Ruth Greenaway-Robbins

Fifth Sunday in Lent | The Great Silence | Keeping Holy Time

March 21, 2026

The Resurrection of Lazarus: Henry Ossawa Tanner

John 11:1–45 | Psalm 130 | Ezekiel 37:1–14

I’ve had a rather unusual week.

I lost my voice with a chest infection that turned into Laryngitis – it is only just beginning to return. And so, this week has been marked by an unexpected companion: silence.

Proper silence.

The kind you don’t choose.

The kind where even whispering makes things worse.

And if, like me, you are someone who loves to talk… it is not an easy thing to accept.

But silence, I have discovered again this week, is not just absence.

It can feel uncomfortable – jarring, even frightening. It can feel like something is missing, like something has gone wrong.

And yet …

Silence can also be healing.
It can be spacious.
It can be quietly, stubbornly, full of life.

It made me think of that well-known line from The Sound of Silence
“People talking without speaking, people hearing without listening.”

There is a kind of silence that is empty.
But there is also a silence that is full.
A silence in which something is happening, even if we cannot yet hear it.

And that is the kind of silence our readings draw us into today.

Our readings are filled with the language of death.

But they are also filled with silence.

A valley of dry bones.
A cry from the depths.
A sealed tomb in Bethany.

Each one holds a different kind of silence.

In Ezekiel’s vision, the prophet is taken to a valley scattered with bones – not simply death, but long death. Bones dried out, bleached by time.

It is a silent place.

No breath.
No voice.
No movement.

The silence of a people who have lost hope for so long that even lament has faded.

And into that silence, God speaks:
“Can these bones live?”

It feels like a question asked into emptiness.

And yet – even here – the silence is not the end.

Because the breath of God begins to move.

At first, nothing dramatic. No sudden noise. Just the quiet, persistent work of God.

Bone joining to bone.
Sinew and flesh forming.
Breath returning.

Until the silence of death becomes the silence of awe.

The psalm gives us another kind of silence.

“Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord.”

This is not the silence of emptiness, but the silence that follows crying out.

When the words have been spoken.
When the tears have fallen.
When there is nothing left to say.

And so, the psalmist waits.

“My soul waits for the Lord more than watchmen for the morning.”

It is a different kind of silence.

Not dead silence.

But waiting silence.

The kind of silence that stands on the edge of hope
straining toward the first hint of light.

And then we come to Bethany.

To the tomb of Lazarus.

And here, the silence feels heaviest of all.

Jesus arrives too late – or so it seems.

Four days.

The rituals are done.
The mourners have gathered and gone.
The stone is sealed.

And Martha names what others might avoid:
“Lord… there is already a stench.”

Death has done its work.

And with it comes that deep, uncomfortable silence.

The silence of finality.
The silence that says: this is over.

And yet – into that silence – Jesus speaks.

“Lazarus, come out.”

And everything changes.

Because the silence of the tomb is broken.

Not by noise for its own sake
but by the voice of the one who is life itself.

And perhaps this is what we begin to see:

That not all silence is the same.

There is the silence of death…
and there is the silence in which God is already at work.

As we draw close to Holy Week and as we conclude our series of journeying through Keeping Holy Time, we turn toward a day we rarely speak about.

Not Good Friday.
Not Easter morning.

But the day in between.

Holy Saturday.

And Holy Saturday is a day of silence.

Not the dramatic silence of Good Friday, where grief is raw and visible.
Not the joyful sound of Easter morning, where alleluias return.

But a deeper silence.

A quieter one.

The silence of waiting.

If you have ever sat in an empty church, you may know something of it.

Not the gentle stillness when others are praying nearby.

But the kind of stillness when the space is completely empty.

The altar stripped.
The candles extinguished.
The air heavy.

It is not just peaceful.

It can feel like absence.

Like something, or someone, is missing.

And that is the silence Holy Saturday invites us to enter.

The silence where Christ is no longer visibly present.

The one who spoke, who healed, who called Lazarus from the tomb…

is now silent.

Laid in the earth.

And yet, this is where the Church dares to say something extraordinary.

We don’t say it often, but if we confess it in the Apostles’ Creed when we say of Christ:

“He descended to the dead.”

Or, as it was once more starkly said in Book of Common Prayer:

“He descended into hell.”

It is a strange line.

Because the Gospels give us no words here.

Only silence.

But the early Church listened differently to that silence.

They heard it not as emptiness

but as movement.

Not as absence

but as presence hidden.

Because what if Holy Saturday is not the silence of nothing happening…

but the silence of something happening too deep for us to see?

The silence of Christ entering even the furthest reaches of death.

The silence of God going to the places we think are beyond reach.

The silence where the gates of death begin, quietly, to give way.

In the ancient imagination of the Church, this moment was pictured with astonishing hope.

Christ stands in the darkness.

Not defeated, but victorious.

The doors of death shattered beneath his feet.

And Christ reaches down,

to Adam, to Eve

to all humanity

and begins to lift them up.

It is the same pattern we have already seen.

The silence of the valley…
becoming the breath of life.

The silence after the cry…
becoming the waiting for morning.

The silence of the tomb…
broken by the voice of Christ.

And now, the silence of Holy Saturday…

becoming the hidden work of resurrection.

Because so much of our lives is lived here.

In this in-between.

Between prayer and answer.
Between loss and healing.
Between grief and hope.

Between Good Friday… and Easter morning.

And it can feel like silence.

Like nothing is happening.

Like God is absent.

But Holy Saturday gently, quietly, insists:

This is not the silence of death alone.

This may be the silence of God at work.

Deep. Hidden. Unseen.

And so, the Church waits.

Like the psalmist, watching for the morning.

Like Ezekiel, standing in the valley.

Like Martha, standing at the tomb.

Waiting.

Trusting.

Listening.

And then, when the time comes, the silence will break.

Not with chaos.

But with light.

A flame kindled in the darkness.

A single voice singing.

A whisper that grows into song:

Alleluia.

For now, though

we keep holy time.

We honour the silence.

We do not rush it.

Because even here…

even now…

God is at work. Amen
Lent 4 – Keeping Holy Time | Looking ahead to Good Friday | Standing at the Cross

March 15, 2026

Luke 2:33–35; 2 Corinthians 1:3–7

Desolation – that is what I have always felt at the foot of the cross.
Utter and complete desolation … and yet, somehow, deep gratitude.

As a young person the feeling was almost overwhelming. Good Friday breaks me. It always has.

Over the years I have tried to understand why. Why does this day feel so physically and emotionally draining? I think part of it for me is that as my relationship with Christ has deepened, as he became not only my Saviour and Lord, but also my companion and friend, I feel the grief of the cross more intensely as the intimacy of my own relationship deepens.

And then life adds other layers.

When I became a mother in my early twenties, the story of Good Friday changed again for me. I began to see the cross through the eyes of Mary, the mother who stands watching her son die. The grief of that moment became almost unbearable to imagine.

I wonder how and what you feel on Good Friday?

So, when I was recently re-reading the account of the fourth-century pilgrim Egeria, whose writings we have been exploring in this series as we prepare for Holy week, something she wrote stopped me in my tracks. She describes the crowds gathered to hear the Passion story in Jerusalem, and she says this:

“It is impressive to see the way all the people are moved by these readings, and how they mourn. You could hardly believe how every single one of them weeps during those three hours, old and young alike, because of what the Lord suffered.”

Sixteen centuries ago, Christians were doing exactly what we still do today: standing before the cross and allowing their hearts to break open.

Because Good Friday brings us face to face with two realities at the same time:

the cruelty of Christ’s death,
and the astonishing love of God revealed within it.

Today on our journey of Keeping Holy Time as we prepare for Holy Week, the life of the Church brings us to a very particular place.

Not a place of triumph.
Not a place of celebration.

But to the foot of the cross.

Good Friday now just a few weeks away invites us to stand there.

To stand with the disciples who cannot quite understand what is happening.
To stand with the crowds watching in grief and confusion.
And to stand with Mary, the mother of Jesus, as Simeon’s prophecy is fulfilled:

A sword will pierce your own soul too.

On this fourth Sunday in Lent, also Mothering Sunday, we glimpse something of that sorrow, a mother standing beneath the suffering of the child she once held in her arms.

Pieta – Michelangelo

And as we stand there, we continue asking the question we have been exploring throughout Lent:

Why do we do what we do?

Why does the Church keep this day the way that it does?

Across the world the shape of Good Friday worship can look quite different.

Here at St Andrew’s, we keep the day with what the Church calls The Liturgy of the Day.

It is a simple but powerful service centred on three things:

the telling of the Passion story,
the prayers of the Church for the world,
and the veneration of the cross.

During this part of the service, the cross is brought before us, and people are invited (if they wish) to come forward and honour it.

Some bow.
Some kneel.
Some touch or kiss the cross.

We do not worship the wood itself.

Rather, we honour what it represents: the place where Christ’s self-giving love for the world was revealed.

For some people that gesture feels natural.
For others it can feel unfamiliar.

Why would we do such a thing?

To understand that, it helps to look back to the earliest descriptions we have of Good Friday worship.

We know from Egeria in the fourth century that on Good Friday the whole city seemed to move through the story of the Passion together.

Through the night people walked from place to place:

from the Mount of Olives,
to Gethsemane,
through the city gates,
and finally to Golgotha.

Egeria writes of pilgrims exhausted from fasting and keeping vigil.
Crowds so moved by the story of Jesus’ suffering that their weeping filled the city.

Later that morning something remarkable happened.

A table was set before the bishop, and brought forward was a reliquary believed to contain the wood of the cross.

Then, one by one, the people came forward.

They bowed.
They touched.
They kissed the wood.

Not as an object of worship.

But as a sign.

A sign that this is where salvation happened.

So, when we venerate the cross on Good Friday, we are joining a practice that stretches back at least sixteen centuries.

But even more than that, we are doing something deeply human.

Because Good Friday is not simply something we think about.

It is something we enter with our whole selves.

Christian faith has always insisted that our bodies matter.

God did not redeem us from a distance.
God came among us in flesh.

And the story of Good Friday is not abstract theology.

It is painfully physical.

Hands nailed.
Feet pierced.
Breath failing.
Blood poured out.

Because Good Friday brings us face-to-face with grief.

Most of us know something of that grief.

The grief of bereavement.
The grief of broken relationships.
The grief of the world as it is.

Sometimes we even carry grief for the places within ourselves where we fall short.

Good Friday does not ask us to hide any of that.

Instead, it invites us to bring it all to the cross, and lay it down.

To stand there honestly.

To allow the suffering of Christ to meet the suffering of the world.

Even now, if I am honest, Good Friday still undoes me.

The tears still come.

A strange mixture of grief and gratitude.

Grief at the suffering of Christ.

Gratitude that somehow, mysteriously, this act of love is for us.

Perhaps that is why the Church does not try to explain the cross away.

Good Friday is not a puzzle to be solved.

It is a mystery to be entered.

In St Mark’s Gospel, as Jesus breathes his last upon the cross, a Roman centurion stands watching.

A soldier of the empire.

And seeing how Jesus died, he says:

“Truly this man was God’s Son.”

Not a disciple.
Not a priest.

But a soldier.

Standing at the foot of the cross.

Looking.

And finally seeing.

That is what Good Friday asks of us too.

Simply to stand there.

To look.

And to allow the mystery of that love to break open our hearts.

Because on Good Friday we live in a strange in-between space.

We know Easter morning is coming.

But we do not rush ahead.

We stay with the cross.

We allow the weight of it to rest upon us.

And perhaps, like those early Christians Egeria described, we simply allow ourselves to be moved.

To weep.
To pray.
To wait.

So, when the moment comes and you are invited to come forward to venerate the cross on Good Friday, do not worry about doing it the “right” way.

Some will kneel.
Some will bow.
Some may simply stand quietly.

All of it is prayer.

All of it is a way of saying:

Here is the love of God.
Here is the cost of that love.
Here is the place where our salvation is found.

So as we prepare to keep holy time.

we stand.
we behold.
we wait.

Amen.
Lent 3: Keeping Holy Time: Maundy Thursday | The Body We Become

March 7, 2026

Lectionary Readings for Lent 3: Exodus 17: 1-7 | Psalm 95 | John 4: 5-42.

As some of you may know, I have come to London via Wales, via Cardiff. Cardiff has been woven into my life since my early twenties, and that stitching began when I went there to study singing at the Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama in 1999.

At college, we performed in many wonderful places; St David’s Hall, later the Millennium Centre, but the place we loved most was Llandaff Cathedral.

Llandaff is ancient and wounded. Medieval in its foundations yet heavily bombed in the Second World War. Much of it had to be rebuilt. And as part of that rebuilding, the sculptor Jacob Epstein was commissioned to create something that would speak of devastation and hope.

What he created was extraordinary and controversial. A vast 16-foot Christ in Majesty, suspended above the nave on a great concrete arch. Concrete against ancient stone. It is still something of a Marmite sculpture.

But as performers, we sat directly beneath it. And from where we sat, you could not see Christ’s face.

All you could see were his hands.

And his feet.

It fascinated me.

Nearly twenty years later, I found myself kneeling beneath those same hands and feet. First, as a sub-deacon on Maundy Thursday during my training. Later, as I was ordained deacon. And then priest.

Those hands and feet I once gazed upon now seemed to gaze upon me.

And that image has never left me.

As Teresa of Ávila writes, “Christ has no body now on earth but yours. No hands, no feet but yours.”

But what does that mean?

What does it mean as we arrive, in this journey of Keeping Holy Time, at Maundy Thursday – a day that is, at its heart deeply embodied, and all about hands and feet?

Because on that night:

Hands take bread.
Hands bless.
Hands break.
Hands give.

And then those same hands tie a towel, kneel down, and wash feet.

Maundy Thursday is not abstract theology.

It is hands and feet.

Jacob Epstein – Christ In Majesty – Llandaff Cathedral

Today our readings from the lectionary speak of bodies.

In Exodus, the people thirst in the wilderness. Their bodies ache. Their mouths are dry. They cry out, “Is the Lord among us or not?” And water comes from struck rock.

In the psalm, we are invited to bow down to bend our bodies in worship.

In John’s Gospel, a woman comes to a well at midday. Jesus says to her, “Give me a drink.” What begins as physical thirst becomes something deeper, living water, welling up to eternal life.

Our physical bodies and the deep human longing to be sustained, to know that God is truly among us.

And Maundy Thursday is where that longing becomes tangible.

Because on that night, Jesus does not give a theory.

He gives something you can hold.

He places bread into human hands and says, “Do this in remembrance of me.”

He pours wine and says, “This is my blood.”

Before we can wash anyone’s feet, before we can speak of love, our hands must first open in dependence. Maundy Thursday teaches us that the Church begins not with our activity, but with receiving Christ.

Because the Last Supper was not an abstract ritual in a vacuum. It was a meal among friends. Bread passed hand to hand. Cups shared. Feet dusty from walking.

The woman at the well came with an empty jar and left overflowing.

On Maundy Thursday, we come with empty hands and Christ fills them.

But the night does not end at the table.

John’s Gospel that we hear at many churches on Maundy Thursday does not give us the familiar words over bread and wine. Instead, it gives us a basin and a towel.

Jesus rises from supper.
He removes his outer garment.
He kneels.

The hands that broke bread now wash feet.

Dusty feet.
Tired feet.
Vulnerable feet.

Peter recoils – and perhaps we do too. Bread feels safe. But this is personal. This is exposing. This asks something of us.

“Unless I wash you,” Jesus says, “you have no share with me.”

Maundy Thursday is not first about what we do for Jesus.

It is about what he does for us.

He kneels before our dust.
He touches what we would rather keep hidden.
He serves without hesitation.

And only then comes the commandment – the mandatum:

“Love one another as I have loved you.”

Not as you find convenient.
Not as you feel inclined.
As I have loved you.

Love with hands.
Love at ground level.
Love that feeds and washes and stays.

And then, slowly, the mood changes.

After the meal, after the washing, after the hymn, they go out into the night.

The Church, from its earliest centuries, has understood this as a night not to rush. A night to linger in the story. A night when the atmosphere shifts.

We strip the altar.

We remove the cloths as it were of the church.
We take away the vessels.
We leave the sanctuary bare.

The hands that received bread now remove it.
The hands that shared fellowship now prepare the church for absence.

It is a physical act of transition.

The warmth of the meal gives way to the starkness of Good Friday.

The church is made ready for the day when Christ will hang stripped and exposed.

Maundy Thursday is the hinge between companionship and abandonment.

It is the night the Church learns whether it will stay not necessarily in prolonged silence, but in faithful participation.

To stay in the story.
To stay with the discomfort.
To stay when the atmosphere darkens.

In Exodus, the people wondered if God was truly among them.
In John, the woman discovered that God was standing in front of her, asking for a drink.
On Maundy Thursday, God kneels before us.
And by Good Friday, he will say, “I thirst.”

The needs and experiences of our bodies runs both ways.

Psalm 95 urges us, “Today, if you hear his voice, do not harden your hearts.”

Maundy Thursday is a softening night.

It softens our hands – from clenched to open.
It softens our pride – from standing to kneeling.
It softens our fear – from stepping back to stepping closer.

Because this is not a week for spectators.

This deep embodiment.

To gather.
To eat together.
To receive.
To kneel.
To watch the altar stripped.
To return on Friday.
To wait on Saturday.

Maundy Thursday teaches us so much about being the Body of Christ.

Hands that receive bread.
Hands that wash feet.
Hands that strip the altar.
Feet that walk into the night together.

Christ has no body now on earth but ours.

No hands but ours to break bread.
No hands but ours to wash.
No hands but ours to prepare the place of waiting.

No feet but ours to follow him into what comes next.

So, as we continue to prepare for the great week of Holy Week, I encourage us to ask ourselves gently:

Where will we be in the story?

At the table?
With the towel?
In the sanctuary as the altar is laid bare?

For the hands that broke bread,
the hands that washed feet,
are now given to us the Church
that Christ may still serve the world through us.

Amen.
Palm Sunday – Keeping Holy Time: Entering the Great Week

February 28, 2026

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 4^th 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

February 21, 2026

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

February 18, 2026

“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

February 17, 2026

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

February 14, 2026
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.

January 31, 2026

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”

January 24, 2026

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