Sermon: Towel and Basin, Bread and Wine (Maundy Thursday, 2026)

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Readings

1 Corinthians 11.23–26 – For I received from the Lord what I also handed on to you, that the Lord Jesus on the night when he was betrayed took a loaf of bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, ‘This is my body that is for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’ In the same way he took the cup also, after supper, saying, ‘This cup is the new covenant in my blood. Do this, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me.’ For as often as you eat this bread and drink the cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.

John 13.1–17, 31b–35 – Before the festival of the Passover, Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart from this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end. The devil had already put it into the heart of Judas son of Simon Iscariot to betray him. And during supper Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands, and that he had come from God and was going to God, got up from the table, took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet and to wipe them with the towel that was tied around him. He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, ‘Lord, are you going to wash my feet?’ Jesus answered, ‘You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand.’ Peter said to him, ‘You will never wash my feet.’ Jesus answered, ‘Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.’ Simon Peter said to him, ‘Lord, not my feet only but also my hands and my head!’ Jesus said to him, ‘One who has bathed does not need to wash, except for the feet, but is entirely clean. And you are clean, though not all of you.’ For he knew who was to betray him; for this reason he said, ‘Not all of you are clean.’ After he had washed their feet, had put on his robe, and had returned to the table, he said to them, ‘Do you know what I have done to you? You call me Teacher and Lord—and you are right, for that is what I am. So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you. Very truly, I tell you, servants are not greater than their master, nor are messengers greater than the one who sent them. If you know these things, you are blessed if you do them. Now the Son of Man has been glorified, and God has been glorified in him. If God has been glorified in him, God will also glorify him in himself and will glorify him at once. Little children, I am with you only a little longer. You will look for me; and as I said to the Jews so now I say to you, “Where I am going, you cannot come.” I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.’

Sermon

Tonight, we gather in the quiet shadow of the Upper Room.

We come as those who know what lies ahead: the betrayal, the arrest, the cross. And yet, in the gospel we have heard, Jesus does not begin with suffering. He begins with love.

“Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end.”

That is the note that sets the tone for everything that follows this night. Not fear. Not anger. Not even sorrow. But love — a love that goes to the very limit; a love that does not turn away.

And what does that love look like?

Surprisingly for the Son of God, it looks like a towel and a basin.

It is a striking thing that, in John’s Gospel, where we might expect an account of the institution of the eucharist, we are instead given this: Jesus rising from the table, removing his outer robe, kneeling at the feet of his disciples, and washing them. The one whom they call Lord and Teacher takes the place of a servant. The one through whom all things were made bends down to wash the dust from their feet.

And perhaps most striking of all, he does this knowing exactly who sits before him. He knows Judas will betray him. He knows Peter will deny him. He knows the others will scatter and abandon him. And still, he kneels. Still, he washes. Still, he loves.

This is not love offered because it is deserved. It is love given because it is who he is.

Peter, understandably, recoils. “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?” And then, more strongly, “You will never wash my feet.” There is something in us that resists this kind of love. It unsettles us. It overturns our instincts about dignity and worthiness. We would rather serve than be served; rather offer than receive — especially when receiving places us in a position of vulnerability.

But Jesus insists: “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.” Before we can follow him, before we can serve in his name, we must first allow ourselves to be served by him. We must allow him to draw close to the parts of our lives that are dusty, tired, and worn. We must allow him to love us; not as we imagine we ought to be, but as we truly are.

Only then can we begin to understand what he asks of us. “For I have set you an example,” he says, “that you also should do as I have done to you.”

This is the heart of Maundy Thursday. The word “Maundy” comes from the Latin mandatum, meaning a commandment. And the commandment Jesus gives is this: “Love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.” Not in the abstract. Not in fine words alone. But in concrete, embodied acts of humility and care. To love as Jesus loves is to kneel where the world expects us to stand. It is to notice the overlooked, to tend to the weary, to serve without seeking recognition. It is to offer ourselves, not only when it is convenient or comfortable, but precisely when it is costly.

And that brings us to the words of First Epistle to the Corinthians that we have heard this evening. “For I received from the Lord what I also handed on to you…” Here, we are given the familiar words of the Last Supper: bread taken, blessed, broken; a cup shared, a covenant sealed: “Do this in remembrance of me.”

On this night, we hold together these two great gifts: the washing of feet, and the breaking of bread. Both speak of the same self-giving love.

In the washing of feet, Jesus shows us what love looks like in action — humble, practical, attentive.

In the bread and the cup, he gives us himself — his body broken, his blood poured out.

And we are not only to receive these gifts, but to be shaped by them.

Each time we come to the Eucharist, we are drawn again into this pattern of life: to receive the love of Christ, and to become, in turn, people who love as he loves.

We cannot separate the altar from the basin. We cannot receive the bread of heaven and refuse the call to serve one another on earth. For the same Lord who says, “This is my body, given for you,” also says, “I have set you an example.”

And so tonight, as we remember, we are also invited. Invited to come to Christ, not because we are worthy, but because we are loved. Invited to receive from him what we cannot give ourselves: grace, mercy, forgiveness, life. And invited to follow him; not in grand gestures alone, but in the quiet, faithful acts of love that shape a life.

In a world that so often prizes power, status, and self-assertion, Christ shows us another way. The way of the towel. The way of the cross. The way of love that endures to the end. And it is by this, he tells us, that all will know that we are his disciples: if we have love for one another.

So, as we move from this place into the stillness of this holy night, may we carry with us not only the memory of what Christ has done, but the call to become what we have received. Servants of his love. Bearers of his grace. And witnesses, in word and deed, to the One who loved us to the end.

Amen.

Reflection: Trust in Eternity (26th Mar, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

Genesis 17.3–9 – Then Abram fell on his face; and God said to him, ‘As for me, this is my covenant with you: You shall be the ancestor of a multitude of nations. No longer shall your name be Abram, but your name shall be Abraham; for I have made you the ancestor of a multitude of nations. I will make you exceedingly fruitful; and I will make nations of you, and kings shall come from you. I will establish my covenant between me and you, and your offspring after you throughout their generations, for an everlasting covenant, to be God to you and to your offspring after you. And I will give to you, and to your offspring after you, the land where you are now an alien, all the land of Canaan, for a perpetual holding; and I will be their God.’ God said to Abraham, ‘As for you, you shall keep my covenant, you and your offspring after you throughout their generations.

John 8.51–end – Very truly, I tell you, whoever keeps my word will never see death.’ The Jews said to him, ‘Now we know that you have a demon. Abraham died, and so did the prophets; yet you say, “Whoever keeps my word will never taste death.” Are you greater than our father Abraham, who died? The prophets also died. Who do you claim to be?’ Jesus answered, ‘If I glorify myself, my glory is nothing. It is my Father who glorifies me, he of whom you say, “He is our God”, though you do not know him. But I know him; if I were to say that I do not know him, I would be a liar like you. But I do know him and I keep his word. Your ancestor Abraham rejoiced that he would see my day; he saw it and was glad.’ Then the Jews said to him, ‘You are not yet fifty years old, and have you seen Abraham?’Jesus said to them, ‘Very truly, I tell you, before Abraham was, I am.’ So they picked up stones to throw at him, but Jesus hid himself and went out of the temple.

Reflection

There is a moment in both of our readings today where something eternal and perhaps beyond our comprehension breaks into the present day and our limited human understanding of time.

In our reading from Genesis, Abram falls on his face before God. And in that moment, everything changes. A new covenant is spoken. A new future is promised. Even a new name is given: Abraham, “father of many nations.” What God is doing is not just about Abram’s private faith; it is about a promise that stretches far beyond him, into generations he will never see or know.

And in John’s Gospel, we hear Jesus speak words that are just as staggering: “Very truly, I tell you, whoever keeps my word will never see death.” It is no wonder that those listening are confused, even offended. They hear these words in ordinary time, in an ordinary place; and yet Jesus is speaking about something far from ordinary.

At the heart of both readings is the question of identity and of trust.

Abraham is asked to trust in a promise that seems impossible. He is old, his circumstances are fixed, his future looks limited. And yet God speaks a different word over his life; a word of covenant, of faithfulness, of life beyond what he can see.

And in John’s Gospel, Jesus takes that same thread and draws it even further. He speaks not just of future generations, but of eternal life; life that begins now and cannot be taken away, even by death itself.

But the people around him struggle. They say, “Abraham died… the prophets also died… so who do you think you are?” It’s a very human question. Because what Jesus is saying doesn’t fit easily within the boundaries of what they know, or what they expect. And perhaps it doesn’t always fit easily for us, either. Because we live, most of the time, within what we can see and measure. We make sense of life through what feels immediate and tangible. And yet both of these readings invite us to lift our gaze; to see that God’s purposes are always larger, deeper, and more enduring than we might first imagine. When Jesus says, “before Abraham was, I am,” he is not simply making a statement about time. He is revealing something about who he is; the one in whom God’s promises are not just spoken, but fulfilled. The one in whom eternity meets us, here and now.

And so the question for us is not simply, “Do we understand this?” but “Do we trust this?”

Do we trust that God’s covenant faithfulness, first spoken to Abraham, still holds? Do we trust that in Christ, life is stronger than death? Do we trust that when we follow his word, we are drawn into something that will outlast everything else we know?

Because that is the invitation at the heart of these readings. Not just to admire Abraham’s faith, or to puzzle over Jesus’ words, but to step into that same relationship of trust. A trust that says: God is at work, even when I cannot see the outcome. A trust that says: my life is held within a promise that is bigger than my present circumstances. A trust that says: in Christ, I am drawn into life that does not end.

And perhaps that changes how we live now.

It gives us courage to be faithful in small things. It gives us hope in moments of uncertainty or fear. And it reminds us that our story is not bounded by what is immediate but held within the eternal purposes of God. Abraham could not see the fullness of the promise he was given. Those listening to Jesus could not yet grasp the fullness of who he was. And we, too, see only in part. But still, the invitation remains the same: To trust the God who makes covenant. To listen to the voice of Christ. And to live, even now, in the light of eternal life.

Amen.

Sermon: Lazarus, Come Out (22nd Mar, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

Ezekiel 37.1–14 – The hand of the Lord came upon me, and he brought me out by the spirit of the Lord and set me down in the middle of a valley; it was full of bones. He led me all round them; there were very many lying in the valley, and they were very dry. He said to me, ‘Mortal, can these bones live?’ I answered, ‘O Lord God, you know.’ Then he said to me, ‘Prophesy to these bones, and say to them: O dry bones, hear the word of the Lord. Thus says the Lord God to these bones: I will cause breath to enter you, and you shall live. I will lay sinews on you, and will cause flesh to come upon you, and cover you with skin, and put breath in you, and you shall live; and you shall know that I am the Lord.’ So I prophesied as I had been commanded; and as I prophesied, suddenly there was a noise, a rattling, and the bones came together, bone to its bone. I looked, and there were sinews on them, and flesh had come upon them, and skin had covered them; but there was no breath in them. Then he said to me, ‘Prophesy to the breath, prophesy, mortal, and say to the breath: Thus says the Lord God: Come from the four winds, O breath, and breathe upon these slain, that they may live.’ I prophesied as he commanded me, and the breath came into them, and they lived, and stood on their feet, a vast multitude. Then he said to me, ‘Mortal, these bones are the whole house of Israel. They say, “Our bones are dried up, and our hope is lost; we are cut off completely.” Therefore prophesy, and say to them, Thus says the Lord God: I am going to open your graves, and bring you up from your graves, O my people; and I will bring you back to the land of Israel. And you shall know that I am the Lord, when I open your graves, and bring you up from your graves, O my people. I will put my spirit within you, and you shall live, and I will place you on your own soil; then you shall know that I, the Lord, have spoken and will act, says the Lord.’

Romans 8.6–11 – To set the mind on the flesh is death, but to set the mind on the Spirit is life and peace. For this reason the mind that is set on the flesh is hostile to God; it does not submit to God’s law—indeed it cannot, and those who are in the flesh cannot please God. But you are not in the flesh; you are in the Spirit, since the Spirit of God dwells in you. Anyone who does not have the Spirit of Christ does not belong to him. But if Christ is in you, though the body is dead because of sin, the Spirit is life because of righteousness. If the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, he who raised Christ from the dead will give life to your mortal bodies also through his Spirit that dwells in you.

John 11.1–45 – Now a certain man was ill, Lazarus of Bethany, the village of Mary and her sister Martha. Mary was the one who anointed the Lord with perfume and wiped his feet with her hair; her brother Lazarus was ill. So the sisters sent a message to Jesus, ‘Lord, he whom you love is ill.’ But when Jesus heard it, he said, ‘This illness does not lead to death; rather it is for God’s glory, so that the Son of God may be glorified through it.’ Accordingly, though Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus, after having heard that Lazarus was ill, he stayed two days longer in the place where he was.Then after this he said to the disciples, ‘Let us go to Judea again.’ The disciples said to him, ‘Rabbi, the Jews were just now trying to stone you, and are you going there again?’ Jesus answered, ‘Are there not twelve hours of daylight? Those who walk during the day do not stumble, because they see the light of this world. But those who walk at night stumble, because the light is not in them.’ After saying this, he told them, ‘Our friend Lazarus has fallen asleep, but I am going there to awaken him.’ The disciples said to him, ‘Lord, if he has fallen asleep, he will be all right.’ Jesus, however, had been speaking about his death, but they thought that he was referring merely to sleep. Then Jesus told them plainly, ‘Lazarus is dead. For your sake I am glad I was not there, so that you may believe. But let us go to him.’ Thomas, who was called the Twin, said to his fellow-disciples, ‘Let us also go, that we may die with him.’When Jesus arrived, he found that Lazarus had already been in the tomb for four days. Now Bethany was near Jerusalem, some two miles away, and many of the Jews had come to Martha and Mary to console them about their brother. When Martha heard that Jesus was coming, she went and met him, while Mary stayed at home. Martha said to Jesus, ‘Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask of him.’ Jesus said to her, ‘Your brother will rise again.’ Martha said to him, ‘I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.’ Jesus said to her, ‘I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?’ She said to him, ‘Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world.’When she had said this, she went back and called her sister Mary, and told her privately, ‘The Teacher is here and is calling for you.’ And when she heard it, she got up quickly and went to him. Now Jesus had not yet come to the village, but was still at the place where Martha had met him. The Jews who were with her in the house, consoling her, saw Mary get up quickly and go out. They followed her because they thought that she was going to the tomb to weep there. When Mary came where Jesus was and saw him, she knelt at his feet and said to him, ‘Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.’ When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who came with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved. He said, ‘Where have you laid him?’ They said to him, ‘Lord, come and see.’ Jesus began to weep. So the Jews said, ‘See how he loved him!’ But some of them said, ‘Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?’Then Jesus, again greatly disturbed, came to the tomb. It was a cave, and a stone was lying against it. Jesus said, ‘Take away the stone.’ Martha, the sister of the dead man, said to him, ‘Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead for four days.’ Jesus said to her, ‘Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?’ So they took away the stone. And Jesus looked upwards and said, ‘Father, I thank you for having heard me. I knew that you always hear me, but I have said this for the sake of the crowd standing here, so that they may believe that you sent me.’ When he had said this, he cried with a loud voice, ‘Lazarus, come out!’ The dead man came out, his hands and feet bound with strips of cloth, and his face wrapped in a cloth. Jesus said to them, ‘Unbind him, and let him go.’Many of the Jews therefore, who had come with Mary and had seen what Jesus did, believed in him.

Sermon

“Lazarus, come out.”

Those three words sit at the very heart of today’s Gospel; and, in many ways, at the heart of this season as we begin to turn decisively toward the cross. But before Jesus speaks those words, something else happens; something quieter, more human, and perhaps more unsettling.

“Jesus began to weep.”

This is a remarkable moment. Jesus knows what he is about to do. He knows that Lazarus will be raised. He has already told the disciples that this illness will not end in death. And yet, when he stands before the tomb, he does not rush to the miracle. He pauses. He sees Mary weeping, and the crowd with her. He sees grief in all its rawness; confusion, loss, anger, heartbreak. And instead of standing apart from it, instead of correcting it or explaining it away, he enters into it. He weeps.

This is not a distant God, unmoved by suffering. This is God who stands at the graveside and shares in human sorrow. And that matters. Because sometimes we imagine that faith should protect us from grief — or at least tidy it up. We might feel that if we trusted more, we would be less shaken by loss, less affected by fear, less burdened by sorrow.

But this Gospel tells a different story. Even in the presence of resurrection, there is still weeping. Even in the presence of hope, grief is real. And even the Son of God does not stand apart from it.

But the story does not end there.

After the tears, after the silence, after the stone is rolled away, Jesus cries out:

“Lazarus, come out.” And Lazarus does come out; still bound in grave clothes, still marked by death, but alive. This is not just a miracle story. It is a sign, as John calls it, pointing us toward something deeper. Because Lazarus will, in time, die again. This is not the final victory over death, but a glimpse of it. A foretaste. A promise.

And that promise is not only about what happens at the end of our lives. It speaks into the present. “Come out.” These are words not only for Lazarus, but for all who are bound; by fear, by despair, by sin, by anything that diminishes life. “Unbind him, and let him go.” The work of resurrection is not only God’s. The community is drawn into it too; called to help unbind, to release, to restore.

And when we place this Gospel alongside our other readings, the picture deepens. In Ezekiel, we are taken into the valley of dry bones; a place of utter lifelessness, where hope has long since faded. “Our bones are dried up,” the people say. “Our hope is lost.”

And yet, God breathes life into what seemed beyond recovery. Bones come together. Flesh returns. Breath enters. Life where there was none.

And in Romans, Paul speaks of that same Spirit; the Spirit who raised Jesus from the dead, now dwelling within us. Not just a future promise, but a present reality. “The Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you.” This is extraordinary. The power of resurrection is not only something we wait for. It is something already at work within us; often quietly, often gradually, but truly.

And yet — and this is where Passion Sunday speaks most clearly — this story of Lazarus also sets something else in motion.

Immediately after this miracle, the tension around Jesus reaches its breaking point. The raising of Lazarus is the moment that leads directly to the decision to put Jesus to death. In giving life to Lazarus, Jesus sets his own path toward the cross. Life and death are now intertwined. And so as we hear “Lazarus, come out,” we must also hear the echo of what lies ahead. Because the one who calls Lazarus out of the tomb will soon enter a tomb himself. The one who stands before death with authority will soon submit to it. And the one who brings life will do so at great cost.

So where does this leave us?

Perhaps with three things to hold onto as we continue our journey through Lent.

First: that God meets us in our grief. Whatever burdens we carry, be they personal losses, quiet fears, the weight of the world’s suffering, we do not face them alone. Christ stands with us, not at a distance, but alongside us, sharing in our sorrow.

Second: that God calls us into life. Even now, there are places in our lives that feel closed, sealed, perhaps even beyond hope. And into those places, Christ speaks: “Come out.” Not all at once, perhaps. Not dramatically, perhaps. But persistently, faithfully, calling us toward life.

And third: that we are part of one another’s unbinding. “Unbind him, and let him go.” We are called to be a community that helps release one another from whatever holds us fast; through kindness, through forgiveness, through patience, through love.

As we approach Holy Week, the raising of Lazarus stands as both promise and sign. It reminds us that death does not have the final word. But it also prepares us to walk with Christ into the shadow of the cross, where that promise will be tested, deepened, and ultimately fulfilled.

For now, we stand at the tomb with Mary and Martha. We hear the weeping. We hear the call. And we begin to glimpse the life that is to come.

Amen.

Reflection: A Call to Clarity (12th Mar, 2026, Year A)

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Readings

Jeremiah 7.23–28 – But this command I gave them, ‘Obey my voice, and I will be your God, and you shall be my people; and walk only in the way that I command you, so that it may be well with you.’ Yet they did not obey or incline their ear, but, in the stubbornness of their evil will, they walked in their own counsels, and looked backwards rather than forwards. From the day that your ancestors came out of the land of Egypt until this day, I have persistently sent all my servants the prophets to them, day after day; yet they did not listen to me, or pay attention, but they stiffened their necks. They did worse than their ancestors did. So you shall speak all these words to them, but they will not listen to you. You shall call to them, but they will not answer you. You shall say to them: This is the nation that did not obey the voice of the Lord their God, and did not accept discipline; truth has perished; it is cut off from their lips.

Luke 11.14–23 – Now he was casting out a demon that was mute; when the demon had gone out, the one who had been mute spoke, and the crowds were amazed. But some of them said, ‘He casts out demons by Beelzebul, the ruler of the demons.’ Others, to test him, kept demanding from him a sign from heaven. But he knew what they were thinking and said to them, ‘Every kingdom divided against itself becomes a desert, and house falls on house. If Satan also is divided against himself, how will his kingdom stand? —for you say that I cast out the demons by Beelzebul. Now if I cast out the demons by Beelzebul, by whom do your exorcists cast them out? Therefore they will be your judges. But if it is by the finger of God that I cast out the demons, then the kingdom of God has come to you. When a strong man, fully armed, guards his castle, his property is safe. But when one stronger than he attacks him and overpowers him, he takes away his armour in which he trusted and divides his plunder. Whoever is not with me is against me, and whoever does not gather with me scatters.

Reflection

There is something very direct, uncomfortable even, about today’s readings. In both Jeremiah and Luke, we hear a call to clarity: clarity about listening to God, clarity about where we stand; clarity about the direction of our hearts.

In Jeremiah, God speaks with a mixture of longing and sorrow. The command is simple: “Listen to my voice, and I will be your God, and you shall be my people.” It is not complicated. Not a matter of elaborate ritual or clever theology. Simply this: listen, walk in the way God shows you, and life will flourish.

And yet, the prophet tells us, the people did not listen. Instead, they “walked in their own counsels,” following what Jeremiah calls “the stubbornness of their evil will.” It is a striking phrase. Because it reminds us that faithfulness is often not undone by ignorance but by resistance; by that quiet, persistent preference for our own way over God’s.

Jeremiah’s lament is not only about ancient Israel. It is about every age and, if we are honest, about us too. We know what it is to hear God’s voice in Scripture, in conscience, in prayer, and still find ourselves turning aside. Sometimes gently, sometimes deliberately, but often repeatedly.

Then we turn to the Gospel, and the tone sharpens further. Jesus has just freed a man from a mute spirit; a clear act of healing and restoration. Yet instead of rejoicing, some accuse him of working by the power of evil. Others demand more signs, as though what they have just witnessed were not enough.

Jesus responds with a simple and searching truth: a divided kingdom cannot stand. If his work is bringing freedom, restoration, and life, then it bears the mark of God’s kingdom. And if God’s kingdom is breaking in, then neutrality is no longer possible. As he puts it starkly: “Whoever is not with me is against me, and whoever does not gather with me scatters.”

It is a hard saying. We often prefer softer edges with space for ambiguity, for keeping our options open. But Jesus speaks into that hesitation. His words suggest that faith is not merely a private sympathy or quiet admiration. It is allegiance. It is direction. It is a way of living that gathers rather than scatters.

When we place these readings side by side, a pattern emerges. Jeremiah shows us the danger of refusing to listen; Luke shows us the danger of refusing to decide. Both point us toward the same question: where, and to whom, are we really listening?

Because the truth is, we are always listening to something. The voice of habit. The voice of fear. The voice of convenience. The voice of the crowd. The question is whether, beneath all that noise, we are making space to listen for God.

The good news in both readings is that God has not stopped speaking. The same God who spoke through Jeremiah continues to call his people back into relationship. The same Jesus who freed the man from silence continues to bring freedom and clarity into our lives.

So perhaps our prayer today is a that God would give us ears to hear, courage to choose, and grace to follow. That we might not walk in stubbornness, but in trust. Not scattered, but gathered into the life of Christ. And in that listening and following, discover again the life and peace God longs to give.

Amen.

Crossing Boundaries: a reflection following two recent encounters

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I have recently had two encounters that have stayed with me, at least in part because of how starkly they stood alongside one another.

The first was gentle and humbling. Someone of another faith asked if I would pray for them as they grieved the death of someone they knew and loved. There was nothing performative in the moment, no sense of comparison or argument; simply grief, and a quiet trust that prayer might be a place where sorrow could be held. I found myself deeply moved that they crossed what we often assume to be a firm boundary — that of religious identity — and did so with such simplicity and openness.

Their request called to mind the words of St Paul: “Bear one another’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfil the law of Christ” (Galatians 6.2). In that moment, the burden they carried became, in a small way, mine too, and it felt entirely natural that it should be that way. Grief has a way of dissolving the lines we draw around ourselves; prayer, at its best, does the same.

The second encounter, not long afterwards, was of a very different character. Someone of the Christian faith asked if they might have a moment of my time. What followed was filled with unsubstantiated and unfounded claims, and shaped by a deep suspicion of people of another faith. I found myself listening with a growing sense of sorrow and dismay, not only at what was said, but at how easily fear had hardened into caricature, and how readily fellow human beings had been turned into abstractions.

In the sharp light of that contrast, I found myself recalling Jesus’ words in the Sermon on the Mount: “Why do you see the speck in your neighbour’s eye, but do not notice the log in your own?” (Matthew 7.3). The words are uncomfortable, but they are meant to be. They invite us to examine not only what we believe, but how we hold those beliefs in relation to others.

If the first encounter spoke of trust across difference, the second revealed how fragile such trust can be when fear and prejudice take root. And yet the gospel calls us elsewhere. Again and again, Jesus steps across boundaries — ethnic, religious, moral — and calls his followers to do the same. The parable of the Good Samaritan remains perhaps the most searching reminder that neighbourliness is not defined by religious identity but by shared humanity (Luke 10.25–37).

I have found myself wondering whether these encounters, taken together, form a kind of parable for our time. One person, shaped by a different tradition, instinctively reached outward in trust. Another, formed within the Christian story, spoke in ways that narrowed rather than enlarged the circle of concern. The contrast was deeply uncomfortable and starkly visible.

As Christians, we profess allegiance to the One who “has broken down the dividing wall, that is, the hostility between us” (Ephesians 2.14). To follow him must surely mean resisting the easy temptations of suspicion and ‘othering,’ and allowing our hearts to be reshaped by compassion, humility and truth.

These encounters have reminded me that the boundaries we imagine to be fixed are often far more porous than we think, and that grace so often meets us precisely at their crossing.