sermon

The Tough Message of Mother’s Day: Sermon Preached on 30th March 2025 (Mothering Sunday)

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A classic rood screen, late Victorian, with Mary and St John both facing the nave along with Christ, St Mary to the left.

Preached at Christ Church, Worton and Holy Cross, Seend

Colossians 3. 12-17; John 19. 25-27

“…he said to his mother, ‘Woman, here is your son.’ Then he said to the disciple, ‘Here is your mother.’”

A painting depicts a somber scene of the Crucifixion. At the center, a figure is nailed to a wooden cross, wearing a white cloth around the waist. The sky is dark and stormy, adding to the dramatic atmosphere. Below the cross, several figures are gathered, dressed in robes typical of ancient times. A woman in a striped robe kneels at the base of the cross, her head bowed in grief. To her left, another figure in a white robe stands with hands clasped, looking up at the cross. To the right, a woman in a light blue and white robe also gazes upward, her expression one of sorrow. In the background, other figures, including soldiers in armor and onlookers, observe the scene. The ground is rocky and barren, emphasizing the bleakness of the moment.
James Tissot, “Woman Behold Thy Son” (1886-94), in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum.

Sometimes you’ll hear people complain that Mother’s Day, a modern commercial invention, has eclipsed Mothering Sunday, the traditional celebration kept on the Fourth Sunday of Lent, which is today. Mothering Sunday was traditionally the time that people who worked a long way from their homes came back to their “mother church”, the place where they were baptised and became a child of the Church. Of course, as a result, they had a chance to see their families. You’ll most often hear the complaint about Mothering Sunday being abandoned from a certain type of slightly grumpy old-fashioned High Church clergyman. Although I am very much such a grumpy old-fashioned High Church clergyman, I am in fact quite strongly in favour of Mother’s Day and that we keep it in church.

You see, Mother’s Day does two things at one—certainly it speaks into our own lives and our own families. Yet it also speaks into one of the beliefs about God and the universe that makes Christianity truly unique—that Jesus Christ is God made human. Jesus Christ is God, every bit as much as the Father, the maker of the universe, and every bit as much as the Holy Spirit, the mysterious force of life and love which circulates everywhere, and which we find rather difficult to understand. For Christians, Jesus Christ is not just a wise and holy teacher, and not even a prophet, but God Himself.

You may be wondering how Mother’s Day speaks into this. We see it in today’s very short Gospel reading—the incredible, horrendous, scene on Cross where Jesus, close to death, has been abandoned by all His followers except for four women, including His mother, and ‘the disciple he loved’ – generally assumed to be St John the Evangelist. Jesus asks John to take care of his mother. Think of what’s going on here: Jesus must be in physical agony, exhausted and close to death, and His main concern is the welfare of his mother. When we think of ‘the love of God’, we tend to think of something remote and abstract, perhaps even a bit overwhelming and frightening. But this isn’t remote or abstract love—it isn’t love for a great principle or a sort of universal love for all of humanity, wonderful and important as these things are. This is the love of one person in particular for another actual person, in the face of death. Most of us have experienced the sheer intensity of love when someone we love is dying; it can be overwhelming even when it doesn’t involve a brutal public execution. This is what God’s love is like—so intense it can be overwhelming, and felt for you in particular.

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New Life and the Cross: Sermon Preached on 16th March 2025 (Second Sunday in Lent)

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A serene churchyard scene features several weathered stone gravestones of varying shapes, some with rounded tops, standing amidst a vibrant field of wildflowers. The ground is covered with a dense carpet of yellow daffodils and purple-blue flowers, interspersed with green grass. In the background, a large tree with a thick trunk is partially visible, adding to the peaceful, natural setting. The sunlight illuminates the scene, highlighting the delicate blooms and the aged texture of the gravestones, creating a tranquil and reflective atmosphere.

Preached at Christ Church, Bulkington and Holy Cross, Seend

Philippians 3:17-4:1; Luke 13:31-35

“For many live as enemies of the cross … their minds are set on earthly things. But our citizenship is in heaven.”

A picturesque scene features a historic stone church with a tall, ornate tower and large arched windows, bathed in warm, golden sunlight. The church, St Mary's in Potterne, sits atop a gentle hill covered in lush green grass dotted with small yellow and pink wildflowers, possibly primroses. In the foreground, two leafless, gnarled trees with thick trunks stand on the hillside, adding a rustic charm. The sky above is clear with a soft gradient of blue, suggesting either sunrise or sunset. In the background, a red-brick cottage with chimneys peeks out, enhancing the serene, pastoral atmosphere of this springtime setting.
Potterne churchyard at sunset, 15 March 2025 © Gerry Lynch.

March can be a cold month but it’s full of new life. The song birds are in full cry as they stake out their territory for the year, but most of all it’s the flowers that catch the eye at the moment. The primroses and the daffodils are at their finest, adding dashes of yellow everywhere.

The natural beauties of the springtime raise our spirits and fill us with joy. But why should we find them beautiful? After all, if the cold, scientific account of human nature favoured by people like Richard Dawkins is correct, human beings are nothing more than the product of billions of years of random mutations and the survival of the fittest. In this view, everything that we are has evolved over time to do only one thing—to ensure we pass on our genes to the next generation. If that is true, it makes perfect sense that we find (some) people beautiful – for this helps us find a fit mate who will give us the best chance of producing offspring who will themselves survive.

But it makes no sense that we find daffodils and primroses beautiful. We don’t eat them, or their seeds and bulbs—in fact, they could make us quite ill. Of course, they’re very important to our survival because, flowering so early, they’re a critical nectar and pollen source for bumblebees and honeybees emerging from hibernation. But we didn’t need to worry about the survival of the pollinators until very recently.

It makes no sense that we find these flowers beautiful. Still less does it make sense for us to find music beautiful, or a handsome piece of furniture, or a great cathedral.

It makes no sense unless, of course, our lives have some sort of deeper meaning than mere survival, and we human beings are more than biological robots. We all know, I think, that we are made for more than that. When we look at the stars on a clear night we know instinctively that beauty is written into the meaning of the universe.

Our instinct for beauty is a sign that we were made for more than just life in time and space and matter.

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Faith in a Geopolitical Wilderness: Sermon Preached on 9th March 2025 (First Sunday in Lent)

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A wide desert landscape under a clear blue sky, with scattered dry, golden-brown shrubs dotting the sandy terrain. In the background, a range of rugged, brown mountains stretches across the horizon, creating a stark contrast with the flat, arid foreground.

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

Romans 10. 8b-13; Luke 4. 1-13     

“Jesus… was led by the Spirit in the wilderness, where for forty days he was tempted by the devil.”

In the wilderness, the rules and habits that helped us to flourish in civilised life no longer work; in fact, they can be a hindrance to survival. In the wilderness, we are thrown back entirely on our own resources. There is nobody to help us—except, of course, for God. The wilderness can kill us—or we can use it to allow our illusions about ourselves and the world to die. We can use it to teach us to trust in God, and God alone.

A barren desert landscape featuring a twisted, leafless tree with sprawling branches in the foreground. The ground is covered with dry, sparse vegetation and sandy soil. In the background, rugged, layered mountains rise under a vibrant blue sky with wispy, streaked clouds. Explain desert ecosystems Discuss desert photography
In the wilderness, Tankwa Karoo National Park, South Africa © Gerry Lynch, 27 January 2025

“We now live in a geopolitical wilderness where the post-Cold War order has collapsed.” I last used that phrase in a sermon three years and three days ago, on the First Sunday in Lent 2022, when we last had this pair of readings set for us. That was less than a fortnight after Russia launched its massive invasion of Ukraine. It is even more obvious today that the assumptions most of us held about the nature of the 21st Century world have turned out to be illusions.

We hear that frightening geopolitical wilderness reported every day in the news bulletins, so let us keep it in mind as we turn to today’s Gospel reading, for its detail is easy to overlook. 

Christ is challenged with three very specific temptations: the temptation to put worldly comfort before the Mission given to Him by His Father, symbolised by turning stones into bread; the temptation to take no responsibility for His own wellbeing, abusing God’s care for Him, symbolised by throwing Himself from a building and trusting in angels to catch Him; and the temptation to take power Himself as the solution for all the world’s problems, at the price of worshipping Satan.

These events take place immediately after Jesus was baptised by John, and immediately before He began His ministry of healing and teaching in Galilee. It is seems Christ, truly human as well as truly God, had to confront these temptations before He could brave the crowds who would for a time cheer Him as a wonder-worker, crowds who would try to seize him by force and make Him king.

Christian leaders in every age must confront these three temptations: the temptation to use the Faith as a means of obtaining worldly comfort; the temptation to hide behind the Faith as a means of avoiding personal responsibility; and the temptation to see the Faith as a means of solving the world’s problems.

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Mercy Transcends Justice: Sermon Preached on 5th March 2025 (Ash Wednesday)

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A black-and-white photograph of a rural landscape featuring a wide, open field with a dirt path running through it. The field is bordered by a line of bare, leafless trees and dense shrubs, with rolling hills visible in the background under a cloudy sky. The scene evokes a quiet, wintry or early spring countryside setting.

Preached at St Mary’s Potterne

Joel 2. 1-2, 12-17; John 8. 1-11

“Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.”

Ash Wednesday—a day when we think about our sinfulness. Is that depressing?

This painting depicts a religious scene set on a rocky mountaintop, featuring Jesus Christ in a blue robe with a red inner garment, standing on a peak and pointing towards a dark, winged figure representing Satan. Jesus has a golden halo around his head, symbolizing his divinity. Two other figures, likely angels, dressed in flowing robes, stand behind him, observing the scene. The background includes a golden sky and a detailed, colorful cityscape with fortified walls, towers, and domed buildings, painted in pastel shades of pink, green, and blue, extending across the hills. The overall style is reminiscent of medieval or Renaissance religious art, with a focus on spiritual symbolism and dramatic contrast between the figures.
The Temptation of Christ on the Mountain by Duccio (1308-11), originally part of an altarpiece in Siena Cathedral, now part of the Frick Collection, New York.

Well, I think it’s only depressing if we forget that thinking about our sinfulness is also an opportunity to think about God’s mercy. There’s a phrase I often use, that expresses one of the central truths of the Christian faith—God came to save us in the person of Jesus Christ not because we are good, but because He is love. We don’t save ourselves by being just about good enough to reach a pass mark for heaven set by a cosmic headmaster—instead God saves us out of His mercy.

I don’t think there’s enough mercy in the world. Mercy is easy to misrepresent as something soft-headed. One of the problems with the culture of our times, which is driven by what happens online, is that it usually lacks mercy. I think there are two main reasons for that. One is that most of us don’t realise when we type angrily behind our screens that there is a real person at the other end of the Internet receiving that anger. But this lack of mercy is also because on the Internet we’re always looking over our shoulders to see if what we’re doing is sensible and socially acceptable. Social media is a great X-ray machine into human psychology and it shows us that mercy is often seen as weak on transgressors and, in times of conflict, that exercising mercy is seen as letting the side down. This hostility to actually showing mercy is as prevalent among those who like to think of their attitudes as embodying kindness and concern for the marginalised as much as it is among the rest of us.

But that is to misunderstand mercy. When we show mercy, we don’t have to pretend that wrong has not been done to us. We show mercy when we choose not to take up the redress or vindication that would quite rightly be ours.

Perhaps in recent times, the Church has focused too narrowly on the idea of justice. Now, justice is a wonderful thing and I would hardly argue against it. But few of us would want to be on the receiving end of an entirely fair share of God’s justice for the worst things we’ve done in our lives. And there are other great aspects of human character, besides justice, to which Christians are called to live out. We all need mercy sometimes. If justice isn’t tempered by mercy, it can be a cold and even cruel thing.

Mercy transcends justice. When we are merciful we touch God’s nature.

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We Need Visions: Sermon Preached on 23rd February 2025 (Second Sunday before Lent)

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A vibrant painting of a swirling night sky with bright stars and a crescent moon, depicted in shades of blue and yellow. The sky features dynamic, curving brushstrokes above a dark, rolling landscape with cypress trees and a small village, rendered in deep blues and blacks. The overall scene is iconic and expressive, characteristic of Vincent van Gogh's style.

Preached at St Mary’s, Potterne

Readings – Revelation 4; Luke 8. 22-25

“…the one seated there looks like jasper and cornelian, and around the throne is a rainbow that looks like an emerald.”

After a stormy week or so in the affairs of the world, the story of Jesus calming a huge storm on the Sea of Galilee seems obviously relevant. It’s tempting for me to say, “Well just read that again at home and trust Jesus in these stormy times.” Then we can all get our post-church coffee and get off to our Sunday lunch ten minutes earlier.

A vibrant, abstract mural featuring a central figure in a white robe with raised hands, set against a green background with yellow geometric shapes. The figure appears to be a stylized, solemn depiction, possibly religious, framed by an arch-like structure. Surrounding the central figure are dynamic, colorful panels with abstract representations of birds, flames, and human-like forms, adding movement and energy to the composition.
Graham Sutherland’s great east wall tapestry in Coventry Cathedral is full of imagery from Revelation. © Gerry Lynch, 2 August 2018.

That feels inadequate, and trite, given that we’ve all been on complex journeys of faith through our lives. The truth is that all of us go through stormy periods in our lives where we find it difficult to trust Jesus; there are times when we find it difficult to trust that God wants good things for us in own lives, and also when we find it difficult to trust that a loving God is in charge of the world. In moments like that, I’ve never found being ordered from the pulpit to have more faith did me any good.

Another thing to bear in mind is that we can have faith, and lose faith, in many things, not just in God, or that Jesus Christ was God. This is a time in our history when people are losing faith in many things—especially in institutions and leaders. No doubt some of them have misbehaved or misunderstood their mission and got things wrong, but without leaders and institutions we have faith in, any country becomes a fractured place where the strong dominate the weak, the crooked break the rules without fear of consequences, and where even the strong and successful live much less pleasant lives than they otherwise might.

I think important light on what is happening in our society and politics is shed by the first reading this morning from Revelation. You’re probably surprised to hear me say that, because it’s a reading full of vivid, almost fantastical imagery, of living creatures with six wings full of eyes on the inside, singing constantly before the throne God. It openly acknowledges itself to be the result of a mystical experience where St John of Patmos is “in the spirit”. You can see why many people dismiss Revelation as the ravings of a madman, perhaps even of a drug addict. It doesn’t always make much rational sense—you know, what does it mean to say that “around the throne is a rainbow that looks like an emerald”? Have you ever seen a rainbow that looks like an emerald?

It’s easy to dismiss this part of the Bible as worthless, and many people do. After all, what does this have to do with feeding the hungry and visiting the prisoners and all those practical things that Jesus commanded us to do? The things we are so often told are what Jesus was really interested in.

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A Faith for this World?: Sermon Preached on 16th February 2025 (Third Sunday before Lent)

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The image depicts a vast, undulating farmland under a clear sky during golden hour. Rows of crops stretch across the landscape, their textures highlighted by warm sunlight. In the distance, gentle hills complete this serene rural scene.

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

Readings – 1 Corinthians 15. 12-20; Luke 6. 17-26

“If for this life only we have hoped in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied.”

Is your hope only for this world rather than what might be in the life to come? Is your faith in vain?

A painting depicting a scene by a body of water with a mountainous background. In the foreground, a large group of people, dressed in robes and head coverings, are gathered around a central figure who is seated on a rock. This central figure is also robed in white and appears to be teaching or speaking to the crowd. The people are seated on the ground, some standing, all attentively listening. The setting suggests a historical or biblical scene, with the atmosphere being calm and serene.
James Tissot, Jesus Teaches People by the Sea (1886-96), hangs in the Brooklyn Museum.

I always feel a little uncomfortable as an inclusive, liberal-minded, sort of priest in putting Paul’s case as bluntly as that. I realise many people do support the Church for what it does in this world, and many folk are loyal churchpeople and seek to be faithful to Christ as He taught us to live in this world, while not really believing in “the magic bits”. The Beatitudes, which are today’s Gospel reading, are often presented as a manifesto of hope for the future of humanity—if we could only fully embrace them and the rest of Christ’s teachings, really fully embrace them, we could create heaven on earth. Or so some say.

All of you welcome here, just as you are. That’s an important principle for a parish church that seeks to be a centre of faith and hope for the whole community; also I’ve had enough people tell me over the years I’m not a real Christian for me to tell anybody else the same thing. For what it’s worth I think that, on balance, over time, Christianity is good for earthly societies and Jesus Christ’s teachings, on those occasions when we really do live them out fully, do create little pockets of heaven here on Earth.

But I’m going to tell you why I believe in “the magic bits” and why I agree with Paul that if our faith is only for this world then we are to be pitied.

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The Times Are Changing: Sermon Preached on 9th February 2025 (Fourth Sunday before Lent)

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A vast desert landscape at sunset with a range of rugged, layered mesas and buttes casting long shadows. The sky is a gradient of blue to orange, with scattered clouds illuminated by the setting sun. Sparse vegetation and a few leafless trees are visible in the foreground, highlighting the arid environment.

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

Readings – 1 Corinthians 15. 1-11; Luke 5. 1-11

“I am the least of the apostles, unfit to be called an apostle.”

When I was young, I was far more self-conscious and afraid than I ever let on. Whenever I walked into a room, I assumed that everyone else there was competent and confident—and that I was a bluffer. I projected overconfidence to try to hide the fears that wracked me, fears I assumed nobody felt but me. A major life moment was when I realised nearly everyone has these fears, and that many people who are very confident on the surface are battling doubt underneath. Losing our illusions can be a very healthy thing.

We all say that nobody’s perfect. But we often assume that some other people are close to perfection, and because we know we aren’t, we can assume that we are terribly deficient. With age should come a certain wisdom that the things that we struggle with are usually just the same things that everybody else struggles with.

A painting of a bearded man dressed in traditional robes. He is wearing a blue tunic with a brown cloak over it. In his left hand, he holds a rectangular object with some red and white markings on it. The background is a textured, aged gold, giving the image an antique appearance. Some areas of the painting show signs of wear and damage, particularly on the left side where the paint has flaked off.
Andrei Rublev’s icon of St Paul dating to ca. 1410. Now hangs in the Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow.

When I was younger I also hated St Paul—or I thought I did. The truth is I didn’t really know him or his writings. Despite my best efforts to pay attention, I would find myself drifting off at church when the New Testament reading came from Paul. All those long sentences with too many clauses and too few full stops. The same would happen when I tried to read Paul at home. What I hated about Paul was that he was full of misogyny and homophobia, or so I was told by both the people who thought that was a good thing, and those who thought he was a bigot.

Another thing that happened as I got older was that I started to get were Paul was coming from. Perhaps not the most stylish writer, but so brilliant at reducing Christianity to its essence. One of his great gifts is to make no bones that he is far from perfect; that any favour God had for him was entirely undeserved. Sometimes, like in this morning’s Epistle, Paul makes too much of what a horrible rotter he had been when he persecuted the Church. After his conversion, even his best friends still found him to be a very difficult man. As a young man he was exactly the sort of person who projected too much overconfident certainty in his faith precisely to cover the fears that lay underneath, and in the process he became a bit of a horror, a violent religious fanatic seemingly devoid of conscience. Yet hidden from view, Paul’s conscience was clearly deeply troubled by his actions, and then God in all His Grace brought Paul out of the darkness of his overcertainty into the light of trusting in Christ alone rather than himself. Grace is a much used but little explained concept, but theologically it means the favour God has for us which we have done nothing to deserve.

In this morning’s epistle, Paul produces one of his great lines, “by the grace of God, I am what I am”. And so am I. And so are you.

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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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