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.

  • 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.

  • Welcome

    Welcome: A Beginning

    Hello and welcome to this little corner of the internet — a place where I hope to share sermons, thoughts, prayers, and perhaps glimpses of the things that catch my heart and hold my attention.

    I am an Anglican priest, in the Diocese of London. I serve a diverse community in North London. I trained to be a priest in Wales, where I have had the deep privilege of serving my curacy. I have lived in various corners of the United Kingdom, and spent nearly a decade in Vancouver, Canada, an experience that shaped my understanding of community, justice, and the radical hospitality of God.

    I carry with me a passion for living a life rooted in the love of God and in the daily practice of self-compassion – not always easy, but always worth the work. The Gospel, for me, is simple and profound: good news that everyone is loved beyond measure, no one is excluded, and in that embrace we are called deeper into the truth that we are God’s beloved children.

    Lady Julian of Norwich whispers her wisdom into many of my days: “He did not say, you will not be tempted; you will not be trou-bled; you will not be distressed. What he said was, “You shall not be overcome.” God wants us to pay attention to these words and be strong in absolute trust, in both well and woe. Just as he loves and delights in us, it is his will that we love and delight in him, and fully trust in him, and all will be well.ll shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.” I find myself drawn to liberation theologies and to the transforming beauty of liturgy – spaces and words that can set us free and draw us home at the same time. I was formed in the catholic tradition but hold a broad, open love for the wide, diverse ways people find and worship God.

    Before ordination, I was a professional musician, a voice teacher, and an educator – and music still threads through my days. I sing, play the piano, and have recently taken up the harp (tentatively, but with joy!). I’m an open water swimmer, an avid reader, and I love fashion – clothes that speak, tell stories, and sometimes feel like small acts of courage.

    I am a Mum to two remarkable, inspiring adult children who amaze me every day. I am married to Mark, who is a psychotherapist, a kind soul and my best friend. We share our days with two wonderful rescue dogs, Lukie and Alma.

    I also live with the complexities of my mental well-being — I live with C-PTSD, I am neurodiverse: living with ADHD, and I am profoundly dyslexic. So you may well find the odd typo, or sentences that meander. I could wait until it’s perfect – but then it would never be shared. I hope you’ll come as you are, and read as you are, and find something here that makes you feel more loved and less alone.

    This blog is a place for sermons, reflections, prayers, and the small scraps of hope that keep me going. It’s for you too – for all who are looking for good news, and for reminders that Love is wider, wilder, and more generous than we dare believe.

    Thank you for finding your way here. May you find welcome in these words.

    With love,
    Ruth x