sermon Archives - Page 3 of 21 - Gerry Lynch: Priest, Writer, Photographer

We All Need Doubt: Sermon Preached on 12th April 2026 (Second Sunday of Easter)

26 April 202612 April 2026 by Gerry Lynch

Preached at St Mary’s, Potterne

1 Peter 1. 3-9; John 20. 19-31

“Then he said to Thomas, ‘Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side.’”

A dimly lit scene showing four men in close proximity, their faces and hands dramatically illuminated against a dark background. One man, bare-chested with his robe pulled aside to reveal a wound in his right side, guides the hand of a second man whose index finger is extended and appears to be probing the wound. The second man leans forward intently, his face close to the wound, brow furrowed in concentration. Two further men press in from behind, peering over the shoulders of the first two, their expressions conveying intense curiosity. The lighting falls sharply from the upper left, casting deep shadows and emphasising the physical, tactile nature of the moment. The figures fill the picture space almost entirely, with very little background visible. — Caravaggio, The Incredulity of St Thomas (1602). Hangs in the Sanssouci Picture Gallery, Potsdam.

Do you blame Thomas for doubting that his friends had really seen Jesus risen from the dead? I don’t know about you, but if any of my friends want me to believe something that seems pretty far-fetched, I expect them to have some actual evidence for me, ideally hard physical evidence. If they can’t supply that, I’d expect there to be some evidence that whatever far-fetched thing they wanted me to believe had had some impact on them.

Now, the idea of one of your mates not only rising from the dead, but walking through walls and appearing in a locked room, is about as far-fetched as it gets. So the fact that the apostles were still hiding in the upper room, full of fear, would have left me pretty unconvinced too. He gets dismissed as “Doubting Thomas” when he is only engaging in the sort of healthy scepticism we should all practice at times.

And, actually, when we think about it, is it always a bad thing to be a doubter? All groups of people need different temperaments and personalities. An organisation or institution without doubters is going to see all sorts of poor practices, dishonesty and abuse going on, unchallenged and perpetuated. The term for a church without doubters is a cult. I wouldn’t be without the doubters in the various churches I’ve worked and worshipped in over the years. Of course, an organisation with too many doubters is also an unhealthy place, and is probably in the process of losing faith in itself – indeed, something very much like that happened to the Church in the latter part of the 20^th Century. There is, I think, a natural ecology to these things.

What Thomas wanted was some hard physical evidence that Jesus had risen from the dead – and he got it. Christianity is a very physical faith. We’ll see that in a few minutes’ time, when we baptise little Ivan: the water is essential for baptism. There is no valid baptism without it. We couldn’t baptise for periods during the worst of Covid because we weren’t allowed to be physically present together. It wouldn’t have been valid to pretend to baptise someone down a Zoom link. For the same reason, we also couldn’t carry out ordinations during Covid – the bishop actually needs to lay hands on the person they are ordaining, in a link of physical touch that goes all the way back to Thomas and the other apostles. As a result of that, my ordination as a deacon was delayed by three months, which seemed like a big deal at the time.

The Gospel I Don’t Like: Sermon Preached on 5th April 2026 (Easter Day)

5 April 2026 by Gerry Lynch

Preached at St Mary’s, Potterne, Christ Church, Worton, and Holy Cross, Seend

Colossians 3. 1-4; Matthew 28. 1-10

“So they left the tomb quickly with fear and great joy, and ran to tell his disciples.”

A large, densely populated painting set in an English churchyard. Figures in various states of undress emerge from tombs and from between pale stone grave markers, some stretching, some clambering upright, others still dazed. The scene is crowded and unhurried rather than dramatic — people appear bemused, curious, or quietly absorbed. A woman in dark robes kneels among flowers in the foreground. A robed figure reads from a scroll near the centre. Angels and armoured figures stand among the risen dead. The church itself is visible in the background, bright white. Flowers — daisies, lilies — grow abundantly across the grass. The overall mood is strange and domestic rather than triumphant, as if resurrection were an ordinary if unexpected event occurring on a quiet English summer morning. — *Stanley Spencer, A Cookham Resurrection (1924-7) – in the ownership of the Tate Modern, London, but not currently on display.*

Let me start with a confession. The account of the Resurrection we heard this morning comes from Matthew’s Gospel. I don’t like it. It doesn’t persuade me. In fact, it annoys me. It feels too tidy compared with the other three Gospels.

When the two Marys go to the tomb at dawn, there’s none of the doubt or fear we see in the other Gospels. Instead, an angel descends, rolls away the stone, the guards collapse in terror, and everything falls into place rather conveniently. The women don’t run out screaming into the dawn, like they do in Mark’s Gospel; Mary Magdalene doesn’t mistake Jesus for the gardener, like she does in John’s Gospel; the men don’t think the story is just the sort of idle tale you’d expect from women, like they do in Luke’s Gospel.

Matthew’s Gospel ties down the detail of Jesus’ Resurrection and smooths the rough edges. And that’s the problem, because for me rough edges are the signs of something real.

And should we worry that there are four slightly different accounts of Jesus’ Resurrection? Well, if there’s a controversial penalty in a football match, or a controversial try in a rugby match, do four fans ever agree on what actually happened and what the ref should have decided? Even though these days everything gets filmed from a dozen angles and sent up to the video ref?

So, if the Gospels are genuinely describing what the women and the apostles experienced on that first Easter Day, I wouldn’t expect them to be too consistent. These accounts were written about thirty and sixty years later. They’re the product of old men making sure that the events they had experienced first-hand when they were young men, and which had changed their lives, got written down before they die.

But one detail that all the Gospel accounts agree on is that it was women who were the first witnesses to the Resurrection. Now, women weren’t treated as the most reliable witnesses in courts in the ancient world. Certainly they were seen as less rational and reliable than men, especially free male citizens. And while a high-status Roman matron might have been considered fairly credible, ordinary country women from backwoods places like Galilee certain weren’t—still less somebody like Mary Magdalene whose being “healed of seven demons” hints at a history of mental illness, and who probably wouldn’t be considered all that reliable a witness even today.

The Madness of Mobs: Sermon Preached on 29nd March 2026 (Palm Sunday)

29 March 2026 by Gerry Lynch

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

Philippians 2. 5-11; Matthew 21. 1-11

“When he entered Jerusalem, the whole city was in turmoil, asking, ‘Who is this?’”

Lindy Chamberlain on the BBC Wogan Show in 1991. © BBC; used under Fair Use doctrine

Does anyone remember a lady in Australia named Lindy Chamberlain? If you don’t remember the name, you may remember her story. While camping at Ayers Rock in 1980, her nine-week-old daughter disappeared while she and her husband were making the evening meal at a barbeque pit. Chamberlain said she had seen a dingo leaving their family tent when she returned to check after hearing her daughter crying. Although other campers who were there that evening believed her, few members of the Australian public gave this unlikely story any credibility. I mean, “A dingo stole my baby…”—sure, love, whatever you say. Whipped up by the media, Chamberlain became a national and even international hate figure, with the hate exacerbated by the fact that she was a member of the Seventh-day Adventist Church, and therefore seemed insufficiently grief-stricken by conventional norms.

Two years later, she was sentenced to life imprisonment with hard labour for murdering her own daughter, and soon exhausted every possible means of appeal. Yet she only served three years before the prosecution case fell apart: by chance, nearly six years after her disappearance, her daughter’s cardigan was found in a remote area with many dingo lairs; the prosecution’s forensic evidence also turned out to be full of flaws. Chamberlain was released: the hate figure turned out to be an innocent woman.

Somewhat closer to home, both in time and space, is Christopher Jefferies, a cultured and rather eccentric retired public schoolmaster from Bristol. When his lodger Joanna Yeates was murdered in 2010, the press went feral, portraying him as a sinister oddball who was almost certainly guilty. Yet he was entirely innocent; after the true killer was convicted, Jefferies sued multiple newspapers and won.

The social media era has brought a new arena for people to form mobs in. Because of that, the Internet gets blamed for changing human behaviour for the worse – and maybe it has – but the tendency to form badly-behaved mobs isn’t new at all. It goes back to the dawn of humanity.

Stinking Lazarus and Dry Bones: Sermon Preached on 22nd March 2026 (Passion Sunday)

22 March 2026 by Gerry Lynch

Preached at St Peter’s, Poulshot and Christ Church, Bulkington

Ezekiel 37. 1-14, John 11. 1-45

“Lord, by this time he stinketh”

Against a deep blue sky, Jesus stands on the left, his right hand raised in command, a golden halo around his head. A crowd of disciples and mourners press close behind him, their faces expressing astonishment and distress. In the centre foreground, Mary Magdalene kneels prostrate at Jesus's feet. To the right, Lazarus stands upright before the entrance to a rock-cut tomb, his body still wrapped in white grave cloths, his face exposed. Two haloed women — Martha and Mary — stand near him. A small figure at the far right holds his nose against the stench. The composition draws the eye from Christ's commanding gesture across to the risen Lazarus. — Giotto, The Raising of Lazarus (1304-6). a fresco from the Scrovegni Chapel, Padua.

Compared with our other senses, there is something particularly potent and unavoidable about smell. You can close your eyes, you can stick your fingers in your ears, but if something around you stinks, there isn’t a lot you can do to stop noticing it while you’re breathing. And the neurologists tell us something else—they tell us that unlike our other senses, smell doesn’t pass through our thalamus, which is the brain’s central relay unit, but instead goes straight to the parts of our brain which control memory, and which control emotion. It’s why particular smells can so easily trigger memories from our earliest years, and why they can also trigger such powerful emotions.

Smell can trigger disgust in us like nothing else can. I hope that none of you have ever smelt an untreated human body after a few days but I’m sure that, like me, you’ve at times come across big animals like badgers or even livestock in that sort of state. This is one of two cases in today’s readings where the King James Version is definitely superior to the NRSV: “there is a stench” isn’t half as memorable as “he stinketh”!

Lazarus stinks because he’s been dead for four days. That’s more important than it might seem on a casual reading. There was an old Jewish tradition that the soul hovered near the body for three days, hoping to re-enter it, and then departed when it saw the face beginning to change with decomposition.

So one thing St John wants you to know here is that Lazarus was totally stone-dead: not out cold, not in a coma, not in the exit lounge, not dead for a day at most like the resurrection miracles in the other Gospels—but absolutely brown bread. So this isn’t a case of Jesus merely healing someone; this is showing Jesus as the Lord of death and life itself, someone who can bring Lazarus’ soul back from the netherworld. This is showing that Jesus is God.

A Tart with A Heart: Sermon Preached on 8th March 2026 (Third Sunday of Lent)

8 March 2026 by Gerry Lynch

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

Exodus 17.1–7; John 4.4–42

“They were astonished that he was speaking with a woman…”

A black and white photograph, showing a middle-aged woman seated in what appears to a domestic kitchen setting. She has a voluminous, bouffant-style dark hair and is wearing large decorative earrings. She holds a cigarette elegantly in one raised hand, her expression contemplative and self-assured. She is dressed in a boldly patterned blouse featuring an interlocking geometric or basket-weave design. Behind her, a gas cooker and kettle are visible on shelves, suggesting a working-class home interior. Her posture and expression convey a strong, independent character. The image has the grainy, high-contrast quality typical of mid-twentieth century British television drama. — *Elsie Tanner holds court*

People of a certain age might remember Elsie Tanner, a character from Coronation Street’s golden age. For those who can’t remember her, let me quote an academic anthropologist who described Elsie Tanner as a “tarty woman” who had the ability to “attract men like bees to honey”. At the same time, she had a heart of gold, helping those down on their luck even when she was barely managing herself. If you’re too young to remember Elsie, a similar figure might be Ophelia, brilliantly played by Jamie Lee Curtis in the movie Trading Places, a working girl who rescues the wealthy banker played by Dan Aykroyd after he ends up on the streets when his employers destroy his life in a bizarre sociology experiment.

The traditional term for characters like these in fiction is a “tart with a heart”, although Wikipedia tells me this term is “now considered offensive”. This character type exists in the literature of many cultures, including ancient Greek comedy, popular in the Eastern Mediterranean where Jesus and St John the Evangelist lived.

The Samaritan woman from today’s reading from John’s Gospel is clearly such an Elsie Tanner character. She had already been through five husbands and was now living with yet another man. Jesus was a holy man, and holy people weren’t supposed to hang around with disreputable people like that. But Jesus is chatting away, one-to-one, with nobody else present, with this woman known to be of loose morals. This is a scandalous encounter that provides a harvest of theological meaning rich for the picking.

In fact, his followers were surprised, the text tells us, that he was talking to a woman at all! Men and women did interact in Jesus’ time, both in Jewish communities and among the Graeco-Roman cultures they lived among. But there were limits! Men – in respectable society, anyway – were discouraged from having private or extended conversations with women they weren’t related to, and discouraged from being alone with them in public. Such situations, it was believed, brought temptation to the man and suspicion upon both parties.

But that wasn’t the end of Jesus’ trampling on social conventions. He isn’t just chatting to the ancient Holy Land’s Elsie Tanner. He’s chatting to a Samaritan – and we all know what dirty rascals those Samaritans are, don’t we?

Was Nicodemus a Bit Thick?: Sermon Preached on 1st March 2026 (Second Sunday of Lent)

4 March 20261 March 2026 by Gerry Lynch

Preached at Christ Church, Worton

Romans 4. 1–5, 13-17; John 3. 1-17

“How can anyone be born after having grown old?”

Alt text: A Baroque oil painting depicting two figures seated across from each other at a candlelit table. On the left, a younger bearded man with long brown hair, dressed in a blue robe with a red draped cloak, gestures upward with one finger as if making a point. On the right, an older bearded man wearing an elaborate striped turban and richly embroidered robes places one hand on his chest while pointing at an open book on the table with the other. Between them, two lit candles in iron candlesticks cast warm light across the scene. An open book, additional stacked volumes, and a small wooden box rest on a patterned tablecloth. The background is dark, focusing attention on the intimate, earnest exchange between the two figures. — Crijn Hendricksz Volmarijn, Christ Instructing Nicodemus (ca. 1631). In a private collection.

Was Nicodemus a bit thick? I have often found myself wondering this as I have read this passage, where anything other than a very literal understanding of Jesus’ words seems to go over his head.

But Nicodemus is identified as a leader of the Jews, so was presumably a smart cookie. He is also identified as a Pharisee. The Pharisees were big into keeping the rules found in the Law of Moses.

This encounter between Jesus and Nicodemus immediately follows Jesus’ first visit to Jerusalem in St John’s Gospel, where he caused quite a stir by performing miraculous deeds and claiming that if they destroyed the Great Temple, He could raise it up in three days. This seems to have upset some folks, and perhaps that is why Nicodemus – a respected member of the religious elite, remember – came to Jesus by night.

But although Jesus might have upset other people, Nicodemus says that because of these miracles, he knows Jesus must be a teacher from God. But Jesus doesn’t bask in this praise. He replies straightaway that nobody can see the kingdom of God without being born from above. And that’s where we’re left wondering if Nicodemus is a bit thick, because he doesn’t grasp that this might have symbolic or spiritual meaning and starts babbling about going back into your mother’s womb. Then Jesus tells him he needs to be born of water and Spirit – which, from our perspective, is a clear reference to baptism. Baptism is more than a symbol, it is a sacrament: but it has symbolic elements that are obvious, to people then as much as to us now – the water symbolises both washing away sin and also a drowning to the old self, after which the renewed person rises up afterwards.

Part of why this might have been difficult for Nicodemus is that, as we’ve already noted, he thought following God was all about keeping a set of God-given rules. What was all this business about being born again supposed to mean? Nicodemus was already a son of Abraham, known for being obedient and pious—wasn’t that enough?

Where Did It All Go Wrong?: Sermon Preached on 22nd February 2026 (First Sunday of Lent)

22 February 2026 by Gerry Lynch

Preached at St Peter’s, Poulshot and Christ Church, Bulkington

Romans 5. 12–19; Matthew 4. 1–11

“…just as one man’s trespass led to condemnation for all, so one man’s act of righteousness leads to justification and life for all.”

A dramatic oil painting depicting the biblical scene of the Temptation of Christ. In the foreground, a solemn figure in flowing pale robes sits with downcast eyes and a weary, resolute expression, his long brown hair and beard framing a gaunt face marked by deep shadows beneath the eyes. Behind him, a sinister hooded figure draped entirely in black leans in close, one hand gripping the seated figure's shoulder in a possessive, intimate gesture, whispering with a sly, menacing expression partially obscured by the dark cowl. The background features a turbulent sky of deep amber and burnt orange tones, suggesting a desolate wilderness. A dark bird, likely a crow, flies in the distant right. The painting's photorealistic style and chiaroscuro lighting create an intense atmosphere of psychological tension between spiritual steadfastness and evil persuasion. — *The Temptation of Christ,©*Eric Armusik (2017). In a private collection.

Where did it all go wrong?

Tuesday marks the fourth anniversary of the Russian invasion of Ukraine. The 2020s have been a bumpy decade. The horrors of the 7 October attacks were followed by the horrors of the Israeli assault on Gaza, where the 75,000 dead include 18,000 children. These terrible figures are still much smaller than the number of those killed in Sudan’s largely ignored civil war, or in Burma’s entirely ignored civil war, or the terrible war fought in Northern Ethiopia between 2020 and 2022, which you probably haven’t even heard of and which looks in serious danger of flaring up again.

The story of the human race is glory interspersed with horror. Capable of great feats of technology, and art, and most profoundly of all of great self-sacrificing love, it nonetheless seems to be our lot to descend from time to time into the pit. On the grandest of scales, the golden ages of nations and civilisation are followed by spells of decline and even ruinous destruction. Meanwhile, in our own lives we find that time and again we fail to live up to the high ideals which we wish to live by. Time and again, we do selfish and stupid and self-destructive things in ways that often leave us horrified and mystified afterwards. Worst of all, it seems to be upon those we love most deeply that we are capable of inflicting the most grievous wounds. No matter how hard we try to live truly good lives, some force seems to drag us down into the worst version of ourselves.

Where did it all go wrong?

Give Up Illusions… And Sweeties: Sermon Preached on 18th February 2026 (Ash Wednesday)

18 February 2026 by Gerry Lynch

Preached at Christ Church, Bulkington (Benefice Service)

2 Peter 1.16–21 ; John 8. 1-11

A close-up of a person's forehead marked with a dark ash cross, a traditional symbol applied during Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent in the Christian calendar. The cross is clearly defined against the person's pale skin, with brown hair visible at the top and edges of the frame.

I don’t know about you, but I have a pile of books that I still haven’t read sitting on the little table next to my armchair in the living room. And I also, on the little table on the other side of the armchair, have another pile of books that I still haven’t read.

I suspect I’m not the only person here like that.

Still and all, when I was doing my weekly radio review column for the Church Times on Monday, I heard a doctor in Scotland being interviewed about his new book, which is about the mental health crisis, and how the way we categorise poor mental health might lead us to underestimate the resilience of the mind. It came out literally just last week and I wanted to be one of the first people to own a copy, so off I popped to Mr Amazon.

Will I have time to read it? Of course not! I just wanted it!

When do you know you have enough? Much of our lives are built on an unspoken illusion: that if we just had a little more, we would finally feel secure. No matter how much we have, most people always just seem to want just a little bit more. And the little bit more is always justifiable in its own terms: just a little bit more financial security for my retirement, just a slightly bigger car so I can help ferry the grandkids around, and that long haul flight would be so much easier in Premium Economy. One of my parishioners told me yesterday that I wasn’t well paid. When I think back to my memories of my maternal grandmother, who died when I was seven—I’m rich beyond her wildest dreams.

We’re all fantastically rich compared to most people who have ever lived. Even kings and emperors for most of human existence lived with a burden of disease and early death of loved ones that is hard to imagine from our standpoint.

That’s why I think it does us so much good to give a few things up for Lent. When I think back to the Ash Wednesdays of my primary school days, Lent was all about what you gave up. I don’t think any of my childhood attempts to give up sweets and crisps lasted more than about 48 hours. Yet although even these little child’s gestures were beyond my capacity, they started being considered as insufficiently sophisticated as we got older.

Heaven in Lidl Car Park: Sermon Preached on 15th February 2026 (Sunday Before Lent)

15 February 2026 by Gerry Lynch

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

2 Peter 1.16–21 ; Matthew 17.1–9

“And he was transfigured before them, and his face shone like the sun.”

Did I ever tell you about the time I saw Lidl in Devizes transfigured? We don’t expect to see transfiguration when we’re running out to buy a packet of biscuits and a cheap bottle of wine… but it happens.

We all know what it is to drive down a familiar road, somewhere that’s a bit run-of-the-mill and isn’t exactly known for being pretty, and find that your eyes are suddenly open to a beauty that you hadn’t noticed before. Often it might be the way the Sun lights a long-familiar scene, especially in the golden hours around sunrise and sunset; or it might be the sudden appearance of a red kite or a lost pair of deer; or it might be the trees in autumn, and at this time of year it is often, of course, the flowers.

Well, Lidl looks very different in twilight, especially on one of those rare evenings when the clouds are lit crimson from below. When the conditions are like that, sometimes you find that for a minute or two, the strip lights in the store shine through the window with just the perfect cast to complement the clouds. I remember one night in particular, about three or four years ago, when I was doing my shopping just a little bit later in the year than this, and this wonderful sight was accompanied by a hint of springtime blossom on the breeze, and a blackbird was singing for the last time in the day before it went to sleep—and just for a brief moment, you could sense Heaven breaking into the car park of Lidl in Devizes.

In just the right circumstances, even the most banal of things can experience a transfiguration, reminding us that the whole of creation is supercharged with awe and wonder.

Snowdrops Signal a Pregnant Cosmos: Sermon Preached on 8th February 2026 (Second Sunday Before Lent)

8 February 2026 by Gerry Lynch

A cluster of white snowdrop flowers with green-tipped petals, surrounded by lush green leaves, growing in a grassy area. In the background, there is a blurred stone building with a dark doorway and a weathered gravestone, under a cloudy sky.

Preached at St Mary’s, Potterne

Romans 8.18–25; Matthew 6.25–34

“Consider the lilies of the field… they neither toil nor spin, yet… even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these.”

Salisbury Cathedral rises majestically against a brilliant blue sky scattered with a few wispy white clouds on this sunny February day. The pale limestone of the Early English Gothic masterpiece glows in the clear light, its intricate west front alive with pointed arches, traceried windows, statues, and ornate gables. Three towers anchor the structure, crowned by the cathedral’s world-famous central spire that tapers dramatically into the heavens. In the foreground a broad, vivid green lawn stretches toward the building, crossed by long, sharp shadows from bare winter trees. A handful of tiny figures stroll along the paths, giving scale to the immense architecture. The whole scene radiates serene, timeless grandeur in the crisp winter sunshine. — Salisbury Cathedral, 4 February 2026, by Gerry Lynch (public domain)

February can be an underrated month – although the weather hasn’t been too kind to us this year with the grey and the rain. But when we get a sunny, calm, day, like we had on Wednesday, it becomes clear that winter’s lease is running out. There is heat in the Sun—when it gets a chance. The days are getting rapidly longer: in these parts, daylight lengthens by over an hour and a half during February.

Most of all, it is the flowers that make this time of year. First the snowdrops, then the crocuses, then the primroses and the daffodils and all the rest of them pop up, long before the first buds appear on the trees. They cheer us up not only because they tell us that winter will soon be over, but also because they are so pretty.

Of course, these early flowers are important for practical reasons. Their nectar feeds honeybees and other insects that wake from hibernation early. Mice and voles feed on snowdrops; slugs and snails feed on the early flowers too, as they do on almost anything, and they in their turn feed creatures further up the food chain. But the beauty of the first flowers is a gift in and of itself.

Why should the concept of ‘beauty’ mean anything to us at all? What gives us a sense that some things are beautiful and others aren’t? It isn’t a matter of survival of the fittest in the game of evolution. I mean, daffodils are beautiful but I don’t recommend you try to eat them, not unless you want a trip to A&E. Lions and tigers and cheetahs are beautiful but, if you’re in nature, you don’t want to contemplate their beauty for all that long.