All posts by Nicky Harvey

7th Sunday of Easter Sermon

7th Sunday of Easter 2020Acts 1: 6-14, John 17: 1-11

“…so that they may be one, as we are one”, Jesus prays in verse 11 of our Gospel reading this morning. “… that they may be one as we are one”.

On this last Sunday of Easter, we are invited to listen in as Jesus makes a “High Priestly Prayer” to his Father.  The setting for his prayer is the Upper Room on Maundy Thursday, and the mood in the room as Jesus talks to God is heavy and poignant.  After all He has just said goodbye to his disciples, and every word, deed, and gesture he has offered them is weighted with grief.  He has washed their feet, fed them bread and wine, promised them the Holy Spirit, and commanded them to love one another.  He has spoken to them with both tenderness and urgency, as if time is running out.  Because it is.

Now, in the last moments before his arrest, he looks up to heaven and speaks of his heart’s deepest desires to God. 

Jesus is praying, and he is praying to his Father. and our Father. He prays for us, and he asks our Father that we would all become one as he and the Father are one.

If Jesus is praying for our oneness, then he is also recognizing and rejecting the boundaries and differences that divide us. There are divisions within ourselves, our families, our neighbours, our churches, our nation. We live in a world full of divisions – male or female; rich or poor; gay or straight; Protestant or Catholic; north or south; conservative or liberal; educated or uneducated; young or old; heaven or earth; divine or human; sinner or saved; orthodox or heretic. I am sure you could all list many more divisions in our world than the ones I’ve just mentioned. We could probably go on and on listing the boundaries that we encounter, and all too often establish or promote. They are not just divisions though, as they have become oppositions. These divisions exist not only out there in the world, but primarily and firstly in the human heart. We project onto the world our fragmented lives.

For every boundary we establish, there is a human being. Ultimately I suggest, boundaries and differences are not about issues. They are about real people, who have names, lives, joys, sorrows, concerns, and needs just like us and I think we sometimes forget or ignore this. It is often easier to deal with an issue than a real person.

Whether or not we admit it, the boundaries we establish and enforce are usually done in such a way as to favour us; to make us feel okay, to reassure us that we are right and in control, chosen and desired, seen and recognized, approved of and accepted. In order for me to win, someone must lose, in order for me to be included, someone must be excluded otherwise winning and being included mean nothing. The divisions of our lives in some way become self-perpetuating.

We often deal with the boundaries and differences that divide us by writing agreements, covenants, treaties, and legislation that govern how we will get along with each other and behave in the midst of our differences towards each other. But that is not Jesus’ prayer. His prayer is “…so that they may be one, as we are one”, (v11)

Jesus does not pray for our tolerance, our getting along, or just being nice to each other. He does not even pray that our differences would be eliminated. Instead he prays for our oneness. He prays that we would be one as he and the Father are one so that our oneness would be the revelation of God’s presence to the world. Oneness in the midst of difference becomes a sacramental presence of God’s life in the world.

That does not mean, however, that we lose our identity or individuality. Jesus does not stop being Jesus and the Father stop being the Father because they are one. Oneness is less about numbers and quantity and more qualitative. Jesus and the Father are one because they love and give themselves to each other. Oneness is a quality of life – God’s life. Jesus’ prayer for oneness is ultimately that we would be and live like God.

Oneness is not about eliminating differences. It is about love. Love is the only thing that can ever overcomes division and over and over again, Jesus tells us that in his teachings.

  • Love God.
  • Love your neighbour.
  • Love yourself.
  • Love your enemy.

Our love for God, neighbour, self, and enemy reveals our oneness. And the measure of our oneness, our God-likeness, is love. In love there may be differences, but there is no division or boundary.

God’s love knows no boundaries. God loves male and female, rich and poor, gay and straight, north and south. God loves Protestant and Catholic, conservative and liberal, educated and uneducated. God loves young and old, heaven and earth, divine and human. God loves sinner and saved, orthodox and heretic.  All are loved fully, completely, and uniquely as each one needs.

God does not even draw boundaries between Jesus and us. If we think God loves Jesus more than anyone else, we have missed the point of the Gospel. God loves you the same as he loves Jesus. God loves your neighbour the same as he loves Jesus. God loves your enemy the same as he loves Jesus. If that is how God loves, how can we do anything less and still call ourselves Christians?

For far too long we have dealt with each other through our boundaries, differences, and divisions. And you can see the situations that has got us into. You need only look at the world, read the newspaper, or watch the news to see it. When we deal with others through our divisions we label, we judge and exclude, we can end up resorting to war and violence, and then take shelter to defend our position. There is no oneness in that.

Although Jesus is praying to the Father, you and I will in the large part, be the ones to answer Jesus’ prayer. That is because we answer his prayer every time we choose how to love, who to love, where to love. It is now time to really answer Jesus’ prayer and deal with one another in love. So, in these coming days, I wonder who are the boundaries, what are the divisions that await our love?


6th Sunday of Easter Sermon

6th Sunday of Easter 2020 – (Acts 17: 22-31, John 14: 15-21)

“I will not leave you orphaned” says Jesus in our reading from Johns Gospel this morning. I wonder what images come to your mind when you hear the word “orphan”. Perhaps an orphan like Annie as portrayed in the film or musical, or maybe a character from a Victorian novel like the ones written by Charles Dickens. After all his stories are full of orphans like Oliver Twist or Pip from Great Expectations.

Or perhaps when you hear the word “orphan” you think of the many orphans there are around the world now in places where life is still fragile and dangerous. Those living and sleeping on the streets with no family support at all, or those living in soulless orphanages abandoned and alone, or the places where children have lost one or both parents to some disease or other; leaving them to be cared for by their wider family. The word “orphan” can be a powerful and emotive one.

But in our reading this morning Jesus isn’t speaking to small children when he speaks those words. He is speaking to his disciples. They are grown adults, rough and ready fishermen who have battled the seas to fish, tax-collectors, people of the world living in hard times, women who have lived on the margins of their societies, excluded or shunned. Yet Jesus recognises that when they lose him, first to crucifixion and then again as he ascends to his Father in heaven, they will feel lost, bereft, uncertain. They will feel orphaned, just as we can feel orphaned in our own lives too.

So Jesus says, “I will not leave you orphaned.” At some point in our lives we all want or even need to hear these words. They speak directly to some of our greatest fears and challenges; those of abandonment and isolation, loneliness or vulnerability. They remind us that we are not destined to walk this earth without an identity or sense of direction. We do not stand alone.

However, there is no doubt that there are seasons within life. Moments, when the transitions, changes, and tragedies can leave us feeling like orphans. Whether spoken or unspoken the questions begin. What will I do now? Where do I go? What happens next? Who will love, nurture, and guide me? Who stands on my side? What will become of me? Those are the orphan’s questions. Those are our questions. Those are the questions I imagine were running through the heads and hearts of the disciples in this morning’s reading.

It is the last supper. The disciples have been fed, feet have been washed and the betrayer has left. It is night, dark, and Jesus announces he is leaving. The one for whom they left everything now says he is leaving. “We do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?” “Show us the Father.” More orphan questions.

Anyone who has ever loved and lost – a spouse, a child, a friend, security, hope – knows the orphan’s questions.

We fear becoming orphaned. That fear points to the deeper reality that by ourselves we are not enough. It is not, however, because we are deficient. It is rather because we were never intended or created to be self-sufficient. We were never intended to stand alone as individuals. We were created to love and be loved, to live in relationship as persons giving themselves to each other, to dwell, abide, and remain within each other even as the Father is in Jesus and Jesus is in the Father; the direct opposite of being orphaned.

“I will not leave you orphaned.” That is the promise we hear today. Regardless of the circumstances of our lives, the turmoils, death, separation, we have never been and will never be orphaned by God. How strange that must have sounded to the disciples. In the same conversation Jesus tells them that he is leaving and coming. Leaving and coming most definitely sound like opposites! How can this be? What is Jesus saying?  If we are not careful, we will get struck trying to reconcile or figure this out. It is not, however, something to figure out. It is rather a means to see and live in a different way. What Jesus is trying to tell the disciples is “Even though we are apart I will never leave you.”

Leaving and coming. Presence and Absence. These must be held in tension, not as mutually exclusive. That is what Jesus has set before us in today’s gospel. That tension confronts us with the question of whether Jesus, for us, is a past memory or a present reality, a sentimental story that makes us feel good or a living experience that challenges, guides, and nurtures our life.

According to Jesus the answer to that question is determined by love that is revealed and fulfilled in keeping his commandments. The commandment to love our neighbour as ourselves, to love our enemies, to love the Lord our God with all our heart, soul, mind, and strength. Whose feet do we wash and whose feet to ignore? What are the boundaries of love?

Do we keep the commandments? Is our love growing, expanding, transformative of ourselves and the world? If so, Jesus is probably for us a present reality and we know the fulfilment of his promise that we are not left orphaned. If, however, we are not loving so much. If we remain self-enclosed and isolated, we relegate ourselves and each other to the orphanages of this world. Jesus’ promise is still real, and he remains faithful we have simply not yet claimed it for ourselves.

Keeping the commandments is our access to Jesus’ promise that we will not be left orphaned. Keeping the commandments does not make Jesus present to us. It makes us present to the already ongoing reality of Jesus’ presence. The commandments do not earn us Jesus’ love they reveal our love for him, a love that originates in his abiding love and presence within us.

Every time we expand the boundaries of our love, we push back the orphanages of this world creating space within us where the Father and Jesus make their home.

“I will not leave you orphaned.” Over and over, day after day, regardless of what is happening in our lives that is Jesus’ promise. We have not been abandoned. So do not abandon yourselves or others to the orphanages of this world. Love with all that you are and all that you have, just as the Father and Jesus love us with all that they are and all that they have.


5th Sunday of Easter Sermon

John 14: 1-14

So on this fifth Sunday of Easter, the setting of our Gospel is grim and sombre.  After all Jesus has just finished a last supper with his disciples.  He has washed their feet, given them a new commandment, predicted Peter’s denial, foretold Judas’s betrayal, and told his friends that he is about to leave them.  “Where I am going,” he tells them, “you cannot follow now.”

Needless to say, the words of Jesus hit hard, and fill the bewildered disciples with fear and concern.  What on earth is Jesus talking about?  How will they survive if he leaves them now?  Where will they go and what will they do?  What will happen to their hopes, their dreams and their plans?  Why is the ground shifting under their feet?  Why is everything changing?  

Many people – you and me included I expect – in these last few weeks of lockdown and isolation due to Covid -19 pandemic, sheltering at home, reading the daily headlines or listening to the news, are probably fearing to varying degrees what life in general, and indeed our own lives are going to look like during the next few months or years. Therefore, we can all probably relate to the disciples’ questions.  Why is the ground shifting under our feet?  What’s going to happen to our families, our towns and villages, our nations, our world?  Will the centre hold and where is Jesus in all of this pain, fear, death, and loss? How will we find him if he’s gone to a place, we “cannot follow now”?

It is no surprise then that, the anxious disciples respond to their new predicament by demanding and wanting some certainty and security.  A natural reaction when we feel things slipping from our grasp or feel we are out of control. Thomas asks Jesus for a roadmap or some kind of pointer, a list of directions, as to where to go. He is looking to Jesus to tell him straight: “How can we know the way?”, he asks him. 

Then Philip asks for evidence and proof: “Lord, show us the Father, and we will be satisfied.”  What they want — and what we all want, if we are maybe honest with ourselves — is the religion and faith with a Global Positioning System. The GPS that tells us the exact position on the ground that we want to be in or need to be in. The secure five point plan neatly printed off for ourselves, the twelve easy steps to get us where we need to be without getting lost, the ten commandments of direction.  The formula if you like that if you do A, followed by B, and then C, and you will unerringly arrive at the correct destination D that you were aiming for. 

But that wasn’t Jesus’s response.  “Do not let your hearts be troubled,” he says because “I am the way, the truth, and the life and if you know me, you will know my Father also.”   There it is. There is no roadmap.  There is no master plan or any form of satellite system to use for direction. There is just Jesus himself.  Just the messy, intimate, ever evolving, and often confusing business of relationship.  Of trust, patience, and vulnerability.

I expect most of us could come up with a whole list of things that trouble our hearts at the moment. Things that are close to home such as illness, family concerns, financial worries or in the wider world those of war, famine, and global warming.

Maybe it feels at this moment in time, the place you find yourselves in, like a tall order right now, to “not let your heart be troubled.”  To trust in the fact that you do in fact know the way — the quiet, unglamorous, risky, but ultimately life-giving way of Jesus.  But you do.  Like Thomas, like Philip, like Peter, like all the others, you do know Jesus.  You know his life and ultimately you know his love.  You know his death and above all you know his resurrection.  You know what it is to hunger for him, to seek him, to listen for him, to hope in him.  You do in fact know the way.  

No, the way is not what we thought it was going to be.  It is not a straight path free of any kind of obstacle, neatly signposted with clear sight of the destination. The way is demanding and costly to us.  The way is precarious sometimes taking us via the cliff edge, through the thorny wasteland, showing us many twists and turns and at times makes us wonder if we are just going round and round in circles.  The way takes time.  But the invitation of this Gospel reading we have heard this morning is still an invitation to confidence.  Not because we are experts at finding God, but because God has always, and already found us.  With every unknowing we embrace throughout our life’s journey, God finds us one more time and shows us the way.

In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places,” Jesus tells his forlorn and worried disciples.  And what does Jesus mean by this? Well he means that God is roomy.  God is generous.  God is hospitable.  God can handle your doubts, your fears, and your questions.  And God’s offer of belonging extends far beyond the confines of this mortal life.  “I go and prepare a place for you,” Jesus says this as he stands in the shadow of his own cross.  I am telling you that you have a place with me.  You have a place with God.  You have a place.

So, a grim and sombre setting.  There are real questions from real people.  Yet an offer of comfort.  The promise of home.  The Way.  

This is a Gospel for our time.  The story — your story, my story, our collective story of this precarious, overwhelming moment — will not end in death.  Though we might feel alone and frightened right now, the Way is open before us.  We know it.  We know Jesus, and because we know Jesus, we know God.  The Way will safely bear us home.  Do not let your hearts be troubled.


4th Sunday of Easter Sermon

I am the good shepherdJohn 10: 1-15

I am the Good Shepherd” Jesus says. Our Gospel reading today gives us that wonderful image of Jesus the good shepherd. It is one we have probably pictured before, and I wonder what images come to mind for each of you now? I expect if I were to ask you, if we were together, you would all say different things based on your knowledge and experience of shepherds and sheep. You might describe farmers who keep sheep in their fields, as shepherds. It might be the popular image of the man in a flat cap rounding up his sheep, with his sheepdogs, from programs like “One man and his dog”. It might be a picture of Jesus from a Sunday School book with his white woolly sheep standing around him in lush green pastures or even the image of a man carrying a lamb over his shoulders from a stained glass window in a church.

Lovely though they are, I wonder whether we get stuck with all that imagery of shepherds and sheep and fail to move on to think about the deeper meaning behind what Jesus is actually saying in the verses that follow. “I am the good shepherd” says Jesus “I know my own and my own know me, just as the Father knows me and I know the Father. And I lay down my life for my sheep”. What does the life of the resurrected Jesus, who lay down his life for his sheep, that life of self-offering love, mean for us, here and now?

Thinking about this self-offering love on a human level may help. We often hear of the desperate plight of families battling with life limiting illnesses or life changing accidents. Or with children who have conditions that make normal life, let alone sleep, impossible. Having worked with patients with Dementia I have seen those wives or husbands devotedly coming in every day without fail, to sit with a husband or wife who no longer recognizes them, holding on to the person they know in their memory and their heart. In so many ways these families are laying down their lives for the ones they love. As we read or see more of each story, and follow the families through the difficulties, stresses and loss we see the cost of that self-giving love. As we become more aware of the cost, then the depth of love that holds those families together shines through.

Over the last few years I have been following the shepherd James Rebanks on Twitter. You may have read his book “A Shepherd’s Life” or seen him on the news. He is a shepherd in the Lake District with a flock of Herdwick sheep. He has got over 126 thousand followers on twitter sharing his brutally honest account of his day to day life on the fells with his sheep at lambing time. James tweets the highs and lows, the joys and the sadness, of his work from dawn till dusk doing the job he loves, and he knows he was born to do. What has struck me is how much he knows and loves those sheep. Working amongst them every day he knows each one well and this is shown by the way he cares for them. He knows them by their character, their markings and the way they behave. His life is hard, and he works for the reward of seeing his flock flourish. Here are a few of his tweets which show the depth of his emotion and his love for his sheep, each individual one.

An experienced shepherd can see the signs in a young lamb that it might be champion. A sheep here is rarely just a sheep”.

“Really pleased to see that the daughter of my best tup (ram) who died a year ago is a really good mother. It matters a lot”

The next tweet was accompanied by a picture of twin lambs with their mother.

“The dark lamb here has just been killed by a fox….gutted. Saw it healthy an hour ago”

There will be a cost and depth to the love that each of us knows. Love we have both received and given ourselves – maybe simply in small acts of faithful love and friendship, in the bigger picture of our lives, because of the needs of another person. It is what shapes and moulds us. What is the most costly love you have received from others or the love that has cost you the most to give? I wonder what it felt like to receive, what it felt like to give.

With Jesus being the Good Shepherd, laying down his life takes us to a new understanding of the relationship of God with his people. Jesus comes to us bringing not just care and safety, but a costly self-offering love. He isn’t just there to guide and protect, but to live amongst and enter into the lives of those he cares for; facing the cost and fear and even death. Jesus offers all of himself. Unlike the hired hand, who has no commitment to or investment in the flock, who doesn’t care and runs away in the face of danger, Jesus has put everything into it. He has held nothing back. Jesus knows us by name in the times we are lost and frightened, in the challenges we face and the love and safety we need. He lays down his life for his sheep freely and willingly because it is in this love that he can express the love between him and God his father and enables us to enter into that relationship and receive that mutual love too.

It is often only when we are at our weakest that we learn what it means to receive. Perhaps when we are ill or recovering from an operation, or when events in life just overwhelm or upset us. We just cannot see a way to get through or in the face of loss when we feel absolutely helpless, we just have to give in and let others support and help us. In stopping and being open to what is there to receive, that love, support, care, a soothing word, a kind touch, rest, just being known, we can get a glimpse of a new life. Jesus has opened up his life and relationship with the father to make space for us, knowing us and loving us, through his resurrection, and as the good shepherd, he calls us to a place of safety, that place of new life.

Jesus lays down his life, alongside us, offering us love in our lives in the difficulties and challenges as well as the beautiful moments. He is there with James Rebanks as he looks after his sheep, he is with all those we see struggling illness and disability and he is with those who live with dementia as I mentioned before. He is with us now in lockdown and isolation as with live with the threat of Covid -19. The good shepherd is always giving love and receiving it back again showing us his sheep the path we should follow and what we should imitate in our lives. If we place that love at the centre of our lives and respond in the same way, his love will be living, and breathing, in us and through us.

I am the Good Shepherd” says Jesus. “I know my own and my own know me, just as the Father knows me and I know the Father. And I lay down my life for my sheep”

Are we ready to trust the good shepherd? To allow ourselves to be known, loved and called by name. Called out of the ditches and holes, we can sometimes hopelessly fall into or through fear or in weakness climb into as lost sheep. Can we allow our lives to have that same self-offering love given and received, allowing space for others so we can be more deeply connected to one another and God? If we are, then let us be open to what we simply have to do, and say, and be, as we offer back the costly love we have received.


3rd Sunday of Easter Sermon

Luke 24: 13-35

Did you notice those words? Just four of them in verse 21, roughly halfway through the passage we heard this morning. “But we had hoped”. I wonder how many times we have spoken those words or words similar.

On this third Sunday of Easter, we find ourselves travelling a road that’s uncomfortably familiar. Regardless of identity or circumstance, we all know this road as we have walked along it and lost our way on it.  We have left it behind only to return to it. The road is the road to Emmaus. We recognize it by the words we speak when we walk its uneven and convoluted way one more time: “But we had hoped.”

The words spoken on the road to Emmaus are words of pain, disappointment, bewilderment, and yearning. Words we say when we have come to the end of our hopes — when expectations have been dashed, our dreams are dead, and there’s nothing left to do but leave, defeated and done.  But we had hoped.  

Cleopas and his companion say those same words to the stranger who appears alongside them as they walk to Emmaus on Easter evening: “But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel.”  

Jesus is dead as far as they know. The Lord they staked their lives on, the Messiah they thought would change the world, has died the most humiliating death imaginable, and his promises of a new kingdom have come to nothing. Then they hear that, Jesus’s tomb is empty, and his body is missing. Things have fallen apart.  “But we had hoped” for so much.  

The walk to Emmaus happens on Resurrection Sunday according to Luke’s Gospel.  On the very day we celebrate the resurrection, new life and the hope that it brings, the road to Emmaus appears ahead of us, offering defeat, disillusionment, and misrecognition. Sometimes resurrection takes longer than three days. Sometimes new life comes in fits and starts. Sometimes, seeing and recognizing the risen Christ is hard.  

Yet the road to Emmaus, the road of brokenness and failure, is holy ground. It reminds us that Jesus is not who we think he is, and not who we necessarily want him to be. So, who is the would-be stranger on that road?  How does he respond when all appears lost? What does he do for the weary and the defeated? 

We notice a quiet resurrection.  You would think that a God who had suffered a completely unjust death would come back and shout his triumph from the rooftops and prove his accusers and killers wrong.  But Jesus does no such thing.

Instead, the risen Christ takes a walk and notices two of his followers walking ahead of him. He approaches them in a manner so gentle, so understated, that they don’t recognize him.  

But we had hoped” he’d be more dramatic. The disappointment we face on the Emmaus road is that of the quiet resurrection. The disappointment of a Jesus who prefers the quiet, hidden encounter rather than the one we expect and crave. 

We notice healing through story. As soon as Jesus falls into step with the companions on the road, he invites them to tell their story: “What are you discussing with each other while you walk along?” Astonished by the question, Cleopas and his companion tell Jesus everything. They share with him the story of their faith — its rise and its fall. They tell Jesus how high their expectations had been for their now-crucified leader. They describe their devastation at his death.  Their confusion, their loss, their uncertainty. They tell Jesus the whole story.  

Jesus listens, hearing them out and when they’re done, he tells the story back to them. As he does, the story changes. It becomes what it always was — something far bigger, deeper, older, wiser, and richer than the travellers on the Emmaus road understood.  “Here’s what you’re leaving out,” Jesus seems to say. “Here’s what you’re missing.”

Jesus in telling the story restores both its context and glory, grounding the story in memory, tradition, history and Scripture. He helps the travellers understand their place in a story that long precedes them, a narrative big enough to hold their disappointment without being defeated by it.  When Jesus tells the story, the death of the Messiah finds its place in the redemption, hope, and Godly love that spans the centuries, and the hearts of his listeners burn.

Like Cleopas and his companion, we need Jesus to meet us on the road, and weave memory, Scripture, context, purpose, and history back into the narratives we cling to. “But we had hoped the story was bigger.  We had hoped it would have a better ending.”  Well, it is. And it does.    

We notice the freedom to leave.  When the travellers reach Emmaus, Jesus gives them the option to continue on without him. He makes out he’s leaving, placing them in a position where they have to be completely intentional about their desire regarding him.  Do they want him to stay?  Are they willing to risk hosting a stranger in their home?  Do they wish to go deeper with this man who makes their hearts burn, or are they content to leave the encounter where it stands, and return to their ordinary lives without learning more?   

What would have happened if Cleopas and his companion said goodbye to Jesus on the road? How would their story have ended if Jesus walked away? The companions would have missed so much. The Messiah they thought they knew and loved would have remained a stranger and they would not have experienced the intimate knowing of the broken bread, the shared cup. The joy of resurrection would not have become theirs.  

Jesus allows us to be free to make our own choices. He will not impose. He will not overpower. He’ll make as if he’s moving on, giving us space, time, and freedom to decide what we really want. Do we desire to go deeper? Are we ready to get off the road of failures and defeats and willing to let the guest become our host? Do we really want to know who the stranger is?

“Stay with us.”  That’s what Cleopas and his companion say to Jesus.  An invitation. A welcome. The words a patient Jesus waits to hear.         

We notice the smallness of things. When Jesus and his companions are seated around the table, Jesus takes bread.  He takes, blesses, breaks, and gives. So small a thing. So small a thing that changes everything.  

Sometimes it’s difficult to trust in the transformative power of small things. But the Emmaus story speaks to this power — the power of the small and the commonplace to reveal the divine.  God shows up during a quiet evening walk on a backwater road. God is made known around our dinner tables. God reveals God’s self when we take, bless, break, and give.  God is present in the rhythms and rituals of our seemingly ordinary days.  God is with us now in these strange days of lockdown, isolation and social distancing.   

God is in the text you send to the neighbour you cannot visit. God appears in the Zoom gathering, the livestreamed service, the phone call, the letter. Jesus is the stranger you see in the street when you take a walk, and you smile and say hello. The Emmaus story tells us that the risen Christ is not confined in any way by the seeming smallness of our lives.  Wherever and whenever we make room, Jesus comes.

“But we had hoped.”  Yes, we had.  Of course we had.  So very many things are different right now than we had hoped they’d be.  And yet, the stranger who is the Saviour still meets us on the lonely road to Emmaus.  The guest who becomes our host still nourishes us with Presence, Word, and Bread.

So keep walking.  Keep telling the story.  Keep honouring the stranger. Keep attending to your burning heart. Christ is risen. He is no less risen on the road to Emmaus than he is anywhere else.  So, look for him.  Listen for him.  And when he lingers at your door, honouring your freedom, but yearning to feed you, say what he longs to hear:  Stay with me.  


2nd Sunday of Easter Sermon

John 20: 19-end

After hearing todays Gospel reading, I expect we feel a bit like the disciples. We are all at this time in lockdown. Our doors are closed, and our churches are locked. We are not fearing for our lives because of an uprising, like the disciples were, but from the fear of something unseen. Like them we are in a time of the unknown, something we can’t control. We don’t know the outcome. Our doors are physically shut, but are our hearts?

A week ago on Easter Sunday we celebrated the resurrection. However there comes a time, when we must live the resurrection and that is not always easy. Whether we are living in the times of Covid 19 forced to stay in, or in ordinary times, there are always days when we prefer to just stay in bed, pull the covers over our head, and close out the world. Some days it just seems easier and safer to lock the doors of our houses and avoid the circumstances and people of our lives. Sometimes we just want to run away, hide, and not deal with the reality of our lives.

Each time we shut the doors of our life, our minds, or our hearts we imprison ourselves behind those ‘locked’ doors if you like. For every person, event, or idea we lock out, regardless of the reason, we end up locking ourselves in. That is what has happened to the disciples in today’s gospel. It is Easter evening, the first day of the week, the day of the resurrection, the day they saw the empty tomb and the day Mary Magdalene announced, “I have seen the Lord.” The disciples are gathered in that house, and the doors are locked with fear. A week later they are in the same place. It is the same house, the same walls, the same closed doors, the same locks. Nothing much has changed.

Jesus’ tomb is open and empty, but the disciples’ house is closed and the doors locked tight. The house has become their tomb. Jesus is around, and the disciples are bound in fear. The disciples have separated themselves and their lives from the reality of Jesus’ resurrection. Their doors of faith have been closed. They have shut their eyes to the reality that life is now different. They have locked out Mary Magdalene’s words of faith, hope, and love. They have left the empty tomb of Jesus, and entered their own tombs of fear, doubt, and blindness. The locked doors have become the great stone sealing their tomb. They have locked themselves in. And so for us the doors of our tombs are always locked from the inside. All this, and it has been only one week.

So, one week after Easter, how are our lives different? Where are we living? In the freedom and joy of resurrection or metaphorically speaking behind locked doors. How is our life different after Easter? And if it isn’t what are the locked doors of our life, our heart, our mind?

When John describes the house, the doors and the locks he is speaking about more than a physical house with walls, with doors on hinges, and fastened locks. He is describing the interior condition of the disciples. And so, the locked places of our own lives are always more about what is going on inside of us than what is going on around us.

So I wonder, what are the closed places of your life? What is it that   keeps you in the tomb? Maybe, like the disciples, it is fear. Maybe it is questions, disbelief, or the conditions we place on ourselves or on our faith. Perhaps it is sorrow and loss. Maybe the wounds are so deep it does not seem worth the risk to step outside. It may be anger and resentment or the inability to open up to new ideas, possibilities, and change.

Jesus is always entering the locked places of our lives. He comes if you like ‘eastering’ in us. That is unexpected, uninvited, and sometimes even unwanted he steps into our closed lives, closed, hearts, closed minds. Standing among us he offers us peace and breathes new life into us. He doesn’t open the door for us, but he gives us all we need so that we might open our own doors to a new life, a new creation, a new way of being. This is happening all the time.

Whatever our own circumstances or the circumstances forced upon us at this time, Christ stands among us and his people saying, “Peace be with you,” breathing life into what looks lifeless. He is there amongst the families of this place who need help from the foodbank. In the midst of that feeding Christ enters saying, “Peace be with you. He is amongst those in our community who are grieving in these difficult times. Those saying goodbye to loved ones in ways that they couldn’t possibly imagine. Yet Christ enters saying, “Peace be with you. The winds of change are blowing. His breath carries them through the day, one day at a time. Just as it carries each one of us.

Regardless of our circumstances or of those around us, Covid 19 or not, Jesus shows up bringing peace, offering peace, embodying peace. Regardless of the circumstances Jesus shows up bringing life, offering life, embodying life. Life and peace are resurrection reality. They do not necessarily change the circumstances of our life and world. The hungry still need to be fed, and loved ones will die. The life and peace of Jesus’ resurrection enable us to meet and live through those circumstances. He steps into those locked places and gives us his peace, his breath, his life, and the ability to unlock our closed doors and then sends us out. He enables us to be free to unlock the doors of our lives and step outside into his life, resurrection life.


Easter Sunday Sermon

Matthew 28: 1-10

And so we meet on this Easter Sunday morning, a very different Easter morning to most we may have experienced I’m sure. We are a separated community yet joined by the Spirit as the body of Christ, under lockdown in our own homes but brought together by the wonders of modern technology. In some ways we are like those first disciples forced to be apart because of circumstances and waiting. Not knowing what is going to happen from one hour, day or even week to the next. We are waiting in the unknown if you like, we can’t see what is happening, what we knew has gone, but we know something is happening.

I’m sure we have all been in this kind of situation at some point in our lives, or at least can picture it if not. When a child, or grandchild has called out in the middle of the night from the bedroom. “I’ve heard something” or “I’ve seen something.” We have gone into the room, turned on the light, and looked around; under the bed, in the cupboards, behind the door, wherever is needed. After a little while it is usually said, “There’s nothing here,” and they climb back into bed knowing all is well. 

That is the Easter message. There’s nothing here! Do not be afraid. All is well!

That scenario mentioned earlier is not just a story of a child or grandchild. It’s the human story. It’s the story of a life lived in the fear of darkness and death. It is a story, I suspect, each of us knows well. We fear for ourselves and we fear for those we love. Something is there. Something more powerful than ourselves. We are right. But it’s not what we think.

Two women, both named Mary, go to see the tomb. They know something is there. They saw it all. They watched the crucifixion. They saw Jesus die. They saw Joseph take Jesus’ body, wrap it in a cloth, and put it in the tomb. They saw him roll a great stone across the door of the tomb. They were there, sitting opposite the tomb watching. They know what to expect as they go to the tomb. Death, fear, pain, loss, sorrow. A tortured body beginning to decay.

But then comes a new sunrise, and the big bang of a great earthquake which signals the dawn of a new creation; one in which death no longer rules. God, not death, will have the first, the final, and every word in between.

“Do not be afraid,” the angel announces. “He is not here; for he has been raised, as he said.” The empty tomb proclaims that all is well. “Go quickly,” the angel tells them, “you will see Jesus.”

This is the Church’s story. It is the same story told every year. Some of you may have heard this story only a few times. Others of you have heard it many times before. The story never changes. Instead, what it does is change us. Each year we usually gather to hear this story for only one reason: so that we can leave; so that we can leave the darkness and tombs of our lives and live. We want to be reminded, “There is nothing here. Do not be afraid. All is well.”

Too often we think resurrection is about what happens to us after we die. We limit resurrection to nothing more than a promise of life after death. The power and gift of resurrection is not so much in what happens after death but what happens right here, now, today. Perhaps we should worry less about whether there is life after death and more about whether there is life before death.

The joy of Easter is not only that God has raised Christ from the dead. Easter joy is also about the possibility and the promise that, regardless of what our lives are like now, lockdown due to Covid-19 or not, new life is available to each one of us here and now. God has raised Christ from the dead and we are now free to claim his life as our own.

What matters most about Easter is not the empty tomb but what we do tomorrow, the day after, and the day after that. How will we now live differently? Jesus did not die and rise again so that we might continue life as we normally would. If this new life and freedom does not change us we might as well put the stone back over the tomb. If we move on from today, and don’t think about Easter again until next year, then we’ve entirely missed the gift. Are our lives the evidence of resurrection, or not?

We are no longer prisoners to the power or fear of sin, darkness, and death. We don’t have to be worried about how all of this is going to turn out. We are free to live. We are free to love. The end of the resurrection story is the beginning of our life. Christ is risen. So, live fully alive now. Why wait until after death? Darkness has become light. Sin has been forgiven. The tomb has become the womb of new creation. There is no more death. Life is everywhere.

“Go quickly,” the angel tell us. There’s nothing here. Run for your life! Christ is risen. You will see him!

He is risen indeed. Alleluia


Maundy Thursday Sermon

Maundy Thursday 2020John 13: 1-17, 31b-35

Usually at this service on Maundy Thursday, in normal times at St. Marys, we have during the service washed each other’s feet. Easy for some to do, and others like me have found it a difficult task for many reasons. Many of you may have participated but felt uncomfortable, this is what we should do. Without the worry of Covid 19 we had already planned to do things differently this year, to end this service in a different way. To encounter the shadows of Jesus grief and pain. Whatever we feel, it is important to realise the significance of what Jesus did on that final night with his disciples.

“You will never wash my feet,” Peter says to Jesus.

What is going on with Peter, and I suspect so many of us who say the same. 

I think it is about more than having his feet washed. In fact, I don’t think it’s even about his feet. I think it’s about feeling vulnerable, exposed, and uncertain about taking his share in a new life. I guess that there are parts of Peter that he is withholding not just from Jesus, but also from himself. My guess is that Peter has something he wants to conceal, a past that haunts him, a brokenness that terrifies him, a memory that is too painful to deal with; and that it feels easier and less risky to say no, push it all away, ignore it, try to forget it, and hope it will leave him alone. Besides, who knows what might happen if he was to open the door to any one of those things?

I say this for two reasons. Firstly, because I am human too and have parts of my life that I just don’t want to face or deal with; parts of me that I have alienated and exiled; memories and experiences that do not have a seat at my life’s table. Secondly, because I have seen and heard that same thing in the lives of many others. Through ministry, chaplaincy and in the lives of those I care about. If what I am talking about resonates with you, then you get it too. 

Let’s not back down this time, not on this night. This is our night. So let me ask you:

  • What is one thing you have about yourself, something you’ve done, or something that has happened to you? Something you have never uttered to another and that you never want anyone to know. It leaves you in fear of being found out. It’s the kind of thing you wish you didn’t know, the kind of thing you can ignore, but can never forget.
  • What are the memories, hurts, and griefs that are too painful to talk about? The very thought of them makes your stomach churn and your eyes well up. The ones that when mentioned you quickly change the subject about because you’re afraid you’ll just lose it and never get yourself back together again.
  • What guilt, shame, embarrassment, or failure do you still carry? I’m talking about the kind of thing about which you fake a smile and say, “I’m over that. The past is the past and let’s just keep it that way.” But deep down you know the past is a ghost that still haunts you.
  • What are the same old arguments, feelings, and patterns that continue to repeat themselves in your life? The ones that you excuse by blaming someone else or saying, “That’s just who I am,” or “That’s just the way it is.” What’s really behind those things begging to be acknowledged and dealt with?  
  • When have you said, “You will never wash my feet?”, and what’s that really about?

Let’s not back down this time, not on this night. This is our night.

This is our night to take our share with Jesus.

This is our night to bring all that we are and all that we have.

This is our night to eat and drink in remembrance.

This is our night to lay it all on the table. 

This is our night to come clean.

This is our night to strip bare the altar of our life. 

This is our night to let the healing begin. 

This is our night to enter into the shadows of our lives with Jesus as he enters into the shadows of the pain that is to come.

Let us remember that this is our night.