Them-and-Us may be one of the defining divisions of our age. We tend to regard ourselves as ‘normative’, and those unlike us as ‘other’. Prejudicial labels abound. Think ‘straight’ and its (historic) opposites: ‘bent’ or ‘queer’. Think in terms of black and white; British or American citizen, and the alleged opposites – ‘immigrant’, ‘illegal’, ‘alien’, ‘migrant’. Think ‘male’ (normal) and ‘female’ (different). As humans, we can’t help ourselves trying to process, order, categorise and evaluate what and who we see, and what may matter and what may not. To do so is merely to be a rational creature. However, we often forget that what we think is our description is very often our ascription too. What and whom we see are always weighted – socially, morally, emotionally – in ways we are seldom conscious of (our unconscious bias). This is because the mind settles, if it can, on what is ‘normative’, and that alone allows us to determine what is ‘other’, unusual or atypical.

Human beings are shape-sorting and colour-sifting animals. We categorise, and we label. We order the sensate, and construct hierarchies of meaning and value. That is normal and natural. Yet we rarely pause to question the moral underside of this behaviour, or where our prevailing presumptions and assumptions come from. We screen, and we filter what we sense all the time. We make value judgments without even knowing it. What we see, hear, taste, smell and touch each and every day - all of these are freighted with meanings and values we rarely process, at least consciously - unless they are part of a repertoire of learned skills or taught beliefs.

Yet the future Jesus proclaims in the coming of the Kingdom, and the equality embodied in the early church, transcended the conscious and unconscious – those mental walls of categorisation and bias that exist within even the most generous hearts and reflective minds. The future Jesus advocated and advanced in ministry and mission – the new kingdom that was to come – gave us a foretaste of God’s ultimate goal of harmony, peace and love. In the meantime, we are bid, as followers of God and as the church, to usher in the kin-dom of God. Kin-dom is not a pun. The phrase “kith and kin” is ancient. “Kith” describes groups of people who just happen to live close, or in our network or community: it essentially refers to those whom we choose to be friends with. “Kin”, in contrast, refers to our “nearest and dearest” – family – and whom we cannot choose.

So, God in Christ adopts us all as children of God. In turn, the church is asked to become an adoptive agency for Christ’s all-embracing reconciling love. Churches often run on lines of “kith” – we choose the congregation we want to be part of, and the fellowship we keep. But “kin” is stronger. It is to become a community where we are asked to love those we dislike; bless and pray for our enemies; share bread with those with whom we might have sharp differences. The church is a call to kinship; to develop kindred relations; we are asked not to settle for mere kith in our congregations. We are all one kin – “…there is neither Jew nor Gentile, slave nor free, male or female – for all are one in Christ Jesus…” (Galatians 3: 28)

In this new world, we are all inter-related. The church is all about kin, not kith. There is to be no otherness in this new religious movement. Alterity is abolished in Jesus. This poem from Steve Lodewyke, who moved to Britain as a child, having been born in Sri-Lanka, gets to the heart of the matter:

I know otherness. It’s who I am.

But it’s not who I want to be

No Sir, it’s not who I want to be.

Sir, what’s with all this African American?

British Asian?

Indigenous Australian?

BAME?

It’s otherness. Always otherness.

To you I am a compound, not the pure.

Not the shining, white light of elemental belonging,

To you, I am tarnished and base.

That’s why I’m given that name.

That’s why I am otherness.

My Dad told me to work hard

and keep my nose clean.

But nobody cares.

It cuts no ice with my otherness.

My good deeds, my high IQ, my love for people,

None of it can be seen on my skin,

Only my otherness, writ bold and black.

So, Sir, you have won.

I capitulate.

I am done.

I am otherness.

And I will wriggle no more.

I will go quietly.

I won’t knock at your door.

My place is otherness.

And I know my place.

Otherness.

It’s as plain as the nose on my face.

In what follows, I explore one example of a ‘Them-and-Us’ paradigm, and where Jesus stands in it. I have deliberately avoided applying this too directly to Black Lives Matter, LGBTQ issues and identities, ethnic or national divisions, or able-dis-abled. But as we know, the Gospels speak to all conditions of humanity.

In the Gospel of Mark (7:24-30) and in Matthew (15:21-28), Jesus is recorded as healing a Canaanite woman’s daughter whilst travelling in the region of Tyre and Sidon. On account of the faith shown by the woman, her request – her pleading – is signalled as a sign of extraordinary faith. Matthew’s gospel puts it like this:

Jesus left that place and withdrew to the region of Tyre and Sidon. And suddenly out came a Canaanite woman from that district and started shouting, ‘Lord, Son of David, take pity on me. My daughter is tormented by a devil.’ But he said not a word in answer to her. And his disciples went and pleaded with him, saying, ‘[Send her away], because she keeps shouting after us.’ He said in reply, ‘I was sent only to the lost sheep of the House of Israel’. ‘But the woman had come up and was bowing low before him. ‘Lord,’ she said, ‘help me.’ He replied, ‘It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to little dogs.’ She retorted, ‘Ah yes, Lord; but even little dogs eat the scraps that fall from their masters’ table.’ Then Jesus answered her, ‘Woman, you have great faith. Let your desire be granted.’ And from that moment her daughter was well again. Jesus went on from there and reached the shores of the Lake of Galilee, and he went up onto the mountain. He took his seat, and large crowds came to him bringing the lame, the crippled, the blind, the dumb and many others; these they put down at his feet, and he cured them.

“Send her away” is my preferred rendering of the Greek text. However, the RNJB opts for “Give her what she wants”. Whilst this is construable for the first half of this verse, the majority of translations tend to opt for the form of words I have put in brackets, as the disciples wish to banish her from their presence for being a noisy nuisance. For many readers of this text, there are three striking things to note. First, the apparent initial silence and indifference of Jesus. Second, the apparent insult of Jesus (he calls the woman a ‘dog’). Third, the apparent haggling for healing that takes place, with the woman pleading for her daughter, whilst Jesus seems to imply, initially, that he is simply “not here” for the likes of her, but only for “the lost sheep of the House of Israel”. By the fifteenth chapter of the Gospel of Matthew, we are beginning to see signs of the tide turning against Jesus by the leaders of the country. Jesus is now turning more to the Gentiles. The situating of this healing story is pivotal. The chapter commences with a rather tetchy, even rude exchange between Jesus and his Jewish critics on questions of faith, food, purity and personhood. The chapter ends with the feeding of four thousand Gentiles. This chapter, therefore, is very much about sharing and entitlement. Who is this bread for?

Some scholars have suggested that the story of the Canaanite woman is a racist episode. That Jesus’ silence is violence, and that this encounter with the woman is what changes Jesus and marks his moment of movement from exclusion to inclusion. (Pablo Alonso, The Woman Who Changed Jesus: Crossing Boundaries in Mk 7: 24-30 [Biblical Tools and Studies], 11; Leuven: Peeters Publishers, 2011).

For reasons that will become apparent, I do not share this view. I think the intentionality of Jesus’ inclusiveness is rooted in the incarnation itself, and not a political or religious choice that Jesus makes in later life and ministry. That said, I am not entirely persuaded by the apparent dialectical inclusion-exclusion axis. For Christians, modelling the body of Christ, the better word is ‘incorporation’ – linked to the Latin concept of corpus, or corporatus – namely “to form into a body”. Jesus, as God incarnate in Christ, is both incorporated and an incorporator.

For many years I have promoted a view that one of the primary concerns we should bear in mind when reading the accounts of Jesus’ healing ministry in the gospels (over forty instances are listed), is not whether or not it ever happened. But rather, what were the social, political and religious pointers within such healings – for the person healed and for the witnesses. [See for example my Words, Wonders and Power: Understanding Contemporary Christian Fundamentalism and Revivalism (London: SPCK, 1996) and my ‘Restoration, Retrieval and Renewal: Recovering Healing Ministry in the Church – Some Critical Reflections’ in ed., Darren Sarisky, Theologies of Retrieval: Practices and Perspectives, (London: Bloomsbury and T&T Clark, 2017) pp. 333-350].

To put this more practically, and for future study, there are four questions to always ask: 1. Who is this miracle for (e.g., poor, tainted, lame, leper, etc)?; 2. What does the miracle involve (e.g., touch, conversation, etc.)?; 3. Where and when does it happen (e.g., religious building [rare], Gentile or Jewish territory, on the Sabbath, after a long period of affliction, etc.)?; and 4. Why did Jesus heal this person, and in front of these witnesses, and for what ends (e.g., because they (e.g., marginalised, stigmatised, ostracised, etc.)? When you read the healing miracles with these lenses, it quickly becomes apparent that Jesus rarely heals anyone with social pedigree or religious significance, his own friends or family, and in nearly every case, the person who is healed is so utterly insignificant that their names were never recorded.

The Canaanite woman fits the bill in every respect. Yet what I find peculiar about many bible commentaries addressing this healing story is that they miss the obvious, often dwelling on the wrong details. Jesus is already in a Gentile region. So it is pretty strange to ignore the native Gentiles - a Canaanite in this case. Why would a foreign traveller (Jesus) ignore the local foreigners in their own domain?

Something else is at work here. Some commentators stress the persistence of the woman and the way it erodes Jesus’ resolve, making him respond wearily. Some suggest that in so doing, Jesus is teaching her (and us) how to pray. Some commentators assert that Jesus ignores the woman. That is certainly what the disciples would have hoped for. But read the text more carefully, and we see that when the Canaanite woman calls out to Jesus, he at first says nothing.

Some commentators assert that Jesus ignores the woman. That is certainly what the disciples would have hoped for. But read the text more carefully, if you will. As the Canaanite woman calls out to Jesus, he at first did not say a word in answer to her. We have felt this sometimes: we prayed and prayed, and it seemed as though Jesus was not listening. Remember, Matthew does not say that the Lord “did not listen to the woman”, but he only states Jesus did not say a word in answer to her.

Put another way, likewise, sometimes our prayers are not answered immediately. They are heard, but there may be no response. It does not mean our prayerful pleadings are being ignored.

As for Jesus in this story, I do not think his “silence is violence”; or that his apparent indifference is indicative. Matthew does not say that Jesus colludes with the request of the disciples for the woman to be silenced and sent away. Only that Jesus did not say a word in answer to her. At least not yet, anyway.

But Jesus does hear; and yet at first he refuses to answer. He is listening, but he delays his response. The apparent initial rejection by Jesus does not deter the woman in the least. Indeed, she offers Jesus homage as the ‘Son of David’ – as he is to her the Jewish king and Messiah. Worshipping Christ, she humbles herself before him – “a humble and contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise”.

This explains her reference to ‘crumbs under the table’ – the same phrase we find in Cranmer’s Prayer of Humble Access in the Book of Common Prayer. The woman says, “Lord, for even the dogs eat the scraps that fall from the masters’ table”. In so doing, she means to say, “I am a worthless dog to your disciples and in the eyes of a Jewish Rabbi like you. I am not worthy of the children’s bread, who, as a Gentile, cannot be a guest at your table. Yet the dogs and the curs eat the crumbs of bread which fall from the tables”. [By the way, in the Greek the term cur is the same, kunaria]. So, she is saying: “nourish me as your (little) dog. I will not leave your table. You cannot drive me away.” However, we must also note that the Greek kunaria - translated as ‘little dogs’ - is an affectionate and diminutive term, better rendered as ‘puppies’. Jesus’s terminology takes on a new twist here. Is he actually being rather warm towards the woman, referring to her as ‘puppy’?

Indeed, this is how to interpret the silence and hesitation of Jesus. He pauses. He is listening with both ears to two different kinds of shrill noise: “Get rid of her…we can’t stand this bloody racket” and “Please God, help me, for I am desperate!” WWJD? Jesus hears the noise of a whimpering, hungry, bereft and defenceless puppy. Few cannot be moved by the sound.

Indeed, What Would Jesus Do here? Exactly what you’d expect. He waits - pausing just ever so briefly. Will the disciples complaining about the noise listen to the one whimpering and pleading loudly? Who drowns whom out with their pleadings? Jesus lets the woman plead loudly, and I assume he wants the disciples to hear her making such a noise. But the disciples want her shut up and shut out. Jesus, in the end, engages – as no-one else does so – and commends her faith, foreign-born and mongrel though it is. This shuts the disciples up.

Jesus does the same with the Samaritan woman at the well and the demoniac of Gerasene. Jesus goes out of his way to engage the faith of those outside Judaism. He is an itinerant boundary-crosser. Sometimes the best way to resolve a political, moral or social dispute is to listen to the sheer volume of anger. Whose cries do you hear and pay most attention to? The screaming of the refugees and the immigrants risking all in a rubber dinghy in the middle of the sea, fearing they may lose their lives as the next wave laps over them? Or the cries of those on the shore shouting “go back home to where you came from…we don’t want your sort here”. You can hear both these types of crying and protest in this Gospel story.

That said, Jesus’ comparison to the woman as a ‘dog’ is hardly friendly. There is no way of reading Jesus’ remarks other than as derogatory. So what is going on? The woman is a Canaanite. To the disciples, then, she is not Jewish, but of another faith. Worse still, she is of a faith that is of mixed-weave, and cultic. This is one of the faiths despised by all good Jews – an old, established faith, but one that is mixed in with more recent imports – Hellenistic, especially.

Dogs, of course, are not thoroughbreds. They rarely are. So the derogatory remark from Jesus is pointed. Herself and her faith are ‘dog-like’. These people and their religion are mixed-breed. We also know that Jews sometimes called Gentiles ‘dogs’ for precisely this reason. They are impure. But Jews were pedigree. Remember that Jesus called Herod a ‘fox’ – a sneaky scavenger that preys on the vulnerable. Jesus’s use of the word ‘dog’ implies “the dogs outside (Judaism)”. But the woman is playfully insistent and uses the same word to mean “the dogs inside”.

She and Jesus both know that good Jews don’t take the children’s bread and throw it out to the dogs (balein means to throw outside). But the woman is clever, and relocates the dogs inside, under the table. This becomes an insider-outsider debate between Jesus and the woman, and on the topic of dogs and bread. Jesus, remember, is for the outsiders, and making them insiders. The woman’s daughter will be healed.

There are other reasons to pay attention to the reference to dogs. For some in neo-Canaanite religion, dogs were seen as healing agents. They were a welcome presence in homes. Jews, in contrast, forbade them from homes, and kept them out of the Synagogue courts. We know that in Canaanite tombs, dogs – or representatives of dogs – were buried with their owners. So dogs are ambivalent creatures in Jesus’ world. To some, friendly pets to be fed, and to others a metaphor signalling impurity. The central question of the gospel reading is, therefore, do you feed the animals, or regard them as unclean? Jesus, the risk-taker, is for feeding.

These days, this is a church-identity debate too. Should the church be an inclusive body – ‘inclusive’ being more often than not some kind of coded word for ‘liberal’ and ‘accommodating’. Or should the church be ‘exclusive’ – a coded term for ‘conservative’, clear and excluding? I think that Jesus is for neither. He is, rather, for something much richer: Incorporation – which is, of course, deeply linked to his own incarnation. Jesus is for the blend. The Kingdom of God Project is not just for the Jews, but for all. It will incorporate Jew and Gentile; slave and free; male and female; saved and saintly, sick and sinner.

Jesus is an expression of God’s heart for humanity. He is the Body Language of God. He hears the unheard, speaks for the silenced, sees the unseen, embraces the outcast and touches the untouchable. The kingdom is for all. So the ministry of Jesus will incorporate Canaanites and Gentiles from the outset. Jesus’ ministry belongs in the alleys, not just the temple or synagogues. It will welcome Samaritans, not just Sadducees; Publicans, not just Pharisees. The wisdom of the body of Jesus – the Bread of Life – is teaching us about incorporation all the time: this is what the church is to be – a body that grafts otherness into itself. It does not seek purity; it strives for perpetual incorporation, reconciling the whole world to Christ. We are to be one body, of one bread. Because, though we are many, we are one body; because we all share in one bread (I Corinthians 10: 17) - namely Christ himself.

The Anglican/Episcopal Church of St. Augustine of Canterbury
Frankfurter Straße 3, Wiesbaden, Deutschland.

The 9^th Sunday After Pentecost, 2026

Beware the Leaven of Christians

The Very Revd. Canon Professor Martyn Percy

Matthew 13: The Parables of the Mustard Seed and the Yeast

31 He told them another parable: “The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed, which a man took and planted in his field. 32 Though it is the smallest of all seeds, yet when it grows, it is the largest of garden plants and becomes a tree, so that the birds come and perch in its branches.” 33 He told them still another parable: “The kingdom of heaven is like yeast that a woman took and mixed into about sixty pounds[a] of flour until it worked all through the dough.”

The Parables of the Hidden Treasure and the Pearl

44 “The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field. When a man found it, he hid it again, and then in his joy went and sold all he had and bought that field. 45 “Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant looking for fine pearls. 46 When he found one of great value, he went away and sold everything he had and bought it.

The Parable of the Net

47 “Once again, the kingdom of heaven is like a net that was let down into the lake and caught all kinds of fish. 48 When it was full, the fishermen pulled it up on the shore. Then they sat down and collected the good fish in baskets, but threw the bad away. 49 This is how it will be at the end of the age. The angels will come and separate the wicked from the righteous 50 and throw them into the blazing furnace, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth. 51 “Have you understood all these things?” Jesus asked. “Yes,” they replied. 52 He said to them, “Therefore every teacher of the law who has become a disciple in the kingdom of heaven is like the owner of a house who brings out of his storeroom new and old treasures”.

My favourite Christmas cracker joke is unquestionably: ‘Why did the mushroom go to the party?’ Answer: ‘because he was a fun guy [fungi]’. Be that as it may, in apparently one of the most innocent and understated phrases from the gospels, Jesus tells us most of what we probably need to know about our future mission. He suggests that the kingdom of heaven is like leaven mixed into bread.

Leaven? That microbe fungi? That discard-able and forgettable material that is, oddly, the key to so much of our lives? It would seem so. (One presumes Jesus said this without obvious humour, although I bet he managed a wry smile). For leaven is what ferments the wine and beer; and it makes the dough rise to make the bread. It is the tiny, insignificant catalyst for our basic commodities and the formation of our communities. The leaven in the lump; the difference between bread and dough; juice and wine; refreshment and celebration.

Baking bread, if you have ever done it, is rewarding work and very therapeutic. But it also offers us a rich analogy for what we are about as a church. The writer, theologian, philosopher, and peace activist, John Paul Lederach, offers a rich meditation on our calling to be yeast. Consider this. The most common ingredients for making bread are water, flour, salt, sugar and yeast. Of these, yeast is the smallest in quantity, but the only one that makes a substantial change to all the other ingredients. Lederach says you only need a tiny few people to change a lot of things. Quality changes quantity.

So, how do you get dough to rise? We moderns are used to yeast in small packets, and in plentiful supply. Much modern bread manufacture depends on it. I use the term ‘manufacture’ here with precision. As someone with some personal experience making homemade bread, I am well aware that modern mass-market sliced bread is the main kind we find in our supermarkets. I prefer the homemade kinds.

In talking about small fungi (or leaven) that bring about change and growth, Jesus is asking us to imagine his kingdom – one in which tiny spores, mixed into the social mass, can make a massive difference. But sometimes, as I say, this is about losing oneself or ministry within a bigger picture. So, small things matter. The mustard seed is minute. But what is planted can, in the end, play host to so much and so many. The mustard seed reminds us that God can do some very promising things with the apparently negligible.

So why did the fun-guy stay and minister to their community? The same reason as the fun-gal. To make a difference, that the world may be more fully redeemed than it is. To pray, love, and be faithful. So have the courage to lead, but also get stuck in. Remember that the art of mission lies in blending the disparate ingredients of the church and the communities it serves. We can be the leaven that is kneaded into make the bread; that we may all become one.

So, to the trick question: how many times does the word ‘yeast’ get used in the New Testament? The answer may surprise you: none. The New Testament gives us around a dozen occurrences of the Greek word ζύμῃ or ζύμης (pronounced zýmē), and although many Bible translations will render that word ‘yeast’, the actual word is ‘leaven’. You may be forgiven for thinking the difference in translation – as we might say of the yeast itself – is tiny. Indeed, small beer? I don’t agree.

In Luke 13:21 (and note the parallel in Matthew 13:33), leaven is compared to the rising agency of the kingdom of God. So, Jesus alerts us to the good aspects of leaven. Compared to Matthew 16:6,11, however, and we are warned off the “leaven of the Pharisees” (see also Mark 8:15, and Luke 12:1). Paul, writing in I Corinthians 5:6-8, renders positive uses of leaven, as does Galatians 5:9.

In every case, the use of leaven, whether in making wine or bread, requires knack, know-how, skill, care, calculation, experience, trial-and-error, labour and patience. The world of the ancient Near East made varieties of flatbreads and sourdough loaves. Yeast was virtually unknown. Leaven was the only rising agent. Leavening excites fermentation in dough or wine, and the term has come to mean something more figurative: the sense of “work upon by invisible or powerful influence”.

Reading the gospels, many presume that Jesus’ use of the term “leaven” is broadly pejorative and critical of the Pharisees and Sadducees. Namely, that their leaven is a cypher for the spreading influence of something unpleasant, barely concealed – a coded way for expressing their spreading of an overly restrictive, repressive and intolerant faith. For example, when Matthew 16:6 records Jesus saying to the disciples: “watch out, and beware of the leaven of the Pharisees and Sadducees”, what exactly are we looking out for? “Watch out, and beware” (horate kai proschete) is better rendered as “see and pay attention” – not necessarily so much a warning, as “look, concentrate and try and discern”.

Correspondingly, superficial translations and expositions that opt for zýmē as ‘yeast’ will quickly render the meaning of the text as a warning against narrow-minded religious exclusivism and sectarianism. Of course, that could mean many things, but as leaven is meant, not yeast, we must accept the leaven Jesus speaks of is everywhere, including the kitchens and homes of all believers. And like bread, any believer of any type can be half-baked, over-baked, burnt, undercooked, puffed up, dead flat, or stale. We cannot be at all sure, in other words, that “leaven” is an exclusive problem for Pharisees. One finds bad leaven in any faith, and in every branch or flavour of it. You can meet kind, mild and accommodating fundamentalists, and encounter unkind, zealous, hard-line liberals.

Jesus’ cautionary remark – “beware of the leaven…” would assume that all his hearers knew that leaven was actually unavoidable, as there was no good bread or wine without it. The spores of leaven are natural, and quite literally in the local air and atmosphere. Like culture, there is no environment without leaven. So, whilst it is reasonable to infer that Jesus’ use of the word leaven with the Pharisees and Sadducees might imply some level of corruption, care and caution should be exercised in assuming that this is only to be found amongst the Pharisees and Sadducees. Leaven was and is widespread, if not universal. So, whilst there is something here, therefore, about the potential legacy of the leaven of the Pharisees and Sadducees, ‘leaven’ could be applied to any group, tribe, society or nation.

Put another way, one needs only imagine Jesus saying: “Pay attention to the Leaven of the Christians”. What would that mean? Perhaps the “leaven of Christians” would be something to warn off others. Christianity has its own pedigree here, drawing on the earlier leaven of the Pharisees and Sadducees. Churches can excel at narrow-minded bigotry, oppressive fundamentalism, abusive sectarianism and dangerous extremism. They can be aloof and lofty, and take condescension to new heights (or depths). They can manage to talk about one bread, one body, one faith, one Lord – but then be racist, sexist, homophobic and classist.

Then again, “beware the leaven of Christians” could infer something about all the good things that churches as leaven can do: an agent for raising and lifting up others; of blessing and feeding others; of being sacrificially consumed in order to feed and nourish others; to be like Jesus, bread for the world.

Yes, we have plenty of bad leaven in our faith. We have produced hard, stale, inedible faith that only a few will bite on. We have produced flaccid, flat sentimental piety. Our leaven has also produced loaves that are so puffed up they appear to be enormous, only to find that once you try to tear off a hunk, it is all hot air. It is best to beware of leaven. But leaven, well-judged, makes great bread.

I have two more things to say. The first is, as you sit in your pew, or when you next kneel, think about how little space you occupy. Think about the prayers that have risen up from the floor over the century. Thoughts and inspiration that have come from the pulpit and lectern; the nourishment from the altar.

The liberal cupfuls of water from the font mark each generation. The hands together at a wedding; the tears of farewell at a funeral. The company and warmth of the congregation and community. These are small things. On their own, tiny, and seemingly insignificant. Yet they are all. They are the leaven. The pearl of great price. The true treasure of life.

So, let God be the leaven in you; let him Easter in your church; the bread rises in time; wine matures only when it is ready. As one modern hymn puts it:

The reign of God, like farmer’s field, bears weeds along with wheat; the good and bad are intertwined till harvest is complete.

Like mustard tree, the reign of God from tiny seed will spread, till birds of every feather come to nest, and there be fed.

Though hidden now, the reign of God may, yet unnoticed, grow; from deep within it rises up, like yeast in swelling dough.

The reign of God is come in Christ; the reign of God is near. Ablaze among us, kindling hearts, the reign of God is here! (Delores Dufner, OSB).

Then ask, in what sense does our leaven not look like that of the Pharisees and Sadducees? Can our work upon society by “invisible or powerful influence” truly be what Christ would be doing here, now, in the places and spaces he has set us?

How will you and I, like Christ, become Bread for the World? What is this leaven inside you raising up for the Kingdom of God? How are we, as Christ’s leaven, influencing the world around us for the common good? How are we fermenting blessing, dissenting, resisting, rescuing and saving the world, and with gentleness, kindness, goodness, hopefulness, justice, peace and truth?

How can we be part of Christ’s Bread for this World? How will this Leaven of Christ within us now feed the hungry, house the homeless, clothe the naked, and draw near to the prisoner? How will we become the Bread of Life for those who are hungry and ache and long for all the goodness that some good leaven can do? Amen.

Matthew 13:24-30

The Parable of the Weeds

²⁴ Jesus told them another parable: “The kingdom of heaven is like a man who sowed good seed in his field. ²⁵ But while everyone was sleeping, his enemy came and sowed weeds among the wheat, and went away. ²⁶ When the wheat sprouted and formed heads, then the weeds also appeared.

²⁷ “The owner’s servants came to him and said, ‘Sir, didn’t you sow good seed in your field? Where then did the weeds come from?’

²⁸ “‘An enemy did this,’ he replied.

“The servants asked him, ‘Do you want us to go and pull them up?’

²⁹ “‘No,’ he answered, ‘because while you are pulling the weeds, you may uproot the wheat with them. ³⁰ Let both grow together until the harvest. At that time I will tell the harvesters: First collect the weeds and tie them in bundles to be burned; then gather the wheat and bring it into my barn.’”

The Parable of the Weeds Explained

³⁶ Then he left the crowd and went into the house. His disciples came to him and said, “Explain to us the parable of the weeds in the field.”

³⁷ He answered, “The one who sowed the good seed is the Son of Man. ³⁸ The field is the world, and the good seed stands for the people of the kingdom. The weeds are the people of the evil one, ³⁹ and the enemy who sows them is the devil. The harvest is the end of the age, and the harvesters are angels.

⁴⁰ “As the weeds are pulled up and burned in the fire, so it will be at the end of the age. ⁴¹ The Son of Man will send out his angels, and they will weed out of his kingdom everything that causes sin and all who do evil. ⁴² They will throw them into the blazing furnace, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth. ⁴³ Then the righteous will shine like the sun in the kingdom of their Father. Whoever has ears, let them hear.

You might well know this parable better by one of its older titles: The Wheat and the Tares, perhaps? Or, if you are of an even older vintage, the Wheat and the Darnel. We hardly use the word ‘darnel’ these days. It meant something noxious or foreign sown amongst something good, and it survives today as ‘darning’ – something sewn into a hole or gap to repair it. Few folk darn their socks or woollies these days, but such skills were once commonplace.

The Parable of the Wheat and Weeds, Tares or Darnel is all about the stuff that gets into the gaps, and if there’s too much of it, the quality of the whole harvest risks being compromised. But just like un-darning a favourite piece of clothing, so in farming. Sometimes it is better to settle for the compromise and sort it out later. In this case, there’s nothing to be done about the mixed-up plants and produce now. Harvesting is the season for sifting the wheat and the chaff, and the weeds from the seeds.

The Gospel of Matthew gives us a vivid contrast between what the field has and what it lacks. The seeds are sperma in Greek – life-giving. The weeds are zizania – plants that look like they are life-giving, attractive and will be fruitful, but are in fact ‘duds’ that simply suck the life out of the soil and choke the good crops. It takes a skilled eye to see the difference early on, and in fact, most people won’t be able to tell the plants apart until they start to flower. By then, it’s almost too late.

So, Jesus’ parable is about the brief moment in the growth cycle when the difference between the sperma and the zizania becomes apparent. The question is, do you intervene now, and lose some of the harvest – the good stuff – in the process? Or do you wait until the end and sort out the difference once everything has been cut down? The parable opts for the latter. Because it’s a parable, and it’s actually about salvation, judgment and the church. So, let me explain.

Paul, writing to Titus (3:4-7) says:

‘…when the kindness and love of God our Saviour appeared, he saved us, not because of righteous things we had done, but because of his mercy. He saved us through the washing of rebirth and renewal by the Holy Spirit, whom he poured out on us generously through Jesus Christ our Saviour, so that, having been justified by his grace, we might become heirs having the hope of eternal life….’

So, we can’t save ourselves. The gospels often chide the church for trying to act as a kind of Border Agency Police for heaven, or Christians offering their well-meaning services to Jesus as Immigration Control Officers for Paradise. But Jesus isn’t interested in our proposals to police his kingdom, thank you. So, the gospels offer extreme cases of God saying, ‘Let it Be’.

The dying thief on the cross is an obvious example (Luke 23:32-43). He could not have known Jesus for more than a few minutes, or perhaps even seconds, let alone an hour. Yet on the cross, and frankly for the most minimal of confessions, he is promised paradise.

The parable of the Labourers in the Vineyard (Matthew 20:1-16) gives an equal portion of the rewards to the least deserving. God gives those who are clearly quite hopeless the same – the same – as those who have toiled all day long. It is as though the parable reminds Christians that salvation isn’t measured out in fractions. You can’t be half saved. You can’t be half baptised. You can’t be half-loved by God.

And so, we come to the parable of the Wheat and the Tares. Which, if I may sum up, is saying this to us: whom I shall save is my business. Now, get on with yours. Or, “as to who I let into heaven – what is it to you?”

This is tricky territory, I know, but no one who reads the gospels deeply can be surprised. Jesus has a habit of including outsiders. He has a habit of associating with the undeserving. He has a habit of making peripheral people central. And in all of this, he asks us to rejoice with those he saves; be happy for them. God is.

And so, these parables, as so many do, come back to haunt the Church. And especially to haunt small groups who think they alone ‘have’ heaven and Jesus and are quite sure about who the have-nots are. But this spirit is not of God. So instead of policing the borders and boundaries of God’s kingdom, acting as Passport Control or Immigration Officers, we are invited instead to gather up everybody, as many as we can, to share in precisely the same fortune that we already enjoy, and have known for years.

The Memo to the Church says this. Visa entry into Heaven is in God’s gift alone. It’s not an exam or a test of national or tribal loyalty. Now, start handing out the visas to anyone you meet – especially the poor, lame and undeserving – because heaven will be full of people who were not promising material on earth, and fell foul of the points systems in operation.

The parable takes us back to the parable of the Prodigal Son and asks whether you’re enjoying the feast, celebrating with the younger son who was dead but is now alive and has been miraculously resurrected? Because that is what and who the party is for. Or, whether we are bitter and resentful with the older brother, believing that the party and celebration are undeserved?

The parable is, in fact, shocking news for the Church. For it points to the foolish abundance, the ridiculous generosity of God in relation to whom he bestows his favour. Mercy and grace are infinite, and all shall receive the same.

It is the same salvation for the church volunteer that has put in 50 years of hard graft, blood, sweat and tears into keeping a church going, as it is to the tiniest child that is baptised right at the end, or indeed to those in the middle, who stumble around in their half belief, perhaps even barely caring about the grace-full inheritance that has been bestowed upon them.

In all of that, this parable asks, do we, as the Church, rejoice at God’s patience and abundance, or seek to limit it or control it here and now? And why is it the church likes to act as God’s Immigration Control or Border Police – when all we have been asked to do is issue invitations and open the frontiers?

To whom does this heaven belong? Not to the church. It is not for us to decide who gets in and who fails the fitness test. Salvation is God’s gift, by grace, freely bestowed – because his son has paid the entry fee.

That’s why the parable turns on the church, and says God will be patient, and see how these crops turn out. Yes, there will be discernment and judgment at the end. But we are not at the end right now. We are still growing together, so less judgment on others now, and more generosity, please. The Lord of the harvest will deal with us all later.

What better way to end than with the words of F. W. Faber’s surprisingly inclusive early Victorian hymn:

There’s a wideness in God’s mercy

Like the wideness of the sea

There’s a kindness in his justice

Which is more than liberty.

There is no place where earth’s sorrows

Are more felt than up in heaven

There is no place where earth’s failings

Have such kindly judgement given.

For the love of God is broader

Than the measure of man’s mind

And the heart of the Eternal

Is most wonderfully kind.

But we make his love too narrow

By false limits of our own;

And we magnify his strictness

With a zeal he will not own.

There is plentiful redemption

In the blood that has been shed;

There is joy for all the members

In the sorrows of the Head.

There is grace enough for thousands

Of new worlds as great as this;

There is room for fresh creations

In that home of upper bliss.

If our love were but more simple

We should take him at his word;

And our lives would be all gladness

In the joy of Christ our Lord.

So, there you have it. There will be no weeding in the church today. We grow together, confident that God will have the last word. And probably the last laugh. Amen.

Matthew 13:1-9; 18-23

13 That same day, Jesus went out of the house and sat by the lake. ² Such large crowds gathered around him that he got into a boat and sat in it, while all the people stood on the shore. ³ Then he told them many things in parables, saying: “A farmer went out to sow his seed. ⁴ As he was scattering the seed, some fell along the path, and the birds came and ate it up. ⁵ Some fell on rocky places, where it did not have much soil. It sprang up quickly, because the soil was shallow. ⁶ But when the sun came up, the plants were scorched, and they withered because they had no root. ⁷ Other seed fell among thorns, which grew up and choked the plants. ⁸ Still other seed fell on good soil, where it produced a crop—a hundred, sixty or thirty times what was sown. ⁹ Whoever has ears, let them hear.”

¹⁸ “Listen then to what the parable of the sower means: ¹⁹ When anyone hears the message about the kingdom and does not understand it, the evil one comes and snatches away what was sown in their heart. This is the seed sown along the path. ²⁰ The seed falling on rocky ground refers to someone who hears the word and at once receives it with joy. ²¹ But since they have no root, they last only a short time. When trouble or persecution comes because of the word, they quickly fall away. ²² The seed falling among the thorns refers to someone who hears the word, but the worries of this life and the deceitfulness of wealth choke the word, making it unfruitful. ²³ But the seed falling on good soil refers to someone who hears the word and understands it. This is the one who produces a crop, yielding a hundred, sixty or thirty times what was sown.”

As with newspapers, so with the scriptures. Try not to read the story or the leader article through the lens of the title or the subtitle inserted by some editor. Journalists rarely choose their headlines, and are sometimes dismayed at what an editor puts over their texts. The scriptures are no different. There were no headings or sub-headings in the Gospels, Epistles, Psalms…or anywhere else in scripture.

The Parable of the Wise and Foolish Virgins is about a groom, not bridesmaids. The Parable of the Prodigal Son is about the prodigal father. Both sons are mean hoarders. One is a spender, the other is a saver. But it is the father who is prodigious.

Likewise, the Parable of the Good Samaritan is also misnamed, because there are no ‘good’ Samaritans. They are, by reputation, a ‘bad bunch’ of folk. Of course, Jesus did not give names or titles to his parables, and he didn’t publish them either. Like a bad publisher, it is the marketing department that misunderstand the thrust of the story, and so give it a misleading name. A much better title for the Good Samaritan would be The Neighbour from Hell. Why? Because for a Judean audience, there was no such thing as a “good” Samaritan – they were all bad to Jewish minds. So, Jesus’ story is deliberately confounding and highly subversive. It is an invitation to see your enemies as potentially kind rescuers.

And the Parable of the Sower is about the soil, not the seed or the sower. As any student of early church history will know, the beguiling attraction of the very first heresies and heterodoxies lay in their simplicity. They presented the most attractive solution to any immediate and apparently unsolvable problems. For the first generations of Christians, these usually lay in the sphere of doctrine and praxis.

For us as a church today, the presenting problem appears to be declining numbers in our congregations. Ergo, an urgent emphasis on numerical church growth must be the answer.

Right, surely? But wrong, actually. The first priority of the church is to follow Jesus Christ. This may be a costly calling, involving self-denial, depletion and death. Following Jesus may not lead us to any numerical growth. The first priority of the church is to love the Lord with all our heart, mind, soul and strength, and our neighbours as ourselves (Luke 10:25). There is no greater commandment. So, the numerical growth of the church cannot be a greater priority than the foundational mandate Jesus set before us.

It was Karl Barth (1886-1968) who observed that the true growth of the church is not to be thought of in mainly extensive terms, but rather in intensive terms. He argued that the vertical (or intensive) growth of the church – in both height and depth in relation to God – does not necessarily lead to any extensive numerical growth. He added that ‘we cannot, therefore, strive for vertical renewal merely to produce a wider audience’.

Barth concluded that if the Church and its mission were used only as a means of extensive growth, the inner life of the church loses its meaning and power: ‘the church can be fulfilled only for its own sake, and then – unplanned and unarranged – it will bear its own fruits’ [Church Dogmatics, 1958]. That would seem to settle the matter. Moreover, many parish clergy, and those working in all kinds of sector ministries, already know this to be true.

The church does not exist to grow exponentially. Mission is deeper than that. The church exists to be the body of Christ. The pastoral theologian Eugene Petersen once commented that the one thing he has learned in mission and ministry is how complex measurable growth can be. Here, Petersen draws on the theologian, essayist, poet and farmer, Wendell Berry. Petersen says that under Berry’s tutelage, he has learned that “parish work is every bit as physical as farm work: it is about these people, at this time under these conditions” (c.f., Under the Unpredictable Plant, 1992).

Jesus told a number of parables about growth, and they are all striking for their simplicity and surprise. Especially the allegory of the soil that features in today’s Gospel. That parable probably should be the template for all Diocesan Mission Action Plans. For what Jesus is saying to the church is this: have regard for your neighbour’s context and conditions.

So, you might work in a parish with the richest soil, where every seed planted springs to life. The seasons are kind; the vegetation lush; the harvest plentiful. But some places are stony ground, and faithful mission and ministry in that field might be picking out the rocks for several generations. Others labour under conditions where the seeds are often destroyed before they can ever germinate. Or perhaps the weather is extreme in other places, and here we may find that although initial growth is quick, it seldom lasts.

The question the parable throws back to the church is this: What kind of growth can you expect from the ground and conditions you work with? And this is where our current unilateral emphasis on numerical church growth can be so demoralising and disabling. Is it really the case that every leader of numerical church growth is a more spiritually faithful and technically gifted pastor than their less successful neighbour?

The parable says ‘no’ to this. It implies that some churches labour in harsh conditions, while others are fairer. So be wise to the different contexts in which our individual and collective ministries take place.

I mention this for one very obvious reason. If we continue to place the heterodoxy of numerical growth at the heart of the church, we risk eroding our character and our morale. Some will argue, no doubt, that if you aim at nothing, you’ll hit it every time. Better to have a target and a plan than to just keep plodding on.

Maybe. But the Charge of the Light Brigade (1854) had vision, courage, objectives, and some strategy; these were not in short supply. But the rest, as they say, is history.

So, the key to understanding numerical church growth might be to engage in deeper, more discerning readings of our contexts – the very soil we seek to nourish and bless so the seeds can flourish. This will usually be more complex than simply announcing another vision or plan for the mission.

The pun is intended here: there is work to be done on the ground.

True, we need leaders who can ride the cultural waves of our time. But we also need other leaders who can read the tides and the deeper cultural currents of our age. Our recent emphasis on numerical church growth – largely borne of fear, not faith – has led to the unbalanced ascendancy of mission-minded middle managers.

If all leaders must now make obeisance before the altar of numerical church growth, we will erode our character and mute our mission. The veneration of growth squeezes out the space for broader gifts in leadership that can nourish the church and engage the world.

As with all things Anglican, it is a question of balance. No one can or should say that an emphasis on numerical church growth is wrong. It isn’t. The issue is one of proportion. There are no bad foods, only bad diets. And the continued overemphasis on numerical growth skews the weight and measure in the body of our church leadership.

For our national, diocesan or local mission, this is precisely why we need a leadership that incorporates space for the holy and devout; the gentle pastor; the poet and the prophet; the teacher and theologian; and possibly a radical or two for good measure.

Finally, we also need to do some work on the maths. In the secular world, one plus one equals two. But counting and adding whole numbers in the church is fuzzy logic. Is the newly baptised infant ‘one unit’ in terms of believers? Does the person who comes every week, but has more doubt than faith, count as ‘one’ or a ‘half’? Is the regular, but not frequent churchgoer ‘one’ – or less? Is the person who comes to everything in church, but has a heart of stone count as one? Or less?

We know that God counts generously. The poor, the lame, the sick, the sinners…all seem to be promised a whole, complete seat at God’s table in his kingdom, feasting with him. That’s why Jesus was seldom interested in quantity; the Kingdom is about small numbers and rich quality. Yet we live in a culture that is obsessed with measuring things numerically and judging success from this.

Fortunately, God is loving and wise enough to tell us many countercultural stories about numbers. Going after one, and leaving the ninety-nine. Or dwelling on a single sparrow. God’s maths is different to ours. And we know God does not readily concur with our cultural obsession with the idea that “growth equals success”.

It was Einstein who said, “not everything that can be counted, counts; and not everything that counts can be counted”. We might find that no matter how many sacks of seed we have to plant, our work in harvesting for the Kingdom of God might be more about removing rocks and weeds, and enriching the soil. There’s no growth without such labour. Amen.

Take My Yoke

Matthew 11: 16-19; 25-30

¹⁶ “To what can I compare this generation? They are like children sitting in the marketplaces and calling out to others:

¹⁷ “‘We played the pipe for you,
and you did not dance.
We sang a dirge,
and you did not mourn.’

¹⁸ For John came neither eating nor drinking, and they say, ‘He has a demon.’ ¹⁹ The Son of Man came eating and drinking, and they say, ‘Here is a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners.’ But wisdom is proved right by her deeds.”

The Father Revealed in the Son

²⁵ At that time, Jesus said, “I praise you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and learned, and revealed them to little children. ²⁶ Yes, Father, for this is what you were pleased to do. ²⁷ “All things have been committed to me by my Father. No one knows the Son except the Father, and no one knows the Father except the Son and those to whom the Son chooses to reveal him. ²⁸ “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. ²⁹ Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. ³⁰ For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

Long before J.D. Vance’s bestselling memoir, Hillbilly Elegy (2016) appeared, folk were writing with some candour about peasants and poor rural types who were left behind. I think of Jim Goad’s (1997) The Redneck Manifesto: How Hillbillies, Hicks, and White Trash Became America’s Scapegoats, for example. But in England, Hillbillies and Hicks are called something else. Namely, Yokels. The term yokel is a derogatory label used to describe the stereotype of simple folk living in backwaters. Its origin is uncertain, and although the term has been in use since the early 19^th century, it has always reflected discrimination against those from rural backgrounds.

Yokels were portrayed as simple, naïve individuals who are easily deceived and often focus solely on rural topics such as cows, sheep, and crops, while ignoring the wider world. In Britain, they were often portrayed as chewing on straw and carrying tools like pitchforks or rakes, and maybe enjoying ‘Scrumpy and Western’ music. In Scotland, the word for Yokel was Teuchter or a ‘Doonhamer’ (i.e., ‘Doon-hame’, meaning ‘down-home’). In Ireland, they went by the name Culchie but were also known as Boggers or Muck-Savages.

The term yokel probably originated from ‘yoke’. That word came from the Old English term yewg, which meant “to join together” or “to unite”. This connection is evident, as a yoke is a wooden bar or frame that joins two animals, such as oxen, at the neck so they can work together. In biblical times, the yoke was a common agricultural tool symbolising labour, servitude, and submission. In the Bible, the concept of a yoke is used both literally and metaphorically, and there are about 80 references to ‘yoke’. But none to ‘yokels’, I should add!

So, when Jesus says “Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart; and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” (Matthew 11:29-30), his listeners would have understood what he meant. But what did he mean? Context is important here. Jesus has just accused the critics of John the Baptist of being wilful and obstinate. They wouldn’t dance when it was good music, and they wouldn’t mourn when it was a funeral dirge either. John the Baptist’s critics were, in other words, yoked up to their own programme, and therefore oblivious to what else is going on. Perhaps a bit like teenagers with earphones on doomscrolling, maybe, you can say what you like, but they carry on doing whatever it is they are doing. They’re not listening. Like yoked oxen, the critics of John the Baptist just carry on in the same direction, at the same pace, with their own concerns. They’re not engaging.

In the Old Testament, the yoke can symbolise oppression and bondage. In Leviticus 26:13, God tells the Israelites, “I broke the bars of your yoke and enabled you to walk with heads held high”, representing their slavery in Egypt. In Jeremiah 27:8, the yoke represents submission to Babylon. God commands the nations to submit to the yoke of Nebuchadnezzar, the King of Babylon:

“If any nation or kingdom will not serve Nebuchadnezzar king of Babylon and will not place its neck under his yoke, I will punish that nation with the sword, famine, and plague, declares the Lord….”

Similarly, in Isaiah 9:4 the breaking of the yoke is a metaphor for liberation: “For as in the day of Midian’s defeat, God has shattered the yoke of their burden, the bar across their shoulders, and the rod of their oppressor”.

So far, so good. But the yoke takes a different turn in the New Testament with Jesus: “Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light”. Here, the yoke symbolises the teachings and guidance of Christ, which stand in contrast to the heavy burdens imposed by the Pharisaic law.

Paul takes a similar line to Jesus, and warns against returning to the yoke of slavery, referring to a legalistic observance of the law (Galatians 5:1): “Christ has set us free…stand firm, and do not be encumbered once more by a yoke of slavery”. Elsewhere, Paul warns believers not to be “unevenly yoked” (2 Corinthians 6:14), using the yoke metaphor to caution against forming binding relationships with those who do not share the same faith and values.

So, in the Bible, the yoke can often symbolise submission and service – either to God, oppressive powers, or the law. This imagery serves as a powerful reminder of the burdens imposed by sin, legalism, or worldly authorities, in contrast to the freedom and rest that Christ offers. When Jesus invites us to take up his yoke, he calls us to a life of discipleship marked by spiritual wisdom, peace, and grace.

The yoke, then, can symbolise various forms of bondage, not all of which are necessarily damaging. The yokes we put on, or are placed on us, can be physical, spiritual, or relational. The yoke can represent the weight of sin, the demands of the law, or burdens imposed by others. But in contrast, the yoke of Christ signifies a call to discipleship marked by grace, rest, and partnership with him. This imagery reminds believers to choose between living under the burdens of sin and legalism or embracing the freedom that Jesus offers. The imagery of the yoke challenges us to examine our allegiances and seek rest in the gentleness of Christ.

But how is Jesus’ yoke “easy and light”? To understand what Jesus means, we need to know the two Greek words being used here in translation. The Greek word used for ‘easy’ is chrestos, which means better, ease, gracious, and kind. And the Greek word for ‘light’ is elaphros, meaning quick, swift, nimble or physical lightness. In Classical Greek literature, elaphros was often used to describe agility, suppleness or swiftness. Ancient Greek poets and writers could describe dancers as elaphros to emphasise their graceful, nimble movements. Additionally, it could describe something that was easy to carry or tasks that were not burdensome.

So, what Jesus says is simple. Following him is going to be marked by a life that is better, easier, gracious, and kinder. Furthermore, we’ll find that we can sit more lightly to life and its burdens. Yes, following Jesus will often be demanding. But it is utterly transformative and is ultimately not burdensome when compared to the oppressive yokes of legalism or materialism.

Yes, this is all very counterintuitive. Yet the Gospels often are. The blind see; but those who think they can see remain blind. The deaf hear; but those with perfect hearing somehow seem deafened to the good news.

God’s foolishness is wiser than the wisdom of the world. How else, after all, can you explain Jesus’ invitation to “all who are burdened and heavy-laden”, to “come” to him; to move at a point when we are arguably already exhausted? And at that juncture, he will give us rest? How will this be done? Oddly, by taking on another weight, namely a yoke. Yet Jesus is careful to add that we will find this one easy and light. So, on the surface, the invitation seems foolish. That is, of course, until you step into the kinds of weights and harnesses that are offered.

While there is indeed a cost to discipleship, it should not come at the expense of our health, relationships, or spiritual well-being. Our sacrificial lives must be sustainable enough for us to continue giving to others. Remember, Jesus not only called us to take up our cross but also invited us to come to him for rest, to experience the unforced rhythms of grace that only God can provide, and to bear a well-fitting yoke.

It is only at this point that wisdom is found in apparent foolishness. The extra weight actually lightens the load you carry and whatever else you need to pull along. This is, as Paul might say, “God’s foolishness that is wiser than human wisdom”. It doesn’t make sense. But God’s weakness is stronger than human strength.

And yes, most I know Christians have taken on yokes and become yokels. These yokels have found that by uniting in labour with others, burdens are shared, making loads much more bearable. As yokels, Christians have some of the best detailed local knowledge; they know what’s happening on the ground, in their patch. Yokels can be very parochial, and yet, because of that, have a better knowledge of world affairs than most other people you might meet. Yokels often think and live quite simply, because they’ve found that this is better, and it helps them to be more gracious and kinder in a world starved of such things.

“Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls…for my yoke is easy, and my burden is light”, says Jesus. Only the hard-hearted and hard-headed would decline to accept such an offer. The rest of us have said “Yes” to God. Everything becomes lighter in Christ’s yoke. We can walk this world just a little more lightly – like a dancer, full of gratitude and kindness for what God has laid upon us. Amen.

Matthew 10:24-39

²⁴ “The student is not above the teacher, nor a servant above his master. ²⁵ It is enough for students to be like their teachers, and servants like their masters. If the head of the house has been called Beelzebul, how much more the members of his household!

²⁶ “So do not be afraid of them, for there is nothing concealed that will not be disclosed, or hidden that will not be made known. ²⁷ What I tell you in the dark, speak in the daylight; what is whispered in your ear, proclaim from the roofs. ²⁸ Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather, be afraid of the One who can destroy both soul and body in hell. ²⁹ Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your Father’s care.^{[a] 30} And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. ³¹ So don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.

³² “Whoever acknowledges me before others, I will also acknowledge before my Father in heaven. ³³ But whoever disowns me before others, I will disown before my Father in heaven.

³⁴ “Do not suppose that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I did not come to bring peace, but a sword. ³⁵ For I have come to turn

“‘a man against his father,
a daughter against her mother,
a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law—
³⁶ a man’s enemies will be the members of his own household.’^[b]

³⁷ “Anyone who loves their father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; anyone who loves their son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me. ³⁸ Whoever does not take up their cross and follow me is not worthy of me. ³⁹ Whoever finds their life will lose it, and whoever loses their life for my sake will find it.

On August 15^th 1665, the weekly statistics on deaths in London were published. Bills of Mortality had been continuously published since 1603 by the Worshipful Company of Parish Clerks. By 1665 London had 130 parishes, and these Bills of Mortality provide a fascinating insight into how people viewed health, safety and mortality. August 15^th 1665 records that eight people died of “excessive winde”, one person from “lethargie”, one from being “frighted” (more were recorded in previous weeks), another from “meagrome”, over one hundred from “teeth”, just fifteen from “wormes”, and six from “thrush”, apparently. The paper then records over six-and-a-half thousand deaths from something called “plague”. The register adds that same week there were one-hundred and sixty-eight Christenings.

London’s plague of 1665-6 recorded almost 70,000 deaths, although the true figure is probably over 100,000. Charles II and his court left London during this pandemic, and retreated to Oxford. To say that the plague of London – the Great Plague, as it became known – was devastating, is to understate the matter. In just eighteen months, almost a quarter of Londoners died from bubonic plague.

This nightmare only ended after the Great Fire of London, almost 360 years ago, in September 1666. But what did we learn from those newspapers? Probably that we’re not so different now as then. The numbers and types of deaths are all carefully recorded. But nobody gives us any names.

Our ancient forbears had a phrase we should remember: “salus populi, suprema lex esto” (“public health is the highest law, and all else follows from it”). So the marketization of health, welfare and other forms of basic care runs enormous risks for both the Developed World and the Developing World. Healthcare, rather like education, is an inherently not-for-profit enterprise.

Why? Because everyone matters. And everyone eventually picks up the bill for the deprivation of education and healthcare in other places, because it will always directly or indirectly affect the whole of society. Politicians and people can try and evade their official and civic duties and responsibilities; but cannot avoid the consequences of such neglect. What we sow, we reap.

In the short prescient novel by Albert Camus – The Plague (French: La Peste, 1947) – we encounter a story about a plague sweeping the French Algerian city of Oran. Initially, just a few die; then some more; then even more. Panic grips the streets as the epidemic enfolds the population. No one was ready for this. The citizens of Oran live in a state of perpetual denial. Even when, like London in 1665-6, a quarter of the city is dying, they reason it will not be them. These folk are, after all, living in modern times. The have newspapers, cars, aeroplanes and telephones. The people of Oran cannot, surely, perish like the poor wretches of 17th-century London?

The hero of the book is Doctor Rieux, and his resilient humanism is profoundly moving. He does not buy into the religious interpretations of the plague offered by a local priest, or of the abrogation of reason by the citizenry. As the death toll peaks at 500 per week, Doctor Rieux reflects on a child he has tended, but who has died. He reasons that suffering is unevenly and randomly distributed. For all the theodicy in the world, suffering simply makes no sense. It is absurd – and that is the kindest thing one can say of it.

How does Doctor Rieux respond to what is going on around him? He works tirelessly to lessen the suffering of those in his care. But he is no hero. As he later remarks that “[this] may seem a ridiculous idea, but the only way to fight the plague is with decency.” Another character enquires of him as to what decency is. “[Just] doing my job,” replies Doctor Rieux. In other words, duty and vocation come first. He is committed to caring for others in need. Little more need be said.

Doctor Rieux is profoundly humanitarian. Because to be humanitarian is to have a binding duty and concern for helping to improve the welfare of people, and this pulse can spring from moral and religious roots. To be a humanitarian can be religious and humanist (and neither party will mind which), because it is about valuing people as inherently precious. Or, as God would value them. The result is the same. It is the lesson of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10). Or the Ten Lepers (Luke 17). Goodness for goodness’ sake: not for gratitude. Or converts. Mercy matters. What was it Einstein once said? “Not everything that counts can be counted; and not everything that can be counted, counts”. Einstein was right.

During the COVID pandemic I took a funeral for a friend, whose mother had died in a Care Home. Our funeral followed the protocols of the time. One son present, with his partner, the Funeral Director, and me. It was not the funeral he would have planned for his mother. Yet we commended her to God’s gracious care and keeping, and I thought of the words of comfort Jesus offers: “where two or three are gathered, I am in the midst of them” (Matthew 18). I thought of times when Jesus sat with the bereaved (Luke 8, John 11). I was reminded of Tom Lynch:

“I remember the priest I called to bury one of our town’s indigents – a man without family or friends or finances. He, the grave-diggers, and I carried the casket to the grave. The priest incensed the body, blessed it with holy water, and read from the liturgy for twenty minutes, then sang In Paradisum – that gorgeous Latin for ‘May the Angels Lead you into Paradise’ – as we lowered the poor man’s body into the ground... When I asked him why he’d gone to such trouble, he said that these are the most important funerals – even if only God is watching – because it affirms the agreement between ‘all God’s children that we will witness and remember and take care of each other’.” (Thomas Lynch, The Undertaking: Life Studies from the Dismal Trade, New York: Penguin, 1998).

This vignette expresses something of Christ’s own divine humanitarianism for those who were marginalised, isolated and needy. The life and ministry of Jesus teaches us that to God, each and every one is precious. The specifics of caring matter. As our gospel today has it,

“Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your Father’s care. Even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. So don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.”

Put another way, to God, no one is expendable. We all matter. We are asked to live as God sees this world: everyone matters. To God, every plague victim has a name. To God, we are precious, known and loved, irrespective of how we live and die.

The social distance between God and humanity was abolished in the incarnation. God is with us. “Do not be afraid” and “do not fear” are phrases Jesus repeats a great deal in the gospels. More than seventy times, in fact. We would be wise to remember that “perfect love casts out fear” (1 John 4: 18). Yet also remember that the reverse is also true: “perfect fear drives out love”. Our calling as Christ’s followers is not to be fretful and fearful, but rather to become an extension of God’s courageous, endlessly expended love for this world.

This does require quiet mettle, resolved courage and compassionate humanitarianism. As a calling, it is inherently costly and sacrificial in orientation. Such love does not seek its own security, or indeed reward. Our calling is to express the continual love and risk revealed in the incarnation. To become like Jesus, who is the body language of God. Christian faith is God’s full love placed in a vulnerable human body that risks pain, rejection and death – but will not let that be the end.

The philosopher John Macmurray wrote few books in his life, but one of his most absorbing meditations is his Persons in Relation (1970), where he noted that it was important to distinguish between real religion and fake faith. The mantra of the fake-variety, he argued, ran something like this: “fear not; trust in God; and God will see that none of the things you dread will ever happen to you.” But, said Macmurray, real religion has a different starting point: “fear not – some of the things you are most frightened of may well happen to you; but they are nothing to be afraid of.” “Do not be afraid”, says Jesus; “do not fear”.

As it happens, I have just finished writing a very short commentary on The Book of Job. The opening chapter of Job would make a very good dark Shakespearean comedy, were the rest of the chapters not so tragic. In the first half of the chapter, we are introduced to Job, a righteous, moral and upstanding man – a pillar of the community – who lives a blameless life, obeys the law and is faithful to his religion.

It’s the second half of the chapter that takes a dark-comedic-tragic turn. While Job’s children are feasting at their eldest brother’s house, a messenger informs Job that the Sabeans have stolen his oxen and donkeys and killed his servants. Before he could finish speaking, another messenger arrived to report that fire from heaven had consumed Job’s sheep and a few more servants. A third messenger then reports that a Chaldean raid had taken his camels and killed more servants. Finally, a fourth messenger announces that a powerful wind had collapsed the house where Job’s children were feasting, tragically killing them all.

We can summarise chapter one with five words: “So, how was your day?”. We can summarise Job’s response over the following 41 chapters and the epilogue, also with five words: “Tough – but God is faithful.” If we put Job in modern idiom, we might say “shit happens”. Yet the Book of Job does not seek to find some hidden meaning in our suffering, as though our pains can be decoded as some test or exam that we must somehow come through and pass. Sometimes in suffering and loss, all we can do is hang on to God, and to each other.

The Psalms were important, even revolutionary texts in their day, and perhaps the first kind of sacred writing we have like this, as they give voice to the accused, often reflecting the feelings of those who feel hunted, slandered, or abandoned. The key point is not that every speaker is legally innocent. The Psalms do not assume that. Rather, they give us insights into the emotional turbulence the threatened individual. The Psalms include complaints and protests against false accusations and organised hostility, and readers are not bound to the majority’s views.

There are tough times in our world today. Wars rage. Economies are in trouble. We are challenged by changes to our climate and shortages of energy, charity, food and water. But as one ancient English writer, Julian of Norwich, said several hundred years ago: “He [Jesus] did not say, ‘You will never have a rough passage, you will never be over-strained, you will never feel uncomfortable’, but he did say, ‘You will never be overcome’.” So, have courage, faith, love, hope and charity. Not just for yourself, but for others too. It will be enough. Julian would go on to say that:

“We are so preciously loved by God that we cannot even comprehend it. No created being can ever know how much and how sweetly and tenderly God loves them. Only with the help of his grace can we persevere in spiritual contemplation with endless wonder at his high, surpassing, immeasurable love which, in his goodness, He has for us.”

As Winston Churchill once said, “When you are going through hell, it is advisable to keep going.” So, no matter what you face right now, remember that you are loved by God. As Job knew, there are no shortcuts in our suffering. We just have to get through them. Together, if we can. But as Jesus and the apostles and the prophets teach us, always grasping that God is with us, no matter what. Whether you are suffering, whether from tragedy or persecution, remember, you are worth everything to God. Even the sparrows are numbered.

Matthew 9:35-10:8

The Workers Are Few

³⁵ Jesus went through all the towns and villages, teaching in their synagogues, proclaiming the good news of the kingdom and healing every disease and sickness. ³⁶ When he saw the crowds, he had compassion on them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd. ³⁷ Then he said to his disciples, “The harvest is plentiful but the workers are few. ³⁸ Ask the Lord of the harvest, therefore, to send out workers into his harvest field.”

10 Jesus called his twelve disciples to him and gave them authority to drive out impure spirits and to heal every disease and sickness.

² These are the names of the twelve apostles: first, Simon (who is called Peter) and his brother Andrew; James son of Zebedee, and his brother John; ³ Philip and Bartholomew; Thomas and Matthew the tax collector; James son of Alphaeus, and Thaddaeus; ⁴ Simon the Zealot and Judas Iscariot, who betrayed him.

⁵ These twelve Jesus sent out with the following instructions: “Do not go among the Gentiles or enter any town of the Samaritans. ⁶ Go rather to the lost sheep of Israel. ⁷ As you go, proclaim this message: ‘The kingdom of heaven has come near.’ ⁸ Heal the sick, raise the dead, cleanse those who have leprosy,^[a] drive out demons. Freely you have received; freely give.

a. Matthew 10:8 The Greek word traditionally translated leprosy was used for various diseases affecting the skin.

There are many different kinds of commissions in the Gospels. Some exhort us to teach. Others, to follow wherever the Spirit leads, and build the Kingdom of God. Others, to lay down our lives and follow Christ, and do whatever he asks of us.

I think we can safely say that the call of the disciples was not a life of comfort, success or plenty. It was, if it was anything, a choice between life and death. And we are consistently asked to choose death, because it will be life. If we choose life, we will choose it on our terms, and it will be comfortable and nice. But it won’t be the life that God asks us to develop in communion with the Spirit.

Sometimes it is hard to work out the connections between the three lectionary readings we are served with on a Sunday morning. The story from Genesis 18 gives us the hospitality of Abraham offered to three strangers - angels in disguise, really - and a prophecy to Sarah that, post-menopause, she will have a child. Not unreasonably, she cackles and scoffs at the revelation. Paul, writing in Romans (5: 1-8), tells us that the grace of God will be manifest in sufferings and endurance. Jesus, in the gospel (Matthew 9: 35ff), calls us twelve rather unpromising and certainly untested individuals to be his partners in this new ministry. Like an early version of the TV show The Apprentice, we are introduced to the twelve and wonder how they will fare with the tasks ahead. They seem eager, but otherwise unskilled.

In all three readings, witnessing is the key. Unlikely miracles, suffering, endurance and willingness to serve will be the key. None of the witnesses our readings offer this morning have the qualifications, skills or knowledge to be experts. They can only testify to what they have seen and heard. It is what they do with the rest of their lives that will determine whether they are credible witnesses. All we are assured of in the meantime is that God’s grace will be sufficient if we are willing to move forward. You cannot be a witness if you don’t turn up for the trial, or fail to say what you saw and heard, and then act upon it. Witnesses don’t just say things. They must do something; they must live by what they have witnessed. Sarah will. So does Paul. And as for the disciples, well, they too must act. They are called.

Christianity is a faith of touch, connection and of bonding. If you don’t believe me, just look at the sheer number of people Jesus touches in the gospels. Jesus is the body language of God. He sees the unseen; hears the unheard; speaks for the mute and marginalised; touches the untouchable. The incarnation closes the gap between humanity and divinity. In Christ, there is no more social distance between God and the world. Even here, in today’s Gospel, we are left with an injunction to heal the sick – to embrace them with love and transform them. We are to witness to what Jesus did, and repeat this in our own discipleship. We are to be witnesses. That is what the first disciples are: witnesses to Jesus who in turn witness to others.

‘Witness’ is a term that has become synonymous with evangelism, and it has been tamed, domesticated and emasculated by successive generations of Christians in modern times. It has come to mean something that is either written or spoken by some and then done to others. As though folk could be persuaded by a cogent argument or slicker presentation.

Perhaps like you, I am rather wary and weary of any more offerings on improving techniques for sharing the Gospel. If the key to evangelism lay in slicker presentation, or clearer or cleverer explanations, then we would have discovered this long ago. In truth, we are evading what we already know, deep down. To be a witness – a true one – costs everything. It is fundamental to our being Christian.

Our old English word ‘witness’ meant “attestation of fact or an event”, and “from personal knowledge”. Just as we use the term in legal proceedings, the witness is “the one who so testifies”. Whilst we use the English word ‘wit’ for humour, our forebears used ‘wit’ to mean the human intellect and moral reasoning.

A witness on the witness stand in a court of law is someone (hopefully) speaking the truth, as though their life depended on it. We are forbidden to bear false witness against others: this is the ninth of the Ten Commandments. A poor witness in a trial is someone who cannot give a good account of their testimony, or becomes confused about what they saw, heard or did, or might be unable to answer questions succinctly and clearly.

As a verb, witnessing meant to “bear testimony”, and legally to affix your name or signature to a document or testimony to establish your identity, or the probity and provenance of a claim. It also meant to see or know something, by personal presence, and to observe.

The first Christian disciples were witnesses. They bore testimony; they personally saw and met with the resurrected Jesus; they were prepared to be martyred for that, and lose their lives as their saviour had done. A true Christian witness signs their own death warrant: they die to the world, and are alive to Christ; they share in the sufferings of Jesus, even to death; they are pointers to signs of a life that is no longer theirs, but God’s.

True witnesses are bound to be convicted by their own testimony. They cannot be freed by what they say, or do with their lives. Christians, as witnesses, are committing themselves to a future as convicted ones – witnessing to truths and life that the world has never shirked from condemning, or even crucifying.

William James, one of the first psychologists of religion, often asked of a belief, what actions it resulted in; or, as he put it, what its cash value was, or its benefit to believers. When investigating a religious claim, he would advise his readers and students to ask, what facts does this belief result in? For James, beliefs were the grammar or rules for action, and their test was the practical consequence of holding them. So let me give an example here.

For William James, the outcomes of these forms of witness or testimony could not be clearer. That is why all Christians should reflect with care on our beliefs and subject them all to the Jamesian test: what are the practical consequences and benefits of holding particular beliefs, in what actions does they result in?

The early Christians, as witnesses, could answer as follows. To be a witness was to testify to Jesus, who was himself a witness to God. Jesus was and is, The Witness. The Light had come into the world: the darkness did not comprehend it. When the true Light of the world dawned, most people preferred the darkness. So they simply extinguished the light – Jesus was snuffed out for them, so to speak.

So, the early Christians undertook all manner of works that had no reward, nor even obvious results in which they could delight. They cared for the widows, the orphans and the marginalised. They looked after lepers. They witnessed to Jesus, who was himself a witness: the literal body language of God in time and space, living with boundless compassion, mercy, grace and love. The Witness was as God is: and the early Christians were called to be ‘like-wise’.

As the Jewish scholar Abraham Heschel puts it,

“there are no proofs for the existence of the God of Abraham – there are only witnesses” (The Prophets, New York: Harper & Row, 1962, vol. 1., p.22).

Note: “only witnesses”. There is nothing and no one else. Just us.

The church, like Jesus, was constantly subject to ostracism and expulsion. The church is for outcasts. But the church itself is cast out for precisely such endeavour. The first Christians were ejected from their places of worship – synagogues. They were rejected in their communities. They were worshippers, in turn, of the one who had been despised and rejected. Christians live in a constant state of both conviction and eviction. If the world is not trying to dismiss, exclude and disown the faithful, we will have over-befriended our culture and context, and lost our purpose. The activist Dorothy Day wrote:

“To be a witness does not consist in engaging in propaganda or even stirring people up, but in living the mystery; it means to live in such a way that one’s life would not make sense if God did not exist”. (Robert Coles, Dorothy Day: A Radical Devotion, Reading, MA: Perseus Books, 1987, p. 160).

The early Christian martyrs saw themselves first and foremost as witnesses. They did not see themselves so much as persecuted, as they were imitating Christ. Stephen, the first martyr, and therefore the first Christian witness, died embodying his faith through his purposeful acts. His death was, in many respects, pointless. Surely he could have argued that his work was socially valuable, charitable and for the common good. Why did he die, exactly?

The account of Stephen’s death in the Book of Acts is striking, not least because the manner of his death and surrender is consistent with his life – a surrender of himself to care for others who could not take care of themselves. His witness was against a social ordering and hierarchy that permitted this blasphemy, and the moral indignation that led to his death was, of course, a protest at his witness. If Stephen’s moral world prevailed, then too many people had too much to lose. There would be a level playing field. The poor would be enriched. The enriched would share with the poor. His witness was in his death, but also in his life. His devotion to the poor was a witness to the culpable neglect of his time. His care shamed the inaction of others. His non-aggressive pattern of resistance, with its firmness and fidelity, did not evade the violence that destroyed him.

We often think of Stephen as the first martyr and deacon. But John the Baptist is really the first martyr, and Jesus is the proto-deacon. It is Jesus who washes feet and serves at table. It is Jesus who feeds the hungry before he feeds himself. It is Jesus who came not to be served, but to serve. The call to discipleship is to be as God is, was and shall be amongst us. And that diaconal witness points us to God who becomes the suffering servant – as the disciples would later discover. In losing their life, they find it; in giving up what they have, they gain everything.

[An earlier, shorter version of this article was published in The Journal of Anglican Studies, May 2026]

Some Terms of Reference:

The Church of England is the established church of England, but not for the rest of the United Kingdom (UK). It is the only established Anglican church worldwide. The Anglican Church in Wales, the Scottish Episcopal Church, and the Church of Ireland operate independently. An ‘established’ church or religion is not necessarily the same as one that may be considered a ‘state’ or ‘national’ religion.

The British monarch is the Supreme Governor of the Church of England,[1] and their 26 senior bishops, known as Lords Spiritual, have seats in the House of Lords. The Church of England is also ‘established’ in the three crown dependencies of Guernsey, Jersey and the Isle of Man. The Dean of Jersey sits as a non-voting member of the States of Jersey, and the Bishop of Sodor and Man sits as a non-voting member of the Tynwald.[2]

A state religion, or official religion, is formally endorsed by a sovereign state. State religions benefit from government support, which may include official endorsement, public funding and recognition. Generally, these religions have greater rights and wider public responsibilities than other faiths in the country.[3]

An established church is recognised by the state as its official church and receives civil support. It cannot change its doctrines or practices without state consent and, in return, often enjoys financial support and special privileges. Church of England Measures require parliamentary oversight, whereas the Church of Scotland is self-governing. Historically, the establishment was opposed in parts of the UK where the population was not predominantly Anglican. As a result of political and religious pressure, the Church of England was disestablished in Ireland in 1871 and Wales in 1920.

The Church of England was established in the 1534 when King Henry VIII renounced papal authority. Until 1919, Parliament had legislative control. After this, a National Assembly was created, which was later replaced by a General Synod in 1969. The Church of England is represented in the House of Commons by a Second Church Estates Commissioner. This paper argues that the Church of England can remain the national faith of the English whilst ceasing to be established, thereby aligning with Anglicanism across the rest of the UK, Ireland, and the wider world.[4]

Bishops in the House of Lords:

On 15th June 2020, the House of Lords debated the government’s Abortion (Northern Ireland) (No 2) Regulations 2020. The bishop of Carlisle, the ‘lead bishop on health and social care’ in parliament (NB: for the Church of England, and representing no other body, and with no relevant qualifications, training or expertise for such a role in public life), spoke in favour of an amendment negating the regulations. In the subsequent vote, he and several other male bishops voted against the legislation.

Which people was the bishop representing in these debates? Certainly not women from Northern Ireland, forced to travel across the Irish Sea if they needed a termination. Was his opinion in line with the Church of England’s position, which says abortion, though regrettable, can be justified? It is not clear that it was. Was he representing the views of the wider English population? Not really. Yet he spoke and voted as of right. One cannot easily imagine a parallel universe in which a Roman Catholic bishop was always entitled to sit as one of the nine justices on the US Supreme Court and vote on abortion rights, including Roe v Wade. Yet the Church of England did just that in 2020 and repeated the action in debates in March 2026.[5]

The grounds of entitlement – and inevitable gift to the Church of England through being established – now look increasingly questionable. What is the role of one established denomination, and of only one nation, set within a devolved union of nations? Can bishops in the House of Lords authentically represent the plethora of opinions within their own denomination, let alone speak for the UK as a whole?

There are other pressing reasons to question the fitness and appropriateness of Church of England bishops to sit ‘as of right’ in the House of Lords. The bishops are not elected nor subject to any open democratic process of selection. Concerningly, they can be chosen through a closed ecclesiastical committee process that primarily serves internal church politics (e.g., selecting a Catholic or Evangelical bishop with conservative views on sexuality, gender, etc.) to ‘balance’ Church of England appointments.

Then there is representation – with the Church of England often arguing that the ‘Lords Spiritual’ stand for constituencies that might not otherwise have a voice, or the complexion of the House of Lords is somehow overlooked. This old canard suggests that the Church of England bishops enhance and complete the complexion of representation in the House of Lords. But a Church of England diocese is no kind of ‘constituency’ in any serious sense, and bishops cannot meaningfully claim to represent the wider population of their designated dioceses, as though they were some kind of unelected MP sitting in the House of Lords, holding surgeries that dealt with social issues that could then be aired and addressed. The public has a natural right to expect and know that those who legislate and vote in the House of Lords have the expertise and knowledge to perform such work. The Church of England no longer ensures this in its bishops. Correspondingly, there is also the nettle of contemporary episcopal intellectual quality and distinguished service in public life that must be grasped in any consideration of bishops continuing to sit in the House of Lords.

Even in the early postwar years, many bishops serving in the House of Lords were drawn from backgrounds in which they had served with distinction in the university sector (e.g., as professors), other spheres of education, the armed services, or other public fora. Contemporary bishops, with very rare exceptions, simply lack such grounding. Bishops demonstrably lack the expertise or experience that most other members of the House of Lords bring to debates. Bishops are not distinguished in law, academia, politics, economics, or even these days, necessarily in theology.

The entitlement and privilege of episcopal representation in the House of Lords have a very attenuated relationship with the qualities that would be sought in and seen as essential for others preferred to a peerage. It need hardly be stressed that to privilege one English denomination with 26 automatic seats in the House of Lords makes little sense in the context of a Parliament that is there for the whole of the UK.

Plainly, if senior faith representatives are seen as important to the composition of the House of Lords, then a system could be devised that is democratic, meritocratic, and applied putatively across the UK rather than privileging England and its Church of England bishops.

Furthermore, with the principle of hereditary peerage giving rights to sit in the House of Lords now effectively at an end, it is peculiar, if not perverse, that the principle of ‘ontological inheritance’ remains aloof from this reform. In the minds of most people, inheriting the power through one’s bloodline to sit in the upper chamber of the legislature in any country seems, at best, quaint and outright as undemocratic, elitist, and unconstitutionally hegemonic.[6]

If the argument of bloodline is now rejected for the House of Lords, then, by extension, a medieval concept of ‘ontological’ entitlement and inheritance becomes similarly problematic. The principles and problems of hereditary peerage are the same as those in the polity of ontology, if the person sitting in the House of Lords is there by an inherited quasi-mystical right, not by merit, public scrutiny or democratic mandate.

The canard that Monarchy, Coronation and Church are all intertwined and cannot be unravelled also fails at this juncture, because an established church is not needed across the rest of the UK. Constitutionally, the reigning monarch is the ‘Defender’, solely, of the Protestant Faith of the Church of England. Establishment is an English argument for the preferment and privilege of the Church of England. Yet the other home nations function perfectly well with national churches (e.g., the Church of Scotland, etc.) that are not “by law established”.

Establishment is an outdated artefact of medieval governance, a time when bishops wielded significant financial, civic, legal, and local political power. As with Ireland and Wales, once it was recognised that this was no longer the case for the Anglican churches, or was indeed unwelcome, their establishment ceased. England’s time for disestablishment has now arrived.

National Trends:

The statistics of churchgoing in 21st-century Britain make for sobering reading. There are 12,500 parishes in the Church of England. Even before the pandemic, only 33 of these recorded more than 100 under-16s attending church on a Sunday. That equates to a mere 0.26% of the parishes or less than one church per Anglican diocese (of which there are 42). The Church of England claims Anglicanism is a global fellowship of 88+ million. It will sometimes claim over 95 million.

But this figure counts 25 million ‘members’ of the Church of England in England when the usual Sunday attendance (uSa) is around 0.5-0. 6 million. Global Anglicanism probably has around 55 million regular attendees, placing it behind the Methodist, Baptist and Presbyterian denominations, and well behind the 1.4 billion Roman Catholics.

It is generally accepted that the Church of England membership numbers claimed may be close to double those of the actual attendees, which would be a maximum of around 1 million in a population of 55 million for England, so 1.82%. The time may now be ripe to “level up” and share ecclesiastical power and privilege. If proof of the problem were still needed, the recent national census in the UK, with its statistics on religious affiliation, made for uncomfortable reading.

For the first time in an England and Wales census, less than half of the population (46.2 per cent, or 27.5 million people) described themselves as Christian. This represents a 13.1 per cent decrease from 2011. As the Church Times noted,[7] Christianity in England is now a minority religion. The paradox for members of the Church of England is that, while the English population is primarily pro-equality and democratic, the established church remains rooted in hierarchies and autocracy

Likewise, statistics for the broader English population confirm the same: in baptisms, confirmations, weddings, and funerals, obsolescence has set in. One can pin the blame on either excessive theological particularity or perhaps on well-meant pastoral laxity. Or on bureaucratic inflexibility and complexity. But the lens of obsolescence helps us see that people move on to more convenient or preferable options. And there is no penalty for foregoing the previous options.

Internally, within the Church of England, the increasing internal haemorrhage of clergy and laity - volunteers who were once the backbone of the local church and served as wardens, PCC members and other responsibility-bearing roles, etc - shows that people have had enough.[8] What once seemed integral shifted in a few generations to being optional. And it is now becoming obsolete.[9]

The Church of England has 16,000 church buildings – slightly more than one-third of the total number of church buildings in Great Britain. To put that in a broader context, there are fewer than 12,000 village halls, and the same again for post offices (11,800). The Church of England also controls 4,700 primary-junior schools in England (out of a total of 16,700), with an average of 280 pupils per school. So again, like its churches, church schools are distinguished by small attendance numbers whilst being quite widespread. These networks of modest-sized schools and small churches are costly to maintain.

David Voas, the eminent sociologist at University College London, has been sceptical of recent reports suggesting a resurgence in young men attending church services.[10] Voas suggested that, at best, this represented a mere pause in the relentless collapse of English religion. Furthermore, the impending decline in Christian affiliation is expected to be far steeper than what many churches and denominations are currently experiencing.[11] Even the most optimistic church leaders are cautious when discussing recovery. Others quietly opine that any rumours of revival represent another PR-led “thesis that directs the facts”.[12] The hierarchy of the Church of England certainly has form in that regard, and the relationship it has tried to foster between rhetoric and reality has steadily eroded in recent decades.[13]

Were proof of the gap between rhetoric and reality needed, consider the case of the Church of England’s Bristol diocese. In recently publishing its new brochure, Statement of Needs for its Bishop, it clearly did not find it strange that there are almost as many people working in diocesan HQ (80) as there were clergy serving in the diocese (90), effectively giving a 1:1 ratio of administrators to clergy.[14] The diocese has 193 parishes (a different figure – 166 – is cited earlier, suggesting that the authors may not be clear about the difference between a parish and a benefice). The diocese claims to be “serving 1.1 million people” with a “worshipping community” of 11,000, which amounts to just 1% of the population.

The Statement of Needs brochure reports that the diocese has an income of £11.8 million and an expenditure of £16.6 million, which represents a recurring loss of £5 million per year, which may be a concern.[15] To fund the diocese in line with its expenditure, each worshipper would therefore need to contribute around £1,500 per year. Most of the members of this “worshipping community” are of retirement age, which raises further questions about how the gap between income and expenditure is to be closed by those with (largely) fixed incomes.

Church of England ‘Culture’:

There are also serious concerns regarding the Church of England’s distinct internal culture and the undoubted urgency any government faces in reforming it when confronted by the lack of alignment between ecclesial and public values. Like any faith group, the Church of England has every right to protect, project and promote its distinct culture to the English. But not from a position of legislative privilege, and there are, in any case, significant issues to address if that discrete culture is increasingly at odds with statutory law and basic standards in public life. Specifically, the Church of England is currently unaligned in the following fields:

1. On same-sex marriage and LGBTQ+ the Church of England is out of step with the national mood and English law. The claim to be a ‘national church’ when the dissonance and gap are so great with the wider population is problematic. It is even more so for an established church, where privilege and entitlement ensure that the Church of England has no accountability to the nation it purports to serve.[16]

2. On accountability and transparency more generally, the Church of England bishops are manifestly non-compliant with Nolan Standards for Public Life, and effectively operate as “a law unto themselves”. No peers of the realm, or indeed other professions or public services, operate without some means of independent oversight that can call the individuals or body to account. For the Lords Spiritual to be seated in the House of Lords and yet answerable to nobody, in any kind of meaningful, modern democratic sense, is unconscionable.[17]

3. On gender, the Church of England operates with “two integrities” which permit lawful discrimination within the church. Whilst discrimination on grounds of gender can be argued as a “protected characteristic” in a faith, it is highly questionable whether this is fit for purpose in a national church, let alone an established one. On what other grounds would members of the House of Lords permit discrimination amongst themselves? None, I venture. Yet the Church of England Lords Spiritual affirm discrimination on the sophistry of “two integrities”.[18]

4. On safeguarding, the Church of England still resists scrutiny and trustworthy professional independent regulatory oversight, despite legions of scandals coming to light, and there is no sign of these stopping.[19] In 2024, The Economist noted that the 27 recommendations in the Makin Report echoed similar suggestions from numerous safeguarding reports over the past 40 years, which the Church of England had either ignored or dismissed.[20] There is merit to the criticism of The Economist. For example, the Church of England established an Independent Safeguarding Board in 2021, only to disband it in 2023 for being “too independent”. The Church of England is averse to being subject to external regulatory authorities.

The 2021 census results for England and Wales have yet to be fully understood, but given that many congregations are reporting significant declines in attendance after Covid, it seems unlikely that there will be any silver linings this century. A relevant comparison can be drawn from the recent 2021 Australian census, where a voluntary question on religion received a 93 per cent response rate. This census revealed a near doubling of the proportion of people identifying as having ‘no religion’. Less than half (44 per cent) of the respondents identified as Christian, a decrease from 61 per cent in 2011. Both Roman Catholic and Anglican affiliations have seen steep declines, dropping to 20 per cent and 10 per cent, respectively (Roman Catholic affiliations have historically been the larger group). We note that Australian figures lag behind the British experience, where recent surveys indicate that over 50 per cent of people are willing to declare that they have no religion.

One of the significant challenges facing all UK churches is that their decline is driven not by ideological hostility but by indifference. The forces contributing to this decline operate quietly and without notice. Aside from organised secularism and secularisation, which churches often overstate, there are no obvious adversaries for them to rally against. There is a rapid obsolescence in denominational-institutional identity, though local pastoral ministry retains its social and spiritual capital.

Conclusion:

The most serious and compelling case for change comes from the House of Lords itself. On 29^th April 2026, the last of the hereditary peers was removed from the upper chamber.[21] The Speaker, Lord Forsyth of Drumlean, thanked the peers for their service, spanning almost a thousand years of parliamentary history. Whilst one may rue the end of an era, the principle of inheriting substantial political and legislative power for public life, solely by virtue of one’s bloodline and elite ancestry, has rightly ended. Likewise, we argue that ancient and modern quasi-mystical versions of automatic entitlement to seats in the House of Lords are no longer fit for purpose. Ontological descent is not straightforward,[22] and even more so when it leads to establishment as of right, and the inheritance of powers and privileges that can be wielded in the House of Lords, when democratic processes and even meritocratic concerns have not been observed. (It is hard enough for the British monarchy to bear the presumed ontological value and assumed spiritual weight of their numinous roles and office).[23] By extension, if the hereditary peers have been removed from the House of Lords, the Lords Spiritual – who, let us remember, also inherit their seats – should likewise be retired.

Plainly, whatever the nostalgia and history, current arrangements for automatically placing Church of England bishops in the House of Lords no longer resonate with the public, nor do they make any sense in terms of British politics and society. In recent times, we have witnessed several appointment processes for senior diocesan bishops manipulated to secure a candidate who would represent internal party interests in the church (often at odds with normal and established social values), without due regard for their fitness to serve in public life.[24] Individual appointments to Diocesan Sees notwithstanding, it should by now be apparent that English bishops have no mandate to vote on Scottish, Welsh or Northern Ireland affairs, and should therefore already be recusing themselves from debates that are outside the scope of English interests.[25]

In safeguarding, the Church of England continues to resist meaningful external scrutiny and is averse to trustworthy, professional, independent regulatory oversight. Despite legions of abuse scandals coming to light, there is no sign that this will stop.[26] In 2024, The Economist noted that the 27 recommendations in the Makin Report echoed similar suggestions from numerous safeguarding reports over the past 40 years, which the Church of England had either ignored or dismissed.[27] There is merit to the criticism of The Economist. For example, the Church of England established (what appeared to be) an ‘Independent Safeguarding Board’ in 2021, only to summarily disband it in 2023 when it showed signs of becoming “too independent and survivor-focussed”. The established Church of England is averse to being subject to external regulatory authorities, despite all other public utilities, services and industries being subject to meaningful accountability. The Church of England maintains its aloof status.

A constitutional crisis is now emerging over the Crown, the Church, and the Constitution, particularly amid a significant decline in Church of England affiliation and growing cultural disenchantment with its leaders. Over the past few decades, the Church of England has invested substantial effort into branding, marketing, mission initiatives, and reorganisation. However, evangelistic efforts, such as the Call to the Nation launched by the Archbishop of Canterbury in 1975 and the Church’s “Decade of Evangelism” from 1990 onward, have proven ineffective and even counterproductive. These initiatives have further distanced the public from the Church of England and led to a much steeper decline in church attendance.

Much like some erstwhile political party unable to connect with the general public, the Church of England struggles to appear credible and relevant in people’s daily lives, offering little relevant hope. As an organisation, it has a poor track record regarding equality and fairness. It continues to discriminate against individuals based on sexuality and gender while spending time and money to recruit loyal members. Ironically, these efforts often alienate potential supporters. There is little appetite for a national church that represents privilege and the power to discriminate while lacking proper accountability and transparency.

The most direct challenge posed by the current situation concerns the status of the Church of England within our constitutional monarchy. The UK’s hereditary head of state must meet certain religious criteria: monarchs cannot be Roman Catholics (though since 2015 they can marry one), must be “in communion” with the Church of England, must swear an oath declaring that they are faithful Protestants, and, during the coronation, must vow to rule justly and defend the rights and privileges of the Church of England.

As the supreme Governor of the Church of England, the monarch, on the advice of ministers, makes all senior appointments. Of the 40-plus diocesan bishops, 26 sit in the House of Lords by virtue of their seniority. Iran is the only other country in the world where religious leaders have automatic seats in the legislature. This complex arrangement is commonly referred to as ‘establishment’, highlighting a historically close partnership between church and state. Originally, this relationship reflected a degree of religious uniformity, as every citizen was required to belong to the established Church, and there was active persecution of Roman Catholics and other Christian minorities. This is no longer the case, and it arguably ended in the 19^th century.

Over the last century, the Church of England has become increasingly autonomous, leading to the characterisation of the arrangement as “weak establishment.” Nevertheless, the central aspect of establishment persists through the Church of England’s unique relationship with the head of state, Parliament, and the current government. While the UK can claim to have religious freedom, it regrettably lacks religious equality due to the Church of England’s continued privileges compared to other religious organisations.

This axis of inequality and privilege poses challenges to the Church of England’s reputation. The House of Lords, which is one half of the UK Parliament, has bishops solely (sitting ‘as of right’) of members from the Church of England, with no representation from Welsh, Irish, or Scottish denominations. In the UK, where power and governance are increasingly decentralised and devolved, there is no justification for this lack of diversity.

If it were thought important to have faith representatives in the devolved assemblies of Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland, an openly democratic-meritocratic system to elect them could be devised and modelled in the House of Lords. The present situation presumes that Church of England bishops have the competence and right to address spiritual, moral, and social concerns outside England and can speak on behalf of all faiths and none. This is plainly beyond their remit and expertise.

The Bill to Disestablish the Church of England in Wales (1914, enacted 1920) can be extended to England. Contrary to what the Church of England will claim and obfuscate, the required parliamentary bill has been enacted in other home nations and could be replicated in England.[28] Alternatively, or in lockstep, Parliament could pass a bill that would not seek to replace any of the bishops as they retire at 70, so that sitting as of right with the practice of ontological-hereditary privilege would be phased out naturally.

Parliament would cease to have any role in regulating the Church of England or its General Synod, and Church of England ecclesiastical law would operate at the same level it does for other Anglican churches in the UK. It would no longer be statutory law. The Charity Commission would regulate and monitor those areas within its jurisdiction, and secular law would be available to clergy, laity, bishops, and dioceses in the event of legal issues arising (e.g., employment disputes). At present, the persistence of church courts and disciplinary proceedings, in which bishops continue to have largely unfettered powers, is unconscionable.

Safeguarding in the Church of England would cease to operate in a wholly non-transparent and unaccountable manner. Safeguarding in the Church of England is currently (at best) self-regulating, but widely regarded as problematically opaque, and totally unworthy of trust or professional esteem. The present situation is unconscionable, with the Church of England resisting secular regulation in such spheres, claiming numerous exemptions from statutory law (e.g., under clergy disciplinary proceedings), interpreting ecclesiastical law as it wishes (e.g., still arguing for private trials of clergy), and retaining the status and lustre of being “established by law” while lacking any meaningful public accountability for its actions. No other faith enjoys such privilege.

Whilst it is true that local schools and locally focused ministry in parishes and chaplaincies remain valued, this local engagement – offering spiritual, pastoral, and civic support – does not necessarily require the formalities associated with establishment. However, the current leadership of the Church of England fans the myth that establishment is an all-or-nothing proposition, constitutionally complex, and an essential component in statecraft. Furthermore, that any such unravelling would have implications for the monarchy and constitution of the UK.

However, such assertions are demonstrably untrue. Looking across the rest of Europe, there are no other national churches with the privileges and preferential treatment that come with ‘establishment’. The Church of England can be a national church if it still aspires to serve the nation. It need not be established.

For England, a national, but not established church, represents a commendable and interim way forward for the nation as a whole, with Church of England clergy and churches continuing to provide extensive parish-based pastoral and spiritual care and also replicating this in chaplaincies (i.e., prison, healthcare, military, etc). This would be comparable to provisions in Scotland and would bring the Church of England’s position into line with that of other European countries. The time for reform is ripe. A Bill to effect these changes is long overdue and would command widespread support from within the Church of England, across England, and throughout the UK.

Martyn Percy is Research Professor, Theologische Fakultät, Universität Bern (Switzerland) and Canon Theologian, Convocation of Episcopal Churches in Europe. His Partitioning Contemporary Anglicanism: A Study in Critical Ecclesiology, London: Routledge, will be published later this year.

[1] See Martyn Percy, Partitioning Contemporary Anglicanism: A Study in Critical Ecclesiology, London: Routledge, 2026.

[2] See: https://lawandreligionuk.com/2025/11/03/the-bishops-vote-in-the-legislative-council-of-tynwald/

[3] See Martyn Percy, ‘The coronation of Charles III—Subjects and Objects’, Prospect, May 09, 2023: https://www.prospectmagazine.co.uk/world/monarchy/61334/coronation-king-charles-westminster-abbey

[4] See Martyn Percy, The Crisis of Colonial Anglicanism: Empire, Slavery and Revolt in the Church of England. London: Hurst Books, 2025; The Exiled Church. London: SCM-Canterbury Press, 2025; and Church, Communion and Culture: Samuel Seabury and the Fate of Global Anglicanism. Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2026.

[5] See ‘House of Lords backs bid to decriminalise abortion’. The Bishops voted against decriminalisation. BBC, 18 March 2026: https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/articles/cp323zpxp11o See also https://churchinparliament.org/tag/abortion/

[6] David Nicholls, Deity and Domination: Images of God and the State in the 19th and 20th Centuries, London: Routledge, 1993. C.f. Percy, Martyn. Anglicanism: Confidence, Commitment and Communion. London: Routledge, 2013.

[7] Church Times, 29^th November 2022, p. 3.

[8] See Alice Goodman, ‘Clerical Life: Fragile Church’, Prospect, May 2026, pp. 79-80.

[9] For an analysis of post-pandemic trends, see Christopher Baker et al, ‘Faith’ in Funerals? Robust Attenuation or Terminal Decline, Journal of Contemporary Religion, vol. 40. no. 3., 2025, pp. 507-528.

[10] c.f. David Voas, https://theconversation.com/is-there-really-a-religious-revival-in-england-why-im-sceptical-of-a-new-report-257863. Even Conservative Evangelicals in the Church of England concur that the decline continues, although major metropolitan conurbations buck the trend, such that the future of the Church of England appears to be a handful of sizeable, well-staffed churches and an extremely large number of very small congregations. See: Ian Paul, https://www.psephizo.com/life-ministry/is-the-church-of-england-growing-again/.

[11] This would seem to be a shared problem internationally. See Christian Smith, Why Religion Went Obsolete: The Demise of Traditional Faith in America, New York: Oxford University Press, 2025. Smith convincingly shows that disaffection and disaffiliation with churches are growing in the developed world, and the numbers leaving – often quietly – not being replenished.

[12] Professor Sir John Curtice, President of the British Social Attitudes (BSA) body, noted that whilst the Bible Society claimed that church attendance had risen from 8% to 12%, and were now at pre-pandemic levels, the BSA found almost the reverse – that the attendance figures had dropped from 12% to 9%, and furthermore that there was no evidence of increased church attendance amongst younger people, although other faiths were recording slight growth. See ‘More or Less’, BBC Radio Four, 14 January 2026: https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/m002pqgv

[13] See Madeleine Davies, ‘Church of England Statistics for Mission show slow growth’, Church Times, 20the October 2025:

https://www.churchtimes.co.uk/articles/2025/31-october/news/uk/church-of-england-statistics-for-mission-contradict-claims-of-quiet-revival

[14] Naturally, it is a puzzle why the Statement of Needs is more than these three words: “Fulfil the Ordinal”. After the Bishop has been teaching the clergy, engaged in the pastoral care of congregations and wider diocese, leading mission, and maintaining unity, all other information could be confined to appendices. Of course, the Statement of Needs does not mention the Ordinal.

[15]https://d3hgrlq6yacptf.cloudfront.net/5f3ecfb22c3ee/content/pages/documents/statement%20of%20needs%20(full%20doc)%20(2)-compressed.pdf. For a recent critique of such, see Marus Walker, ‘Biscuit Crumbs from the Table’, September 22^nd 2025, The Critic Magazine https://thecritic.co.uk/biscuit-crumbs-from-the-table/

[16] Charlotte Kelly, ‘It is time for the Lords Spiritual to leave the House of Lords’, UK Parliament/Jessica Taylor, https://labourlist.org/2026/04/it-is-time-for-the-lords-spiritual-to-leave-the-house-of-lords/

[17] See Martyn Percy, Partitioning Postcolonial Anglicanism: Discord, Dissent and Division in the Church of England, London: Routledge, 2026.

[18] See Martyn Percy, The Crisis of Colonial Anglicanism: Empire, Slavery and Revolt in the Church of England. London: Hurst Books, 2025.

[19] See Martyn Percy & Anthony Bash, Trials and Tribulations: Pastoral and Professional Challenges in Prosecuting Church of England Clergy, York: Ethics Press International, 2026. The volume offers a lengthy list of cases, extensively discussed, which highlight the incompetent, discriminatory, nepotistic, cruel, carceral and corrupt culture within the Church of England’s safeguarding.

[20] https://www.economist.com/britain/2024/11/12/the-archbishop-and-the-abuser,November 12^th 2024. See also Martyn Percy, https://www.prospectmagazine.co.uk/ideas/religion/church-of-england/68523/welby-is-gonebut-trust-in-the-church-is-broken-beyond-repair, November 12^th 2024.

[21] Jennifer McKiernan, ‘Hereditary peers’ last hurrah as 700-year-old system abolished’, BBC News: https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/articles/ckgp5j5gpplo

[22] Ontological descent by bloodline remains an integral feature of the British monarchy, to which the coronation bears witness. However, no change in ontological status is implied for the rest of the British hereditary aristocracy (e.g., Dukes, Earls, etc.). For Church of England Bishops, the ontological descent is quasi-monarchical in character, with the claim that, in form, function, and office, the Bishop of a Diocese is in a direct line of descent from the first apostles (i.e., apostolic succession). Functionally, like the rest of the British aristocracy, the titles, powers and privileges of a diocesan bishop in the Church of England are inherited as of right in the role and are regarded as one of many “possessions” acquired at accession, which include other rights and privileges. The substantive issue is automatic entitlement to power and privilege to shape public life, and it is this that ended with the hereditary peers in April 2026, raising questions about why the same argument and policy have not been extended to the Lords Spiritual.

[23] On this, see Martyn Percy, Prospect, March 1^st 2023, for an analysis of Charles III’s coronation: https://www.prospectmagazine.co.uk/society/60516/why-charless-coronation-could-be-a-spiritual-flop

[24] For example, Tim Dakin was chosen as the Lord Bishop of Winchester in 2011, but largely as a result of the unrepresentative majority of theologically conservative insiders who sat on the selection panel. Upon selection, Dakin automatically became an ex officio member of the House of Lords. Despite concerns and disputed claims regarding his proficiency and performance in several previous roles, he was still named as the ‘Lead Bishop for Higher and Further Education’ in the House of Lords, his lack of expertise notwithstanding. Dakin announced his retirement as Bishop of Winchester in 2021, following the threat of several votes of no confidence in his leadership at the diocesan level.

[25] We note that Law Lords were the full-time judges of the House of Lords until July 30, 2009, when the upper chamber ceased to serve as the highest appeal court in the UK. On October 1, 2009, the Supreme Court of the UK assumed jurisdiction over all civil and criminal cases in England, Wales, and Northern Ireland. The twelve Law Lords became the first justices of the Supreme Court and were barred from sitting in the House of Lords. Retired justices could return to the House as full members in due course, but newly appointed Supreme Court justices do not have seats in the House of Lords.

[26] See Martyn Percy & Anthony Bash, Trials and Tribulations: Pastoral and Professional Challenges in Prosecuting Church of England Clergy, York: Ethics Press International, 2026. The volume offers a lengthy list of cases, extensively discussed, which highlight the incompetent, discriminatory, nepotistic, cruel, carceral and corrupt culture within the Church of England’s safeguarding.

[27] https://www.economist.com/britain/2024/11/12/the-archbishop-and-the-abuser,November 12^th 2024. See also Martyn Percy, https://www.prospectmagazine.co.uk/ideas/religion/church-of-england/68523/welby-is-gonebut-trust-in-the-church-is-broken-beyond-repair, November 12^th 2024.

[28] The Welsh Church Act 1914^, enacted in 1920 and Ireland are models of legislature. See Paul O’Leary, ‘Religion, Nationality and Politics: Disestablishment in Ireland and Wales 1868–1914’, in Contrasts and Comparisons: Studies in Irish and Welsh Church History, edited by J.R. Guy and W.G. Neely, Cardiff: Welsh Religious History Society/Dublin: Church of Ireland Historical Society, 1999, pp. 89–113.

The Episcopal Church of the Good Shepherd, Taipei, Taiwan

The Very Revd Canon Prof. Martyn Percy

Sixth Sunday of Easter 2026; 9:30am English-language liturgy; 11:00am Mandarin liturgy.

Lectionary Year A: Acts 17:22-31; Psalm 66:7-18; 1 Peter 3:13-22; John 14:15-21

‘If you love me, you will keep my commandments. And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate to be with you for ever. This is the Spirit of truth, whom the world cannot receive, because it neither sees him nor knows him. You know him, because he abides with you, and he will be in you. I will not leave you orphaned; I am coming to you. In a little while the world will no longer see me, but you will see me; because I live, you also will live. On that day you will know that I am in my Father, and you in me, and I in you. They who have my commandments and keep them are those who love me; and those who love me will be loved by my Father, and I will love them and reveal myself to them.’ John 14:15-21 New Revised Standard Version

Nearly fifty-five years ago, one of my favourite films was released. It is a movie for all ages and has enjoyed enduring popularity. The year was 1970; the film is The Railway Children. I remember going to see it at the Crosby Odeon with my grandmother. I loved the film for several reasons: Jenny Agutter, naturally, and Bernard Cribbins, playing the genial role of Perks, the railway worker.

The Railway Children concerns a family who moved from London to a house in the shires near a railway. Their move was forced upon them after the father, an intelligent, high-ranking civil servant, was unjustly convicted and imprisoned for espionage but was eventually exonerated.

In their new environs, the three children – ‘Bobbie’ (Jenny Agutter), Peter and Phyllis – befriend an older gentleman who normally takes the morning train from near their home. He becomes an unlikely hero, for in his empathy for the children, he is moved to help prove their father’s innocence, thereby reuniting the family. However, before the father is freed, the family cares for a Russian exile who came to England looking for his lost family. The railway family also takes in Jim, the grandson of the old gentleman.

For a good part of the film, the children are effectively orphaned. The climax is achingly beautiful. The train pulls in and stops, and Bobbie, alone, stands on the platform and waits, not knowing if her father is there. The entire scene is consumed in the steam and smoke of the locomotive. And out of the clouds, the father emerges. As Jesus says before his ascension:

“I will not leave you orphaned; I am coming to you.”

When we think of orphans, we instinctively think of children without parents. The English word ‘orphan’ comes from the Greek orphanos, meaning merely ‘bereaved’, ‘bereft’ or ‘deprived’. In English, it signifies a child losing one or both parents. Of course, we are always somebody’s child. Unless we predecease our parents, we will all know what it is to be orphaned: to be without our father or mother. We can be an orphan at any age.

In the gospels, Jesus refers to the Holy Spirit as “the Comforter,” and it is this name that most closely associates the maternal and paternal comforting care that Jesus gives so abundantly in his ministry with what is to come after he has gone. The gospels record Jesus saying, “Do not worry” or “Do not be afraid” repeatedly—seventy times. Yes, seventy.

Jesus says it a lot. Don’t be afraid of the storm or of sinking in this boat. Do not worry about lack of food or clothes. Do not worry about those who hate you. Do not worry about death.

“Do not be afraid…I am with you”, says Jesus. Time and time again. Do Not Fear.

As a child, I grew up always knowing I had been adopted. It has had, and continues to have, a profound influence on my identity, ministry and theology. Deeply imprinted in my soul and psyche is the knowledge that, though I was literally bereft as a baby, I was not abandoned. I was blessed with good and loving parents who came for me and took me home.

Another meaning of ‘orphan’ is quite general – ‘to change allegiance, passing from one status to another’. That was my experience. My status moved from being an “unwanted baby” to becoming a much-cherished, much-wanted, much-loved…son. Many years later, as an adult, my parents told me that, in fact, I had never been “unwanted”. My birth mother simply could not keep me. But she had held me for the first weeks of my life, and only gave me up when she handed me over, in person, to the couple that came for me – my parents. My ‘new normal’ was to learn that I had always been held and cherished.

The first Christians cared for and cherished orphans. The scriptures give many examples of infants being adopted and raised by folk that are not their biological parents. The early church was called to be an adopting, caring and comforting community for everyone – especially the neglected, marginalised and bereft. The words Jesus speaks to us are what he calls us to proclaim and practice to the rest of humanity today:

“We will not leave you orphaned or bereft; we are here for you; we are coming to you; do not be afraid; God never leaves any of us.”

So what of here and now? I recall an NHS advertising poster some years ago to recruit new nurses. The advert pictured a nurse cradling a newborn baby, and the caption read: “the first few minutes of life can be critical”. But someone had daubed a little bit of graffiti underneath: “…and the last few moments can be a bit tricky too.”

This is a fearful, tender time in our world. It can feel like it is falling apart. Fear is natural and normal. But courage, love, kindness and care remain important virtues – embodying trust, justice, dignity, equality and integrity - and how we then encourage and support one another in living within that vision.

As the English pastoral mystic, William Langland, put it so finely, and with such prescience, in The Vision of Piers Plowman (c. 1370), “[those] who speak nothing but the truth, and act by it, wishing no one ill, are like Christ” (Book 1, part 1). Langland wrote his allegory after successive waves of pestilence and endless wars had devastated the country and wider Europe, leaving perhaps half the population dead from violence, displacement, plague and starvation. Later, despairing of the state of the world and even of his own fate when all seemed dark, the central figure of Langland’s allegory sought counsel from a character named Kind (Kynde):

As I sat in this sorrow, I saw Kynde passing by.

‘Counsel me, Kynde’, said I, ‘what craft be best to learn?’

“Learn to love,’ said Kynde, ‘and leave all other crafts.”

‘[But] how shall I [then]… keep myself?’

“If you love folk faithfully, you shall find you never lack….”

And by counsel of Kynde I commenced to roam…until I came to Unity.

[William Langland, Piers Plowman, edited by Elizabeth Robertson and Stephen H.A. Shepherd. (W. W. Norton & Co., 2006), B 20. 183-213].

Cradling, holding and caring for others at the beginning and end of life – and for all that bit we call “the middle” (perhaps three-score-years-and-ten?) – is where our calling as the church must be. Remembering the words of Jesus, which have been, are being, and will be fulfilled: “I will not leave you orphaned or bereft; I am with you. Do not fear. I am coming to you.”

Alleluia, Amen.

I first saw Caravaggio’s Supper at Emmaus at the National Art Gallery in London when I was eight. I had an aunt, who was an artist and art teacher, and being the only member of her family remotely interested in art and books, I was the convenient excuse for a trip to any new exhibition. I don’t remember what we were supposed to be seeing that day, but do remember being profoundly captivated by Dutch Masters, Flemish scenes and this extraordinary painting.

My aunt was a one-off. She had been an early member of the Cavern Club in Liverpool, had heard the Beatles play before they were famous and still had Pete Best and Stuart Sutcliffe in the line-up. She had gone on two dates with John Lennon – at the time, a student with her, studying at Liverpool Art College – and they were only memorable for being unmemorable. I liked the Beatles, so my aunt and I had plenty to talk about.

Caravaggio (1571-1610) paints in the Baroque style, and The Supper at Emmaus was painted in 1601. The painting depicts the moment when the resurrected but incognito Jesus, reveals himself to two of his disciples in the town of Emmaus. Hitherto, Jesus has walked alongside the disciples (presumed to be Cleopas and Luke), and the conversation hinges on the body of Jesus that is now missing from the tomb. The stranger – the incognito Jesus – is prevailed upon to stay for supper with the two disciples. At which point, he reveals himself “in the breaking of the bread”. As he does so, Jesus vanishes from their sight. The disciples then hurry back to Jerusalem to tell the other disciples.

Anyone who has seen any of the paintings by Caravaggio will be instantly struck by their sensual, carnal, even voluptuous overtones. Caravaggio is unsparing in the signals he sends to us. We see this in the painting, lush, ripe fruits, some perfectly broiled and roasted poultry, the soft human skin of Jesus, which is almost boy-like. Caravaggio has even gone to the trouble of giving Jesus an exceptionally close shave – there is no beard to be seen, and some have seen this as a nod to the reference in Mark’s gospel account of the resurrection: “he appeared to them in another form” (see Mark 16: 2).

Caravaggio’s fondness for the human form – which was of course manifested in his own colourful sexual proclivities – was often directly translated into depictions of food. So this supper has, at its centre, a bowl of fruit containing pomegranate, a ripe pear, apples, grapes and dates, and some vine leaves clearly visible. The connection between the vine leaves and the wine at table hardly needs explaining: the vine (Christ) is at the centre – and the picture literally branches off into the disciples, spreading them out (John 15: 5) as his branches.

Caravaggio’s private and public life was also dominated by violence, and this was interwoven with his sexuality and personal life. I note this here only to draw your attention to just how animated the characters are around Jesus are. Luke (left of picture) is on the edge of his seat, and practically in the act of bounding out of his seat. His posture is, literally, gripping. Cleopas (right) has a scallop shell affixed to his tunic – the sign of a pilgrim, and therefore of journeying. For a still-life, there is much movement. The disciples are shunted, almost pushed to the edge of the picture, as Christ’s right arm reaches out over the table to bless the meal. Like the world these apostles knew, the basket of food in the immediate foreground teeters precariously over the edge.

Sharp-eyed observers of the paining will see beyond the roasted bird, and notice that Jesus’ hands hover in blessing over not one, but two loaves. His left hand drawn close to his body is over one loaf, and his extended right hand actions an obvious gesture of blessing over the second loaf. One Lord, two loaves? What is going on here, and what does Caravaggio intend us to see?

The two loaves are almost certainly Challah Bread – a traditional kind of Jewish loaf or cake. It can be made with eggs, and even spiced or fruited, but the loaf is also known as or ‘pierced bread’, on account of a cut of the dough being set aside for tithing and ceremonial occasions such as Shabbat and major Jewish holidays (but note, not the Passover).

According to Jewish tradition, the three Sabbath meals (Friday night, Saturday lunch, and Saturday late afternoon) and the two holiday meals (one at night and lunch the following day) each begin with two complete loaves of bread. This ‘double loaf’ commemorates the manna that fell from the heavens when the Israelites wandered in the desert after the Exodus. The manna never fell on the Sabbath or ceremonial holy days. Instead, a ‘double portion’ would fall the day before the holiday or Sabbath to last for both days.

In some customs, each Challah loaf is woven with six strands of dough. Together, the loaves would have a combination of twelve strands, matching the twelve tribes of Israel and the twelve loaves of the showbread offering in the Temple. Other numberings of strands used include three, five and seven. As we shall see later, Jesus’ feedings of the 4,000 and the 5,000 are crafted to result in seven and twelve baskets of leftovers respectively.

It is hard to imagine that Caravaggio did not put some considerable effort into his symbolism. The Challah Bread is a clever exercise of nuance. The Supper at Emmaus is not a Sabbath meal. This is, after all, the very first day of Easter, and a Sunday. These two loaves of Challah Bread being blessed by Caravaggio’s Jesus therefore send a new message. Namely, this is a ‘double portion’ of that eternal bread which has now superseded the manna in the wilderness.

Caravaggio is picturing Jesus in the act of speaking and blessing, just as he does in John Chapter 6, following John’s account of the feeding of the 5,000. John weaves into this narrative the words of Jesus proclaiming that whilst Moses gave the Israelites bread for the desert that perished, and even though that was manna from heaven, something new has come into being through Jesus. Now, the new and imperishable “bread from heaven” has come down, and is that which gives life to the world. The disciples, awestruck, say “Lord, give us this bread”, to which Jesus replies: “I am the bread of life”.

Moreover, Emmaus is the obvious setting for Caravaggio’s staged imagery of Jesus, the Bread of Life, presiding over the Challah. The lush and opulent supper is also a cipher rooted in Emmaus itself. A relatively common place name in the near-east, Emmaus literally means the ‘spring of salvation’ or the ‘warm spring’, and its name would have meant a town that had a natural spring at source that was invested with healing properties. Here and now it all comes together: bread, water, wine – the eternal banquet is here, and the first Easter day proclaims this at the First Supper – after the Last Supper.

You may be forgiven for wondering if the place names of the Bible, Caravaggio’s symbolism and the gospel referencing (especially John and Luke) are really present in the Christian tradition (exegesis), or something we read into the story (eisegesis). I am not sure this matters greatly. However you read the gospels, there is no escaping the interwoven nature of bread and flesh, water and wine, the Last Supper and the heavenly banquet. Caravaggio gives us all of this in his Supper at Emmaus.

For Christians, Jesus is the Bread of the World. In the gospels, Jesus takes bread, and shares it. In the feeding of the 4,000, the 5,000, at the Last Supper, and in resurrection appearances in the supper at Emmaus and on the shore of Lake Galilee. In the New Testament, we are taught we are all one body, for we all share in one bread. We are taught not to divide the body, and be partial about who we feed and nourish: Jesus is for all, and his bread as his body is for all.

The Feast of the Annunciation falls on March 25^th – the visit of the angel Gabriel to Mary to tell her the ‘good news’ that she was pregnant, and would bear a son – and comes exactly nine months before Christmas. The immaculate timing of the annunciation is a proclamation of the immaculate conception of Jesus, and a nine-month gestation. Since medieval times and indeed long before, the Feast of Annunciation the was called Lady Day. The Old (or middle) English meaning of ‘Lady’ was ‘kneader of bread’ (hlafdige); and a ‘Lord’ (of the manor or a shire) (hlafweard) meant ‘keeper of bread’. Even today, vestiges of the Old English meaning survive: ‘dough’ is still slang for money, and we still speak of households having ‘bread-winners’. In Aramaic, Bethlehem meant ‘Town of Bread’. In Arabic, ‘Bethlehem’ means the House of Flesh (or meat). More colloquially, to be pregnant is to have a ‘bun in the oven’. Indeed, our English word ‘bun’ comes from an old Gaulish and Germanic word, meaning swelling or rising. Buns gestate: just watch the dough rise.

Mary, the mother of Jesus is the kneader of the dough. It is her ‘yes’ to God, and her gestation that brings forth this utterly unique Fruit of the Spirit, namely the Christ-child, grows and rises within her, and then arises from her. Flesh of flesh, bone of our bone. The crib in Bethlehem is little more than a large bread basket. An altar at which the Eucharist is celebrated is a servery – a place from which to give that which was already freely given. So, as we have received this bread freely, this Jesus whom we neither earn or deserve, so this bread is for all who come to supper at table with that same Jesus who blessed and multiplied the loaves to feed so many thousands, Jews and Gentiles alike.

Mary is therefore both the ‘kneader of bread’ (hlafdige) and a ‘Lord’ or ‘Lady’ as the ‘keeper of bread’ (hlafweard). But she keeps it not for herself. She only keeps it to see this single dough rise, and become Bread for the World. She only keeps, nourishes and cherishes the infant Jesus in order to give him up. He is not hers. He is ours. And because she shares her bread from herself – flesh of her flesh – she is one with us too: the kneader, keeper and the giver of bread.

Readers interested in reflecting further on this theme would be fed and nourished by John Hadley’s Bread of the World: Christ and the Eucharist Today (DLT, 1989). The sacramental theology that underwrites the book will not suit all tastes, for sure. And to my mind, the writings of Richard Holloway, Gerard Hughes SJ are more grounded, though I find Hadley’s notion of the Eucharist as “heaven in ordinary” to be compelling. Jesus is an expression of God’s heart for humanity. He is the Body Language of God. The vision of the Kingdom of God (or kin-dom of God, as Mujerista theology has it), is in the feasting of this supper. The kin-dom of God is for all. So the ministry of Jesus will incorporate from the outset. It belongs in the alleys, not just the temple. It will welcome Samaritans, not just Sadducees; Publicans, not just Pharisees.

Jesus reaches out to the Samaritan woman; and tells stories about good Samaritans, much to the annoyance of his potentially loyal Judean audience. He embraces the widow, the lame, the ostracised, the deprived and despised, and the neglected. He befriends the sinners and sinned against. He takes his tea with tax collectors. Jesus heals nobodies; the gospels, in nearly all cases, not able to name the afflicted individuals. The people Jesus reached out towards were excluded from the mainstream of society and faith.

What is significant about this, I think, is this. Jesus’ Kin-dom of God project was, from the outset, supra-tribal. It reached out beyond Judaism to the Gentiles. Indeed, he often praised gentiles for their faith, and often scolded the apparently ‘orthodox’ religion of his kith and kin for its insularity and purity. Jesus saw that God was for everyone; he lived, practised and preached this.

We see this in the healing miracles that Jesus wrought – to a Canaanite girl, a Samaritan woman or a Roman centurion’s servant. There are crumbs, crusts and loaves for all. To lepers, the blind, the demon-possessed; Jesus touches the untouchable, hears the dumb, speaks to the deaf and sees the blind. His healings are both universal and highly partial, being overwhelmingly directed to the marginalised and ostracised. It is there in parables too, with Jesus constantly teaching us about the least, the last and the lesser. God can’t take his loving eyes off the people and situations we most easily neglect.

The ministry of Jesus is startling in its inclusivity. Consider, for example, the feedings of the 5,000 and the 4,000. It is customary, in a kind of lazy-liberal and rather reductive way, to suppose that the gospel writers simple got their maths muddled, and were a bit confused about a single event. But in actual fact, there may be good reasons to regard the two miracles as quite separate. The feeding of the 5,000 takes place on the western banks of the Sea of Galilee. The region was almost entirely Jewish, and the twelve baskets of leftovers symbolise the twelve tribes of Israel. Always remember the leftovers: God was thinking about the others than needed to be fed that could not be here today. Jesus’ bread keeps for others who cannot make it to this feast. This manna does not go stale.

What then, of the feeding of the 4,000, and the seven baskets of leftovers? It is, after all, the same kind of territory that Jesus’ healing of the Canaanite girl (Syro-Phoenician’s daughter) takes place on. The theme of feeding and bread is that it is shared. The event occurs on the eastern shores of the Sea of Galilee, and the region was almost entirely Gentile in composition. Just as we have a healing in Tyre and Sidon, so we have seven baskets of leftovers correspond to the seven Gentile regions of the time (i.e., the territories of Phoenicia, Samaria, Perea, Decapolis, Gaulanitis, Idumea and Philistia).

The parallels are compelling: the baskets in the feeding of the 5,000 (kophinos) are smaller than those mentioned in the feeding of the 4,000 (spuridi – a basket big enough for a person, as with Paul in Acts 9: 25). The point here is that the new manna from heaven will be distributed evenly, across all lands. There is plenty for all. So of course Jesus heals the Canaanite girl – a Gentile, not a Jew. Just as he feeds the 4,000. Matthews and Luke record the same the same: the feeding of the 4,000 and the healing of the Canaanite girl are linked.

The gospel of Christ is, in other words, radically inclusive: Jew, Greek, Gentile, slave, free – all shall be welcome in the Kingdom of God. The church is meant to be a platform for radical inclusivity. The House of Bread is for sharing. The church is supposed to be an enduring campaign for the homeless; not a home for campaigners. The good news of the gospel is vested the accessibility of God: the welcoming in of the religiously marginalised, and the breaking down of barriers. Take another look at Caravaggio’s Jesus in the Supper at Emmaus, and you see something else; hands extended in welcome, blessing the people as they stare back in wonder at this first Easter Eucharist.

Those who are keen observers of ordinations and consecrations will notice that the Anglican liturgy – the Scottish Book of Common Prayer, the 1662 Book of Common Prayer, for example – offers the gospel reading from John Chapter 10 for the ordination of priests and from John Chapter 21 for the consecration of bishops. The common theme is sheep and shepherds, and this Sunday is known in the Roman Catholic lectionary as ‘Good Shepherd Sunday’. So, what makes a good shepherd?

Bishop John Robinson used to quip that when sheep are feeding, they tend to look at the grass, not the hand of the shepherd. The Scottish philosopher, Alastair McIntyre, in his landmark tome After Virtue (1981), naturally pointed out that function and virtue cannot be divided. A good watch will tell good time. Bad watches don’t keep time. And a good meal is more than just nutrition. A good shepherd is obviously a role where the function and virtue cannot be split. We know good shepherds by their fruits, not what they might claim as their list of achievements.

From the shepherd, the goodness in the feeding of the sheep comes from the provision of safe, ample pasture and the capacity to keep the flock together. It is no different for bishops as shepherds. What is the food that bishops feed us? In summary: exemplary teaching, spiritual wisdom, with sound, rich theology; extensive and deep pastoral care; the unity of the flock and its protection from predators, exploiters and hirelings; and the shared mission and ministry of what the flock can offer to the wider world. Sheep have a range of purposes – they provide wool and warmth for the cold; milk, cheese and their meat to feed the hungry; and shoes and coats through their skins to clothe the lives of others. Nothing ever goes to waste.

Jesus is spoken of simultaneously as the Lamb of God and the Great Shepherd of the Sheep. Both images draw us to his sense of sacrificial offering and vocation, and ours. Sheep are not pets – they are kept as a flock to feed and clothe others. Shepherds are pastoral custodians and protectors of what God continues to do through his church in the world – serve, nourish, bless – and ultimately save through the sacrifice of the lamb that was slain for the sins of the world.

I am often asked to write and reflect on leadership in the church – what it was like in the past, and the trials and tribulations it faces in the present. So, on this Good Shepherd Sunday, what can we say about good leadership in our time, amid the challenges and crises the world faces now? Are there things we can say about sheep and shepherds that might help us?

Let us deal with the business of goodness first. The Greek word for ‘good’, as in a Good Shepherd, is kalos, which does not mean ‘nice’, but rather morally virtuous, ethically beautiful, true, noble, of integrity, and honest. Goodness, in other words, is a character. When the Ancient Greeks used the word ‘good’ of a person, they meant someone truthful and virtuous. The proper end of goodness was a character that was kind, caring, wise, intelligent, sacrificial, moral, compassionate, attentive and strong, devoted to the support and interests of wider society.

A colleague of mine – a bishop and an academic theologian – often says that leadership consists of saying just a handful of things each and every day: ‘Please’; ‘Thank you’; ‘Yes’; ‘No’; ‘Well Done, Good for You!’; ‘Sorry, truly…please forgive me’; and finally, ‘So what do you think?’. So, just seven words or phrases here, but they all involve gratitude and discipline; humility in oversight; kindness and attentiveness; and realising that leadership is not about ‘me’, but about ‘we’. Some of the best questions we can ask of those who are about to take on leadership roles are therefore found in this field. What have you done with your suffering? What did you learn from your failures? How do you build others up and set them free to succeed – becoming even better than you? Tell us about a time when you reached your limits and did not know where to turn – how were you saved, and by whom?

I expect there are other questions you can think of here, but my point is simple. To be a Good Shepherd, you need to know your sheep and what they need, and also work with others and draw on their strengths and expertise. Just as wisdom is knowing your place before God, so leadership is knowing your place before others; what you can do, and what others can do better than you. It is about putting others first and their needs before your own.

Today, leadership is hotly debated.in politics, religion and wider culture – about strong leaders, weak leaders, heroism and narcissism, tyranny and democracy, demagoguery and meritocracy. But let me say something obvious here. Jesus never claimed to be a strong leader, but he does often teach us about being a gentle leader. Nor does the New Testament attribute ‘strong leader’ or even ‘strongest’ to Jesus. Because, and this should be obvious, his goodness and kindness are far more important.

As a young child, I was very absorbed by televised sheepdog trials. Shepherds and their border collies would compete to round up sheep and put them in the sheep pen in the quickest time. Points were deducted for losing a sheep from the flock. Screened on the BBC, it was amazing that millions tuned in to see what would otherwise be hidden, as the action unfolded on remote hills and desolate moorlands. It was quiet, soothing, TV to watch. But what did we learn?

We learned that the function of the gate is to keep the sheep together in the sheepfold during the night, safe from threats and predators. In broad daylight, the gate is opened so that the sheep can go out, following their shepherd, to find pasture. The gate and the shepherd work together for the well-being of the sheep, so that the flock thrives. Thus, Jesus is simultaneously claiming to be the gate and the shepherd; he guards and protects his sheep from danger, and he provides for their nourishment, for their life in abundance.

Admittedly, the image of Jesus as shepherd makes for a far more natural comparison than comparing Jesus to a gate. And how can Jesus be both at the same time? These two images are part of a richly layered, extended scriptural metaphor that speaks of sheep, shepherds, gates, gatekeepers, strangers, thieves, bandits, and wolves. All of these, except for the wolves, are introduced in the first ten verses of John 10, and all of the elements of this extended metaphor contribute to our understanding of who Jesus is and who we are in relation to him.

Jesus begins by describing who he is not. Those who climb into the sheepfold in a furtive way are thieves and bandits who do not care about the sheep but only about their own gain (10:1). By contrast, the shepherd enters the sheepfold openly, by means of the gate (10:2). He is recognized immediately by both the gatekeeper, who opens the gate for him, and by the sheep, who know his voice (10:3). When he calls his sheep by name, they follow him, and he leads them out to pasture (10:4). The sheep will not follow a stranger but instead will flee from one whose voice they do not recognize (10:5).

Those listening may not have understood the figure of speech (paroimia) that Jesus was using (10:6). Rather than change tactics, Jesus “doubles down” on this figure of speech, saying to them, “Very truly I tell you, I am the gate for the sheep” (10:7). He describes all who came before him as thieves and bandits to whom the sheep did not listen (10:8). Again, Jesus says, “I am the gate,” and then adds: “Whoever enters by me will be saved, and will come in and go out and find good pasture” (10:9). Whereas “the thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy,” Jesus says, “I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly” (10:10).

Some of these concerns are rehearsed in the Old Testament. Perhaps in rather broad, sweeping terms, the Israelites were placed under the law, elders, prophets and judges to begin with. But they eventually demanded to be led by a monarch instead. The prophet Samuel warned the Israelites of what would happen, and the history of King Saul and, later, King David offers important insights into what can happen when law, judges, and elected elders are replaced by demagoguery and monarchy.

To be sure, the history of leadership and politics in the Old Testament is far, far more complex than this, but the essence of the problem can be crystallised as follows. Do we want our leaders – our shepherds of nations, government, churches, institutions, universities, and the like – to be led by a monarchy? Or, by a blend of law, judges, prophetic judgment and elected elders? Naturally, I have my preferences based on integrity, merit, accountability and transparency. But I put it to you that either model can work for the common good, provided the shepherds are good.

In the early Anglican liturgies for consecrating a priest – another kind of shepherd – the traditional charisms for candidates placed an emphasis upon the priority of the minister’s role in delivering pastoral care (i.e., ‘cure of souls’), together with the scriptures as the norm by which the ministry of the church should teach the faith and pattern both its own life and the lives of those committed to its charge.

For bishops, the liturgy stresses their fourfold role in faithfully teaching the clergy and wider church, engaging in the pastoral care of congregations and wider diocese, leading courageous public mission, and maintaining unity. A Good Episcopal Shepherd will be able to offer this fourfold ministry. But what of the charge to Peter at Lake Galilee, after the resurrection (as recorded in John Chapter 21)?

On this fourth Sunday of Eastertide, also known as ‘Good Shepherd Sunday,’ the focus of the readings highlights the theme of the Good Shepherd. It is customary on this day to pray for vocations to the priesthood. Preachers often emphasise the Church’s need for what are commonly called ‘gentle shepherds.’ While this perspective is certainly valid, it does not fully capture the essence of the what Christ says to Simon Peter, and so to us.

In John 21, Jesus invokes Peter to ‘feed my lambs’, ‘tend my sheep’ and finally, ‘feed my sheep’. It won’t come as a surprise that the Greek text carries more meaning than the English translation. Lambs are younger than sheep, and Jesus tells Peter to ‘feed’ them, the Greek word for this being bosko – literally, ‘be grazing them’; (literally, ‘be ye herbing them); ‘pasturing’ or ‘attending to them’, and a word generally used for grazing animals or providing nourishment. Bosko is a term of parental nurture.

Next, Peter is asked to ‘tend my sheep’, and the Greek word here is poimainó, literally meaning ruling, guiding, guarding, and watching over the flock. Derived from the Greek word poimēn (shepherd), the role denotes the active care to be practised by the Good Shepherd. Finally, Peter is asked to feed the sheep – the Greek word is again bosko. They need different food from the lambs and a different kind of care. Lambs may be fed from the hand, but sheep will want to safely graze in their own way. They are more independent than lambs.

The Good Shepherd knows how to feed both lambs and sheep. The food and pasture provided will nourish and nurture the flock. The shepherd provides guidance, protection and oversight. And above all, goodness – putting the flock first. The food is what the role of the bishop hinges on: good, nourishing, teaching; kindness, care and sacrificial compassion; protection of the flock and keeping them together; and leading the people of God and those we serve to good pastures.

In the Old Testament, God assumes the role of a shepherd, most notably in Psalm 23: “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.” The shepherd’s care described is both personal and protective, as God guides his people through hardships, providing comfort and support. In Ezekiel 34: 13-16, God promises to take on the role of shepherd directly, criticising the leaders of Israel for their serious failures: “I myself will be the shepherd of my sheep…I will seek the lost…and I will bring back the strayed.” This passage foreshadows Christ’s vocation.

And when Jesus says, “I am the good Shepherd,” we are reminded of another claim: “I am the truth.” It is dishonest to seek status by disregarding truth. Hence, Jesus emphasises his role as a shepherd by stating, “I tell you the truth, I am the gate of the sheepfold.” The flock cannot gather without passing through the gate of truth. To follow the example of the Good Shepherd, and to be good shepherds, we must be rooted in truth, with a determined commitment to “remain” within it.

Finally, Jesus’ claims to be shepherd start not with the declaration, “I am the Good Shepherd,” but with another metaphor: “I am the door of the sheep” (John 10:7). The metaphor crystallises the standard for authentic leadership within the Church. This image highlights an essential aspect of Jesus’ role as the gateway to salvation. Those who enter through him are the true shepherds, while any persons trying to enter by another way are described as “thieves and robbers” (John 10:1).

In John Chapter 10, Jesus confronts the Pharisees, continuing the tradition of prophets speaking truth to power. The audience knew well the nature of their ‘shepherds’, both good and bad. We don’t need to look far into history to see examples of poor leadership and outright tyranny. We are currently facing a significant crisis of authority. When prophets declare “woe to the shepherds of Israel”, they are not just referencing a distant past. They describe a world we recognise today. While we see plenty of poor leadership, we also see acts of generosity and selflessness. Many individuals are willing to “lay down their lives” for others, reminding us of Jesus’ teachings. We give thanks for those who advocate for the helpless and speak uncomfortable truths to power on crucial issues, often risking their own security for the sake of peace, justice, and our endangered planet.

For a good decade, I was privileged to run and preside over what we might call a School for Shepherds. These places are also known as Vicar Factories, Theological Colleges, Seminaries, and Institutions of Formation – though in the latter case, ‘formation’ was not meant to be compared to or sound like some prison or ‘home’ devoted to discipline and correction. But in this School for Shepherds – a theological college – those with vocations learned that the daily routine was worshipping, learning and eating together, in order to be formed into pastors (our English word derives from pasture).

I would always say and preach, at least once a year, to these trainee shepherds, that they might be surprised at how they would eventually be remembered as parish priests and pastors of the congregations they tended. True, they might turn out to be brilliant preachers, precise technicians of the sanctuary, outstanding organisers and administrators, or brilliant managers. But I pointed out that these things would all be forgotten, and indeed count for little, in anything, if they were not, first and foremost, good and kind. That would be foremost in the memory of those for whom the clergy had ‘cure of souls’. Was this pastor and priest kind and good to us? Were they a Good Shepherd?

The contrast between good and bad leadership is evident in the world around us. So, what makes a Good Shepherd? Not just for the churches, but across the whole of our society? We need Good Shepherds in our nations and families. And in our schools, colleges, communities, businesses, politics, welfare agencies and aid organisations. We seek nurturing leaders who exemplify and embody a blend of deep goodness, truth, virtue, kindness, resilience, humility, sacrificial care, intelligence, patience, gentleness, fortitude, compassion, integrity, wisdom, grace, honesty, and humanity. Leadership that is rooted in moral character. Truth, justice, and goodness are integral to the vocation. We pray for such leaders everywhere who can feed and tend the flocks in their care. May God raise up Good Shepherds for us who can provide rich teaching and deep wisdom, boundless care, and sound judgment to unite and lead his people. Amen.

St. John’s Cathedral, Hong Kong, 2026

‘Witness’ is usually a term that is code for evangelism. But it has a much deeper meaning. The old English word ‘witness’ meant ‘attestation of fact or an event’ and ‘from personal knowledge’. As we use the term in legal proceedings, the witness is ‘the one who so testifies’. There is an older word – hardly used now – which is ‘inwit’, it signified the seat of consciousness. While we use the English word ‘wit’ for humour, our forebears understood ‘wit’ to mean all human intellect and moral reasoning.

We only find the residue of this meaning in old phrases such as ‘at our wit’s end’ or being ‘scared out of our wits’. Neither of these phrases is about the loss of humour. In the past, ‘common wit’ meant common sense – or the things we could all be sure of. By extension, ‘inwit’ was internal knowledge, and to ‘outwit’ someone was to confound them with knowledge. There was even something called ‘clean inwit’ – the pure ‘thoughts of the heart’ that we find are invoked in the majestic BCP 1662 collect, where we are invited to petition for purity in our wits and witness.

But ‘witness’ is more demanding than purity of mind, heart, and knowledge. For early Christians, witness meant possible death – the very term was a literal translation of Greek martys from which we get the word martyr. My own name, Martyn, is a derivative of this. You could say I was Christened to suffer. But I am not a masochist. Every Christian is called to suffer with Christ; to share in his compassion; to die to ourselves, and with Christ, in order to be raised by God. We are witnesses to this.

A witness on the witness stand in a court of law is someone (hopefully) speaking the truth, as though their life depended on it. We are forbidden to bear false witness against others: this is the ninth of the Ten Commandments. A poor witness in a trial is someone who cannot give a good account of their testimony, or becomes confused about what they saw, heard or did, or might be unable to answer questions succinctly and clearly. As a verb, witnessing meant to ‘bear testimony’, and legally to affix your name or signature to a document or testimony to establish your identity, or the probity and provenance of a claim. It also meant to see or know something, by personal presence, and to observe.

The story of Jesus’ death and resurrection is all about witness. There is the Alice in Wonderland business of Jesus’s trial: “verdict first, trial after”, says the perverse queen in Lewis Carroll’s satire. Caiaphas says at Jesus’ trial, “What need have we of witnesses”? I, too, have suffered such travesties in ‘religious trials’ and church proceedings. We sometimes hear the same perversity from politicians today – “don’t bother me with tiresome facts…we just knew we had to bomb them…I can’t tell you when this conflict will end, but I will feel it in my bones…”. Gnostic power and authority can be abusive.

Witnesses are important because, provided they are honest, they can lack understanding and be confused, and still offer us an independent perspective. That is why Thomas’ testimony and witness are so important. He does not know what he is seeing with Jesus right in front of him. He has his doubts, which are understandable. But Jesus does not castigate or criticise him for his lack of faith. Jesus understands that witnesses can be sure and unsure, faithful and questioning.

Even doubting can be helpful – because it can make the eventual verdict even more reliable, and frankly, much stronger. Thomas teaches us something important about the nature truth and justice. Jesus does not want blind faith. He wants authentic faith that can withstand examination. So, trials and testing, then verdict. Bring on the witnesses. Even the ones that are confused and sceptical.

The first Christians were witnesses. They bore testimony; they personally saw and met with the resurrected Jesus; they were prepared to be martyred for that, and to lose their lives as their saviour had done. A true Christian witness signs their own death warrant: they die to the world, and are alive to Christ; they share in the sufferings of Jesus, even to death; they are pointers to signs of a life that is no longer theirs but God’s.

The Scriptures give us many kinds of witness. The eager-yet-still-confused-and-sore-afraid. The ones with conviction. The ones who need more convincing, like the apostle Thomas. The ones who see, yet do not believe. They are also witnesses.

Mary the mother of Jesus is a witness to God, to hosting the Holy Spirit within her, and to the gestation of the Son of God. She witnesses the death of her son. No mother should have to bury their child. Jesus has many witnesses. John the Baptist might be the first to lay any claim on this for the adult Jesus. Yet John is more than aware that the witness of the Holy Spirit at the baptism of Jesus trumps his. The Spirit witnesses to the Son; the Son witnesses to the Father.

Why does this matter? If I am right, and witnessing is the cost of following Christ for all Christians, every day, then we should rethink our place in the world and the calling of the Church.

The early Christians, as witnesses, could say as follows.

To be a witness was to testify to Jesus, who was himself a witness to God. Jesus was and is the Witness.

The Light had come into the world: the darkness did not comprehend it.

When the true Light of the world dawned, most people preferred the darkness. So they simply extinguished the light – Jesus was snuffed out for them, so to speak.

But Jesus was raised, so we would all know that love can never be vanquished. You are witnesses to God’s love, which is unending, inexhaustible and ever-flowing.

So, God raised up Jesus, and the Witness continues to be alive now, and we are to become the witnesses to that. It followed, therefore, that the early Christians saw their witness as a literal sharing in the death of Jesus: martyrdom for the faith. Bearing witness meant signing your life away.

Indeed, being prepared to be convicted by your own testimony. But this was a testimony of ‘clean inwit’ and ‘pure outwit’ – inner thoughts and desires cleansed, and outer works confounding the spirit of the age with a wisdom and practice that seemed to the world folly. It also meant we shared Christ’s resurrected life. Love conquers death.

The early Christians engaged in work for no reward, nor even obvious results to savour. They cared for the widows, the orphans and the marginalized. They looked after the sick, lame and lepers. They witnessed to Jesus, the body language of God in time and space, living with boundless compassion, mercy, grace and love for all. The first Christians were called to be ‘like-wise’ – Christ-like. The activist Dorothy Day wrote:

To be a witness does not consist in engaging in propaganda or even stirring people up, but in living the mystery; it means to live in such a way that one’s life would not make sense if God did not exist.

Abraham Heschel, the Jewish scholar said ‘there are no proofs for the existence of the God of Abraham – there are only witnesses’. Note: ‘only witnesses’. There is nothing and no one else. Just us. You are the testimony. Likewise, ‘doubting Thomas’, who had to be convinced.

Jesus says, “you are my witnesses”. The resurrection of Jesus is with you. Bear that witness, as Christ bore you. Love and transform this world Christ loves, died for and lives for. Alleluia. Amen.

The Very Revd. Canon Prof. Martyn Percy

St. Andrew’s Episcopal Cathedral, Aberdeen

Eastertide 2026

In a landmark study published in 1960, Isabel Menzies looked at the symbiotic relationship between nurses and their patients in a hospital. A Case-Study in the Functioning of Social Systems as a Defence against Anxiety: A Report on a Study of the Nursing Service of a General Hospital drew on Sigmund Freud, Melanie Klein, Eliot Jaques and Wilfrid Bion, amongst others. The writers shared a broadly similar social and psychological worldview. Namely, institutions were structures and bodies of containment, there to manage anxieties and (hopefully) prevent chaos.

This is more of an epiphany than it may at first appear. The law courts, prisons, hospitals, churches and other even museums share in resolutions. They make order out of chaos; make some sense out the past; and they hold society together at the points of its historical identity, transitional crises or existential angst. Yes, they deal with different matters and people, but they share the same DNA that is common to all institutions. As Philip Selznick noted in his writings, institutions exist to perpetuate values from one generation to the next for the wider public and society, quite independent of any regard people may have for them at the moment, or even of their apparent lack of popularity. Thus, hospitals must care for patients, no matter what. Churches worship God, no matter what. Museums cherish artefacts, no matter what. Prisons protect society and the criminal from each other, no matter what.

There is always a difficulty, then, when an institution struggles for resources or survival. In the church, fewer clergy usually means less pastoral care for society. No matter how much one promotes lay leadership and expertise (I am all for that), for many people there cannot be a substitute for a priest. The clergy, working for a resource-starved and cash-strapped church, find that their own support is thinning. Under acute personal stress, six free sessions of counselling/therapy might seem fair. But who would ration chemotherapy to three sessions, or seek to limit the offer of physiotherapy after life-changing injuries to three months’ worth? Cutbacks in care devalue most institutions and undermine their core values, leading to an erosion of moral, social, spiritual, and public capital.

This Easter, the church does what it has done every year since AD33 (circa). It faces death. It is no use clinging to the past, however. Because the Easter message is that whilst we must continue to live alongside the suffering of the world, we are meant to understand and live by the revolutionary freedom of the resurrection.

To be sure, our job is pain: living alongside it, sitting in the dark with people, offering hope just by being there and listening. If these same sufferers are alive on the cross, we are to be at the foot. The Church is called to be a field hospital where, sometimes, the vocation dies but – as in a garden – rises to something new. We are witnesses and need to tell our brothers and sisters what we have seen.

Easter only makes sense if you understand the desolation and loss of Good Friday. Jess, teacher, healer, leader…is dead. Stone cold dead. He is laid in a tomb. And his followers and family do what normal people do: they grieve. Deeply. So no one expects to see anything strange. Mary does not see Jesus at the tomb – she sees a man, ‘supposing him to be the gardener’.

In the same way, the disciples on the road to Emmaus do not ‘see’ Jesus until the breaking of the bread. The gospels, then, say the same thing in the resurrection stories. All look, but not all see.

The resurrection breaks all frames of reference, bursting our perceptual boundaries, leaving the gospel writers with the huge task of trying to piece together shards of information that exceed any sense reality. An appearance here, a disappearance there; a sighting then, but a vanishing now; one minute you can touch Jesus; the next, he’s like an apparition.

We should see Easter not so much as the Feast that not only puts the broken back together, as the Feast of Total Transformation. It fundamentally offers us a sense of re-creation. And the Easter stories are a narrative of light. Not just because the darkness of Good Friday is dispersed and destroyed by the shattering light of the resurrection. But also because Jesus, now he has been raised, is recognised as the new light. A light so dazzling indeed that it cannot be comprehended. As the poet Emily Dickinson has it:

Tell all the truth but tell it slant

Success in circuit lies

Too bright for our infirm delight

The truth’s superb surprise

As lightning to the children eased

With explanation kind

The truth must dazzle gradually

Or every man be blind. [Emily Dickinson, Tell All The Truth]

So this light returns us to the first light of creation. This is a new dawn. God’s light now shines – a sign of the realm of heaven, where there is neither day nor night, but one light of equal brightness. This is a light beyond the sun, the moon, and the stars. The light of the resurrection is the light of a whole new creation, a revelation of radiance that can barely be worded.

Easter is the festival of fire, light, dawn – a new age dawns the moment the stone is rolled away, and the Son of God bursts forth in a radiant splendour that is blinding, yet also illuminating. It is in this light that we are all now transformed – in our awe, wonder and worship.

How shall we live in this light? One way of understanding our new place in the world is the grasp that the scriptures are bookended and pivot in gardens. The Christian scriptures begin with the expulsion from the Garden of Eden. The centre takes us not just to a Garden of Gethsemane (abandonment and betrayal), but also to the Easter Garden of resurrection. The Christian scriptures end with flowing rivers in Revelation, and leaves on trees for the healing of nations. One eternal light, and no more darkness.

One might also say that the resurrection plants a seed in us each year and asks us to permit the Spirit to water it and produce the growth God seeks. St. Basil says: “a tree is known by its fruit; a person by their deeds. A good deed is never lost; those who sows courtesy reaps friendship, and those who plant kindness gather love.” At Easter, therefore, we remember that far from having a faith that contains death, we have one that lets it go. The modern poet Stewart Henderson, entitled ‘Death, the Last Enemy’:

And He Who each day

reveals a new masterpiece of sky

and Whose joy

can be seen in the eyelash of a child

Who when He hears of our smug indifference

Can whisper an ocean into lashing fury

and talk tigers into padding roars

This my God

Whose breath is in the wings of eagles

Whose power is etched in the crags of mountains

It is He Whom I will meet

in Whose Presence I will find tulips and clouds

kneeling martyrs and trees

the whole vast praising of His endless creation

And He will grant the uniqueness

that eluded me in my earthly bartering with (life)

That day when He will erase the painful gasps of my (body)

and I will sink my face into the wonder of His glorylove

and I will watch planets converse with sparrows

On that day

when death is finally dead (NB: adapted).

A new future means letting go of the past. So I take some comfort from my own deep bereavement at leaving here. Kierkegaard tells us in his Fear and Trembling that ‘I can easily forego what I dislike; but I can only sacrifice what I love’. So these times and seasons are over for me. But the world still turns, and God is faithful. The bravery, balance and beauty of what God does here will continue.

As Kierkegaard also said, echoing the writer of Ecclesiastes, ‘Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards’. As Ecclesiastes says, ‘he has set eternity in our hearts and minds’. But we live in the here and now; a time and season for everything. So we press on; not alone, but with God. Leslie Hunter was the Bishop of Sheffield from 1939-62, and in his The Seed and the Fruit (SCM, 1953, p.12), he offers this parable:

As the threats of war and the cries of the dispossessed were sounding in our ears, humanity fell into an uneasy sleep. In our sleep we dreamed that we entered the spacious store in which the gifts of God to humanity are kept, and addressed the angel behind the counter, saying: ‘We have run out of the fruits of the Spirit. Can you restock us?’ When the angel seemed about to say ‘no’, we burst out: ‘In place of violence, terrorism, war, afflictions and injustice, lying and lust, we need love, joy, peace, integrity, discipline. Without these we shall all be lost’. And then the angel behind the counter replied, ‘We do not stock fruits here. Only seeds’.

Easter is the season for planting revolutionary seeds. The Easter Garden will burst with life. The old life is not to be grasped. Death is not to be averted by avoiding the risks that God calls us to. God takes us each in his hands and leads us through all times and seasons, feasting and famine, birth and death. He does not look for our success. God only seeks our faithfulness. So, there will always be a time for growth, and a time for pruning; times to reap and times to sow; times of weeping and times of dancing; time to welcome; and a time to bid farewell. A time for gardening. Always.

The good thing about letting go is that God is likely to surprise us. Much as he did with Peter in the resurrection too, and with Mary of Magdalene. The less we cling, the more supple we can become, and the more God can do with us. So, there will be times to be a bit of a rock, and some times to be on a bit of a roll; times to be as steady as a foundation, and times to wander in the desert with only a tent.

So, nothing is settled for Peter or for Mary Magdalene. They are followers. Or for any other witness to the resurrection. Such is the lot of the disciple. But remember, this is God’s story of salvation, and we are but actors in the production. Who do you say Jesus is? To say with the disciples after the resurrection is that ‘you are the Christ, the Son of the living God’ is to express more than mere opinion. It is to make a commitment to be where God calls us next.

Many endure pain and darkness. But hold fast to that which is good. May God hold us all as we walk forward in Easter in these Dark Times, to the future prepared for us all. An Easter Prayer from Oliver Tomkins:

God, you are silence beyond all quietness.

You are brilliance beyond all radiance.

You are tranquillity beyond all peace.

Teach us to listen to your silence; let me glimpse your brightness.

And grant us that tranquillity in which the search for You begins.

None of us could seek if we had not been found

By the Word who interprets the silence,

In the face which reflects your glory,

Through the passion which is our peace…

For since, in the wisdom of God, the world did not know God through wisdom, it pleased God through the folly of what we preach^[b] to save those who believe. For Jews demand signs and Greeks seek wisdom, but we preach Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and folly to Gentiles, but to those who are called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God. For the foolishness of God is wiser than men, and the weakness of God is stronger than men. I Corinthians 20: 20-25

In C. S. Lewis’ The Lion, the Witch and Wardrobe, the mocking of Aslan is perhaps the most distressing and moving scene in the whole book. It is here, perhaps, rather than at the actual point of death, that we really begin to encounter the weakness of Aslan, the hero-lion of the allegory. To save the three children from the forces of darkness, Aslan surrenders himself.

Just as Jesus allows himself to be handed over to injustice and certain death, Lewis portrays Aslan as surrendering himself – his life and strength – to taunt, torture, mock and cruel execution. Aslan becomes too weak and passive to resist the taunts of the creatures that Lewis has circled around their captive.

The trial of Jesus was a total mockery of justice (“what need have we of witnesses?”, says Caiaphas). What follows on Good Friday is an extension of the verdict and punishment that had already been planned. Jesus’ trial was a complete stitch-up. Crucifixion was inevitable, prefaced by all manner of humiliation. Truth was spoken to power by the Word Made Flesh. Power takes its revenge by annihilating the Word that spoke Truth. The modern parallels hardly need spelling out.

And yet the cross of Christ dislocates, dismantles, and ultimately destroys the monopoly that had been imposed on monotheism. The death of Jesus is the end of religious tribalism as a means of salvation. Purification rites, rituals, expensive sacrifices, hierarchy and obeisance – all of which cost money to those who had the means to procure participation in the life of faith – are terminated at the cross. Citizenship is now free to all who seek it. The wages of sin might well have been death. But you can no longer buy yourself out of debt. It has been paid in full.

In Christ, there is neither Jew nor Greek, slave or free, male or female, barren or fecund. In this, such is the love of God that even in mistranslations, missteps and mistakes – and we can all be the flawed vessels of such – Jesus comes bearing the offer of mercy, grace and love to strangers, aliens and foreigners, those diseased, disfigured and orphaned, prostitutes, sinners, widows, stigmatised, demonised and the marginalised. God is for them all.

So, we come to the crucifixion. And here, you might find this rather difficult. We must learn to see in Jesus someone who is a victim of abuse, and by this, I include abuse, taunting, shaming and humiliation. We know that Jesus was stripped, whipped, scourged and mocked. You may find his silence eloquent, powerful or puzzling. I think in our age, his silence echoes and cries across two thousand years of abuse victims pressed and pushed into silence. Their voices and cries are not heard, and the bystanders – the many – do nothing to rein the cruelty of the few.

Jesus was whipped in a way that flayed his skin; the thorn crown was forced onto his head to humiliate and hurt. The timing of events, an all-night trial so that he was exhausted, the walk with the cross up the hill in the hottest part of the day encouraging the sweat of his body to increase the pain of the broken skin, the rough wood of the cross, the nails, the exposure, the thirst, the slow painful suffocation – all of this torture aimed to maximise the physical pain which he had to bear, and make a public example of a supposed deviant.

Crucifixion-induced shame rendered the victim unable to exercise any self-control of their muscles, motions or reflexes in their body, and the sadistic cruelty this involved added to the public humiliation. Perhaps you can now understand why the disciples had very good reasons to be scarce at the foot of the cross. Getting caught up in a crucifixion – as the friend or family of the victim – could be dangerous for witnesses. Only the very brave would come to watch one of their loved-ones die like this.

Perhaps this is why the soldiers laughed at the foot of the cross, gambled with dice, bantered tormented and insulted Jesus. The violation of each victim was a crucial component in their subjugation and eventual extinction. We, too, are crucified with Christ. Yes, #WeToo.

The cross is a specimen of our cruelty and inhumanity. Crucifixion was a carefully choreographed and planned process of execution. Just like other forms of torture, it was not designed to be quick. Just like other forms of public execution, it was designed to gratify, terrify, pacify and horrify the witnesses. As a public spectacle, it was an expedient means to eliminate criminals, troublemakers, deviants and rebels. The whole exhibition and display of this crucifixion in Jerusalem represents a tense trade-off and collusion between the religious status quo and an oppressive regime.

On the cross, Jesus took our greatest fears, pain, alienation, and death into the aching heart of God. To the world, this looks like nothing other than foolishness. Because Christians proclaim that God experienced not just the horror of the cross but also the reality of death. This is the scandalous suggestion that Paul calls a ‘stumbling block’ to Jews and foolishness to Greeks (i.e., gentiles). It makes no sense.

The gospels show us that Jesus, who started out with many friends and followers, is now deserted. Alone, he hangs there, with just his accusers, some criminals, and casual bystanders for company. He saved others, but he cannot save himself. Yet, in the reality of the cross, we find God fully experiencing the abandonment of death and the deepest anguish and suffering we can know. The loss of our most beloved.

Christ, who is crucified, is foolishness to the world. But to us, this is the power of God made perfect in total weakness (unto death) and utter annihilation. In this lies the promise of salvation. Christ died for all, and all who receive him (Jn. 1: 12 & 3: 16). Paul, writing to Titus (3: 4-7), put it better than any theologian can:

“…when the kindness and love of God our Saviour appeared, he saved us, not because of righteous things we had done, but because of his mercy. He saved us through the washing of rebirth and renewal by the Holy Spirit, whom he poured out on us generously through Jesus Christ our Saviour, so that, having been justified by his grace, we might become heirs having the hope of eternal life….”

Jesus could not save himself, and we could not save ourselves. Yet the kindness and love of God are free. No sanctions are imposed. The gospel simply boils down to this. Accept Jesus and welcome him into your life and home, and God will share his life and home with you, for eternity.

We offer this church for all because God’s kingdom is for everyone. The scriptures are beautifully frank. God lives in love (1 John 4: 16): “God is love. Everyone who lives in love lives in God, and God lives in them”.

You cannot buy love. It is costly yet free. Today, Good Friday, you can see it on offer: at the cross.

Amen.

Generally speaking, the British people love their institutions. According to one recent poll, the National Health Service is the most trusted. It won’t surprise many to know that major banks, corporations and political parties are at the other end of the league table, scoring low on trust and respect. What would, however, come as something of a shock is to discover the Church of England and the Post Office hovering precariously in the relegation zone? How is it that two such great and venerable institutions should find themselves in this position?

Of course, it depends which bit of the Post Office and Church of England one is referring to. Local churches, like local Post Offices, are usually cherished and well-supported by their communities, especially in rural areas. The sub-post master, mistress or officer provides an integral service to the local community. Lose your Post Office, and people will often complain that the heart has been ripped out of the community. It is hardly that different with local clergy and churches.

Not so very long ago, Archbishop Rowan Williams appeared on BBC Radio 4’s Desert Island Discs. One of the tracks he chose for his virtual exile was the low, warm sound of villagers chatting in the queue at a local Welsh Post Office. One might go further here, and say that the low, warm sound of a cuppa with the congregation after a service is akin to the Post Office at prayer. There is a sacred quality in being together, gathering our news, being kind to one another, and waiting.

So the mistrust in the Post Office and the Church of England is not at this, highly-cherished local level. The grim poll that sees these two venerable institutions performing so badly refers to the executives, CEOs and church leaders. It is these folk, alas, who are mistrusted, not believed, and whose words and assurances are suspected of being disingenuous. Or, even outright fibs and lies. But, how did we arrive at this situation, and in what sense is this a form of institutional abuse that might perpetrate bullying, neglect and even cruelty? Or the lack of basic rights for its employees, and seemingly set against the most basic ‘Nolan Principles’ for conduct in public life, including transparency, accountability, honesty and integrity?[1]

Many British people are quietly proud of the fact that the United Kingdom has no written constitution. On the face of it, this presumes that common law and human rights are so obvious to the British people that they literally do not need spelling out. There has been no slavery in England for over a 1,000 years, after all. Everybody has access to education, healthcare and social services. So what could a written constitution add to this, given that these universals had already been granted?

The lack of a written constitution does prompt a certain degree of national naivety and smugness. But the 19^th, 20^th and 21^st centuries tested such presumptions. Are all citizens given equal rights (e.g., on the basis of class, ethnicity, dis-ability, gender or sexuality)? It has taken awhile, as movements for universal suffrage had to toil for hundreds of years to overturn the assumption that only property-owning males could vote in parliamentary elections. The legislation to end discrimination in the workplace and in civic life is relatively recent. Brexit and EU court of HR.

There is no doubt that in the past the institution of the British state has been abusive and bullying towards its own people. Just think of the suffragettes, the campaigns to legalise homosexuality, and the more recent Windrush scandal. The British Post Office scandal is currently one of the most serious miscarriages of justice in British legal history. The BBC and ITV dramatizations of the recent Post Office scandals raised some intriguing questions for those who had concerns about other noble institutions at the heart of the British establishment.[2]

Between 1999 and 2015 over 900 sub-post masters, mistresses and officers were prosecuted for theft, false accounting and fraud. In fact, the shortfalls at their branches was entirely due to errors of the Post Office‘s Fujitsu Horizon accounting software. This was known by senior executives at the Post Office, yet the prosecutions continued, and a comprehensive cover-up organised to protect the ‘brand’ of the Post Office.

Naturally, had the Church of England rolled out a similar national software package that accounted for the weekly collection plate in its parish churches, and made all clergy use it, then it is certain that all clergy with any alleged cash shortfalls would have been treated in exactly the same way as the local Post Office and staff. There would have then been several hundred of internal church prosecutions led by the Secretariat. The Church of England, like the Post Office, would be the complainant, investigator, prosecutor, judge and jury. There would be no independent fact-finding investigation prior to the defendant being put on trial, and convicted.

No amount of suicides, mental health breakdowns or sickness of sub postmasters or financially ruined staff would cause senior church leaders to pause or change course. The lawyers for the Church, much like those for the Post Office, would be expensive, bullying, aggressive and obstructive. They would regularly halt mediation with defendants, and deliberately delay justice in order to try and break victims. Those accused would be told that any defence they mounted was likely to increase the prosecution costs, for which defendants would be further liable, and therefore lead to a harsher sentence once convicted. The Church would claim their systems were robust. Defendants – poor clergy and no money – would be left in despair.

Were there to be an Independent Inquest, the Church of England would confirm its main priority was always brand loyalty and reputation management. Senior staff would argue that clergy were always complaining, and some “on the take” and “helping themselves to the collection plate”. The Church, if found culpable in its processes, would then only offer a piffling amount of compensation to victims to cover their losses. The Church of England, as the Post Office appears to have done, operates with a guilty-until-proven-innocent outlook. Indeed, the Church of England might be said to be both the modern Tory Party at prayer (hopelessly and viscerally divided on unresolvable issues). And now the Church of England is, organisationally, exactly like the Post Office at prayer.

Somewhere in all this, the Church of England has somehow become quite expert in bullying, especially when it cannot get its way with clergy or congregations. There are legions of testimony where parishes have been forced into multiple-benefice partnerships, seen their local vicarage sold and watched the income disappear into some diocesan HQ black hole that hires more and more advisors and consultants, whilst frontline parish ministry is cut to the bone. (NB: legally, the money from the sale should be returned to the parish). The laity in these churches are used to the bullying and blackmail that is propagated by the hierarchy, telling them that ministry is now their responsibility and calling. Resistance is futile, because it means the church will not get a priest.

Clergy who fall out of favour with their bishop or diocese can also expect no mercy. At best, they might be offered a few months stipend and “an agreed reference”. But if they don’t agree, they’ll not be offered a “safe to receive letter” so cannot work again in ordained ministry. Bullying depends on passive-low resistance to high differentials in power and authority. The Church of England is a paradise for bullies who rise to the ranks of preferment. They can rarely be challenged, and there is no accountability or external professional regulation that victims of bullying abuse can call upon. Should you decide to leave the Church of England because of bullying, the exit-process itself is rigged in favour of the bullies.

Pastoral care might be offered, but not a fair HR process that delivered a change in organisation culture, or the censure of the offending party. The hierarchy will most likely upon some Christian mediation organisation, who may have some expertise in facilitating the exchange of opinions in matters of pastoral dispute. They are often employed by dioceses and bishops to do this when there has been a pastoral breakdown in congregations, or between clergy and the hierarchy. But once you are past that stage, little is to be gained by either party engaging in such exchanges. Clergy and aggrieved laity will testify to this. Pastoral care is not a panacea. It offers a limited range of help and support. Bullies know this, and take advantage by offering it often, when the situation demands a deeper and quite different resolution.

Christian mediation organisations, uniformly, have almost no track-record in reaching financial agreements with the parties who might aggrieved by the way a diocese or bishop has treated clergy. Where they happen, the amounts involved are of a token nature. Most Christian mediation organisations rely on having dioceses and bishops as clients, and this creates a conflict of interest for those organisations, who will hope to be used again by the client, and thus wish to please them. So if a clergyperson has been abused by the diocese or bishop, the method of settlement being sought is seldom one of pastoral mediation which might involve a token amount of compensation offered at the close of the day in question.

Dispute resolution relating to bullying in the church will need clarity – agreed instructions by both parties – on what one was asking of the mediator. The Church of England hierarchy won’t agree to this, naturally, because the offer of pastoral care and mediation is already weaponised. It will not lead to a fair settlement. The mediation process will inherently favour the sponsor, namely the bishop or diocese, who will invariably by the sole instructing party. If the mediation fails to reach a settlement in the church – which it normally does – the bishop and diocese can say that mediation was offered, but the aggrieved party rejected it. Christian mediation organisations collude with the power imbalance.

The current turn toward ecclesial organization and management presses the question as to whether the Church of England is a distinctive, bounded and overtly member-based organization in character, seeking clarity of identity. Or, is an institution? I agree that all institutions need some level of organization. The family unit is the oldest institution in the world, and each will usually be bound together by values, mutual respect, kindred spirit, and the commitment to cherish, care for and love one another despite differences. Institutions quickly unravel when such qualities are absent, as the Church of England knows to its cost. However, the relationships in such bodies are rarely contractual, and instead depend on soft forms of power such as goodwill, voluntary support, trust, careful attention and mindful service.

An Integrity Framework would be a wholly new concept to most English people, but like the Nolan Principles, the Australian National Audit Office has developed an overarching structure for supporting and managing the integrity of institutions. The Australian Integrity Framework arose out of scandals in policing, military service, government – and was latterly applied to the churches in the light of their opacity on sexual abuse cases. The Integrity Framework serves to assist in ethical decision making and risk, fraud and misconduct management.[3] It handles conflicts of interest, vested interests, whistleblowing and corruption, as well as the covering up of incompetence and misconduct. Its enduring focus on promoting integrity as a value that is embedded in our work and culture. independence, honesty, openness, accountability and courage.

The Post Office would have failed the tests set out by the Integrity Framework. The Church of England would fail it too, and doubtless seek legal exemption from such a code too. Consequently, whistleblowers are not protected; victims are re-abused; abuse is covered up; and the status quo maintained. The result is inevitable. Nobody believes that Lambeth Palace, Church House Westminster, Bishops and senior clergy, or the CEO and board of the Post Office have integrity. These two bodies seek to remain aloof from scrutiny and accountability. They fear liability and exposure. Their energies are poured into protecting the brand and safeguarding reputational damage.

A bi-polarity quickly develops. On the one hand, the Post Office and the Church of England leadership promise to deliver modern corporate step-change management. On the other hand, their leaders behave as inscrutable monarchs, above any form of accountability or scrutiny, let alone transparency. [4] That said, the Church of England is a monarchical polity, and so only tinkers with cosmetic reform, which is designed to signal modernisation and relevance. The underlying culture of deference and courtiers remains intact, and in turn this will always resist external scrutiny, independent regulatory accountability and even transparency.[5]

English Anglicanism can often present itself as authentic and pastorally-grounded in local parishes and chaplaincies. But in its national leadership and structures, the Church of England is often revealed to be a form of aloof sacralised mannered-ness, thereby baptising and confirming classism and elitism, and the status quo in social hierarchy. This is also part of the ecclesial DNA-coding of the Church of England. The more the central governance of the church tries to invent new initiatives to address its own numerical anxieties and other neuroses, the more the public back away. It also quickly morphs into soft bullying by a demand-led top-down leadership, who simply see clergy and laity as a means to an end. Theirs.

That said pastoral and liturgical aspects of the Church of England continue to be an important of English collective national treasure. Like Post Offices, and the Posties delivering the letters to each door, the local is what matters. Few want a relationship with their remote delivery depot. Likewise for the Church of England, local levels, parish ministry and chaplaincy continue to be cherished and valued, making appreciable differences to community and civic life. Few want to know about the Diocesan headquarters and its strategic vision. Yet as centralisation increases this leads unavoidably into ever-greater disenchantment and disengagement.

The present state of the Church of England would pose an enormous challenge for the very best estate agent to elicit serious interest in. True, the Church of England is not for sale. But it is constantly on the lookout for long-term and loyal tenants who will take care of the storefront as though they were the owners. Upkeep, appearance, productivity, regional-brand-compliance and purpose are devolved to the local occupiers, who mostly do an extremely good job on very tight budgets. For all their labour, laity and clergy will receive little thanks from their somewhat distant landlords, who are only interested in the productivity and turnover. And public compliance too, unless diversification delivers growth. We now have a situation in which the Church of England’s senior leadership are re-mortgaging the church on a regular basis. In this, they are banking on the past and borrowing from the future to try and resolve their present issues and crises.

As some may know with their own homes, this is risky – and only makes sense if the value of your property goes up. But as the social, moral, spiritual and intellectual capital of the Church of England has collapsed into deep negative equity, there is a risk of default at any point. Bridging loans are unlikely to be extended. Local branches may want to start asking some quite basic questions. Who really owns this business? Whom does it serve, and for what purposes? Who are these people in regional and national Headquarters, telling others how to run things locally, and cutting local support whilst increasing their own?

Because these rules and codes are not written down – remember, Britain has no written constitution – the elite have extensive interests in maintaining a hierarchical social order than is far more dependent on class, hereditary power and the like. English Anglicanism often presents as a kind of sacralisation of mannered-ness, and baptism and confirmation of elitism and social hierarchy. A culture rooted in elite white-male class-based mannered-ness becomes sacralised in ecclesial settings. Mild, slightly aloof and distant forms of engagement are developed as normative, in order to avoid the difficulty of surfacing competing convictions, and the underlying passions, emotions and desires that are baked-in to them. The English, perhaps, until recently, had a broad appreciation for an ecclesial polity that dovetailed with the normative ‘national mood’. Namely, mildness.

As the Church of England continues to lose its status as some national treasure, and instead becomes an agent in need of membership, support and sustenance, the identity of the polity shifts from being that of public service to one of community surcharge. The episcopal and ecclesial leadership find themselves unable to resist the temptations of centralised and bureaucratic oversight, including financial control. In turn, that slowly evolving stance depends on demonstrating competence, trust, accountability, transparency and fairness, and it is at precisely this juncture that the weakness of monarchical models of leadership are at their most exposed and weakest. They have few skills for such work.

The lack of an Integrity Framework for the Church of England means that it will continue to engage in bullying behaviours, obfuscate and evade scrutiny, avoid transparency and accountability, and seek to remain outside normative standards and codes of conduct for public life. The consequences of this will fall upon a never-ending supply of victims seeking justice and reparation. The ultimate end, however, will be the dismantling and death of an institution that was once loved and admired by the public, but can now longer command the trust and respect of its employees and people who once gave their lives to work for it.

In conclusion, the Church of England hierarchy will need to face up to the fact that its power structures favour bullies, and camouflage bullying culture. The lack of accountability and transparency, and with no real HR processes or external professional regulation, mean that anyone achieving high office can do as they please in a context where the church is “a law unto itself”. The bullies control the internal ecclesial systems of justice, and they control who is spared punishment, and who is singled out. This creates a culture of meek compliance in something like a totalitarian regime, which seeks to present and kindly-pastoral persona to the public, whilst treating its clergy as little more than indentured serfs.

Under these conditions, clergy are feeling increasingly oppressed, sullen and demoralised. But giving clergy equality and rights is not in the interests of the hierarchy. Meanwhile, the laity will continue to be treated with contempt. This is partly what enables the cultures of bullying in the Church of England to so easily flourish. Perhaps a revolution might save the day? But I suspect something more Christian is needed: death followed by resurrection.

It is only when we grasp the extent to which bureaucratic ecclesiocracy and episcopal leadership is naturally bullying and killing the church, that we might glimpse something else. But as I say, it may be that the bullying culture will need be left to fulfil itself before we see any possibility of new signs of life and hope.

[1] The Committee on Standards in Public Life was established by UK Prime Minister John Major in 1994 to advise on ethical standards of public life. It promotes The Seven Principles of Public Life, also known as the Nolan Principles, named after the first chairman of the committee, Lord Nolan, are: Selflessness, Integrity, Objectivity, Accountability, Openness, Honesty and Leadership. The Seven Principles apply to anyone who works as a public office holder. Despite clergy being public office holders, the Church of England has declined to adopt Nolan Principles

[2] A BBC Radio 4 series about the scandal, The Great Post Office Trial (2020, Whistledown Productions). Mr Bates vs The Post Office was a four-part British television drama series for ITV, written by Gwyneth Hughes, directed by James Strong, and aired in January 2024. Computer Weekly ran over 300 articles on the scandal dating from, 2013. Likewise, The Lawyer criticised the conduct of the Post Office solicitors defending the Post Office. Private Eye ran numerous articles and produces a special report, Justice Lost in the Post. See Nick Wallis, The Great Post Office Scandal, Bath Publishing, 2021.

[3] See https://www.anao.gov.au/work/corporate/anao-integrity-framework-and-report-2022-23; and Seumas Miller, Moral Foundations of Social Institutions (Cambridge University Press, 2010; Carl Dahlström & Victor Lapuente Organizing Leviathan: Politicians, Bureaucrats, and the Making of Good Government (Cambridge University Press, 2017); and on institutional failings, see: https://www.premierchristianity.com/opinion/uccf-its-time-for-me-to-say-sorry/17095.article and in regard to cover-ups on policing, the military and later in churches, see https://www.apsreview.gov.au/sites/default/files/resources/being-trusted-respected-partner-aps-integrity-framework.pdf and https://transparency.org.au/wp-content/uploads/2020/11/NIS_FULL_REPORT_Web.pdf

[4] See the Church Times Leader Comment on Paula Vennells and the Post Office, 12^th January 2024,p. 12: ‘Post Office traumatic stress and disorder’ and Angela Tilby, ‘Church of England should heed lessons of Post Office saga’, Church Times 12^th January 2024, p. 16. It is not as if studies of socio-cultural changes had not predicted this. See Kenneth Thompson, Bureaucracy and Church Reform: The Organizational Response of the Church of England to Social Change, 1800-1965, Oxford University Press, 1970. See also Martyn Percy, ‘It’s not an Organisation: it’s the Body of Christ’, Church Times, 22^nd November 2013, p. 11, and also at: https://www.churchtimes.co.uk/articles/2013/22-november/comment/opinion/it-s-not-an-organisation-it-s-the-body-of-christ.

[5] Thus, the composition and discharge of safeguarding policy and practice in the Church of England is unsurprising. In safeguarding, for example, there are no means for addressing incompetence and corruption. Officials are unregulated, unaccountable, unlicensed and often untrained. The processes are unprofessional, unjust, unsafe and untrustworthy. Victims find the processes to be abusive and traumatising, amounting to little more than a self-protection scheme designed to preserve the reputation of the Church. The parallels with failures by the Post Office over the introduction of the Horizon (Fujitsu) accounting system have been noted.

How do you get dough to rise? We moderns are used to yeast in small packets, and in plentiful supply. Much modern bread manufacture depends on it. I use the term ‘manufacture’ here with precision. As someone with some personal experience making homemade bread, I am well aware that modern mass-market sliced bread is the main kind we find in our supermarkets.

For some people in the church, the name Chorleywood will be synonymous with the New Wine Network, Vineyard Churches, John Wimber, Barry Kissell, John Perry, David Pytches and Mike Pilavachi’s ground-breaking Soul Survivor festivals. Few of the residents, I am guessing, will have noticed, tucked away behind a high wooden fence on a main road, the Flour Milling and Baking Research Association headquarters, or heard of the invention of the Chorleywood Bread Process (CBP). After the ravages and rationing of the Second World War, feeding Britain was not easy. And the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food turned to research that could produce bread on a mass scale – ideally cheaply, and with a long shelf life. The Chorleywood Bread Process helped develop bread that was quick to make, fast to bake, long-lasting, and inexpensive. The sliced-white-loaf seen in all supermarkets is the legacy.

The Chorleywood Bread Process used dry-packed yeast. It represented a quick, reliable, predictable, mass-market and inexpensive rising agent. But for many people, this is not ‘real’ bread at all. Rather like the campaign for real ale, there has been a marked turn in the closing decades of the twentieth century, continuing into the twenty-first century, toward recovering the authentic texture, taste, and nourishment of real bread. Of course, it cannot be mass-produced, and so it is normally more expensive. But the difference between a manufactured loaf and an artisan one is as night and day, or chalk and cheese.

So, to the key question: how many times does the word ‘yeast’ get used in the New Testament? The answer may surprise you: none. The New Testament gives us around a dozen occurrences of the Greek word ζύμῃ or ζύμης (pronounced zýmē), and although many Bible translations will render that word ‘yeast’, the actual word is for ‘leaven’. You may be forgiven for thinking the difference in translation – as we might say of the yeast itself – is tiny. Indeed, small beer? I don’t agree.

The word yeast comes from the old English word gist or gyst, and ultimately from an Indo-European etymological root simply meaning ‘yes’. But that ‘yes’ also grew to mean to boil, foam, or bubble. Put another way, yeast is the ingredient that turns the passive into active; the flat into flavorsome; the ordinary into the extraordinary. However, yeast, as a discrete entity and distinct ingredient, would have been completely unknown in the kitchens and households that Jesus inhabited. Bread was not made that way; nor wine, nor beer. In each case, the use of leaven, when all that was to hand, whether in making wine or bread, it required knack, know-how, skill, care, calculation, experience, trial-and-error, labour, and patience.

In Luke 13: 21 (and note the parallel in Matthew 13: 33), leaven is compared to the rising agency of the kingdom of God. So, Jesus alerts us to the good aspects of leaven. Compared to Matthew 16: 6, 11, however, and we are warned off the ‘leaven of the Pharisees’ (see also Mark 8: 15, and Luke 12: 1). Paul, writing in I Corinthians 5: 6-8 renders positive uses of leaven, as does Galatians 5: 9. In each case, the use of leaven, whether in making wine or bread, requires knack, know-how, skill, care, calculation, experience, trial-and-error, labour and patience. The world of the ancient Near East made varieties of flatbreads and sourdough loaves. Yeast was virtually unknown, and so leaven was the only rising agent. Leavening excites fermentation in dough or wine, and the term has come to mean something more figurative: the sense of “work upon by invisible or powerful influence”.

Reading the gospels, many presume that Jesus’ use of the term “leaven” is broadly pejorative and critical of the Pharisees and Sadducees. Namely, that their leaven is a cypher for the spreading influence of something unpleasant, barely concealed – a coded way for expressing their spreading of an overly restrictive, repressive and intolerant faith. Most translations will render the Greek word zýmē as yeast, but there are better reasons the persist with translating the Greek as leaven, and not as yeast. For example, when Matthew 16: 6 records Jesus saying to the disciples: “watch out, and beware of the leaven of the Pharisees and Sadducees”, what exactly are we looking out for? “Watch out, and beware” (horate kai proschete) is better rendered as “see and pay attention” – not necessarily so much a warning, as “look, concentrate and try and discern”.

Correspondingly, superficial translations and expositions that opt for zýmē as ‘yeast’ will quickly render the meaning of the text as a warning against narrow-minded religious exclusivism and sectarianism. Of course, that could mean many things, but as leaven is meant, not yeast, we must accept the leaven Jesus speaks of is everywhere, including the kitchens and homes of all believers. And like bread, any believer of any type can be half-baked, over-baked, burnt, undercooked, puffed up or dead flat. We cannot be at all sure, in other words, that ‘leaven’ is an exclusive problem for Pharisees. One finds bad leaven in any faith, and in every and any branch or flavour of it. You can meet kind, mild and accommodating fundamentalists, and encounter unkind, zealous, hard-line liberals.

Jesus’ cautionary remark – “beware of the leaven…” would assume that all his hearers knew that leaven was actually unavoidable, as there was no good bread or wine without it. The spores of leaven are natural, and quite literally in the local air and atmosphere. Like culture, there is no environment without leaven. So, whilst it is reasonable to infer that Jesus’ use of the word leaven with the Pharisees and Sadducees might imply some level of corruption, care and caution should be exercised in assuming that this is only to be found amongst the Pharisees and Sadducees. Leaven was and is widespread, if not universal. So, whilst there is something here, therefore, about the potential legacy of the leaven of the Pharisees and Sadducees, ‘leaven’ could be applied to any group, tribe, society or nation.

Put another way, one needs only imagine Jesus saying: “Pay attention to the Leaven of the Christians”. What would that mean? Perhaps the “leaven of Christians” would be something to warn off others. Christianity has its own pedigree here, drawing on the earlier leaven of the Pharisees and Sadducees. Churches can excel at narrow-minded bigotry, oppressive fundamentalism, abusive sectarianism and dangerous extremism. They can be aloof and lofty, and take condescension to new heights (or depths). They can manage to talk about one bread, one body, one faith, one Lord – but then be racist, sexist, homophobic and classist. Then again, “beware the leaven of Christians” could infer something about all the good things that churches as leaven can do: an agent for raising and lifting up; of blessing and feeding; of being sacrificially consumed in order to feed and nourish others; to be like Jesus, bread for the world.

If I make one aside here, it is in relation to ‘gyst’ which we discussed earlier as yeast, but discounted as helpful. GYST is a modern mnemonic, meaning ‘Get Your Stuff Together’ (sometimes rendered ‘Get Your Shit Together’, and is closely related to ‘get your act together’. The agency implied in the mnemonic is: get up, get organised, and get busy. Don’t hang around or dither; sort out your life, and start living it usefully. It has also come to refer to our own completion of critical end-of-life planning issues, such as gathering essential documents like wills, and letting your children know where to find your bank details – but only after you have died. In other words, leaven might have something to do with our organised legacy.

That brief aside has one value, namely, to ask what is it, exactly, that is quite so bad about the leaven of the Pharisees? To answer this, one has to understand how sourdough is made. Before we had active-dry yeast or instant yeast, our forebears used wild yeast. We still have wild yeast, as it literally lives everywhere — in the air, in a bag of flour, and on the surface of fruit such as grapes.

Modern domesticated commercial yeast replaced wild yeast for most of our baking because it’s easier for companies to mass produce, and it was far easier for bakers to store and use in proofing our breads and pastries – all done in a fraction of the time, and a fraction of the cost.

A sourdough bread gets its flavour from wild yeast that is naturally found in your kitchen. This, of itself, may not sound interesting until you begin to appreciate that a San Francisco sourdough will taste different to a New York one, or from one made in an artisan bakery in Oxford or London. Real sourdough has the authentic leaven that evolves from its micro-environment, and that will be distinctively contextual.

Leaven for bread is made by trusting in the natural process of the spores as they are mixed with flour and water. Leavening in sourdough is made from a mixture of flour and water; after a day or two, bubbles will begin to form in the starter, indicating that the wild yeast is becoming active and multiplying. To keep the leaven happy, it is ‘fed’ with fresh flour and water over several days until the starter mix becomes bubbly and billowy. Once it reaches that slightly frothy, billowy stage, the starter is ready to be used for kneading. The mixture becomes a playground for lactobacilli bacteria and wild yeast. These naturally occurring organisms work together to enable the leavening and rising properties occur, and for the complex flavours and textures to emerge in the baked loaf.

So, I think our best way of reading Jesus’ references to leaven is to imagine the outcomes after kneading and baking have taken place. That returns us to the Flour Milling and Baking Research Association headquarters at Chorleywood. True, we aspire to catholicity and unity, but Christianity was never meant to be a religious version of the Chorleywood Bread Process – exactly the same loaf, tasting exactly the same, wherever you are. Christianity, like theology, is local, and it must take on some of the distinctive character of its context in order to be faithful to the authentic calling to be incarnational – embodying Christ and loving the world in the time, space and place in which the gifts and fruits of the Holy Spirit are nurtured and developed to share with the world in gift and sacrificial service, and feed the body of Christ each and every week.

To be the “Leaven of Christians” might say something about legacy and heritage; it would have plenty to suggest about being distinctive, flavoursome and local – “this bread, here, tastes and smells beautiful, and how we wish we could take home the recipe”. When we do so, of course, it never tastes quite the same, and can’t. But it can taste different, and yes, even better than we remembered as we savoured. The leaven has to be as natural as possible. We have to trust that the bubbling and frothing come in their own time. We don’t use pre-packed dry yeast.

Then again, perhaps the “Leaven of Christians” would be something to warn off others. Christianity has its own pedigree, drawing on the earlier leaven of the Pharisees and Sadducees. As churches, we have excelled at narrow-minded bigotry and sectarianism. We have been aloof and lofty, and taken condescension to new heights (or depths). We have managed to talk about one bread, one body, one faith, one Lord – but then been racist, sexist, homophobic and classist.

Yes, we have plenty of bad leaven in our faith. We have produced hard, stale, inedible faith that only a few will bite on. We have produced flaccid, flat sentimental piety. Our leaven has also produced loaves that are so puffed up they appear to be enormous, only to find that once you try to tear off a hunk, it is all air. It is best to beware of leaven.

Leslie Hunter was the Bishop of Sheffield from 1939-62, and in his The Seed and the Fruit (SCM, 1953, p.12), he offers this parable:

As the threats of war and the cries of the dispossessed were sounding in our ears, humanity fell into an uneasy sleep. In our sleep we dreamed that we entered the spacious store in which the gifts of God to humanity are kept, and addressed the angel behind the counter, saying: ‘We have run out of the fruits of the Spirit. Can you restock us?’ When the angel seemed about to say ‘no’, we burst out: ‘In place of violence, terrorism, war, afflictions and injustice, lying and lust, we need love, joy, peace, integrity, discipline. Without these we shall all be lost’. And then the angel behind the counter replied, ‘We do not stock fruits here. Only seeds

For Seeds and fruit, perhaps, we should read Leaven and the Loaf.

Jesus might just as easily have said “you are the leaven of the dough” – just as he has invited Christians to be “the salt of the earth” in Matthew 5:13. Incorrectly, bible translations often render this saying of Jesus salt or seasoning for the world; but in fact Jesus speaks of earth as in soil, and the halas (Greek: salt) would have been dug out of the shoreline of the Dead Sea, as it was rich in minerals. The ancients used it in cosmetics, but most especially to nourish the ground, as it made excellent fertiliser.

Christians are therefore to be as fertiliser: dug into the ground to nourish the soil for seeds, growth and harvest. We are invited to be a significant (if small) agent of transformative change in a much, much larger mass, that is only transformed by giving itself, sacrificially, to something bigger. Fertiliser, like leaven, does its work when it gets kneaded and worked in.

You can leave the spiritual-temporal chemistry to God. Trust me on this, the Holy Spirit knows how to bake; just remember you are an essential ingredient in God’s recipe. You are no good to anyone in a jar or a packet. Christians need to get out more: we are not here to try and coax a few ever-wary people into our cupboards, containers and crocks. We were always meant to be poured out. Liberally.

How will you and I be, like Christ, become Bread for the World? What is this leaven inside you raising up for the Kingdom of God? How are we, as Christ’s leaven, influencing the world around us for the common good? How are we fermenting blessing, dissenting, resisting, rescuing and saving the world, and with gentleness, kindness, goodness, hopefulness, justice, peace and truth?

In what sense does our leaven not look like that of the Pharisees and Sadducees? Can our work upon society by “invisible or powerful influence” truly be what Christ would be doing here, now, in the places and spaces he has set us?

How will you and I be part of Christ’s Bread for this World? How will this Leaven of Christ within us now feed the hungry, house the homeless, clothe the naked, and draw near to the prisoner? How will we become the Bread of Life for those who are hungry and ache and long for all the goodness that some good leaven can do?

?

I believe Anna to be a profound, prescient and prophetic sign for our age. Isolation, alienation, and loneliness are among the biggest challenges we face in our age. Despite our highly ‘networked society’, many find – for a variety of reasons – that they are more distant than ever from their neighbours, relatives and any immediate sources of support. The impact of this on our social well-being and on people’s health in general is a growing concern. The earliest Christian communities – in common, indeed, with other faith traditions – were very much about community and gathering. Moreover, they looked after those most likely to be pushed to the very edges of isolation and marginalisation – the widows and the orphans.

So the Early Church practised authentic and deep community development. Not because it would be popular or lead to church growth. But because the One whom the churches served also sought out the marginalised, demonised, lonely, neglected and isolated. And that one – Jesus – said that these people belonged to his kingdom. They would be honoured citizens there. So Anna flags the elderly, the lonely, and the isolated, does exactly what Jesus would have us do, and in so doing, we might challenge and transform our contemporary society.

What then, of Candlemas – today? I’ll answer the question. But let me begin somewhere else. The 2^nd February is Groundhog Day. People in certain parts of the USA, particularly Pennsylvania, gather waiting for a sign. Crowds gather to see what happens when a groundhog or woodchuck (the size of a small badger) comes out of its burrow. The Groundhog comes out and looks around. If it sees its shadow, it retreats into its burrow. This is seen as a sign that the winter weather will last for at least six more weeks. Yes, six.

The custom came to Pennsylvania from Dutch and German traditions, and it connects to many folk traditions about the 2nd February, Candlemas, and the weather. A traditional German poem translates as:

For as the sun shines on Candlemas Day

So far will the snow swirl until May

For as the snow blows on Candlemas day so far will the sun shine before May.

And an English rhyme…

If Candlemas be fair and bright

Winter has another flight

If Candlemas brings cloud and rain

Winter will not come again.

This February feast marked that darkest time of the year. When the cold seemed to last a long time, and people wanted a sign pointing to spring, new life, warmer weather, and so on. In the Church, it was the feast day for blessing the candles, the means of light in the darkness. It is a feast about looking forward to waiting for a sign and recognising the light that lightens the whole world.

The timing of Candlemas is dictated by Jewish custom. If Jesus were born on 25^{th December (a notional date, of course,} set in midwinter), then 40 days later would mark the day of purification for his mother Mary and the ritual sacrifices laid down in the Levitical law. Mary, Joseph and the child come to offer their sacrifice of two doves and to present the firstborn son in the Jerusalem temple.

There in the Temple, Luke tells us the Holy Family encounter two individuals. The first is Simeon, a righteous and pious man who has been waiting for the consolation of Israel. Tradition has assumed that Simeon was an old man, mainly because of the opening words of the song he says Now let your servant depart in peace’ which has been seen as a way of saying, “Now I can die happy”. But the bible does not say he was old, and I like to think he may not have been. Waiting as a younger person means the years stretch ahead, and the task is arguably more complex. Perhaps only middle-aged, he’s in for the long haul. All we know is that Simeon’s sense of waiting has been altered, and he can now rest from his watchfulness because he has seen the sign he was waiting for.

We do not know if Simeon expected to see a child. We do not know how long he had been watching and waiting. We know that he recognised something in this particular child, and he could live in peace because even if nothing had happened, he could now trust in a new way that it would. The light had come into the world, and it was a light not just for the consolation of Israel but a light that would reveal truth to the Gentiles as well.

Anna is definitely elderly. A widow who has long made the Temple courts her home. Her life is dedicated to prayer and worship. She, too, responds to this child and speaks of the hope he brings for those waiting for the redemption of Israel. She’s alone as well. Probably a widow, and perhaps homeless too, she has nowhere to go. Luke records that she does not leave the temple. It may be the only place of warmth and shelter she has. That’s why I like this modern poem about Candlemas (Richard Harries, ‘A Sigh for Anna’):

I too was there, waiting,

another black widow silent in the shadows.

60 years waiting, Waiting for what?

Years of yearning and longing:

For beloved Phanuel who doted on me,

Even though I wasn’t the son he wanted.

For those Asherite aunts and cousins always so

glad to see me:

all gone, gone so long.

And for one in particular and those seven ripe years,

The feel of him, touch of him, release of him, flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone,

severed and cut away,

To drop me dead in the dark well of waiting.

Waiting for what?

They say I can see the future so

They consult me on the wisdom of a marriage,

The likely success of a deal.

Now I see Simeon and his Song:

see dear Tom too, but no Roman hyacinths for me.

Simeon, such a good man, a kindly man, perhaps

I should have married him instead of waiting

my life away.

Those three little faces out of my tomb, so deadly

still; and all they might have been.

And now he says the time has come ... I saw the child myself.

The sun shifted and I am big with some new birth.

I see the city, the temple, the very earth and sky translucent with love, lit through with light eternal.

I will tell them what I see.

Anna and Simeon have both waited; kept their counsel, waited, and waited, and waited. I like their part in this aspect of the Christmas story, for waiting is what many of us must do. But there is an important distinction I must make here: that between waiting and dithering; of being patient and of being delayed. Let me say more.

Some of us, like Simeon and Anna, are nearing the point where we must let go, let go of projects, people or our place in this world. We offer ourselves and all that we have worked for to God. We pray as they prayed for a sign – a sign that all that we have valued and worked for and prayed for will continue to matter when we can no longer guard the flame. And we trust that our future, like our past, is held in the eternity of God’s love. We can go in peace.

Some of us are in the midst of long winters, complex situations where we feel our resources are overstretched, and our ability to be active is limited. These may be to do with the broader realities of our uncertain politics, the long-term responsibilities of unfulfilling or overwhelming jobs, loved ones whose caring needs are all-consuming and draining, and personal periods of waiting for a change.

Like the proverbial Groundhog, we raise our heads looking for the sign that winter is drawing to a close. Whether the way ahead looks long or the signs of thaw are apparent, we need not despair, to trust that God always sends the spring, new life will come, the sun will shine, and the light will increase. We offer our situations, praying that God will sustain us through the dark months and enable us to recognise the signs of new life when they begin to appear.

Part of the genius of the Christmas and Candlemas is that it tells us we sometimes need to seek Jesus – to go looking for him and make an effort. But the gospel also tells it another way. To those who cannot move or do not know, God will come to you. Later in the life of Jesus, he will meet seekers, but he will also proactively seek the neglected, confused, lost and ignorant, and those who’d never thought of looking. God is there for them just as much.

We commit ourselves to living hopefully. Hope is lighting a candle in the midst of the darkness and saying to the darkness of ageing, or isolation and loneliness: “I beg to differ”. So, Jesus is in the temple to be consecrated as a firstborn male, as the custom demands. But as with all such customs, the blessings will flow both ways. Simeon and Anna are blessed just as much as the One they came to bless. So, may you be blessed as you wait, and wait with those who have waited longer. The light shines for us all, and the darkness will not overcome it.

And isn’t this the point of Candlemas? Part of the genius of the Christmas narrative is that it makes us journey to see Jesus – we need to go looking for him; seek him out; make an effort. But the gospel also tells it another way. To those who cannot move or do not know, God will also come. Later in the life of Jesus, he will meet seekers, but he will also seek the lost and the ignorant, and those who’d never thought of looking; he is there for them just as much.

The Very Revd Canon Prof. Martyn Percy, HKSKH

“Methodists are Baptists who have been taught to read” is a quote often attributed to the American humorist and writer Mark Twain. It is a wry remark, and often makes Presbyterians chuckle. Methodists retort that a Presbyterian is someone who finds Methodism too racy by half. Anglicans stand aloof from trading such quips. They have been serving the world with a pronounced air of superiority since 597AD. Why bother with non-conformists, they ask, when it is obvious that your faith already effortlessly conforms to all the God requires. As the old Episcopalian joke goes, we don’t need to bother with the Decade of Evangelism, as anyone who deserves to be Anglican will already be saved.

Once upon a time, denominational names mattered a great deal, although their origin is often forgotten. It remains the case that very few denominations chose their own name – Christened themselves, so to speak. ‘Anglicanism’ is a term that was popularised by James VI of Scotland and contains a degree of mocking irony. Similarly, ‘Anabaptists’ had their family name bestowed upon them by their detractors. Likewise, Lutherans and Calvinists. Equally, ‘Methodist’ is can also be read as a dubious compliment – another mildly derogatory ‘nick name’. ‘Roman Catholic’ is arguably an attempt to meekly particularise the universal.

Yet now, in the twenty-first century, the Ecumenical movement has not yet sighted the promised land of Unity. If anything many churches seem to be specialising in fragmentation and exacerbating their differences. Arguments over gender, sexuality and other issues seem to mock the prayer of Jesus, ‘that they may all be one’ (John 17: 21). So, does the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity have anything to say to this? I think it does. For Christians have been quietly and determinedly working away for unity for several decades. We don’t accept our divisions as normal or desired. We work very hard and pray for them to be overcome.

To some, this Week of Prayer for Christian Unity might seem normal – an opportunity, even. Capitalist culture and churchgoing embraced the free market long ago. The rejection of any religious establishment opened the way for competition between individual churches and then produced the extraordinary organisational and theological creativity that distinguished the US from all previous Christian societies. The price of this exuberance was doctrinal incoherence. If there is a bespoke Christian faith for everyone, the faith will mean almost anything, and therefore almost nothing.

And this has effects that ripple out far beyond believers. A religion that is responsive to the pressures of the market becomes profoundly fractured. In the end, a market-driven religion gives rise to a market-driven approach to truth. There were churches on both sides of the American Civil War, the slavery debate in Britain, and churches on both sides of the Civil Rights struggle. As Martin Luther King observed (and whose day we also marked at this time of year), America is never more segregated than on a Sunday morning.

So, what of Christian unity? Specifically in Anglican terms, it is perhaps worth pointing out that Anglican polity is, first and foremost, a social vision that has ecclesial consequences. It is not an ecclesial polity with (accidental) social consequences. The Elizabethan Settlement was a social vision for breadth, inclusiveness, charity, generosity and diversity – it produced the Prayer Book. The Prayer Book did not produce that society. The Prayer Book is not the cause of settlement: it is just one result of that settlement.

Settlement is a tiny seed, to be sure. But Anglicanism is not alone in being a social vision first, and a church second. I think of Methodists, and in particular, a word used of their polity in governance: the word is ‘Moderator’. It is not the only church to be governed by a Moderator. But the word implies that ‘moderation’ - the practice and virtue of being intentionally and dispositionally ‘moderate’ - might be incredibly important for social and ecclesial life.

The word was originally used of weather and other physical conditions. But the one who moderates is the one who works within peaceable bounds, and practices restraint. The Moderator ‘regulates, mitigates, restrains, tempers…’; one who ‘abates excessiveness’ and gently but firmly ‘presides’ over a potentially divisive debates’. In his book, Faces of Moderation, Aurelian Craiutu argues that moderation is not an ideology, but rather a disposition. It is a composite of character and virtues that does not divide the world into light and dark, true and false, good or bad. At the same time, moderation does not accept everything as equal and valid.

It does not, for example, split the difference between racism and inclusion, or homophobia and tolerance. It accepts that some opinions and ideologies and irredeemable, and should be rejected. Rather, moderation works at unity and harmony. And it accepts that on our own, we cannot be entirely right or good. We need each other, and we need to value and cherish our differences - and sometimes our disagreements - if we are to progress.

In an earlier book, Craiutu argued that moderation was a virtue for courageous minds. Tacitus mourned the lost virtue of moderation - calling moderation ‘the most difficult lesson of wisdom’. Being a moderate, a bit like being ecumenical, is not weak-willed or sloppily liberal: it is about being charitable, generous and tough-minded. In other words, a difficult blend. But this is the calling of all denominations in the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity: to live as generous moderators and peace-builders.

We are taught that perfect love casts out fear; but perfect fear casts out love. Inclusivity was, and is, a deep value rooted in nothing less than the gospel. Incorporation is on the heart of God. It drives the vision of the early church - a place where there is neither Jew nor gentile, slave nor free, male or female - but all are one in Jesus Christ.

God knows we need moderation in our world right now – lots of it. Moderation may seem like a tiny seed. But we have witnessed many divisive things of late, not just in the church, but also in the wider world. So in the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity, we do well to remember that what Jesus inaugurated was eternal: “the just and gentle rule of the Kingdom of God” – inclusive, prophetic, pastoral, kind, wise and foolish. And to live and practice this most taxing of blends: we need to become seeds of moderation, and God’s most generous moderators, to settle and establish his kingdom.

The Week of Prayer for Christian Unity incites us to be a people of fervent faith and calm temperament; a people of moderation and passionate commitment; and we are invited to be agents of this in the world. The diversity within the wider church has always been one of its most glorious treasures, and a true ‘sign’ that no denomination ever fully reflects the mystery of God. Ecumenism celebrates this and has created a variety of possibilities: staying within a faith yet changing, and moving between traditions without abandoning our faith. Lord knows this needs our humility.

Though we are many, we are one body, because we all share in one bread. It is bread for the world. And ecumenical endeavour is something of a leaven for churches and denominations as they seek a unity that might feed and nourish the wider world. In this, Christians need to pray only one prayer: ‘may we all be one’ (John 17 20-21). But we still thank God that we have been created as distinct and different, each of us in the image of the one who fashioned us. The ecumenical endeavour witnesses to that simple truth: we are better together than apart. Unity, not uniformity, remains our truest calling.

Pale-yellow sap-sucking insects that attack vineyards might seem a curious place to reflect on the fate of the Anglican Communion. However, the story of the Great French Wine Blight of the 1850s offers a rich analogy for aspects of the pathology of ecclesiology worth exploring. Put bluntly, what does not kill you may cure you – or at the very least, make one stronger. If that is so for us as individuals, might it also be true for ecclesial polity?

The early French colonisers of Florida in the 17^th century had hoped to grow vineyards and enjoy some of the comforts that their wines, vines and vignerons gave them in France. However, they were repeatedly thwarted in trying to cultivate vines. The aphids went largely unnoticed by French-American farmers seeking to plant vines. All they saw were the results. The roots rotted quickly, and the leaves of the vines dried out. Wine production failed. No one at the time knew the cause. It was assumed that wine could not be made, despite the soil and the climate appearing to be conducive to winemaking. The puzzle persisted well into the 18^th century.

With changes in seafaring in the 19^th century – the shift from sail to steamships – journey times across the Atlantic were reduced dramatically, leading to increased trade, faster travel, and greater profits. But as epidemiologists would later testify, the faster the transatlantic crossings, the more likely it was that hidden diseases could move from one continent to another, unseen and unchecked.

Phylloxera is a native East Coast insect that breeds on vine leaves and eventually attaches itself to the root system. American vines eventually evolved a resistance to the larvae of the insect, so native American wine production was possible in the 18^th century. But European vines, with no exposure to the disease, were at the mercy of the insect eggs. Some vineyards – in sandy, slate or volcanic soils – seemed to be immune to the blight. But the vast majority of vineyards failed, as the disease proved to be fatal to the European vines. Few were exempt from the blight, though curious examples (e.g., Bollinger) did emerge

.

The Potato famines that had swept Europe decades earlier (caused by another insect blight, Phytophthora infestans, and probably originating from Mexico and southern American states) had produced mass starvation, spawned revolutions, and triggered mass migration. The French Wine Blight was not in this league, but the consequences for the industry were devastating. Around half of the businesses were lost, wages were halved, and migration to North Africa and the Americas increased. Farmers switched to the production of raisins, or to entirely new crops.

By the 1870’s, some sort of solution was emerging for French vineyards. It was discovered that by grafting disease-free French vines onto blight-resistant American rootstock, the vineyards could begin to recover. Whilst some American rootstock struggled with the chalky soils of French vineyards, the recovery was well underway, and Phylloxera was eventually eliminated.

One obvious reading of the Phylloxera analogy is that the inculcation of monarchical governance in America failed. And arguably, what has allowed monarchical governance to survive in Europe, only just, mind, is the grafting of American democracy into European polity. The same might be said of ecclesiology, too. Namely, were it not for the grafting of spiritual and religious consumerism to create a kind of ‘market-model’ ecclesial ecology across Europe, the religious landscape on that continent might be more defiantly secular, atheistic and anti-religious.

These are speculations, of course. But the Phylloxera parable invites us to contemplate the myriad of ways in which regional or national polities and cultures are unable to resist foreign ‘blight’. It is only with the introduction of another alien ingredient that eventual resistance can be cultivated. But that requires grafting, and with that process, the identity of the original vine is forever changed. It cannot go back to what it was.

The Gallic term ‘terroir’ is a single Gallic term that denotes all the contextual elements – soil, weather, human know-how, geography, topography – that give a wine, tea or coffee its’ distinctive flavour. Because the shape of ecclesial life is to some extent determined by the contextual ground in which it is located, and as the socio-sacred synergies grow and develop over time, we discover new patterns of polity emerging that could not have been easily foreseen. Moreover, these new and emerging patterns require careful explication. What seems apparent on the surface often requires deeper reading to understand the shape and dimensions of ecclesial life.

What emerges from the parable of the Phylloxera is something quite remarkable. Namely, that the source of blight was also to become the source of salvation and eventual recovery. Without American rootstock that had evolved to be resistant to Phylloxera, the European wine-making industry would have been extinguished. The lesson for global Anglicanism might be similar.

Could it be that the very forces of the late 18^th century that separated church and state, and severed the connections between crown and colony in America, and went on to develop a non-monarchical, democratic and profoundly republican ecclesial polity, might be the rootstock that needs to be fully grafted into the rest of the proverbial Anglican vineyard? That, unless that is done, English Anglican polity will be for sure undone. That American Episcopalianism might therefore be the instrument that saves global Anglicanism from its own blight?

That would indeed be a remarkable journey for the evolution of Anglicanism. To become a different kind of global denomination that did not hinge on monarchy, imperialism and empire. And instead, became an expression of Christianity that was both episcopal and democratic, without compromise to either. Perhaps then, and only then, the curse of the blight that English Anglicanism currently struggles with might finally be beaten. But to do so requires the grafting of authentic American Episcopalian rootstock (Isaiah 60: 21; John 15: 4-8; Romans 9-11). As we noted earlier, what does not kill you may cure you; or at the very least, make one stronger. If that is already true for us as individuals, might it also be true for global Anglican ecclesial polity in these strange and challenging times?

Martyn Percy’s Church, Communion, and Culture: Samuel Seabury and the Fate of Global Anglicanism is now published with Wipf & Stock, 2026.

Here is a wonderful humorous rhyme, called the ‘Snail Christmas Poem’:

Of Orient there were three snails

Who followed ancient Bedouin trails

To see the birth at Bethlehem

Their names were Nathan, Gar and Shem.

They crept behind the shining star,

The going slow, the distance far

And came just thirteen years too late

(the gospels don’t record their fate)

But lucky Nathan, Shem and Gar

Were present at the Bar Mitzvah.

Better late than never: now there is a gospel truth, if ever there was one. And isn’t it strange that the last people to feature in the Christmas story are probably the oldest and wisest? It is the feast of Epiphany, and if you haven’t done it already, you are probably taking down the decorations and wondering if you will ever get the needles out of the carpet and the Christmas tree to the recycling bin.

But at the beginning of a new year, what is our journey all about? To set us on our way, here are some words from the poet U. A. Fanthorpe from her well-known poem BC-AD:

This was the moment when Before
Turned into After, and the future’s
Un-invented timekeepers presented arms.

This was the moment when nothing
Happened. Only dull peace
Sprawled boringly over the earth.

This was the moment when even energetic Romans
Could find nothing better to do
Than counting heads in remote provinces.

And this was the moment
When a few farm workers and three
Members of an obscure Persian sect
Walked haphazard by starlight straight
Into the kingdom of heaven.

So it is into this weird and wonderful world that the Christian story introduces three strangers. They came late, and their arrival, in folklore, extends a one-day birth announcement into a twelve-day religious festival. As the three wise men arrive, Christmas ends.

Like many of the stories surrounding the first Christmas, it is important to look beyond the literal or historical to find some real meaning, and the story of the Wise Men provides an excellent insight into how the early Church understood the fuller significance of Jesus becoming one of us.

For example, consider the problem of recognition. Shepherds rejoice, Wise Men worship and Herod panics and overreacts. But what about the rest of Bethlehem? Nothing. Not a sausage. Life goes on. The inn opens and closes: ‘last orders, please’ is said in Bethlehem just as it is over the road. And into this busy world, Jesus comes amongst us. New life is born in the busy Inn that was too full to accommodate a pregnant woman and her new husband. No one notices anything special.

And later, Jesus’ own friends and acquaintances will look at him and say ‘is this not the carpenter’s son?’. For them, there is nothing special about an ordinary lad making extraordinary claims and beginning to beat the Wise Men at their own game. Recognition of Jesus is gradual; not everyone sees at once. Some will never see, even though he is staring them in the face. God is subtle. If you want to see him, you’ll need to look harder; we may need some help. The Wise Men teach us at least this much.

For many people, Epiphany simply marks another start to the year. And what does this year hold for you? The top five New Year’s resolutions are: 1. lose weight; 2. drink less; 3. exercise more; 4. give up smoking. Few of us, I think, will have ‘sell all you have…’. But let me encourage you, if I may, to one small resolution I made several years ago. It’s a tiny gesture, to be sure. But it takes the injunction in Mark 6:8 literally: ‘take no coppers in your purse’. So I never do. I always make sure these go in the charity boxes. It is, as I say, a small gesture. But one that reminds me every time I buy a newspaper or a pint of milk that someone or some cause should benefit as well.

The Epiphany story points to the many paradoxes present in discovering God. God is hidden, but also revealed. God is mystery, yet manifest. We can glimpse God on our own, yet only truly and deeply discover him together.

You see, God is elusive, yet also the child next door, or the visitor who turns up unannounced. In God, says John of the Cross, there is ‘a deep and dazzling darkness’ – a wonderful phrase that takes us to the heart of the Epiphany. Yet we also know that although this is something of an epiphany for us, the world around us is just getting on with its own business. As our earlier poem has it,

This was the moment when nothing
Happened. Only dull peace
Sprawled boringly over the earth.

…the moment
When a few farm workers and three
Members of an obscure Persian sect
Walked haphazard by starlight straight
Into the kingdom of heaven.

This is indeed a feast where ‘before’ becomes ‘after’. Yet it is also a feast that reminds us that only a few perceive God’s deep and dazzling darkness; the rest get with draining their pints at the Bethlehem Arms, and the Romans carry on with their head-counting census. So there is much work to be done in sharing Christ with our neighbours, in our streets, and in our community. There is much to be done to make Christ known.

At Epiphany, we remember the Wise Men who came bearing gifts for a king. As T.S. Eliot reminds us in his Magi poem, quoting the sermon by Launcelot Andrews from Christmas Day, 1620, this journey was costly. ‘They came an uneasy journey...at the worst season of the year’.

Yet there was no immediate comfort at the end of that. What they found instead was something more familiar to our society: an ordinary family, in temporary accommodation, struggling with a new baby. It must have been quite a shock: they had tried Herod’s palace first, but found they got the wrong address. Yet the Gospels record that they still gave their gifts, expensive as they were, and left them at the poor and lowly stable. In their own way, they were quite radical, and they threw a question back to us. What gifts will we give to the homeless, the displaced, the poor and the marginalised?

This question isn’t a party political matter. But it is a spiritual, moral and social matter. Our response to the Epiphany of Jesus, and of the poor, must indeed ‘cost not less than everything’. It is as Brother Roger of Taize said – ‘he does not ask for too much, but he does ask for everything’. This is discipleship. And that’s why I especially like this prayer for the new year.

Thank you

scandalous God,

for giving yourself to the world

not in the powerful and extraordinary

but in weakness and the familiar:

in a baby; in bread and wine.

Thank you

for offering, at journey’s end, a new beginning;

for setting, in the poverty of stable,

the richest jewel of your love;

for revealing, in a particular place,

your light for all nations …

Thank you

for bringing us to Bethlehem, House of Bread,

where the empty are filled,

and the filled are emptied;

where the poor find riches,

and the rich recognize their poverty;

where all who kneel and hold out their hands

are unstintingly fed.

Ultimately, all Christians are immigrants: without rest, without a stopping place, always on the road. There is no place to lay our head. Just like plants torn up, roots visible out of dry ground, we as exiles find ourselves following Christ along the way. It is only on the trail that we build our rude altars and speak of our prayers and sacrifices. We long to make a home: a place to pause and rest and to establish ourselves. Our homes are often like this; our churches even more so. But Jesus was for the road. To the astonishment and alarm of the religious leaders of his day, he did not seek to consolidate the numbers attending the temple. Nor did he go on a recruitment drive for synagogues. Instead, Jesus spent time talking about human things: trivial things, little gifts, birds, seeds, salt, yeast, and pearls. He introduced us to a world of parties and of wine.

Jesus preferred the company of the marginalised and the despised: the stigmatised and the demonized. The actual immigrant. The foreigner. He laughed at the powerful, even knowing the risks. He stood with those who ate and drank. With ordinary people who stank. He was at home with tax collectors and sinners. He told disturbing stories where the villains of real life appear as heroes, like Samaritans, and the heroes of real life, like Levites and priests, appear as villains. But these were the things of his world: men, women, children, all people, animals, trees, crops, seeds, stones, soil. He talked about our world, about our life, about our bodies. And he wept our tears and smiled our smiles. Too often we want to be even more spiritual than God, and yet Jesus Christ speaks to us of life and of the body and of the world. The humanity of God disturbs us.

Prayer:

God of majesty and power
Who spoke and this world was
Who breathed and this world lived
Who counts the hairs upon our head
Who sees our thoughts and reads our hearts
Who loves us more than we deserve
How can we not bring today
Our sacrifice of praise?
For in the child at Bethlehem
Lies the promise of intimacy
With a Saviour who would die even for me
And the promise of an eternity
In which to praise you more each day
God of promise we praise your name, Amen