Month: December 2025

Christmas Is Really for the Kids: Sermon Preached on Thursday 25th December 2025

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This panoramic view captures the serene beauty of Bethlehem's old city at twilight. The sky transitions into a deep, soft purple-blue dusk, casting a calm and ethereal glow over the historic landscape as evening settles in.In the foreground and across the scene, clusters of ancient limestone buildings and rooftops spread densely, their warm, weathered stone tones standing out against the cooling light. Scattered lights begin to sparkle from windows and streets below, adding gentle points of warmth.Rising prominently are several towers that punctuate the skyline: the distinctive bell tower of the Church of the Nativity, with its classic design and cross, stands out alongside slender minarets—such as the elegant one from the nearby Mosque of Omar—featuring intricate details and illuminated outlines against the twilight sky.The overall composition conveys a peaceful, timeless atmosphere, blending architectural forms of stone, domes, and vertical spires in a harmonious urban tapestry.

Preached at St Peter’s, Poulshot and St Mary’s, Potterne

Readings – Isaiah 52:7-10; Luke 2.1-14

“Then an angel of the Lord stood before them… and they were terrified.”

Paul Gauguin's 1896 oil painting Te Tamari no Atua (The Child/Son of God) reimagines the Christian Nativity in a Tahitian setting. In the foreground, a serene Tahitian woman—representing Mary—lies exhausted on a low bed, her body mostly bare except for a deep blue pareo (sarong) decorated with golden patterns, draped loosely over her lower body. She rests on her back with arms outstretched, a glowing yellow halo encircling her head, eyes closed, and face tilted upward in peaceful repose. Beside the bed sits a dark-skinned female figure in a white garment, possibly an attendant or angel, gazing down while cradling a small, swaddled infant (the Christ child). In the background, within a dimly lit interior supported by a large red wooden post, another Tahitian woman in blue stands near a cow and other animals, evoking the stable. The scene is filled with rich, stylized colors—deep greens, vibrant blues, warm yellows, and earthy reds—blending Polynesian motifs, patterned fabrics, and symbolic elements like the halo and animals. The title is inscribed at the bottom. This exoticized fusion of Christian iconography and Tahitian culture creates a dreamlike, spiritual atmosphere.
Te tamari no atua (Polynesian for ‘The Son of God’) or ‘The Birth’, Paul Gaugin, 1896. Hangs in the Pinakothek, Munich.

Christmas is really for the kids. The animals and the baby in swaddling clothes in the stable, and the angels with their cotton wool wings singing sweetly in the night, and the shepherds with their robes, and lots of dressing up. And Santa flying through the Bethlehem sky and the reindeer singing along with the angels as they passed.

(Actually, I made that last bit up – we all know that Santa, whose real name is St Nicholas, didn’t start his work delivering presents to children until about three hundred years after the first Christmas, because it was only then that there were enough children who believed that Jesus Christ was God.)

But that’s really what Christmas is about, isn’t it? A cute story with lots of pretty elements, and Cadbury’s selection boxes, and lots of turkey, and kids getting toys from Santa and having fun. Or maybe it’s something more profound than that?

Of course Christmas is for kids. The presents from Santa and nativity plays and selection boxes are for kids, and the real story of Christmas is very definitely for kids. But it’s also for adults too. For if Christmas is just for kids, then once we get past the age of 12 or so we can stop taking it seriously, and once Boxing Day comes, we can put it away and not think about it for another year, like the tinsel and the baubles for the tree that spend all year being stored in the attic.

But if Christmas is true – if the baby Jesus really was God-made-human, then this is the most important event in history, and the most important story of our lives. And it’s a story that is a lot more gritty than we tend to remember it from school nativity plays—less Disney, more like Happy Valley or perhaps an ancient equivalent of The Wire.  

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Only Human: Sermon Preached on 24th December 2025 (Midnight Mass)

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This panoramic view captures the serene beauty of Bethlehem's old city at twilight. The sky transitions into a deep, soft purple-blue dusk, casting a calm and ethereal glow over the historic landscape as evening settles in.In the foreground and across the scene, clusters of ancient limestone buildings and rooftops spread densely, their warm, weathered stone tones standing out against the cooling light. Scattered lights begin to sparkle from windows and streets below, adding gentle points of warmth.Rising prominently are several towers that punctuate the skyline: the distinctive bell tower of the Church of the Nativity, with its classic design and cross, stands out alongside slender minarets—such as the elegant one from the nearby Mosque of Omar—featuring intricate details and illuminated outlines against the twilight sky.The overall composition conveys a peaceful, timeless atmosphere, blending architectural forms of stone, domes, and vertical spires in a harmonious urban tapestry.

Preached at Holy Cross, Seend

Readings – Isaiah 9. 2, 6-7; John 1. 1-14

“the Word became flesh and lived among us”      

On a rainy night, outside the rundown Dave's City Motel, a weary middle-aged man with a beard stands under glowing neon signs. Wearing a fur-lined parka and baseball cap, he holds an old payphone receiver to his ear with one hand and a folded newspaper in the other. Heavy rain streaks across the entire scene. Right beside him, a young Black girl in a hooded sweatshirt reading "Elizabeth High School" sits confidently astride a faded pink coin-operated mechanical pony (marked "Out of Order"). She grips a small plastic bag and looks straight ahead with quiet determination. The motel window blazes with eclectic neon beer signs including "Good News," "Starr," a large green "BEVER" with starburst, and cigarette advertisements. A "No Vacancy" sign glows nearby, while wet newspapers and a sprouting weed near the curb add to the moody, nostalgic, slightly gritty atmosphere.
Jose y Maria, Everett Patterson, 2014.

“I’m only human.” It’s a phrase we usually offer by way of an apology—as if being human was something inadequate or second rate. Humans aren’t perfect. What torments us is that somehow we think we’re supposed be perfect, so when we can’t manage to be the perfect people we think we should be, we think we’ve failed.

We’re supposed to be good at our jobs, to run a perfect home, to be a cheerful friend and companion while also being capable of giving frank and realistic advice if needed, a wonderful spouse or partner, an absolutely perfect parent, to give regularly to charity, to feel deeply for a range of worthy causes and always say the right things about them, to never hit the credit card too heavily, never drink more than 14 units of alcohol per week, never smoke, and have a clean driving licence and a Body Mass Index below 25 – or, if we’re Black or Asian, a Body Mass Index below 23.

Of course we don’t manage to achieve all that. We’re only human. Although there are always Instagram influencers and people in the lifestyle magazines who claim to manage it all, and tell us we all could too if only we tried hard enough. Maybe they’re not human—better than human?—superhuman?

We’re so negative about the idea of being human – but being human was good enough for God. That’s what that strange mystical passage from St John’s Gospel that I read a moment ago is saying. I freely admit that it is strange stuff, and I don’t see that as a problem. After all, if God is real, then any human attempt to describe God must strain the limits of human language. The passage writes of two beings, the Word, and God who created the universe. The Word, it says, was God, every bit as much as the creator of the universe—somehow these two beings while being distinct, were one. The Word was with God before time began. And then the Word became flesh—God became human. That is the unique and distinctive point of the Christian faith

Now, we have much in common with Jews, something I think we all know, and we also have quite a lot in common with Muslims, something that is quite difficult to say with being latched on to as a Culture War point by one side or another. But it is a simple statement of fact. Like Muslims and Jews, we believe that there is a God, one God, who created the universe. This is very different from what atheists believe about the universe, or Buddhists, or Hindus. And like Muslims and Jews we believe that God will judge us at the end of our lives for what we have done on this Earth: which is a pretty scary prospect; we’d better hope that God judges us with more mercy than the lifestyle magazines and the folks on social media.

But one belief that separates Christians dramatically from Jews and Muslims is that we believe God actually became human. He did so in the person of Jesus Christ. If Jesus Christ was truly God, then God got the cold and blew His nose, went to the toilet, told jokes, ate breakfast, and was so fond of eating and drinking with the wrong company that his enemies called him a glutton and a drunkard. If this festival we celebrate tonight is true, then God got so exhausted by the crowds who mobbed Him like a modern celebrity that He fled to the hills for peace, and God was perceived as such a threat by powerful men that they had Him executed. That’s very different from what Jews believe, and very different from what Muslims believe.

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The Man with the Plan: Sermon Preached on 21st December 2025 (Fourth Sunday of Advent)

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An aerial photograph captures a vast, rugged mountain landscape with multiple layers of jagged ridges extending into the distance. The foreground features sharp, barren peaks in shades of dark blue and gray, casting deep shadows in the valleys below. Successive ridges fade progressively into softer blues and purples due to atmospheric haze, creating a sense of immense depth and scale. The sky above is pale and hazy with a warm golden tint near the horizon, suggesting early morning or late afternoon light, accompanied by scattered thin clouds. The terrain appears arid and rocky, with no visible vegetation, rivers, or human structures, emphasizing the raw, untamed wilderness of a high-altitude mountain range. This panoramic view evokes the dramatic grandeur of remote canyons and sierras.

Preached at St Mary’s, Potterne; Holy Cross, Seend; and St Peter’s, Poulshot

Romans 1. 1-7; Matthew 1. 18-31

“Now all this was done, that it might be fulfilled which was spoken of the Lord by the prophet…”

A painted mural on a white brick wall depicts a religious figure resembling Jesus Christ within a large, circular orange-red background resembling a halo or sun. The figure has long brown hair, a beard, and a serene expression, wearing a white robe with brown accents and a golden collar. On his chest is a glowing red Sacred Heart with flames and a cross. In his right hand, he holds the glowing heart outward, while his left hand cradles a blue and green globe representing Earth, showing the Americas. Below the circular portrait, a green rectangular banner with blue borders displays bold black capital letters reading "KEEP OUR WORLD CLEAN." The mural's style is folk-art inspired, with visible brushstrokes and slight wear on the wall surface.
“He’s Got the Whole Word in His Hands”, Willemstad, Curaçao © Gerry Lynch, 22 November 2007

♫♪“He’s got the whole world in is hands.”♪♫

It has been a very long time since I’ve started a sermon by singing from the pulpit. This song isn’t a Christmas song, but it is perfect for this last Sunday in Advent and the Bible readings set for us today—for both are saying that God has a long-term plan for the human race. Our Gospel reading says that strange story of Many conceiving by the Holy Spirit came about to fulfil what God said through the prophets; our other reading, from a letter St Paul wrote to the first generation of Christians in Rome, says that the good news of Jesus Christ had been foretold by the prophets long in advance.

So, this might give us a good chance to explore the long backstory of the first Christmas.

The Christian story starts at a mythical time, before history began, when human beings lived in harmony with one another, with nature, and with God. This was the Garden of Eden. Humans are identified right at the start of the Bible as being a very special part of creation – the last part to be created, made in the image and likeness of God, the summit of God’s handiwork. We were God’s apprentices, being trained to tend and keep the Earth, and made for eventual union with God. There were no rules in the garden – except for one. The only thing we were forbidden do was to eat the fruit of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, and we were told that if we did, we would die. We ate the fruit, because we wanted knowledge that we had been warned was too hot for us to handle—we’ll come back to that idea later.

The Garden of Eden is, of course, a myth, but it expresses a truth too profound for dry facts—that as humans evolved, we became alienated from our true nature. We know from archaeology that even before humans had writing, we were already out of balance with the rest of life. We know that it was us who wiped out the mammoth and the sabre-toothed tiger, long before we learned how to write, or work metals, or make wheels.

Once we had writing, around 5,000 years ago, history began. It had many glorious and beautiful episodes, but also had the constant presence of war and slavery. We were out of balance with God and with one another, and that is how we remain.

Yet the Bible tells that although we were often wilful, cruel, and self-defeating, and God sometimes got angry with us and chastised us as a result, He never abandoned us. Somehow, despite God giving us simple rules for living in harmony, and us often being full of good intentions to live according to them, we were never able to escape the darker side of our own nature.

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Patience Amid Shrill Voices: Sermon Preached on 14th December 2025 (Third Sunday of Advent)

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Panoramic landscape photograph of the Dead Sea, the lowest point on Earth, viewed from the Israeli side. In the foreground, a flat, barren expanse of cracked, earthy brown desert soil stretches toward the shore. The strikingly blue, calm waters of the hypersaline lake occupy the middle ground, reflecting a partly cloudy sky with scattered white clouds. Along the far shoreline, a cluster of modern white buildings—hotels and resorts on the Jordanian side of the Sea—nestles against the base of dramatic, layered arid mountains in shades of beige, brown, and gray, rising steeply in rugged ridges. These Judean Desert hills dominate the background, emphasizing the stark, inhospitable yet beautiful desert environment. The overall scene conveys tranquility and geological extremity, with no visible vegetation or signs of life in the immediate foreground, highlighting the sea's unique mineral-rich, lifeless waters.

Preached at Christ Church, Bulkington

James 5. 7–10; Matthew 11. 2-11

“The farmer waits for the precious crop from the earth, being patient with it until it receives the early and the late rains. You also must be patient.”

"Saint John the Baptist" (c. 1410–1420), oil on panel by Robert Campin (also known as the Master of Flémalle), now in the Cleveland Museum of Art. The bust-length figure of Saint John the Baptist appears in three-quarter view, gazing solemnly leftward with curly shoulder-length brown hair, a full beard, and a plain gold halo denoting sanctity. He wears a white cloak draped and knotted over one shoulder, partially exposing a hairy chest to symbolize his ascetic desert life and hair shirt beneath. In his right hand, he holds a tall slender staff topped with a white banner bearing a red cross, symbolizing resurrection and his proclamation of Christ as the Lamb of God. The luxurious gilded background features intricate green damask patterns of vines, flowers, and foliage, contrasting the saint's humility with divine opulence. The aged surface shows extensive craquelure, fine cracks typical of early Netherlandish panel paintings. This work, likely once a wing of a triptych, exemplifies Campin's pioneering realism in the Northern Renaissance.
Robert Campin, St John the Baptist (c. 1410), hangs in the Cleveland Museum of Art.

A few weeks ago, I had a friend staying who is an early riser, and when I got up to get my first coffee of the day he was already in the kitchen, listening to some panel debate on the Today programme on Radio 4. Various clever panellists were screeching at one another at high pace and high volume—not what I needed before 8 am. The topic was the future of jury trials, which is very important, but the debate felt like performance art rather than an attempt to inform or persuade. Still lacking caffeine and my early morning pipe, I had to fight hard to resist the urge to snap at my friend, who was entirely innocent of just how much that programme annoys me nowadays.

When I was young, and absolutely obsessed with politics, I thought the Today programme was great. Nowadays, it grates with me so much that I have fled to Radio 3 at the start of the day. So many words. So much silly point scoring. So little wisdom. Do either the people who make the programme or the people who appear on it think that the public cares all that much about that shrill squabbling?

Most of us are unhappy with our leaders. And it doesn’t particularly matter what way our politics lean, either. In my experience, the vast majority of people are as disappointed and depressed by the leaders who come from their part of the political spectrum as they are with any of the rest of them. What’s even worse, it’s the same in most other countries, and not just in other Western countries. If you think the mood of cynicism and despondency is bad here or in our near continental neighbours, I suggest spending some time talking politics to people from any part of the complex and divided society that is South Africa. Or you could be in Peru, where the polls say that President Boluarte recently had an approval rating of 2%.

In this country, we have one government elected with a massive majority but the leader can’t even control his own backbenchers and rapidly becomes hated by the public, and then lurch to another government from a different party which retraces exactly the same path. It should be obvious that the problem isn’t with the personal qualities of the individuals or their parties, but is a problem with the system.

Where will we find leaders who knows how to navigate their way out of our present malaise? I have no idea. We’re going to have to wait. For whom or what I don’t know.

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Christianity and Cargo Cults: Sermon Preached on 7th December 2025 (Second Sunday of Advent)

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Preached at St Mary’s, Potterne

Isaiah 11. 1-10; Matthew 3.1-12

“The wolf shall live with the lamb… and a little child shall lead them.”

A complex Vanuatu sand drawing made of continuous, looping lines traced into smooth sand. The design features symmetrical, interwoven curves that form leaf-like shapes, diamonds, and rounded patterns. The overall pattern looks precise and flowing, creating an intricate geometric–organic motif characteristic of traditional Vanuatu sand art.
Vanuatu sand drawing, recognised by UNESCO as part of the intangible cultural heritage of humanity. © Philip Capper, 2 June 2006, used under CC-BY 2.0.

For the results of a school exam; for the results of a medical exam. For the interminable process of buying and selling a house to be completed. For the rhubarb to be ripe enough to pick. For the text message from you daughter telling you she’s safely home. Waiting is an unavoidable part of all of our lives.

Far off in the South Pacific, just over a thousand miles east of Australia, lies the island nation of Vanuatu, home to around 300,000 people. In the 1930s, the John Frum movement emerged on the islands, then known as the New Hebrides. It prophesied that an era of prosperity would soon arrive, thanks to American assistance, along with the removal of the European colonial rulers and the Christianity they promoted. Just a few years later, in 1942, the prophecies seemed to come true, when the New Hebrides became an enormous rear base area for America’s island-hopping war against Japan. Briefly, American troops outnumbered islanders, and gave them copious supplies of tents, clothing, and spam.

The John Frum movement, said to be a corruption of the phrase ‘John from America’, is the most famous of the Pacific islands’ cargo cults. After the war, followers of John Frum built symbolic landing strips to encourage American aeroplanes to return and bring them more ‘cargo’. While Vanuatu is nowadays an overwhelmingly Christian country, several hundred Ni-Vanuatu still await the return of John Frum after eighty years. When asked why, a village headman told a foreign journalist, “Eighty years? You Christians have been waiting for your Jesus to return for 2,000 years.”

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Live in Light: Sermon Preached on 30th November 2025 (Advent Sunday)

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Interior of a historic stone church bathed in warm golden-orange candlelight. A tall, vibrant stained-glass window dominates the upper half of the image, depicting multiple religious figures in rich blues, reds, golds, and greens, with halos and intricate leadwork. Below the window, a small side altar is set into the wall. On the altar stands a single tall white candle, its flame glowing brightly. The altar is draped in a dark fabric with a subtle white floral pattern and has a simple white cloth on top. To the right of the candle are two small pump bottles (likely hand sanitizer) and a donation box. A polished brass plaque with engraved text is mounted on the wall to the left of the altar. Carved stone details and part of a statue are visible on the far left, adding to the ancient, reverent atmosphere of the space.

Preached at Christ Church, Worton (Benefice Service)

Romans 13.11–14; Matthew 24.36–44

“Let us then lay aside the works of darkness and put on the armour of light…’”

A warmly lit corner inside a Catholic church during Advent or Lent (indicated by the purple altar cloth). On the left stands a wooden statue of the Virgin Mary holding the infant Jesus, with a glowing red votive candle in a blue glass holder suspended by a chain in front of her. Below the statue, two white candles are lit on an ornate wrought-iron candelabrum. Behind and to the right, part of a side altar is visible with a purple frontal cloth and gold trim. Above are two colorful religious paintings in gilded frames: the left one depicts the Visitation (Mary visiting Elizabeth), and the right one shows two women in medieval-style dresses in a garden scene, possibly Mary and Martha or another biblical pair. The walls are of light-colored stone, giving the space a peaceful and reverent atmosphere.
Light in a gloomy advent afternoon, Old St Paul’s, Edinburgh. © Gerry Lynch, 14 December 2018.

I think to many of us, it feels like we are living in a dark time, doesn’t it? And that we just sort of stumbled into it without being aware of it?

When did you notice we were sleepwalking? When the Russians went into Ukraine? When Covid hit and it turned out we didn’t, in fact, have the second-best pandemic preparation plans in the world? Or was it another of the numerous other surprising crises or horrendous wars that have descended upon us in recent years?

In today’s first Bible reading, St Paul tells his readers to wake from sleep. The people he was writing to were a tiny Christian community of perhaps a few dozen souls, living in mighty Rome, which had recently become the first city in the world to reach a million inhabitants. How vulnerable they must have felt and how irrelevant they must have seemed even to the handful of people who had heard of them in that mighty metropolis of commerce and political power.

Yet Paul doesn’t tell them to be afraid, or to hide. He tells them to wake up, for God is on His way to rescue them. Their job, Paul writes, is to live honourably, and decently, and openly – ‘as in the day’ – even when things felt dark, because their hope was in God. Their hope was not in material things that seem secure one day but are gone the next, but in the eternal things. Paul knew that to live like that in a world that was sometimes dark, they would need God’s help. He uses a wonderful metaphor for doing that—that they should “put on the armour of light”.

When did things start seeming so dark in our world? It seems only a few years ago that we were living at a time of optimism: of low inflation, low interest rates, and cheap travel, when the Internet was making the economy stronger and bringing people together. How dramatically the mood has shifted in recent years as these material things have passed away!

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