sermon Archives - Page 4 of 22 - Gerry Lynch: Priest, Writer, Photographer

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.

“Branded Twilight”, © Derek Finch, 16 May 2025, used under Creative Commons Licence 4.0.

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.

What if God was One of Us?: Sermon Preached on 1st February 2026 (Candlemas)

1 February 2026 by Gerry Lynch

A medieval fresco (c. 1300–1400, early Italian Renaissance style, possibly Giotto-inspired) illustrates the Presentation of Jesus in the Temple (Candlemas, Luke 2:22–40). The scene is set in a grand temple with decorative blue-and-gold borders, geometric patterns, arched architecture, and a central ornate canopy over an altar .At the centre, the Virgin Mary, veiled in dark blue, extends her arms as she presents the infant Jesus. Elderly Simeon, with a golden halo and long beard, cradles the nude baby close, his expression reverent; the child reaches out gently. Golden halos surround the holy figures. To the sides stand Joseph (possibly holding doves) and other attendants in colorful robes on the left, and the prophetess Anna with additional onlookers on the right, all observing the sacred moment in quiet devotion. The composition conveys prophecy fulfilment, divine recognition, and holiness within an architectural frame of columns and patterned walls.

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

Hebrews 2. 14-18; Luke 2. 22-40

“Because he himself was tested by what he suffered, he is able to help those who are being tested.”

A 15th-century Northern Renaissance panel illustrates the Presentation of Jesus in the Temple (Candlemas, Luke 2:22–40). The scene is set in a Gothic temple interior with tall red marble columns, golden capitals, pointed arches, and small decorative windows featuring religious figures.From left to right: Joseph, wearing a green turban and maroon robe, holds a white dove and looks toward the center. Beside him, the veiled prophetess Anna gazes devoutly. At the heart, the Virgin Mary, in a rich red robe with gold trim and blue mantle, presents the nude infant Jesus, who sits on a draped ledge holding a small basket of two turtledoves; golden rays form His halo. Elderly Simeon, bearded and in an elaborate gray robe with gold and yellow accents, receives the child reverently, his own halo glowing. A tall candle or staff nearby symbolizes Christ as the light of the world.The composition creates a luminous, sacred atmosphere of prophecy and divine recognition. — Jacques Daret, The Presentation in the Temple (c. 1434-35), hangs in the Petit Palais, Paris.

I wonder how many of you know that 1990s hit song by Joan Osborne about God? You hear it on the radio quite often still, or playing in the supermarket when you do your shopping. It goes like this:

♫“What if God was one of us? Just a slob like one of us?”♪♫

I’m not sure the word slob is appropriate, but one thing that makes Christianity unique among religions is that Christians believe that God really was one of us. Maybe not a slob, but one who did all the normal human things, including going to the loo and blowing His nose, and sometimes being afraid, and being tempted to do things that were wrong.

Yes, It Could Be Christmas Every Day: Sermon Preached on 4th January 2026 (Second Sunday of Christmas)

31 January 20264 January 2026 by Gerry Lynch

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 Christ Church, Worton and St Mary’s, Potterne

Readings – Ephesians 1. 3-14; John 1. 10-18

“The law was indeed given through Moses; grace and truth came through Jesus Christ.”

Has anyone brought you a present today? A bottle of wine, or a box of chocolates, perhaps? Some left-over mince pies? Or has anyone already today been given the gift of… eleven pipers piping?

Vibrant 1970s scene from Top of the Pops: Glam rock band Wizzard performs "I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday" against a fairy-tale castle backdrop with turrets and snowy atmosphere.Band members in colorful, theatrical costumes. Foreground: Musician with wild afro, blue jacket, yellow accents, red bow tie, dramatic makeup, playing saxophone or gesturing.Center: Roy Wood with long white beard and hair, hat, multi-colored military uniform in red, white, gold, epaulettes, like Santa-toy-soldier, singing or playing guitar.Background: Others in flamboyant attire with shiny fabrics, tassels, stripes; playing drums (two red kits), bass, saxophones. Drummer in red military jacket with white trim; elaborate headgear like tall hats, turbans.Image full of saturated colors, glitter, joyful chaos, capturing 1970s glam rock spirit and holiday fun. — *Christmas isn’t over. It’s only just begun!*

You see, today is the eleventh day of Christmas. Christmas isn’t over—not yet, anyway. That’s the point of that old song about the twelve days of Christmas. Tomorrow night is Twelfth Night, when the Christmas decorations traditionally come down. But for now we are definitely in the season of Christmas, and all our readings and hymns today reflect that.

Then on Tuesday the Epiphany comes—when the infant Christ was worshipped by the Wise Men, who were not Jews, therefore demonstrating that He has come to establish His Kingdom over the whole human race, and not just one group of people. That was the start of Christ’s earthly mission, begun when was still in the cot. Is that the end of Christmas? Well, what if I told you that it didn’t need to be? What if I told you it could be Christmas every day?

Now, I know what you’re thinking:

♪♫ Well, I wish it could be Christmas everyday ♫♪
♪♪ When the kids start singing and the band begins to play ♫♫

What a blessed relief it has been to go into supermarkets over the last couple of days without that blasting in your ears. It will be a whole ten months until we get assaulted by Slade and Mariah Carey every time we go to buy a packet of frozen peas – or nine-and-a-half at least. That sort of Christmas everyday would be pretty grim – eternal mince pies, mulled wine, and bigger meals at higher prices than you actually want, all accompanied by forced cheerfulness.

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

25 December 2025 by Gerry Lynch

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.