Ruth Greenaway-Robbins

An Anglican Priest sharing sermons, musings and thoughts

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about

I’m an Anglican priest, an Associate Vicar in Diocese of London. I’ve lived across the UK and spent nearly a decade in Vancouver, Canada — places and people who have shaped my heart for welcome, justice, and the boundless love of God. Before ordination, I was a professional musician, voice teacher, and educator — music still threads through my life, alongside liturgy, liberation theologies, and the wisdom of Lady Julian of Norwich. I believe deeply in living a self-compassionate life rooted in the love of God — where all are welcome and no one is left outside. Here you’ll find sermons, thoughts, prayers, and glimpses of my life as a priest, Mum, wife, musician, swimmer, and lover of books, fashion, and rescue animals. This is a space where imperfection is welcome — dyslexia and all — and where my hope is that you might find good news, belonging, and reminders that you, too, are God’s beloved.

  • Palm Sunday – Keeping Holy Time: Entering the Great Week

    Palm Sunday Procession St. James Anglican Church, Vancouver, 2014

    This Lent, here at St. Andrew’s and in accross our partnership, we continue our series Keeping Holy Time, where we have been exploring why do we do what we do in Lent and holy week, and by engaging with it more deeply ahead of time we can be more able to enter into the mystery and joy of this most Holy time.

    And this week we are going to unpack Palm Sunday:

    Wondering together

    Why palms?
    Why procession?
    Why this strange collision of joy and sorrow that we call Palm Sunday?

    Now our lectionary readings today whisper something of it, but clearly not directly. 

    (Here are the lectionary readings in you want to read them this week: Genesis 12:1–4a | Psalm 121 | John 3:1–17)

    In Genesis, Abram is called to leave – to step into a journey he does not yet understand. Here we find parallels particularly for the disciples as they find a donkey and go into Jerusalem with Jesus.

    And in John’s Gospel, Jesus tells Nicodemus that God so loves the world that he gives himself for it. 

    These encourage us to think about

    Journey.
    Self-giving love.

    And Palm Sunday gathers all of those themes.

    I wonder what you think and feel about Palm Sunday: processions, shouts of Hosanna, welcoming a king, only to then return to church, where we read for the first time in Holy Week the Passion reading of Our Lord Jesus Christ.

    For almost ten years as a family we lived and worked in Vancouver, in an area called the Downtown Eastside.

    It was a remarkable place – and a tough place.
    At that time it was the poorest postcode in Canada.
    With the highest open drug use.
    Profound beauty and profound pain sitting side by side.

    I learnt more there about myself, about humanity, and about God than almost anywhere else I have lived.

    The church where we served stood dominant in stature and beauty in the midst of that complicated community. A bastion of inclusive Anglo-Catholic worship that drew people from across the city and also the local community.

    Those involved in the murky world of drugs, worshipped alongside high court judges, sex workers knelt at the altar with professors of English. It was raw and also a little otherworldly. But the one thing you absolutely could not do there was pretend.

    When people are living so close to the edge, inauthenticity can be spotted a mile off -and it will be called out. It can be humbling.

    You had to be real.

    And whenever I picture Christ on a donkey, I often think – the folk of the Downtown Eastside would have known him.

    Because it was authentic.
    Humble.
    Exposed.
    A little absurd, perhaps.
    But real.

    Every Palm Sunday, we would process through that neighbourhood – a quirky carnival band all dressed in white led us, incense swung and billowed as we walked, colour and beauty of the vestments in all its Anglo-Catholic glory. It was carnival and chaos and beauty and faith woven together.

    People would stop.
    Some would laugh.
    Some would join.
    Some would simply watch.

    And then we would return to the church.
    The doors would close.
    The atmosphere would shift.

    Holy Week had begun.

    The Hosannas would fade.
    And like we do here at St Andrew’s – and in churches throughout the world – we would stand and listen to the Passion Gospel.

    Palm Sunday is a day of extremes.

    And that is not accidental.

    Palm Sunday Procession St. James Anglican Church, Vancouver, 2014

    In the fourth century, a woman, most likely a nun named Egeria, travelled to Jerusalem. She left us a diary – not a theology book, but a travel journal – describing how Holy Week was kept there all those years ago.

    She calls it “The Great Week.” (This is still what Orthodox Christians call it.)

    And what she describes is astonishing.

    The people gathered on the Mount of Olives.
    They listened to Scripture.
    They sang psalms.
    Children were carried on shoulders.
    Elderly people were accommodated.
    And then, at five o’clock, the Gospel of the children waving branches was read.

    And they began to walk.

    Down the Mount of Olives.
    Through the city.
    All the way to the Anastasis – the place of Resurrection.

    They did not simply hear the story.

    They walked it.

    They sang it.

    They inhabited it.

    Palm Sunday was not an idea.
    It was an embodied drama.

    Holy Week was never meant to be rushed.

    It was meant to be entered.

    And what is remarkable is that what happened in 4th century is incredibly similar to what we know do in 2026 here in London and across the world. The re-living, re-loving of the story continues.

    And that matters.

    Because when Jesus rides into Jerusalem, he is not staging a sentimental parade.

    He is enacting Zechariah’s prophecy – the king who comes riding on a colt.

    But not a war horse.

    A king of peace.

    A king whose victory will not come by the sword.

    A king whose throne will be a cross.

    The crowd sings Psalm 118:

    “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!”

    But that psalm is not just about welcome.

    It is about sacrifice.

    “Bind the festal procession with branches, up to the horns of the altar.”

    The king who enters the city is going up to the altar.

    And the offering will be himself.

    Palm Sunday is not naïve joy.

    It is the beginning of surrender.

    And soon we will arrive at Palm Sunday

    We will wave palms.
    We will sing Hosanna.
    We will perhaps smile.

    And then we will stand and hear betrayal.
    Violence.
    Abandonment.
    A cross.

    Why do we do that?

    Because faith that only sings Hosanna will not survive Good Friday.

    Because Lent is a journey into the self-giving love of God.

    Palm Sunday tells the truth:

    The same crowd can shout “Hosanna!” and “Crucify!”

    The human heart is capable of both and that focuses our minds in the deeply humbling and painful truth of life.

    And Christ rides toward us anyway.

    Humble.
    Exposed.
    Real.

    Palm Sunday Procession St. James Anglican Church, Vancouver, 2014

    In the lectionary this week, we hear in Genesis the call for Abram to step into a journey.

    Palm Sunday calls us to step into one too.

    That we too, may enter into the Great Week.

    The Church gives us these days of Holy Week and Easter not so that we can observe them from a distance, but so that we can enter them.

    To come on Maundy Thursday and kneel.
    To keep watch at the altar of repose.
    To stand at the foot of the cross on Good Friday.
    To sit in the silence of Holy Saturday.
    To come to the fire of Easter.

    Egeria’s community walked the story over 1600 years ago

    We are invited to do the same.

    Because Holy Week is not something we consume.

    It is something that consumes us.

    So, in a few short weeks we too will wave our palms, let us not rush.

    Let us not treat this as a liturgical costume change.

    Let us allow the joy and the sorrow to sit side by side.

    Carnival and chaos and beauty and faith.

    Let us be real.

    Because Christ is.

    As you journey through Lent, let encourage one another not to stand at a distance.

    Enter the drama.

    Walk the story.

    Keep Holy Time. 

  • First Sunday in Lent – Keeping Holy Time: From Garden to Desert

    Genesis 2:15–17; 3:1–7 | Psalm 32 | Matthew 4:1–11

    Keeping Holy Time

    This Lent at St. Andrews N16, and in our partnership with St. Mary’s N16, we are journeying together through the theme “Keeping Holy Time.” Week by week, we are exploring the great days of this season – from Ash Wednesday and Lent itself, through Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Holy Saturday.

    To keep holy time is to allow the story of Christ’s passion and resurrection to shape us slowly and prayerfully. The Church gives us this season and these days not to rush through, but to inhabit – to repent, to watch, to wait, and ultimately to hope. As we return to these sacred moments together, may they form us more deeply in the life and love of Christ.

    This week we begin our Lent journey together – alongside our study group – Keeping Holy Time exploring the season of Lent and Ash Wednesday.

    And perhaps the simplest question is this:

    Why?

    Why keep a holy Lent?
    Why ashes?
    Why fasting?
    Why this annual return to wilderness?

    Because Lent can so easily become thin.

    Either a religious self-improvement programme –
    “New Year, but holier.”

    Or a manageable sacrifice –
    “I’ll give something up,”
    and quietly count the days until Easter.

    But the Church is inviting us into something far deeper.

    She is inviting us to step back into the story.

    The Garden

    Genesis takes us to the beginning.

    A garden.

    A place of abundance.
    Of beauty.
    Of intimacy with God.

    Adam and Eve are given everything they need.

    Only one boundary.
    One tree.

    And the serpent’s voice is subtle:

    “Did God really say, you shall not east of ?”

    The first temptation is not about fruit.

    It is about trust.

    And notice how the fruit is described:

    Good for food.
    A delight to the eyes.
    Desirable to make one wise.

    Appetite.
    Possession.
    Pride.

    And when they take it – when they grasp – something shifts.

    “Their eyes were opened…
    and they hid.”

    Sin leads to concealment.

    They sew fig leaves.
    They withdraw.
    They blame.

    The first human instinct after failure is not confession.

    It is hiding. And that is hard to hear and to accept.

    Psalm 32 tells us that instinct has never left us.

    “While I kept silence, my body wasted away.”

    Silence.
    Covering.
    Concealment.

    We manage our image.
    We curate ourselves.
    We keep certain things tucked away.

    And Lent begins by interrupting that.

    Ash Wednesday: Truth Without Drama

    On Wednesday, we stood in a very simple liturgy.

    No Gloria.
    No flourish.
    Just Psalm 51.
    Just Joel’s cry: “Return to me.”
    Just the stark words: “Remember that you are dust.”

    In fact some of us noted at the end that we felt it was deeply meditative.

    Lent’s liturgy is stripped back.

    Purple.
    Plain.
    Scripture-heavy.

    And did you notice how much of it draws from the Old Testament?

    Joel.
    The Psalms.
    Genesis.
    The prophets.

    It is as if the Church takes us by the hand and says:

    Before we rush to resurrection,
    remember the story.

    Ashes, as the tradition reminds us, are deeply biblical.

    They are a sign of mortality – dust to dust.
    They are a sign of repentance – like Job.
    They are a sign of intercession – like Daniel and Esther.

    They are not theatrical.

    They are truthful.

    They say:

    I am mortal.
    I have fallen.
    I need mercy.

    But here is the quiet wisdom of the Church.

    Ash Wednesday is public.

    But Lent is hidden.

    Jesus tells us:

    When you fast.
    When you pray.
    When you give.

    Not if.

    And not to be seen.

    The ashes mark us once.
    The deeper work happens in secret.

    “Rend your hearts, not your garments.”

    Lent is not about spiritual performance.

    It is about interior truth.

    The Desert: A Second Beginning

    Then today this first Sunday in Lent we are taken somewhere else.

    From garden to desert.

    Matthew tells us:

    Jesus is led by the Spirit into the wilderness.

    He is not lost.

    He is led.

    The desert is not punishment.

    It is preparation.

    And there, in the wilderness, the same three distortions appear again.

    “Turn these stones to bread.”
    Appetite.

    “All the kingdoms of the world will be yours.”
    Possession.

    “Throw yourself down.”
    Pride.

    The same pattern as Eden.

    But this time something different happens.

    Jesus does not grasp.
    He does not justify.
    He does not hide.

    He answers with Scripture.

    Notice that.

    Not argument.
    Not bravado.

    Scripture.

    “Man shall not live by bread alone.”
    “You shall worship the Lord your God.”
    “You shall not put the Lord your God to the test.”

    In Genesis, humanity reaches for autonomy.

    Temptation in the Wilderness – Briton Riviere

    In Matthew, Christ leans into obedience.

    In the garden, humanity hides.

    In the desert, Christ stands.

    The desert becomes a kind of second beginning.

    The Wilderness We Know

    And the wilderness is not always dramatic.

    It doesn’t always look like sand and stones.

    Sometimes it looks like exhaustion and overwhelm.

    I know in my own life, when I have been stretched thin personally, professionally, or spiritually, that I feel I need to rely on myself to get through.  

    These are seasons when I realised how quickly I reached for something to steady myself. Achievement. Approval. Control. 

    And that is wilderness.

    It is the place where we discover what we lean on.

    What we reach for when we are hungry, not just for food,  but for reassurance.

    And Lent invites us there.

    Not to shame us.

    But to show us what is underneath and what needs work.

    What Lent Is For

    So, what is the purpose of keeping a holy Lent?

    It is not self-denial for its own sake.

    It is re-ordering love.

    Genesis shows us disordered love.
    Psalm 32 shows us the ache of concealment.
    Matthew 4 shows us another way.

    Fasting loosens the grip of appetite.
    Almsgiving loosens the grip of possession.
    Prayer loosens the grip of pride.

    Not because these things are evil.

    But because they easily become ultimate.

    And when they become ultimate, we hide.

    But listen again to Psalm 32:

    “I acknowledged my sin to you…
    and you forgave.”

    The psalm moves from concealment to joy.

    “Happy are those whose transgression is forgiven.”

    Lent is not about rehearsing how bad we are.

    It is about discovering how freeing honesty can be.

    The ashes tell the truth.

    The desert teaches trust.

    The psalm sings forgiveness.

    Keeping Holy Time

    This is what we mean by Keeping Holy Time.

    We are not just marking days on a calendar.

    We are stepping into the deep scriptural story.

    The Church slows us down.

    Removes the Gloria.

    Let’s silence breathe.

    Fills our ears with prophets and psalms.

    And gently asks:

    Will you stop hiding?
    Will you trust me in the wilderness?
    Will you let me re-order what you love?

    Because without intentional time, we drift.

    Lent is choosing not to drift.

    Choosing to walk from garden to desert.

    Choosing to move from concealment to confession.

    Choosing to stand with Christ when temptation whispers.

    And discovering that the God who walked in the garden at the beginning
    still walks towards us now.

    Not to condemn.

    But to clothe.

    Not to shame.

    But to restore.

    And so, this first Sunday of Lent, just beyond the ashes, we hear again the invitation:

    Return to me.

    Trust me in hunger.

    Trust me in testing.

    Trust me in mortality.

    And discover that the desert is not the end of the story.

    It is the place where obedience grows.

  • “Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.” | Sermon for Ash Wednesday

    “Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.”

    Psalm 51 | Matthew 6:1–6, 16–21

    I wonder if someone has already asked you today what you are giving up for Lent?

    Chocolate is usually first.
    Then alcohol.
    Biscuits.
    Social media.

    And none of those are bad things.

    But Lent can begin to sound like a religious version of “New Year, New Me.”
    A reset.
    A detox.
    A slightly spiritualised self-improvement plan.

    And yet tonight – as ashes are placed on our foreheads – the Church invites us somewhere much deeper than self-improvement.

    Not “How can I be better?”
    But “How can I return?”

    Because that is the language of Lent.

    Through the prophet Joel, God says:
    Return to me with all your heart.
    Not polish yourself up.
    Not prove your seriousness.
    Return.

    And Psalm 51 gives us the prayer for how that return happens:
    Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.

    Not: “I will fix myself.”
    Not: “I will try harder.”
    But: Create in me.

    Which means Lent is not about tinkering at the edges of our habits.
    It is about allowing God to meet us at depth. We cannot do this without God.

    Why ashes?

    The practice of ashes is ancient – far older than Christianity.

    In the Old Testament, ashes were worn in moments of grief, repentance, and desperate prayer.
    Job repented in dust and ashes.
    Daniel fasted with sackcloth and ashes as he interceded for his people.
    The people of Nineveh covered themselves in ashes when they turned back to God.
    Even Queen Esther, facing the possible destruction of her people, laid aside her royal splendour and covered herself in ashes as she prayed.

    Ashes mean three things.

    They mean mortality –
    “You are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

    They mean repentance –
    an outward sign of an inward turning.

    And they mean intercession –
    a people crying out together, “Lord, have mercy.”

    So, when we receive ashes tonight, we step into something profoundly biblical.
    This is not theatre.
    It is memory.
    It is honesty.
    It is solidarity.

    And yes – some people point out that Jesus tells us in Matthew 6 not to parade our fasting in public.

    But notice something subtle:
    Jesus does not say “Do not fast.”
    He says, “When you fast…”

    He assumes his disciples will fast.
    He assumes we will pray.
    He assumes we will give.

    The question is not if, but how.

    Ash Wednesday is a corporate act – like the great public fasts of Israel.
    But Lent itself becomes quieter.
    More hidden.
    More interior.

    Jesus draws our attention to the secret place –
    the room with the door closed,
    the prayer no one else hears,
    the generosity no one else sees.

    Because the heart of Lent is not display.

    It is relationship.

    What is Lent actually for?

    The Church gives us forty days – not including Sundays – echoing Jesus’ forty days in the wilderness.

    Forty days in which Jesus faced the deepest human temptations:
    the temptation to comfort,
    the temptation to power,
    the temptation to prove himself.

    And instead of grasping,
    he trusted.

    Lent is not punishment.
    It is training in trust.

    Through prayer, fasting, and generosity, we loosen our grip –
    on comfort,
    on control,
    on image.

    And in doing so, we create space for God.

    But here is where I want to be particularly gentle tonight.

    The work of Lent is not only about chocolate or coffee.
    For many of us, the deeper work is interior.

    The stories we tell ourselves about who we are.
    The self-criticism that never quite quietens.
    The unresolved grief.
    The exhaustion we carry.

    Psalm 51 does not say, “Make yourself pure.”
    It says, “Create in me.”

    There is humility in that prayer.
    And relief.

    Because perhaps the most radical thing Lent invites is not harsher discipline –
    but deeper honesty.

    Not indulgence.
    But kindness.

    Not self-absorption.
    But attentiveness.

    Sometimes the truest fast is fasting from self-contempt.
    Sometimes the most powerful almsgiving is generosity toward someone we have quietly resented.
    Sometimes the hardest prayer is simply sitting still long enough to let God love us.

    As a parish

    This year, as a community, here at St. Andrew’s will journey intentionally through Lent toward Holy Week in our sermons each Sunday we will think more deeply about why we do what we do in Lent and Holy Week.

    Ash Wednesday and Lent

    Palm Sunday.
    Maundy Thursday.
    Good Friday.
    Holy Saturday.

    These are not services we attend merely to remember what happened once.

    They are days we enter.
    Liturgies that shape us.
    Mysteries that form us.

    If you are able, make room for as much of the journey as your life allows.
    Not out of obligation,
    but out of desire.

    Because when we walk the path slowly, Easter ceases to be an idea and becomes an encounter.

    And tonight?

    Tonight, we come forward to receive ashes.

    Not to be shamed.
    But to be named.

    Dust.
    Yes.

    But also beloved.

    The ashes mark our mortality –
    but they are traced in the shape of a cross.

    Mortality held within mercy.
    Dust held within love.

    And so, we begin.

    Not with grand declarations.
    Not with spiritual bravado.

    But with a prayer whispered honestly:

    Create in me a clean heart, O God.
    Renew a right spirit within me.

    Return us, Lord –
    not to performance,
    But to relationship.

    Not to self-improvement,
    but to communion and community.

    Not to fear,
    but to love.

    Amen.

  • A Simple Ash Wednesday Devotion

    For use at home, at work, or wherever you are

    You may wish to light a candle or find a place to be still and quiet.

    The Sign of the Cross

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

    A Beginning

    Grace, mercy and peace
    from God our Father
    and the Lord Jesus Christ
    be with me here.
    Amen.

    An Invitation

    Christians have long kept Lent
    as a season of turning and returning,
    a time to remember our mortality,
    to repent of sin, and to prepare our hearts for Easter.

    Today, even here, in my kitchen, at my desk, by a hospital bed,
    on a train,
    I join that great turning.

    Lord, give me grace
    to keep a holy Lent.

    Scripture

    You may read slowly:

    Joel 2:12–13

    “Return to me with all your heart,
    with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning;
    rend your hearts and not your clothing.
    Return to the Lord your God,
    for he is gracious and merciful,
    slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love.”

    Pause.

    And/or pray:

    Psalm 51 (short form)

    Have mercy on me, O God,
    according to your steadfast love.

    Create in me a clean heart, O God,
    and renew a right spirit within me.

    Cast me not away from your presence,
    and take not your Holy Spirit from me.

    Restore to me the joy of your salvation.
    Amen.

    Remembering the Ashes

    You may want to simply trace the sign of the cross on your palms.

    As you say:

    I Remember that I am dust,
    And to dust I shall return.

    I turn away from sin
    And I am faithful to Christ.

    Pause.

    A Prayer of Returning to God

    Lord God,
    you created me from dust
    and breathe your Spirit into me.

    I confess that I have not loved you
    with my whole heart.

    I have been distracted,
    impatient,
    self-protective,
    fearful.

    I have clung to what does not give life.

    Forgive me.
    Cleanse me.
    Restore me.

    Create in me a clean heart, O God,
    and renew a right spirit within me.

    (Keep silence for a moment.)

    Assurance

    Hear this promise:

    “If we confess our sins,
    God is faithful and just,
    and will forgive our sins
    and cleanse us from all unrighteousness.”

    In Christ, I am forgiven.
    In Christ, I am loved.
    In Christ, I am invited to begin again.

    Thanks be to God.

    Prayer for a Holy Lent

    God our Father,
    the strength of all who put their trust in you,
    because in my weakness I can do nothing good without you,
    grant me the help of your grace.

    As I fast,
    let it turn my hunger toward you.

    As I pray,
    let it deepen my trust in you.

    As I give,
    let it loosen my grip on what I do not need.

    Lead me through these forty days
    into deeper freedom,
    deeper honesty,
    deeper love.

    Through Jesus Christ our Lord.
    Amen.

    The Lord’s Prayer

    Our Father, who art in heaven,
    hallowed be thy name

    On earth as it is in heaven

    Thy kingdom come, thy will be done

    Give us this day our daily bread

    And forgive us our trespasses

    As we forgive those who trespass against us

    And lead us not into temptation 

    But deliver us from evil.

    For thine is the kingdom

    The power and the glory

    Forever and ever.

    Amen.

    Closing Blessing

    May God the Father,
    who does not despise the broken spirit,
    give me an open and hopeful heart.

    May Christ,
    who bore our sins upon the cross,
    Heal me by his wounds.

    May the Holy Spirit
    Lead me into truth,
    and sustain me in grace.

    And may God bless me,
    the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,
    and be with me now and forevermore.
    Amen.

    A Final Sentence

    May I go gently into this holy season.
    I am dust and I am beloved.
    I return to the Lord,
    for he is gracious and merciful.

    Created by Ruth Greenaway-Robbins 2026, inspired by the liturgies of Ash Wednesday. Please cite me if using this resource.

  • Transfiguration Sunday: A Glimpse of Glory before the Journey

    Matthew 17:1–9 | Exodus 24:12–end | Psalm 99

    Have you ever had a moment when something you thought you understood suddenly became clear in an entirely new way? Not because the facts changed – but because your perception did. A conversation, an encounter, a piece of music, a prayer – and suddenly you see and understand differently.

    These moments do not just give us information. They change us.

    I had one of those moments with GCSE Maths.

    I struggled profoundly with Maths at school. I was in one of the bottom sets. I failed my GCSE the first time. I took it again – and failed again, this time with a lower grade. As the third sitting approached, I felt dread rising in me.

    Then a friend of my mum’s, we’ll call her Jane, offered to help. For a few intense days, she sat with me and explained things differently. It was like someone slowly turning the lights on in a pitch-black room. What had been flat and incomprehensible suddenly had shape and colour. The maths hadn’t changed – but my understanding had. I began, astonishingly, to enjoy it.

    I passed in June 1997.

    To this day, after degrees and many other exams and qualifications, GCSE Maths is the one I am most proud of. It was hardest won. And it changed how I understood learning – and myself. It left me less fearful of numbers and more attentive to patterns and beauty.

    Those “a-ha” moments matter.

    A Mountain of Light

    On Transfiguration Sunday, the Church reads the account of Jesus taking Peter, James and John up a mountain to pray (Matthew 17:1–9). There, he is transfigured before them. His face shines like the sun. His clothes become dazzling white. Moses and Elijah appear, speaking with him.

    It is a moment of unveiled glory.

    But it is not spectacle for spectacle’s sake.

    It is preparation.

    Because immediately afterwards, Jesus turns towards Jerusalem – towards suffering and the cross. Before the descent into darkness, there is a glimpse of light.

    That pattern echoes the reading from Exodus (Exodus 24:12–end), where Moses ascends Mount Sinai. The cloud covers the mountain, and the glory of the Lord settles there. In Scripture, the cloud is not confusion; it is holy presence – God revealed and hidden all at once.

    Psalm 99 recalls that God spoke to Moses and Aaron from the pillar of cloud. The holy God is not distant. He is relational. He speaks.

    And on the mountain of Transfiguration, God speaks again:

    “This is my Son, the Beloved… listen to him.” (Matthew 17:5)

    Not admire him.
    Not analyse him.
    Not preserve the moment.

    Listen to him.

    Peter’s instinct is to build shelters – to capture the glory and stay there. But faith is not about clinging to the mountaintop. It is about allowing what we glimpse of Christ to reshape how we live when we come back down.

    Because they do come down the mountain.

    And they are immediately met with need, confusion, and human struggle. Glory does not remove them from the world. It prepares them for it.

    Fra Angelico – The Transfiguation

    A Hinge Before Lent

    Transfiguration Sunday stands as a hinge in the Christian year. It offers a steadying light before Lent begins – before the Church walks intentionally towards the events of Holy Week and Easter.

    Lent is sometimes misunderstood as a religious self-improvement scheme. Give up chocolate. Improve your habits. Reset your willpower.

    But historically and spiritually, Lent is something deeper: an invitation to transformation – in our relationship with God, with ourselves, and with our neighbour.

    How we begin Lent shapes how we arrive at Easter.

    If we rush in lightly, Easter becomes a date in the diary.

    If we attend deeply – whether through prayer, reflection, or simply a willingness to listen – Easter may find us changed.

    In our parish, we will be having a Lent study group called “Keeping Holy Time.” Together we will explore the great holy season of Lent and Holy Week. Each week we will look at a different liturgy or day so that we can join in and fully understand each liturgy. We will explore Scripture, tradition, and the Church’s worship – how they shape us over time.

    Alongside that, I will post a sermon each week reflecting these themes:

    • Lent 1: Lent and Ash Wednesday
    • Lent 2: Palm Sunday
    • Lent 3: Maundy Thursday
    • Lent 4: Good Friday
    • Lent 5: Holy Saturday and beyond

    Whether you are a regular churchgoer, an occasional visitor, or simply spiritually curious, you are welcome to read along here each week. The rhythms of the Christian year are not closed spaces; they are invitations.

    Remembering and Participating

    Holy Week places Christians in what theologians might call a liminal space – a threshold. We are not simply re-enacting past events. Nor are we spectators remembering something distant.

    In Christian worship, remembering is participatory.

    When we hear the words, “This is my body,” echoing Jesus’ words at the Last Supper (Matthew 26:26), we are not only recalling a historical meal. We believe we are being drawn into that self-giving love in the present moment.

    When we kneel on Good Friday and turn towards the crucifixion, we are not simply observing tragedy. We are invited to place our own lives – the broken, the hidden, the shame – before the cross.

    We stand in the doorway between what Christ has accomplished and what is still unfolding in us and in the world.

    Lent invites us learn how to stand there.

    Transformation, Slowly

    Transformation is rarely dramatic. Look at the baroness of winter turning to spring; it is slowly transforming, but it is very slow.

    It may look like honesty in prayer.
    Like allowing God to speak into places we usually keep guarded.
    Like confronting truth with courage.

    Psalm 99 holds holiness and forgiveness together. God is holy and God forgives. Holiness is love that takes truth seriously.

    Often change is gradual. Like light slowly filling a darkened room. The subject does not change but we learn to see differently.

    The disciples did not fully understand what they witnessed on the mountain. The Gospel of Matthew tells us they fell to the ground in fear (Matthew 17:6). But something shifted in them. The light they glimpsed would steady them later.

    Perhaps that is what Transfiguration Sunday offers: a glimpse of who Christ truly is, before the long road to the cross.

    “This is my Son, the Beloved… listen to him.”

    If we listen – truly listen – over these weeks…
    If we allow Scripture and prayer to do their quiet work…
    If we step, however tentatively, into the holy rhythm of the holy liturgies of Lent, Holy Week, and eventually Easter.

    Then Easter will not simply be a celebration of resurrection as an idea.

    Instead, it may become an experience of resurrection in us.

    Because Lent is not about what we give up.

    It is about who we become.

    Perhaps faith is a little like that GCSE Maths for me – the truth has been there all along, but sometimes we need the light to fall differently before we can see its beauty. Lent does not change the facts of God’s love, but it can change our understanding, until what once felt distant or confusing becomes something we recognise as life-giving and true.

    On Transfiguration Sunday, we stand on the mountain edge.

    Before us lies the journey.
    Before us lies Ash Wednesday.
    Before us lies Holy Week.
    Before us lies resurrection.

    How we begin will shape how we arrive.

    So let us listen.

    And let us be changed.

  • When someone names the light in you.

    Candlemas holds a very precious place in my heart. It is one of my favourite feasts of the Church year. I love it because it is real. I love it because it is full of joy and hope, and because it refuses to turn away from the pain woven through the story of our salvation. I love it because Candlemas holds together what so often feels impossible to hold: old and new, promise and cost, delight and sorrow. It celebrates the meeting of generations, in people, in theology, and in the life of God with us.

    Candlemas is precious to me beyond imagining.

    We also have our own Simeon (and, for that matter, an Anna too – though in her case her full name is Anastasia, and her feast waits until Easter). Both our children have a foothold in this feast. The funny thing is that our Simeon was never meant to be a Simeon at all. He was meant to be a Theodore. And yet, when he arrived and was placed in our arms, something settled. Like Jesus being held by the aged Simeon in the temple, we simply knew: this child had revealed his own name. He was Simeon.

    So many of us have stories of people – often older than us, often seasoned by long years of faith – who see in us something we cannot yet see for ourselves. They glimpse who we are in the sight of God, and sometimes even dare to name it aloud. For many of us, our sense of vocation is complex and still unfolding. God so often prompts and guides us through the faithful attentiveness of others.

    Here in my community, as I begin to know people and hear their stories, I am struck again and again by how many came to faith through aunties, parents, and but often through grandparents. Often it was grandparents who raised them while parents came ahead to the UK in the Windrush years, later reuniting families. These elders walked the path of life with steady faith: praying, bringing children to church week after week, showing through their own lives what it means to be shaped and transformed by Jesus Christ. This is Candlemas faith: faith handed on, faith embodied, faith lived.

    In the temple, when Simeon and Anna greet the holy family, they do more than rejoice. They recognise and proclaim who Jesus is, for all people. They speak his vocation into being. And they do not soften the truth. Simeon names the pain that will come, especially for Mary. Joy and sorrow sit side by side. In that moment Mary and Joseph see faith in action: wisdom, courage, honesty, and hope held together without denial.

    Fra Angelico’s image of The Presentation of Christ in the Temple

    Candlemas marks the end of the Incarnation cycle – the close of Christmas and Epiphany. The child who was adored, revealed, and rejoiced over is now recognised as one who will change everything. Candlemas points us towards the cross, even as it assures us of salvation. They knew him. They truly saw him. In their arms was God’s love made flesh.

    And perhaps this is why Candlemas has always resonated so deeply with other seasonal rhythms too. Around this time comes Imbolc, the ancient festival that marks the first stirrings of spring. The land is still cold, the nights still long, and yet something has shifted. Lambs are born. Snowdrops push through frozen soil. The light is returning, almost imperceptibly, but undeniably. Candlemas sits beautifully here: not yet the fullness of resurrection, but enough light to trust that life is on the way.

    This week our not-so-baby, now adult Simeon is coming to visit. It is the week we remember and celebrate his baptismal anniversary and his name day (a small practical recommendation: if you put your child’s name day and baptism day together, you spend less on cake!!!). We will give thanks for who Christ has called Simeon to be, and for who he is still becoming.

    But Candlemas invites something broader of all of us. It is a time to give thanks for the older, wiser people who have shaped our stories – some now firmly held in the mercy of God, others remembered through Scripture, theologians of old, mystics, prophets, and saints. The wise sages of our lives deserve our gratitude.

    And Candlemas also gently asks us to consider: where are we becoming those wise ones ourselves? The Simeons and Annas. The Elizabeths and Sarahs. What and who in our lives do we need to attend to more carefully? How do we pray for others? How do we learn to see, name, and nurture the gifts in those in our lives?

    The light is returning. The days are lengthening. We have not yet l even quite arrived at the start of Lent (although we will all too soon) but the gentle light of incarnation is enough to illumine the path. Candlemas reminds us that this small, faithful light is sufficient as we begin, once again, to walk the way that leads through the cross and into resurrection.

    And let us attend to those words of Simeon is our lives in the words of the Nunc Dimittis-

    Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace : according to thy word.

    For mine eyes have seen : thy salvation;

    Which thou hast prepared : before the face of all people;

    To be a light to lighten the Gentiles : and to be the glory of thy people Israel

    Luke 2.29-32

  • “To Turn Will Be Our Delight”

    Act 9:1-22 | Galatians 1:11-16b 

    I wonder if you have ever known someone who has had what we might call a Damascus moment – a moment where a way of life, a settled belief, or a deeply held view has been radically interrupted, and they have turned another way altogether.

    In the Acts of the Apostles, we read about the Damascus moment: Saul, breathing threats and violence, stopped in his tracks by a blinding light, a voice from heaven, and a complete upending of his life.

    And yet, when I look at my own life – and at the lives of those I know and love – I see change, sometimes profound change, but rarely in a single flash-bang, whollop moment like Paul’s. More often, conversion happens slowly: over weeks, months, sometimes years. A gradual turning. A series of returns.

    That matters, because in the world we live in, changing your mind is often seen as a weakness. If a government changes course, the media quickly cries, “U-turn!” as though turning towards truth, or justice, or the needs of others were something to be ashamed of. There is very little grace in that way of thinking.

    Scripture, however, tells a very different story.

    The remarkable thing about St Paul is not simply that he changes his mind, but how completely he turns. On the road to Damascus, he goes from being a devout, observant Jew, utterly convinced he is doing God’s will by persecuting the followers of Jesus. To a man who gives his whole life to Christ, risking reputation, safety, and eventually his life.

    Saul becomes Paul. 

    Persecutor becomes preacher. 

    Certainty gives way to surrender.

    As the lyrics from Wicked put it rather beautifully – he is, quite literally, “changed for good.”

    The Conversion of St. Paul by the 17th-century painter Caravaggio.

    Now, it would be easy today to get caught up in the complexities of Paul’s writings – and let’s be honest, they are complex. What Paul says particularly about women’s role in the Church and about sexuality requires careful, prayerful, contextual reading. Scripture is never just about what’s on the page; it’s about who it was written to, why, and how it is received in the light of Christ.

    And yet, Paul also gives us some of the most profound, moving, and shaping words of the Christian faith. I cannot tell you how often, I am caught unexpectedly by something he writes and find myself close to tears. His words encourage us, challenge us, remind us that nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus.

    But this feast isn’t really about untangling Paul’s theology.

    This feast is about conversion.
    About turning.
    And about returning.

    In our reading from Galatians, Paul tells his own story in a quieter, more reflective way. He speaks of being ‘set apart’, of God revealing his Son to him, not because he earned it, not because he deserved it, but because of grace. Paul comes to understand that his life, even with all its violence and error, is not beyond God’s redeeming love.

    That, too, is conversion.

    On Friday night, I went to the Barbican to hear the BBC Symphony Orchestra. The programme opened with Copland’s Appalachian Spring – a piece I’ve loved for years but don’t recall ever hearing live. Towards the end, Copland weaves in a Shaker hymn you’ll probably recognise, especially if you know Lord of the Dance.

    The hymn is called Simple Gifts, and these are its words:

    ‘Tis the gift to be simple, ’tis the gift to be free
    ’Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be,
    And when we find ourselves in the place just right,
    ’Twill be in the valley of love and delight.
    When true simplicity is gained,
    To bow and to bend we shan’t be ashamed,
    To turn, turn will be our delight,
    Till by turning, turning we come ’round right.

    I used to sing this hymn often, and I have taught it to many students, especially during my time in Canada. And every time I hear it, I’m struck by those words:

    “To turn, turn will be our delight.”

    Because that is the heart of conversion, not striving upwards, not grasping for certainty or control, but coming down. Choosing humility. Choosing freedom. Learning to pay attention to where God has placed us.

    True discipleship, like true conversion, is not about self-importance. It is about learning to live lightly, to love deeply, and to stand honestly before God and one another.

    The “simple gifts” the Shaker hymn names are not small or naïve. They are holy gifts:
    the gift of freedom that comes from letting go,
    the gift of humility that allows us to bow without shame,
    the gift of repentance and transformation – of turning and returning – until our lives are aligned again with God’s way of love.

    And here is the extraordinary thing: when we turn and return towards God, God delights in it.

    A couple of weeks ago, on the Feast of the Baptism of Christ, we heard those words spoken over Jesus:
    “You are my beloved Child; in you I am well pleased.”
    God delights in us – not because we are perfect, but because we are God’s.

    That is why, in our service booklets in St. Andrews, the time of confession is called “Returning to God.” Confession is not about shame or punishment. It is about coming home. About naming what is broken, apologising – to God, to one another, and sometimes to ourselves – and allowing ourselves to be forgiven.

    Paul had to do that too. He had done terrible things in the name of God. He had to repent. But he also had to learn, perhaps even more painfully, that he was still loved. Unconditionally.

    In Acts, Paul’s conversion interrupts everything. He is stopped mid-stride, mid-sentence, mid-certainty. He is plunged into darkness before he can see again. And when his sight is restored, his life is never the same.

    From that moment on, he knows suffering: physical frailty, persecution, rejection, and the deep inner tension of holding his Jewish identity alongside the revelation of Christ crucified and risen.

    Turning and returning are not easy.
    Scripture is honest about that, from the thief on the cross, to the Samaritan woman at the well, to the thousands who turn at Pentecost. Conversion brings joy and purpose, yes, but it also brings cost.

    To follow Jesus is to commit ourselves to justice, mercy, and forgiveness, even when it is uncomfortable, even when it asks something real of us.

    But let’s be clear, conversion is not only a single dramatic moment; it is also something daily. It is a constant attentiveness to returning to God. The New Testament word metanoia means a change of heart, a turning around, and this turning is part of our everyday discipleship. In the Benedictine tradition this is called conversatio morum – conversion of life – a commitment to ongoing transformation, noticing where we have drifted, and choosing, day by day, to turn back toward God.

    So, we give thanks for the conversion of St Paul.
    And we give thanks for the moments of conversion in our lives – however dramatic or gentle they may have been. The everyday and the moments like Damascus.
    For some, there have been blinding lights.
    For others, a slow dawning.
    Both are holy. Both are real.

    And yet, the real work comes when we do the daily work of conversion.

    And finally, I want to encourage us to examine our lives and ask:
    Where might Christ be calling us to turn again?
    In our relationships?
    In our vocation?
    In our life together as the Church – whatever you context might look like, and in the wider body of Christ?

    Because the good news is this:
    Turning is not failure.
    Returning is not weakness.

    Grace upon Grace is in the returning.

    “To turn, turn will be our delight,
    till by turning, turning,
    we come ’round right.”

    Amen.

    I thought it might be nice to share a simple and yet beautiful recording of this hymn sung by the Mezzo Soprano Clara Osowaski

  • You are Beloved: The Feast of the Baptism of Christ

    On the Feast of the Baptism of Christ, the Church invites us to linger at the riverbank.

    This moment – quiet, ordinary, almost easily overlooked – stands at the heart of who Jesus is, and therefore at the heart of who we are called to be.

    Jesus comes to the Jordan and steps into the water. Not because he needs repentance. Not because he has anything to prove. He comes because he chooses to stand with humanity—in the muddy, ordinary waters of real life. He joins the crowd. He waits his turn. He receives what others are receiving.

    And that choice matters.

    Jesus drawing close in Baptism

    Jesus’ baptism is another sign of Jesus drawing close to us in his humanity.

    Because this is who God is.

    Jesus is baptised not to distance himself from us, but to draw near. Not to mark himself out as different, but to place himself firmly among us. He enters the water to sanctify it, to show that there is no part of human life God refuses to inhabit.

    This is a God who does not save from a safe distance, but from the inside.

    And as Jesus comes up from the water, something extraordinary happens. The heavens are opened. The Spirit descends. And a voice speaks:

    “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”

    Before Jesus has healed anyone.
    Before he has preached a sermon.
    Before he has gone to the cross.

    God’s delight comes before Jesus’ doing.

    That ordering is everything.

    Beloved, before we do anything at all

    This is why the Baptism of Christ is not just about Jesus. It is about us.

    Baptism is not a badge of achievement. It is not a reward for goodness or certainty or perfect belief. It is not something we earn.

    Baptism is first and foremost God’s act of love.

    In baptism, we are named and claimed. We belong before we understand. We are held before we can articulate what we believe. We are loved before we do anything useful or impressive or faithful.

    I was baptised as a baby, in March 1980, at St Mary le Wigford in Lincoln. I don’t remember the day – apparently I protested loudly at the cold water – but I do remember the baptisms of my own children. And I am deeply grateful that those who loved me chose baptism for me before I could choose it for myself.

    In our family, we mark our baptism days each year. We have cake. We give thanks. It’s simple – and deeply meaningful.

    Our children were baptised on their name days. Simeon at Candlemas. Anastasia (whose name means resurrection) at Easter. These double celebrations matter to us, because baptism is something to celebrate. It marks a life as precious. Claimed. Held within God’s promise. Well, and of course, the cake helps!!!

    However, and whenever baptism happens – whether as a child or as an adult, whether clearly remembered or quietly received – it is a holy moment in a human life.

    So holy.
    So vital.
    That Jesus himself chose it.

    We are beloved … even if we cannot comprehend it

    There is another reason this feast matters so deeply to me.

    The Baptism of Christ marks an anniversary in my own life from a time when I had fallen a long way from believing myself beloved. Thirteen years ago, I could not have imagined where and how I am today – truly knowing and trusting that I am loved by God. If the woman I was then could see me now, believing this not just in theory but in my bones, she would be amazed. Quite frankly, she would be amazed at a great many things.

    I share this because allowing ourselves to be truly beloved of God can be surprisingly hard. Life has a way of chipping away at that truth. Experiences of loss, failure, disappointment, or hurt can quietly convince us that we are not enough – that God’s love must surely be conditional, fragile, or withdrawn.

    And so, we drift towards self-doubt.
    Towards self-criticism.
    Towards the belief that everyone else is more faithful, more worthy, more lovable than we are.

    But the voice at the Jordan speaks directly into that fear.

    God’s deepest desire for us is not that we prove ourselves, but that we know ourselves – first and always – as loved. Beloved. Held. Chosen. Not because we have earned it, but because that is who God is.

    To live as a baptised person is, again and again, to return to that truth. To let God name us when we have forgotten how to name ourselves. To believe that belovedness is not something we grow out of, fall away from, or lose – but something we are continually invited to receive.

    “You are my beloved”

    The voice from heaven does not only belong to Jesus’ story. It echoes into ours.

    What God says to Jesus, God longs for us to hear too:

    You are my beloved child.
    With you, I am well pleased.

    Not because you are perfect.
    Not because you never doubt.
    Not because you always get it right.

    But because you are God’s.

    This week, I invite you to let that truth settle somewhere deep. Perhaps even to pray it slowly:

    I am (your name),
    a beloved child of God,
    in whom God is well pleased.

    Let that be the place from which we pray.
    The place from which we love.
    The place from which we live.

    Because the Christian life does not begin with doing more.
    It begins with receiving love.

    And everything else flows from there.

    “As soon as Jesus was baptized, he went up out of the water. At that moment heaven was opened, and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting on him. And a voice from heaven said, “This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased.” Matthew 3: 16-17

    The image that accompanies this post, is from a prayer walk I took on the feast of the Baptism of Christ in 2020. I was praying the words “you are my beloved child” and at that moment the sun broke through the clouds. What a beautiful sign it was.

  • God is nearer than we dare to imagine

    It is no accident that Christians gather at night to begin our celebration of Christmas.

    For Christmas does not begin in the full light of day, but in the quiet hours when most of the world is asleep. In scripture, night is never simply the absence of light. Night is where things happen. Night is where God so often chooses to draw close.

    The prophet Isaiah said:

    “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light”

    Not people who briefly passed through the shadows.
    But people who walked there.
    Who knew it.
    Who lived in it.

    Night can be beautiful. It can also be lonely. It can feel strange, unsettling, or heavy. Those who work the night shift often speak of this, how the night has its own texture, its own intensity. Things surface at night that daytime can keep hidden.

    One of the places I have known this most deeply is in the nights of early parenthood. Anyone who has lived closely with a newborn knows this kind of night. The house is quiet. Time stretches. Sleep feels optional. The work is simple and exhausting: feeding, soothing, holding.

    And yet, some of the most extraordinary moments happen then.

    I remember sitting in the soft glow of a lamp, holding one of our children, and feeling them lock eyes with us. Not demanding anything. Not smiling particularly. Just looking. Awake. Attentive. Calm in a way that only seemed to come at night.

    In those moments, something profound was happening. A quiet meeting. A recognition. As though, in the stillness, their personhood was beginning to emerge, and we were being invited simply to behold it.

    There is a word sometimes used for this kind of moment: reverie. It names a deep, gentle attentiveness being fully present to another, without judgement or demand. Simply holding them in love.

    I wonder if something like this helps us glimpse our relationship with God.

    Because at Christmas, God does not come first as teacher or judge or ruler. God comes as a child. God comes to be looked at. To be held. To be fed through the night. Mary and Joseph behold not only the vulnerability of a baby, but the vulnerability of God.

    And in Jesus Christ, Emmanuel, God with us, we discover this:
    We are always already beheld.

    Known.
    Cherished.
    Held in love, dignity, and divine joy – simply because we are.

    For love came down at Christmas.

    The Christmas story is full of night people. Like shepherds, keeping watch over their flocks by night – not romantic figures, but working people. Outdoors. Cold. Tired. Faithful in the unglamorous hours.

    And it is to them – not to the powerful, not to those asleep behind closed doors – that the angels appear.

    And this season we might think, too, of all those who are awake while others sleep: nurses moving quietly along hospital corridors, midwives receiving new life, care workers, drivers, and emergency crews. Christmas happens among them, too. God chooses the night shift.

    And God chooses to arrive as a baby.

    Not as a blazing light that overwhelms the darkness, but as something fragile. Something that cries. Something that depends on the steady presence of others to survive the night.

    Isaiah speaks of a child born for us – ‘Wonderful Counsellor, Mighty God, Prince of Peace’. And then Saint Luke tells us where that promise lands: not in a palace, but in a feeding trough. Not in certainty, but in vulnerability. Not in daylight, but in darkness.

    The light that comes does not erase the night.
    It enters it.

    This matters, because for many people, night is not particularly beautiful – instead it is heavy. For night can amplify grief. At night loneliness speaks louder. Anxiety finds more room in the night hours. Pain is harder to distract from as darkness falls.

    There are people here tonight, or people who we know, for whom Christmas is not cosy, but instead it is complicated.

    And into that – not around it, not instead of it – God is born.

    The shepherds are afraid. Of course they are. Night, angels, sudden glory – fear is a perfectly human response. But the first words they hear are not explanation or instruction, but reassurance:

    “Do not be afraid”

    Fear does not disqualify them from receiving the good news. Fear is simply where the good news meets them.

    And the sign they are given is not power, but tenderness: a baby, wrapped in cloths, lying in a manger. A sign that God has chosen to stay. To be held. To be present through the night.

    Tonight, we are not invited to solve the mystery, but to sit with it. To let the quiet do its work. To allow the darkness to be what it is – while trusting that light has entered it, and will not leave it unchanged.

    Because the miracle of Christmas is not that night disappears.
    It is that God stays.

    God stays with the sleepless parent.
    With the anxious heart.
    With the lonely, the watchful, the weary.

    God comes for hope to be born – small, fragile, and real.

    And like the shepherds, we are invited to go and see.
    To draw near.
    To treasure these things and ponder them in our hearts.

    So tonight, before anything else is asked of us, this is what we are given: God comes near. God comes not to stand over us, but to draw close – to behold us, and to allow himself to be beheld. In the child laid in the manger, God looks upon us with love that is attentive, patient, and unafraid of our fragility. We do not need to explain ourselves, or prove ourselves, or have everything sorted out. We are known already. Seen already. Held already – in love, dignity, and divine joy.

    For in the sight of God we are welcomed by one who knows vulnerability from the inside. A child who must be held to survive the night. A God who chooses dependence, closeness, and trust. We can come as we are – weary, hopeful, uncertain, grateful, afraid – and we will find ourselves met by a love gentle enough to hold us, and brave enough to stay. For we are cherished. We are not alone. And God is nearer than we dare to imagine.

    Amen

    The image in this post is of one of the wall paintings in the church where I am a priest, St. Andrews N16. They are deeply unique, and the photo does not do them justice.

    Wishing you a blessed and peaceful Christmas, where I pray you feel known and loved by God.

  • 23 December – O Emmanuel (God with us)

    “Come and save us, O Lord our God”

    O Emmanuel, our King and our lawgiver,
    the hope of the nations and their Saviour:
    Come and save us, O Lord our God.

    After all the titles,

    Wisdom.
    Lord.
    Root.
    Key.
    Dawn.
    King.

    We arrive at a name.

    Each has drawn us closer, narrowing the focus, sharpening the longing. And now, on the final day before Christmas Eve, the Church dares to speak the most astonishing truth of all: Emmanuel – God with us.

    Not God above us.
    Not God beyond us.
    Not God waiting at the end of our striving.

    God with us.

    This is the heart of Advent. All the hopes we have named, for justice, liberation, light, unity, and peace, are not fulfilled by God acting from a safe distance, but by God choosing to draw close in vulnerability.

    Isaiah’s promise of Emmanuel was first spoken into a time of fear and political uncertainty. None of this prophecy was an abstract theological idea, but instead a sign given to a trembling people: you are not abandoned. God has not withdrawn. Even now, God is with you.

    As Christians, we receive that promise anew in Jesus Christ.

    The one we have called King does not arrive with an army.
    The one we have named Lawgiver does not come coercively.
    The one we have longed for as Saviour comes as a child – utterly dependent on his caregivers.

    This is not a failure of power, but its redefinition.

    In Christ, God chooses to dwell fully within the human condition, within bodies that ache, relationships that strain, lives shaped by love and loss. Emmanuel does not wait for the world to be ready. He comes into the mess of it. Into occupied land. Into poverty. Into uncertainty.

    And he comes still.

    To pray O Emmanuel is to recognise that salvation is not only something that happens to us, but something that happens with us. God does not save humanity by standing apart from it, but by joining it, sharing our breath, our hunger, our fear, our joy.

    There is also a tenderness in the final plea of the antiphon.

    “Come and save us, O Lord our God.”

    No more imagery. No more metaphor. Just need.

    This is the prayer we return to again and again; personally, communally, globally. When words run out. When explanations fail. When the world feels heavy with grief and injustice. Come. Save us. Be with us.

    And the astonishing claim of Christmas is that God answers this prayer not with argument, but with presence.

    The name Emmanuel does not promise that everything will be easy. It promises that we will not be alone. It assures us that God is found not only in holiness and light, but in ordinary days and fragile lives. In the manger. At the table. On the road. At the cross.

    And so, on this final day of Advent waiting, we do not strain forward any longer.

    We make space.

    We prepare a place for God to dwell.

    Today, I encourage us all, and I really do include myself here, to take a moment to be still, to make space, and engage in prayer or wondering, with Emmanuel – God with us today. Allowing God to draw close to us, in our busyness, in our grief, in our hopefulness, in our tiredness. Giving us a moment in the chaos of life and its grief to be with us.

    I have one final musical offering as we come to the end of this journey through the O Antiphons. I have decided to share this beautiful version of the full hymn “O Come, O Come Emmanuel” sung by Apollo5 and The VOCES8 Foundation Choir and Orchestra, arranged by Taylor Scott Davis conducted by Barnaby Smith. It is a beautiful arrangement and holds both the immensity of the gift of Emmanuel God with us and also the gentleness and mystery of a baby come in all vulnerability to save us. There is a beautiful shimmering quality to the whole piece.

    And thank you for joining me on this journey through the O Antiphons. The idea of daily reflections on the O Antiphons came from reading Cosima Clara Gillhammer’s book ‘Light on Darkness: The Untold Story of the Liturgy’ whilst on holiday in Majorca in the spring this year. It is a book I would 100% recommend. And reminded me of the great beauty of the O Antiphons, which for me was formed in the daily office and the musical versions I have sung for more years than I care to remember.

    May these final moments of Advent be a blessing to you.

    O Emmanuel,
    God with us in flesh and fragility,
    draw near to your waiting world.
    Be present in our joy and our sorrow,
    our hope and our fear.
    Come and save us, Lord our God,
    and dwell with us always.
    Amen.