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Crossing Boundaries: a reflection following two recent encounters

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I have recently had two encounters that have stayed with me, at least in part because of how starkly they stood alongside one another.

The first was gentle and humbling. Someone of another faith asked if I would pray for them as they grieved the death of someone they knew and loved. There was nothing performative in the moment, no sense of comparison or argument; simply grief, and a quiet trust that prayer might be a place where sorrow could be held. I found myself deeply moved that they crossed what we often assume to be a firm boundary — that of religious identity — and did so with such simplicity and openness.

Their request called to mind the words of St Paul: “Bear one another’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfil the law of Christ” (Galatians 6.2). In that moment, the burden they carried became, in a small way, mine too, and it felt entirely natural that it should be that way. Grief has a way of dissolving the lines we draw around ourselves; prayer, at its best, does the same.

The second encounter, not long afterwards, was of a very different character. Someone of the Christian faith asked if they might have a moment of my time. What followed was filled with unsubstantiated and unfounded claims, and shaped by a deep suspicion of people of another faith. I found myself listening with a growing sense of sorrow and dismay, not only at what was said, but at how easily fear had hardened into caricature, and how readily fellow human beings had been turned into abstractions.

In the sharp light of that contrast, I found myself recalling Jesus’ words in the Sermon on the Mount: “Why do you see the speck in your neighbour’s eye, but do not notice the log in your own?” (Matthew 7.3). The words are uncomfortable, but they are meant to be. They invite us to examine not only what we believe, but how we hold those beliefs in relation to others.

If the first encounter spoke of trust across difference, the second revealed how fragile such trust can be when fear and prejudice take root. And yet the gospel calls us elsewhere. Again and again, Jesus steps across boundaries — ethnic, religious, moral — and calls his followers to do the same. The parable of the Good Samaritan remains perhaps the most searching reminder that neighbourliness is not defined by religious identity but by shared humanity (Luke 10.25–37).

I have found myself wondering whether these encounters, taken together, form a kind of parable for our time. One person, shaped by a different tradition, instinctively reached outward in trust. Another, formed within the Christian story, spoke in ways that narrowed rather than enlarged the circle of concern. The contrast was deeply uncomfortable and starkly visible.

As Christians, we profess allegiance to the One who “has broken down the dividing wall, that is, the hostility between us” (Ephesians 2.14). To follow him must surely mean resisting the easy temptations of suspicion and ‘othering,’ and allowing our hearts to be reshaped by compassion, humility and truth.

These encounters have reminded me that the boundaries we imagine to be fixed are often far more porous than we think, and that grace so often meets us precisely at their crossing.

Reflection: The Letter or the Spirit? (11th Mar, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

Deuteronomy 4.1, 5–9 – So now, Israel, give heed to the statutes and ordinances that I am teaching you to observe, so that you may live to enter and occupy the land that the Lord, the God of your ancestors, is giving you. See, just as the Lord my God has charged me, I now teach you statutes and ordinances for you to observe in the land that you are about to enter and occupy. You must observe them diligently, for this will show your wisdom and discernment to the peoples, who, when they hear all these statutes, will say, ‘Surely this great nation is a wise and discerning people!’ For what other great nation has a god so near to it as the Lord our God is whenever we call to him? And what other great nation has statutes and ordinances as just as this entire law that I am setting before you today? But take care and watch yourselves closely, so as neither to forget the things that your eyes have seen nor to let them slip from your mind all the days of your life; make them known to your children and your children’s children.

Matthew 5.17–19 – ‘Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets; I have come not to abolish but to fulfil. For truly I tell you, until heaven and earth pass away, not one letter, not one stroke of a letter, will pass from the law until all is accomplished. Therefore, whoever breaks one of the least of these commandments, and teaches others to do the same, will be called least in the kingdom of heaven; but whoever does them and teaches them will be called great in the kingdom of heaven.

Reflection

In our readings this morning, we hear two voices speaking across the centuries: Moses, standing with Israel on the edge of the promised land, and Jesus, seated on the hillside in Galilee. Both speak about the law of God — not as a burden, but as a gift; not as a constraint, but as a way of life.

In Deuteronomy, Moses urges the people: “You must neither add anything to what I command you nor take away anything from it, but keep the commandments of the Lord your God.” His concern is not legalism for its own sake. Rather, he sees the law as something entrusted to Israel for their flourishing. The law shapes a people who live wisely and justly. It forms a community whose life together becomes a witness to the nations: “Surely this great nation is a wise and discerning people.”

But Moses also knows how easily memory fades. So he urges them: “Take care and watch yourselves closely, so as neither to forget the things that your eyes have seen nor to let them slip from your mind.” The commandments are not only to be obeyed; they are to be remembered, told, and lived; passed on from generation to generation as a living tradition of faithfulness.

When we turn to the Gospel, we hear Jesus addressing a similar concern. Some have begun to wonder whether his teaching sets aside the law. But Jesus is clear: “Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets; I have come not to abolish but to fulfil.”

To fulfil the law is not simply to reinforce it, nor merely to interpret it more strictly. Rather, in Jesus the law reaches its true depth and purpose. For him, the law is not just about outward observance but about the transformation of the heart. Later in this same sermon, he will show what that fulfilment looks like: anger reconciled into peace, lust transformed into faithfulness, retaliation answered with mercy, enemies met with love.

In this way, Jesus draws us beyond the question of how little we can do and still remain faithful. Instead, he invites us to ask how deeply the life of God might take root within us.

There is, I think, a gentle challenge here for us. In the Church, we sometimes fall into one of two temptations. Either we treat God’s commandments as restrictive — something to be loosened or explained away — or we treat them as ends in themselves, measuring faithfulness by outward conformity alone. But both Moses and Jesus call us somewhere deeper.

The law, rightly understood, is relational. It is about belonging to God and living in ways that reflect God’s character. The commandments teach us what love looks like in practice; love of God, love of neighbour, love expressed in justice, mercy, and faithfulness.

And perhaps this speaks especially to us in Lent, a season in which we attend more carefully to our discipleship. Lent is not about grim self-improvement or anxious rule-keeping. It is about returning; returning to the God whose ways are life, whose commandments are given not to constrain us but to draw us more fully into communion with him.

So Moses’ words remain for us today: “Take care and watch yourselves closely.” Remember what God has done. Hold fast to what God has taught. And teach these things; not only with our words, but with our lives.

For in Christ, the law is no longer something written only on tablets of stone. It is written on human hearts. And as we follow him, we discover that God’s commandments are not heavy burdens, but signs pointing us towards the fullness of life God longs to give.

Amen.

Reflection: In Face of Opposition (4th Mar, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

Jeremiah 18.18–20 – Then they said, ‘Come, let us make plots against Jeremiah—for instruction shall not perish from the priest, nor counsel from the wise, nor the word from the prophet. Come, let us bring charges against him, and let us not heed any of his words.’ Give heed to me, O Lord, and listen to what my adversaries say! Is evil a recompense for good? Yet they have dug a pit for my life. Remember how I stood before you to speak good for them, to turn away your wrath from them.

Matthew 20.17–28 – While Jesus was going up to Jerusalem, he took the twelve disciples aside by themselves, and said to them on the way, ‘See, we are going up to Jerusalem, and the Son of Man will be handed over to the chief priests and scribes, and they will condemn him to death; then they will hand him over to the Gentiles to be mocked and flogged and crucified; and on the third day he will be raised.’ Then the mother of the sons of Zebedee came to him with her sons, and kneeling before him, she asked a favour of him. And he said to her, ‘What do you want?’ She said to him, ‘Declare that these two sons of mine will sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your kingdom.’ But Jesus answered, ‘You do not know what you are asking. Are you able to drink the cup that I am about to drink?’ They said to him, ‘We are able.’ He said to them, ‘You will indeed drink my cup, but to sit at my right hand and at my left, this is not mine to grant, but it is for those for whom it has been prepared by my Father.’ When the ten heard it, they were angry with the two brothers. But Jesus called them to him and said, ‘You know that the rulers of the Gentiles lord it over them, and their great ones are tyrants over them. It will not be so among you; but whoever wishes to be great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you must be your slave; just as the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many.’

Reflection

In our reading from Jeremiah, we overhear something deeply uncomfortable. The prophet has spoken God’s truth, and the response is not gratitude but plotting. “Come, let us make plots against Jeremiah.” They dismiss his words, question his credibility, and then seek to silence him. Jeremiah’s anguish is palpable. He turns to God not with polite piety but with raw honesty: “Remember how I stood before you to speak good for them.” He had prayed for these very people; he had interceded for them. And now they repay him with hostility.

It is a lonely place to stand — faithful, but misunderstood; obedient, but opposed.

When we turn to the Gospel, we find Jesus walking that same road. Matthew tells us that Jesus takes the Twelve aside and speaks plainly: he will be handed over, mocked, flogged, and crucified. Unlike Jeremiah, he does not speak of possible plots — he speaks of what will certainly happen. The rejection is not a risk; it is the path.

And yet, astonishingly, immediately after this solemn prediction, the mother of James and John comes with a request. She wants honour for her sons — seats at Jesus’ right and left in his glory. The other disciples are indignant, perhaps because they share the same ambition. It is a jarring contrast. Jesus speaks of suffering; they dream of status. He speaks of a cross; they imagine thrones.

But perhaps we should not judge them too quickly. We too can be tempted to follow Christ while quietly holding onto our own expectations of recognition, security, or influence. We may accept the language of service, yet still hope for reward.

Jesus’ response reframes everything: “You know that the rulers of the Gentiles lord it over them… It will not be so among you.” In his kingdom, greatness is not measured by prominence but by service; not by power held over others but by life poured out for others.

“The Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.” There is the heart of it. Jesus does not merely teach about service — he embodies it. His journey to Jerusalem is not a tragic accident; it is an act of self-giving love. Where Jeremiah prays for his persecutors, Jesus will go further still: he will forgive them from the cross.

And so the two readings speak to one another. Jeremiah stands faithful in the face of opposition, praying for those who seek his harm. Jesus walks knowingly toward rejection, redefining glory as sacrificial love.

For us, in this season of Lent, these texts invite reflection. Where are we being called to quiet faithfulness, even if it is unnoticed or misunderstood? Where might our ambitions need reshaping in the light of Christ’s servant-hearted kingdom? And where might we be called not only to endure hurt, but to respond with prayer and grace?

The Christian life is not a climb to prominence but a descent into love — the love that serves, that forgives, that gives itself away. That is the way of Christ. And it is the way that leads, paradoxically, not to diminishment, but to true life.

Amen.

Sermon: New Journeys (1st March, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

Genesis 12.1–4a – The Lord said to Abram, ‘Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you. I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you, and make your name great, so that you will be a blessing. I will bless those who bless you, and the one who curses you I will curse; and in you all the families of the earth shall be blessed.’ So Abram went, as the Lord had told him; and Lot went with him.

John 3.1–17 – Now there was a Pharisee named Nicodemus, a leader of the Jews. He came to Jesus by night and said to him, ‘Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God; for no one can do these signs that you do apart from the presence of God.’ Jesus answered him, ‘Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.’Nicodemus said to him, ‘How can anyone be born after having grown old? Can one enter a second time into the mother’s womb and be born?’ Jesus answered, ‘Very truly, I tell you, no one can enter the kingdom of God without being born of water and Spirit. What is born of the flesh is flesh, and what is born of the Spirit is spirit.Do not be astonished that I said to you, “You must be born from above.”The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.’ Nicodemus said to him, ‘How can these things be?’ Jesus answered him, ‘Are you a teacher of Israel, and yet you do not understand these things? ‘Very truly, I tell you, we speak of what we know and testify to what we have seen; yet you do not receive our testimony. If I have told you about earthly things and you do not believe, how can you believe if I tell you about heavenly things? No one has ascended into heaven except the one who descended from heaven, the Son of Man.And just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life. ‘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.

Sermon

In this season of Lent, we are invited to travel. Not simply to mark time between Ash Wednesday and Easter, but to journey—heart and soul—towards the God who calls us onward.

This morning’s readings place before us two journeys. One is the journey of Abram, called by God to leave everything familiar behind. The other is the quieter, more interior journey of Nicodemus, who comes to Jesus by night, seeking understanding.

Both are stories of new beginnings. Both are stories of trust. And both speak powerfully to us in Lent.

In Genesis, we hear those stark, commanding words: “Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you.” There is no map. No timetable. No detailed plan. Only a promise.

“I will make of you a great nation… I will bless you… and in you all the families of the earth shall be blessed.”

Abram is called to step away from security and into uncertainty. The life he has known, the identity he has inherited, the systems that have defined him—all must be loosened. He is summoned into a future that exists, for now, only in the promise of God.

And remarkably, we are told simply: “So Abram went.”

It is an act of extraordinary faith. Not certainty, not control—faith. Trusting not in what he can see, but in the One who calls him.

Then we turn to John’s Gospel, and we meet Nicodemus. A leader, a teacher, a man of learning and religious seriousness. Yet he comes to Jesus at night—perhaps out of caution, perhaps out of confusion, perhaps because something within him is restless.

He recognises that God is at work in Jesus, but he does not yet understand how or why. And Jesus speaks to him in words that unsettle and stretch him: “No one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.”

Born again. Born from above. Born of water and Spirit.

Nicodemus struggles. He thinks literally. He tries to fit Jesus’ words into the categories he already knows. But Jesus is speaking of something deeper: a transformation not of biology but of being. A re-creation. A new beginning given by God’s Spirit.

And here, perhaps, we begin to see how these two readings speak to one another.

Abram is called to leave his old life and walk into God’s promise. Nicodemus is called to allow his old assumptions to be reshaped by the Spirit’s work. Both are invited into something radically new.

Lent is precisely this kind of invitation.

We often think of Lent as a time of giving things up. Chocolate. Alcohol. Social media. And there is value in discipline. But at its heart, Lent is about making space—space to hear again the call of God. Space to allow the Spirit to do new work within us.

Abram’s journey was not simply geographical. It was spiritual. It meant relinquishing control and discovering that his future rested not in his own planning but in God’s promise.

Nicodemus’ journey was not simply intellectual. It was spiritual. It meant accepting that even a learned teacher must be made new by grace.

And we too are called to such journeys.

There are moments in life—and perhaps Lent sharpens our awareness of them—when God seems to say to us: “Go.” Go beyond what is comfortable. Go beyond what is familiar. Go beyond what you thought defined you.

Sometimes that “going” is dramatic: a change in vocation, a new chapter, a difficult step of obedience. But often it is quieter. It may be the call to forgive when resentment feels safer. The call to generosity when caution feels wiser. The call to prayer when busyness seems more urgent.

To follow Christ is always, in some sense, to leave something behind.

And yet, as with Abram, the call is always grounded in promise. “I will bless you.” The God who calls is the God who gives. The God who unsettles is the God who sustains.

In John’s Gospel, the promise becomes even more explicit. For this conversation with Nicodemus leads us to perhaps the most famous words in all of Scripture: “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son…”

The new birth Jesus speaks of is not something we engineer. It is a gift flowing from the love of God. It is not achieved by moral effort or religious status. It is received by trust.

Just as Abram trusted the promise and set out, so we are invited to trust the love revealed in Christ.

Abram is told that in him “all the families of the earth shall be blessed.” In Christ, that promise comes into its fullness. The blessing is not limited; it overflows.

On this Second Sunday in Lent, we stand between promise and fulfilment. We know the story does not end in uncertainty. It ends in the cross and resurrection. But we are still, like Abram and Nicodemus, learners on the way.

Perhaps the question for us this morning is: where is God inviting us to newness?

Where is the Spirit stirring, even if we do not fully understand? What assumptions might need to be surrendered? What securities might need to be loosened? What fears might need to be entrusted to God?

New birth can feel unsettling. Journeying into the unknown can feel risky. But the heart of these readings assures us that we do not step out alone.

The God who called Abram walks with him. The Spirit who speaks of new birth is already at work. The Son who is given is given not to condemn but to save.

“So Abram went.”

May we, too, have courage to go where God calls.

May we be willing to be made new.

And may our lives, like Abram’s, become part of God’s blessing for the world.

Amen.

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.