It begins with concern about stone, timber, lead, plaster, and rainwater. It develops with quinquennial inspection reports, fundraising events, grant forms, meetings, and a great many cups of tea. Yet somewhere along the way it becomes something deeper: a sign that a community has decided not to give up.

That is what I have had the absolute privilege of seeing at St Andrew’s, Little Massingham since my arrival.

The recent news that St Andrew’s has received nearly a quarter of a million pounds in grant funding from the National Lottery Heritage Fund is, on one level, a story about urgent repairs. The funding will allow the felt roof to be replaced with a permanent stainless steel roof, protecting the church from further water damage.

But that is only the surface of the story.

The deeper story, I see, as I see in so many of the parishes churches I have the privilege to look after, is about a small rural community refusing to let one of its most precious places quietly decline. It is about local people looking at a building with deep roots, seeing not just its problems but its promise, and saying: this matters.

As a newcomer to the parish having been installed as their Rector in January, it has been a joy to speak about this project and share something of what has been achieved by a dedicated group of volunteers. But I am very conscious that I have arrived late in the day, and in reality have contributed very little. The real work has been done over many, many years by a committed local team who have fundraised, encouraged, persisted, organised and imagined.

A local team, rooted in the place and committed to the church, has carried the work forward. They have not simply waited for someone else to rescue the building. They have rallied around it. And that, I think, is the thing which should inspire other churches.

St Andrew’s is not just an old building. It is a place layered with the memory of a village. Little Massingham’s church has ancient roots. There are remains of a Norman window in the chancel, muzzled bears found throughout, memorials to families of the past and a fifteenth-century porch carrying the wonderful inscription from John’s Gospel: “The hour cometh and now is when worshippers shall worship the Father in spirit and in truth.” (read more here: www.littlemassinghamchurch.org.uk)

That inscription feels almost prophetic. For centuries, people have crossed the threshold of St Andrew’s to worship in spirit and in truth. They have brought children to be baptised, couples to be married, loved ones to be buried. They have sung carols, kept silence, prayed through war and harvest, joy and grief, change and uncertainty. The building itself literally carries the fingerprints of generations of people from this village.

Historic England’s listing describes a church of “medieval richness: arcades with octagonal piers, a Perpendicular nave roof with hammerbeams, a clerestory of red chalk rubble, and later Victorian work.” Exploring Norfolk Churches describes St Andrew’s as a “picturesque fourteenth-century church with west tower, nave, aisles, porch, and chancel.” These details matter, not because heritage is simply about preserving attractive old things, but because beauty tells a community something about itself. It says: people before you gave their best here. They built for God, for neighbour, and for generations they would never meet. Now this generation has done the same and that is why this project is hopeful. It is not nostalgia. It is not an attempt to save the past. It is an act of faith in the future.

There is, of course, a temptation in church life to become discouraged. We know the story too well: small congregations, rising costs, dilapidated buildings, complicated repairs, and too few people willing to shoulder responsibility. We can easily begin to believe that decline is inevitable, that buildings like these are burdens rather than blessings, and that big projects are only possible somewhere else, somewhere with more people, more money, more expertise, more obvious advantages.

Little Massingham challenges that.

It says that a small place can do a large thing. It says that a church can still be a focus of local energy and imagination. It says that the story of a parish church is not finished simply because the roof leaks, the task is daunting, or the forms are long. It says that when people gather around a shared purpose, what first looked impossible can become possible.

This is not magic. It is not quick. It has taken them years. There have been fundraising efforts, meetings, applications, quilts knitted, faculty applications, miles walked, revised plans, and a steady gathering of support. The contribution of local volunteers, the Friends of St Andrew’s Little Massingham, the Diocese of Norwich Parish Support Team, Norfolk Churches Trust, conservation specialists, the Parish Architect and the wider community have all been such a welcomed presence throughout the project, and without them it wouldn’t be taking place. Projects like this happen because many hands hold the same hope.

For other churches looking at their own daunting projects Little Massingham offers a pattern of encouragement.

They have dared to ask the question: what might be next for our parish church? Then, quite simply, they have kept going.

At St Andrew’s, Little Massingham, hope has become visible. It can be seen in the promise of a secure roof, in the possibility of new facilities, in plans for fresh and exciting engagement with visitors, and in the renewed confidence of a community that has achieved something remarkable.

This is a new chapter for the church, one which I am so pleased to be joining, but, in reality, it is a continuation of a very old story. For generations, people have worshipped at St Andrew’s “in spirit and in truth.” Now, because the local community has come together with determination and hope, in spite of so many challenges, future generations will be able to do the same. And perhaps that is the invitation to all of us who care about our parish churches: do not look first at what you lack. Look at what has been entrusted to you. Look at the people around you. Look at the story you have inherited. Then dare to imagine what might yet be possible.

This article comes with my upmost thanks to the St Andrews Partnership Project which put in all the hard work to make this possible. You can read more about the Project, it’s funders and story so far here: www.fosalm.org - a special thanks must be expressed to the patron of the parish, Rosemary Jewers, who kickstarted the whole project in 2020 and has been a stalwart supporter of the parish for many years.

The St Andrew’s Partnership Project is made possible with The National Lottery Heritage Fund with thanks to National Lottery players.

Let all who are thirsty come. Let all who wish receive the water of life freely.

It is simple. Just a few words, repeated again and again and again, until they are no longer simply words on a page or notes in the air, but something like a prayer breathing within you.

And perhaps that is why it belongs so well with Pentecost.

Because Pentecost is not a logical explanation. It is not a lecture on the doctrine of the Holy Spirit. It is not a neat theological diagram of how God works. Pentecost is an experience. Wind. Fire. Speech. Astonishment. Confusion. Joy. A crowd gathered from every nation under heaven, suddenly hearing the wonders of God in their own languages.

And at the heart of it all is the promise of Jesus,“Let anyone who is thirsty come to me, and let the one who believes in me drink.”

John’s Gospel tells us that Jesus said this about the Spirit, which the believers were to receive. Pentecost is the moment when that promise begins to overflow. The living water promised by Christ becomes the life of the Church. The thirst of the world is met by the generosity of God.

In our reading from Acts, the traditional Pentecost reading, the disciples are all together in one place. They are waiting together. Praying together. Perhaps still afraid together. Perhaps still unsure what is coming next. They have seen the risen Jesus. They have watched him ascend. They have been told to wait for power from on high.

This is important, it tell us that the Church begins not with a great mission strategy, nor with hastily made plans, but with a gathered people. A people who know their need. A people who are, in the deepest sense, thirsty.

That is a truth we sometimes forget. We can become very good at pretending we are not thirsty. We fill our lives with duties and roles: parent, grandparent, worker, carer, priest, shepherd, churchwarden, neighbour, volunteer. Good roles. Holy roles, many of them. But beneath them all there remains that deep human thirst: to be loved, to be forgiven, to belong, to know that life has meaning, to know that we are not alone.

And Jesus does not rebuke that thirst. He does not say, rather he says, “Come to me and drink.”

This is the backbone of Pentecost. The Spirit comes not as a reward for the spiritually impressive, but as a gift for the thirsty.

The Spirit comes to ordinary disciples who are waiting, wondering, praying, and probably still carrying all sorts of fear and failure. The same Peter who denied Jesus now stands up and preaches. The frightened room becomes a public witness. The locked-up community becomes a living sign of God’s kingdom. I could go on.

At Taizé, one of the most striking things is the togetherness. Thousands of people, from many nations, sitting on the floor of that great church, singing the same simple chants in many languages. Young and old, confident and uncertain, devout and searching, all held together by scripture, silence, prayer, hospitality, and thirst.

There is something profoundly Pentecostal about that. Not because everyone becomes the same, but because difference is gathered into communion. Pentecost does not erase language nor flatten culture or individuality. It does not make all people speak in one bland religious voice. Instead, each hears in their own tongue. The Spirit honours the particular. God speaks to people where they are.

That is good news for the Church. Good news for our villages. Good news for every small congregation that worries whether it has enough strength, enough people, enough money, enough confidence. Pentecost tells us that the life of the Church does not depend first on our abundance, but on God’s. The Spirit is not rationed. The water of life is not reserved for the few.

And that means our churches must be places where thirsty people can come and drink. Not places where people are made to feel they must already be full. Not places where only the confident know what to do. Not places where faith is treated as a possession for the respectable. But places of welcome, prayer, bread and wine, scripture and silence, where people may discover again the joy of belonging to God and to one another.

That remains our calling as the church: to speak of God’s love in a language that all people can hear. In kindness. In hospitality. In patience. In forgiveness. In courage. In the quiet faithfulness of parish life. In the shared table, the open church door, the prayer offered, the neighbour loved.

So today, on this feast of Pentecost, as we gather today under one roof, broken, in need, confused, hurting, hear again that invitation from the Taizé community.

Let all who are thirsty come. Let all who wish receive the water of life freely.

May we come thirsty. May we drink deeply. May we be filled with the living water of Christ. And may that water flow through us, for the healing, renewing, and joy of the world.

Sometimes it would roll across rooftops at dawn as the sun began to rise, rather an odd wakeup call when you are used to chickens at sunrise. Sometimes it would interrupt the bustle of crowded streets or the noise of marketplaces. Sometimes it would come in the deep stillness of evening. Wherever you were, life seemed, even briefly, to pause.

And if you spend any time in those places, you begin to notice how naturally the language of praise and reverence sits upon the lips of ordinary people. Again and again, you hear the words, “Allahu Akbar” meaning quite simply “God is the greatest.” In Arabic. It is a simple declaration of the glory of God.

Now of course, as Christians, we do not share the same understanding of God or of Jesus Christ. But hearing those words repeated day after day was still to me profoundly moving, because it reminded me how deeply human beings long to acknowledge something greater than themselves.

And then we come to today’s Gospel, where Jesus himself begins to pray: “Father, the hour has come; glorify your Son so that the Son may glorify you.” On the surface, glory sounds like a grand and triumphant word. We associate glory with victory, success, power, splendour.

But in John’s Gospel, the glory of Jesus is revealed not through military strength or earthly triumph, but through the cross that lies ahead of him, because when Jesus speaks about glory, he is not speaking about earthly greatness. He is speaking about sacrificial love. About obedience. About laying down his life for the world.

The hour that has come is the hour of betrayal, arrest, suffering, and crucifixion. Yet Jesus speaks of it not as defeat, but as glory.

That is one of the great reversals at the heart of our faith. The world says glory belongs to the successful, the wealthy, the powerful, the victorious. Jesus, however, says glory is revealed in self-giving love.

And perhaps that speaks powerfully into our own age, because we live in a culture deeply anxious about success, status, and significance. We are constantly encouraged to build ourselves up, present ourselves well, achieve more, become more important. Yet Christ reveals the glory of God through humility, not by grasping power, but by pouring himself out for others.

And perhaps we know that more than we realise because our shared life not built on spectacle, but on quiet faithfulness. The person who unlocks the church every morning without anybody noticing. The neighbour who quietly keeps an eye on someone elderly or lonely. The volunteers who organise the fete, tend the churchyard, arrange the flowers, or simply keeps showing up year after year. The world may not call those things glorious. But the Kingdom of God does.

I love that in the midst of all that uncertainty, in the worry of what the days ahead will hold, Jesus prays for his disciples. Before the disciples face fear and confusion, Christ is already praying for them. And before we face tomorrow’s worries, Christ is already holding us before the Father.

That is a remarkable comfort. The Christian faith is not simply that we believe in God, but that Christ continually holds his people in love. Even when faith feels fragile and life feels heavy.

And perhaps that brings us back to those memories of the Middle East, hearing voices ring out across towns and villages declaring, “God is the greatest.” Because ultimately, that is what Jesus is revealing in this prayer. Not a God who is greatest because he dominates the world with force. But a God whose greatness is revealed in love for you and for me.

A God who kneels before his disciples to wash their feet. A God who carries the weight of the cross rather than avoiding it. A God who chooses forgiveness over vengeance, mercy over power, sacrifice over self-preservation. And that means the glory of God is not something distant or unreachable. It is something we are called to reflect in our own lives.

Every quiet act of faithfulness. Every moment of forgiveness. Every kindness offered when nobody notices. Every time we choose love over bitterness, service over self-interest, hope over cynicism, we begin to reflect something of the glory of Christ.

So, what will this villages call to prayer be? What will be the message that rings throughout the street’s morning, noon and night. What will the message be to the folk out there – I, for one, hope that each of us has the courage to proclaim that God is the greatest.

After the long winter has been broken, the White Witch defeated, Narnia restored, the children eventually find themselves returning home. They pass back through the wardrobe door and suddenly they are children again, back in ordinary England, with all the wonder of left Narnia behind them, Aslan there no more.

At several moments in the Chronicles of Narnia, CS Lewis captures that strange mixture of joy and sadness that comes when someone has changed your life, yet you can no longer physically walk beside them. Aslan appears, disappears, returns unexpectedly, and eventually tells the children that they must learn to know him by another name in their own world.

That, I am convinced of it, is the emotional heart of Ascension Day.

The disciples have lived through the most extraordinary weeks imaginable. They have seen Christ crucified. They have encountered the risen Jesus. For forty days he has appeared among them, teaching them, eating with them, opening the Scriptures to them.

And then he ascends into heaven.

One moment he is blessing them. The next, he is gone from their sight.

And I think many Christians, myself included, secretly struggle with this feast because it feels, at first glance, like a goodbye. The disciples must surely have wondered, What now? How do we continue without him standing here beside us? How can the world possibly be the same again?

You can almost picture them, in a film like way, staring into the sky, longing to hold onto the moment just a little bit longer.

But then, something extraordinary: “Why do you stand looking up toward heaven?” In other words, do not mistake this for an ending. Because the Ascension is not about Jesus disappearing. It is about Jesus reigning.

In the ancient world, ascension language was royal language. Kings ascended thrones. Victorious rulers ascended into glory. And the Church understood from the very beginning that Christ’s Ascension means that the crucified and risen Jesus now reigns over all things.

Not as a distant ruler removed from suffering, but as the wounded and scarred Christ who carries human life itself into the throne room of God. And that changes everything, because it means heaven is no longer remote from earth.

Our frail humanity, with all its weakness and grief and beauty, has been taken into the very life of God through Christ. All of it is held within the reign of Christ. A beautiful scene.

But here is the catch, the disciples can no longer simply walk behind Jesus waiting for instructions. Now they must become his witnesses in the world, and they can trust that he is with them, he is with us.

I like to think the ascension is the moment the Church begins to grow up. It is not about being abandoned, but entrusted. Trusted to carry the Good News into ordinary places. Trusted to proclaim forgiveness. Trusted to serve the poor and love the forgotten. Trusted to be the Body of Christ in the world. Trusted despite our own brokenness.

That is why the Ascension is always linked to Pentecost. As Christ ascends, the Spirit comes. His physical absence gives way to a deeper presence through the Holy Spirit dwelling within his people, equipping his people. It is not about Christ leaving us, as so many depictions of the ascension in art might suggest – it is, as CS Lewis might put it, about learning to know him differently.

And perhaps that speaks deeply to us today.

Faith is so often lived in that tension between presence and absence. There are moments when God feels wonderfully close. And there are moments when we long for clearer certainty, clearer vision, clearer answers.

But, every year, the feast of the Ascension reminds us that Christ is still Lord even when we cannot see him plainly. Still reigning. Still praying for his people. Still drawing heaven and earth together. And so, this evening, we do not simply stand gazing into the sky.

Rather, today we learn to know Christ differently, someone who walks not on earth with us anymore, but who reigns as Lord over all, who brings heaven and earth together, who takes our worries, our weaknesses, our frailty and still entrusts and equips us to be his messengers here on earth.

If that isn’t good news on a Thursday evening in May, I’m not sure what is.

And over these last few days, following the local elections, there will be all sorts of emotions sitting in our communities.

Some people will feel hopeful. Others anxious.
Some triumphant. Others deflated.
Some perhaps relieved that it is all over.

Yet into all that mixture of emotion, all that uncertainty and division and human feeling, we hear these words from Jesus: “I will not leave you orphaned.” What a remarkable promise that is. Notice that Jesus does not say, “I will ensure life always goes your way.” Nor “You will always win.” Nor even, “You will always feel secure or understood.”

But rather his promise is simple. “I will not leave you.”

And perhaps that is exactly the promise we most need.

Because one of the dangers of elections, of political life, and indeed of much of modern society, is that people can begin to feel abandoned. Forgotten. Left behind. As though their voice does not matter. As though they are alone in their worries about the future.

And that feeling is not limited to politics. It appears everywhere.

It is there in the farmer wondering whether another year of rising costs and no rain can really continue. It is there in the widdow sitting alone in a front room after the death of a spouse. It is there in the family struggling quietly behind closed doors, relying on food banks for the day to day. It is there in the refugee worried about what or who waits for them at home. It is there in the young person anxious about what sort of world they are inheriting.

Our Gospel today comes at a moment of uncertainty for the disciples. Jesus is preparing them for his departure. The cross is drawing near. The world they have known is about to be shaken apart. The disciples are frightened.

They have built their lives around Jesus. They have followed him from village to village. They have listened to his teaching, watched his miracles, eaten beside him, laughed with him, trusted him. And now he begins speaking about leaving.

One can almost hear the anxiety rising in the room. Yet Jesus responds not with a political manifesto, not with a five-point strategy plan, but with a promise of presence. “I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate, to be with you forever.”

The word Advocate here is rich with meaning. Comforter. Helper. Counsellor. One who stands alongside. The Holy Spirit is not sent to remove every difficulty from life. The Spirit is sent so that we never face life alone.

And that matters enormously.

Because Christians are not people who believe God only exists when life feels stable or successful. Christians are people who believe God remains present even when the world feels uncertain.

Thankfully no election result can finally define our worth, our hope, or our future. Because before we are voters, campaigners, councillors, or commentators, we are people loved by God.

And perhaps that is something our society, our communities and even our Church urgently needs to rediscover. Because the Church of Christ is not built on agreement about everything. The Church is built on the shared recognition that all of us stand in need of grace.

And grace changes how we see one another. It teaches humility in victory; gentleness in disagreement; compassion in disappointment; patience in uncertainty.

Above all, it reminds us that no human authority is ultimate except God alone.

That is the heart of Christian hope.

Not that life will always feel secure.
Not that society will always function perfectly.
Not that our preferred outcomes will always happen.

But that Christ is alive.
And because he is alive, his people need never lose hope.

As a priest who has spent his whole ministry in rural communities, I have come to see village funerals not simply as occasions of mourning, but as places where something profound happens. Yes, there is grief, it is real, raw, and often complicated. There is the ache of absence, the quiet tears, the stories told with a mixture of laughter and longing. But there is also something else. There is, often unexpectedly, life.

And it is into that space that the words of Jesus from Gospel of John speak with remarkable clarity: “Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God; believe also in me.”

These are not words spoken into calm, ordered lives. They are spoken on the night before everything falls apart. Jesus is preparing his disciples for loss, for confusion, for grief. He knows what is coming, and yet he begins not with explanation, but with reassurance: do not let your hearts be troubled.

At a funeral, those words land differently. They are not a denial of grief. Jesus does not say, “Do not grieve.” He says, “Do not let your hearts be troubled.” There is a difference. Grief is natural, necessary even. But trouble, the deep, unsettling fear that everything is meaningless, that death has the final word, that is what Jesus speaks into.

“I am going to prepare a place for you.”

Words that have echoed through countless funerals in our churches. Words that remind us that when we gather for a funeral, we are not simply remembering an individual in isolation. We are tracing the threads of a life woven into a place.

We remember the places they worked, the lanes they walked, perhaps the pew they sat in, the hands they shook at the church door. We remember how their life intersected with others, family, neighbours, friends. And in doing so, we begin to glimpse something of what Jesus is speaking about.

A place is being prepared. Not an abstract heaven detached from the world we know, but a place that gathers up all that has been good, true, and loving in a person’s life, and holds it securely in God. The Christian hope is not that our lives are discarded, but that they are fulfilled.

And then into this beautiful moment, Thomas speaks. Good old Thomas who mirrors so much of the way we all think at times, he is honest, direct, curious, even inquisitive.

“But we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?”

It is a question that arises not just in the Upper Room, but at the graveside. When faced with death, with the apparent finality of it, we find ourselves asking: where is this leading? What is the way through? And Jesus answers not with directions – but with one of the most profound statements in all of Scripture: “I am the way, and the truth, and the life.”

Not a map. Not a set of instructions. A person.

In funeral ministry, that matters deeply. Because what we offer is not simply comforting words or vague reassurance. We point to Christ himself, the one who has gone through death and out the other side. The one who does not stand at a distance from our grief but enters into it. And time and again, in those moments that might seem darkest, we catch glimpses of life.

In the way a family comes together, perhaps after years of distance. In stories shared bringing laughter into a church that, moments before, was heavy with silence. In the quiet strength of widows and children who mourn, and in the simple, faithful presence of an entire village that simply turns up.

These are not small things. They are signs, signs that death does not have the final word. Signs that life, somehow, persists.

And all of this brings us to where Jesus is leading his disciples. I often wonder why we have this reading after Easter, words taken from Jesus’ farewell at the Last Supper. Perhaps, though, these words are not only about death; they are about departure. Jesus is not only preparing his disciples for the Easter weekend ahead – but also for his ascension. That moment when he returns to the father, not to abandon his disciples, but to draw them into a new way of being.

A new being that their lives are being shaped for, beyond what they can yet see.

And the same is true for us.

In the Christian life, we are not simply moving towards an ending. We are being formed. Shaped. Prepared. Every act of love, every moment of faithfulness, every time we stand in the face of darkness and choose hope, these are not isolated moments. They are part of a larger work that God is doing in us.

Every time I have the privilege of taking a funeral I see this. Because in accompanying others through death, we are reminded of our own mortality. But we are also reminded of our calling, to be people of the resurrection.

To be, in our own small and imperfect ways, signs of the life that is to come.

And so, when Jesus says, “Do not let your hearts be troubled,” he is not offering a quick fix or an easy answer. He is inviting us into a deeper trust.

A trust that, in Christ, the way, the truth and the life, leads not into nothingness, but into life.

For some, the image of a shepherd is a comforting, almost sentimental one, rolling hills, still waters, perhaps something lifted from a greetings card. But for anyone who has spent any amount of time in a lambing field at 5am, with a ewe that doesn’t want to be caught, a cold wind ripping through your coat, covered in goodness know what coming out of their back end trying your absolute hardest to save their lambs, we know the truth is rather different.

Shepherding, I’m afraid, is not picturesque. It is demanding, relentless, often exhausting work. It is about vigilance, care, risk, and loss. It is about knowing your flock, not in theory, but in practice. It is about being present. It is about knowing which ewe is likely to do what with their lamb, knowing who the good mums are, knowing who might need some help. It is about being prepared to go and scrape up those lambs that don’t make it when they are born in a freeze. It is about experiencing and embracing every aspect of life.

And it is precisely this reality that gives such depth to Jesus’ words: “I am the good shepherd.”

But, in the biblical world, shepherds did not always have the best reputation. In the Old Testament, they are sometimes heroes, David, the shepherd king; the Lord himself as shepherd in Psalm 23. But elsewhere, shepherds could be seen as rough, unreliable, outsiders to polite society. By the time of Jesus, they were often regarded with suspicion, living on the edges, unclean, untrustworthy.

And yet, every year on this the fourth Sunday of Easter, this is the image we remember Jesus chose. Not a king on a throne. Not a general leading an army. Not a philosopher in a school. A shepherd. Someone who knows his sheep, calls them by name, and lays down his life for them.

Today we are told something profound about the nature of God. God is not distant. God is not abstract. God is not removed from the mess and muddle of life. God is among us. He is with us. He is for us.

The Good Shepherd does not simply watch from afar. He steps into the brokenness of the world. He enters into suffering. As we heard in 1 Peter, “He himself bore our sins in his body on the tree… by his wounds you have been healed.” This is not sentimental shepherding. This is costly love.

But there is more. Because if the Gospel shows us the shepherd, the other readings we heard today perhaps begin to show us the flock. In Acts, we glimpse the early Church: “They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers.” They shared what they had. They ate together. They worshipped together. They lived as a community shaped by the presence of the risen Christ. This is what it looks like to be a flock gathered by the Good Shepherd. Not scattered, not isolated, but together.

And Psalm 23, todays appointed Psalm, and perhaps the most beloved of all, gives us the language to understand this relationship: “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.” Not because life is easy. Not because there are no dark valleys—indeed, the psalmist assumes there will be. But because the shepherd is present. “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for you are with me.” That is the promise.

Now, it is worth saying that sheep themselves are not always the most flattering metaphor. They are not known for their independence or intelligence. They are prone to wandering. They can get themselves into difficulty remarkably quickly. They are prone to death at every turn, for absolutely no reason at all.

And maybe that, too, is part of the point. To be a Christian is to acknowledge that we are not entirely self-sufficient. That we do not always know the way. That we need guidance, care, and sometimes rescuing.

And the good news for us today is that God’s sheep are not left to fend for themselves. They are known. Called. Gathered. Today’s reading tells us that we are not alone. That we are part of something bigger. That we are held within a community, and more than that, within the care of Christ himself.

So on this Good Shepherd Sunday, in the midst of lambing time, we are invited to see with fresh eyes what it means to follow Christ.

To recognise his voice amid the noise of the world.

To trust his leading, even when the path is not clear.

To rest in his care, even in the valley.

And to be part of his flock, a community shaped not by self-interest, but by shared life, shared worship, shared hope. Because the Good Shepherd does not simply come to manage the flock. He comes, as he says in the Gospel, “that they may have life, and have it in abundance.”

Not a meagre existence. Not survival alone. But life in all its fullness.

I must confess, I haven’t read Avis’ book, and therefore my reaction is purely to this phrase rather than the book as a whole, but as a young in age and service cleric, this is the sort of line that lands heavily (and makes me slightly fret about any pension prospects). But, I suppose, it names something many of us recognise. There are days when my churches feel fragile, when numbers are thin, when the weight of maintenance, administration, and expectation feels, quite frankly, too much.

And yet, I find myself resisting the notion that sadness has the final word. Because I believe, deeply and stubbornly, in the future of the parish system. Not as a relic or something we preserve out of sentiment, but as something both alive and life giving.

One of the great gifts of the parish is that it is not an abstract idea. It is rooted in place, and more than that, it is rooted in people. Stand in any of our rural churches and you begin to see it.

In the registers, written with significantly neater handwriting than my own, are the names of those who have been baptised, confirmed, married, had banns called and found a final resting place in the Churchyard. Page after page, decade after decade, even century after century in some instances. I enjoy looking through these registers from time to time, and am always taken aback by one thing in particular, the same surnames appear again and again.

On Good Friday I led a service of Stations of the Cross through the Churchyard of Grimston church. As I placed the stations out on stakes, that story seen in the registers became visible in stone. Family names clustered together. Children at rest near parents, husbands beside wives. Burial plots with multiple stones as entire families have been interred together. A quiet testimony that our Churches have held people, have marked their lives, and we have been entrusted to commended them to God.

And then, on a Sunday service or at a coffee morning, those same names are still present. Sometimes there are, quite literally, descendants of those in the registers sitting in the pews of the churches, knowing that there are generations of their family resting just outside. In an era that promotes mobility and choice, I'm convinced the parish offers something quite countercultural: a church that belongs to a place, and therefore to everyone within it, past, present and future.

You do not join a parish church in the same way you might join a club. It is already there, waiting. Doors that open not only for the committed, but for the curious, the occasional, the uncertain and even the outright non-believers who still find peace in our buildings and churchyards. I am reminding each year at APCM season of the few folk, never seen in the pews on a Sunday, but supporting their church, year after year, as it is quite rightly theirs.

We must take seriously the reality that folk feel we are a relic, a “sad church in a sad society,” if you like. But before we throw away centuries of ministry in favour of the new, it would do us well to remember that the parish system is precisely the place where that sadness can be met with something else. Each parish church I serve is uniquely placed to be attentive. It notices when someone has not been seen for a while. It gathers when there is loss. It celebrates when there is joy. It holds together people who might otherwise never meet.

As much as I love a strategy, and have over the past few months sent many emails in attempt to shape the future strategy of our own Diocese, as I have reflected upon Alan’s teaching day I have come to the conclusion that the future of the parish system and the Church of England (and therefore my pension, not that I spend much time thinking about it!) will not be secured by strategy alone. I am becoming more and more convinced it will be found in the quiet, persistent work of being present.

In keeping the registers.
In tending the graveyards.
In opening the doors.
In saying the prayers.
In knowing the names.

In continuing to weave those threads that bind people to place, and place to God.

Because those threads, whilst occasionally strained, have not yet broken, my diary and many of my colleagues diaries are testament to that. The parish, as I see it, for all its fragility and uncertainty, for all its burden and worry, still carries within it something remarkable: the possibility of a church that is woven fully into the life of its community, and that is not a sad vision at all.

In the Sundays that follow Easter, then, we hear of the resurrection appearances in the days after the stone was rolled away, the ways in which Jesus’ glorious body was revealed to his disciples and to the world.

Last week we heard how he appeared to the frightened disciples hiding in a locked room. They rejoiced at seeing him, and he commissioned them for ministry and gave them the Holy Spirit. He appeared again when Thomas was there, so that he might see the marks of the nails and believe. I reflected on how public wedding vows were made clearly “for the avoidance of doubt” just like Thomas’s desire for certainty. Today we hear of a third encounter, Jesus taking bread, breaking it and giving it to his disciples on the road to Emmaus so that they might recognise him.

There is something deeply striking about these appearances. Time and again, people do not recognise the risen Christ at first. Given that the disciples had spent three years with him, this always seems slightly extraordinary to me. Yet it is not simply his presence that reveals him. Jesus acts. He speaks. He calls them by name. He breaks bread with them And in that moment, they recognise him.

It is through Jesus’s actions that he is known.

Each of us acts in a certain way. Each church, each PCC, each vicar, each community has its own way of acting. So perhaps we might ask ourselves a bold question this morning. Does the way we act allow the risen Christ to be recognised?

I find it a compelling thought that each of us can be, in some sense, a resurrection appearance in our own day through the words we share, the actions we take (or perhaps don’t), simply the way we are.

This is exactly what we see in today’s epistle from Acts. Peter stands before the crowd and proclaims with clarity that Jesus, whom they crucified, has been made both Lord and Messiah. The people are cut to the heart. They ask what they must do, and Peter calls them to repent and be baptised. And they respond. Thousands are added to the fold of believers that day. Here is resurrection power not simply remembered but proclaimed, embodied, and acted upon. The risen Christ is made known through the bold witness and faithful action of his followers.

We can see the same pattern in the world around us. When Christians bring aid into places of conflict, when healing is sought and sometimes found through prayer, when peace is pursued through the work of the Church, when we gather here in this parish to break bread and proclaim the risen Lord, these are glimpses of resurrection life made visible.

Yet all of this requires action. It asks more of us than simply turning up. So I wonder today, what might your action be? Perhaps something personal. Perhaps something for the Church here to reflect on. Perhaps even a voice raised more widely within the life of the Church. What might we do to make the resurrection of Christ visible here and now?

C. S. Lewis wrote in Miracles, which is a wonderful book by the way, “The Resurrection, and its consequences, were the ‘gospel’ or good news which the Christians brought.”

We often think of the Gospels, with a big G, as the four books of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. Yet the true gospel, the true good news, is the living, saving power of the risen Christ, as present now as it was two thousand years ago, and as it will be in ages to come. Our calling as the church is to make that good news known, visible and real for all who seek it.

At a wedding, vows are not whispered quietly between two people. They are not hidden away in private. They are made publicly, they are made deliberately, they are made clearly and for the avoidance of doubt.

There is no ambiguity. No uncertainty about what is being promised.
“I take you…”
“I promise…”
“Till death us do part.”

Those words are spoken in front of witnesses, not because love needs an audience, but because commitment needs clarity. The vows are made so that there can be no doubt, neither for the couple, nor for those gathered around them, that something real, binding, and transformative has taken place.

And then we come to Thomas.

Poor Thomas often gets a bad reputation, “Doubting Thomas,” we call him, as though doubt were his defining characteristic. But I wonder if actually, Thomas is asking for clarity. He is asking for something real. He has heard the others say, “We have seen the Lord,” but that is not enough for him. He wants to know for himself. He wants to see, to touch, to be certain.

“Unless I see…”

I am convinced it is not stubbornness so much as honesty. Thomas refuses to have a second-hand faith. He refuses vague reassurance. He longs for something concrete—something he can stake his life on.

And the remarkable thing is this: Jesus does not rebuke him for that.

Instead, a week later, Jesus comes again. Deja-vu perhaps to the others. He stands among them and says, “Peace be with you.” And then he turns, directly, personally, to Thomas. He offers him exactly what he asked for.

“Put your finger here… see my hands… do not doubt but believe.”

In other words, Jesus finds Thomas in his doubt, and meets him not by dismissing it, but by answering it. He gives him, if you like, a view of the resurrection for the avoidance of doubt.

Just as those wedding vows are spoken aloud, clearly and publicly, so too the resurrection is not left as a rumour or a feeling to Thomas. It is revealed. It is shown. It is embodied in the wounds of Christ. The risen Jesus still bears the marks of the cross. The proof of his love is not erased, it is carried forward. The wounds themselves become the evidence.

And that is where these two moments, Friday’s wedding and today’s Gospel, perhaps meet.

Because at a wedding, those vows are not just words; they are promises that will be tested, stretched, and lived out over time. They are not made because everything is certain, but because commitment chooses faithfulness even in uncertainty.

Thomas, in his own way, is seeking that same kind of certainty, not an abstract idea, but something he can trust with his whole life. And when he encounters the risen Christ, his response is not cautious or partial. It is one of the most profound declarations in the whole Gospel:

“My Lord and my God!”

That is no longer doubt speaking. That is faith: clear, wholehearted, and personal.

Most of us, if we are honest, I suspect, live somewhere between the other disciples and Thomas. We have heard the story. We gather week by week and say, “Christ is risen.” And yet there are moments, perhaps quiet ones, most certainly real ones, when we long for reassurance, for clarity, for something that feels certain.

And the good news of this passage is not that doubt is shameful, but that Christ meets us within it.

He does not demand blind faith. He offers himself to each of us, wounded, risen, present.

And just as those wedding vows are made publicly so that all can witness and hold onto them, so too the resurrection is given not as a private experience, but as a shared reality lived out in the life of the Church.

I ended my sermon on Friday, just before they said their vows, with the following words: “Marriage is not the absence of conflict, but the decision to wake up every day and chose to still love the other”. Perhaps, we mirror that today - faith is not the absence of doubt, but the decision to wake up every day and still trust the one who meets us in our moments of doubt, confusion, worry and proclaim for the avoidance of doubt - “My Lord and my God.”

Amen.

We have, in these past three months, begun something new together. New rhythms. New relationships. New ways of being church across our villages. And if we are honest, new beginnings are not always easy. They come with uncertainty, with questions, with the quiet wondering: what will this become?

That is precisely where the first Easter morning meets us.

The women come to the tomb not expecting new life, but carrying spices for death. They come with love, yes. But also with grief, with confusion, with a sense that the story has ended. And yet, in the place where they expected finality, they encounter something altogether different. The stone is rolled away. The tomb is empty. And the message is astonishing: “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here; he has risen.”

Easter begins not with certainty, but with surprise.

And perhaps that speaks into our life together more than we might realise. Because the new life of Easter is not something we manufacture. It is a gift God gives us, often in places we had assumed were finished, settled, or even lifeless.

Over these past months, I have begun to see signs of that life among us. In conversations at church doors that linger a little longer. In the quiet faithfulness of those who keep things going week by week. In the openness of communities willing to welcome, to adapt, to hope. These may seem like small things—but so too was an empty tomb in a quiet garden on the edge of Jerusalem.

New life rarely arrives with fanfare. More often, it begins quietly, almost imperceptibly, before it takes hold.

And Easter tells us that this new life is not fragile or fleeting. It is rooted in the risen Christ, who has passed through death and come out the other side. The life he offers is not just a fresh start, but a transformed future. A future in which hope has the final word, not fear; in which life triumphs over death; in which God is always at work, even when we cannot yet see the fullness of it.

So as we stand at this point, just a few months into a new and exciting shared journey together, it is right to give thanks. But it is also right to look ahead with expectation. Because the same power that raised Christ from the dead is at work among us.

The question for this benefice is simple: will we recognise it? Will we step into it? Will we trust that God is doing something new here, in these villages, in these churches, in this part of West Norfolk?

Easter invites us not just to celebrate new life, but to live it.

To leave behind what holds us in the tomb—fear, hesitation, the weight of “how things have always been”—and to step into the light of what God is calling us to become.

Christ is risen. And because he is risen, the future is open.

And yet, in the ancient hymn we proclaim with joy today, the Church dares to speak of the cross in a very different way. “Faithful cross, above all other, one and only noble tree”

At first, it feels almost jarring because the cross, in its original context, was anything but faithful and noble. It was an instrument of humiliation, reserved for criminals and rebels. It was designed not just to kill, but to shame. It was a tool of oppression, as I suspect you will feel when a cross is carried among us in a few moments time.

How then did the church drift from oppression to noble? It means that something has happened here that changes everything.

The cross is not beautiful because of what it is, it is beautiful because of who hangs upon it. Christ takes what is ugly, and makes it the place of love. He takes what is cruel, and makes it the means of redemption. He takes what is a sign of death, and turns it into the tree of life. And that is why the hymn calls it faithful. Not because the wood itself has virtue, but because upon it we see the faithfulness of even to the point of death.

On the cross, Christ does not turn away. He does not abandon the world in its brokenness. He enters into it fully, bearing sin, carrying sorrow, enduring suffering, and he remains there.

This is the paradox of Good Friday.

Because what we see here is not only suffering, it is sacrifice. Not only pain, it is purpose. Not only death, it is the outpouring of love. The sweetness we sing of is not in the nails. It is in the love that holds Christ there.

And that matters for us because the cross is not just something we look at. It is something that speaks into our lives. In a world that still knows suffering, still knows injustice, still knows the weight of grief and loss, the cross tells us that God is not distant from these things. He has been there. He is there.

The “noble tree” bears fruit, fruit that is life for the world.

And so, as we come to venerate the cross today, we do so not in denial of its darkness, but in recognition of what God has done through it. This is the tree that stands at the centre of our faith - Not because it is impressive, but because it is transformative.

Here, on this tree, love is revealed in its fullest depth.
Here, on this tree, God proves his faithfulness beyond doubt.
Here, on this tree, Christ gives himself for you and for I.

On Easter morning around the world the Church proclaims with joy: “Christ is risen!” It is a message of hope, new life, and fresh beginnings. At a time of year when nature around us begins to awaken again, Easter reminds us that renewal and transformation are at the very centre of the Christian story.

But Easter is also an invitation. It invites us to ask deeper questions about life, meaning, and faith. Many people carry quiet questions about God, spirituality, and purpose, yet rarely find the space to explore them openly. That is exactly why we are launching an Alpha Course in Gayton starting on Thursday 23rd of April.

Alpha is a simple and welcoming way to explore the Christian faith. It has been run all over the world and has helped millions of people reflect on life’s big questions. The format is relaxed and informal. Each evening begins with food together, followed by a short video exploring a theme of the Christian faith, and then a chance to talk about it in small groups. There is no pressure, no expectation, and absolutely no such thing as a silly question.

You don’t need any prior knowledge of Christianity to come along. Some people attend because they are curious about faith. Others are returning to church after many years away. Some simply enjoy the conversation and the chance to reflect on life with others. Wherever you find yourself, you would be very warmly welcomed.

So, this Easter, if you have ever wondered about faith, or if you are simply curious to learn more, I warmly invite you to join us in St Nicholas Church, Gayton from Thursday 23rd April, 6:30pm.

It may just be the beginning of a very meaningful journey.

God bless you all.

A home, two sisters. A village facing grief that is familiar and raw.

Martha is practical, busy, trying to hold things together. Mary is overwhelmed, weeping at Jesus’ feet. The mourners have gathered. The rhythms of death are being observed just as they always have been. There is nothing unusual about any of it until, suddenly, there is.

Isn’t that so often how God works. Not always in the spectacular, but in the midst of the ordinary. Not always in grand gestures, but in the quiet, familiar places of human life. In our homes, our friendships, our tears, our conversations.

It is right there, in the middle of that ordinary grief, Jesus does something extraordinary.

But notice how he gets there - He does not rush. He does not prevent the suffering. He does not stand at a distance.

At the beginning of Passiontide, this simple truth matters deeply. Because what lies ahead is not a sudden leap to Easter joy, but a journey through suffering. A journey through the apparent silence of God. A journey towards the cross. And yet, even there, the extraordinary is already at work.

Jesus stands before the tomb and calls Lazarus out. Life breaks into death. Hope interrupts despair. What seemed final is not final after all.

There is something so profound that this extraordinary act happens not apart from the ordinary, but from within it. Jesus isn’t on the fringes surrounded by a halo of glory - rather he is stood at the tomb weeping with the people.

And that is not just a truth for Bethany. It is a truth for our world today.

If we turn our eyes to the Middle East, a region defined in our headlines by conflict, instability, and sorrow, I don’t know about you, but I find it so easy to see only the tomb. Only the weight of grief. Only what feels irredeemable. And yet, even there, stories emerge of extraordinary hope within deeply ordinary lives.

In places where communities have been torn apart, there are those quietly rebuilding restoring homes, reopening schools, choosing reconciliation over revenge. Churches, often small and under immense pressure, continue to gather week by week. Bread is broken. Prayers are said. Children are baptised. Faith persists. There are Christian families who have every reason to leave, and yet choose to remain, not out of stubbornness, but out of a quiet conviction that their presence matters. That light is most needed where darkness seems strongest.

None of this makes headlines in the way that conflict does. It is ordinary, often unnoticed. And yet, it is precisely there that we glimpse something extraordinary. Because hope, in the Christian sense, is not naïve optimism. It is not pretending that death is not real. Lazarus was truly dead. The grief was real. The tomb was sealed.

Hope is the conviction that even there, especially there, God is at work.

And that conviction shapes how we live.

It calls us away from despair, absolutely. But it also calls us away from easy answers. It reminds us that renewal is often slow, rooted, and costly. That communities matter. That faith is not abstract, but lived, in homes, in relationships, in places.

In a world that often chases quick solutions or dramatic change, the Gospel points us again and again and again to something more grounded - the patient, faithful presence of God among his people, living the ordinary, but experiencing the extraordinary.

And so, as we begin this journey of Passiontide, we are invited to look again at the ordinary places of our own lives and use this wonderful story of Lazarus to remind us that the extraordinary work of God so often begins precisely there.

The quiet, daily calling of God’s people to live as those who believe that death does not have the final word is perhaps the deepest hope of Passiontide. That, even as we walk toward the cross, even as we face the reality of suffering in our world, we do so knowing that the voice of Christ is still calling life out of death.

This article was published in the Eastern Daily Press on the 19th March 2026.

The Samaritan woman is of course one of the first evangelists in the Gospel story. Before the disciples even understand what is happening, she has already recognised something extraordinary about Jesus. And when she leaves the well, she becomes the messenger who brings others to Christ. What is remarkable here is not simply that she encounters Jesus, but that she is entrusted with proclaiming him.

In the culture of the first century, women were rarely recognised as authoritative witnesses, unable to give testimony in court, not trusted with much to be frank. Yet in this moment Jesus deliberately places the truth of the Gospel into the hands of a woman whose life others might easily have dismissed.

And this is not an isolated moment. As the Gospel story unfolds and the journey to the cross deepens, women repeatedly appear at the crucial turning points of salvation.

When the disciples scatter in fear, women remain. When Jesus is crucified, women stand watching. And when the resurrection dawns, it is women who first announce the news. In other words, women, the women who were pushed to the margins of society, are not at the margins of the story of salvation, they are central to it.

The Samaritan woman reminds us that God’s work often begins in unexpected places and through unexpected voices. We see something of that same courage and persistence reflected in the world today.

Turn on the news and we see women reporting from the most dangerous places on earth. Standing amid the rubble of cities, speaking truth from the front lines of war. Journalists like Clarissa Ward or Lyse Doucet have reported from conflict zones across the Middle East, often at great personal risk. Their voices carry stories that must be heard. Stories of suffering, resilience, and hope. Like the Samaritan woman, they step into difficult spaces and speak truth so that others might see clearly.

Women also shape the cultural imagination of our time. Figures such as Taylor Swift demonstrate the extraordinary influence that the cultural voice of women can carry. Literally millions listen when she speaks or sings. Whether through music, storytelling, or advocacy, cultural figures shape how society thinks about identity and belonging.

In the sphere of global responsibility and environmental concern, we see yet another example in Greta Thunberg. Beginning as a solitary student protest outside the Swedish parliament, her young but bold voice has grown into a worldwide movement urging nations to confront the climate crisis. Whether one agrees with every argument she makes or not, there is no denying the impact of a young woman willing to speak with conviction.

And the Church itself is not untouched by this transformation. In the life of the Church of England we see women carrying enormous responsibility in leadership and pastoral care. Among them our new Archbishop, Sarah Mullaly – a remarkable story of service, of guiding people toward Christ with wisdom and compassion. Of invitation.

The Samaritan woman went back to her town with a simple invitation: “Come and see.” She was not famous. She held no public office. She had no cultural platform. She was certainly no Taylor Swift, no Archbishop of Canturbury – she was an ordinary woman, who had was an encounter with Christ, and that changed everything. She came to the well carrying the burdens of her life, perhaps hoping to avoid the eyes of others. She left it carrying living water, the knowledge that God had seen her, known her, and called her.

“Come and see.” Those three words, spoken by someone cast out to the edges of society, changed a community and they can still change the world. Because the Gospel spreads not through power or prestige, but through ordinary people whose lives have been touched by Christ.

God calls unexpected voices.

God uses those the world might overlook.

God invites you and I, having tasted the living water — to have the courage, like the Samaritan woman, to go and simply say: “come and see.”

For a few brief weeks snowdrops have quietly carpeted our churchyards and hedgerows, brave and bright against the grey of winter. Now, almost unnoticed, it seems they are making way for daffodils, bold splashes of yellow that seem to trumpet the arrival of spring. There is something deeply fitting about this gentle turning of the seasons as we enter Lent. Just as winter gives way to spring, so Lent invites us into a season of preparation - not bleakness for its own sake, but the patient, hopeful work of new life stirring beneath the surface.

Many of you enjoyed the Lambing Day at Abbey Farm in East Walton, a wonderful celebration of new life that drew together families from across our villages. There is something profoundly joyful about standing in a barn filled with the soft bleating of newborn lambs, watching children’s faces light up as they encounter life just hours old. It is messy, noisy, and utterly hopeful. At The Rectory too, the first lambs have started to arrive, and there is that familiar mixture of anticipation and interrupted sleep – yet each fragile arrival feels like a quiet proclamation: life is stronger than the cold; the light is brighter than the dark; new beginnings are always possible.

Lent mirrors this pattern. It is a season when we take stock, clear away what has grown cluttered, and make space for God to work afresh in us. Like the snowdrops, much of that work may be hidden or like the daffodils, some of it may burst into visible change. But whether quiet or loud it always leads us towards Easter, towards resurrection and hope.

You would be most welcome to join us in church during this season whether for a quiet midweek service, Sunday worship, or simply a moment of stillness and prayer. Come and be part of this journey from winter into spring, from reflection into joy, from Lent into Easter hope.

God bless you all.

It may not look like it at first glance, but I dare to suggest today, that this is very close to what Jesus is talking about in John’s Gospel this morning.

Nicodemus comes to Jesus at night. He is a serious man. A Pharisee. A teacher of Israel. A man who has read the Scriptures, kept the law, done all the right things. Yet something is missing. He comes quietly, cautiously, perhaps curiously. “Rabbi,” he says, “we know you are a teacher who has come from God…”

And Jesus answers him in a way that seems almost abrupt: “Very truly I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God unless they are born again.”

Born again.

Nicodemus is baffled. “How can someone be born when they are old?” he asks. You can almost hear the confusion in his voice.

He has spent his life feeding on religion, on rules, on knowledge, on moral effort, and yet he is still hungry. Still searching. Still coming in the dark.

Like the caterpillar, he has been eating and eating and eating the things of this world. But it has not yet made him alive.

Jesus tells him something extraordinary: being religious is not the same as being reborn. Being knowledgeable is not the same as being transformed. You must be born “of water and the Spirit.” Flesh gives birth to flesh, but Spirit gives birth to spirit.

In other words: you cannot think your way into the kingdom. You cannot earn your way into the kingdom. You cannot consume enough religious fruit, or cake, or chocolate to get there. You must be changed from the inside.

The caterpillar cannot turn himself into a butterfly by effort. He cannot flap harder, eat more, or crawl faster. There comes a moment when he must surrender to a different kind of process altogether. He builds a cocoon and inside that hidden place, transformation happens.

The Spirit works in a similar way, a hidden way. Quietly. Invisibly. Deep within. ‘New birth’ as the Christian faith puts it, is not cosmetic improvement; it is total re-creation.

The caterpillar eats because he is hungry. We strive, and consume, and chase, because we are hungry too, hungry for meaning, for security, for identity, for love. We try success, possessions, reputation, even religion. Yet still the hunger lingers.

The good news for each of us today - Jesus does not shame Nicodemus for coming at night. He meets him there. He does not condemn the world. The gospel tells us clearly: “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.”

The caterpillar’s story is not one of condemnation for overeating; it is a story of becoming what he was always meant to be. And that for me is the very heart of the gospel.

Perhaps some of us feel more like caterpillars than butterflies this morning. Hungry. Searching. Slightly queasy from trying to fill ourselves with too many things. Or perhaps we feel stuck inside a cocoon — hidden, uncertain, waiting. Jesus’ words to Nicodemus are words for us: you must be born from above.

For God so loved the world.

He loved Nicodemus in his confusion.
He loves us in our hunger.
He loves the world in its darkness.

And in Christ, he makes transformation possible.

From a tiny egg. To a hungry caterpillar. Wrapped up, hidden in a cocoon. To the most beautiful butterfly. This is not just a children’s story. It is the story of grace, of the Gospel, of hope for each of us.

Matthew tells us that “Jesus was led by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil.” Not accidentally. Not because he lost his way. But led deliberately into a place of hunger, exposure, and testing. And if we are honest, it does not take much imagination this year to feel that wilderness.

We look at the news of the world around us and see instability almost everywhere we turn. Political leaders announcing sweeping tariff rises that threaten global trade and deepen economic uncertainty. Ongoing violence and anguish in Israel and Palestine, in Ukraine, where every fresh headline seems to carry grief, anger, and fear. Renewed scrutiny and controversy surrounding public figures and institutions that once seemed immovable. The sense that the ground beneath us, politically, economically, morally, is shifting.

It feels chaotic. And into that chaos, this Gospel speaks.

The temptations of Jesus are not strange, religious puzzles. They are deeply human.

First, the devil says: “If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become bread.”

I.e.: You are hungry. You have power. Use it to secure yourself.

Is that not the temptation behind so much of our global anxiety? Nations hoarding resources. Public policy driven by fear of scarcity. Leaders tempted to use power primarily to secure their own position or popularity. The pressure to turn stones into bread, quickly, decisively, visibly, even if the cost is long-term justice or compassion.

But Jesus refuses. “One does not live by bread alone.” In a world obsessed with markets and metrics, Lent asks us: What truly sustains us? Where is our trust placed when the world feels unstable?

The second temptation: “Throw yourself down… for it is written, ‘He will command his angels concerning you.’”

It is a temptation to spectacle, to dramatic proof. To force God’s hand. To perform faith as a public display of invulnerability. How familiar that sounds. Folk increasingly reward outrage, performance and instant reaction. Leaders grandstand. Institutions scramble to protect reputation. Social media thrives on spectacle. We are tempted to prove ourselves, to secure validation through dramatic gestures.

And Jesus refuses again. Lent perhaps asks us: How often do we, collectively and personally, try to prove ourselves rather than trust quietly? How often do nations test moral limits in the name of strength?

Then the third temptation: “All these kingdoms I will give you… if you will fall down and worship me.”

In a world where conflict escalates and diplomacy falters, where leaders puff out their chests and alliances strain, this temptation feels painfully close. The promise that if we just grasp power tightly enough, if we dominate, if we silence opposition, if we redraw borders or build bigger walls, then everything will be secure.

But there is always a hidden cost.

To gain the kingdoms of the world by compromise is to bow before something other than God. It is to let fear, pride, nationalism, or self-preservation become ultimate. Jesus answers with clarity: “Worship the Lord your God, and serve him only.”

And I think here is where we find the heart of Lent.

“The wilderness reveals what we worship.”

In times of stability, our allegiances can remain comfortably hidden. But in chaos — in hunger, insecurity, political turmoil — our true trusts are exposed. Do we worship security? Prosperity? National identity? Personal reputation? Influence? Or do we worship God?

The thing about this Gospel is that Jesus enters the wilderness before he begins his public ministry. Before miracles. Before sermons. Before crowds. The testing comes first. And perhaps this is where we find hope. Because the world’s chaos does not mean God is absent. Matthew tells us that Jesus was led by the Spirit into the wilderness. Even in the place of temptation, God is not relinquishing control. Even when the headlines scream instability, God is not surprised.

Lent is not about pretending the world is calm. It is about learning how to stand faithful when it is not. We do not respond to tariff wars with panic. We do not respond to violence with hatred. We do not respond to public scandal with despair. We do not respond to political theatre by becoming theatrical ourselves.

The world’s chaos is often the result of humanity grasping for bread without trust, spectacle without humility, power without worship. But, Jesus shows another way.

This Lent, we are invited into that same journey. To examine our own temptations. To notice where fear drives us. To ask what we truly worship. In a restless and anxious world, the Church is called not to mirror the chaos, but to model a deeper trust. Because the chaos of the wilderness will not have the last word, resurrection will.

And yet, as we prepare to enter a dark, bracing time, simultaneously by February, the snowdrops are already fading, and the first daffodils are beginning to push through. The light is lingering just a little longer at the end of the day. And throughout sheds and fields across the country, lambing season has begun.

Let me tell you, there is something deeply moving about lambing season. I wish that lambs were born in the warmth of the afternoon sun, but usually – it is in the cold, in the mud, in the long dark hours that new life arrives. These tiny things, fragile, trembling, damp with birth, and yet full of promise. Every year as I have the joy and privilege to watch a lamb that can barely stand, wobble towards its mother, I am reminded of the miracle of new life against the chill of late winter.

Every year Ash Wednesday tells us we are dust but every year, signs of spring and new life remind us that dust is not the end of the story.

The ash we are traditionally marked with is made from the prior year’s palm crosses, burnt rather unceremoniously in vicarage gardens up and down the country. Symbols of triumph turned into dust. It is a sign of repentance, of turning back to God, of honesty about our frailty, our sin, our mortality. But repentance in Scripture is never simply about feeling sorry. It is about turning around. About stepping back towards life.

Let me tell you, alongside the faint whiff of burning palm crosses, if you visited the Rectory at midnight this week or next, you would find no romanticism about lambing. It is hard work. There are sleepless nights. There is loss as well as joy. There is vulnerability everywhere you look. And yet no shepherd I know would say, “It’s too cold; we’ll skip new life this year.” New life comes right in the middle of the harshness.

To me, Lent is like that. We enter forty days each and every year not to wallow in guilt, but to make space for God to bring new life in us, to clear away what has hardened, to confess what has grown cold, to admit where we have wandered. The ash marks our mortality but it also marks us as people who are not finished yet.

In the lambing shed, a newborn lamb must learn quickly where nourishment is found. It must draw close to its mother. It must depend, completely. There is no pretence of independence in those first hours. Only need. Ash Wednesday invites us back into that posture of dependence. We are not self-sufficient creatures. We are dust animated by the breath of God.

As we approach Lent, go to church on Ash Wednesday, not because you are strong, but because you are fragile. Not because you are whole, but because you are in need of healing. Not because you are full, but because you are hungry - and you never know, you might just encounter Jesus Christ, the Lamb who was born into our winter, who entered into our dust, who walked our wilderness, who faced our death.

You see, Lent does not end in ash. It ends in resurrection. And the God who formed us from dust is even now breathing his life into us again.