Readings

Romans 12.9–end – Let love be genuine; hate what is evil, hold fast to what is good; love one another with mutual affection; outdo one another in showing honour. Do not lag in zeal, be ardent in spirit, serve the Lord.Rejoice in hope, be patient in suffering, persevere in prayer. Contribute to the needs of the saints; extend hospitality to strangers. Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse them. Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep. Live in harmony with one another; do not be haughty, but associate with the lowly; do not claim to be wiser than you are. Do not repay anyone evil for evil, but take thought for what is noble in the sight of all. If it is possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all. Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave room for the wrath of God; for it is written, ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.’ No, ‘if your enemies are hungry, feed them; if they are thirsty, give them something to drink; for by doing this you will heap burning coals on their heads.’ Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.

Matthew 16.21–end – From that time on, Jesus began to show his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and undergo great suffering at the hands of the elders and chief priests and scribes, and be killed, and on the third day be raised. And Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him, saying, ‘God forbid it, Lord! This must never happen to you.’ But he turned and said to Peter, ‘Get behind me, Satan! You are a stumbling-block to me; for you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.’ Then Jesus told his disciples, ‘If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it. For what will it profit them if they gain the whole world but forfeit their life? Or what will they give in return for their life? ‘For the Son of Man is to come with his angels in the glory of his Father, and then he will repay everyone for what has been done. Truly I tell you, there are some standing here who will not taste death before they see the Son of Man coming in his kingdom.’

Sermon

There are moments in the Gospels when Peter gets it wonderfully right. And there are moments when he gets it spectacularly wrong. Last week we heard one of the good ones.

Jesus asks his disciples, “Who do you say that I am?” and Peter answers, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.” Jesus praises him. “Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah.” Peter has seen something others haven’t. He has understood who Jesus is.

And then, almost immediately, it all goes wrong. Jesus begins to explain what being the Messiah actually means. He must go to Jerusalem. He will suffer. He will be rejected and killed. And on the third day he will be raised. Peter can’t bear it. He takes Jesus aside and rebukes him: “God forbid it, Lord! This must never happen to you.” And Jesus replies with some of the strongest words he ever speaks to anybody: “Get behind me, Satan!”

Quite a turnaround. From “Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah” to “Get behind me, Satan” in the space of a few verses. But I think Peter’s reaction is entirely understandable. He loves Jesus. He has left everything to follow him. He has just declared that Jesus is God’s Messiah. And surely, if Jesus is the Messiah, things ought to be getting better from here. Victory. Success. The kingdom of God arriving. Israel restored. Enemies defeated.

Instead, Jesus starts talking about suffering and death. Peter has the right answer about who Jesus is, but he hasn’t yet understood what kind of Messiah Jesus is. And that matters because the next thing Jesus says makes it clear that this isn’t only about him. “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.” That’s where the passage becomes uncomfortable for us.

Because Christianity can very easily become something we fit around the life we’ve already decided to live. We worship. We pray. We try to be decent people. We give what we can. We help where we can. And all of those things are good. But Jesus doesn’t say, “Fit me in where you can.” He says, “Follow me.” And following someone means allowing them to determine the direction of travel.

That is what Peter is struggling with. Peter wants to follow Jesus, but he also wants to tell Jesus which way they ought to be going. I suspect there’s a little bit of Peter in most of us. We are quite happy to follow Christ when Christ appears to be going roughly where we wanted to go anyway. It becomes rather harder when the road turns somewhere unexpected.

When forgiveness costs us our pride. When generosity costs us something we would rather keep. When standing alongside somebody unpopular costs us the approval of others. When speaking up for what is right makes life awkward. When loving our neighbour means loving  the particular neighbour we find difficult. When faithfulness asks us not simply to believe something, but to change something. That is where discipleship becomes real.

I think we need to be careful with Jesus’ words about “taking up our cross”, because the phrase can be misused. We sometimes hear ordinary inconveniences described as “my cross to bear”. Worse, people enduring abuse, injustice or cruelty have sometimes been told that their Christian duty is simply to put up with it. That isn’t what Jesus is saying.

The cross is not a command to seek suffering, nor to accept suffering that could rightly be challenged or prevented. The cross is what happens when love refuses to give up.

Jesus goes to Jerusalem not because suffering is good, but because love is good. He refuses to abandon the people he has come to save. He refuses to answer violence with violence. He refuses to save himself at the expense of his mission. The cross is the cost of a love that will not turn back. And Jesus says: follow me.

Our reading from Romans gives us a picture of what that might actually look like in ordinary Christian life. “Let love be genuine.” “Love one another with mutual affection.” “Extend hospitality to strangers.” “Bless those who persecute you.” “Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep.” “Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.”

None of that sounds particularly dramatic. There are no heroic gestures there. No grand religious performances. Just the stubborn, daily work of love.

And yet try doing it. Try genuinely blessing somebody who has hurt you. Try refusing to repay anger with anger. Try making room in your life for somebody who cannot repay you. Try listening properly to somebody whose experience of life is very different from yours. Try choosing kindness when you have a devastating reply ready to go. Try overcoming evil with good when every instinct in you wants to hit back.

Suddenly Paul’s words don’t seem quite so gentle. This is cross-shaped living. And it is important that Jesus doesn’t finish with the cross. Peter seems not to hear this, but Jesus has already said that on the third day he will be raised. The road leads through Jerusalem, but Jerusalem is not the end. That changes everything.

Christian self-denial is not about making ourselves smaller because God enjoys seeing us miserable. It is about becoming free enough to love. Free from the endless need to protect our status, defend our ego, get our own way and keep score. “For those who want to save their life will lose it,” Jesus says, “and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.”

There is the great paradox at the heart of Christian discipleship. The life we cling to most tightly can become very small. But the life we give to God can become larger than we imagined.

We find life when we give ourselves away in love. We see it whenever someone gives their time to a lonely neighbour. Whenever somebody quietly forgives. Whenever a church chooses welcome over comfort. Whenever people stand beside those whom others would rather ignore. Whenever somebody decides that compassion matters more than winning. Whenever, in a hundred ordinary ways, Christians choose the way of Christ rather than simply the way of least resistance.

And none of us gets this right all the time. Peter certainly didn’t. That’s one of the reasons I’m grateful that this story is here. Jesus doesn’t abandon Peter after this disastrous conversation. Peter gets things wrong again. He misunderstands. He boasts. Eventually he denies even knowing Jesus. And still Christ calls him. Still Christ works through him. Still grace has the final word.

So perhaps the question this Gospel leaves us with isn’t whether we are good enough to carry the cross. It is simpler than that. It is really, which way are we going? Are we willing to get behind Jesus? Because “Get behind me” is not only a rebuke. It is also exactly where a disciple belongs. Behind Jesus. Following him.

Readings

Romans 12.1–8 – I appeal to you therefore, brothers and sisters, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship. Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God—what is good and acceptable and perfect. For by the grace given to me I say to everyone among you not to think of yourself more highly than you ought to think, but to think with sober judgement, each according to the measure of faith that God has assigned. For as in one body we have many members, and not all the members have the same function, so we, who are many, are one body in Christ, and individually we are members one of another. We have gifts that differ according to the grace given to us: prophecy, in proportion to faith; ministry, in ministering; the teacher, in teaching; the exhorter, in exhortation; the giver, in generosity; the leader, in diligence; the compassionate, in cheerfulness.

Matthew 16.13–20 – Now when Jesus came into the district of Caesarea Philippi, he asked his disciples, ‘Who do people say that the Son of Man is?’ And they said, ‘Some say John the Baptist, but others Elijah, and still others Jeremiah or one of the prophets.’ He said to them, ‘But who do you say that I am?’ Simon Peter answered, ‘You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.’ And Jesus answered him, ‘Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah! For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my Father in heaven. And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not prevail against it. I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.’ Then he sternly ordered the disciples not to tell anyone that he was the Messiah.

Sermon

There are some questions where the answer doesn’t matter very much once the moment is passed. “What shall we have for tea?” “Where did I put my keys?” “Who left the lights on?” They may feel urgent at the time, but life carries on whatever the answer. And then there are questions which get right underneath everything. Questions whose answers shape the way we understand ourselves and the way we live. Jesus asks one of those questions in today’s Gospel.

He and the disciples have come to Caesarea Philippi, and he asks them: “Who do people say that the Son of Man is?” It’s an easy enough question to begin with, because it’s about what other people think. And the disciples have clearly been listening. They’ve heard the rumours and the conversations. Some say John the Baptist. Others Elijah. Others Jeremiah, or one of the prophets. Plenty of opinions. Plenty of speculation.

And then Jesus changes the question. “But who do you say that I am?” Suddenly it’s personal. Jesus isn’t asking what the crowds think. He isn’t asking what the religious experts have written. He isn’t even asking the disciples what they were taught as children. Who do you say that I am?

And Peter answers: “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.” It is one of the great moments in Matthew’s Gospel. Peter gets it. Or at least, Peter gets it for a moment. Because one of the things I love about Peter is that the Gospels never tidy him up. He can make a magnificent confession of faith one minute and get things spectacularly wrong the next.

In fact, that is exactly what happens here. We stop reading at verse 20 this morning, but if we carried on for only a few more verses, Peter would be rebuking Jesus for talking about suffering and death, and Jesus would say to him, “Get behind me, Satan!”

Quite a turnaround. “You are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church.” And then, moments later: “Get behind me, Satan!” Which is worth remembering whenever we imagine that being a faithful Christian means having everything sorted out. Peter certainly didn’t.

He had faith. He also had doubts. He could be brave and frightened, perceptive and completely mistaken. He promised Jesus that he would never desert him and then denied three times that he even knew him. And yet Jesus says: “On this rock I will build my church.” There is hope for all of us in that.

Because the Church is not built out of perfect people. It never has been. The Church is built out of people who, like Peter, are learning what it means to say, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God,” and then trying to work out what that confession means on Monday morning.

And perhaps that is where Paul’s words to the Romans help us. Paul writes: “Present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God.” In other words, faith cannot remain simply an answer to a question.

Peter says who Jesus is. Paul asks what happens next.

If Jesus really is the Christ, then that changes something. Not simply what we believe in our heads, but how we live. How we spend our time. How we use what we have. How we treat people. What we do with the gifts God has given us.

“Do not be conformed to this world,” Paul says, “but be transformed by the renewing of your minds.”

That transformation is not about becoming some impossibly holy version of ourselves. It is about allowing our encounter with Christ gradually to reshape us. And Paul immediately makes that very practical. We have different gifts, he says. Prophecy. Ministry. Teaching. Encouragement. Giving. Leadership. Compassion. Not everyone does everything.

That matters enormously for the life of the Church. Sometimes we can slip into thinking that there are a few people who “do ministry” while everybody else comes along to receive it. But that isn’t Paul’s picture of the Church at all. For Paul, the Church is a body. Different people, different gifts, different callings — but each one belonging to the others.

And that takes us back to Peter. “On this rock I will build my church.” Notice whose Church it is. Not Peter’s. Not the disciples’. Not the clergy’s. Not ours. Christ says, “I will build my church.” That can be both challenging and wonderfully liberating.

Because we can become terribly anxious about the Church. We worry about congregations and buildings and money and volunteers. We worry about whether younger generations will come. We worry about what things might look like in five or ten or twenty years. Some of those concerns are perfectly reasonable. We have responsibilities and we should take them seriously.

But the future of the Church does not ultimately rest upon our ability to keep everything going. “I will build my church,” says Jesus. Our task is not to save the Church. Our task is to be the Church. To worship Christ. To love our neighbours. To serve our communities. To recognise and use the gifts God has given us. To welcome people. To forgive one another. To speak of hope. To notice those whom everybody else overlooks.

And, through all of that, to keep answering Jesus’ question: “Who do you say that I am?”

Because that question never really goes away. We may have recited the Creed hundreds of times. We may have worshipped in church for decades. We may know the stories and the hymns and the prayers by heart. But Jesus still asks: Who do you say that I am?

Not simply with your lips. With your life. Who do you say that I am in the way you treat the difficult neighbour? Who do you say that I am in the way you use your money? Who do you say that I am when somebody needs your time? Who do you say that I am when you are frightened about the future? Who do you say that I am when faith feels uncertain and prayer feels difficult?

Peter’s answer was not the end of his journey. In many ways, it was only the beginning. He still had an enormous amount to learn about what kind of Messiah Jesus would be. He would fail. He would misunderstand. He would run away.

But Christ did not give up on him. And Christ built his Church with people like him. People like us. Ordinary, complicated, gifted, fallible people who have heard Christ’s question and, however imperfectly, have found themselves saying: “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.”

And if it is his Church, then perhaps we can hold it a little less anxiously and serve it a little more joyfully. Because the foundation of the Church is not our competence, our strength or even the certainty of our faith. The foundation is Christ himself. The Messiah. The Son of the living God.

And the one who is still building his Church through wonderfully imperfect people like us.

Amen.

The below is the text of the first sermon I gave this past weekend after being inducted and installed as the Vicar of Marsden and Slaithwaite with East Scammonden. It was shared as part of an all-benefice service at Upper Slaithwaite Church, known locally and lovingly as ‘Shred.’

Reading

Matthew 14.22–33 – Immediately he made the disciples get into the boat and go on ahead to the other side, while he dismissed the crowds. And after he had dismissed the crowds, he went up the mountain by himself to pray. When evening came, he was there alone, but by this time the boat, battered by the waves, was far from the land, for the wind was against them. And early in the morning he came walking towards them on the lake. But when the disciples saw him walking on the lake, they were terrified, saying, ‘It is a ghost!’ And they cried out in fear. But immediately Jesus spoke to them and said, ‘Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.’ Peter answered him, ‘Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.’ He said, ‘Come.’ So Peter got out of the boat, started walking on the water, and came towards Jesus. But when he noticed the strong wind, he became frightened, and beginning to sink, he cried out, ‘Lord, save me!’ Jesus immediately reached out his hand and caught him, saying to him, ‘You of little faith, why did you doubt?’ When they got into the boat, the wind ceased. And those in the boat worshipped him, saying, ‘Truly you are the Son of God.’

Sermon

I had a wry smile to myself when I saw the Gospel reading for this morning’s service. Because there can hardly be a more fitting Gospel reading for a first Sunday with a new vicar than this one. Before you jump to conclusions, I’m not suggesting that becoming your new vicar is exactly like stepping onto a stormy sea. At least, I hope it isn’t! But there is something here that speaks powerfully to the beginning we are making together.

The story begins with Jesus sending the disciples out ahead of him. They are doing what he has asked, and yet they find themselves struggling. The boat is far from land, the wind is against them, and the journey has become exhausting.

I think that detail is worth sitting with for a moment, noticing the implication that following Jesus does not guarantee calm waters. But difficulty is not necessarily a sign that we have taken a wrong turn or that God has abandoned us. Sometimes we can be exactly where we have been called to be and still find the wind blowing against us.

Our lives, and indeed church life can be like that. We make plans, offer our gifts, say our prayers and try to be faithful, but things do not always unfold as we hoped. Congregations change. Familiar faces disappear and new ones appear. Money becomes tight. Buildings demand attention. New ideas do not always work. The world around us changes, and we are left wondering how the Church should respond.

And a new beginning brings its own questions. What will this new chapter be like? What might change? What will stay the same? Will we understand one another? Will the new vicar remember everybody’s name? Spoiler alert, I won’t. At least not immediately anyway. Hopefully there’s excitement about what lies ahead, but there may also be uncertainty. That is true for me as well as for you. New beginnings are rarely made up of confidence alone. Usually hope and nervousness arrive together.

But as we heard in our Gospel reading, into the middle of the disciples’ struggle, Jesus comes.

At first they do not recognise him. They see only a figure on the water, and they are terrified. The presence of Jesus is mistaken for some kind of threat. Perhaps that happens more often than we realise. God comes to us in unfamiliar circumstances, through unexpected people or in changes we would never have chosen for ourselves, and our first response is fear. We are so accustomed to looking for danger that we struggle to recognise God’s grace.

And so Jesus recognises this and speaks: “Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.” He does not begin by explaining the storm. He does not tell the disciples why the wind is against them or how long it will last. He gives them something better: himself. “It is I.” I am here. You are not alone. The storm may be real, but so is my presence.

That is the promise at the heart of this new beginning. The future of these churches does not rest upon a new vicar arriving with all the answers. Which is fortunate, because I haven’t brought them. Nor does it rest upon any one person, however gifted or committed.

Our hope rests in Jesus Christ.

He has been present here long before I arrived. He has been at work through generations of prayer, worship, service and quiet faithfulness. He has been present in baptisms and weddings, at bedsides and funerals, in school assemblies, community gatherings and ordinary conversations. He has been present in moments of joy and in times when the wind seemed firmly against you.

And he is present now.

Peter hears the voice of Jesus and does something wonderfully brave and slightly reckless. “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.” Jesus says, “Come.” So Peter steps out of the boat.

We often speak about stepping out in faith as though it means feeling completely confident. But Peter is not free from fear. He simply trusts the voice of Jesus enough to take the next step. Faith is not the absence of doubt or anxiety. Faith is deciding where to place our trust while those things are still present.

That matters as we begin our ministry together. I hope we will be willing to step out in faith. I hope we will ask what God may be calling us to do in Marsden, Slaithwaite and here at Shred. I hope we will be ready to try things, to welcome new people, to serve our communities and to share the love of Christ with generosity and confidence.

Some of what we try will flourish. Some of it may not. Occasionally we may discover, halfway through, that we have stepped out of the boat and have no clear idea what we are doing. But that is not necessarily failure. A church that never risks anything may remain safely inside the boat, but it will never discover what may become possible when Jesus says, “Come.”

Peter does walk on the water. Matthew is quite clear about that. For a few extraordinary moments, he does what should be impossible. Then he notices the wind. Of course he notices it. The wind is loud, the waves are high, and the boat is no longer beneath his feet. Fear takes hold and he begins to sink. “Lord, save me!” It is one of the shortest and most honest prayers in Scripture. There is no polished language and no attempt to appear composed. Peter simply cries out from his need.

And immediately Jesus reaches out his hand. Immediately. Jesus does not wait for Peter to recover his confidence. He does not demand a better explanation or a more impressive statement of faith. He catches him.

There will be times in the years ahead when our faith feels strong and the path seems clear. There will also be times when we notice the wind, lose confidence and wonder whether we have made a terrible mistake. As Bishop Smitha alluded to on Thursday night, there may be days when our prayer is little more than, “Lord, save us.”

The good news is that Christ does not abandon us in those moments. When faith falters, his faithfulness does not. When our grip weakens, his does not. Grace is not a reward for keeping ourselves above water. Grace is the hand that catches us when we cannot.

Jesus asks Peter, “Why did you doubt?” I do not hear that as a cruel rebuke. Jesus is holding Peter as he says it. It is less an accusation and more an invitation: Peter, you trusted me enough to step out. Could you also trust that I would not let you go?

That is a question for all of us.

Can we trust Christ enough to take the next step? Can we trust him when the future is exciting, and when it is uncertain? Can we trust him when our plans succeed, and when they need to be changed? Can we trust that even when we falter, he will still take hold of us?

When Jesus and Peter climb into the boat, the wind ceases. The disciples worship him and say, “Truly you are the Son of God.”

That is where this particular story ends: not with Peter’s bravery, nor with his failure, but with Jesus being recognised and worshipped. And that must be the purpose of our life together.

This new chapter is not about what I will do, what you will do, or even about what we will achieve together. It is about learning to recognise Jesus in our midst. It is about worshipping him, following him and helping others to discover that his love is very real.

I come among you with hope and excitement. I also come knowing that I have much to learn: about these churches, these communities, and each and every one of you. We will need patience with one another. We will sometimes see things differently. There will be moments of courage and moments of doubt.

But we do not make this journey alone.

Christ comes to us across the water. He speaks through the noise of the wind: “Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.”

He calls us out of the places where we have grown comfortable. He invites us to trust him. And when we begin to sink—as, from time to time, we surely will—he reaches out his hand.

So, as we begin this new chapter together, let us listen for his voice. Let us be honest about our fears but not ruled by them. Let us be patient with our doubts but not imprisoned by them. Let us be ready, when Christ calls, to step out together in faith.

And whether the water is calm or the wind is against us, may we keep our eyes fixed upon Jesus, the one who calls us, catches us and will never let us go.

Amen.

Reading

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

Sermon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And she is.

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

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

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

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

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

Yet these stories point us towards a deeper truth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amen.