TW: The Slaughter of the Holy Innocents…

Isaiah 63:7-9   Psalm 148                  Hebrews 2:10-18              Matthew 2:13-23

On Christmas Day I was asleep in bed soon after 7pm. When I woke up around 1am, I took the dog outside, looked up at the starry sky, and found myself thinking about people celebrating Christmas all around the world.

I thought about those who may have had the best day of their lives — the marriage proposal, the gift they never imagined receiving, the birth of a long-awaited child.

And I thought about those who had the worst day imaginable — people who lost someone they loved on Christmas Day, particularly suddenly or unexpectedly; people whose darkest truths were exposed; people who were frightened, alone, displaced, or far from home.

Standing under that vast sky that stretches over us all, thinking of them felt like prayer.

Because even here — even in this parish — some people had an unspeakably hard day, right alongside others whose day was almost perfect. And most of us, thankfully, found ourselves somewhere in between.

Life, as it turns out, does not separate joy and grief neatly.
They live side by side. Strange neighbours. Sharing the same sky.

And that is why this morning’s gospel feels so confronting.

There is barely time to take in the birth before fear arrives. A child is born — and almost immediately that child is hunted. In Matthew’s telling, there is no gentle fade-out after the angels sing. He does not protect Christmas from the world. He lets the mess rush straight in.

And behind it all, Isaiah has already been whispering for centuries:
“In all their distress, God was distressed.”

That line will not allow us a distant God. Whatever is happening here, God is not watching from a safe height.

Warned in a dream, the holy family flees to Egypt. And that detail matters.

Matthew is writing for a mostly Jewish audience, and Egypt is not neutral ground in Israel’s memory. Egypt is the land of slavery. Of crushed bodies. Of children killed by a fearful ruler. Egypt is where empire once showed its teeth. Some escaped. Many did not.

And yet here — Egypt becomes refuge.

That should unsettle us. Because it makes it abundantly clear that salvation history is not tidy or linear. The same place can wound and shelter. Fear and hope can occupy the same night. In the horrific account of the slaughter of the holy innocents, Matthew deliberately echoes Moses. A tyrant orders the killing of children. A child is spared. But the story twists.

Moses is saved from Egypt. Jesus is saved by Egypt. Saved in Egypt.

Oppression and refuge collapse into the same geography.

And this is not symbolic.

This is a real journey — hundreds of kilometres, weeks on foot, with a newborn and a young mother. A baby who feels the cold at night and the dusty heat in the middle of the day. A mother navigating fear, exhaustion, and breastfeeding without her own mother to help her. And an anxious dad, desperate to protect those in his care. Three people moving through danger and borderlands, their lives suddenly unrecognisable.

God does not wait for the world to become safe.
God does not tidy the mess first.

God goes straight into it.

The gospel is explicit: Jesus’ first journey as a refugee takes him along the Gaza road — a place where empire, fear, and displacement collide. Where people travel, longing for safety, and only some survive the journey. Sound familiar? Achingly familiar…

And suddenly it makes new sense of God laying in the straw and the feeding trough.

The King of Kings is born not into safety, but into exposure. Into vulnerability. Into danger. Glory and gore are not opposites in this kingdom — they belong together.

Not because the story has failed, but because this is how God chooses to be present.

So what we have, in this confronting co-existence is not a God above the rubble.
Not a God who arrives after the mess is cleaned up.
Not a God who rushes to fix and gloss over reality.

But a God found inside it — right in the middle of it, where the most vulnerable of God’s people are; the Word made flesh, dwelling among us right here;
walking dangerous roads, sharing fear and fragility, and resolutely choosing to remain.

And perhaps faith is this: trusting that God’s refusal to leave, determination to remain, means there is no place — in this world or in us — where God has not already gone. And God knows.

So tonight, step outside. Look up at the stars.

Remember that the same sky arches over joy and grief, birth and burial, celebration and terror — over refugee camps and safe homes alike.

Allow that looking up to become prayer.

Because the God we meet at Christmas is not far away.

God is with us. Within us. Under the same sky. In the same night.

Walking dangerous roads with the weary, the frightened, and the fleeing — in the first century and the twenty-first.

As you look up, remember: the sky is wide enough for joy and grief — and God is in it all.

Christmas Morning, with St John of the Cross

Christmas Morning 2025 – John’s Prologue

A couple of weeks ago I came across a poem that is nearly five hundred years old, and it is among the most beautiful things I have ever read about Christmas. It was written by St John of the Cross, a poet and theologian of the sixteenth century, and I wanted to share it with you this morning. He writes:

If you want
the Virgin will come walking down the road
pregnant with the holy, and say,
“I need shelter for the night, please take me inside your heart, my time is so close.”

Then, under the roof of your soul, you will witness the sublime intimacy,
the divine, the Christ
taking birth forever,
as she grasps your hand for help,
for each of us is the midwife of God, each of us.

Yet there, under the dome of your being does creation come into existence eternally, through your womb, dear pilgrim—
the sacred womb in your soul,
as God grasps our arms for help;
for each of us is His beloved servant
never far.

If you want,

the Virgin will come walking
down the street

pregnant with Light
and sing.

It almost brought me to tears. I read it over and over, and I found myself wondering why it moved me so deeply. I think what I love most about it is the invitation.

If you want, he writes. If you want.

Everything in this poem turns on that phrase.

Mary is never assured of comfort. She is never promised safety or ease.
She is not given a clear explanation or a guaranteed outcome. She is asked only if she will make space. And she does.

God asks her, in effect, if you want, and she replies, yes — I want.

And because she does, everything changes. And what this poem dares to suggest is that we are offered the same choice.

I love that we have a choice.

Jesus does not arrive by force, overwhelming us with divine presence.
He does not break in, dominate, or demand. He waits to be welcomed.

He asks for room — in a body, in a home, in a heart, in a life that is already complicated and unfinished.

Which means Christmas is not about getting everything right. It is not about spiritual readiness or emotional tidiness. It is about letting God be born into what is already real. Into tired bodies. Into anxious minds. Into homes that feel too full or too empty.
Into lives that carry joy and grief side by side.

God comes anyway.

Not loudly or triumphantly.
But quietly. Vulnerably.
Trusting us with something precious.

And that changes what holiness looks like.

Holiness today will probably not feel dramatic.
It may not feel radiant or impressive.

It may look like patience when you are exhausted.
Kindness when you would rather withdraw.
Forgiveness that comes slowly.
Hope that is stubborn rather than certain.

Christmas happens wherever someone says — even without words — that divine and eternal invitation, you can come in. IF YOU WANT.

So if this morning you feel joyful, God is there. If you feel numb, God is there.
If you feel worn thin, unsure, or holding things together by grace alone — God is especially there.

Because God is not looking for the perfect place.

Only a place that is open.

And if you want —
God will make God’s home with and in you.

And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, full of grace and truth.

Amen.

Christmas Eve, Midnight – 2025

Christmas eve midnight – 2025

St Luke’s Nativity

One of the greatest joys this past month has been sharing – again – the Christmas story with the elderly, in residential care homes. Since the beginning of December we have visited several homes and read these exact words from Luke’s gospel that we heard again, just now. It is quite remarkable to watch the careful, occasional recognition flit across faces often blank with dementia and to see smiles appear. It is beautiful to hear often silent voices singing the familiar words of deeply entrenched Christmas carols.

On each visit, after retelling this beautiful account of the birth of Jesus, with the angels and shepherds, the stable and manger and the precious holy family, I asked each group who their favourite character was in the Christmas story and it turned into a fascinating piece of market research.

The first time I asked, Godfrey made the rare confession that he liked Caesar Augustus best because he was a man of great order and structure, and he loved the roman empire. Completely unexpected.

At another home every resident said they liked Jesus best – always a solid answer. One relented slightly with the caveat, ‘closely followed by Mary’ and another – almost certainly peer pressured into answering ‘Jesus’ by every other resident doing so – came out with the classic, kind of understated, line, ‘I’m pretty fond of Jesus…but I really like the donkey’. Priceless. (I hope I didn’t ruin what might be her last Christmas by telling her the donkey doesn’t feature in the bible story anywhere…).

And then, the best moment came when I asked David who he liked best and he replied ‘the wise men’. His wife was sleeping in her chair next to him and when I said, ‘are you a wise man David?’ she didn’t miss a beat. Her eyes opened. She sat bolt upright for one moment and then said, ‘he is NOT!’  and then she was gone again.

A little while later she had woken up and I asked her, ‘Hazel, who is your favourite person in the Christmas story?’ she paused, and I wondered if it was too difficult a question for her to grasp. How foolish I was. She was thinking. And then she said ‘I think that depends on what I need at the time’. I think that depends on what I need at the time…and she went through many of the characters explaining why, or when, they might be her favourite.  And it’s so true, isn’t it?

This fabulous story, this amazing gift to humankind – where God came near, in Christ, to live and walk among us as a reminder and example of how to live and love fully – it really does contain everything we need.

Mary said yes, without truly knowing what she was agreeing to; wildly and boldly saying yes to whatever it was God was asking, because she knew God was trustworthy and true.

Those kings – the three wise men – who we meet in a few weeks time – gave up everything, left everything behind, to follow after what they believed would be worth losing it all for. Such determination. Such diligence. Such singlemindedness.

The shepherds – those lowly outcast dirty guys, shunned to edge of society, kept out of sight. They show that God does not forget those people. In fact, they see the glory first. They hear the good news first. They get a front row seat at the dawn of the brand new world.

Joseph was measured and gentle and wise and kind. He was caught up in Mary’s yes and he backed her and supported her and protected her and gave the son of God an earthly dad.

The angels proclaimed glory – glory to God in the highest – and promised peace – peace to all the earth. Glory and peace.

And Jesus came to earth to bring love – to shine brightly, dispel darkness, destroy hate and to create change that would last forever.

So whatever you are facing this Christmas time, whatever it is you need, I think Hazel is right; whatever you need can be found in these words from the bible – can be found in the people and events of this moment in history that changed everything.

Whose story, whose strength, whose character, whose example?

Who is it you need to focus on this Christmas. They are all available to all of you.

Who will be your Christmas companion this year? Amen.

The Magnificat for Gaudete

Isaiah 35:1-10                     Magnificat               James 5:7-10                       Matthew 11:2-11

On this one Sunday of advent, the church confuses many of its members every time. You see, the Sundays in advent are dedicated to key aspects of the incarnation story – the patriarchs, prophets, John the Baptist and blessed Mary – and the world’s logical brain says pink equals girls, so today must be about Mary. Not so!

Today we light the rose candle and wear rose vestments because we lighten this slightly heavier season of advent, we press pause on our repentance and celebrate joy…so we lighten the colour purple to pink. Rose. I may’ve been easier to comprehend if the church had chosen lilac. Anyway, today is not pink for Mary. Today is Rose for John the Baptist. Right? Excellent… Except…just to add to the confusion, I’m going to preach on those fabulous words from Mary’s Magnificat, because it is utterly magnificent.

Mary is greeted by an angel, told she will give birth, and her response is ‘my soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord, my spirit rejoices’, and then prophesies about how remarkable and different the world will be once God has come to live among us; the humble will be lifted, the mighty brought down, the hungry will be filled with good things and the rich will be sent away with nothing.

Regardless of what we can or can’t believe about the virgin birth, the truth is, her words are an incredible foresight into how life might be, how we may dare to believe it could be as people trying to follow in the same steps as our blessed mother.

So threatening were these words to world leaders – it was illegal for anyone to recite them publicly in certain countries even until the mid 1980s. In Guatemala, parts of India and other places, rulers and presidents banned these words in fear that the poorest people might hear them, believe them and revolt. If our faith isn’t that terrifying to those who are rich and mighty, we are doing something wrong. We really are doing something wrong.

I was thinking about that this week, whilst also considering whether it is important, essential, possible, to believe in the immaculate conception and virgin birth. We have wondered about this together before. And as I wondered this time, I came across words from my very favourite preacher, Nadia Bolz-Weber, who wrote, ‘I know people get hung up on believing the virgin birth thing, but honestly, the harder miracle to believe is that the angel Gabriel actually found someone willing to say yes.”

She goes on to say that if she had been visited by Gabriel, she would have needed a list of guarantees, assurances of blessing, evidence of personal benefit. She admits she would only have said yes if she understood exactly how God planned to protect or reward her. But Mary receives almost no information, no assurances, no safety net. Mary only hears a bewildering, disruptive invitation — and she responds with unreserved trust: “I am God’s servant. Let it be with me according to your word.”

Perhaps it is possible that Mary’s yes is the greater miracle: the courage to surrender to God’s call before she had clarity, before she could possibly understand what it would mean, before anything looked safe or promising. And that reminded me of something that happened to me last year, that I wondered if I would ever share, but here goes…

Last year, early November, I was walking along Francisco street, coming home from coffee at Kerfuffle. Advent was approaching and I was beginning to consider the advent stories ahead. I was thinking about Mary, and her surprise pregnancy and I found myself thinking about Sarah, and Elizabeth.  And about how both those women had babies so late in life. Impossibly late, completely outside of childbearing age. And I wondered how it would have felt to tell their friends, ‘I’m pregnant’. How would strangers have reacted to their growing bump in their 80s or beyond? And as I thought about this, these words dropped into my brain, ‘you’re going to have a baby’. Just that. it was very simple and incredibly clear. You are going to have a baby.

Now, if I had been as devout and obedient as Mary, I would have fallen to my knees right there and then and said ‘here am I a servant of the lord’. I didn’t do that. Instead, I went down an entire rabbit hole of biology and logic. Five years before I had a hysterectomy and my first thought – I kid you not – was ‘if the surgeon left one cell behind in my body maybe a new womb could regenerate somehow’. That’s where I went. For the rest of the walk home. And then I thought no more of it.

Around 2 or 3 weeks later I was handed this sleeping 16 month old baby. Again, I didn’t say ‘ah yes God. Now I understand. ‘Let it be to me according to your word’.  I said, ‘just one night’. Then there were days, weeks, of me saying, ‘we can’t keep her…this is impossible…this is insane…we are too old and too busy and too tired and there are a million people who would be better for her’.  And then one day I said yes. I said ‘maybe she is a gift for us, from God’. And when I said yes, I remembered those words from Francisco Street. And I said sorry to God and accepted this gift, this call, for however long it lasts.

And I wondered if I would ever tell you that because it might sound like I am saying I am just like Mary. I am definitely not. This event, this whole situation doesn’t set me apart from anyone else who is determined to follow Jesus wherever the path leads.

What I am saying is that Mary’s yes was radical and fierce and incredible AND God still speaks to God’s people, and says ‘I want you to do this thing. Will you do it?’, and the unfolding miracle is twofold – one that God might trust these essential tasks to mere people like us, and two that sometimes we say yes. Even if it is eventually.

My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my saviour, Mary sings. And heaven heard the yes it needed. At the end of today’s service we are going to sing Mary’s own words. Will your heart also say yes to whatever it is God is asking? May we be the miracle. Amen.

Trees of Hope

Isaiah 11:1-10         Psalm 72:1-7, 18-21          Romans 15:4-13     Matthew 3:1-12

Two weeks ago, we went on a tour of Trafalgar Square. Today I invite you on another trip; to the Northern most point of England – to Hadrian’s wall.

Hadrian’s Wall was built by the Romans in the 2nd century. It is almost 120 km long and it stretches from the North Sea to the Irish Sea, across the whole of England. It was built as a clear boundary to mark the northern limit of the Roman Empire — and as a defence against the unconquered peoples of Scotland. The wall is an extraordinary work of engineering: up to 6 metres high, with milecastles, gateways, observation towers, and a deep ditch to the north. It has housed thousands of soldiers from all over the empire, creating one of the most multicultural communities in ancient Britain. Today, Hadrian’s Wall is a World Heritage Site, one of the most iconic archaeological landmarks in Britain, and is a place where empire, history, and wild beauty all meet.

Why am I telling you this? Well, because a couple of weeks ago I got a message from my sister back in the UK. She was filming a news story on her phone and sent it to me with the words, “You’ve got to see this.” She was right — and I replied, “This will preach.” I didn’t realise how soon. Because today the story fits perfectly, and it begins with a tree.

For more than a century, a single sycamore stood in a deep fold of land beside Hadrian’s Wall. The Sycamore Gap Tree. Planted in the 1800s, it grew where the land dipped between two hills, and it was breathtaking.

People loved it. Walkers rested beneath it. Couples proposed there. Families scattered ashes. It was probably the most photographed tree in the whole of UK, if not beyond. It became a star of the silver screen when it starred in the movie, Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. It was everyone’s tree: steadfast, solitary, beautiful in every season. Then, one night in September 2023, someone came along with a chainsaw.

By morning, walkers found it felled — a raw stump where life had stretched so tall, the great trunk lying across the ancient stones like a dead giant. News travelled fast. I had retreated to that section of the wall many times and I was surprised to see how upset I was by the cutting down of this one tree. And I was not alone. People wept. Children left flowers. It felt like desecration, a guttural reaction. Police called it vandalism. Most people simply called it heartbreak.

And yet — as in so many of God’s stories — that wasn’t the end. Rangers and conservationists rushed in. They gathered seeds, took cuttings, lifted tiny pieces of living wood, hoping that life might begin again elsewhere. And it did. From that fallen tree, forty-nine saplings grew — one for every foot of its height. A project called Trees of Hope nurtured them and is now planting them across the UK.

The reason my sister was filming the news story was because the first sapling was planted in Coventry — my hometown — a city that knows about resurrection. Bombed to rubble in the war, and rebuilt around forgiveness and peace. At that replanting, people gathered, holding soil and silence, and grief turned to hope, and with a commitment to peace.

These 49 saplings will spring up across the UK, telling a new story of the tenacity and resilience of God’s great goodness to us in Creation. But even the original stump has sent out new green shoots this spring, nature preaching its own Advent sermon:

What was cut down can rise again. Life finds a way through. God is stubborn.

Isaiah knew this long before. He spoke to a nation stripped bare, its leaders corrupt, its future uncertain, and he dared to say: “A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse; a branch shall grow out of its roots.” Just you wait and see. Isaiah doesn’t offer optimism; he offers the courage to stare at a stump and still imagine green. Then John the Baptist appears in our Gospel, standing in the wilderness, saying, “Prepare the way.” His urgency isn’t anger — it’s invitation. Make space, he says. Something new is trying to grow.

And this is Advent: a time of preparation, readiness, optimism, belief that something better isn’t just possible, it’s on its way. It’s not pretending all is well, but it is a resilient refusal that darkness has the final word. This is the season of saplings and stumps, and of trusting God is at work…and sometimes it is beneath the surface.

And today we baptise baby India. This new life, entrusted to her parents, Sherry and Claire, is being planted into the soil of God’s love in this community. Baptism is our Sycamore Gap moment — not the felling, but the rising. India is a Tree of Hope. Here we mark her with oil and pour holy water over her head, and in so doing we proclaim God is never done creating, healing, or beginning again. India’s life is a sign that God still believes in beginnings. Her baptism reminds us that the world is not finished, not beyond repair.

Sherry and Claire, today you say yes to raising her in a story where love outlasts destruction, where mercy outgrows fear, where even the hardest stumps can send out new shoots. Your yes is an act of profound hope. Because God’s kingdom doesn’t come like a bulldozer. It comes like a sapling. Like a child.

The whole Christian story is Sycamore Gap:
Love cut down. Love rising again. Love replanted in the world.

So as we welcome India into the life of Christ, may this truth root itself in us:

The final word is never the stump. It is always the shoot. Amen.

Advent 1A

Isaiah 2:1-5              Psalm 122                Romans 13:9-14                 Matthew 24:36-44

I grew up with the soundtrack of the great heartthrob, Cliff Richard. My parents had all the records, and some of his classic hits were based on this morning’s gospel, so have been my ear worm all week. Don’t Get Left Behind talked about people disappearing from fields and beds and I remember panicking about being the one who got left behind, and then, switching to feel rather pleased with myself because I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be. Faith and fear make strange companions.

It wasn’t until theological college I learned the concept of the “rapture”— some people being whisked away while others were left behind — was pretty new, barely a couple of centuries old. That discovery was both a relief and a revelation and sent me straight back to passages like these, to discover what it might be about and this passage isn’t about escape; it’s about awareness. Jesus isn’t talking about being lifted out of the world, but about being awake to God within the world — awake to hope and noticing her as she breaks through the ordinary.

And that’s what Advent is about — not fear, but focus. Not quite penitential, like Lent, but a time for getting sorted – leaving things behind so we might be prepared and ready. A readiness for the kingdom that keeps arriving, whether we notice or not, whether we’re ready, or not. And all of that, says Jesus, is exactly where hope begins. And hope is our theme for advent 1.

Isaiah saw that hope long before it came. He dreamed of nations streaming to God’s Mountain; of swords melted into ploughshares; of people learning war no more.
It’s a vision of a world that is awake to peace — a world in which despair is not the final word. And he ends with an invitation: “Come, let us walk in the light of the Lord.” How much does the world need that invitation now? Put darkness behind you, great nations and world leaders, and walk in light. Wouldn’t that be incredible?

That’s the invitation of Advent — to wake up and walk – to walk out of darkness and towards and into light.  To look for light, even when it’s faint and pursue it. To trust God’s dawn is always nearer than we think. We need that reminder more than ever. The news, the wars — they whisper that hope is naïve. But Advent whispers back, No — hope is holy defiance. Hope keeps our eyes open for God. And it might feel feint but, man, Hope is fierce.

In these verses Jesus is calling his followers – down through the ages – to be attentive. It’s a wake-up call: Notice what’s sacred right beside you. And that’s why this gospel is perfect for today. Because this morning Cecilia stands at this altar for the first time as a priest — a new beginning for her, and for us.

Priesthood, at its heart, is the ministry of staying awake to hope.

To lift the bread and see God in it. To bless the cup and taste grace in it.

To look at the gathered people and glimpse Christ among you.

Every time she stands here, she’ll be practising holy attentiveness; naming hope where others may see only habit. That’s what a priest does, and that’s what the Church is called to do: stay awake to hope.

There’s a phrase among priests about the privilege of standing at the altar to make present the body and blood of Christ. This first time is terrifying, and profound and incredibly precious. And priests commit to, and encourage one another, to make every time the first time. So Cecilia – may every time you stand before God’s people be like this first time. May you be awake to the hope God is entrusting to you, and awake to the holy surprises God has for your priestly ministry. Be awake to what is happening in the spiritual realm, because that is what is most significant, most real.

And that is our challenge too; being awake to what’s real: awake to injustice, awake to suffering, awake to possibility. That’s gospel wakefulness. A heart that won’t go numb. Keep awake, because God’s kingdom doesn’t akways crash in with trumpets; it more often slips quietly into everyday life, and only those who are open will notice it.

In the last year, we have learned a fair bit about what it is to be awake in the rectory. Friday marked the first anniversary of Kennie joining our family. This little ball of chaos and love likes to get up at 4 or 5 or occasionally 6am. We are, honestly, wrecked, bone-tired — but it’s good and holy. Kennie wakes up every morning as if the dawn happened just for her.  No gentle stretch — just full attention, full curiosity, and joy, ready to see what good things might happen next. She’s a living Advent sermon: eyes wide open to everything, soaking in the world, trusting each new day will bring something good. She doesn’t question if the light will come — she knows it will. That’s hope; that confident, childlike trust that the world will be beautiful again and seeing where it already is. If Kennie can wake to the world like that — so can we.

So as we begin a new church year, as Cecilia begins her priestly ministry, we commit again to being a people of hope.  Hope that rises early and learns to see. Hope that knows light is stronger than night. The world needs people who are awake —to beauty, to pain, to the nearness of God. So, let’s stay awake to what this world knows and offer more. Let’s stay hopeful in times of despair and kind when the world is cruel, because we are children of the Light. The night is far gone; the day is near. Thanks be to God. Amen.

Win, looking like you’re losing

Jeremiah 23:1-6       Benedictus                Colossians 1:11-20               Luke 23:33-43

Priests and preachers, the world over, hope and pray they say something memorable. But

they realise the sad truth that most of us – while maybe finding a sermon enjoyable or engaging at the time – barely remember more than 3 or 4, across a lifetime. We know this. Sometimes it feels depressing, other times it is a massive relief! But today’s gospel passage, reminds me of one of the sermons I really do remember from many, many years ago.

The preacher’s name was Steve. He was a Baptist minister, turned charity CEO, turned TV and radio celebrity, and he was preaching at a large Christian conference in the UK. It must’ve been around 2002, and he was talking about the great London landmark, Trafalgar Square.

Built in the early 19th century, with Nelson’s Column in the centre, it commemorates the victory at the battle of Trafalgar. Nelson’s Column stands over 50 meters high and is flanked by fountains and brass lions and in each of the four corners of the square are four other columns, each standing 5 meters high. Three of them have large statues atop – some the same height again. And until 1999 the fourth plinth stood empty, due to funding running out. And so, for 150 years the column stayed that way. Over that time there was much discussion, even plans drawn up, of which famous world hero might adorn the 4th plinth. Suggestions came and went but neither consensus nor funding was found.

Then, just before the turn of the 21st century, it wasproposed that the Fourth Plinth be used for temporary contemporary art, instead of another permanent statue. A huge competition ensued, and the winner was a relatively unknown artist, only 40 years old and not wildly experienced at the time. His name is Mark Wallinger and his piece of artwork is called Ecce Homo. Behold, the man — the phrase Pilate used when presenting Jesus, bruised and bound, before the people. Just before the crucifixion passage today. The one the lectionary chooses for Christ the King.

Now consider this. Wallinger’s Jesus is placed on a plinth 5 meters high, alongside Admiral Nelson, whose statue is 10 times bigger…45 meters taller. The other statues are made of brass and Ecce Homo is made of simple scrubbed resin – deliberately marked and streaked.

When Wallinger won the commission, he sat in his London bedsit and looked across at his housemate, an inch or two taller than me, and decided he was plain and ordinary enough to become the Jesus he wanted on this plinth. Using the bedsit’s bath he made a cast of his housemate and created his artwork from there. Less than 2 meters tall, alongside 50 meters of Nelson Grandeur.

The world’s press turned out for the grand unveiling – the first hero to be placed in Trafalgar Square for almost 200 years and they indeed saw an Ecce Homo – behold the man. Nothing but a man. One reporter summed it up perfectly and said, ‘he looks miniscule’. And that was the point.  It’s a piece about vulnerability and truth, set high on a plinth built for power.

And, as Revd Steve spoke about this to a crowd of 5000 Christians I was transfixed.

Jesus is our King. And his Kingdom is unlike any other. He refuses power and instead is vulnerable. And this is what his sermon said; the message of our God is that you win, looking like you’re losing. You win, looking like you’re losing. And that phrase has come back to me again and again over the last 2 or more decades. With the Kingdom of God, and with Christ as King, we win looking like we’re losing.

This man, this God-man, is beaten and whipped and tortured. He is spat at and stripped naked. He is wrongfully convicted, in some botched trial, deserted by his friends and taken out and killed. With criminals who mock him. And he is our King?

This man, this broken, humble, dominated man, to quote St Paul, is the image of the invisible God? What are we supposed to do with a King whose throne is a cross and who’s jewels are a crown of thorns? How do we follow and worship a King who looks like he’s losing rather than lording it over this kingdom? And what does it mean to be the citizens of this kingdom?

Christ, our King, is not a monarch enthroned over the world, but is Love enveloping it. Enveloping us. And that is what we are called to, too. To live as citizens of this upside-down kingdom means standing beside those the world overlooks, speaking peace into shouting places, choosing mercy over might. God keeps turning the plinths of power into stages for grace, and calls us to see holiness where the world sees failure.

And as I said last week, and many times before, every time we come to this table and break bread, we remember again that brokenness is not the end. Out of brokenness and death comes resurrection and life. And that changes everything, because death no longer wins, even though it looks like it won’t lose. We win, looking like we’re losing. Yet, actually, in this dimension, winning isn’t even the point. Loving is.

Outrageous grace and mercy is the currency of this Kingdom and, that changes everything, because when we fall on our knees before this King we look up and see He isn’t there looming over us, at all. He is alongside us, knelt too, in humility, washing the feet of his friends and offering to wash us.


When we call Christ “King”, we are not bowing to domination.
We are saying yes to a reign of love — to let kindness have authority, to allow forgiveness to rule our hearts, to let peace become our law.

And let’s face it — the world has tried the alternative. We have crowned domineering kings, obeyed despotic rulers, followed power-hungry presidents — and made a right mess of it.

So maybe what we need is something entirely different. And that is what our King offers.
This is the gospel.

God shows us a different kind of majesty — the kind that bends low, carries the cross, meets us where we are and calls us beloved. May we choose, again and again, to be faithful citizens of this kingdom, to whom all glory and worship and Kingship belongs, now and forever, Amen.

Falling…and getting up again

Malachi 4:1-2a   Psalm 98   2 Thessalonians 3:6-13        Luke 21:5-19

Gosh, Jesus must’ve been fun to hang out with, eh? You’re wandering through a deeply impressive, hugely sacred space, admiring the temple; the stones, the beauty. And Jesus says: Not one stone will be left upon another. It’s not the kind of thing you say in polite company. No one wants to hear that the things we’ve built might crumble. But Jesus goes right to the heart and names the truth: everything built by human hands will one day tremble, might even be completely destroyed.

The disciples must’ve been more than a bit dismayed and they ask for a sign, ‘Teacher, when will this be, and what will be the sign that this is about to happen’ and Jesus says something that could be straight out of 2025 news, just as easily as it could be out of 1st century Palestine; ‘there will be wars…Nation will rise against nation, kingdom against kingdom; there will be great earthquakes, … famines and plagues; and …they will arrest you and persecute you’. Sound familiar?

We can hold this passage in one hand and our own world experiences in the other. Our own world is shaking. There’s wars and rumours of wars. The planet is heating beyond its limits. The gap between rich and poor yawns wider every year. We scroll and we grieve, caught between fury and fatigue, and we whisper, what on earth can we do?

And Jesus’ advice is very clear then, and still applies today, and it is this:

Do not be terrified…simply endure.  Do not be terrified. Be aware, but not scared. And press on. By your endurance you will gain your souls. This current time might be characterised by destruction and anxiety, or stress and despair, but keep going. Endure. New life is always on its way.

On Wednesday night, some of us were in the council chambers listening to the councillors talking about this place. One of them described wandering through our grounds and being amazed by the beauty and inclusion of the place. Time and again, at weddings and funerals and random other times, people stop and say ‘I had no idea this was all here. It’s incredible’, as they admire it.

And I thought of this gospel passage as I heard those things this week. And then I thought of you lot and how many of you have come and joined this community, much more recently, and might not know our own remarkable story of destruction and rebuild, because there was significant temple trembling right here.

Now forgive me for the haziness and hyperbole of this storytelling, but when this church was first built the war interrupted the bricks and mortar and the guys got called up to fight. A temporary wall was erected here, at this east end, and the horrors of war meant those men never came home to finish this work. By 2010, with the temporary wall still in place, almost, there was a gaping space between wall and wall – so much so I am told you could stretch your hand through it to see if it was raining!

Some canny churchwardens or priest called an architect, and they didn’t quite say ‘As for this wall that you see, the days will come when not one stone will be left upon another; all will be thrown down’. But they said something like, ‘if you don’t do something, now, that wall is going to fall, and it will fall inwards, right on the people’.

It was sobering. The beloved building was in danger; the trusted stones were failing. But from that warning came something extraordinary. You dared to imagine what could rise from the risk — and slowly, prayerfully, this new space was born: the light-filled chapel, the amphitheatre open to the sky, with such stunning acoustics, the meeting rooms and gardens that have become places of welcome and renewal. A community living on site.

What could have been collapse became creation. Out of fear grew faith. Out of stone came space. What could have been destruction became resurrection. Our own buildings tell God’s own resurrection story, right here, in brick and timber and faith and courage. It’s what happens when people refuse despair, refuse to be terrified and dare to dream again.

So maybe it is true that when Jesus speaks of falling stones and raging nations, he isn’t describing the end of everything. He’s describing labour. Something ending — and something being born. And I’m told that the pain of birth always feels like the end, until the cry of new life is heard.

And perhaps this is the pattern of all true faith: to hold our grief and still choose to plant, to build what will bless generations we may never meet. To continue to create and co-create with the One who is always creating. To speak into the horror and the darkness, Let there be light. Let there be life. God’s first commandment is still God’s last.

Faith is not pretending everything is fine. It is planting gardens and communal spaces beside cracked walls. It is believing resurrection is always God’s rhythm. It is living and retelling and demonstrating the Christian story, because that begins again and again in the rubble — in the ruins of Jerusalem, in a borrowed rock-hewn tomb, in every broken heart and ruined life.

And that image of broken, destroyed, restored, re-storied, brings me, once again, to this table, to our holy meal. And maybe it explains why, every time we gather, we take bread — and we break it. The body of Christ, broken. The world’s pain, named and held. And from the breaking comes blessing. From the fragments, food. From the ruins, resurrection. What is shattered becomes shared. And somehow, by grace, the broken body becomes life for the world.

So, when the walls shake, and stones fall, we remember: this is not the end.
This is the moment God begins again.
And maybe our calling, in this world of shaking stones, is not to predict the end — but to midwife the new beginning. To live as if God’s kingdom is already breaking in — because it is. May it be so, amen.

Blessed are YOU…

Daniel 7:1-3; 15-18                         Psalm 149                 Ephesians 1:11-23             Luke 6:20-31

All Saints’ Day always makes me laugh, because often we talk about saints like they’re solemn, glowing figures who float gracefully through life like spiritual ballerinas. But the actual communion of saints — the one that includes us — and those we have loved and lost, who we remember today – the real communion of saints is much messier and funnier than that… I mean, have you *met* the saints? They are wild. 

So, this year’s contenders for Saint of the Year… First up; St. Drogo, the patron saint of coffee and unattractive people. Then, St. Joseph of Cupertino, who levitated so often during mass his brothers had to tie him down. And St. Christina the Astonishing, who literally floated up to the rafters at her own funeral because she said she couldn’t stand “the stench of sin.”   And then my current favourite, St. Guinefort the dog. An actual French dog who was venerated as a saint for saving a baby’s life.

The saints are ridiculous and radiant, human and holy, just like us. They remind us that sainthood is not about perfection — it’s about grace leaking through the cracks, because Heaven isn’t a hall of fame — it’s a family photo. A bit blurry. Slightly chaotic. Utterly dysfunctional. And somehow, still beautiful. And we are in the picture too.  So, when Jesus says, “Blessed are you,” he’s not blessing the shiny people. He’s blessing the messy ones. The poor. The grieving. The hungry. The ones who cry themselves to sleep and still get up the next day. The ones who keep forgiving when it would be easier to quit. The ones who doubt, who break, who start again.

When Jesus looked out over that hillside, he didn’t see the perfect ones.  He saw the ones barely hanging on — the poor, the grieving, the hungry, the ones who’d been told they didn’t belong anywhere holy.   And he said, “Blessed are you.”  He didn’t start with demands or doctrine. He began with blessing.  He noticed the pain, the courage, the rawness of being human — and he called it holy.  That’s the scandal of the Beatitudes: they aren’t advice or expectations. They’re a declaration of love. They’re Jesus saying, *I see you. Right in the thick of it — and God is in it with you.*

Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh.  Blessed are you who hunger for justice, who keep showing up even when you’re tired. Blessed are you who have nothing left to give — because grace still finds you.

And then — more scandalous still – and before we can get too comfortable — Jesus flips it.  Woe to you who are rich.  Woe to you who are full.  Woe to you who laugh when others cry. Not as punishment. Not as threat.  But as warning — as mercy, even.  As another expression of love, actually. Because comfort can make us forget compassion.  Privilege can make us numb.  And laughter, when it’s too loud, can drown out someone else’s cry.  The woes are Jesus’ heartbreak for us when we settle for shallow joy.  They’re his way of saying: Don’t harden your heart. Don’t miss the miracle happening at the margins. Because the kingdom isn’t up there somewhere — it’s breaking out in the cracks of our lives right now. Right here. All around us. Even in the space left by the one we loved so much and felt like their death might kill us too.

So, if Jesus were preaching today, his words might sound like this:

Blessed are you who are exhausted from caring for everyone else, 

and blessed are you who can finally admit you need care yourself. 

Blessed are you who cry in the car, who weep in the shower, and keep loving people who are gone. 

Blessed are you who laugh too loud at the wake, and remind us that joy and sorrow share a table. 

Blessed are you who are angry about injustice, and blessed are you who don’t yet know what to do with that anger, nor even where to find it.

Blessed are the ones who doubt but still show up, the ones whose prayers have run out,  the ones who can’t say the creed but still light a candle. 

Blessed are the addicts, the anxious, the overworked, the underpaid, the burnt-out carers, the single parents, the ones barely hanging on. 

Blessed are the saints whose halos are dented and tarnished,  and blessed are the souls who thought they’d lost their faith entirely. 

Blessed are you — 

in your tears and your laughter,  in your weariness and your wonder,  in your holding on and your letting go. 

Because you belong.  You belong to the great communion of saints and to the God who calls every one of us beloved.

And maybe the woes would sound like this — not as curses, but as encouragement for more, for better. Not better for God, but better for us – God’s beloved children: 

Woe to us when our comfort dulls our compassion. 

Woe to us when we confuse abundance with worth. 

Woe to us when our laughter becomes defence, not delight. 

Woe to us when we polish our halos instead of washing feet. 

Woe to us when we are too busy to be kind, too right to be humble, too safe to be brave.

Because the saints — the real ones — didn’t live safe or polished lives. 

They loved until it cost them something. Until it cost them everything. They let their hearts stay breakable.  They chose tenderness over certainty, mercy over pride.

So as we light our candles today, and whisper names that still ache in our chests — remember this:  The same God who held them, holds us.  And holds them still. The same Spirit that burned in their hearts still burns in ours.  And one day, when someone lights a candle for us, may it be said that we loved well. That we blessed more than we cursed. That the light shone through us and others learned more about love, and life, and all that is good and human and divine, through us. May that be our prayer. Until then — may we remember:  there’s a great communion gathered around us — saints and souls, angels and ancestors — whispering in our ears and hearts the same truth Jesus spoke first on that hillside:

You are loved.  You are seen.  You are blessed.  Exactly as you are.  Amen.

Be More Kennie…

Luke 18:15–30 – The Gospel According to Kennie

Yesterday I took Kennie to her first dance class.

I was two – the same age Kennie is now – when my mum first took me and my sister to dance classes. I can still see the enormous staircase we had to walk down – just 3 or 4 steps, but it felt huge to 2 year old me – and I remember the fear and excitement I had about those first dance routines. So as Kennie went dancing yesterday, I knew, somewhere in her heart and mind, memories were being stored up for future Kennie to enjoy. As we were instructed to go around in a circle, Kennie listened intently, watched with interest and then broke rank. She ran into the middle of whichever circle had been formed and did her own thing, unashamed, proud. She spun and swirled and jumped and reached up high and touched down low. She took two ribbons when the invitation was for one and she positioned herself in front of the floor to ceiling mirrors, enjoying her own reflection, with no sense of having to hold her stomach in, or being critical about her appearance. She was free and happy and secure. And my heart was full.

And when I hear this morning’s gospel, I can’t help imagining this is what Jesus is speaking of.

Let the children come to me. Do not stop them.

The kingdom of God belongs to such as these.

I often think I can learn a lot from our little girl. ‘Be more Kennie’ is a good life lesson. And Jesus seems to be saying the same. He sternly orders his disciples not to stop the children, not to silence them, not to keep them away. Maybe we should approach Jesus that way too – not waiting until our clothes and hands and hearts are clean. Just coming as we are, confident that we will be warmly welcomed.

When I pick Kennie up from nursery it doesn’t matter if she is knee deep in the sandpit or paint, she sees me and her face lights up and, even across the playground I can lip-read as she says ‘it’s my mummy’ and she runs and leaps at me, knowing I will catch her and be pleased to see her and will cover that mucky sticky face in kisses. We should approach Jesus like that – be more Kennie.

A few weeks ago, I was in church on a Saturday, getting things ready for Sunday worship and Kennie came with me. As I pottered around, I heard her call out ‘I need the body of Christ’. As I turned round, she was approaching the altar rail, with her hands outstretched and she said it again – ‘me need the body of Christ’. So, I gave it to her, of course. We should approach Jesus like that. Always wanting more. Always ready to ask and receive, mucky sticky hands outstretched. Definitely be more Kennie.

And then our gospel passage takes an interesting turn, and we go from those upturned faces of the children, with their hands outstretched, desperately willing and waitng to be blessed and we meet this guy who comes to Jesus with a question – good teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life. And they have this exchange; why do you call me good; no one is good but God alone. Don’t commit adultery, don’t murder, don’t steal, honour your father and mother. And he says, I’ve done all those. He’s trying really hard, and then Jesus says ‘sell everything, give it to the poor and come and follow me’. And the man is sad because he is very rich.

He’s not like Kennie at all. He really cares about what he has.

Sure, when Kennie sees something she wants she boldly demands, ‘MINE’, so they are alike in that way, but when she comes running across the playground to me, or hears that music start up at her dance class, she doesn’t give two thoughts about what she does or doesn’t have, nor how she looks, nor anything else…she just ups and runs, or twirls or jumps. She is single-minded and I’m sure that is what Jesus is asking of this rich guy – don’t focus on all that, on all you have and how important you are. Drop all that and come and throw yourself into my arms. I’ll catch you and I’m so pleased to see you.

Jesus doesn’t care if we have everything right and in order, or everything wrong and entirely out of place. He just wants us. Entirely. Wholly, sticky fingers and all.

In my Sunday school days I remember hearing about that rich young ruler. About how sad he was and how he went away defeated and how he never entered the kingdom of heaven. But how my thinking has changed now. How much more grace I now heap on him. Jesus doesn’t send him away. He goes away sad, but he still has all the time in the world to respond to Jesus’ invitation. And I imagine him going home and looking at all he has and all he’s done and realising it’s worth absolutely nothing.

Imagine him thinking back over his encounter with that Christ man and being inspired. Imagine him picturing those kids and how they approached him and being encouraged to be like them. Maybe he became more Kennie, left his wealth, came running back, and followed Jesus. I’ve rewritten his ending to be that way because I think it’s far more likely; grace is always available to us and it never runs out. And yes, following Jesus is costly, but its also so compelling. Having been face-to-face with God, why wouldn’t he go from there, reflect, leave it all behind and rush back?? Maybe his heart and his wealth cracked open and he found his own purpose right there in its centre.

It’s no coincidence that these stories sit side-by-side; the children and the rich man. Both come to Jesus. One comes empty-handed; the other with hands full of everything. Both are loved. Both are invited. But only one can receive, because only one has room in their hands. And that’s the invitation offered to us too.  To let go — to be more Kennie. Because when we loosen our grip, we make room for grace. We make room for, as verse 30 promises us, ‘very much more’…including…’eternal life’.

So today, in the name of Christ and on behalf of the church, I invite you too. I invite you to this table, hands and hearts full, but with the intention of laying it all down here, and becoming empty handed, in exchange for the body and blood of Jesus. Then leave from this table with freedom and hope in place of all that you currently carry. Don’t be like the rich young ruler and turn away sad, instead, be more Kennie… Amen.