Intended

Posted on January 4, 2026 by Rosalind C Hughes

Sermons are always contextual, of course; this one included acknowledgement of a particular pastoral leave-taking which I have omitted, it being most meaningful to the parish in which it was preached. Here’s the rest of the sermon, on the holy family’s flight to Egypt as described in Matthew 2

Today, we pick up the story after the wise men, the magi have visited Bethlehem with their gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh, and after they have accidentally alerted Herod that there is something seismic happening among the people, affecting even the heavens, with the appearance of a bright new star. Warned in a dream not to return to Herod, having paid homage to the holy family and to Jesus, they have left for their own country by another road.

Have you ever had one of those dreams that was so vivid and lifelike that when you woke up you weren’t altogether certain it was a dream? The dreams that make you reach for the phone just to check in with a loved one, or to look out for the promised sign on the way to work, sure that God is speaking through the birds and the bystanders?

Joseph, too, was a dreamer, and it served him well. As he made the cruel and arduous journey toward Egypt, surrounded no doubt by other refugees from Herod’s atrocity, I wonder if he remembered the stories of his namesake, Joseph the dreamer, with the coat of many colours, and the brothers, and the exile to Egypt, the imprisonment, and the eventual redemption. I wonder if this Joseph remembered that Joseph’s words to his brothers as they fretted over his forgiveness: what you intended as evil toward me, God has repurposed for good toward all, for the saving and sustaining of many people.

It is not God’s will that people should do evil. It is not in God’s nature to create chaos, but to bring comfort to God’s people, mercy to the lost, love to those most in need of it. The backstory of this flight to Egypt is one of the most awful examples of evil in the Christian canon – yet the message of Matthew’s gospel is not one of humanity’s horrors but of God’s persistent and providential love and mercy. The warning to Joseph to flee comes even before the order of Herod to kill. The message to Joseph, through his dreams, through his faith, is that no matter how hard it becomes to see it, the grace and protective love of God surround this holy family, that God is with us: Emmanuel.

The inhumanity in this story belongs to us alone: to humans jealous of their power and influence, drunk on the dregs of empire and determined to hold on to whatever worldly rewards that they can. Herod, fearful of the interventions of God to redeem God’s people, to remake the world in the image of the kingdom of God, goes to unimaginable lengths to resist that vision, that mercy, that light.

But you don’t have to be Herod to resist the call of God’s kingdom. A little hoarding here, a little envy there. The ranking of those deserving and undeserving of help, of dignity, of a home and safety and love. The temptations of the human heart to choose hardness are legendary. How many of our new year’s resolutions have to do with maintaining or improving our own status, rather than easing the way of others?

If we saw the holy family fleeing violence in their homeland, on the run with whatever they could muster, surrounded by fellow refugees, fueled by nothing more than fear, faith, and dreams – would we find room for them?

No, God does not cause harm to happen – we are well equipped to do that for ourselves – but God does give us the opportunity to participate in the healing of our humanity, the repairing of the breach, the resistance of evil, the resurrection of hope. What one intends for evil, we can, with God’s help, turn toward something better.

That said, I am, as I suspect many of us are, still processing the news of this weekend, how this world seems addicted to acts of war or aggression, despite the angels’ songs of peace on earth; we wonder how to act on the side of the angels when all around is on fire.

 …

Still, we are called to continue wherever we find ourselves to echo what we have heard from angels and from one another, and from the birth of Jesus himself: that God’s love is more powerful, more persistent, more present than the work of empire, and worth more than any amount of gold, frankincense, or myrrh. Because despite the siren songs of the world, even the wail of the air raid sirens, we do know when it is God who is speaking to us. We have heard the angels singing peace. We know that the dreams are real.

We are sustained by the same love that supported Joseph, and when there are disruptions or upheavals, whether excitedly anticipated or wildly unexpected, it is the same providence that visits us, and lets us know that God is with us in it all: Emmanuel.

That was the vision in which Joseph placed his faith and his family: that God is with us, God’s promises endure forever. It didn’t make life easier, by any means. God knows it didn’t remove the obstacles of grief and the graft and grimness of the world or the wilderness, its empires, its wars, its little kings.

But what it did mean is that he, Joseph, spent the rest of his days in the close and intimate presence of the love of God among us, Jesus. And who knows how many were saved, through one man’s dream, and courage, and faith, who listened to the Word of God crying in the night and heard and heeded the voice of God among us, the kingdom of heaven drawn near.

Amen.

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Wise

Posted on January 2, 2026 by Rosalind C Hughes

I don’t know how you dealt  with clouded nights
or languishing days,
how long you paused before you even
began to pack or give thought to presents. 
Who was first to bring it up: 
the unlikely journey and unlikelier child? 

I can guess why you stopped at the seat of power, 
presuming an answer before the question was asked. 
And that was when it really began, wasn’t it? 

Those last two nights beneath the star, 
haunted by dreams and pursued by your own hubris, 
assuming that God’s throne was built by proud men 
rather than chosen from the caverns of the earth, 
formed by divine hands at creation. 

By the time you reached the star-struck place 
you were ready to crawl in on bended knees 
and babble your praises like a newborn; 
for the foolishness of God’s incarnation 
was wiser than you or I ever could imagine.

Matthew 2:1-18; 1 Corinthians 1:25-29; Psalm 95:4-5
Image: Adoration of the Magi, Konrad Laib, early 1400s, photographed at the Cleveland Museum of Art (detail)

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Christmas Eve 2025

Posted on December 24, 2025 by Rosalind C Hughes

Being a guest priest and preacher on Christmas Eve

It is a joy to be with you on Christmas Eve, this most joyful of our festival nights. And I am grateful to you for inviting me into your church home. So often we think of Christmas as a family time, a comfortable, slippers-on time. Even the intruder who comes down the chimney is not a stranger but a welcome and familiar figure.

So to be invited into the family Christmas is something special. It can be a big step in a relationship. Of course, the family thing can create some extra loneliness, too, for those marking the holiday alone, for those grieving, or angry, or stubbornly unloved.

That first Christmas, though, that was hardly a private affair. First of all, it wasn’t even celebrated at home. Mary and Joseph were called away by the government to present themselves, to be accounted for, to give an account of themselves. They dared not disobey the summons, not when it came with the name of the Emperor attached. Not even when they didn’t know where it would lead, what to expect when they got there. Not even if it would leave them temporarily homeless, banished to a foreign land, to wait out the wrath of those given or grasping temporal power, Herod and his henchmen.

As you can tell, already there was a lot to be uneasy about, when they finally arrived in the birthplace of David, Joseph’s forefather. And now Bethlehem was bustling, and there was no room for newcomers. They had to make do among the animals, and how private was that, do you think? How many times in the night were they disturbed by someone just stopping in to check on their donkey or their ox? Not to mention the shepherds, wild and out of their minds with fear and the songs of angels.

No, that was no picture-postcard Christmas. The holy family did not spend it relaxing at home, nor even in safety. And yet, this might just be the moment when God invites us home for Christmas, takes the next step in our relationship.

When I think about Christmas in the abstract, the snowscapes and the fireplace, that’s one thing; but the actual, individual, real-time Christmases I remember the most were not those picture postcard affairs, and they always involve the unexpected inclusion of others.

There was the time that my mum was in the hospital. She was supposed to come home on day release, but that didn’t work out, so we packed up everything from under the tree, stockings and all, Christmas dinners plated and packaged into a cooler on top of a hot water bottle, and took it all with us to share on the hospital ward, with the nurses in their party hats, those who worked the Christmas shift for us and to save our mother.

There was the time when we were living 13,000 miles away from family, literally on the other side of the world, and were invited to make a new family with others dislocated and far from home. The quilted stockings that one of them made for our children are still part of our Christmas traditions a quarter century later, long after her memory became blessed.

Then there was the pageant. So far from home and familiar things, our neighbours missed the ritual of dressing the children up and acting out the Christmas story – so we did it ourselves. Only, when the holy couple knocked on the door of our apartment, so tired and footsore from their journey, seeking just some room at the inn, my husband, who was playing the innkeeper, flung the door wide open and announced, “Sure, come on in – there’s loads of room!”

So maybe it wasn’t the line we were expecting, but I think that he was onto something. This is God’s line, at Christmas and always. This is God inviting us to take the next step in our relationship, God stepping into the world, into our home, humble as a guest, holy as a child, and breaking us open to receive the love of God made manifest.

This is the message of Christmas, isn’t it – not so much the drawing in and closing down, the drawing of the curtains against the dark and cold, as it is the opening up; the labour of effacing little by little the things that come between us and keep us from seeing the glory of God incarnate in our neighbours, from realizing the strength and endurance of God’s love, the capacity and tenacity of God’s mercy. When the very heavens are opened for angels to sing to shepherds on the earth, how can we be short of room for one another, friend and stranger, lover and lost, family and fallen alike? And not for one day, but year after year and for millennia.

When Jesus was born among the homeless, the homespun, the animal, and the oppressed, angels sang. When the shepherds told of it, peace on earth and all, all those who heard it were rightly amazed. When his mother wrapped the child in cloth and wonder, treasuring his fingerprints and the furrow of his brow, her heart overflowed like deep waters.

 And when he, Jesus, the Son of God born of Mary, opened his mouth and cried out, and when he opened his eyes to see her, it was as though Creation itself had been made anew: Let there be light.  

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Solstice

Posted on December 20, 2025 by Rosalind C Hughes

When the night is longest, stretching

deep and dark beyond our sight,

light a candle;

see its flame flicker as the breath of God

inhales our prayers,

sighs out a shimmer of hope.

 

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Advent I

Posted on November 29, 2025 by Rosalind C Hughes

It is not as simple as the poet makes it

sound to transform the form of metal,

a sword into farm equipment.

Just hit it with a hammer,

the prophecy implies,

and all will fall,

seeds into their furrows and nations

in obeisance to the Prince of Peace.

Yet rumours of the spoils of war

echo in the ears of rulers,

and fear forges weapons from the elements.

Still, when the fire of the Spirit burns

and melts the hearts of humanity,

something new will breathe,

rising and falling through clouds

of smoke and glory,

fermenting life from dirt and ashes.

they shall beat their swords into ploughshares,
and their spears into pruning-hooks;

nation shall not lift up sword against nation,
neither shall they learn war any more. – Isaiah 2:4

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Seven

Posted on November 5, 2025 by Rosalind C Hughes

And then, imagine it from her point of view:

seven lifetimes of love, regret, loss, laughter.

Seven lifetimes of abuse – pray not.

Seven lifetimes of blessing, despite the woes,

hope despite it all. Seven lifetimes and here,

in eternity, she was no one’s to own:

the richest woman with lifetimes to spare

in a sky-blue heaven, the angels attendants,

white cloud gown, bridegroom waiting

since before the lifetime of earth for this

glorious consummation

 

Some Sadducees, those who say there is no resurrection, came to Jesus and asked him a question, “Teacher, Moses wrote for us that if a man’s brother dies, leaving a wife but no children, the man shall marry the widow and raise up children for his brother. Now there were seven brothers; the first married, and died childless; then the second and the third married her, and so in the same way all seven died childless. Finally the woman also died. In the resurrection, therefore, whose wife will the woman be? For the seven had married her.” – Luke 20:27-38

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Woe to you who are self-satisfied

Posted on November 2, 2025 by Rosalind C Hughes

We know that the words of Jesus are timeless. Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will never pass away, he says elsewhere (Matthew 24:35). And yet, on this particular weekend, in this particular country, to preach that those who are hungry are blessed can feel out of step.

Jesus, of course, was echoing the song his mother sang when she was carrying him, the one we know as the Magnificat; the one that includes the lines,

God has filled the hungry with good things,
and sent the rich away empty – Woe to you who are full now, for you will be hungry. (Luke 1:53; 6:25)

And Mary, in turn, was riffing off of Hannah, who sang so many centuries before.

Those who were full have hired themselves out for bread,
but those who were hungry are fat with spoil – Blessed are you who are hungry now, for you will be filled. (1 Samuel 2:5; Luke 6:21)

Timeless. For so many centuries, that see-saw of hunger and satisfaction, blessing and warning, joy and mourning has been rising and falling in song and in society, without, apparently, any resolution as yet.

I’m not here to talk politics. I believe that there are choices as a nation that we could make to bless the hungry and raise up the poor and put-upon in spirit. And, the choices that Jesus invites us to make go beyond the politics of the moment. They are fundamental. They are timeless.

Here is what Jesus offers by way of instruction after he repeats his foremothers’ song:

Listen. Love. Do good. Bless. Pray. Offer, and do not wit hhold. Give without asking for return. Do to others as you would have them do to you. (Luke 6:27-31)

That’s where the see-saw balances, isn’t it? Do to others as you would have them do to you. Love one another, love your neighbour, love your enemy. Love God before all and the image of God in every person, as you would have them see you, beloved of God and worthy of the love of neighbour. This is the pivot point of the see-saw, the fulcrum of the lever: the love of God.

I don’t think that it’s much of a stretch to say that this balance is present when we come to baptism, or to the commemoration of All Saints and All Souls. In each, death and resurrection, a new life, are represented and made visible. Regret is turned into repentance and the communion of saints murmur absolution; oil and water meet at the font; mourning and singing mingle at the altar.

And in each of these commemorations we recognize that we are none of us Christians alone, none of human alone; that each of our blessings and woes adds to the movement of the see-saw.

It is a joy and a privilege to return to this place, where I learned – where you taught me – so much about how to become a priest. And as I look out among the pews, I see so much that has changed, and so much that remains the same. I see the memories, spirits of people who are no longer here, who have joined the Communion of Saints, the cloud of witnesses, or simply moved on. I see new life that has emerged to join this crowd of witnesses and worshippers. What a joy and a privilege to be part of the sacrament of baptism this morning, the promise of a future filled with the Holy Spirit, the breath of life.

When we are baptized into the Body of Christ, we join ourselves with something that is dynamic, living and therefore ever-changing; and yet which is eternal, and thereby constant. Whatever the ups and downs of this life, the foundation of the church, Jesus, stands. That is a comfort, and a constancy that we need in these tumultuous times – and when are the affairs of humanity ever not tumultuous?

And as we stand on that foundation, swaying a little, but trusting, Jesus says, Listen. Love. Do good. Bless. Pray.

Be the blessing that will bring us closer to the kingdom of God that Mary and Hannah sang of. Do the good in this moment, at this time that will let others know the enduring love of God, who feeds us on bread and wine. Listen, heed the warnings that Jesus offers to those who think that they are untouched by the needs of others. Love God, love your neighbour, change their world, change our world.

Archimedes is widely reported to have said, Give me a lever long enough and a fulcrum on which to place it, and I shall move the world (to paraphrase a diocesan tagline).

The love of God, unfailing, unflinching, all-blessing, baptizing creation God’s mercy: that is the support, the pivot point, the fulcrum upon which the lever rests. All we are asked to do is to lean into it.

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All hallows

Posted on October 31, 2025 by Rosalind C Hughes

It took so long to get the fire lit,

even though the wind blew

as though the Holy Spirit fanned

the flames of Pentecost herself.

The children in their costumes came

and went without judgement, candy-sweet.

When the tinder finally caught, I sought

bric-à-brac of twigs from across the neighbour’s yard

to keep it fed. Consider, I thought,

the fires of heaven, and us poor fuel,

damp and easily consumed,

yet within each the spark of holiness.

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Contempt and condemnation

Posted on October 26, 2025 by Rosalind C Hughes

There’s a deep irony to this parable, that whenever we read it, we are tempted, aren’t we, to mutter, “Thank God I’m not like that Pharisee!” (Luke 18:9-14)

Jesus told this parable to those who trusted in themselves, instead, it is implied, in the deep and abiding mercies of God. There is a tragedy in the telling of this parable, which is that the Pharisee, who does everything right, everything good and well, cannot be satisfied without comparing himself to the tax collector, without finding someone else to scapegoat, someone to be better than.

Jesus told this parable to those who trusted in themselves, and regarded others with contempt.

In the modern psychological mode, we might see the Pharisee as an overgrown child, still cowering in fear before a strict parent, unable to trust that love will prevail, casting anyone and everyone else in front of him to shield himself from judgement: I’m a good child! He’s the bad one! He did it! We might even feel sorry for him. Which makes us even less likely to want to be like him. And so the spiral continues.

The irony of this parable and its type-casting of the Pharisee deepens when we consider biblical historical scholarship that suggests that Jesus might himself have been closer to the Pharisees than we often assume. Now, this is something of a mystery, because the historical record itself is sparse regarding Pharisees, but the story goes something like this (and here I’m drawing on opinions from Amy-Jill Levine, Jewish New Testament scholar [i], and Rabbi Danya Ruttenberg, who has written a series of researched blog posts on the subject [ii]; but don’t blame them if I’ve made any errors below):

In the first century, there were several distinct groups within Judaism that we know something about. One was the Sadducees: we see them in the Gospels. We know that they are associated with the Temple, and that they don’t believe in resurrection. They are the ones who ask Jesus the question about the man whose widow marries seven brothers in succession, hoping to trip him with the technicality of who will possess her in the afterlife. Jesus artfully escapes that snare by setting the widow free (Luke 20:27-40).

Another was the Essenes: the ascetic band who lived in the caves of Qumran and gave us the Dead Sea Scrolls. You may have heard speculation that John the Baptizer was one of those.

Apparently, the Essenes called the Pharisees “seekers after smooth things”, because they did not live in the caves but, as Jesus describes elsewhere, liked to wear long robes and swirl them around the marketplace (Luke 20:45-46; Matthew 23:1-12). The definition of the word Pharisee is itself murky, but one strong contender is that to be a Pharisee means to be an interpreter. An interpreter of what? An interpreter of the Law. As such, the Pharisees are often considered the ancestors of the rabbis who continued the Jewish traditions after the destruction of the Temple, reinterpreting and continuing the ancient traditions into a new and devastated landscape.

Who were the Pharisees in relation to Jesus? They argued points of the Law with him, and he argued back. They were Saul of Tarsus, later Paul, who boasted in his Pharisaism (Acts 26:5; Philippians 3:5). They were Gamaliel, Saul’s teacher, who argued on behalf of Peter and the apostles before the Sanhedrin (Acts 5:34-39). They were Simon, who invited Jesus to dinner (and whose invitation Jesus accepted; Luke 7:36), and Nicodemus, who came to Jesus at night (John 3), and who helped Joseph to bury him in a new tomb after his shameful and false execution (John 19:38-42).

So, was Jesus one of them? Does it matter? Well, only if we consider that the parable he is telling is not about comparing one group to another: Pharisees bad, tax collectors good; Pharisees proud, tax collectors humble; Pharisees fraudulent, tax collectors true. That would be a good parable, in that it turns communal wisdom on its head and shocks its listeners into a new understanding; but it wouldn’t really ring true, and it would only reinforce the tendency I think Jesus is aiming to subvert.

Because the Pharisee in the parable, and the ones listening, were righteous. They did, by and large, pray regularly, tithe willingly, fast rigorously, keep the Law. And the tax collectors were too often downright cheats and collaborators.

The point of the parable is not to elevate one group of people and condemn another, but to undermine the very bases for comparison that society uses to stratify human beings made in the image of God.

Jesus told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous, and regarded others with contempt. It’s the contempt that he is condemning in this parable, not the righteousness. Because he was willing, always and everywhere, to reach beyond his own and embrace the lost, the lonely, the unloveable. He literally broke the mould.

When the Pharisee says, “Thank God I’m not like him,” he’s really saying, “God, that one’s really not your best work.” Excuse me? That person, made in the image of the living and loving and liberating God is a reject? I don’t think so! And when we read the parable and think, “Well, thank God I’m not a Pharisee!” don’t we risk making the same mistake? And if there’s just a hint of a chance that Jesus was also a Pharisee, might that make us more careful of it?

Stereotyping is dangerous. It is deadly. Painting Jesus as just another rabble-rousing Jew at Passover, casting him as a Zealot, led those in authority to crucify him. You know how dangerous and deadly stereotyping can be. You know how deadly stereotyping can be, and you know how the solidarity of the Gospel undermines it.

When we pause to see each person as God’s image in human form; when we live out our baptismal promises to seek and serve Christ in all persons, we undermine the stereotyping that leads to contempt, to dehumanizing, to death. When we cast ourselves on the mercy of God, we are saved.

Because this is the truth of the Gospel: that none of us is saved not by our own righteousness, not by belonging to the right group, or the right church, or the right practices. We can do everything right, and still die. We can do everything right, and still, we die.

But Jesus is one of us. He has been there with us and for us. This is the truth of the Gospel, that Jesus lives for us, loves us, and will be with us to the end of the age, Emmanuel, God with us, God one of us. So look up, take heart, and live.

[i] Podcast: The Bible for Normal People, by Pete Enns and Jared Byas. Episode 278: Amy-Jill Levine – Who Are the Pharisees Actually?

[ii] Jesus and the Jews (Part 1) https://www.lifeisasacredtext.com/pharisees/, Jesus and Beit Hillel (Part 2!) https://www.lifeisasacredtext.com/jesus2/, Wrapping Up Jesus (Part 3) https://www.lifeisasacredtext.com/jesus3/

 

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Persistence (a sermon)

Posted on October 19, 2025 by Rosalind C Hughes

Persistence, in and of itself, is not a virtue. One may persist in doing good; another may persist in doing evil. We do not know, from this parable, whether the widow’s lawsuit was just or extortionary; we know that the judge didn’t care. We know, too, that God does care: that God so loves each piece and person of this world as to give God’s life to us, and for us. We see, throughout the Bible, throughout the holy scriptures and the story of our salvation how persistent God is in mercy, in justice, in love.

So we might consider that what we persist in is at least as important, much more so, than how insistent our persistence is.

In fact, we might consider that the theme of the parable and the other readings we hear today is less about the holy grind itself, and more about what it is we are hoping to achieve by persisting in prayer, being faithful to our bible study, refusing to lose heart when justice does seem delayed, or far away, or out of reach.

Because that is the itchy grain of sand that lies beneath this pearl of a parable, isn’t it? Jesus, for once, tells his disciples exactly what it means, and he tells them, he tells us that God will not delay long in administering justice to and for those who cry out for it, that God will be swift to come to their aid. And we see all around us people crying out for justice, for aid, for peace, for dignity, for humanity. And we wonder how long it will really take for justice to be done, for peace on the earth, goodwill to all who are made in the image of the living, loving God.

And some may wander away, looking for justice elsewhere, even inventing their own story, even if it is but a shadow of the joyful justice of the kingdom of heaven.

There was an image going around the internet a couple of weeks ago of a man in a crowded arena, a man dressed in fine clothes and shouldering a cross. But the cross had training wheels on the bottom, so that it simply trailed along behind him. There is a difference between persistence and performance, persistence and pretence, persistence and parody. We cannot invent new ways of carrying the cross to make it easier to wait upon the justice and mercy of God.

Some of you perhaps read the columns of David French – I do only occasionally, but one caught my eye this week. He pointed out that every real renewal of the Spirit begins with repentance. Our faithfulness to prayer and to the promises of God begins not with the condemnation of others – fake justice, rooted in self-righteousness and revenge – but in the quiet soul-searching that brings us alongside the Holy Spirit, praying right along with us in sighs too deep for words.

Paul tells Timothy, and Jesus tells his disciples, to remain faithful to the hope that God has set before us, believe in the promises that God has made to us, that God is good, and that God’s justice is worth waiting for.

I can always be wrong, but it seems to me that this parable, and Paul’s advice to Timothy, is less about being stubborn, right or wrong, and more about being persistent, resilient, faithful, steadfast – that’s a good biblical word, right? – steadfast in our pursuit of the justice and the mercy and the promises and the love of God. Because God is not slow to compassion, nor late in administering mercy, nor unmoved by the cries of God’s people, nor lacking in love. God forbid that we should make such accusations.

But we, we human people, made in the image of God, but as in a glass, darkly, we are a bit slow, to be honest, to grasp the full implications of the commandments to love God completely, and our neighbours, friends and enemies alike, as if they were ourselves. As if they mattered as much as us, deserved as much as us, hurt as much as us.

You’ve heard it said that prayer is not about changing God, but about changing us. That, I think, is what this parable and these teachings are about. God is not slow to love every piece and person of creation; so let’s pray persistently and consistently and robustly and resiliently until we are changed into God’s likeness, and enabled and equipped and encouraged to act in God’s image and will, and in solidarity with those crying out to God for the justice that is mercy.

That means, dare I say it, that what we do in here, praying together, reading the scriptures together, taking Communion, truly ingesting God’s grace together, is so that we might be changed in order to change the world. What we do here doesn’t stay here, but showing up faithfully here is what keeps us from losing heart, what keeps us from losing our way, what keeps us from wandering like lost sheep, bleating in the wilderness that is this world.

There’s a story by Graham Greene[1] that has always stayed with me, about a village where the doors remained open and the lights on, and the fire lit, even while it appeared empty. The story explained that one winter some years earlier, a stranger had come into the village, looking for shelter, but all of the houses were locked. The inhabitants were all at church, since it was Christmas. When they returned to the village and found the stranger frozen to death, they understood the difference between performative and transformative religion; religion that builds a nativity scene and religion that makes room at the inn.

 What happens here is not performative, but practical. We are participating in the apostles’ fellowship and the prayers, we are participants in the saving grace of Jesus at the Table and on the Cross. We persist in this so that when we are let loose into the world, we know what Jesus looks like, we know the promises of God when we see them, and we are able to come alongside those who cry out for mercy, and pray and stay with them, that this world might be changed, and without further delay.

Amen.

[1] Graham Greene, “A Visit to Morin”, in Collected Stories (Viking Press, 1973)

2 Timothy 3:14-4:5, Luke 18:1-8

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