religion

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

by

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?

Read more

Once Pentecostalism Rose in Latin America. Now the Churchless are Growing.

by

There are three great stories in the demographics of the Christian world over the last two generations. One was widely heralded and remains much discussed, the other two are much less so.

One, is of course, the secularisation of the West. The second, a big part of my academic work, is the explosion in Christian numbers in Africa: from around 60 million at independence to something like 700 million today. The third is the move of millions of Latin Americans from Catholicism to Protestantism, usually Charismatic and Pentecostal forms of Protestantism, since around 1970.[1] Evidence is starting to build that, starting in the 2010s, there has been a change in direction. Catholicism has continued to lose both nominal and active adherents, but those leaving were less inclined to move toward Evangelicalism than out of organised religion altogether.

David Martin’s Tongues of Fire (1990) was the one of the first serious academic works on the subject in the UK, and has a place of pride on my bookshelf; in the USA, David Stoll’s Is Latin America Turning Protestant? of the same year possibly had more impact.[2]

A group of Brazilian Pentecostal worshippers participates in a baptism ceremony at the River Jordan. In the shallow, murky brown water, several people dressed in white clothing gather around a man in a light blue shirt who appears to be leading the service. On the riverbank, observers dressed in casual attire hold smartphones and cameras to record the event. The scene captures a moment of religious celebration, with participants smiling and engaged. Vegetation lines the water's edge in the background. The photograph, taken on November 16, 2022, by photographer Gerry Lynch, documents this spiritual pilgrimage to one of Christianity's most sacred sites. The joyful expressions and communal participation reflect the significance of baptism within Pentecostal faith traditions.
Brazilian Pentecostals being baptised in the River Jordan. © Gerry Lynch, 16 November 2022.

The gathering turn to Protestantism emerged during a tumultuous period in Latin American Catholic life, with the rise of Liberation Theology among what had been a reactionary clerisy in the 1960s and then its shattering from above under the pontificate of John Paul II. While Liberation Theology claimed to speak for the poor, it was during its ascendancy that the continent’s impoverished legions, long underserved by priests, started looking elsewhere for spiritual sustenance. “The Catholics opted for the poor and the poor opted for Pentecostalism” runs the old canard.

But departures to Pentecostalism accelerated further in the decades since Latin American Catholicism’s renewed tack to the Right: and it was a modest tack – the shift should not be overstated; there was no return to the reaction of the first part of the 20th Century.

How great is the scale of the departure from Catholicism in Latin America? Catholic identification dropped from approximately 90% in the 1960s to 70% in 2010, and further to 57% by 2020.

Read more

Lizards for Lunch! (Fifth Sunday of Easter: 18th May 2025)

by
A large iguana with a speckled grey and green body and prominent dorsal spines rests on a rock in a natural setting. The background features green foliage, a cactus with spines, and a blurred blue sky, suggesting a tropical or desert environment.

Preached at Holy Cross, Seend

Readings – Acts 11. 1-18; John 13. 31-35

“But I said, ‘Not so, Lord: for nothing common or unclean hath at any time entered into my mouth.’”

Do you like eating lizards? Will you go home from church and enjoy tucking into an iguana steak for your Sunday lunch? Or will you perhaps, to accompany a salad in this warm weather, rustle up a quick chameleon quiche?

A small lizard with a brown and green body, featuring an orange throat patch, is perched on a white stone surface in sunlight. The lizard casts a shadow, and the background is blurred, showing earthy tones of soil or rocks.
Your Lunch? © Gerry Lynch, 30 November 2006, Curaçao.

I’m guessing that most of you aren’t actually that into lizard meat. Therefore if I told you that not eating lizards was an essential criterion of getting into heaven, you wouldn’t exactly lose sleep about it.

That’s one of the problems with rules. It’s easy to keep rules that we would never in any circumstances want to break. It’s easy to be enthusiastic about rules we have no intentions of breaking being enforced on others, especially people we don’t like—even as we try to wriggle out of the rules we don’t enjoy following ourselves.

Of course we need rules. How many of us, if we’re being honest, would pay our taxes on full and on time every year if we didn’t know that HMRC would fine us otherwise? How many more deaths were there on the road when drink driving laws were laxer and less rigidly enforced?

But no set of rules can match the complexity of real life. After every major sporting event, we see fans of one team complaining about bad refereeing decisions that everyone else thinks were fair. I believe Man City fans were upset at the referee after they lost the FA Cup Final yesterday. A football match is a lot simpler than life. Every set of rules can be interpreted in different ways. They all also contain plenty of loopholes. We are all inclined to interpret the rules to suit ourselves, and see what we want to see. In that light, it should be no surprise that we all know people who are very firm about sticking to the rules and making sure other people do too, but are also unkind and selfish, perhaps even cruel.

Read more

A Few Wise Men: Sermon Preached on Friday 6th January 2023 (The Epiphany)

by

Preached at St John’s Devizes, and on Sunday 8th January at St Peter’s, Poulshot and Holy Cross, Seend

Isaiah 60.1-6; Matthew 2.1-12

“Nations shall come to your light, and kings to the brightness of your dawn…”

Epiphany (1940) by Max Ernst.

The Epiphany is the fourth most important date in the Church’s year, after Easter, Christmas, and Pentecost. Yet it is often neglected by secular society, and church-goers don’t generally turn out in great numbers for Epiphany services in my experience. Yet it’s a feast of great significance because, with Christ still in His cradle, it established Christianity as an explicitly universalising religion: by that, I mean one that seeks to make followers of people of every nation and language, rather than just from the Palestinian Jewish community who supplied Christ’s followers while He was on earth.

A lot is going on in our two readings this evening, so let me try to unpack some of it.

The fact that these men are identified by St Matthew as coming from the East, specifically, has interesting implications. The East was a place associated with wisdom and spiritual insight. The Wise Men are being identified by Matthew not as any old gentiles but some of the holiest and most intellectually gifted representatives of the entire gentile world. They already know that the new-born child they seek is destined to be king. In contrast, Herod, the temporal king of the Jews, is spiritually blind. This short-sighted and intolerant man can’t see anything in the arrival of these foreign visitors beyond a potential threat to his power. Wisdom and holiness do not come through ancestry: early in his story of Jesus’ life, Matthew has established an important principle.

Yet there is an obvious tension between universalism and the particular here. If Christianity is a universal religion, one might ask why Jesus should have been born as a Jew, as a male, in the Holy Land, in the 1st Century. Why there, and then, and in the form of this little baby born of Mary? Part of the answer must be that if Christian faith truly does encapsulate God’s plan for humanity, then God had to become human as someone in particular. None of us are blank slates. All of us have a culture and a heritage, and no single one of us can be everyman or everywoman. Indeed love can only truly be love if it is directed towards someone or something in particular; love in the abstract remains something unconsummated and unfulfilled.

Read more

Are You A Leper?: Sermon Preached in St Mary’s, Potterne, Sunday 9th October 2022 (Seventeenth  Sunday after Trinity)

by

Readings — 2 Timothy 2: 8–15; Luke 17: 11–19

“As he entered a village, ten lepers approached him.”

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Dividing ourselves into insiders and outsiders is one of our most basic human instincts. It would be nice to think that, as we are all equally loved by God our heavenly Father, we could see all eight billion people in the world as our brothers and sisters. But human psychology doesn’t work like that. We know that not everyone can be trusted, but we also know that we need to trust strangers sometimes.

Two fences with a road running between them and two pedestrians passing with their back to camera.
Us and Them – the West Belfast Peace Line at Conway Street, 6 June 2020.

Subconsciously, whether we admit it or not, when we meet strangers we are always hunting for clues about whether we can trust them or not. This might be whether they look and sound like us, which can have damaging consequences for society, but we also often trust people who are different from us if their behaviour is what we expect, or their beliefs are like ours. The Samaritans were the most dangerous kind of outsiders – they looked and sounded similar to the Second Temple Jewish community that Jesus came from, and their beliefs were largely similar, but very different in some important respects. All of us who lived in Northern Ireland during The Troubles became very adept at looking for subtle cues about whether people who looked and sounded just like us were indeed from our own tribe – or were potentially dangerous outsiders.

In the Roman Empire of St Paul’s time, to claim that an executed criminal was God made human was a weird, even creepy, belief. So to be a Christian was to make oneself into something of an outsider. Therefore in the Second Letter to Timothy, which our Epistle this morning came from, there is a repeated theme of Paul telling Timothy not to be ashamed of the Gospel. For Paul himself, the Gospel is so valuable that he has allowed himself to suffer what must have been the ultimate indignity for this proud Roman citizen – he was a jailbird.

What was so valuable that it was worth being “chained like a criminal”, treated as the ultimate outsider? It was that Jesus Christ was “raised from the dead” and that: “If we have died with him, we will also live with him.” That was the treasure worth paying any price for.

Read more

On Current Trends, Northern Ireland Will Leave the Union

by

I was published in Unherd on the 2021 Northern Ireland Census figures. Demography isn’t destiny but it contributes powerfully to it. This week’s Northern Ireland 2021 Census release, showing Catholics outnumbering Protestants for the first time, does not in itself doom the Union. It should, however, represent a major warning to Unionists on both sides of the … Read more

Faith, Gays, and Sandi Toksvig: Sermon Preached at St John’s, Devizes, Sunday 7th August 2022 (The Eighth Sunday after Trinity)

by

Readings – Hebrews 11: 1–3, 8–16; Luke 12:32–40

“Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things unseen”

“Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things unseen” – so writes the author of the Letter to the Hebrews. Faith and hope are intimately connected – they are the twin foundations for imagining a future that is better than the present.

Smartly dressed man singing and banging a hand drum in Africa
You gotta have faith! Confirmation Day in Sharpeville © Gerry Lynch, 15 September 2019

We live in a society where faith is routinely derided as an unscientific delusion without evidence. Yet doing anything transformative requires us to dream dreams that go well beyond what the evidence will sustain; without faith we can only ever be anchored in a permanent present, unable to take risks because we’re afraid of going into uncharted territory, where there isn’t yet any evidence and we must rely on insight and inspiration.

Perhaps this is part of the reason why our culture seems to be so stagnant, trapped in an endless cycle of movie repeats and music that sounds like it could have been made thirty years ago. Our artists and musicians and writers and journalists are overwhelmed with data about what sells or what generates the clicks. Why take risks when you know what works? Even when the creatives themselves want to try something new out, the executives and editors have all the same data and seem to opt for profits over vision every time.

It seems that the more we know about the present, the less we are able to imagine an alternative to it. Drowning in numbers, we lack the sort of visions that can renew us into the future.

In practice, humanism has displaced Christianity as the official religion of this country. Of course, the Church of England still provides Christian liturgies for all the formal state occasions; but listen to the language of politicians of all parties, or our leading cultural figures, and it is almost always couched in the terms of humanism.

One of our cultural leading lights, Sandi Toksvig, gave the Archbishop of Canterbury a public ticking off this week about the Lambeth Conference. She was herself a humanist, she said, but she was sure that “the sort of message” Jesus wanted to send people was for them to “just be a good person”.

Just be a good person. That’s a charming sentiment – coming from a nursery school teacher, perhaps, or an eight year-old. It is genuinely startling to hear an intelligent person come to mature years and not observe that even good people sometimes do bad things – even when it is obvious what is good and what is not, which is not always the case.

I think that is another part of our present malaise – we tell ourselves that we’re good people, and indeed the official narrative seems to be that people are basically good unless they’ve been subject to some sort of horrific early childhood emotional trauma, or something like that. But we all know that we aren’t always good, indeed that we often hurt the ones we love the most, while that the people whom we love the most are often those who wound us most.

Read more

The Gardener of Life: Sermon Preached at St Mary’s, Potterne, Sunday 17th April 2022 (Easter Day)

by

Readings – Acts 10: 34–43; John 20: 1–18

Supposing him to be the gardener, she said to him, ‘Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him…’

What a strange encounter between Mary Magdalene and Jesus in this morning’s Gospel. How could Mary possibly fail to recognise Jesus? She and Jesus were, after all, close – just two days before, on that terrible Friday, she had been one of the very last of Jesus’ disciples to be present at His crucifixion, when nearly all others had fled in fear. How could she of all people mistake Jesus for the gardener?

St Mary’s, Potterne – a lovely place to celebrate my first Easter Mass. © Gerry Lynch

Then we hear another odd phrase from Jesus’ lips when she might have been expected to hug Him: “Do not hold on to me, because I have not yet ascended to the Father.”

It is the first Easter morning, and Jesus is risen from the tomb! Alleluia! But something has changed. This is no mere resuscitation by a sort of divine defibrillator. Jesus is alive, speaking to Mary Magdalene, as they meet in the beauty of a garden on an early morning in the Jerusalem springtime. But she doesn’t recognise this intimate friend at first, and He asks her not to touch him. What is going on here?

Some of you may remember the Bishop of Durham back in the 1980s, David Jenkins, causing a bit of a flap by saying the Resurrection was no mere conjuring trick with bones. This was interpreted by the press to mean that the Resurrection wasn’t real. That wasn’t what Jenkins was saying at all, although I have to say as someone who used to be a bishop’s press officer that, for all his many virtues, Jenkins was his own worst enemy in dealing with the press.

Yet David Jenkins was absolutely right. The Resurrection is no “mere conjuring trick with bones”. It is something far greater than that. Heaven also isn’t simply an endless perfect day on earth, but a reality that is different, greater, than the one we experience in our physical bodies. In heaven we will be the human beings that God has created us to be, as individual and unique as all of us are, and yet also in harmony with one another, with God, and with the whole created order, in a way that simply cannot be in this world. Here death and sin have power over us; in heaven we will be liberated from them for eternity.

Read more

The Cost of Love: Sermon Preached at Holy Cross, Seend, Sunday 27th March 2022 (Mothering Sunday)

by

Readings – Colossians 3: 12–17; John 19: 25b–27

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

Let me start this morning’s sermon with a verse of poetry:

Morning glory, starlit sky,
soaring music, scholar’s truth,
flight of swallows, autumn leaves,
memory’s treasure, grace of youth.

So begins the greatest poem of Bill Vanstone, seen by many as the most impressive Anglican thinker and theologian of the latter part of the Twentieth Century. At this time of year, with the weather magnificent and the air full of the scents and new life of spring, even in times as troubled as those we are in, one can be enraptured by this sort of mood, simply by being alive. It feels like heaven! Perhaps indeed it is an intimation of heaven.

A beautiful morning for another away match at Holy Cross, Seend. © Gerry Lynch

Of course, even in our brightest moments, that is never the whole story. Many of us will come here this morning with serious problems of our own; even those of us fortunate enough not to be in that position will be deeply worried about serious problems faced by people we love.

Love is the greatest gift given to any of us by God. It is the most wonderful and miraculous and life-giving thing about being human. Yet it also has a tremendous cost. It opens us up to feeling the pains of the people we love.  The second stanza of Vanstone’s poem is clear about that cost, as it continues:

Open are the gifts of God,
gifts of love to mind and sense;
hidden is love’s agony,
love’s endeavour, love’s expense.

Some people seem to think that even to celebrate this Sunday as Mother’s Day is somehow excluding and potentially wounding for those without children or whose relationships with their mothers were difficult. Well, as a childless, single man, let me say that it is simply an obvious statement of fact that mothers have a particular and unique relationship with the children they have born in their womb, an intensely physical connection that no male can ever have. Mothers perhaps more than any of us know just how costly and agonising love can be.

Read more

Reading the Signs of the Times

by

This article first appeared in the September 2021 edition of Franciscan magazine.

“In these last days [God] has spoken to us by a Son.” So begins the Letter to the Hebrews. These days, we might joke that God should speak to us in a collection of social media memes or a Zoom call. After all, that’s the way everybody else communicates these days.

The joke is fair enough, but it also misses the point. The people of 1st Century Palestine may not have been able to log on to Zoom to take part in a heavenly videoconference, but they could and did expect God to communicate in all sorts of ways. Receiving enlightenment and instruction from divine visions is a repeated theme in both the Old and New Testaments. Peter and Paul are both recorded as receiving direct instruction through visions. But the Father didn’t send the divine Word to people in visions, although presumably he could have done – instead He sent the Word directly, in the person of Jesus Christ. Personal presence matters; the Word was made flesh because we are creatures of flesh and blood.

What might the digitisation of human relationships, accelerated by necessity due to the terrible pandemic we are enduring, mean for the Church? Let us first explore its wider societal impact to shed some light on that.

It is now a generation since communication started migrating into digital spaces, mediated by screens. I notice this shift most profoundly in pubs; people on their own are much less likely to strike up conversations with strangers or the barman than they were when I first discovered their amber-tinted pleasures in the mid-1990s. Instead, singles constantly flick through their phones to pass the time. A more specific example: gay bars have closed at an astonishing clip, rendered commercially unviable after losing the section of their custom primarily interested in casual sex to dating apps which leave many of their users experiencing incessant digital rejection. Gone with the bars is the broader sense of community they provided, including for those who had no interest in hooking up. A good pub, gay or otherwise, allowed people to meet in a way that transcended class, politics, race, and educational levels, at least to the extent their locality or workplace environs did.

On social media, in contrast, people often slip into clusters of the like-minded, forming small and cohesive online communities trapped in their own groupthink, increasingly incapable of assimilating any alternative viewpoint, and regarding their very expression of such as at best fake news and at worst an act of hostility.

Read more