Sermon

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: The Narrow Door (29th Oct, 2025, Year C)

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Readings

Romans 8.26–30 – Likewise, the Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words. And God, who searches the heart, knows what is the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints according to the will of God. We know that all things work together for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose. For those whom he foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the image of his Son, in order that he might be the firstborn within a large family. And those whom he predestined he also called; and those whom he called he also justified; and those whom he justified he also glorified.

Luke 13.22–30 – Jesus went through one town and village after another, teaching as he made his way to Jerusalem. Someone asked him, ‘Lord, will only a few be saved?’ He said to them, ‘Strive to enter through the narrow door; for many, I tell you, will try to enter and will not be able. When once the owner of the house has got up and shut the door, and you begin to stand outside and to knock at the door, saying, “Lord, open to us”, then in reply he will say to you, “I do not know where you come from.” Then you will begin to say, “We ate and drank with you, and you taught in our streets.” But he will say, “I do not know where you come from; go away from me, all you evildoers!” There will be weeping and gnashing of teeth when you see Abraham and Isaac and Jacob and all the prophets in the kingdom of God, and you yourselves thrown out. Then people will come from east and west, from north and south, and will eat in the kingdom of God. Indeed, some are last who will be first, and some are first who will be last.’

Reflection

In our readings today, both Saint Paul and Jesus remind us that following God’s call is both a gift and a challenge — a journey shaped by grace, but also by perseverance.

In the passage from Luke, Jesus speaks of the narrow door — that striking image of a way that is not wide or easy, but one that demands attention, humility, and effort. He warns that not everyone who claims to know him will enter the kingdom, but those who strive to do so — those who live out his teaching, who seek justice, mercy, and love. The Christian path is not a broad highway of comfort, but a narrow way that sometimes asks of us courage, forgiveness, and sacrifice. It also one where, as Jesus reminds us, “Indeed, some are last who will be first, and some are first who will be last.”

And yet, Saint Paul reminds us in Romans that we do not walk that path alone. When the road feels steep and the way unclear, “the Spirit helps us in our weakness.” Even when we do not know how to pray, or what to say, the Spirit intercedes for us — expressing to God the prayers we cannot form ourselves. What a comfort that is: that God’s own Spirit prays within us, guiding, strengthening, and transforming us so that we may be conformed to the likeness of Christ.

The narrow way, then, is not a test to be passed by our own strength, but a journey walked with divine companionship. The Spirit walks beside us, within us, drawing us closer to the heart of God. And as Paul assures us, “all things work together for good for those who love God.” Even our struggles, even our failures, can be woven by God into his purpose of love.

So, as we come to the Lord’s table today, we come not as those who have perfectly walked the narrow way, but as those who long to be shaped more fully by it. Here, in the bread and wine, we meet the One who has already gone before us — who walked the hardest road, and who now gives us his Spirit to help us follow.

May we have grace to walk that way faithfully, trusting that the Spirit intercedes for us, and that Christ himself welcomes us through the narrow door into the joy of his kingdom.

Amen.

Sermon: The Grace of Humility in the Parable of the Pharisee and the Tax Collector (26th Oct, 2025, Year C)

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Readings

2 Timothy 4.6–8, 16–18 – As for me, I am already being poured out as a libation, and the time of my departure has come. I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. From now on there is reserved for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, will give to me on that day, and not only to me but also to all who have longed for his appearing. At my first defence no one came to my support, but all deserted me. May it not be counted against them! But the Lord stood by me and gave me strength, so that through me the message might be fully proclaimed and all the Gentiles might hear it. So I was rescued from the lion’s mouth. The Lord will rescue me from every evil attack and save me for his heavenly kingdom. To him be the glory for ever and ever. Amen.

Luke 18.9–14 – Jesus told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt: ‘Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax-collector. The Pharisee, standing by himself, was praying thus, “God, I thank you that I am not like other people: thieves, rogues, adulterers, or even like this tax-collector. I fast twice a week; I give a tenth of all my income.” But the tax-collector, standing far off, would not even look up to heaven, but was beating his breast and saying, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner!” I tell you, this man went down to his home justified rather than the other; for all who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted.’

Sermon

Both of our readings this morning draw us toward the same virtue — humility — that deep awareness of who we are before God, and the quiet confidence that flows from trusting not in ourselves, but in Jesus Christ.

In the Gospel, we meet two men at prayer in the Temple — one a Pharisee, the other a tax collector. The Pharisee stands tall, sure of himself, certain of his righteousness. He thanks God, yes — but his prayer is less a thanksgiving and more a self-congratulation: “I thank you that I am not like other people.” His eyes are lifted upward, but his heart looks only inward.

The tax collector, by contrast, cannot even raise his eyes to heaven. He stands at a distance and prays simply, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.” It’s a short prayer, a simple prayer — but it’s the one that reaches God’s heart. Jesus tells us that it is the tax collector, not the Pharisee, who goes home justified.

The difference lies not in who they are, but in how they come before God. The Pharisee’s prayer is about self-assurance; the tax collector’s prayer is about dependence. The first trusts in his own goodness; the second throws himself upon God’s mercy. And in that posture of humility, the tax collector finds grace, forgiveness, and peace.

Humility, then, is not self-hatred or false modesty. It’s not pretending we’re worse than we are. True humility is the recognition that all we have and all we are depend on God’s mercy. It’s the open-handedness that allows us to receive grace.

Saint Paul, writing to Timothy near the end of his life, shows us what that humility looks like in practice. “I am already being poured out as a libation,” he says, “and the time of my departure has come.” Paul knows his earthly ministry is drawing to a close. Yet he looks back, not with pride in his own achievements, but with confidence in God’s faithfulness. “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith… The Lord stood by me and gave me strength.”

Paul doesn’t boast of his endurance; he gives glory to the One who sustained him. Even when he was abandoned, when no one came to his defence, he could say, “The Lord stood by me.” His humility springs not from despair, but from faith — a faith that knows our strength, our righteousness, even our perseverance, come from Christ alone.

That is the same humility we are called to bring — to our prayers, and to our daily living. When we kneel at the altar today to receive the bread and wine, we come as those who have nothing to offer except our need of God’s grace. We come not boasting of our worthiness, but trusting in Christ’s mercy: “We are not worthy so much as to gather up the crumbs under thy table, but thou art the same Lord whose nature is always to have mercy.” And when we rise from the table, we are sent out to live humbly — not self-reliant, but Christ-reliant.

To be humble in prayer is to be honest: honest about our failures, our dependence, our gratitude. To be humble in daily life is to listen before speaking, to serve before seeking recognition, to forgive as we have been forgiven.

Humility doesn’t mean weakness. Paul was anything but weak. It means knowing where our strength comes from — from the Lord who “rescued me from every evil attack and will bring me safely to his heavenly kingdom.” It means living with the quiet assurance that God’s grace is enough; that in it is truth and that the truth of his mercy defines us more than our own strength or our mistakes ever could.

That’s an idea that God pointed me to elsewhere this week. Philippa Smethurst, a psychotherapist who specialises in trauma therapy wrote an article in the latest edition of the Church Times that I commend to you. It is titled “Freedom is found in Facing Reality.” In it Smethurst writes that humanity’s collective refusal to face reality has grown into one of the great spiritual crises of our age; that we need to face truth objectively, and – as St. Paul alludes to in our reading today – that we need to face it as if it were a long race, rather than a sprint. Smethurst also says that for our facing truth to be sustainable, meaningful and for it to do us all good, we need to do it with humility. To quote Smethurst directly:

“Humility is not timidity or weakness: it is the courage to stand before the vastness of reality — and before God — without trying to control it. One moment of cosmic wonder each day reminds us that we do not make truth, or will it: we serve it.”

And so, as we continue our journey of faith together — it is my prayer for us all that through joys and hardships, successes and stumblings — we learn to pray together with the tax collector’s honesty and humility, to serve with Paul’s courage, and to trust with the same humble faith that knows Christ will stand by us and bring us safely home, for he is our truth.

To him be glory forever and ever. Amen.

Sermon: The Transfiguration and Racial Justice Sunday (11th Feb, 2024, Year B)

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Readings

2 Corinthians 4.3–6 – And even if our gospel is veiled, it is veiled to those who are perishing. In their case the god of this world has blinded the minds of the unbelievers, to keep them from seeing the light of the gospel of the glory of Christ, who is the image of God. For we do not proclaim ourselves; we proclaim Jesus Christ as Lord and ourselves as your slaves for Jesus’ sake. For it is the God who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness’, who has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.

Mark 9.2–9 – Six days later, Jesus took with him Peter and James and John, and led them up a high mountain apart, by themselves. And he was transfigured before them, and his clothes became dazzling white, such as no one on earth could bleach them. And there appeared to them Elijah with Moses, who were talking with Jesus. Then Peter said to Jesus, ‘Rabbi, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.’ He did not know what to say, for they were terrified. Then a cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud there came a voice, ‘This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!’ Suddenly when they looked around, they saw no one with them any more, but only Jesus. As they were coming down the mountain, he ordered them to tell no one about what they had seen, until after the Son of Man had risen from the dead.

Sermon

In the passages of Mark’s gospel that I’ve just read aloud here in church, we’ve heard the perhaps familiar story of Jesus’ transfiguration before Peter, James and John on the side of a mountain; a story in which Jesus’ clothes suddenly become a supernatural dazzling white and the disciples – terrified, the passage tells us, with Peter, as he usually does, blurting out the first thing that comes into his head – witnessing Jesus talking to the prophets Elijah and Moses. And as if that isn’t enough to send the disciples scurrying back down the mountain as fast as they can go, we’ve heard that a cloud then appears and overshadows them, and a voice comes from the cloud: “This is my Son, the Beloved. Listen to him!” The voice must have spoken with some volume or urgency, because as the Bible has it, that command from the cloud finishes with an exclamation mark, so we had better listen up!

Now that could all seem pretty confusing and overwhelming, couldn’t it? Presumably not least to the disciples, who have just witnessed the latest in an increasingly long line of extraordinary events concerning Jesus, only for him to tell them as they come back down the mountain that they mustn’t tell anyone what they have seen. So, let’s take a cautious and humble step back, shall we, and see if we can make some sense of it all.

What has happened in Mark’s gospel so far, up until this point in the story? Well, Jesus has, metaphorically speaking, led the disciples up a mountainside to give them a new perspective; a clearer view of the work God is doing and what God’s kingdom looks like. As such, they have had their eyes opened so that they can see – for the very first time – the inner reality of God’s kingdom and the central truth that Jesus really is the Messiah. The gospel has told us several times about eyes being opened in several different senses and, every time, it all comes back to Jesus himself, and the Kingdom of God that he is ushering in.

Now, though, as we have heard in our Gospel reading, Jesus has literally taken the disciples up a mountainside (maybe Mount Hermon just north of Caesarea Philippi, maybe Mount Tabor in central Galilee, we aren’t sure). And here, something similar in nature happens, though this time it happens on another, far more profound level; just like a microscope revealing the atomic structure of the smallest matter that makes up the earth beneath us, or a telescope revealing the greatest and largest cosmic realities of the universe that towers above us, the many layers of Jesus’ being are peeled back for Peter, James and John to see, and their eyes are truly opened to the inner reality of Jesus’ work; that is continuing, and then completing, the work of the great prophet, Elijah, and the greatest prophet, Moses.

So, what might this mean to the disciples, or to us today? Well, theologian Tom Wright suggests that the transfiguration isn’t about the revelation of Jesus’ divinity. If this was the meaning behind the event, then it would be implying that Elijah and Moses were some how divine, too. Rather, the transfiguration is a sign of Jesus being entirely caught up with, bathed in, the love, power and Kingdom of God, so that it transforms his whole being with light, in the way perhaps that music transforms the meaning of the words of a song. This is a sign that Jesus isn’t just indulging in nice and benign fantasies, but that he is speaking and doing the truth in a way that will transform the world.

But even this could leave us feeling puzzled, couldn’t it? We don’t generally experience things in our lives as dramatic as this story – as possible as such dramatic things might be. We don’t often try to interpret the details of our lives and times according to a detailed scriptural plot. Though perhaps we should, because I believe that each of us is called to do what the heavenly voice towards the end of our Gospel passage said: listen to Jesus, because he is God’s beloved Son.

Now, as well as being the Sunday Next before Lent – doesn’t that sound exciting! – today is Racial Justice Sunday. Our own Bishop of Huddersfield, Bishop Smitha, who heads up the Church of England’s Anglican Minority Ethnic Network was talking to a group of us clergy about Racial Justice Sunday at Church House in Leeds a couple of weeks ago. She was encouraging us to reflect upon the meaning of the day, engage with it and share it in the communities in which we serve. Indeed, in conversation, she gave me a forceful look as only Bishops can and noted something earlier in the day where I had shared that I was preaching today. “Oh, you’re preaching on Racial Justice Sunday. How opportune!” And yes, just like the voice from the overshadowing cloud that we heard about in Mark’s gospel, I’m pretty sure her sentence ended with an exclamation mark!

“Uh oh”, I hear you say. Where’s Graeme going with this? Is he a fully paid-up member of Suella Braverman’s Guardian-reading, tofu-eating, wokerati?! Well, bear with me for just a minute or two longer, and you can decide for yourselves.

I am in no doubt at all that I am blessed. Blessed, and deeply privileged. I am a white, middle-class, educated, cis-gendered, heterosexual man. I am of the Christian faith, and I am now a member of the clergy serving a largely affluent parish in the Church of England who have welcomed me with open arms. I have a loving family who support me in everything – well, most things – that I do. I do not want for anything much at all, and NONE of these things that I have just mentioned are a barrier to me going about my life. That’s not the case for everyone in the world. It’s certainly not the case for everyone in the UK. It may not even be the case for everyone in Mirfield, though available data suggests that for the majority of people in this town, it is. So what? What does that have to do with you as you sit here in the stunning surrounds of this church in this village and this town? What does that have to do with us here in what we only half-jokingly call God’s own county? And what on earth does it have to do with today’s gospel reading?

One of the first questions so many of you asked me as I came to serve in Mirfield Team Parish was where would Sally and the children – and Val – and I be living. My answer was always the same. Well, the house we were due to move into wasn’t ready in time, so the Diocese moved us to Cleckheaton. But when the house is ready, we’ll be moving to Ravensthorpe and the St. Saviour’s Vicarage. Here’s a selection of just some of the responses that I got and the exchanges that followed:

  1. Ooof. You’re better off staying in Cleckheaton!
  2. Oh no. Ravensthorpe isn’t what it used to be. Oh really? Why’s that? Well, you know. I don’t have to tell you.
  3. You’d better keep your cats in doors once you’ve moved, otherwise they’ll be made into a curry.

Even when people weren’t speaking directly to me, I often overheard, and still overhear, comments about Ravensthorpe when people either don’t know I can hear them, or don’t think there is anything untoward about what they are saying. Some more lived examples from my own personal experience:

  1. You must be mad to even think about living in Ravensthorpe.
  2. Well, the traffic was really busy, and I could either turn back, or turn towards Ravensthorpe. And who in their right mind would want to go to Ravensthorpe.
  3. Use the laundrette in Ravensthorpe? Yeah, right! And get held up at gunpoint and your car nicked for the sake of washing a thirty quid duvet? I’ll just buy a new duvet.
  4. Ravensthorpe is a dunghole. (Spoiler alert for you, my brothers and sisters, “dunghole” may not be the word that was actually used.)

Why do I mention any of this? Well, on this Racial Justice Sunday, that coincides with our hearing of the story of Jesus’ transfiguration, I’d like to prompt us all – myself very much included, I’m not somehow off the hook here because I’m the one speaking from the lectern – to peel back the layers of the world around us, and see as clearly as we can, the reality that we live in.

This reality includes the fact that yes, even here in the Mirfield Team Parish, we say and do things that can be described as racist every day of the week, at the same time as we do the things that are loving and welcoming and Christlike. These two features of our life in this Christian community it turns out, shock horror, are not somehow mutually exclusive. One does not automatically cancel out the other.

As someone who lives there and experiences the place and its people on a daily basis, I can tell you that this reality includes the fact that Ravensthorpe is a community that has its challenges, socially, economically, but is also a place that is full of faithful, loving, hard-working and hopeful people who are let down every time someone a  mile up the road perpetuates myths about the community of Ravensthorpe and the people who live there. It’s not lost on me that when I walk around Ravensthorpe wearing my dog-collar, I am welcomed with open arms there, too. In fact, I am far more likely to receive a smile and a nod, a handshake or end up having a deep and meaningful conversation about God in Ravensthorpe than I am in Mirfield, where the response is more often than not for the passer by to see me, clock the dog collar, and immediately turn their gaze to pavement, walking a little quicker to get away from me as quickly as they can.

This reality includes the fact that this is now a mobile world. People are on the move and places and communities are connected in ways that they never have been before. Everywhere and everything is more accessible than it was 100 years ago, and that isn’t going to change.

Much like the disciples might have been feeling on that mountainside, that sounds like a lot. It sounds overwhelming. So how, as Christians, are we to respond? What, if anything, should we do?

We could start with the Bible and the book of Genesis and its assertion that we are – ALL of us – made in the image of God. We can turn through the pages of the first five books of the Bible and take note of reference after reference after reference telling us how we are to welcome strangers. We can pay attention when Jesus tells us that when we welcome strangers and care for them in their hour of need, we are welcoming and caring for Jesus himself. We can turn to Jesus’ story of the workers in the vineyard and see how all of them are treated fairly, no matter when or how they arrived to do their work.

Ultimately, however, what it ALL boils down to, ALL of it, is that our Christian response should be to love one another. As an ordained Deacon I have the immense privilege of saying several times a week: “Our Lord, Jesus Christ, said: the first commandment is this. Hear, O Israel: the Lord your God, is the only Lord; 30 you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind and with all your strength.’ 31 The second is this, ‘You shall love your neighbour as yourself.’ There is no other commandment greater than these.” I shall go on saying those words at every opportunity that I have. The question is, do I – DO YOU – really believe them?

So the Bible and Christ himself tell us that our Christian response to this reality should be based on mercy, compassion and love: to see the image of God in ALL people. It tells us that our response should be about action, too, and that we are required to take risks: perhaps for us this might be about speaking out, challenging and changing the language that is used to talk about people who live just down the road, or come to our neighbourhoods seeking sanctuary, regardless of the pushback that might follow. Perhaps that is the risk that I am taking this morning. We shall see.

It tells us that we should use the resources we have to help those who flee from persecution, conflict and crisis. These might be our own personal resources, those of our churches or our collective national resources. And the teaching of Jesus tells us that we should do all of this regardless of difference: no partiality.

So perhaps, just as Jesus led his disciples up a mountain and opened their eyes to the truth,  the reality lying behind the layers upon layers upon layers of the world, we as Christians who have come in their wake, might let God in Jesus Christ open our eyes too to the truth that is all around us if only we are prepared to see it. Perhaps, in that way, we too will be blessed, our community will be enriched, our economy and everything else will be given added value. People born in other cultures and other parts of the world have so much to give, so much to bring into our lives together. We miss out on all this if we overlook the Christian imperative that we should love our neighbour as we love ourselves. Perhaps finally, in this loving and hopeful, Christian response, in our witness to the truth of Jesus seen in his transfiguration, we might transfigure ourselves and the contested world in which we live, drawn by hope, not driven by fear; like Christ himself, entirely caught up in, bathed in, the love, power and Kingdom of God. AMEN.

Friday Thought, St. Hild College, 16th September, 2022

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I am in my final year of training for ordination at St. Hild College in Yorkshire. When the college gathers for residential weekends at the Community of the Resurrection in Mirfield, it is traditional that a student offers a “Friday Thought” during the first time of Evening Prayer the college shares together that weekend.

On Friday, 16th September, the college community gathered for it’s first residential weekend of the new academic year and, this time, it was my turn to offer the Friday Thought. The three readings from Scripture that I chose for Evening Prayer were Isaiah 43:1-7, Romans 12:3-8 and Matthew 20:20-28. The text of the thought I shared follows.

Jesus Washes Peter’s Feet by Sieger Köder

“I declare before you all, that my whole life, whether it be long or short, shall be devoted to your service and the service of our great imperial family to which we all belong.”

The words of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II, spoken to the nation and to the world on her 21st birthday in 1947. Words that have been shared many times over the course of the Queen’s reign, and of course have been shared many more times in the days since her death at the age of 96. Hers was a long life, as it turned out.

I wonder if the Queen was nervous before giving her speech. Perhaps in the way we might all be feeling some nerves as we join the family of St.Hild for the first time, or embark on our next or final year of study and formation in this place. Even though she was being prepared for public life for much of her life, the Queen’s eventual accession to the throne was unexpectedly swift. I can’t help but feel that even that most steadfast of monarchs must have felt just the odd twinge of anxiousness.

Fortunately for the Queen, and for us as some of the many millions of people she dedicated her life of service to, we know that she had a deep faith in something beyond herself and her own strength. As she publicly professed many times, she had faith in God and saw Jesus Christ as her ultimate guide and inspiration as she sought to live out the life of a servant-leader.

The readings from Scripture that we’ve heard this evening, from Isaiah, Paul’s letter to the Romans, and the Gospel of Matthew, I think all speak to aspects of the Queen’s life and to the life of all of us at St. Hild College as we embark on this new year together.

In Isaiah we hear about how God called the people of Israel by name to their life and vocation as the people of God, and of all that he would do for them as they grew into that vocation. Of course, God didn’t promise that the vocation would be easy, but God did – and still does – promise that even though we walk through fire we shall not be consumed by it.

In Paul’s letter to the Romans, we hear something pertinent about how to live well in community and relationship with one another, recognising and valuing diversity and the different gifts that we all bring and should share in service of one another as we grow together and help form and be formed by one another. Note to self: We also hear how we should leave our egos at the door and not think more highly of ourselves than we ought to think.

In Matthew’s Gospel we hear Jesus challenge the ego of the two sons of Zebedee, James and John, and perhaps their mother, as she asks Jesus to ensure that her sons will sit at his right hand and left in the Kingdom. Jesus draws all three of them back to God with gently worded but profound challenge, before going on to declare that whoever wishes to be great among you, must be your servant, just as the Son of Man came not to be served, but to serve.

Whether Royalist or Republican, or any nuanced position in between, I think we might all agree that Queen Elizabeth lived out her faith and her own God-given vocation; that as imperfect as we all are as human beings, and as deeply problematic as the reality of Empire was, the Queen took every opportunity she could to encourage living well together in community and relationship; and that in her public declaration in 1947 and her life beyond it, she certainly lived up to her promise to serve us all, because ultimately, first and foremost, she was serving God. In that way, perhaps, she was and can continue to be an inspiration to us all.

So, as we embark upon this weekend together, our anxiousness and imposter syndrome may be real. Have faith. God has called us all by name. We may be challenged by the things we hear, see and feel as part of this college family. Have faith, diversity and learning to live well together as people called to ministry will be challenging, but a good and healthy thing. We may at times seek reward or greater security on our journey with God. Have faith, let’s all check our egos at the door, for we are all here not to be served, but to serve.

In serving God and one another, may we all have a blessed and fruitful year. Amen.