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.

  • “A Shoot Shall Spring Up”: Advent Peace

    A Sermon for Second Sunday in Advent

    If you’ve ever walked the Hadrian’s Wall path in Northumberland, you’ll know the Sycamore Gap tree – an iconic, solitary sycamore tree standing in a dramatic dip in the landscape. For decades it was one of the most photographed trees in Britain. Strong, rooted, quietly majestic. Bizarrely, my first memory of it was from watching Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves a classic of 1991, now I’m showing my age.

    And then last year it was felled.
    Deliberately.

    You probably heard about it on the news.
    A senseless act of vandalism that left people across the country shocked and grieving. A beautiful, living thing reduced to a stump.

    I think the reaction was so strong because the tree represented more than itself. It stood for endurance, beauty, rootedness – the idea that amid all that changes of this world, something can remain steady. Its felling felt like a small symbol of the fragility we all feel in the world right now.

    But the story didn’t end there.
    Forestry experts discovered something remarkable.
    The tree is trying to grow again.
    In fact according to the National Trist there are 25 new shoots are emerging from the stump – small, tender signs of stubborn life. And more: hundreds of cuttings were taken from the fallen tree, many of which have rooted successfully. These new saplings are being nurtured across the UK to be planted in the years to come.
    What looked like an ending has become the beginning of a much wider legacy.

    When I heard that, I thought: this is exactly what Isaiah is talking about.
    This is Advent.

    “A shoot shall come out of the stump of Jesse.”

    Isaiah speaks into a landscape of despair.
    The royal line of David, Jesse’s family, had been cut down by war, exile, and failure. The tree of Israel’s hope had been reduced to a stump.

    And yet Isaiah dares to say:

    “From here, from what looks dead, God will begin again.”

    God’s peace grows not in ideal circumstances but in places that look ruined: Where life has felt cut down, Where hope seems thin, Where the world feels violent or fractured, Where we ourselves feel weary or overwhelmed.

    Isaiah doesn’t deny the damage.
    He names it.
    But he also names God’s tenacious life breaking through.

    The peace God promises is not fragile or sentimental.
    It is resilient.
    It grows out of stumps.

    Peace as Transformation, Not Quietness

    Isaiah’s vision of the peaceable kingdom – the wolf with the lamb, the child safe by the snake’s den – is not a picture of nature behaving itself. It is a vision of the world reordered. A reversal of domination, a healing of fear, a transformation of relationships.

    And it rests on justice:

    “He will judge the poor with righteousness.”
    “With equity for the meek of the earth.”

    Biblical peace – shalom – is not the absence of conflict.
    It is the presence of justice, wholeness, in being in right relationship.

    Which is why, on this second Sunday of Advent, the Church gives us John the Baptist.

    John the Baptist: The Disturber of False Peace

    When we become complacent and think Advent is just about our gentle, candle-lit moments, John strides out of the wilderness with a voice that shakes the air:

    “Repent! Prepare the way of the Lord!”

    It can feel jarring.
    But John is not trying to shame people; he is trying to wake them.

    You cannot enter God’s peace while clinging to the things that destroy peace.
    You cannot receive Christ’s kingdom without letting something in you change.

    Spiritual transformation in Greek the word is metanoia is simply turning around, reorienting, allowing God to reshape us from within.

    John’s fierce imagery, the axe at the root, the winnowing fork, can sound frightening. But it is the imagery of clearing ground, of removing what is dead or harmful so something better can grow.

    John is the gardener preparing the soil for the Prince of Peace.

    Advent peace, then, begins not with calmness but with courage …
    the courage to let God work on the places in us that are tangled or hardened,
    the courage to face what we’d rather ignore,
    the courage to make room.

    Peace in Our Time and Lives

    In our world right now, peace can feel impossibly distant.
    Wars rage.
    Communities fracture.
    Public life feels angry and brittle.
    Many of us carry our own private anxieties, griefs, and burdens.

    And it’s tempting to think peace is a kind of dream; beautiful, but unrealistic.
    A wolf and a lamb?
    A child safe by a snake’s hole?
    Really?

    Isaiah would say: Yes – because God is involved.
    John would say: Yes – if you’re willing to prepare.

    Peace begins in the smallest shoots of change:
    in acts of forgiveness,
    in refusing to speak with cruelty,
    in choosing justice over comfort,
    in softening a hardened heart,
    in letting go of resentment,
    in making room for God’s newness.

    Peace is not something we wait for passively.
    It’s something we lean towards, prepare for, and practice.

    Just like the Sycamore Gap tree, peace grows slowly, sometimes invisibly, 
    but with a strength deeper than destruction.

    Lighting the Peace Candle

    On the second Sunday in Advent we light the candle of Peace, and we do so not pretending the world is peaceful.
    Instead we are declaring our hope in the God who brings peace
    even here,
    even now,
    even from the stumps.

    The candle’s light is small, but it pushes back the dark.
    It is an act of defiant hope.
    It says:

    “The One who brings peace is coming.”
    “New life can grow again.”
    “This is not the end of the story.”

    The Sycamore Gap tree will never look the same as it once did – but its life isn’t finished. In fact, its legacy will now be scattered in hundreds of places, where new trees will rise from what was destroyed.

    Perhaps that is a parable for us.
    For our churches.
    For our communities.
    For our wounded world.
    For our own hearts.

    Where something has been cut down,
    God can bring new life.
    Where peace seems impossible,
    Christ can begin again.
    Where all we can see is a stump,
    God sees a future forest.

    So, this Advent, let us pray for peace
    but let us also prepare for peace.

    Let us open our hands.
    Let us soften our hearts.
    Let us make room for Christ.

    For the One who brings peace is already drawing near.
    And even the stumps of our lives are not the end of the story.

    Amen.

  • The Gentle Resistance of Advent

    An Advent Sunday Reflection

    On the eve of Advent Sunday – our “New Year’s Eve” in the Church – I often find myself in a place of deep gratitude for the year that has been, pondering the things that have been painful or challenging, reflecting quietly, and also with a growing excitement for the year that is coming. Tonight in our home in north London, the first of our seasonal decorations is up: a simple wooden tree made from driftwood. Wood washed and worn by the ocean now stands in our living room, warmed by soft lights.

    We’re big into hygge as a family – a Scandinavian practice of warm light, and a cosy home as the winter draws in. Over the last few weeks, we’ve been pulling out the cosiest blankets, adding warm lamps, and inviting a sense of comfort and gentleness into the house. While the world outside grows colder and the trees become dormant, we are choosing warm light – but also choosing to welcome the darkness. Darkness as a place to ponder, to give thanks, to process the year, and to make space in head and heart so that, come spring, new ideas and new energy can take root.

    And tonight, the gentle glow of those lights settles on the driftwood tree that will help us mark first Advent and later Christmas. It strikes me how fitting this is: the Light we will soon welcome at Christmas is the same Light who will one day encounter the wood of another tree – the cross.

    But for now, in this season of beginnings, Jesus’ words call us simply to watch and wait. To be ready. Not with frantic activity or perfectly polished plans, but with an open, spacious attentiveness.

    December seems to invite us to speed up, to fill our calendars, our tables, our shopping baskets. Yet creation itself, God’s first testimony, whispers a different invitation: to rest, to become dormant for a little while, to make room, to quieten our spirits enough to notice the first flicker of approaching light.

    In her book Rest Is Resistance, Tricia Hersey writes of rest as a quiet, holy act of rebellion, a refusal to believe that our worth is tied to our productivity or our pace. She speaks of rest as a way of reclaiming our humanity, of remembering that we are not machines but beloved creatures. And I can’t help thinking how profoundly Advent echoes that call. At the very moment the world urges us to do more, buy more, be more, Advent invites us to step out of that rhythm and into God’s own slower, deeper rhythm of watching and waiting. To resist the myth that busyness is blessing, and instead to wonder, to listen, to let ourselves be renewed by stillness.

    So I find myself wondering:

    What might watching and waiting look like for us this Advent?

    What might it mean to make room, not just in our homes, but in our inner life – for the Light of the World to come?

    As Isaiah envisioned the nations streaming to the mountain of the Lord, walking in His ways and learning the pathways of peace, so Advent invites us to walk in the light of the Lord even before the fullness of the dawn arrives.

    May this be a season of gentle light, spacious rest, and hopeful waiting – a season where, quietly and almost imperceptibly, the Light draws near, and where like our little driftwood tree – shaped by waters, lit by warmth – we too can become simple signs of the greater Light that is coming, and the new year that begins in hope.

    God of gentle light,
    in this season of waiting,
    quiet our hearts,
    slow our steps,
    and teach us the holy resistance of rest.
    May your light find us attentive and unhurried,
    ready to welcome the One who comes.
    Amen.

  • From Kingdom to Kindom 

    The liturgucal year is drawing to a close, and these last few weeks we have turned our thoughts to the season the Church calls Kingdom Season, and this final Sunday we celebrate the Feast of Christ the King.

    This season born out of the turmoil of the last century in a time when nationalism, fascism and secularism were demanding total loyalty from human hearts, the Church across the world responded by saying: No.
    No earthly power, no ruler, no ideology can claim our souls.
    Christ alone reigns – the one who rules, not with fear or domination, but with mercy, peace and justice.

    And yet, the word Kingdom itself sits uneasily for some of us.
    It’s a word weighted with monarchy, empire and patriarchy.
    It conjures crowns, armies, hierarchies – images far removed from the carpenter from Nazareth hanging on a cross between two criminals.

    I have been spending some time recently revisiting the work Abba Amma by Nicola Slee, the feminist theologian and poet, where she explores aspects of the Lord’s Prayer. In her chapter on “Your Kingdom come” She explores the risk of re-inscribing exactly the sort of domination Jesus came to overturn. She says when Jesus spoke of God’s Kingdom, he wasn’t dreaming of a palace.
    He was announcing a revolution.
    A political, spiritual, and relational upheaval in which the poor are lifted up,
    the captives set free, and the mighty are humbled.

    To pray “Your Kingdom come” is to say:
    The world belongs to God, not to Caesar.
    Power belongs to love, not to empire.

    Nicola Slee and the Cuban theologian Ada María Isasi-Díaz both invite us to take a small but seismic step and to pray instead for the coming of God’s Kindom:
    K-I-N-D-O-M.

    It’s a tiny shift in spelling but a vast shift in imagination.
    From Kingdom to Kindom – from hierarchy to kinship,
    from rule to relationship,
    from domination to solidarity.

    As Isasi-Díaz puts it, the Kindom is the community of kindred persons,
    people bound together by mutual care and shared struggle.
    It’s less like a throne room and more like a family kitchen,
    or maybe a small mixed farm – messy, interdependent, alive.
    Slee says that image of the household or the farm may in fact be truer to what Jesus meant:
    a place of daily labour, where every creature is tended,
    where survival depends on cooperation and care,
    and where flourishing happens only when everyone has enough.

    So, what does that mean for us as we celebrate – Christ the King – when we proclaim that Jesus reigns?

    It means that Christ’s kingship looks utterly different from every model of power we’ve ever known.
    In the all too familiar scene in Saint Luke’s Gospel 23:33-43 , Jesus is enthroned not on a seat of gold but on a cross of wood.
    His crown is made of thorns.
    His proclamation reads not “Glory and Empire,” but “This is the King of the Jews.”

    The soldiers mock him.
    The leaders sneer.
    And yet in that moment; humiliated, wounded, dying 
    he reveals the deepest truth about God’s rule:
    that real power is love poured out,
    real authority is reconciliation,
    real glory is solidarity with the suffering.

    One of the men crucified beside him sees it.
    In desperation, he whispers, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”
    And Jesus replies, “Today you will be with me in paradise.”

    The first citizen of the Kingdom – the Kindom – is a condemned man on a cross.
    That is the shape of Christ’s divine rule.

    Saint Paul’s letter to the Colossians 1:11-20 he gives us the theology behind that moment.
    He writes that in Christ “all things hold together,”
    and that God was pleased “through him to reconcile to himself all things –
    things on earth and things in heaven – making peace through the blood of his cross.”

    Notice those words: all things.
    Not just souls, not just the righteous, not just the human.
    All creation.
    The whole household of God.
    That’s the Kindom – the web of life bound together in Christ’s reconciling love.

    It is as though Saint Paul is saying:
    This world, in all its brokenness and beauty, already belongs to God.
    The work of Christ is to mend the fractures,
    to bring everything back into right relationship 
    with God, with one another, with the earth itself.

    And that, friends, is what Kingdom Season teaches us.
    To be Kingdom People – or perhaps Kindom People –
    is to live here and now as if that reconciliation were already true.
    It means resisting the powers of domination and fear.
    It means building communities where justice, peace and joy in the Holy Spirit are not slogans but lived realities.
    It means safeguarding one another,
    caring for the vulnerable,
    refusing to worship anything or anyone but Christ.

    In that sense, every small act of care is an act of Kindom-building.
    Every choice for truth over comfort,
    for listening over silencing,
    for repair over reputation – these are the politics of the Kindom.

    So when we gather around the altar,
    we come not as subjects of a distant monarch,
    but as kin –
    siblings in the household of God.
    We come to the table, not the throne.
    We share food, not fear.
    And we hear again the words of our crucified King:
    “This is my body, given for you.”

    That is what divine rule looks like: self-giving, life-sharing love.

    As this Kingdom Season closes and Advent begins,
    perhaps we can hold the old word and the new together –
    Kingdom and Kindom.

    The first reminds us that Christ’s authority is ultimate:
    no ruler, party, or ideology can claim what belongs to God.
    The second reminds us what that authority feels like:
    not domination, but belonging;
    not control, but communion;
    not empire, but family.

    So today we dare to proclaim both truths:
    Christ is King – and Christ makes us kin.
    Christ reigns – by reconciling, not by conquering.
    Christ’s Kingdom is the Kindom – a household of justice, peace, and joy in the Holy Spirit.

    And our calling, as ever, is to live like it’s true.
    To be people of the Kindom:
    honest, compassionate, courageous, hopeful –
    working and praying for the day when every tear is wiped away,
    and every creature can say, with joy,
    “Christ reigns – and all creation is home.”

    Amen.

  • Safeguarding Sunday: Justice, Power, and the Kingdom of God

    Here are some reflections adapted from my sermon this week.

    This is the week we find ourselves in our liturgical year standing in two places at once.

    On the one hand, we are deep in Kingdom Season – those final Sundays before Advent when we lift our eyes and ask: What does it look like when Christ reigns? Where is the Kingdom taking root among us?

    At the same time, we mark Safeguarding Sunday, when churches across the UK hold themselves to the light, speak honestly about what has gone wrong, and recommit to what must be made right.

    These two things are not an awkward pairing.
    They belong together.

    Because the Kingdom Christ speaks of is not vague or sentimental. It has shape and substance:

    “The Kingdom of God is justice and peace and joy in the Holy Spirit.”

    They’re beautiful words, and bold ones and we’ve been singing them in our church each week of Kingdom Season. Because we believe that if we dare to proclaim justice, peace, and joy, then we must also be honest about where they are painfully absent.

    And the truth is this: for too many, especially survivors of abuse, the Church has not felt like the Kingdom of God.
    It has not felt like justice,
    or peace,
    or joy.

    And Safeguarding Sunday asks us not to look away.
    It asks us to choose truth, because the Kingdom has no fear of truth.

    Jesus and Power

    Our gospel reading in the lectionary this week from St. Luke’s gospel chapter 21, reminds us that Jesus does not protect institutions.
    Instead, Jesus speaks truth to power.

    And whenever power is present; in a structure, in a person, in a community – the Gospel invites us to examine it carefully.

    This week I was at some training with the Centre for Theology and Community with one of my parishioners, and we were talking about Power. And it was interesting how some of us found Power and our own Power a really difficult conversation. And it reminded me about the five questions the late Tony Benn, would ask of any person or institution holding power. Here is what he asked:

    What power have you got?
    Where did you get it from?
    In whose interests do you exercise it?
    To whom are you accountable?
    And how can we get rid of you?

    They may sound like political questions, but I believe they are deeply theological too.
    They are Kingdom questions.

    They echo the questions Jesus asks of the Temple.
    They echo the questions survivors ask of the Church.
    And they are questions we must have the courage to ask of ourselves.

    The institutional Church holds real power. So, the only Christ-shaped way to use it is this:

    Not to control,
    not to silence,
    not to protect reputation,
    but to serve, to liberate, to heal, and to choose accountability.

    Those questions are not a threat to the Church.
    Avoiding them is.

    Jesus and the Temple

    In St. Luke’s account in chapter 21, people marvel at the beauty of the Temple – the stones, the structure, the authority it represented. And Jesus says:

    “Not one stone will be left upon another.”

    Not because God despises holy places, but because when a holy place stops revealing the life of God, God will not defend it.

    For generations, the Church has said:

    “We are a place of holiness.
    We are a place of safety.”

    And Jesus asks us as individuals and as a Church, as he asked them:

    Are you?
    Do you protect the vulnerable or yourselves?
    Are you truth or silence?

    It is not criticism that threatens the Church.
    It is the refusal to listen.

    Naming Failure

    It is no secret that the wider Church has failed survivors of abuse.
    We know painfully well that the Church has doubted them, delayed justice, protected abusers, and prioritised image over truth.

    Even today, survivors are retraumatised by the way safeguarding can be handled:
    process instead of compassion,
    silence instead of support.

    This is not the Kingdom of God.

    Beyond the Church: A National Failure to Act

    It is also important to remember that it is now three years since the Independent Inquiry into Child Sexual Abuse (IICSA) released its final report and gave its recommendations to the government. Three years have passed and not one of those national recommendations has yet been implemented. These reforms were designed to protect children, adults, and communities across the whole of society; schools, local authorities, social care, sports clubs, charities, and yes, churches too. 

    The failure to act is a failure of political will. It is a failure of collective responsibility. If taken seriously, these recommendations would make the UK a safer place for all. Safeguarding is not only an internal matter for Christian communities; it is a call to hold our wider society, including our government, to account.

    Holy Accountability

    Far too often, the voices of survivors are still overshadowed by institutional reputation and procedures that almost inevitably favour the perpetrator over the wounded. Reporting abuse is one of the hardest things any person will ever do, and yet the systems we have can make that experience almost as retraumatising as the original harm.

    We see senior people in institutions often deeply kind, dedicated people – asked to deliberate on situations they are woefully under-trained and under-supported to handle. They end up caught between pastoral responsibility and institutional expectation. The outcome is almost always messy, painful, and unjust, particularly for survivors.

    This does not reflect the Kingdom of God.
    And it is why deeper change is still so necessary.

    Signs of Grace – and Work Still to Do

    And yet there is real grace.

    At the parish level, I see week in week out people working faithfully and quietly to make the church safer – safeguarding officers throughout the land, clergy, PCC members, volunteers, diocesan staff. Their work is unseen and often heavy, and I am grateful for it.

    Things are better than they once were.
    Thanks be to God.

    But we are not finished.

    We still need transparency, independence, survivor-centred systems, real support, and a culture of safeguarding – not merely policies.

    Policies do not heal people.
    Culture does.
    Courage does.
    Truth does.
    Compassion does.

    Holy Determination

    Saint Paul writes, “Do not grow weary in doing what is right.”

    That little line carries so much of what safeguarding really is.
    It is training, boundaries, noticing, speaking up.
    It is refusing to look away.
    It is choosing the harder path because it is the right one.

    This is love – practical, rolled-up-sleeves love.

    And Jesus’ promise, “By your endurance you will gain your souls,” reminds us that endurance is not passive suffering.
    It is holy determination – the refusal to accept harm as inevitable, and the choice to keep building something better.

    A Word to Survivors

    To survivors: You should never have had to endure what you did.
    Your courage and truth matter profoundly, and you are held in the heart of God.

    A Word to Those Working in Safeguarding

    To those who carry safeguarding responsibilities:
    Your endurance is holy.
    Every time you insist on safe practice, every time you carry burdens faithfully, you are doing Kingdom work.

    Why Safeguarding Matters to Faith

    So why talk about safeguarding?
    Because Tony Benn’s question still presses us:

    What power do I have?

    All of us hold some kind of power.

    Much of mine is formal as a priest.
    But most power in the Church should be shared and is everyday:

    Noticing when something feels off.
    Trusting intuition.
    Reporting concerns.
    Holding one another – including leaders – to holy account.
    Praying for survivors, truth, justice, and fairness.

    If every person bears the image of God, then safeguarding is not an optional extra.
    It is discipleship.
    It is worship.

    Safeguarding is tending the image of God.
    Believing survivors is worship.
    Truth is worship.
    Accountability is worship.
    This is Gospel work.

    Where We Go From Here

    We are not here to protect an institution.
    We are here to protect people.

    We are not here to avoid discomfort.
    We are here to move toward truth.

    We are not here to say, “We tried.”
    We are here to say, “Harm was done, and it must not happen again.”

    We are here to build a Church where justice, peace, and joy are not slogans but lived reality.

    Because if the Church is not safe,
    it is not the Church.

    “The Kingdom of God is justice and peace and joy in the Holy Spirit”
    for every child, every adult, every survivor, every neighbour.

    May we have courage.
    May we have humility.
    May we have endurance.
    And may the Holy Spirit make us more like Christ –
    who stands with the vulnerable, brings truth into the open,
    and heals what has been harmed.

    A Liturgical Response – Lament and Hope

    After naming so much truth; the failures, the harm, the courage, the endurance, the call to change – I find myself needing to turn to prayer.

    Safeguarding isn’t only procedural work; it is spiritual work, emotional work, communal work. And whenever the Church faces its deepest wounds, we need space to lament, to speak honestly to God, and to ask for courage and healing.

    So, I offer this litany – written by me for Safeguarding Sunday – as a way for anyone who wants to pray what we must face together.
    A way to bring before God the grief, the failures, the survivors, the work, and the hope for something better.

    A Litany for Safeguarding Sunday – A Prayer of Lament and Hope

    O Christ, who entered the world as a helpless child,
    who knew what it was to be held and to be hurt,
    and to be betrayed:
    Have mercy upon us.

    O Holy Spirit, who broods over the waters of chaos,
    who breathes life into what is broken,
    who comforts the silenced and the afraid:
    Have mercy upon us.

    O God, whose image is found in every person,
    whose light no darkness can extinguish:
    Have mercy upon us.

    From silence that hides the truth,
    from fear that keeps us from hearing,
    from the hardness of heart that cannot bear to see:
    Deliver us, O God.

    From words that wound and systems that crush,
    from misuse of power and the blindness of privilege,
    from the sins of the Church and the indifference of your people:
    Deliver us, O God.

    From easy words of apology without repentance,
    from the temptation to turn away,
    from the weariness that gives up on change:
    Deliver us, O God.

    For all who carry pain in body or spirit,
    for all who still wake in fear,
    for all whose stories have been doubted or denied:
    Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.

    For those who have spoken truth at great cost,
    and for those who long to speak but cannot:
    Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.

    For those who have failed to protect,
    and those who seek to do better;
    for all who bear the heavy work of safeguarding:
    Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.

    Christ of the wounds,
    you took upon yourself the violence of the world;
    you carried its shame and its betrayal;
    you rose still bearing your scars.
    Teach us never to look away.
    Christ, have mercy.

    Spirit of truth,
    breathe courage into our weakness,
    steadiness into our outrage,
    and tenderness into our care.
    Christ, have mercy.

    God of justice and mercy,
    we long for your Church to be a place of safety and belonging,
    where all may find rest,
    and none need hide their pain.
    Christ, have mercy.

    Gather us into your healing, O God:
    those who have been harmed,
    those who have harmed,
    and those who have stood by in silence.
    Make us one people, redeemed and remade by love.
    Kyrie eleison.

    Let truth be spoken,
    let power be humbled,
    let compassion be our law.
    Christe eleison.

    Let the stones cry out until justice is done,
    and your kingdom comes among us
    a kingdom of safety, honesty, and peace.
    Kyrie eleison.

    God of light and shadow,
    you hold the stories too painful to tell,
    the memories too heavy to bear.
    Hold us in your mercy.
    Teach us to listen with reverence,
    to act with courage,
    and to live as people who make your love real.
    Through Jesus Christ,
    wounded and risen,
    our healer and our hope.
    Amen.

  • Seeing Ourselves as God Sees Us: All Saints, Self-Compassion and the Imago Dei

    This week we celebrate the Feast of All Saints, and as I prepare our all-age sermon slot, I found myself thinking about mirrors.

    Not the kind that help us fix our hair (though there’s always that!), but the mirrors that help us look deeper – beyond the surface – to see something sacred reflected back.

    When we look in a mirror, we see what’s on the outside. But I wonder with you: if we stay there a little longer, perhaps we can begin to glimpse something else – a face made in the image and likeness of God.

    That’s the astonishing truth of imago Dei: that each one of us, without exception, bears the reflection of the divine. And yet, so often, we find that hard to believe about ourselves. We may say it easily about others, but we struggle to extend the same grace inward.

    A mirror to the saints

    On All Saints’ Day, we remember the great saints – Saint Peter, Saint Paul, Saint Mary, Saint Francis, and Saint Andrew, the patron of the place where I serve as priest. But it also affords us the opportunity to remember and give thanks for the quiet, everyday saints whose names are known only to a few – the ones whose work in our lives has held us up, whose prayers have carried us, whose love has made God visible.

    They are saints not because they were perfect, but because they reflected God’s love into the world.

    And here’s the thing: we are called to do the same. When we look in the mirror, we are looking at a saint in the making – an imperfect, beloved person through whom God’s light can shine.

    I often ask myself: who has helped me see what God’s love looks like? And, in turn, how might I help someone else see that same love in me? These are important questions to keep asking ourselves.

    Self-compassion and the image of God

    I also want to consider another lens to understand our sainthood and that is through the lens of self-compassion, which I believe can be a thread that holds all of this together.

    Over the last five or six years, I have become deeply interested and inspired by the work of Dr Kristin Neff on self-compassion. Her writing, research, and guided practices opened a new space for me: a way of noticing the tone of my own inner voice, of holding my failures and fears with gentleness rather than judgement. As I’ve explored and prayed through this, self-compassion has gradually become part of my spiritual life – a kind of contemplative practice that helps me return again and again to God’s mercy and God’s love. It has shaped how I pray, how I rest, and how I accompany others – reminding me that grace begins not with striving, but with acceptance.

    It is important to note self-compassion isn’t self-indulgence or an excuse to stop growing. It is the practice of acknowledging our humanity – our limits, our mistakes, our need for grace – and yet choosing to treat ourselves with the same kindness we would offer a good friend.

    When we practise self-compassion, we begin to live more deeply into the imago Dei. We honour the God who made us and see ourselves as God sees us – not as problems to be fixed, but as beloved creations still unfolding.

    There’s a quiet holiness in that.

    Because when we stop waging war on ourselves, we become freer to love others. When we stop demanding perfection, we start making space for joy. And when we look at our reflection with gentleness instead of judgement, we begin to reflect that same gentleness into the world.

    Kingdom People: compassion turned outward

    The lectionary this week invites us to reflect on Saint Luke’s Gospel, where Jesus gives us the Beatitudes – a vision of the Kingdom of God that turns everything upside down.

    It isn’t the powerful or the wealthy who are blessed, but the poor, the hungry, the grieving, the merciful, and the peacemakers.

    To live as Kingdom People means to embody that compassion – not just outwardly, but inwardly too. Because how we treat ourselves shapes how we treat others.

    If we learn to see ourselves through God’s compassionate gaze, we’ll find it easier to see others that way, too. We’ll make different choices – lighter, kinder, more hopeful ones.

    A simple practice

    So, here’s a gentle invitation for the week ahead.

    Self-compassion is a practice – that is, we have to practise it to make it part of our being. So I invite us to practise knowing ourselves as made in the likeness and image of God.

    Find a mirror or a reflective surface – a window, a puddle, the gleam of a kettle.
    Look for a moment at your reflection and whisper this prayer:

    “I am made in the image of God.
     I am loved.
     I am called to love.”

    Let those words settle in your heart.
    Notice what it feels like to believe them.
    And then carry that truth into the way you speak, act, and move through the world.

    Holiness, not perfection

    All Saints reminds us that holiness is not about perfection – it’s about reflection.

    It’s about letting God’s light be seen in us, just as we glimpse it in others.

    When we see ourselves as made in the image and likeness of God, we clear the glass of the mirror of our lives, make space for grace, and begin – in small and beautiful ways – to live into the image of God we already bear.

    My prayer for us this week is this: may we see ourselves as God sees us – beloved, capable of healing, radiant with divine light.
    And may that gentle seeing lead us to live more fully, more freely, and more compassionately in God’s world.

    Amen.

  • The Persistence of Hope

    A sermon for Trinity 18

    Readings: Luke 18:1–8 | 2 Timothy 3:14–4:5 | Genesis 32:22–31

    Sometimes the most powerful stories of faith are not the ones that take place in church buildings, but in city squares, on our streets, or at kitchen tables where people decide that giving up is not an option.

    One of my dearest friends, a priest in the Episcopal Church in America, shared a piece with me this week written by Joyce Hollyday, editor for Sojourners magazine. She wrote a modern echo of Jesus’ parable in Luke 18, a parable of persistence lived out by mothers around the world, and I want to share it with you.

    ‘In 1976, a military junta seized power in Argentina. Men in unmarked cars began arriving at night, taking away anyone who spoke up for peace or justice. Thousands became “the disappeared.” Their mothers began to gather, day after day, in front of government offices, pleading for news of their children. When they were turned away, they wrote petitions. When petitions were ignored, they began a silent, illegal protest.

    Every Thursday, they marched in a circle around Buenos Aires’ Plaza de Mayo, each woman wearing a white handkerchief embroidered with the name of her missing child. Despite beatings and arrests, they kept walking. Their vigil went on for years.’

    ‘Hollyday tells of women in South Africa doing the same, marching on Pretoria in 1952 under the cry, “You strike a woman, you strike a rock.” Of women in El Salvador fasting at the tomb of Archbishop Romero. Of mothers in Detroit banding together after their children were gunned down in the streets.’

    “All these mothers,” she writes, “display the persistence of the widow in today’s gospel. They confront the unjust judges of today and invite us to join them in taking a stand for justice.”

    And we have many of our own here in the UK. One who springs closest to my mind is Doreen Lawrence, the mother of Stephen Lawrence, who was murdered in London in 1993 in a racially motivated attack. To this day, Doreen and her family are seeking full justice, persevering year after year.

    This is what perseverance looks like.
    It is prayer in motion.
    It is the heartbeat of faith refusing to stop.

    Perseverance isn’t glamorous. It’s not the excitement of beginning or the joy of finishing. It’s the long stretch in between, when we keep going even when hope feels thin. But in Scripture, perseverance isn’t about sheer willpower. It’s about staying connected to the God whose love endures. It’s about allowing God’s Spirit to keep our hearts beating when the world feels heavy.

    In Luke’s gospel, Jesus tells this parable “so that they might not lose heart.” I find that so deeply pastoral. Jesus knows what it is to grow weary, to wonder whether prayer still matters. And so he gives us this story: a widow who keeps coming to a judge who neither fears God nor respects people. She’s got no power, no status, no protection. But she has something stronger, the conviction that justice is possible. So she keeps showing up. Again and again. Until even the hard-hearted judge gives in.

    Jesus says, in effect: If even an unjust man can be moved by persistence, how much more will God, who is love, hear your cry?
    But here’s the deeper point: persistent prayer doesn’t change God’s heart – for God is unchanging, it is changes ours.
    It keeps us open, awake, tender.
    It stops cynicism from hardening us.
    It keeps us participating in the work of justice rather than slipping into despair.

    The widow’s prayer is an act of resistance. Her persistence says: I believe, and I know, things can be different. And that faith itself is revolutionary. Perseverance, in this way, becomes the defiant act of trusting that God’s justice will yet prevail.

    The story of Jacob wrestling with God at the ford of Jabbok is another image of holy perseverance. In the darkness of night, Jacob wrestles with fear, guilt, and God, refusing to let go until he receives a blessing. By dawn he is limping, yet also renamed and renewed. This story reminds us that perseverance is not only about endurance in the face of external injustice, but also the courage to wrestle with God in our own inner struggle, to stay in the tension of prayer even when we do not understand, until grace meets us and transforms us.

    We are in the midst of Black History Month here in the UK, and it reminds us how perseverance in the face of injustice has shaped our world. All those throughout time and history who have persevered and never given up, this is the heartbeat of perseverance that keeps pulsing. It is a rhythm that insists: God’s kingdom is coming.

    It’s what has sustained generations of believers through slavery, segregation, colonialism, racism, and exclusion. It’s not naïve optimism, but a fierce hope grounded in the faithfulness of God.

    Paul’s words to Timothy echo this same heartbeat:
    “Continue in what you have learned and firmly believed … be persistent whether the time is favourable or unfavourable.”
    He writes from prison to a young friend facing fear and confusion. Paul doesn’t say, find an easier path. He says, hold on to what is true. Keep preaching, keep praying, keep loving, even when the world isn’t listening.

    That’s perseverance too, faith that endures through the unfavourable time. And in truth, perseverance doesn’t always look dramatic. Sometimes it looks like mothers in the Plaza de Mayo. Sometimes it looks like a community quietly but persistently standing up to injustice. And sometimes it looks like a single person getting up to pray again and again, or showing kindness when no one notices.

    All of it is holy work.
    All of it keeps the body of Christ alive and breathing.

    And here’s the thing, perseverance is not a solo act. The heartbeat of faith is sustained by the whole body of Christ:
    by the prayers of others when ours run dry,
    by the songs of those who have gone before,
    by the stories of those still standing for justice today.

    That’s why we need one another. That’s why we tell these and our own stories. Because remembering them strengthens our own rhythm of faith.

    So perhaps we might ask:
    Where are we being called to keep going, in prayer, in hope, in justice, even when it’s hard?
    Where do I need others to help me keep the rhythm steady?
    And who around me needs encouragement to persevere?

    Jesus ends the parable with a question:
    “When the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?”
    And it’s important I think to say he’s not looking for perfection or impressive belief. He’s looking for that quiet, steady faith that refuses to give up, a faith that still prays, still hopes, still acts.

    Because perseverance, in the end, is not about how tightly we hold on to God, but how steadfastly God holds on to us.
    God’s love never gives up.
    God’s justice never sleeps.
    God’s heartbeat of grace keeps pulsing through history, through the Church, through us, sustaining, steadying, calling us onward.

    So we continue to take heart.
    Keep faith.
    Keep praying.
    Keep working for justice.
    For the God who hears our cries is faithful still.

  • Faithfulness: Remembering, Returning, and Giving Thanks

    “Faithfulness is not about how strong our belief feels, but about returning again and again to the One who is always faithful. It is the quiet rhythm of remembering, returning, and giving thanks — the heartbeat that keeps our life with God alive.“

    The Heartbeat of Faithfulness

    Luke 17: 11–19 | 2 Timothy 2: 8–15

    Over these past few weeks, as I have begun life here in North London, I have been reflecting with the church where I serve on what I call the heartbeat of Christian community: those deep rhythms that keep us alive in God and connected with one another.
    We have explored prayer as the heartbeat of our life with God, compassion as the heartbeat of how we live with others, and abundance as the heartbeat that reminds us there is enough grace to go around.

    This week, we turn to another rhythm that quietly runs through them all, the heartbeat of faithfulness.

    Faithfulness as Remembering

    The first reading we explore today is Timothy 2: 8-15 Saint Paul writes:

    “Remember Jesus Christ, raised from the dead.”

    Those few words sit at the very centre of Christian faith.
    Faithfulness begins with remembering, not simply recalling facts but holding the story of Jesus close to our hearts and allowing it to shape who we are and how we live.

    Each time the Church gathers, in scripture, in song, in prayer, and most profoundly in the Eucharist, we practise this remembering. We continue the narrative of our faith again and again that Jesus Christ, raised from the dead, is still at work in the world and among us.

    Now, let’s be clear – Faithfulness does not mean we never doubt or fail. What it means is we keep remembering who holds us. We keep coming back to the truth of our faith that gives us life, the story that tells us who we are and to whom we belong.

    So when we say in the Eucharist, ‘We remember his death, we proclaim his resurrection,‘ we are keeping our hearts in rhythm with God’s own heartbeat, faithful always to Jesus Christ.

    Faithfulness as Relationship

    So, if Saint Paul teaches us that faithfulness begins in remembering, Saint Luke in our gospel account, reminds us that faithfulness grows through relationship.

    In Luke’s gospel, ten lepers cry out to Jesus for mercy and all are healed. But only one turns back. Only one comes close again. And that one is a Samaritan, an outsider.

    The others receive healing, but this one receives relationship.
    Jesus says, “Your faith has made you well.” The word in the Greek is, sozo, which means more than physical healing; it means to be made whole.

    Wholeness comes through relationship, through turning back to the one who heals us.

    Faithfulness is not an abstract idea. It is about being present, present to God and to one another: in worship, in service, in conversation, around the altar. It is about returning, again and again, to our relationship with God that makes us whole.

    That is the rhythm of faithfulness: remembering, returning, and giving thanks.

    None of us can sustain faith alone. Faith grows where we are seen and known, where we are held by others when our own faith falters.
    That is what the Samaritan experienced when he met Jesus, not just a cure but communion.

    Faithfulness as Gratitude – Our Eucharistic Life

    The Samaritan’s faithfulness shows itself in gratitude. He turns back, praising God with a loud voice, falling at Jesus’ feet to give thanks.

    That movement of turning back, praising, and giving thanks is the very pattern of our worship. Every Sunday the Church does what that Samaritan did: we return to Jesus (as we do at the moment of reconciliation), we praise God (as we do in the Gloria), and we give thanks (for that is the eucharist).

    We are, quite literally, a Eucharistic people, for Eucharist means thanksgiving. Gratitude is at the heart of who we are.

    Our liturgical life forms us in that rhythm of thanksgiving. It teaches us to notice grace, to name it, and to give thanks for it, even when life feels hard and even when the world seems uncertain. As someone who is formed and lives life in the Anglican Catholic Tradition, this – ‘Remembering, Returning, and Giving Thanks’ this rhythm is a ‘Super Power’ of the liturgical life to be celebrated.

    And this faithfulness is not about pretending everything is fine. It is about giving thanks even as we keep trusting.

    Every time we gather at the altar, we practise faithfulness: remembering, returning, and giving thanks, as generations before us have done and as generations after us will continue to do.
    In that rhythm, we are made whole again and again and again.

    Faithfulness Grounded in God’s Own Faithfulness

    Saint Paul writes with such tenderness:

    “If we are faithless, he remains faithful, for he cannot deny himself.”

    That is the heartbeat that keeps everything else alive. God’s faithfulness toward us does not falter, even when ours does.

    We live in a world where commitment can feel fragile, where relationships break, promises fail, and attention shifts. But God’s faithfulness is the steady rhythm underneath it all.

    When we forget, God remembers.
    When we wander, God calls us home.
    When we falter, God’s heart keeps beating for us.

    And that is the faithfulness we are called to mirror, not a perfectionist faith but a steadfast love that keeps showing up. It is what allows us to be patient with one another, to keep forgiving, to stay hopeful. Our faithfulness always flows out of God’s first.

    Faithfulness that Welcomes the Outsider

    Finally, faithfulness is never closed in on itself.
    It always opens outward, just as Jesus did.

    It is the Samaritan, the outsider, who shows us what true faith looks like.
    Faithfulness means keeping our hearts open to those who might not yet feel they belong, creating space, widening the table, believing that grace is always larger than we first imagined.

    Faithfulness in action looks like hospitality, listening, and the courage to keep building community, even in small, ordinary ways. That is what keeps the heartbeat strong. And that will look different for all of us, whatever community we are part of.

    A Closing Thought

    Faithfulness is not about how strong our belief feels. It is about returning again to the One who is always faithful.

    I encourage us all be people who remember Jesus Christ, who keep turning back, keep giving thanks, and keep making space for others.

    For as the psalmist writes:

    “The Lord is good; his steadfast love endures forever,
    and his faithfulness continues through all generations.”
    (Psalm 100: 5)

    Amen.

  • Heartbeat of Abundance

    “To give thanks in a time of fear is a radical act.
    To celebrate God’s abundance in a world that insists there isn’t enough is an act of faith.
    It’s to say: we refuse to let fear define us.”

    Since arriving as associate Vicar at St Andrew’s here in North London a few weeks ago, I’ve been exploring with the congregation what makes up the heartbeat of a Christian community as we begin getting to know onw another – those deep rhythms that keep us alive in God and connected with one another.

    So, far we’ve spoken about being a prayerful community, a compassionate one, a justice-seeking and joyful one. And this week, as we gather to celebrate Harvest, we turn to something that can be harder to hear – the heartbeat of abundance.

    Because, let’s be honest – abundance might be far from what many of us are feeling or experiencing right now.
    It’s been a particularly heavy week. We’ve watched with horror the attack on the Jewish community in Manchester, and we know that our Jewish neighbours across the country are feeling even more fearful and anxious. The destruction and cruelty in Gaza continues as many of us look on in horror – unable to know what to do. There is just so much suffering in our world that it can feel utterly beyond us.

    And closer to home, the language of scarcity fills our headlines.
    It feels like everyone is feeling that there isn’t enough of anything – not enough money, housing, safety, or compassion.

    Scarcity seeps into us quietly. It makes us cautious. It narrows our vision. It convinces us to hold tightly to what we have, afraid it might run out.

    But the Gospel reading for Harvest offers another story.
    In John’s Gospel, Jesus says:

    “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.”

    These are words of abundance – not because Jesus promises we’ll never feel hunger or thirst again, but because he invites us into a life where God’s love is the bread that truly sustains us.
    It’s an abundance that begins not in our cupboards or bank accounts, but in the very heart of God.

    St Paul, writing to the church in Corinth, echoes this truth:

    “And God is able to provide you with every blessing in abundance, so that by always having enough of everything, you may share abundantly in every good work.”
    (2 Corinthians 9:8)

    Paul was writing to a church that was struggling – poor, persecuted, uncertain of its future. Yet he calls them to trust that God’s generosity is enough to sustain their own generosity.
    That’s not naïve optimism; it’s faith in action.

    Abundance, for Paul, isn’t about accumulation. It’s about flow – God’s love moving through us, not stopping with us.
    When we dare to share – our time, friendship, food, prayer – something happens. Scarcity begins to lose its grip. Because abundance isn’t about having more; it’s about recognising what God has already placed among us.

    To give thanks in a time of fear is a radical act.
    To celebrate God’s abundance in a world that insists there isn’t enough is an act of faith.
    It’s to say: we refuse to let fear define us.

    And that’s the invitation this Harvest brings – to hold the tension honestly.
    We don’t deny the scarcity, the anxiety, or the suffering around us. We name it. We lament it. But we also refuse to let it be the final word.
    Because God’s story is not one of scarcity; it is one of grace overflowing.

    The feeding of the five thousand, water turned into wine, manna in the wilderness – each story reminds us that God meets us in our hunger and offers enough, and more than enough.

    On October 4th we celebrate the feast of St Francis of Assisi. He taught that true abundance begins not with having much, but with trusting that all is gift. He saw in the sun, the earth, even in hardship, the overflowing love of God.
    “It is in giving that we receive,” he said — a posture of radical trust. To live out of abundance is to trust that God will give us enough for the next step, even if we don’t see the whole road ahead.

    Perhaps the greatest witness we can offer in these uncertain times is to be people who refuse to be ruled by fear – to hold out bread when others close their hands,
    to speak words of blessing when others speak words of hate,
    to live as though love will not run out.
    Because it won’t. God’s love never runs out.

    Maybe this Harvest, alongside our offerings of food and gifts, we can also bring our fears, our grief, our weariness – and place them before the God who transforms scarcity into blessing.
    Because the abundance of God is not measured by what we have, but by who God is.

    As St Paul concludes:

    “Thanks be to God for his indescribable gift.”
    (2 Corinthians 9:15)

    That gift is Christ himself – the Bread of Life, the abundance of God made flesh.
    He is here with us still: in word and sacrament, in neighbour and stranger, in the breaking of bread and the sharing of life.

    So as we give thanks this Harvest, may we live with abundance.
    May we be people whose very lives proclaim:
    “Thanks be to God for his indescribable gift.”

  • Go in Peace: Being the 72 today

    Sermon 3rd Sunday after Trinity Year C

    Luke 10: 1-11, 16-20

    May I speak in the name of the living God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.

    Each Sunday, as we gather before the altar, as we share the Eucharist, we find ourselves drawn again into the story of God’s great love for the world. We come hungry, sometimes weary, sometimes rejoicing, but we are fed and nourished. And at the very end of our worship, just before we step back out into our ordinary lives, as clergy we stand at the altar after the blessing and say: “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.” And you reply: “Thanks be to God.”

    It’s such a familiar moment, so familiar, perhaps, that we don’t always hear just how radical it is. Because in that simple exchange, something beautiful and powerful is happening: we are being sent out. Not dismissed like the end of a meeting, but sent as the people of God into the world that God loves so deeply.

    Our Gospel today from Luke reminds us that this sending out is not an afterthought, not an add-on to the real business of faith, it is the shape of discipleship. Jesus sends out seventy-two of his followers ahead of him, two by two, into towns and villages he himself intends to visit. And what are they told to carry? Not bags of money, not impressive strategies, not a store of persuasive arguments — but simply this: a greeting of peace.

    “Whatever house you enter,” Jesus says, “first say, ‘Peace to this house.’” The peace they carry is not their own invention, it is God’s peace, the peace that comes with the nearness of God’s kingdom. This is their gift, their message, and their calling: to share peace, to offer healing, to say, “The kingdom of God has come near to you.”

    I think sometimes we make evangelism much more complicated than it really is. We tie ourselves in knots about whether we have the right words, the right programmes, the right events and yet Jesus sends his followers out lightly. They do not rely on cleverness or grand showmanship. They rely on the simple but costly posture of being people of peace and goodwill in the world.

    It’s tempting to think we need to be impressive to share the gospel, to have all the answers, or the biggest crowds, or the flashiest initiatives. But if we do not go in peace and goodwill, if we do not carry the peace of Christ in our own lives, then all the snazzy evangelism in the world will be like clashing cymbals, loud but hollow.

    The root of the gospel is peace. Not peace as the world gives, not a polite silence or an uneasy truce, but the deep peace of Christ, which makes enemies into friends, strangers into family, the broken whole again. And this peace is not ours to hoard, it is ours to offer, wherever we find ourselves.

    At the end of the Eucharist, when as your priest’s we say “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord,” it is not just a tidy conclusion to the service. It is our commissioning, a reminder that the Body of Christ which we have received at this table is now to be carried by us into the world. We become the living Body of Christ here in Llanishen, in our places of work and our schools and yes, very much our homes.

    You are the seventy-two, we all are. Each of us is sent into the places where we live and move and work, carrying the peace of Christ. Maybe that’s into a tense family relationship, or a workplace full of stress, or our neighbourhoods where loneliness and fear hide behind closed doors. Maybe it’s simply in how we treat the checkout person at Morrisons, or how we greet our neighbours, or how we listen to someone who needs to be heard.

    This is the Missio Dei, the mission of God — that we are drawn into by our baptism. The mission is not ours to invent or control, it is God’s mission, already underway in the world before we even arrive. Like those seventy-two, we simply go ahead, preparing the ground, offering peace, healing, welcome, signs that the kingdom has come near.

    And sometimes, like the disciples, we will see glimpses of power and wonder. We will see lives changed, burdens lifted, hearts turned toward hope. And when that happens, we rejoice, but we remember Jesus’ gentle word: “Do not rejoice that the spirits submit to you, but rejoice that your names are written in heaven.” Our confidence is not in what we do for God, but in what God has done for us. We go out not to make a name for ourselves, but to bear witness to the name above every name, Jesus Christ, our true and everlasting peace.

    When we look around at the world today, it’s easy to feel overwhelmed. Conflict, division, injustice, suspicion, the news reminds us daily that peace is not a given. And yet here we are, a people gathered at the table of peace, sent out week by week to carry peace into a world hungry for it.

    We may feel small. We may feel ill-equipped. But maybe that is exactly the point. Jesus sent his followers out lightly, so they would rely not on their own strength but on the welcome of others, and on the Spirit’s power. Paul writes to the Galatians: “Let us not grow weary in doing what is right… So then, whenever we have an opportunity, let us work for the good of all.” We sow seeds of peace and goodness, and trust that God will bring the harvest.

    But let me be real with you, because I know this weighs on many of us. We belong to a church that has wrestled with decline for so long, and fear has crept in, many of us have lost confidence in being people of goodwill and peace. But even Jesus knew this struggle: ‘The harvest is plentiful, but the labourers are few; therefore ask the Lord of the harvest to send out labourers into his harvest. Go on your way. See, I am sending you out like lambs into the midst of wolves.’ Then and now, times are not so different – people are still hungry and thirsty for the Good News of Jesus, but we feel the weight of having so few to send. And this is the hard part: it requires trust. Jesus sent them out with nothing fancy, just as bearers of peace and goodwill. So at the heart of our evangelism, even in our fear, this is what we must hold onto.

    So today, as we gather to share the eucharist, may we be fed for the journey. And when we come to that moment “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord” may we hear it afresh. May it send us out with joy and courage. May we carry the peace of Christ to every doorstep we cross, every conversation we hold, every act of love and service we offer.

    For we are the sent ones, people of peace and goodwill, bearers of good news, signs of the kingdom of God come near.

    So may we go, in peace, to love and serve the Lord.

    Thanks be to God.
    Amen.

  • Sermon for the Feast of St. Peter and St. Paul: An Unexpected Calling

    A couple of weeks ago, Mark and I went to London for two purposes – firstly, to see our new home, and secondly, to hear Jacinda Ardern, the former Prime Minister of New Zealand, speak at Central Methodist Hall on Leadership and Empathy.

    From the moment Jacinda Ardern was elected as Prime Minister in 2017, I was incredibly taken with her. She seemed like a breath of fresh air in a world of often hard-edged politics. She was about the same age as me – something I found both humbling and inspiring – and she was doing something only one other world leader had done before: have a baby whilst in office.

    But more than that, she felt entirely human. After the terror attacks on a mosque in Christchurch, she didn’t arrive with fanfare or force, she arrived with tears. She wept with the people. She spoke from the heart. And she made decisions that weren’t always popular, but at their centre they protected and safeguarded some of the most vulnerable in society. She shone with empathy.

    As someone who wears her own heart very openly, who is often led first by compassion, I was drawn to that – that you could lead, and still be that way. You didn’t have to put on armour to lead. You didn’t have to harden your heart to hold authority. 

    Jacinda spoke of imposter syndrome – of those moments where you feel you shouldn’t be leading at all. She spoke honestly about her fears, not just as a woman or as a mother, but as someone charged with leading a complex nation. Her vulnerability was not a weakness; it opened doors. It allowed her to enter rooms others couldn’t, because they had too many walls around them.

    She spoke of her own failures, her missteps – and also the moments of grace, the ones she quietly considered successes. I left Central Hall inspired. In just a few months, I will be entering a new phase of ministry and leadership. And I left that day not only inspired by her, but strangely affirmed – that the qualities I sometimes think disqualify me from leadership might actually be the gifts God has given for that very calling. In fact she said empathetic leadership can look like “labrador leadership” that entirely appeals to me as one who bounds around wagging her tail a lot.

    And yet, as we made our way back to Cardiff, something else struck me more deeply – something so many of my cohort at theological college also wrestled with. God often calls us – not when we feel ready, not when we feel equipped, not when we’ve got everything lined up neatly – but when we least expect it, and often when we feel most unworthy.

    Jesus’ disciples are probably the finest example of that. A motley crew by any earthly standards. And yet Jesus saw their immense worth – but it almost always began with their vulnerability. And today, as we remember St. Peter and St. Paul, we are reminded just how true that is.

    Peter – The Rock with Cracks

    Peter, the fisherman from Galilee. Loud, impulsive, deeply loyal, but often confused. Peter who is so full of love one moment and then full of fear the next. Peter who proclaims Jesus as the Messiah, but then moments later can’t stomach the idea of Jesus’ suffering. Peter who swears he will never abandon Jesus, and yet denies him three times before the cock crows.

    And yet this is the one Jesus calls the rock on which he will build his Church. Not because Peter is faultless – quite the opposite. He is a walking paradox: bold and cowardly, faithful and unsure, confident and confused. But he is also willing. Willing to follow, to repent, to try again. Willing to grow.

    What’s more, Peter is someone we can all recognise. He’s so human. And maybe that’s why Jesus chose him. Because his calling would always be rooted in realness. He would never be too perfect to be relatable. He would never be so polished that others couldn’t come close. And when he got it wrong – which he did, plenty of times – he allowed those moments to reshape him.

    The fact that Peter goes from “Simon son of John” to “Simon Peter” and then simply “Peter” speaks to a journey of becoming. And Jesus used those names to call him forward. Sometimes gently, sometimes with challenge. It wasn’t a case of Peter becoming someone else – it was Peter becoming more fully himself, the self God had seen from the beginning.

    Paul – The Passionate Convert

    And then there’s Paul. If Peter is the one we warm to, Paul is sometimes the one we wrestle with. He’s fiery. He’s certain. He doesn’t always come across as easy company. And yet God calls him, too.

    At the time of his conversion, he was not just outside the Christian faith – he was persecuting it. Actively working to suppress and destroy it. He was feared by the early followers of Jesus. And yet God saw something in him. Not just potential, but a heart that, once turned, would be utterly relentless in love.

    Paul’s transformation wasn’t a simple pivot, it was a complete upheaval. From one who harmed the church to one who gave his whole life to build it. From one who jailed Christians to one who was jailed for the faith himself.

    And even in his certainty, even in the things he writes that may make us wince, Paul never speaks from comfort. His letters were often written from places of suffering. His leadership and calling wasn’t marked by ease, but by endurance. And again, by vulnerability. We don’t get a perfect man, we get one who was willing to let God completely change the direction of his life.

    Leadership as Calling, Not Qualification

    And so, here we have these two saints – Peter and Paul. One impetuous, earthy, full of heart. The other sharp-minded, determined, a little difficult. Both unlikely. Both flawed. Both called.

    And that tells us something. That leadership and calling in God’s kingdom isn’t about having the right CV. It isn’t about ticking all the boxes or being universally admired. It’s about being willing. Willing to be reshaped. Willing to speak the truth. Willing to own our mistakes. Willing to lead not from a pedestal, but from a place of shared humanity.

    Being called by God begins in vulnerability and becomes something powerful – because it doesn’t demand perfection. It invites transformation. And it allows God to do what only God can do in us.

    Conclusion: What Might God Be Calling You To?

    So perhaps the real question today is: what might God be calling you to?

    It might not be something public or grand. It might not come with a title or a collar. It might be the quiet calling of love within your family. The calling of speaking truth in a place that needs it. The calling of forgiveness in a relationship long strained. Or the calling of simply saying, “Yes Lord, I’m willing – even if I’m scared.”

    God does not wait until we’re ready. God calls us when we’re real. And then God walks with us – just as he did with Peter, and with Paul – as we become who we were always meant to be.

    Yesterday I was at the ordinations at Newport Cathedral as a dear friend of mine was ordained Priest, always a profound moment, and I was moved by one of the final prayers over all the variety of ministries in our churches today, and so to end I wish to pray that prayer for us, as we open our hearts, minds and lives to the calling that Christ has on all of our lives:

    Let us pray:

    Almighty God, who for the salvation of the world

    Gives to his people many gifts and ministries

    To the advancement of his glory,

    Stir up in us the gifts of his grace

    And sustain each one of us in our own ministry,

    Through Jesus Christ our Lord.

    Amen.