Weeds, Wheat and Wildfires

I’m starting to think there’s a conspiracy with the readings that come up when it’s my turn to preach! But like all things biblical, how we look at today’s passages is all about context, perspective and interpretation. I’ll warn you that my sermon today will have a healthy dose of weeping and gnashing of teeth, but hopefully it’s all wrapped in a healthy dose of hope.

On Wednesday 8th July I headed out to Dove Stone Reservoir with my husband, son and son’s girlfriend. Whilst Wren’s girlfriend was over for the week, they wanted to hang out in nature and give Wren a chance to try out their new birding binoculars, a recent birthday present. 

It was hot and it was dry, but it was beautiful. We saw some stunning pheasants in one of the picnic areas, 100s of bees and butterflies, and said hello to lots of lovely dogs, and their owners. We treated ourselves to a 99 from the car-park ice cream van after we’d completed the circular walk and asked ourselves: why had we never visited before?

Those of you who were here last Sunday will remember that as we we’re leaving after the service there was smoke in the air. I presumed it was a local garden fire, but as the day went on and the smell persisted, I wondered if it might be something more.

On Sunday evening I saw the news of the wildfires at Dove Stone and I’m sure many of us this have watched with sadness the images on our news feeds and even if we’ve avoided the news, the continued presence of acrid smoke has been a reminder.

Moorland that only days before was alive with plants, insects, birds and hidden ecosystems became blackened and smoking, and we saw fire crews work tirelessly. The fire is a stark reminder of how fragile our landscapes can be, particularly during periods of heat and drought which are becoming more frequent with the effects of climate change.

When I first read today’s gospel, the fire immediately came into my mind. As I continued my preparation and tried to find the commonality between all 3 readings, I read - written by some theologian much cleverer than me - that all three readings are about seeing beyond the surface.

Jacob sees an ordinary patch of ground and discovers it’s the house of God. Paul looks at a groaning creation and sees labour pains rather than death throes. Jesus contemplates a field containing both wheat and weeds and tells us not to despair.

When we put them together, they teach us something we desperately need to hear right now: Climate change hasn’t won, God hasn’t abandoned creation. God is still present within it and is still working through it. God is bringing it towards redemption.

The Gospel parable begins with a problem: A farmer sows good seed. Everything is done properly and with care and yet weeds appear. Immediately the servants ask, "how did this happen?" - it's the question people ask whenever disaster strikes:

How did this happen? Whether it’s weeds, suffering, pollution, fire or destruction: Why is a world that God created good, so often marked by pain? Jesus doesn't minimise the reality of evil, he doesn't pretend the weeds aren't there. In fact, he tells us there’re forces at work in the world which oppose God's goodness. 

The servants want immediate action – pull out the weeds, separate the good from the bad. Yet their master says: "No. Let both grow together until the harvest." The servants want quick solutions, but the master advocates for patience - he understands something the servants don't. The roots of the wheat and weeds are intertwined. Pulling up one may damage the other.

Jesus is reminding us that God's work is often gentle and more patient than our own. And that matters when we think about the ecological crises facing our world. 

There are two temptations, denial or despair. Some people refuse to acknowledge the weeds. Others become so overwhelmed by them that they lose hope altogether. The parable offers a third choice: Face reality honestly, but without surrendering hope.  The farmer still has oversight for the whole field, and the weeds aren’t the whole story - the harvest is still coming.

Paul echoes this in Romans. "The whole creation has been groaning in labour pains." Creation is giving birth, and the groaning matters, the suffering is real and so is the pain. But labour pains tell us a birth is imminent.

Creation is wounded but not abandoned; this is so important as we contemplate environmental stewardship. We don’t care for creation because we believe we can save the planet by our own efforts; we care for creation because God loves it; God made it and gifted it to us. 

Fr Joash Thomas writes that creation is not merely a backdrop to the spiritual life. The natural world is one of the places where we encounter God. Creation is sacramental. It points beyond itself to the Creator. 

Now this takes us back to Jacob, who’s made a mess of his life and is running away. He's sleeping outdoors and using a stone for a pillow. Nothing about his situation feels sacred. Yet when he wakes up, he says: "Surely the Lord is in this place, and I did not know it."

What if, when we see wildfires and ecological disaster, we’ve forgotten that God is in this place?

God is in Urmston meadows, in the river Mersey and Manchester Ship Canal. In the Millenium Nature Reserve and the TransPennine way. And God is also in the endless building work in Trafford Park, the abandoned Moss Vale pub and Davyhulme Sewage Works

God is in the hills around Dove Stone and other areas of devastating loss, both before and after the fires. God is in every corner of creation, because God has made it and declared it good.

The Celtic saints often spoke about "thin places", places where heaven and earth seem closer together. Jacob experiences a thin place at Bethel. But anywhere can become a place where we glimpse God's presence. Anywhere - everywhere - can become holy ground. And if we see creation this way, stewardship moves beyond a duty and becomes an act of love.

The challenge, of course, is that right now creation is groaning. We see it in wildfires, floods, disappearing habitats and in the anxiety we feel about the future.

The temptation is to believe the weeds are winning, but the Gospel says otherwise. The story ends with harvest and light, with: "The righteous shining like the sun in the kingdom of their Father." The final word belongs to God, and our God is one of renewal, resurrection and life.

So what are we called to do? If God has this all figured out, do we need to do anything? 

Well, first, we notice, recover Jacob's sense of wonder and recognise God's presence in creation. And we can say: "Surely the Lord is in this place."

Second, we care. We commit to be faithful stewards of what has been entrusted to us, not because we can fix everything, but because love always takes responsibility.

And third, we hope. Christian hope isn’t the same as optimism. Optimism says everything will probably work out. Hope says that even when the field contains weeds, even when creation groans, even when smoke hangs over the hills, God remains faithful.

The field, the harvest and the future belong to Christ. And so we keep sewing our seeds, for surely the Lord is in this place. And I don’t he’s finished with it yet. Amen.

Sermon based upon 

Genesis 28:10-19a

Romans 8:12-25

Matthew 13:24-30, 36-43

You are welcome. You are loved. You belong.

May I speak in the name of the God who is Speaker, Word & Breath. Amen.

based upon Genesis 22.1-14, Romans 6.12-end, Matthew 10.40-end

I’m not going to lie, I wasn’t thrilled to get The Sacrifice of Isaac in today’s readings – although it means that I get to tell you that in my first year of high school, in an RE lesson we had to re-enact stories from the Old Testament – my group was given The Sacrifice of Isaac, and I got to be the sheep.

What I’m deflecting from here with the tale of my ovine acting debut is that this is one of those bible passages that leaves me with a deep sense of unease.

Abraham is asked by God to sacrifice his precious and long-awaited son. It’s a story that’s troubled people for generations, and it should trouble us – who of us would go out to the wilderness, no questions asked to kill something so precious to us? It seems so unnecessary and cruel for God to test Abraham’s faith in this way.

So what at its heart, does this story teach us about God. Is the God we follow the one who demands the sacrifice? Or should the emphasis be on the God who interrupts it? The story doesn’t end with death – well, unless we consider the poor sheep.

The story ends with God crying out: “Do not lay your hand on the boy.” It ends with God saying no to violence and providing Abraham with everything he needs, and Abraham naming the place: “The Lord will provide.”

As we come to the end of Pride Month, where the lives of LGBTQ+ people are highlighted and celebrated, this story struck at something for me. On Friday the Christie Hospital Rainbow Staff Network, which I’m part of, threw our annual Pride Garden Party – offering lunch, games and community to staff and patients alike. It’s a celebration of our diverse staff and encouragement for them to feel safe to be their authentic selves.

Because for many LGBTQ+ people, the message they’ve heard - sometimes explicitly, sometimes subtly - is that God requires a sacrifice of them: a sacrifice of their identity; a sacrifice of relationships; and this means a sacrifice of their truth.

What’s heard is “be someone else, hide who you really are, give up what’s natural and beautiful to you, and then you’ll be acceptable. God made you this way but God doesn’t want you this way”

Yet the God we meet on the mountain in the land of Moriah is not a God who ultimately demands the sacrifice of what we love. This is a God who interrupts harm. A God who says: I’ll provide another way. A God who doesn’t ask us to stop being who we are - but who does call us to deepen our faith and our trust in God.

And that brings us to the reading from Romans. Again, at first glance, this is also a passage which makes me feel uneasy - Paul talks about belonging and about giving ourselves over entirely to God, but it’s wrapped in this language of slavery. 

For us, where autonomy and identity matter so deeply, this language can feel really uncomfortable, and even dangerous. But I wonder if Paul is trying to describe something that our modern understanding of the language or translation struggles to find the nuance in.

Because we all at some time or other can find ourselves under the power of things which stop us fully connecting with our faith. This might be fear, expectation, shame or the need to fit in.

For many of us, in different ways, the thing that we’re, for want of a better word, slaves to, is the pressure to be acceptable. To our families, our friends, our colleagues, our congregation and to God. For LGBTQ+ people there’s an extra layer to that if you’re being told that unless you change something fundamental to who you are, you’ll never be acceptable.

I some way, we each perform a version of ourselves we hope won’t be rejected. Paul says: that kind of life doesn’t make us free. It leads to death - not physically, but spiritually. The death of joy. The death of truth. The death of the self that God created us to be. But then comes the good bit: “You have been brought from death to life.” Not by following what we think the rules are, or by shrinking ourselves, but by grace.

Grace isn’t what we get for sacrificing or denying our true self, grace is God’s gift and the declaration that we’re already loved. And it’s from that place of love, that we’re invited into transformation.

Not transformation into someone more acceptable to God and society, but transformation into someone more fully alive, more fully human and more fully ourselves.

It’s frequently asked why there’s been an explosion of people trying to autism or ADHD diagnosed post the pandemic. The truth for my family, as for many others, is that when my children felt safe and loved in our home they also felt they could be their authentic selves – they weren’t out in a society everyday that told them they way they thought, or acted or encountered the world was wrong. 

This is called unmasking, and it’s where you stop wearing the mask of “what does the world find acceptable” and can only be done when you feel safe to be your true self without fear of rejection.

Today’s Gospel reading is just three short verses, and the one word which echoes through those verses is “welcome.”

“Whoever welcomes you welcomes me.”

It’s so simple, and yet so radical, because Jesus is saying that how we treat one another is how we treat God, in the ordinary, everyday, encounters of our lives. How we treat everyone matters.

We’ve been on a journey of Inclusion before and since joining the Inclusive Church Network. Joining the network wasn’t a declaration of a journey that was completed but a waymark on an ever-evolving pathway of what it means to sign up to The Inclusive Church Statement:

“We believe in inclusive church – a church which celebrates and affirms every person and does not discriminate.

We will continue to challenge the church where it continues to discriminate against people on grounds of disability, economic power, ethnicity, gender, gender identity, learning disability, mental health, neurodiversity, or sexuality.

We believe in a Church which welcomes and serves all people in the name of Jesus Christ; which is scripturally faithful; which seeks to proclaim the Gospel afresh for each generation; and which, in the power of the Holy Spirit, allows all people to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Jesus Christ.”

So here’s the challenge for us, as the Church: Who are we failing to welcome? Has anyone been made to feel that they’re too much, or not enough? Who’s walked through our doors and left feeling unseen, or unsafe, or silently judged?

Because if Christ comes to us in one another, as Jesus makes clear in the Gospel reading, then exclusion is not just unkind, it’s a failure to recognise God in our midst.

Pride Month matters because it reminds us of this truth. That people who were once told “you don’t belong” are claiming their place and saying: We are here. We are who God made us to be. And we will not disappear.

And Christians have a choice. We can stand like Abraham at the altar - knife in hand -believing that faith requires sacrifice of the self, and the things most dear to us. Or we can remember the voice that says: “Stop. Do no harm.” We need to trust that God will provide another way.

And what might that way look like?

It might look like a cup of cold water, a small act of kindness, a word of affirmation, a refusal to laugh at a joke that we know isn’t really OK. It might look like truly listening to someone whose story is different from our own or creating spaces where people don’t have to hide. Where no one has to choose between their faith and their identity. Where being fully known isn’t a risk but a beautiful gift.

The Gospel reading isn’t complicated.

God offers us life.

God doesn’t require us to erase who we are.

God calls us - by name - into freedom.

God says: Welcome.

So perhaps today our prayer is this:

That we might have the courage to reject all the voices that call us to sacrifice what God has called good.

That we might trust in the God who provides.

And that we continue evolving as a community where everyone can hear, and know, and believe:

You are welcome.

You are loved.

You belong.

Amen.

Step onto the dancefloor

So… Trinity Sunday. I’ll be honest — this is the one I’ve quietly dodged over the years. Many a preacher has stood before their congregation on Trinity Sunday and tied themself in knots with their Trinity metaphors.

The Trinity is like a shamrock…the Trinity is like water, ice and steam…the Trinity is like Aquafresh toothpaste – although other brands are available. Before you know it, you’ve gone and accidentally explained a heresy from the 4th century. Trinity Sunday heresy is rife in its preaching.

Congregations may politely nod at these sermons, but at the end of it you’ve no more idea of how the Trinity actually works and maybe some really unhelpful and confusing ideas of how it doesn’t. So today, I don’t want to try and explain the Trinity – I don’t think I ever could. Instead, I want to invite you into it.

Because at its heart, the Trinity isn’t a puzzle to be solved. It’s a relationship. Or, as Fr. Richard Rohr beautifully puts it… it’s a divine dance. Dance is about movement, reaction, and being in unison.

Now I did a little bit of dance in my younger days – I even have a medal for coming 3^rd place in a cha cha contest, but dance in my adult years mostly consisted of being in a mosh pit at Jilly’s Rockworld – for anyone who doesn’t know what that means you can ask me questions over coffee!

But however we dance or move our bodies, the Divine Dance of Father, Son, Spirit; Maker, Redeemer, Sustainer; Speaker, Word and Breath – the Divine Dance of the Trinity is never still, but constantly in motion, pouring out towards one another an eternal exchange of love.

You might find this way of thinking about the trinity easy to grasp – or you may be sitting in your pew absolutely flummoxed. As always, the bible readings today have been carefully curated to reflect where we are in the liturgical year- but we don’t find any further explanation in them. Instead, they give us glimpses — windows into this holy mystery.

In Isaiah we read - “Who has measured the waters in the hollow of his hand?" “The Lord is the everlasting God… the Creator… who does not grow weary.”

This gives me a sense of a God so big, so beyond us, as to be uncontainable…and yet…“He gives power to the faint… and strengthens the powerless.”

Despite that vastness, ours isn’t a distant, detached God. This is a God who is both beyond everything, and yet intimately present with us.

Then Paul, in that beautiful closing blessing from Corinthians writes: “The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit be with you…”

Grace, Love and Communion.

This isn’t about doctrine; it gives us something tangible to explain how we experience God. We can see Grace at work, we can feel Love, and we live within Communion with God and each other.

And then we have the Gospel. The risen Jesus stands with his friends — some worshipping, some doubting – and I love when we have a bit of doubt thrown in, I’m sure Thomas in the altar window would agree, because that’s our reality, that’s how church is - a mixture of faith and uncertainty, with a bit prayer and worship thrown in.

Jesus doesn’t separate his disciples into good and bad, the believers and the doubters. He includes all of them in what we call the Great Commission – and this is the reading we have in all our afternoon baptism services.

“Go… baptising… in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit…” Jesus then promises: “I am with you always…to the end of the age." Intimately close to us though our entire lives.

When I try and put the glimpses from each reading together, it gives a picture of a God who is vast and yet comes and meets us where we are.

A God who is grace, love and communion.

A God who is Father, Son and Spirit

It gives me a sense of a God who wants to know us and be in relationship with us.

In Baptism we’re drawn into that relationship with God. When Jesus tells the disciples “go and baptise” he’s telling them their work is to draw everyone they meet into that relationship too.

When we say yes to God’s invitation, we allow ourselves to be drawn into the dance, caught up in the movement of God and living within that flow of love.

If God is a dance of love, then faith isn’t striving to reach God “up there”, always feeling beyond our reach. Faith is noticing that we’re already being held within God’s love, we're already part of the movement.

This view of God can also teach us something about our communal life and how we move together.

Paul says: “live in peace… agree with one another”

This doesn’t mean we all have to think the same things, because we know whether we’re talking about the wider church, or just our little corner of it, we’re never going to be the same as each other.

The wonderful thing is unity doesn’t mean sameness - the Trinity itself isn’t sameness, it’s diversity in relationship, or difference held together in love.

Which means church, at its best, is meant to look a bit like a dance too, sometimes in harmony, and sometimes out of step but continuing to move together, and to make space for each other.

The Cloud of Unknowing, a 14th-century English mystical treatise, teaches that God cannot be grasped by thought or imagination but can be approached through a "cloud of unknowing" sustained by a loving intention.

So maybe Trinity Sunday isn’t about getting our heads around something impossible, maybe it’s about letting go of the need for explanations, trusting the holy mystery and stepping onto the dance floor.

Letting ourselves be drawn into love.

Letting ourselves be held in grace.

And letting ourselves become part of a communion that’s always been there.

We humans love to complicate things, so maybe in times such as these we need to keep it simple;

God isn’t distant or unknowable

God is a community of love.

And we’re already part of that community

It can be so liberating to stop trying to solve the mystery and instead to start living it.

In the name of the Father, 

and of the Son,

and of the Holy Spirit.

Amen.

Listening For Love

May I speak in the name of the One God who is Speaker, Word and Breath. Amen.

I don't know if Anna and Laurie knew when they booked today for Matthew's baptism, but today is Good Shepherd Sunday - a perfect day to welcome one of the newest members of our flock. 

The shepherding imagery weaves through the readings and feels quite familiar and reassuring

In the reading from Acts we hear what life looks like for that first community of Christians when they have heard and followed Jesus. They live together, sharing everything, eating, worshipping and working alongside one another. 

If we read the psalm for today it would unsurprisingly be Psalm 23 - a reminder that we’re known by God, and that God wishes to keep us safe.

But when we listen closely things really aren’t that cosy at all. In the gospel, Jesus is talking about thieves and bandits, about danger and about voices that can’t be trusted. Jesus says sheep need to learn the difference between the voice of the shepherd and those who might wish them harm.

He seems to be implying that there are those who claim to love God, to follow God, and to know God’s will, but aren’t really recognising the true voice of God. Jesus was preaching this at the temple, surrounded by Pharisees and others who definitely didn’t recognise his voice as the voice of God.

Now, sheep get a bad press. Being called a sheep for us usually means being accused of not thinking for ourselves or blindly following the crowd. But we might not be as different from sheep as we’d like to think.

Sheep have actually been proven to be pretty intelligent – they can recognise different faces, they have impressive memories and they experience a wide range of emotions. But when sheep are scared they panic, they behave irrationally.

They cluster, or scatter, or run towards danger, basically losing all sense of direction. And that feels… uncomfortably familiar.

We Humans tend to make our worst decisions when we’re scared. Fear makes us reactive, narrows our judgement, and makes us more likely to listen to voices we’d ignore at other times - and there are always people willing to exploit our fear.

Jesus names them plainly: thieves and bandits — those who don’t enter by the gate, who don’t care for the sheep, who take and scatter and destroy. We don’t need to look very far all these centuries later to hear the voices still exploiting our fears.

They’re the voices that tell us to fear the poor who’ll take more than they deserve, the outsider whose differences from us make them a threat, and the foreigner who threatens and takes. These voices tell us generosity is weakness, that compassion is naïve yet proclaim faith while preaching exclusion.

And those voices can be incredibly loud – and that volume can be amplified by wealth, influence, certainty, and power. The danger is that our fear can make their voices start to sound like wisdom.

Jesus tells us about the Good Shepherd – who loves, protects and leads the flock: “The sheep follow him, because they know his voice.” They might not know the path, or the terrain could be tricky, but the sheep know it’s the right way to go. They put their faith in the one leading them.

The shepherd’s voice never leads by fear. It doesn’t cause the sheep to scatter, or trample the weak for the sake of the strong. The shepherd’s voice leads towards the abundant life Jesus wants for each of us.

Now I’m a massive fan of The Chosen – I’m sure I’ve mentioned it in sermons before, I’ve told Huw to watch it as well, but he’s probably forgot. It’s an incredibly well-made TV series which depicts Jesus’ life, beginning with leaving the wilderness to start his ministry and the 5th series that came out last year finished with Judas’ betrayal – I rewatched the whole thing through Lent.

During the 4th series we see the scene from today’s gospel taking place on the temple steps, and it results in Jesus and the disciples being the victims of an attempted stoning by the Pharisees who are calling Jesus out, appalled at what they call blasphemy. Big James is quite badly injured, and they’re forced to retreat to their lodging house. And they’re scared.

The reality of how dangerous their ministry is hits them.

They realise that whilst they all believe that Jesus is the Messiah, not everyone will believe, not everyone will hear and understand, and some may even be threatened to the point where they want to kill those bringing the message.

It’s a moment of hate and violence as a response to a message of love, and I think that’s still the way some people respond when confronted with the true message of Jesus’ teaching, where the poor, the orphaned, the widowed, the sick, the tax collectors, people with questionable pasts and those cast out through illness are all equally loved and held up in God’s eyes; and to do God’s work is to care for the sick, the prisoner, the marginalised. 

This message of love and inclusion will always threaten those who benefit from exploiting our fears.

Which brings us, uncomfortably, to leadership. Today being Good Shepherd Sunday, is a day we inevitably think about those who have leadership and pastoral responsibility – whether in churches, in communities, or in the public eye.

Like Pope Leo, who recently seemed to become a threat to some powerful people by simply preaching the gospel. It takes courage for our Christian leaders to speak so clearly about love, justice, human dignity, and truth - especially when that brings them into tension with those who the world sees as powerful.

And it takes courage to resist those voices that trade in fear, to refuse a rhetoric of exclusion, violence and dominance, and to declare that our faith can’t be used as a weapon.

It takes courage knowing there will be a backlash, and part of that may well come from within the church. But finding that courage, knowing you must speak up to the fear-mongers, sounds like someone listening for and responding to the shepherd’s voice.

But not all those in leadership have this courage. Sometimes leaders are the same people preying upon our fears.

Jesus tells us something else in the gospel; “I am the gate.” This is a reminder to everyone – those who lead with fear but also us, who may think we’ve got it right, that we’re following Jesus the right way, which might lead us to have strong feelings against, or even hate, those who we think are getting it wrong.

The sheep don’t get to decide who comes through the gate, nor do the shepherds who came after Jesus and neither does the church.

Jesus alone decides who’s in and who’s out. 

He is the gate. 

And whenever we forget that - whenever we start deciding whose lives matter, whose suffering can be ignored, whose dignity is conditional – we’ve stopped listening to the right voice and we’re no longer following the shepherd.

When there are so many voices competing to be heard - political voices, religious voices, media voices, voices of friends, family and colleagues - which voices sound most like love?

Which voices speak about mercy rather than suspicion?

Which voices gather us together rather than scattering us apart?

Which voices speak of lifting up the most vulnerable rather than asking who deserves our help?

As we baptise Matthew this morning, what voices do we want him and our church family to hear as they grow in love, faithfulness and discipleship?

That is how we discern the shepherd’s voice – it leads towards love and leaves fear behind. It guides us into living an abundant life.

So I pray we resist voices that trade in fear. And even if the path is a bit rocky, or unfamiliar, may we have the courage - like sheep who trust their shepherd - to follow where God’s love leads.

Amen.

Fourth Sunday of Easter

The Collect:

O God, whose Son Jesus is the good shepherd of your people: Grant that when we hear his voice we may know him who calls us each by name, and follow where he leads; who, with you and the Holy Spirit, lives and reigns, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

First Lesson: Acts 2:42-47

42They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers. 43Awe came upon everyone, because many wonders and signs were being done by the apostles. 44All who believed were together and had all things in common; 45they would sell their possessions and goods and distribute the proceeds to all, as any had need. 46Day by day, as they spent much time together in the temple, they broke bread at home and ate their food with glad and generous hearts, 47praising God and having the goodwill of all the people. And day by day the Lord added to their number those who were being saved.

Psalm: Psalm 23

1 The Lord is my shepherd; *

       I shall not be in want.

2 He makes me lie down in green pastures *

       and leads me beside still waters.

3 He revives my soul *

       and guides me along right pathways for his Name’s sake.

4 Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,

  I shall fear no evil; *

       for you are with me;

       your rod and your staff, they comfort me.

5 You spread a table before me in the presence of those who trouble me; *

       you have anointed my head with oil,

       and my cup is running over.

6 Surely your goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, *

       and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

Second Lesson: 1 Peter 2:19-25

19For it is a credit to you if, being aware of God, you endure pain while suffering unjustly. 20If you endure when you are beaten for doing wrong, what credit is that? But if you endure when you do right and suffer for it, you have God’s approval. 21For to this you have been called, because Christ also suffered for you, leaving you an example, so that you should follow in his steps. 22“He committed no sin, and no deceit was found in his mouth.” 23When he was abused, he did not return abuse; when he suffered, he did not threaten; but he entrusted himself to the one who judges justly. 24He himself bore our sins in his body on the cross, so that, free from sins, we might live for righteousness; by his wounds you have been healed. 25For you were going astray like sheep, but now you have returned to the shepherd and guardian of your souls.

Gospel: John 10:1-10

1“Very truly, I tell you, anyone who does not enter the sheepfold by the gate but climbs in by another way is a thief and a bandit. 2The one who enters by the gate is the shepherd of the sheep. 3The gatekeeper opens the gate for him, and the sheep hear his voice. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. 4When he has brought out all his own, he goes ahead of them, and the sheep follow him because they know his voice. 5They will not follow a stranger, but they will run from him because they do not know the voice of strangers.” 6Jesus used this figure of speech with them, but they did not understand what he was saying to them. 7So again Jesus said to them, “Very truly, I tell you, I am the gate for the sheep. 8All who came before me are thieves and bandits; but the sheep did not listen to them. 9I am the gate. Whoever enters by me will be saved, and will come in and go out and find pasture. 10The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.

Surrender, Gratitude and the "Little Way"

So this week we’ve stepped once again into the holy season of Lent. And to be completely honest I love Lent – it’s probably my favourite party of the liturgical year. But this might not be the case for all of you - some of you may approach Lent with a sense of dread, thinking of it as weeks of misery, austerity and self‑denial.

But some of us see it very differently. We feel a kind of relief. A homecoming. A chance to finally exhale and let go. Lent can be a season of spiritual recharging, a time when we’re able to leave behind the noise of the world for just long enough for us to hear the whisper of God.

And today’s Gospel draws us into this

Matthew tells us that “Jesus was led by the Spirit into the wilderness.” He wasn’t pushed or forced but led, guided and accompanied by the Spirit. The wilderness isn’t a place Jesus stumbles into by accident or is thrown into by force; it was a place of intention and purpose, a place of encounter. And if we choose to follow him there, it can for us become a place of transformation.

We might imagine the wilderness as a place that’s hostile. But what if it’s actually a place of growth? A place which allows the unnecessary things of life to fall away and those which are actually important to become clearer?

Jesus goes into the wilderness right after his baptism, right after hearing the words: “You are my beloved.” He doesn’t go there seeking God’s love or approval. He goes there already held by it. The wilderness becomes the space where he learns to trust that love more deeply.

And that’s the invitation of Lent—not to prove ourselves to God, but to remember who we already are, who God created us to be. The noise and busyness of life often causes our true self or purpose to become masked.

This is where St Thérèse of Lisieux becomes a wise companion – my devotion this Lent is a book of daily meditations which reflect upon her “little way”. Thérèse never travelled far, never preached, never founded anything. Her “Little Way” is simply the way of trusting love in the small, hidden places of life.

She once wrote, “Jesus does not demand great actions from us, but simply surrender and gratitude” which could be a great way for us to approach Lent.

Thérèse teaches us that holiness isn’t found in heroic feats or grand gestures but in small acts of courage, in tenderness, and in trust. She would tell us that the wilderness isn’t frightening when we walk it with Jesus. It becomes the place where we discover that God meets us in our smallness, and ordinariness, not in our seeking to be perfect or important.

And that’s good news for us - because it’s a reminder that God’s love isn’t conditional. The wilderness isn’t a test we have to pass, but a space where we learn to rest in the truth that we’re already beloved.

The three temptations Jesus faces aren’t random; they’re invitations to choose who he will be.

The first temptation is “Turn these stones into bread.” This is the temptation to define ourselves by what we produce. But Lent whispers: You are more than your output.

The second is “Throw yourself down from the temple.” This is the temptation to prove our worth. But Lent whispers: You don’t need to perform for God.

Finally Jesus is told “All these kingdoms I will give you.” This is the temptation to grasp for power. But Lent whispers: True strength is found in love.

Thérèse would smile at these temptations because she knew them well. She knew the pressure to be impressive, to be extraordinary. And she gently reminds us that Jesus chooses a different path—the path of humility, simplicity, and trust in God’s love.

I like to think of Lent like a spiritual retreat I didn’t have to book. It’s a season that gives us permission to slow down, to simplify, to just breathe. In its wilderness we can be honest about our hungers, our longing and our questions – our own temptations.

And Jesus meets us there - not with judgment, but with companionship.

The wilderness is where Jesus became more fully himself. And it’s where we can become more fully ourselves too.

Not by striving to be our best and most righteous self. Not by punishing ourselves for being human and often not living up to what we think God expects of us. But by letting go of what no longer serves us and holding fast to what does.

I hope that for us Lent isn’t about feeling shame for not being the perfect reflection of Jesus, or about what we’re denying ourselves. I hope it’s about how expansive the wilderness is, allowing us to make room for God’s voice amid the noise of our lives. I hope it’s about choosing love over fear, compassion over cynicism, and presence over distraction.

I hope it’s about remembering that we’re not alone in the wilderness. Jesus walks with us. The Spirit leads us. And I hope that even the angels – in those moments of unexpected grace - minister to us along the way.

Perhaps this Lent, inspired by St Thérèse, we might try a “little way” of our own, to help open our hearts and minds to what we might find or learn about ourselves in it’s wilderness:

We might do this by spending a few minutes in silence each day

Performing smalls act of kindness

Being gentle with the words we say to ourselves

Choosing sabbath rest instead of rush

And committing to justice that comes from a place of compassion

These are small, little things, but they might be tiny seeds of transformation.

I invite you to see Lent as I do, as a beautiful God-given gift. A gift where the Spirit leads us into a place where we can hear again the truth spoken at Jesus’ baptism which also is true for us: “You are my beloved.”

We join Jesus in the wilderness not with fear, but with anticipation. Not with heaviness, but with hope. Not to prove ourselves, but to rediscover the God who already delights in us.

May this Lent recharge our spirits. May it deepen our trust. And may it lead us, step by small step, to be encircled within God’s love.

Amen.

Matthew 4:1–11 

4 Then Jesus was led up by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil. 2 He fasted for forty days and forty nights, and afterwards he was famished. 3 The tempter came and said to him, ‘If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread.’ 4 But he answered, ‘It is written,

“One does not live by bread alone,

    but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.”’

5 Then the devil took him to the holy city and placed him on the pinnacle of the temple, 6 saying to him, ‘If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down; for it is written,

“He will command his angels concerning you”,

    and “On their hands they will bear you up,

so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.”’

7 Jesus said to him, ‘Again it is written, “Do not put the Lord your God to the test.”’

8 Again, the devil took him to a very high mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the world and their splendour; 9 and he said to him, ‘All these I will give you, if you will fall down and worship me.’ 10 Jesus said to him, ‘Away with you, Satan! for it is written,

“Worship the Lord your God,

    and serve only him.”’

11 Then the devil left him, and suddenly angels came and waited on him.

Disruptive love

Today is the feast of the conversion of Saint Paul, and we heard the dramatic events of this in the reading from Acts, it was followed by a tiny gospel reading which feels deliberate to not overshadow the main event of today, which is Saul’s life-changing experience of the road to Damascus, after which he changes his name and his life’s purpose.

Without Paul who knows what we’d actually know of Jesus, because Paul’s role in evangelising and spreading the Gospel, through teaching, preaching and of course letter-writing, was central to getting the message out into the wider Roman Empire – which God knew would be the case, and eventually that message reached these isles, some 2000 miles away from these events.

The narrative of what led to Paul finding his true calling – the purpose which God had for his life, followed that amazing reading from Jeremiah which also talks about call – and there’s a thread of calling, change, and purpose through all our readings today.

Each passage shows God interrupting everyday life, changing its direction, and inviting people into something so much bigger than themselves. And that feels rather timely as we look ahead to our church planning day on the 14th of February. We’ll be asking big questions about who we are, what we’re called to do, and how God might be reshaping us for the future. And each and every one of you are invited to join us for that day.

Jeremiah’s story shows him protesting:

“sorry God! I can’t do this, I’m too young for all of this”. He feels he’s too young, too inexperienced, and too small for what God is calling him towards. God’s response isn’t stern, he doesn’t chastise Jeremiah, but reframes his protests

“Don’t say ‘I am only…’ how can you be ‘only’ anything with me beside you? I’ll give you the words you need, I’ll send you where you need to go”. Jeremiah’s calling isn’t based on his own ability but on God knowing he’ll be right beside him in that calling.

I think many Churches can fall into this “only” language:

We’re only a small congregation.

We’re only volunteers.

We only have so much time or resources.

But God says: Don’t say “only.”

God’s call begins not with our capacity, but with God’s, which is limitless.

As we anticipate our planning day, Jeremiah’s story invites us to leave behind the narrative of limitation and ask instead:

What might God be planting in us, collectively and as individuals, that we haven’t yet recognised or named?

Saul is a man on a mission, he has his purpose and his calling, and that means bad news for any Christians he encounters.

Yet when Saul encounters Jesus, he’s not punished, as you might have expected if we were in the Old Testament, but Saul experiences the disruption Jesus can bring into our lives when he enters in with generous, unending and undeserved love. For Saul this disruption comes as a light, a voice and a question:

“why do you persecute me?”

This question, directly from God, dismantles Saul’s worldview. It forces him to see that those people he’s hurt or harmed are, in fact, all part of God’s kingdom.

Paul’s conversion isn’t just about a change in belief but it’s also about recognition. He recognises that God is present in the very people he’d excluded.

For Paul this is both costly and liberating as his old life falls away and he allows himself to be changed by love, the love that God shows him.

Contemplating how changed Paul is by this experience invites us to open ourselves to what might be possible – what or who might God be asking us to see differently? What question might God be asking of us? How could God be calling us to be changed?

To go back to the purpose of our planning day, it’s an opportunity to allow God to interrupt us, to ask us uncomfortable questions, and to widen our imagination about who we’re called to be.

Peter’s question in the gospel reading is so very real, it’s probably what the others have been thinking but, of course, Peter is the one to open his mouth “We’ve left everything to follow you. What’s in it for us?”

They’ve sacrificed so much, and Peter wants to know it’s going to be worth it.

Jesus’ response could have been anything, we know he can be quick to chide or rebuke the disciples when they show self-interest, be here he offers a vision of renewal—a world made whole.

Building the kingdom isn’t about personal reward, it’s about making all things whole in God.

As we think about our future as a church - our mission, our priorities, our resources – we shouldn’t ask what’s in it for us, but rather: through the work of this community

Who can be lifted up?

Who can be welcomed?

Who can find healing, dignity, and belonging because we exist?

What do we need to do to join in God’s renewal of all things?

It can sometimes be a struggle to see how all our set readings fit together on any given Sunday, but it’s always good to remember that they always do –

a lot of thinking from clever theologians went into planning the 3-year cycles of readings. These three readings today are one story, and it’s also our story.

Through Jeremiah we see God calls us even when we feel inadequate.

Paul’s conversion demonstrates God transforms us, usually in ways we don’t expect.

And Jesus reminds us we’re being sent into a world that’s being renewed.

So, we invite you to be part of something next month where together we can imagine:

what’s possible for us with God alongside us?

What can be transformed in us?

where does change need to happen?

And what part might you have to play in all of this – where are we being called communally, but also where is the Spirit leading you?

It’s good to remember that whilst the conversion of Paul is big and dramatic, most transformation is much, much quieter. It happens in our conversations, in happens in our prayers, and in happens in our planning days, in moments of honesty and courage. It happens when we ask:

Where is God at work - and how can we join in? 

Amen,

Readings: 

Jeremiah 1:4-10 Jeremiah’s Call and Commission

4 Now the word of the Lord came to me saying,

5 ‘Before I formed you in the womb I knew you,

and before you were born I consecrated you;

I appointed you a prophet to the nations.’

6 Then I said, ‘Ah, Lord God! Truly I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy.’ 7 But the Lord said to me,

‘Do not say, “I am only a boy”;

for you shall go to all to whom I send you,

and you shall speak whatever I command you.

8 Do not be afraid of them,

for I am with you to deliver you,

says the Lord.’

9 Then the Lord put out his hand and touched my mouth; and the Lord said to me,

‘Now I have put my words in your mouth.

10 See, today I appoint you over nations and over kingdoms,

to pluck up and to pull down,

to destroy and to overthrow,

to build and to plant.’

Acts 9:1-22 The Conversion of Saul

9 Meanwhile Saul, still breathing threats and murder against the disciples of the Lord, went to the high priest 2 and asked him for letters to the synagogues at Damascus, so that if he found any who belonged to the Way, men or women, he might bring them bound to Jerusalem. 3 Now as he was going along and approaching Damascus, suddenly a light from heaven flashed around him. 4 He fell to the ground and heard a voice saying to him, ‘Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?’ 5 He asked, ‘Who are you, Lord?’ The reply came, ‘I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting. 6 But get up and enter the city, and you will be told what you are to do.’ 7 The men who were travelling with him stood speechless because they heard the voice but saw no one. 8 Saul got up from the ground, and though his eyes were open, he could see nothing; so they led him by the hand and brought him into Damascus. 9 For three days he was without sight, and neither ate nor drank.

10 Now there was a disciple in Damascus named Ananias. The Lord said to him in a vision, ‘Ananias.’ He answered, ‘Here I am, Lord.’ 11 The Lord said to him, ‘Get up and go to the street called Straight, and at the house of Judas look for a man of Tarsus named Saul. At this moment he is praying, 12 and he has seen in a vision a man named Ananias come in and lay his hands on him so that he might regain his sight.’ 13 But Ananias answered, ‘Lord, I have heard from many about this man, how much evil he has done to your saints in Jerusalem; 14 and here he has authority from the chief priests to bind all who invoke your name.’ 15 But the Lord said to him, ‘Go, for he is an instrument whom I have chosen to bring my name before Gentiles and kings and before the people of Israel; 16 I myself will show him how much he must suffer for the sake of my name.’ 17 So Ananias went and entered the house. He laid his hands on Saul and said, ‘Brother Saul, the Lord Jesus, who appeared to you on your way here, has sent me so that you may regain your sight and be filled with the Holy Spirit.’ 18 And immediately something like scales fell from his eyes, and his sight was restored. Then he got up and was baptized, 19 and after taking some food, he regained his strength.

Saul Preaches in Damascus

For several days he was with the disciples in Damascus, 20 and immediately he began to proclaim Jesus in the synagogues, saying, ‘He is the Son of God.’ 21 All who heard him were amazed and said, ‘Is not this the man who made havoc in Jerusalem among those who invoked this name? And has he not come here for the purpose of bringing them bound before the chief priests?’ 22 Saul became increasingly more powerful and confounded the Jews who lived in Damascus by proving that Jesus was the Messiah.

Matthew 19:27-30

27 Then Peter said in reply, ‘Look, we have left everything and followed you. What then will we have?’ 28 Jesus said to them, ‘Truly I tell you, at the renewal of all things, when the Son of Man is seated on the throne of his glory, you who have followed me will also sit on twelve thrones, judging the twelve tribes of Israel.  29 And everyone who has left houses or brothers or sisters or father or mother or wife[a] or children or fields for my sake will receive a hundred times as much and will inherit eternal life. 30 But many who are first will be last, and many who are last will be first.

Making Room

We were rushed off our feet that night, we’d never known the town to be this busy – it was the count you see, the census. Every room was booked up and my husband was just explaining this to yet another family when another road-weary traveller walked in, dusty and tired.

He was a Galilean – you can always tell – but this one was different from the others trying to barter with my husband. He looked very troubled, and with more than just the worry of where to sleep.

He noticed me noticing him and rushed forward – “please madam, is this your inn?” he inquired

“It’s my husband’s, but there’re no rooms if that’s what your next question’s going to be” I was very matter of fact, there was absolutely nothing we could do to make any space.

“Is there truly nothing?” he pleaded “It’s not me, you see, it’s my wife. We’ve travelled all the way from Bethlehem, it’s taken us over a week, and I think, well, I think our baby might be coming”

Well this was new, none of the others who’d tried to convince us to give them a room had tried this tactic…but then I followed his gaze, into the street and for the first time I noticed his wife. She’d managed to climb down from the donkey (which must have borne her for the journey) and was now crouched on the ground. She winced and held her stomach.

I knew that look, that wince. I’ve carried 6 babies and that was without question a woman in early labour.

Well I couldn’t leave her there, by the look of how young she was it was probably her first – no girl should have to birth her first child in those circumstances, but what could I do? There was literally nowhere – even the roof had people sleeping on it!

But it was then that a thought struck me – divine inspiration you might say- most of my recent midwifery experience was with the lambs and calves we kept out back. A bed of straw was a better option than the filthy roadside.

I touched my husband’s arm to get his attention away from the latest group of travellers he was disappointing. I gestured towards the girl “it’s her time Lazar” – he understood my meaning - “But what can we do” he replied” “I can’t magic up a bed, not even for her!”

“The outhouse” I said - he looked at me, utterly puzzled. “It’s got a roof and clean straw, and, in the circumstances, I don’t think we have a choice!”

He nodded in agreement “Do what you need to Hanna”

I grabbed a lamp – it was dark out back and I knew the light would help. “Follow me” I instructed the man “help your wife, it’s not far”

I shewed the animals from the outhouse into the yard, quickly swept aside the used straw and laid some fresh from a bale stored nearby. The man helped his wife into the small stone building and helped her lie down.

“Tell me your name child” I asked the girl

“M- Mary” she managed between contractions

“and you?” I inquired of her husband

“Joseph” he responded

“and I’m Hanna, so now we’re all friends”

“What do we do?” Joseph pleaded

“Well, son, you stay close by, and if I need you, I’ll tell you”

“Don’t be afraid Mary” I told her, gently “I’m not going anywhere”

And I didn’t – I stayed through it all, helped her know what to do. I did what my mother had done for me, what I’d done for my sisters and daughters. What generations of woman had done for each other since Eve.

The labour was quick, surprisingly quick, and the baby looked healthy – a healthy boy! God be praised. I wrapped him in my shawl and passed him to his father for approval. The joy which radiated from his eyes made my heart full – such love in the man’s eyes.

And the child – so oddly peaceful for a newborn, so content – almost radiant! I must have been getting tired and my emotions were getting the best of me.

The man passed the baby to the girl and her face seemed as radiant as his – the rush of love almost palpable.

I showed her how to help him latch on – he was hungry! I warned her she may be sore, but it passes.

I’ve no idea how much time had passed when the spell was broken by a dirty faced child appearing in the yard – he was holding a lamb around his shoulders, and it wasn’t one of ours. I took in his appearance – he was one of those filthy shepherds from the outskirts of town – and dear lord there were more of them behind him!

“Miss” the boy addressed the girl “miss – we…we were told not to be afraid, we were told to come” and the whole group of them knelt before the mother and child as if he were royalty! The boy lifted the lamb and presented it to them like a gift.

Now, I know I needed some sleep – but what was this? What on earth was happening here in my back yard?! Who were this man and woman – and who on earth was this child? The three of them sat there in the straw, radiating love and joy and contentment the like of which I had never seen.

Then, I don’t know from where, but words appeared in my head – I’d heard them before, the words of one of the prophets, probably shouted at me by a preacher in the market square.

“But you, Bethlehem... out of you will come forth for Me one to be ruler over Israel, whose origins are of old, from ancient times”

I looked down at that child, I saw and felt pure and unconditional love for maybe the first time in my life, and I thought maybe, just maybe – stranger things have happened!

And so I stood there, straw clinging to my skirts, lamp flickering in my hand, watching this tiny family in my outhouse — and I realised something. The Messiah hadn’t arrived in the palace as the men who debated in the temple imagined, or even in the temple itself where we thought holiness lived. He’d come to us — to the ordinary, the overlooked, the tired, the overcrowded, the unprepared. To a woman who had nothing to offer but clean straw and a willing pair of hands.

And perhaps that’s the point.

Perhaps the Messiah still comes to us in the same way — quietly, vulnerably, without fanfare — asking only whether we’ll make room. Not a perfect room, not a tidy room, not a “ready” room… just room.

As we gather this Christmas, may we remember that outhouse. May we remember that holiness can be born in the most unlikely corners of our lives. And may we dare to believe that even in our mess, our exhaustion, our crowded hearts, God still chooses to arrive — bringing love that radiates, hope that surprises, and light that no darkness can overcome.

Amen.