucharist, we are instead given this: Jesus rising from the table, removing his outer robe, kneeling at the feet of his disciples, and washing them. The one whom they call Lord and Teacher takes the place of a servant. The one through whom all things were made bends down to wash the dust from their feet.

And perhaps most striking of all, he does this knowing exactly who sits before him. He knows Judas will betray him. He knows Peter will deny him. He knows the others will scatter and abandon him. And still, he kneels. Still, he washes. Still, he loves.

This is not love offered because it is deserved. It is love given because it is who he is.

Peter, understandably, recoils. “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?” And then, more strongly, “You will never wash my feet.” There is something in us that resists this kind of love. It unsettles us. It overturns our instincts about dignity and worthiness. We would rather serve than be served; rather offer than receive — especially when receiving places us in a position of vulnerability.

But Jesus insists: “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.” Before we can follow him, before we can serve in his name, we must first allow ourselves to be served by him. We must allow him to draw close to the parts of our lives that are dusty, tired, and worn. We must allow him to love us; not as we imagine we ought to be, but as we truly are.

Only then can we begin to understand what he asks of us. “For I have set you an example,” he says, “that you also should do as I have done to you.”

This is the heart of Maundy Thursday. The word “Maundy” comes from the Latin mandatum, meaning a commandment. And the commandment Jesus gives is this: “Love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.” Not in the abstract. Not in fine words alone. But in concrete, embodied acts of humility and care. To love as Jesus loves is to kneel where the world expects us to stand. It is to notice the overlooked, to tend to the weary, to serve without seeking recognition. It is to offer ourselves, not only when it is convenient or comfortable, but precisely when it is costly.

And that brings us to the words of First Epistle to the Corinthians that we have heard this evening. “For I received from the Lord what I also handed on to you…” Here, we are given the familiar words of the Last Supper: bread taken, blessed, broken; a cup shared, a covenant sealed: “Do this in remembrance of me.”

On this night, we hold together these two great gifts: the washing of feet, and the breaking of bread. Both speak of the same self-giving love.

In the washing of feet, Jesus shows us what love looks like in action — humble, practical, attentive.

In the bread and the cup, he gives us himself — his body broken, his blood poured out.

And we are not only to receive these gifts, but to be shaped by them.

Each time we come to the Eucharist, we are drawn again into this pattern of life: to receive the love of Christ, and to become, in turn, people who love as he loves.

We cannot separate the altar from the basin. We cannot receive the bread of heaven and refuse the call to serve one another on earth. For the same Lord who says, “This is my body, given for you,” also says, “I have set you an example.”

And so tonight, as we remember, we are also invited. Invited to come to Christ, not because we are worthy, but because we are loved. Invited to receive from him what we cannot give ourselves: grace, mercy, forgiveness, life. And invited to follow him; not in grand gestures alone, but in the quiet, faithful acts of love that shape a life.

In a world that so often prizes power, status, and self-assertion, Christ shows us another way. The way of the towel. The way of the cross. The way of love that endures to the end. And it is by this, he tells us, that all will know that we are his disciples: if we have love for one another.

So, as we move from this place into the stillness of this holy night, may we carry with us not only the memory of what Christ has done, but the call to become what we have received. Servants of his love. Bearers of his grace. And witnesses, in word and deed, to the One who loved us to the end.

Amen.

Reflection: Trust in Eternity (26th Mar, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

Genesis 17.3–9 – Then Abram fell on his face; and God said to him, ‘As for me, this is my covenant with you: You shall be the ancestor of a multitude of nations. No longer shall your name be Abram, but your name shall be Abraham; for I have made you the ancestor of a multitude of nations. I will make you exceedingly fruitful; and I will make nations of you, and kings shall come from you. I will establish my covenant between me and you, and your offspring after you throughout their generations, for an everlasting covenant, to be God to you and to your offspring after you. And I will give to you, and to your offspring after you, the land where you are now an alien, all the land of Canaan, for a perpetual holding; and I will be their God.’ God said to Abraham, ‘As for you, you shall keep my covenant, you and your offspring after you throughout their generations.

John 8.51–end – Very truly, I tell you, whoever keeps my word will never see death.’ The Jews said to him, ‘Now we know that you have a demon. Abraham died, and so did the prophets; yet you say, “Whoever keeps my word will never taste death.” Are you greater than our father Abraham, who died? The prophets also died. Who do you claim to be?’ Jesus answered, ‘If I glorify myself, my glory is nothing. It is my Father who glorifies me, he of whom you say, “He is our God”, though you do not know him. But I know him; if I were to say that I do not know him, I would be a liar like you. But I do know him and I keep his word. Your ancestor Abraham rejoiced that he would see my day; he saw it and was glad.’ Then the Jews said to him, ‘You are not yet fifty years old, and have you seen Abraham?’Jesus said to them, ‘Very truly, I tell you, before Abraham was, I am.’ So they picked up stones to throw at him, but Jesus hid himself and went out of the temple.

Reflection

There is a moment in both of our readings today where something eternal and perhaps beyond our comprehension breaks into the present day and our limited human understanding of time.

In our reading from Genesis, Abram falls on his face before God. And in that moment, everything changes. A new covenant is spoken. A new future is promised. Even a new name is given: Abraham, “father of many nations.” What God is doing is not just about Abram’s private faith; it is about a promise that stretches far beyond him, into generations he will never see or know.

And in John’s Gospel, we hear Jesus speak words that are just as staggering: “Very truly, I tell you, whoever keeps my word will never see death.” It is no wonder that those listening are confused, even offended. They hear these words in ordinary time, in an ordinary place; and yet Jesus is speaking about something far from ordinary.

At the heart of both readings is the question of identity and of trust.

Abraham is asked to trust in a promise that seems impossible. He is old, his circumstances are fixed, his future looks limited. And yet God speaks a different word over his life; a word of covenant, of faithfulness, of life beyond what he can see.

And in John’s Gospel, Jesus takes that same thread and draws it even further. He speaks not just of future generations, but of eternal life; life that begins now and cannot be taken away, even by death itself.

But the people around him struggle. They say, “Abraham died… the prophets also died… so who do you think you are?” It’s a very human question. Because what Jesus is saying doesn’t fit easily within the boundaries of what they know, or what they expect. And perhaps it doesn’t always fit easily for us, either. Because we live, most of the time, within what we can see and measure. We make sense of life through what feels immediate and tangible. And yet both of these readings invite us to lift our gaze; to see that God’s purposes are always larger, deeper, and more enduring than we might first imagine. When Jesus says, “before Abraham was, I am,” he is not simply making a statement about time. He is revealing something about who he is; the one in whom God’s promises are not just spoken, but fulfilled. The one in whom eternity meets us, here and now.

And so the question for us is not simply, “Do we understand this?” but “Do we trust this?”

Do we trust that God’s covenant faithfulness, first spoken to Abraham, still holds? Do we trust that in Christ, life is stronger than death? Do we trust that when we follow his word, we are drawn into something that will outlast everything else we know?

Because that is the invitation at the heart of these readings. Not just to admire Abraham’s faith, or to puzzle over Jesus’ words, but to step into that same relationship of trust. A trust that says: God is at work, even when I cannot see the outcome. A trust that says: my life is held within a promise that is bigger than my present circumstances. A trust that says: in Christ, I am drawn into life that does not end.

And perhaps that changes how we live now.

It gives us courage to be faithful in small things. It gives us hope in moments of uncertainty or fear. And it reminds us that our story is not bounded by what is immediate but held within the eternal purposes of God. Abraham could not see the fullness of the promise he was given. Those listening to Jesus could not yet grasp the fullness of who he was. And we, too, see only in part. But still, the invitation remains the same: To trust the God who makes covenant. To listen to the voice of Christ. And to live, even now, in the light of eternal life.

Amen.

Reflection: A Call to Clarity (12th Mar, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

Jeremiah 7.23–28 – But this command I gave them, ‘Obey my voice, and I will be your God, and you shall be my people; and walk only in the way that I command you, so that it may be well with you.’ Yet they did not obey or incline their ear, but, in the stubbornness of their evil will, they walked in their own counsels, and looked backwards rather than forwards. From the day that your ancestors came out of the land of Egypt until this day, I have persistently sent all my servants the prophets to them, day after day; yet they did not listen to me, or pay attention, but they stiffened their necks. They did worse than their ancestors did. So you shall speak all these words to them, but they will not listen to you. You shall call to them, but they will not answer you. You shall say to them: This is the nation that did not obey the voice of the Lord their God, and did not accept discipline; truth has perished; it is cut off from their lips.

Luke 11.14–23 – Now he was casting out a demon that was mute; when the demon had gone out, the one who had been mute spoke, and the crowds were amazed. But some of them said, ‘He casts out demons by Beelzebul, the ruler of the demons.’ Others, to test him, kept demanding from him a sign from heaven. But he knew what they were thinking and said to them, ‘Every kingdom divided against itself becomes a desert, and house falls on house. If Satan also is divided against himself, how will his kingdom stand? —for you say that I cast out the demons by Beelzebul. Now if I cast out the demons by Beelzebul, by whom do your exorcists cast them out? Therefore they will be your judges. But if it is by the finger of God that I cast out the demons, then the kingdom of God has come to you. When a strong man, fully armed, guards his castle, his property is safe. But when one stronger than he attacks him and overpowers him, he takes away his armour in which he trusted and divides his plunder. Whoever is not with me is against me, and whoever does not gather with me scatters.

Reflection

There is something very direct, uncomfortable even, about today’s readings. In both Jeremiah and Luke, we hear a call to clarity: clarity about listening to God, clarity about where we stand; clarity about the direction of our hearts.

In Jeremiah, God speaks with a mixture of longing and sorrow. The command is simple: “Listen to my voice, and I will be your God, and you shall be my people.” It is not complicated. Not a matter of elaborate ritual or clever theology. Simply this: listen, walk in the way God shows you, and life will flourish.

And yet, the prophet tells us, the people did not listen. Instead, they “walked in their own counsels,” following what Jeremiah calls “the stubbornness of their evil will.” It is a striking phrase. Because it reminds us that faithfulness is often not undone by ignorance but by resistance; by that quiet, persistent preference for our own way over God’s.

Jeremiah’s lament is not only about ancient Israel. It is about every age and, if we are honest, about us too. We know what it is to hear God’s voice in Scripture, in conscience, in prayer, and still find ourselves turning aside. Sometimes gently, sometimes deliberately, but often repeatedly.

Then we turn to the Gospel, and the tone sharpens further. Jesus has just freed a man from a mute spirit; a clear act of healing and restoration. Yet instead of rejoicing, some accuse him of working by the power of evil. Others demand more signs, as though what they have just witnessed were not enough.

Jesus responds with a simple and searching truth: a divided kingdom cannot stand. If his work is bringing freedom, restoration, and life, then it bears the mark of God’s kingdom. And if God’s kingdom is breaking in, then neutrality is no longer possible. As he puts it starkly: “Whoever is not with me is against me, and whoever does not gather with me scatters.”

It is a hard saying. We often prefer softer edges with space for ambiguity, for keeping our options open. But Jesus speaks into that hesitation. His words suggest that faith is not merely a private sympathy or quiet admiration. It is allegiance. It is direction. It is a way of living that gathers rather than scatters.

When we place these readings side by side, a pattern emerges. Jeremiah shows us the danger of refusing to listen; Luke shows us the danger of refusing to decide. Both point us toward the same question: where, and to whom, are we really listening?

Because the truth is, we are always listening to something. The voice of habit. The voice of fear. The voice of convenience. The voice of the crowd. The question is whether, beneath all that noise, we are making space to listen for God.

The good news in both readings is that God has not stopped speaking. The same God who spoke through Jeremiah continues to call his people back into relationship. The same Jesus who freed the man from silence continues to bring freedom and clarity into our lives.

So perhaps our prayer today is a that God would give us ears to hear, courage to choose, and grace to follow. That we might not walk in stubbornness, but in trust. Not scattered, but gathered into the life of Christ. And in that listening and following, discover again the life and peace God longs to give.

Amen.