jesus

Reflection: A Sure Foundation (4th Dec, 2025, Year A)

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Readings

Isaiah 26.1–6 – On that day this song will be sung in the land of Judah: We have a strong city; he sets up victory like walls and bulwarks. Open the gates, so that the righteous nation that keeps faith may enter in. Those of steadfast mind you keep in peace— in peace because they trust in you. Trust in the Lord for ever, for in the Lord God you have an everlasting rock. For he has brought low the inhabitants of the height; the lofty city he lays low. He lays it low to the ground, casts it to the dust. The foot tramples it, the feet of the poor, the steps of the needy.

Matthew 7.21, 24–27 – ‘Not everyone who says to me, “Lord, Lord”, will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only one who does the will of my Father in heaven. ‘Everyone then who hears these words of mine and acts on them will be like a wise man who built his house on rock. The rain fell, the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house, but it did not fall, because it had been founded on rock. And everyone who hears these words of mine and does not act on them will be like a foolish man who built his house on sand. The rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell—and great was its fall!’

Reflection

Our readings today place before us two powerful images of security and foundations—images that speak both to our faith and to the way we build our lives.

Isaiah offers a vision of a strong city, a place with salvation as its walls and ramparts. It is a city not secured by armies or human achievement, but by the very promise and presence of God. “You keep him in perfect peace,” Isaiah says, “whose mind is stayed on you, because he trusts in you.” And then comes the invitation: “Trust in the Lord for ever, for the Lord God is an everlasting rock.”

In the Gospel, Jesus takes up that same theme of foundations. He speaks of two builders—one wise, one foolish. Both hear the word of the Lord; both experience the wind and the rain. But the difference lies in what they have built upon. The wise builder hears the words of Christ and acts on them, anchoring life upon the rock. The foolish builder hears yet does nothing, leaving their house vulnerable when the storm inevitably arrives.

Both passages, then, remind us that faith is more than knowledge or familiarity with holy things. It is the shaping of our lives around God’s steadfastness. The prophet calls the people to trust; Jesus calls his followers to obedience; both speak of a life founded upon God’s enduring truth.

For many of us, the idea of storms—literal or symbolic—feels very real. We encounter uncertainty, change, loss, and pressures that shake us. And Jesus is clear: he does not promise a storm-free life. The rains fall on both houses; the winds beat against both walls. Christian faith has never been a guarantee of exemption from hardship. It is, instead, an invitation to root ourselves in the one who does not change.

Isaiah speaks of “the humble and lowly” being lifted up, while the proud and self-sufficient are brought low. The strong city of God is not built by those who rely on their own strength or cleverness, but by those who recognise their need for God and open themselves to his grace. In Matthew, likewise, the wise builder is not someone with superior skill, but one who listens and responds—who allows the teaching of Jesus to shape choices, relationships, and priorities.

So these readings challenge us gently but firmly:
Where are we placing our trust?
What foundations are we building on?
And are we content merely to hear the words of Jesus, or are we seeking to live them out?

To build on the rock is, in many ways, an act of patience. Foundations are not glamorous. They are often unseen—daily prayer, forgiveness offered and received, generosity practised quietly, integrity lived out when no one is watching. Small choices, steady obedience, faithful trust. Yet in God’s kingdom these become the stones of a strong and enduring city.

As we gather in worship today, we are reminded that the Church itself is called to be such a place of refuge—a community built on Christ, embodying his peace, and holding one another steady through the storms that come. And we are reminded too that our hope is not in our own strength, but in the everlasting rock who sustains us.

May we, then, hear the call of Isaiah to trust in the Lord for ever, and the call of Jesus to build our lives upon his word. And may God grant us the grace to become people of strong foundations, whose lives bear witness to the peace and stability that he alone can give.

Amen.

Reflection: A Feast for His People (3rd Dec, 2025, Year A)

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Readings

Isaiah 25.6–10a – On this mountain the Lord of hosts will make for all peoples a feast of rich food, a feast of well-matured wines, of rich food filled with marrow, of well-matured wines strained clear. And he will destroy on this mountain the shroud that is cast over all peoples, the sheet that is spread over all nations; he will swallow up death for ever. Then the Lord God will wipe away the tears from all faces, and the disgrace of his people he will take away from all the earth, for the Lord has spoken. It will be said on that day, Lo, this is our God; we have waited for him, so that he might save us. This is the Lord for whom we have waited; let us be glad and rejoice in his salvation. For the hand of the Lord will rest on this mountain.
The Moabites shall be trodden down in their place as straw is trodden down in a dung-pit.

Matthew 15.29–37 – After Jesus had left that place, he passed along the Sea of Galilee, and he went up the mountain, where he sat down. Great crowds came to him, bringing with them the lame, the maimed, the blind, the mute, and many others. They put them at his feet, and he cured them, so that the crowd was amazed when they saw the mute speaking, the maimed whole, the lame walking, and the blind seeing. And they praised the God of Israel. Then Jesus called his disciples to him and said, ‘I have compassion for the crowd, because they have been with me now for three days and have nothing to eat; and I do not want to send them away hungry, for they might faint on the way.’ The disciples said to him, ‘Where are we to get enough bread in the desert to feed so great a crowd?’ Jesus asked them, ‘How many loaves have you?’ They said, ‘Seven, and a few small fish.’ Then ordering the crowd to sit down on the ground, he took the seven loaves and the fish; and after giving thanks he broke them and gave them to the disciples, and the disciples gave them to the crowds. And all of them ate and were filled; and they took up the broken pieces left over, seven baskets full.

Reflection

Our readings today from Isaiah and Matthew invite us to reflect on one of Scripture’s most hopeful images: God preparing a feast for His people.

Isaiah gives us a picture of God setting a banquet on a mountain—“a feast of rich food and well-aged wines.” It is more than a meal; it is a sign of renewal. Death is swallowed up, tears are wiped away, and the disgrace of God’s people is removed. It is a vision of God putting the world right.

In Matthew’s Gospel we see Jesus enacting that vision. He goes up a mountain, and there the lame, the blind, and the sick are brought to him. He heals them all. The crowd sees in Jesus the compassion and power of God that Isaiah longed for.

Then Jesus feeds the thousands gathered in the crowd. There is no grand feast—only seven loaves and a few small fish—but in his hands scarcity becomes abundance. Everyone eats until they are satisfied, and there are baskets left over. What Isaiah promised for the future, Jesus begins to fulfil in the present.

Both readings remind us that God gives what we cannot give ourselves: healing, hope, sustenance, and joy. The feast of God is always an act of grace and it highlights a few things for us about that feast:

First, it is inclusive. Isaiah speaks of “all peoples.” Matthew describes a crowd in Gentile territory. God’s welcome is wide; the table is open.

Second, the feast is abundant. Isaiah’s language is lavish, and Jesus’ miracle ends with leftovers. God’s generosity is not measured and cautious—it overflows.

Third, the feast is transformative Isaiah speaks of death undone; Jesus restores broken bodies. God’s grace meets us where we are, but it does not leave us there.

Yet Isaiah’s passage ends with a verse that jars: “The Moabites shall be trodden down in their place as straw is trodden down in a dung-pit.” At first hearing, it feels out of place in a vision of hope. It reflects a reality we see throughout the Old Testament: Expressions of longing for justice, often through the language of judgement on neighbouring nations who refused to believe and trust in God’s promises and to wait upon them.

For us, reading this as Christians, the verse is challenging. It reminds us that biblical hope often arises out of real human pain, fear, and conflict. Isaiah’s people had suffered; they longed for liberation. But in the light of Christ, we understand God’s final victory not as the crushing of other peoples, but as the reconciliation of all things in Him. Jesus fulfils the promise of the feast without mirroring the hostility of the age. The uncomfortable verse, therefore, becomes a reminder of how Christ transforms our understanding of God’s kingdom—from exclusion to embrace, from hostility to peace.

So, when we gather at the Lord’s Table, we stand in continuity with both Isaiah’s hope and Jesus’ compassion. Here we receive the foretaste of the feast to come—Christ feeding us with his own life. We are reminded that God’s kingdom is abundant, that his welcome is for all, and that his grace heals and restores.

And this feast shapes us. It calls us to be a people who reflect God’s generosity, who extend His welcome, who bring His healing hope into the ordinary places of our lives. What we receive in worship is meant to flow outward: to those who hunger, to those who grieve, to those who long for good news.

Isaiah looked ahead to a day when death would be no more and all peoples would gather at God’s table. Jesus begins that work among the hungry crowds. And we are invited into it—both as guests and as servants of the feast.

Amen.

Reflection: God’s Hand at Work (26th Nov, 2025, Year C)

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Readings

Daniel 5.1–6, 13–14, 16–17, 23–28 – King Belshazzar made a great festival for a thousand of his lords, and he was drinking wine in the presence of the thousand. Under the influence of the wine, Belshazzar commanded that they bring in the vessels of gold and silver that his father Nebuchadnezzar had taken out of the temple in Jerusalem, so that the king and his lords, his wives, and his concubines might drink from them. So they brought in the vessels of gold and silver that had been taken out of the temple, the house of God in Jerusalem, and the king and his lords, his wives, and his concubines drank from them. They drank the wine and praised the gods of gold and silver, bronze, iron, wood, and stone. Immediately the fingers of a human hand appeared and began writing on the plaster of the wall of the royal palace, next to the lampstand. The king was watching the hand as it wrote. Then the king’s face turned pale, and his thoughts terrified him. His limbs gave way, and his knees knocked together. Then Daniel was brought in before the king. The king said to Daniel, ‘So you are Daniel, one of the exiles of Judah, whom my father the king brought from Judah? I have heard of you that a spirit of the gods is in you, and that enlightenment, understanding, and excellent wisdom are found in you. But I have heard that you can give interpretations and solve problems. Now if you are able to read the writing and tell me its interpretation, you shall be clothed in purple, have a chain of gold around your neck, and rank third in the kingdom.’ Then Daniel answered in the presence of the king, ‘Let your gifts be for yourself, or give your rewards to someone else! Nevertheless, I will read the writing to the king and let him know the interpretation. You have exalted yourself against the Lord of heaven! The vessels of his temple have been brought in before you, and you and your lords, your wives and your concubines have been drinking wine from them. You have praised the gods of silver and gold, of bronze, iron, wood, and stone, which do not see or hear or know; but the God in whose power is your very breath, and to whom belong all your ways, you have not honoured. ‘So from his presence the hand was sent and this writing was inscribed. And this is the writing that was inscribed: mene, mene, tekel, and parsin. This is the interpretation of the matter: mene, God has numbered the days of your kingdom and brought it to an end; tekel, you have been weighed on the scales and found wanting; peres, your kingdom is divided and given to the Medes and Persians.’

Luke 21.12–19 – ‘But before all this occurs, they will arrest you and persecute you; they will hand you over to synagogues and prisons, and you will be brought before kings and governors because of my name. This will give you an opportunity to testify. So make up your minds not to prepare your defence in advance; for I will give you words and a wisdom that none of your opponents will be able to withstand or contradict. You will be betrayed even by parents and brothers, by relatives and friends; and they will put some of you to death. You will be hated by all because of my name. But not a hair of your head will perish. By your endurance you will gain your souls.

Reflection

Our readings today place before us two scenes of unsettling clarity. In Daniel, we are taken into the banqueting hall of King Belshazzar—a room full of noise, pride, and excess. The king holds a feast to display his power, even using the sacred vessels taken from the temple in Jerusalem. It seems that co-opting religious symbols for political gain is therefore nothing new.

At the height of Belshazzar’s self-confidence, a mysterious hand appears and writes on the wall. The atmosphere shifts in an instant: his bravado melts; his legs give way. God has spoken, and the truth exposes the delusion of human power.

Daniel, summoned from obscurity, stands in stark contrast to Belshazzar. He refuses the king’s gifts and rewards. His integrity is not for sale. Instead, he names the reality that Belshazzar has refused to see: that all power belongs to God, that pride leads to downfall, and that a kingdom built on arrogance and injustice cannot stand. Daniel’s message is not comfortable, but it is truthful—and it is that truth which ultimately sets God’s purposes in motion.

In the Gospel, Jesus prepares his disciples for their own moment of truth. They, too, will stand before rulers and councils. Not at banquets, but in trials. Not in celebration, but in accusation. Jesus does not promise them escape from hardship. Instead, he promises something more precious: “I will give you words and a wisdom that none of your opponents will be able to withstand or contradict.” Their endurance, he says, will be their salvation.

Both readings ask us to reflect on where we stand when the illusions of the world meet the truth of God. Belshazzar shows us how easy it is to live as though our own comfort, status, or security are the things that matter most. Daniel reminds us that God sees differently—that God honours humility, faithfulness, and courage. And Jesus invites us to trust that when faithfulness becomes costly, when our convictions are tested, he will be with us, giving us the words and the strength we need.

We may not face kings or councils, but each of us will face moments when the gospel calls us to speak truthfully, to act justly, or to stand with those who are vulnerable. In those moments, the question is not whether we feel strong or eloquent. The question is whether we trust the God who writes truth on the walls of human pride; the Christ who stands beside his disciples in every trial; the Spirit who gives wisdom and courage when we need it most.

So today, let us pray for the grace of Daniel: integrity that cannot be bought, courage that does not waver, and clarity to recognise God’s hand at work in our world. And let us pray for the endurance Jesus speaks of—an endurance rooted not in our own strength, but in the faithfulness of God, who holds our lives and our future in his loving hands.

Amen.

Sermon: Christ the King (23rd Nov, 2025, Year C)

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Readings

Colossians 1.11–20 – May you be made strong with all the strength that comes from his glorious power, and may you be prepared to endure everything with patience, while joyfully giving thanks to the Father, who has enabled you to share in the inheritance of the saints in the light. He has rescued us from the power of darkness and transferred us into the kingdom of his beloved Son, in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins. He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation; for in him all things in heaven and on earth were created, things visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or powers—all things have been created through him and for him. He himself is before all things, and in him all things hold together. He is the head of the body, the church; he is the beginning, the firstborn from the dead, so that he might come to have first place in everything. For in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through him God was pleased to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, by making peace through the blood of his cross.

Luke 23.33–43 – When they came to the place that is called The Skull, they crucified Jesus there with the criminals, one on his right and one on his left. [[ Then Jesus said, ‘Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.’]] And they cast lots to divide his clothing. And the people stood by, watching; but the leaders scoffed at him, saying, ‘He saved others; let him save himself if he is the Messiah of God, his chosen one!’ The soldiers also mocked him, coming up and offering him sour wine, and saying, ‘If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!’ There was also an inscription over him, ‘This is the King of the Jews.’ One of the criminals who were hanged there kept deriding him and saying, ‘Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!’ But the other rebuked him, saying, ‘Do you not fear God, since you are under the same sentence of condemnation? And we indeed have been condemned justly, for we are getting what we deserve for our deeds, but this man has done nothing wrong.’ Then he said, ‘Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.’ He replied, ‘Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.’

Sermon

The crucifixion in November? What’s that all about? I think you’d be forgiven for asking the question on this day that we call the Feast of Christ the King. And I completely understand the question being asked. It seems strange that on the last Sunday of the church year we are again watching Jesus on the cross. Most of us are probably already focusing on Christmas. Besides we’ve already heard the Good Friday story once this year and that’s usually enough for most of us. Why do we need to hear it again?

Maybe we need to hear it again because the injustice and violence revealed in today’s gospel are an everyday occurrence in our lives and the world. Maybe we need to hear it again because we too often and too easily ignore or accommodate that injustice and violence.

So today, on the Feast of Christ the King, the Church draws our eyes to the true nature of Christ’s kingship. It is a kingship unlike any other the world has known—a kingship revealed not through conquest or splendour, but through reconciliation, mercy, and self-giving love.

Our readings hold these truths before us with vivid clarity.

In Colossians, St Paul paints a breathtaking portrait of Christ:
“He is the image of the invisible God…”
“In him all things hold together…”
“Through him God was pleased to reconcile all things.”

These are words full of cosmic grandeur. Christ is the One through whom all creation came into being. He is before all things; he is the head of the Church; he is the fullness of God dwelling among us as one of us. If ever there were a passage meant to lift our hearts in awe, it is this one. Christ is King not simply over a nation or a people, but over the whole universe.

And yet—having heard this majestic vision—we then turn to Luke’s Gospel, and we find this King enthroned on a cross.

There he hangs between two criminals, exposed to ridicule and agony. The leaders sneer, the soldiers mock, and one of the criminals hurls insults. The sign above his head reads “This is the King of the Jews”—intended as a taunt, but truer than anyone realised.

Here, at the place called The Skull, two visions of kingship collide.
The world expects kings to rule with power; Christ rules with sacrifice.
The world expects kings to be served; Christ serves.
The world expects kings to save themselves; Christ saves others.

And it is in this place of suffering that we witness one of the most beautiful moments in all of Scripture. One of the criminals turns to Jesus and says, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” In those few words he recognises something far greater than the scene of defeat before him. He sees a King whose kingdom is not abolished by death, but established through it.

Jesus replies, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.”
It is a royal proclamation—an announcement of mercy, restoration, and welcome.

This is what Christ’s kingship looks like:
A King who will not turn away even from a dying criminal.
A King whose authority is expressed through forgiveness.
A King who conquers not by inflicting suffering, but by bearing it.

When St Paul speaks in Colossians of God reconciling all things—making peace through the blood of the cross—it is this moment on Calvary that reveals how that reconciliation is accomplished. Christ the King gathers the lost, breaks the power of sin, and opens the way to life by giving himself fully and freely for the world he loves.

So what does this mean for us, as we celebrate this feast?

First, it reminds us that Christ’s kingdom is not built on the values that often dominate our society—ambition, status, self-protection—but on compassion, justice, and humility. To serve this King is to let go of the need to be first, to win, or to appear strong. It is to follow the way of mercy.

Second, it invites us to trust. Colossians tells us that in Christ all things hold together. Even when the world feels chaotic – and it surely does right now, – even when our own lives feel fragile, Christ remains sovereign. His kingship is not threatened by the darkness around us. He holds us, and he holds creation, in hands marked by sacrifice.

And finally, this feast invites us to hope. The criminal on the cross had nothing to offer—no record of achievement, no good works to present—only a plea: “Remember me.” And Christ answered him with immediate, overflowing grace. If that is how the King receives a dying criminal, how much more will he receive us when we turn to him? This is a kingdom of hope for the broken, the weary, the repentant, and the lost.

Christ is King—not in spite of the cross, but because of it.
A King who reconciles.
A King who forgives.
A King who remembers us.

And so today, as we proclaim Jesus Christ as King of kings and Lord of lords, we do so with gratitude, with reverence, and with renewed commitment to walk in his way—the way of the crucified and risen King, who reigns in love now and forever.

Amen.

Reflection: The Unity of the Spirit (19th Nov, 2025, Year C)

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Readings

Ephesians 4.1–6 – I, the prisoner in the Lord, beg you to lead a life worthy of the calling to which you have been called, with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love, making every effort to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace. There is one body and one Spirit, just as you were called to the one hope of your calling, one Lord, one faith, one baptism, one God and Father of all, who is above all and through all and in all.

Luke 14.7–14 – When Jesus noticed how the guests chose the places of honour, he told them a parable. ‘When you are invited by someone to a wedding banquet, do not sit down at the place of honour, in case someone more distinguished than you has been invited by your host; and the host who invited both of you may come and say to you, “Give this person your place”, and then in disgrace you would start to take the lowest place. But when you are invited, go and sit down at the lowest place, so that when your host comes, he may say to you, “Friend, move up higher”; then you will be honoured in the presence of all who sit at the table with you. For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.’ He said also to the one who had invited him, ‘When you give a luncheon or a dinner, do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or rich neighbours, in case they may invite you in return, and you would be repaid. But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. And you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you, for you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous.’

Reflection

In our reading from Ephesians this morning, Paul urges the Church to “lead a life worthy of the calling to which you have been called.” And then he describes what such a life looks like: humility, gentleness, patience, and a willingness to bear with one another in love. These are not dramatic virtues. They don’t usually make headlines. They are the quiet, steady qualities that hold the Body of Christ together.

Paul reminds us that our unity is not something we create by our own strength. It is a gift. “There is one body and one Spirit… one Lord, one faith, one baptism.” Unity is given to us in Christ; our task is simply to live in a way that does not fracture or obscure it. Holy Communion makes this especially real. When we gather at the Lord’s table, we do so as one family—different in background, temperament, and story, yet made one in Christ who draws us to himself.

The Gospel reading puts flesh on what this unity looks like. Jesus watches guests scrambling for places of honour at a banquet, and he turns the moment into a parable. Do not seek the highest place, he says. Choose instead the lowest. In God’s kingdom, honour is not seized—it is given. And greatness is measured not by status but by service.

But Jesus goes further. It’s not only about where we sit, but whom we invite. “When you give a banquet,” he says, “do not invite those who can repay you. Invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind.” In other words, build community not on exchange or favour, but on grace. Welcome those who cannot return the invitation. Make space for the overlooked. Mirror the generosity of God who invites us—all of us—to his table not because we can offer anything in return, but because he delights to give.

As we come shortly to Holy Communion, we come to the feast that Christ himself provides. Here, the lowest place becomes the place of blessing. Here, the guest list is widened beyond all expectation. Here, we are reminded that we belong to one another because we belong to him.

So may we leave this place committing ourselves again to the life Paul describes: a life of humility, gentleness, patience, and love. A life that honours others above ourselves. A life that reflects the unity and hospitality of the God who has welcomed us to his table.

Amen.