sermon

Never Mind the Bishops!: Sermon Preached on Candlemas (Sunday 2nd February 2025)

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A 13th Century drawing of Mary and Joseph presenting the infant Jesus to Simeon at the Temple in Jerusalem - or at least what a 13th Century artist thought that looked like - while Anna worships and nine onlookers watch.

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

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

“he himself likewise shared the same things, so that through death he might … free those who all their lives were held in slavery by the fear of death.”

“It’s rather like sending your opening batsmen to the crease only for them to find, the moment the first balls are bowled, that their bats have been broken before the game by the team captain.”

A man in a suit and tie is standing and holding a piece of paper, appearing to be speaking or reading in a formal setting, possibly a legislative or governmental assembly. Several other individuals, also dressed in formal attire, are seated around him, listening attentively. The setting suggests a serious and official environment.
Presentations come in many shapes and sizes; Geoffrey Howe resigns on 13 November 1990. Used under the Fair Use doctrine.

Perhaps I am the first preacher ever to quote, in a sermon, this famous line from Sir Geoffrey Howe’s 1990 resignation speech as Deputy Prime Minister. Yet they were words that popped unbidden to mind as I returned from a fairly long and very pleasant leave, raring to get back into the fray, to find myself confronted with disastrous stories in the media about the Church of England, generated by our bishops: these are the people who are supposed to be our shepherds, our pastors. For it is rather like arriving at the crease, hoping to start a long and productive spell, only to find that my bat has indeed been broken.

What does that have to do with this morning’s Bible readings? Well, quite a lot as it turns out. One is the famous story of Jesus being presented by Mary and Joseph in the Temple, in fulfilment of Jewish religious law, as we would expect as today is Candlemas, the Feast of the Presentation. The other reading is a passage from Hebrews which reflects on the implications of Jesus sharing our human nature in all its fullness. Both identify Jesus directly as the Christ, the Messiah, sent by God to deliver His people.

So it makes sense to have this pair of readings together on the same day, but they are to some extent in tension with one another. Our Gospel shows even Christ, God made human, binding Himself to the Law of Moses, and the religious system of the Temple at Jerusalem, in which sacrifices of animals played a major role. But the Letter to the Hebrews is all about making the case that the system of animal sacrifices has been ended by Christ, whose sacrifice of Himself on the Cross is enough for everyone, for all time. The Bible doesn’t give us simple answers. To read the Bible faithfully, we need to listen carefully when we find different parts of it in tension. It is always tempting to mine Scripture for simple answers; the trouble with that is that we then tend to find the answers we already wanted. If we honestly seek to puzzle our way to finding God’s will for us and for the world, it will be a job that we can barely make a start on in a lifetime.

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True Light and Deep Darkness: Sermon Preached on 24th December 2024 (Midnight Mass)

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The image captures a breathtaking night sky filled with countless stars, with the Milky Way galaxy prominently visible, stretching diagonally from the top right to the bottom left. The sky is a deep, rich blue, contrasting with the bright, sparkling stars. A faint, white streak of a shooting star or meteor is visible near the top right, adding a dynamic element to the scene. In the foreground, on the left side, stands a large, rugged boulder. This boulder has a rough texture, with visible cracks and crevices, and appears to be part of a natural landscape. The ground around the boulder is covered in grass, which appears slightly illuminated, possibly by moonlight or a distant light source. In the background, there are a few trees, their dark silhouettes adding depth and framing the scene. The trees are spaced out, suggesting an open field or meadow. The overall composition of the image evokes a sense of tranquility and the vastness of the universe, with the ancient rock contrasting against the eternal expanse of the cosmos.

Preached at St Mary’s, Potterne

Readings – Isaiah 9. 2-4, 6-7; John 1. 1-14

“…the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.”         

The image captures a breathtaking night sky filled with countless stars, with the Milky Way galaxy prominently visible, stretching diagonally from the top right to the bottom left. The sky is a deep, rich blue, contrasting with the bright, sparkling stars. A faint, white streak of a shooting star or meteor is visible near the top right, adding a dynamic element to the scene. In the foreground, on the left side, stands a large, rugged boulder. This boulder has a rough texture, with visible cracks and crevices, and appears to be part of a natural landscape. The ground around the boulder is covered in grass, which appears slightly illuminated, possibly by moonlight or a distant light source. In the background, there are a few trees, their dark silhouettes adding depth and framing the scene. The trees are spaced out, suggesting an open field or meadow. The overall composition of the image evokes a sense of tranquility and the vastness of the universe, with the ancient rock contrasting against the eternal expanse of the cosmos.
The dark skies of Wiltshire,13 August 2024 © Gerry Lynch

It’s a pity that it’s so cloudy tonight, because the night sky is magnificent at present, especially around midnight. The winter stars, held together by Orion and Sirius are all rising in the south-east about this time of night, with the brilliant white of Jupiter and jaunty red of Mars making a cameo appearance for this winter only.

One of the first things I noticed when I moved to Devizes four years ago was how dark the skies are in this part of Wiltshire, especially as one looks south towards Salisbury Plain, where there is very little artificial light to ruin the view.

A sad reality of the present is that only a small minority of people in the world now ever see the night stars in all their glory. Most people now live in cities, where thousands of streetlights waste much of their energy by leaking upwards, doing no good to anyone below but ruining the night sky.

The human race now has so much power that the light we waste is enough to obliterate the glories of nature.

The light that really dominates our lives in the 21st Century, however, is that of flickering screens, the sickly blue glow that comes from our phones, tablets, and televisions, which impacts our system so profoundly that it even disturbs our sleep. Beyond that, these screens make us agitated about things that we can do little about and could probably quite easily ignore. The programmes on our TVs and apps on our phones are also intentionally designed to seize our attention, to distract us from anything that might encourage us to tune away from the channel, or close the app.

By possessing our attention these screens crowd out the space we might have to think, or just to allow our minds to slow down. I am as guilty of being distracted by all this as anyone; I am constantly flipping between tabs as I try to write my sermons.

None of this technology ever seems to make us better. We live in a society surrounded by all sorts of light we have generated ourselves. But our souls are as dark as they ever have been. In fact all this artificial light just seems to make that spiritual darkness more visible. We parade our anger and intolerance on social media apps and radio phone in shows.

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Duty: Sermon Preached on 22nd December 2024 (Fourth Sunday of Advent)

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Preached at Christ Church, Worton and Holy Cross, Seend

Hebrews 10. 5-10; Luke 1. 39-45

“See, God, I have come to do your will…”

The painting depicts an intimate scene of two women in a dimly lit room. The woman on the right, dressed in a blue garment with a white scarf, stands with her hands raised in a gesture that could suggest surprise or conversation. She faces another woman on the left, who is partially obscured by shadow and an archway, wearing a dark cloak and holding something in her hand. The table between them is set with a bowl of oranges, bread, and a small cup, suggesting a domestic setting. The interplay of light and shadow creates a warm, almost ethereal atmosphere, highlighting the emotional connection between the figures. The overall mood is one of quiet interaction, perhaps of sharing or contemplation.
Henry Ossawa Tanner, The Visitation (1910), hangs in the Kalamazoo Institute of Art.

I never expect a bumper congregation on the Sunday before Christmas [it was a pleasant surprise to have an above-average congregation at both services I took!]. I always presume it will be composed largely of people who see going to church every Sunday as their duty. That’s OK, because I see going to church every Sunday as my duty too, and I did so long before I was ordained.

Duty is a very unfashionable idea, but it’s hard to see how any society can function without it. In a culture where people have a strong sense of duty, we are more likely to know how things will work and that they’ll work at all. We will be clearer on our own responsibilities and clearer about where to expect the assistance of others. Societies where people have a strong sense of duty tend to have higher levels of trust and stronger social bonds—and they have all the benefits that flow from these things.

In times of crisis, we all depend on people doing their duty even at great personal risk. We will all remember the situation we faced in March 2020, when we depended on doctors and nurses doing their duty even though we knew little about Covid and we also knew there was a great shortage of personal protective equipment. At the other end of Europe, Ukraine’s survival as a nation depends on people doing their duty, in terrible danger and in horrible mid-winter weather, in the trenches that run the length of 700-mile front line.

From the earliest days of the Church, Christians have considered it their duty to gather to worship together on the first day of the week, Sunday, because it was the day of Christ’s Resurrection. They often did so in the face of challenges much greater than needing an extra morning to finish the Christmas shopping. Even now, this very Sunday, in places like North Korea and Iran, Christians will gather to worship Jesus Christ at the risk of their liberty.

If we, with all our freedoms, attend church every Sunday and follow the Church’s year—even on the odd Sundays when attendance tends to be low—we don’t just fulfil a duty that’s relatively easy for most of us, but we follow church’s year in its fullness, giving us a richer picture of our Faith.

What makes the Fourth Sunday in Advent interesting is that there is perhaps no other point in the year when the Church’s rhythm is so out of kilter with that of wider society. Most people assume that Christmas really started ages ago—how many weeks ago did you have your first mince pie?—with a lot of people finishing work last Friday, even the Christmas party season is starting to wind down. There is only the final blow-out on Wednesday to look forward to and that’s Christmas for another year.

But in Church, Christmas hasn’t even started yet. We are still in the season of Advent, the great season of waiting; in Advent the Church’s worship takes place in the key that forms so much of our lives—waiting with longing for God to break into a troubled world and our often troubled lives. We wait still for God to make His presence felt in all its fullness even as the rest of the world assumes the party has long started, because we know that God is often at work precisely in the opposite direction to where people are looking, in ways that will surprise everyone when they eventually come to light, through people the world considers of little account.

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You Brood of Vipers!: Sermon Preached on 15th December 2024 (Third Sunday of Advent)

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Preached at St Mary’s, Potterne

Philippians 4. 4-7; Luke 3. 7-18

“You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come?”

A scantily dressed man with a translucent shine around his head raises his right hand in the air as a group of women, men, and children gather round him with grim, sometimes excited, expressions of their faces.
Saint John the Baptist Preaching by Luca Giordano (1695). Hangs in the Los Angeles County Museum of Art.

Are you a viper? Have you, in the course of this year, exhibited any snake-like characteristics? You don’t have to answer that question out loud. But if the answer is yes, then you’re in the right place: because you need to repent, and church should be a place of repentance.

There is some contrast, isn’t there, between our two readings this morning. The crowds flock out through the Jerusalem Desert to be baptised by St John the Baptist, and he does the exact opposite of what a good PR man would tell someone to do today if they found themselves an accidental celebrity. The smart thing to do if you want to maximise your return on your fifteen minutes of fame is to make your biggest fans feel valued and loved in return for their loyalty—not to call them a den of snakes, and warn them that, “Even now, the axe is lying at the root of the trees”.

St Paul, in contrast, tells those reading his letter in the far off city of Philippi, “Do not worry about anything” for, “The Lord is near.” Rejoice therefore, he tells them, be full of peace and open gentleness.

Let me tease out this contrast between our two letters by repeating the question I started with: are you a viper?

If so, it’s time to repent.

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The Advent of a Journey: Sermon Preached on 1st December 2024 (Advent Sunday)

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A brightly coloured, abstract, plan-like painting of some houses with their many interior rooms visible and onion dome roofs.

Preached at Christ Church, Worton

1 Thessalonians 3. 9-13; Luke 21. 25-36

“…when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.’”

Happy New Year!

I haven’t got the calendar wrong by a month. The Church’s year starts now, on Advent Sunday. From now until Pentecost, Sunday by Sunday, we will journey through the great themes of the Christian story. Advent is a season of waiting, and so we start our journey in the waiting room. Advent is a season of humanity waiting through trials and exiles; of the disappointment of trying and failing that is so much a part of all our lives. It is a time which remembers how much of our lives are taken up with waiting, and also how much of the lives of nations and civilisations take place in periods when people see no obvious hope of things getting better on their own, and so wait for God to break into world.

A tempera on wood painting, originally an altar piece, of Christ teaching his apostles in the last days of His earthly life.
Christ Taking Leave of the Apostles, Duccio (1308-11) from Duccio’s Maestà; in the Museo dell’Opera del Duomo, Siena.

God will indeed break into the world at Christmas, as a tiny baby. Then we will journey with that little baby as He becomes a man, go into the wilderness with Him during Lent, walk through death to resurrection and eternal life with Him during Holy Week, and then to the birth of the Church at Pentecost. After that comes the long season of Ordinary Time, the celebration of Christian life in the everyday, which starts as the summer begins and ends… well it ended yesterday. Today, the cycle repeats, Advent starts again, and we wait with longing for God to break into the world.

A new year for the Church also means a change to our Bible readings on Sundays. Our Sunday readings take us through a different Gospel on each year of a three year cycle – Matthew one year, Mark the next, and then Luke. Readings from John are scattered through all three of the years, especially around major festivals. This year, through to November 2025, most of our readings will come from Luke’s Gospel. There is much to be said about Luke’s unique understanding of Jesus’ life, but for the moment, let me just draw one point out: Luke is a Gospel of journeys

Matthew, Mark, and Luke use a lot of the same material, sometimes being word-for-word the same, but tell the same story from slightly different angles—John is really quite different. That’s why together Matthew, Mark, and Luke are called the synoptic Gospels, which sounds like a very difficult term, but synoptic just means seeing with the same eye. All three of them have Jesus’ ministry starting in Galilee, followed by a journey to Jerusalem, which leads to the final crisis of Holy Week. In Matthew and Mark, the journey from Galilee to Jerusalem is a short interlude relatively late in the story. One thing that makes Luke distinct, however, it that this journey takes up almost half the length of the entire Gospel. That’s one of a number of ways that Luke presents Jesus’ life and our own as a grand journey: in Luke’s stories of Jesus’ birth, for example, the whole world is on the move as a result of a great census called by the Roman Emperor; and the first witnesses to the Resurrection are two men on a journey to Emmaus.

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Tyrants and a King: Sermon Preached on 24th November 2024 (Christ the King)

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Bernardo Luini, Christ Crowned With Thorns (ca. 1522). Now hangs in the Biblioteca Ambrosiana, Milan.

Preached at Holy Cross, Seend

John 18. 33-38; Revelation 1. 4-8

“My kingdom is not of this world: if my kingdom were of this world, then would my servants fight…”

Portraits of Adolf Hitler and Joseph Stalin

I’m currently reading a book called Stalin’s War by an American historian called Sean McMeekin. It’s grippingly written, but also a fairly contrarian take on the Second World War, so it has been rather controversial. This week, I found myself engrossed in his account of the build-up to Hitler’s invasion of the Soviet Union in 1941. Hitler and Stalin were big men, with grandiose ambitions to impose their hellish visions of utopia on Earth. These icons of tyranny, and the terrible, grand-scale, war between them will, I suspect, continue to fascinate people for long centuries after the Second World War has otherwise been forgotten. But for all that these men casually disposed of the lives of millions, Hitler’s empire collapsed barely four years after that invasion, while it is now more than a generation ago since the Union that Stalin led collapsed. They were big men, and terrible men, but nothing now remains of what they tried to create.

Pontius Pilate was also a big man. He was the governor of a province of the Roman Empire – admittedly, not a very large or wealthy one, but he was a power in the land. He was a man who was used to pronouncing judgement, especially on those ranked well below him, such as the strange holy men from the fringes of the Jewish religion who occasionally stirred up emotions in Jerusalem.

As it turns out, when the particular wandering preacher in today’s Gospel claimed, in a very strange phrase, that He was the ruler of a kingdom that was not of this world, He was telling the truth. He was indeed a king, a far greater king than either Pilate or the Jewish authorities could have imagined. He was king of the universe, God Himself, made incarnate as a human being. In handing Himself over to be condemned, Jesus Christ, God made human, judges every nation and every era, including our own, and their pretentions to justice and truth.

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The Birth Pangs of Something New?: Sermon Preached on 17th November 2024 (Second Sunday Before Advent)

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Old buildings, including churches and mosques, lit up by streetlights and flood lights, climbing up a hill, against the backdrop of a salmon-pink sunset sky.

“When you hear of wars and rumours of wars, do not be alarmed; this must take place, but the end is still to come.”

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

Hebrews 10.11-14, 19-25; Mark 13.1-8

A large scale model in stone and wood of King Herod's Temple and the city of Jerusalem in the 1st Century, in the open air, underneath a sunny sky.
Herod’s Temple as imagined in the Holyland Model of Jerusalem; public domain image by Berthold Werner used with thanks.

There have been times recently when it feels like the anchors of our society and culture have come loose, and we are hopelessly adrift. In the last fortnight alone we have seen both the resignation of the Archbishop of Canterbury and the re-election of Donald Trump—the latter being another of those things that the “experts” had assured us wasn’t going to happen. The war in Ukraine is by far the most serious conflict in this continent since the end of the Second World War, while the Holy Land has seen no war remotely as long as the current one since long before the creation of the state of Israel in 1948. These two conflicts have revealed terrifying new possibilities that advancing Information Technology is bringing to wars, and both are taking place in regions where the danger of escalation is real.

All sorts of things that we have taken for granted about the world since at least 1990, and often for long before that, no longer seem to be true. It probably isn’t the end of the world, but it is a worrying time, and perhaps even the end of an era.

In this morning’s Gospel reading, in the last days of his earthly life, Jesus looks down on the enormous Temple in Jerusalem and predicts its destruction. This did indeed take place in AD 70, a generation after Christ’s crucifixion, and it came during the brutal Roman suppression a Jewish uprising against the Empire. From the written accounts of it that have survived, that Jewish-Roman War seems to have been as horrific as anything happening in Gaza or the Donbas today, and the destruction of the Temple by the Romans was indeed the end of the Jewish religious world that had existed for a thousand years. After that, the Jewish religion had to reinvent itself entirely.

Our first reading this morning, from the letter to the Hebrews, was written anonymously to a group of Jewish Christians and draws heavily from the system of animal sacrifices that took place at the Temple until it was destroyed. Instead of animals being sacrificed by priests as an offering to take away sins, as at the Temple, Jesus Christ, the great high priest, gave Himself to death as a sacrifice for the sins of the whole human race for all time. God had come down to us and paid the ultimate price for the rift that human sin had opened up between God and humanity—that’s the central message of Hebrews.

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Following Christ in Our Place: Sermon Preached on 10th November 2024 (Third Sunday before Advent)

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A view across the Sea of Galilee from Magdala/Migdal towards the Golan Heights in afternoon sun.

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

Hebrews 9. 24-28; Mark 1. 14-20

“And straightway they forsook their nets, and followed him.’”

Two men work on fishing nets in very shallow water perhaps 5 or 10 metres from the shore, while a man in white robes waves to them from the rocky bank.
James Tissot, The Calling of St Peter and St Andrew (1886-94), now hangs in the Brooklyn Museum.

Our Gospel reading today is one of the most famous of all Biblical passages, when Jesus calls on some fishermen to become “fishers of men”, and they drop everything to follow Him.

This can seem a little intimidating. We’re not all made to be the sort of people who just walk away from their jobs to convert the world. Most of us don’t have the right sort of personality, and some of us might be just a little too old for that sort of thing. More to the point, some of us might have responsibilities that we just can’t walk away from. Especially, we might have people we just can’t walk away from. I always feel a little sorry for Zebedee when I hear this reading, as his sons James and John simply walk off the job to follow Jesus.

Here are two little things to think about in relation to it. Firstly, remember that not all of Jesus’ followers were called to be apostles. The apostles are certainly in the centre of the action in the Gospels, but Jesus clearly has other devoted disciples who live in fixed places. Do you remember Jesus going to stay with his friends Mary and Martha in their home? Do you remember how, when Jesus and the apostles arrive in Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, He clearly has other followers there who have made preparations.

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