Who Do You Say I Am? – Sermon Preached on 23rd August 2026 (Twelfth Sunday after Trinity)

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Preached at St Peter’s, Poulshot; St Mary’s, Potterne; and Holy Cross, Seend

Romans 12.1–8; Matthew 16.13-20

“…who do you say that I am?”

A large, plain tub-shaped stone font, weathered and pitted with age, standing on a rough stone base. A band of Latin lettering runs around its rim. This is Latin text from Psalm 42.
The Saxon font at St Mary’s, Potterne. © Lionel Wall/greatenglishchurches.co.uk

Our two Bible readings today are an interesting pairing – one asks who Jesus is; one explores what His Church should be.

In the Gospel reading, Jesus and His closest followers are on a bit of a road trip, away from the lakeside villages where He began His public work of healing and teaching. Apparently, the district is abuzz with gossip about Jesus. Everyone is talking about Him, because He is doing things well beyond what people have come to expect from local faith healers – powerful works, so much so that sometimes they even leave people frightened. Many people are wondering if Jesus is a prophet – perhaps one of the great prophets.

Jesus asks His closest followers, “Who do you say that I am?” This is one of the great hinges of the Bible. Peter gets it right first time – Jesus is far more than a prophet, but the Messiah Himself – the saviour of the human race, sent by God, the Son of God.

This is the perfect reading for a Sunday with baptisms and renewals of vows, because one of the promises we make in baptism is to turn to Jesus Christ as Peter identified Him, as our Saviour and the Saviour of the world. We join the biggest family in the history of the world, uniting people across time and space. This is a family that crosses divisions of nationality and race and class and political opinion. In baptism, we are united in the same family as baptised Christians in Albania and Zimbabwe, and all the other countries from A to Z. We are united across time with St Peter, and the people who built this church all those centuries ago. And we are united not only with Christians on Earth, but with those who have gone before us into heaven.

And here’s the thing, we aren’t united because we agree on everything, and certainly not because we’re perfect people – we are united by Jesus Christ, whom Peter correctly identified on that road trip all those centuries ago. We are united because we trust that Jesus Christ will save us even though we often mess up, because God loves us as we are.

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Rowan Williams should Engage with Farage on Christianity

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Thanks to Unherd for publishing my latest piece: click through to read the rest on the Unherd website…

Close-up photograph of Rowan Williams, the former Archbishop of Canterbury, shown in half-profile with hands clasped in prayer near his chin. He wears round wire-framed glasses, has a full white beard, and is dressed in purple clerical vestments. His eyes are cast downward

“The former Archbishop of Canterbury, Dr Rowan Williams, has told the New Humanist that Reform UK leader Nigel Farage is misusing Britain’s Christian heritage “to channel anti-Muslim feeling”. He added that he has “some awkward questions” for Tommy Robinson about how his claimed conversion to Christianity in prison squared with “public rhetoric designed to produce hostility and violence”.

“Concerns about cynical manipulation of Christianity for political advantage are warranted, even from those who don’t share Dr Williams’s perspective as an out-and-proud “hairy Lefty”. Yet rather than simply damning this new enthusiasm for Christianity on the hard Right to the largely atheist readers of the New Humanist, might he be better advised to put his concerns to Farage and Robinson directly?

“For example, if Mr Robinson’s jailhouse conversion is sincere, then he will have to engage with the hardest sayings of Jesus Christ about loving one’s enemies, turning the other cheek, and forgiving others if one wishes God to forgive them. And, like other Christians, he will have to grapple with the challenging personal and theological implications of how often he fails to live up to those ideals…”

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Descended from Dogs – Sermon Preached on 16th August 2026 (Eleventh Sunday after Trinity)

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Preached at Holy Cross, Seend

Romans 11.1–2a, 29–32; Matthew 15.21–28

“It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”

A manuscript page with two lines of Arabic script above and three below a framed illumination. Within a red border, Christ stands at left in a magenta tunic and blue cloak, barefoot, with a dark beard and a gold cruciform halo, his right hand raised and extended forward, his left hand lowered. Behind him stand two men, the nearer one grey-bearded in an ochre robe, the second visible only as a head and shoulder. At right a woman kneels facing him, wearing a grey-lilac veil and cloak over an orange-red robe, both hands raised with palms turned upward. Between the two figures a small tan dog stands on green ground with its head lowered. The background shows a grey wall with two dark arched windows, a magenta building with an arched doorway at right, an open doorway at upper left, and a gold sky. Red punctuation dots are scattered through the Arabic text.
Ilyas Basim Khuri Bazzi Rahib, Jesus and the Canaanite Woman (ca. 1684). Part of an illuminated set of the Gospels in Arabic, produced in Egypt. Now belongs to the Walters Art Museum, Baltimore, USA.

“That pack of dogs!” It isn’t a very nice way of talking about a group of people.

The exchange between Jesus and the Canaanite woman makes us uncomfortable because it shows Jesus cutting across one of the sacred principles of our own time and culture: not being nasty to people because of their nationality or race – or at least not being caught out doing so in public. The Canaanite woman is at her wits’ end, needing help for her possessed daughter; Jesus tries to ignore her, then implies that her people are dogs. It doesn’t strike us as very Christlike.

Jesus was truly human as well as being truly God. All human beings have a culture and a background – and that always involves complicated relationships with people not like us.

The Jews and the Canaanites had been living intermingled with one another for over a thousand years by this point, and there was plenty of bad blood between them. When the Jews came into the Promised Land after Moses led them out of captivity in Egypt, the Canaanites were one of the groups of people already living there. The Jews claimed they were just returning to their ancestral homeland; the Canaanites thought that was poppycock. The Jews said the Canaanites had a nasty history of sacrificing their own children. By the time Jesus came along, “Canaanite” was no longer the term in daily use anyway – the politically correct nomenclature was “Syrophoenician”, which was used by Mark when telling the same story. So Matthew’s use of the archaic term hints that he’s reaching back into history for something.

There’s something else to keep in mind: what happened just before. Notice how this morning’s reading starts: “Jesus left that place and went away to the district of Tyre and Sidon.” That leaves me curious as to where “that place” was.

It turns out that place was Gennesaret, by the Sea of Galilee, not much over twenty miles from where Jesus grew up, the area where He had started His public ministry of preaching and teaching, and a heartland of conservative Jews. What happened there was that as He was being mobbed by a crowd desperately seeking help, some Pharisees came up from Jerusalem – which was a hundred miles away – and started giving Jesus a hard time, telling Him He was breaking the Jewish religious traditions. Jesus in turn says the Pharisees are the ones promoting false teaching: in fact, they are blind guides, leading the people into a pit.

So Jesus has just had a spicy exchange with the self-appointed defenders of Jewish orthodoxy. For some reason, after that happens, He leaves the Sea of Galilee and goes to Tyre and Sidon, to what is now the coast of South Lebanon, away from the main Jewish centres of population and into the very heartland of the Canaanites.

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Of Course You Can’t Walk On Water – Sermon Preached on 9th August 2026 (Tenth Sunday after Trinity)

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Preached at Holy Cross, Seend; Christ Church, Worton; and St Mary’s, Potterne

Romans 10.5–15; Matthew 14.22–33

“…beginning to sink, he cried out, ‘Lord, save me!’”

A wide expanse of calm sea under a clear pale blue sky, occupying the lower two-thirds of the frame. The water shifts from deep teal in the foreground to a lighter turquoise towards the horizon, its surface finely rippled and catching the light. Across the middle distance lies a low, narrow island covered in dense dark green pine woodland, with a pale sandy shoreline and a few small buildings visible among the trees. A second, smaller wooded islet sits to the left, and further low islands are just discernible along the horizon on both sides. Several small vessels are scattered across the water: a white sailing yacht with a purple sail, another with white sails to the left, and a number of motorboats leaving thin white wakes. On the far right horizon, two larger ships are visible in silhouette. The photograph appears to be taken from an elevated position, looking down and out across the water.
“Here, fancy a walk over to those islands?” © Gerry Lynch, 26 July 2017.

A couple of summers ago, I was on the way to Jersey, on a very hot summer day, on a big slow ferry across the English Channel, when I decided to get off and go for a walk. The water was lovely and cool after the stuffy cabin, and it was enjoyably strenuous to climb up and down the waves, but my shoes were starting to get soaked and stained with salt water, and I worried about how they’d stink the cabin out.

Of course, this never happened. I made this up. People don’t walk on water. If God had wanted us to walk on water, we would be born with skis instead of feet.

Jesus can walk on water because Jesus isn’t just another small-town preacher and holy man, but the Messiah, sent by God as Saviour of the human race. This is one of the miracle stories in the middle part of Matthew’s Gospel where the disciples, and Peter in particular, are confronted with more and more evidence of Jesus’ divine origin. These form the backbone of our readings from Matthew’s Gospel through this late summer and autumn and Peter will, before too long, be the first to work it all out.

Peter was the first person to confess that Jesus is the Messiah. A great man. But Peter wasn’t God. So, Peter couldn’t walk on water. It isn’t that Peter couldn’t walk on water because he didn’t have enough faith – or that he was able to walk on water while he had his eyes on Jesus, but lost it when he got distracted by the wind. Jesus isn’t telling off Peter as “You of little faith” because he can’t walk on water. People can’t walk on water.

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Address at the Interment of the Mortal Remains of Caroline Jackson, 5 August 2026 (St Oswald’s Day)

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Preached at St Oswald’s, Widford

Psalm 121; 1 Corinthians 15.50–58

“Therefore, my beloved brethren … know that your labour is not in vain in the Lord.”

Interior of a small stone chapel looking east from the west end towards the chancel arch. Whitewashed walls tinged pink, an open roof of dark timber rafters with white plaster between. Two painted boards in decorated frames flank the pointed chancel arch, lettered with the Ten Commandments; traces of medieval wall painting survive around the deep-set leaded window on the left, where a vase of garden flowers stands on the sill. Box pews of pale, weathered oak fill the nave on both sides, with a dark carved wooden pulpit or reading desk to the left of the arch. Beyond, a small altar with two candles and a cross stands below a traceried east window. The floor is worn stone flags. In the foreground right, a book ledge holds stacked red hymnals and blue books, with laminated notices propped above.
St Oswald’s Widford © Gerry Lynch, 5 August 2026

The life of St Oswald, on whose feast day we gather in this church dedicated to him, might easily be accounted a failure. He ruled Northumbria for nine years, before dying in battle aged just thirty-eight in the incessant wars between Anglo-Saxons, Celts, and Picts, themselves multiply factionalised, that disfigured these islands in the 7th Century. Providence decreed him a more important role than might be supposed from those bare facts – after his father’s death in war, he had spent his childhood in exile in the Kingdom of Dál Riata, home to the great monastery of Iona. In exile, he converted to Christianity, and full of fervour on his return to Northumbria, he granted the island of Lindisfarne to Bishop Aidan as the site of another monastery. That Holy Island had such a significant impact on Church history that Oswald’s cult spread deep into continental Europe. As far away as Slovenia, the town of Ožbalt is named for him.

The great Bard was wrong. The good that men do is often not interred with their bones – indeed, seeds sown in our earthly lives are often only ready to be harvested long after our deaths. We all admire the person who plants trees that will only reach maturity in the time of their great-grandchildren.

It is in that light that we should look at Caroline’s political career. She joined the Secretariat of the Conservative Group in the European Parliament in 1974, before being elected herself a decade later, serving in the European Parliament until 2009. For more than a third of a century, she served the British people and those of the whole continent, during a period of extraordinary change which saw the collapse of Communism and the fall of the Iron Curtain, the European Economic Community’s transformation into the European Union, and its expansion firstly to the newly democratic states of southern Europe, and then to the formerly Communist East – to Ožbalt in Slovenia, and well beyond.

Caroline developed significant expertise in environmental and public health matters, and was one of those British MEPs who made a serious contribution not only to the detailed legislative work of the European Parliament but to the construction of Europe – work of which she was immensely proud.

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Generosity and Difference – Sermon Preached on 2 August 2026 (Ninth Sunday after Trinity)

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Preached at Christ Church, Worton; St Mary’s, Potterne; and Christ Church, Bulkington

Romans 9.1–5; Matthew 14.13–21

“…I could wish that I myself were accursed and cut off from Christ for the sake of my own people…”

Densely packed stone rooftops of Jerusalem's Old City at dusk, under a sky graded from deep violet to vivid pink. A floodlit church bell tower with a pyramidal roof and arched openings rises at the centre, with a domed church, a crenellated tower flying a flag, and a green-lit minaret beyond. Satellite dishes, water tanks and washing lines cover the flat roofs in the foreground.
Dusk behind the Christian Quarter of Jerusalem’s Old City from the Ecce Homo Pilgrim House. © Gerry Lynch, 18 November 2022.

Last April, a French nun was attacked near the Old City in Jerusalem, attacked from behind and shoved to the ground by a man whom she had done nothing to provoke and couldn’t even see. It’s increasingly common for Christians in Jerusalem, whether foreigners or local Palestinians, to be verbally abused, spat at, or even beaten up by Jewish extremists. But this incident was caught on camera. The next day the Israeli authorities charged the man with religiously aggravated assault. The case has not yet come to trial.

This incident came to mind when I read this morning’s Epistle reading from St Paul’s letter to the Romans. You see, St Paul hadn’t started as one of Christ’s followers, but as someone who constantly persecuted them. His worst moment was when he stirred up a lynch mob that stoned poor St Stephen, the first Christian martyr. By the time he wrote today’s first reading, about fifteen years later, he had been on quite a journey. Whenever I see one of those extremist leaders of the West Bank settlers being interviewed on TV, I can’t help thinking of Paul, back in the days when he was still Saul. Indeed, the place where St Stephen was probably stoned is no more than a mile from where the nun was attacked last April.

None of us emerges into the world as an island. We all have a backstory – family, ancestors, nation, perhaps even more than one nation. These backstories are all complicated. Our family stories all have their dark moments – the relation nobody wants to talk about, the cousins who studiously avoid one another at weddings. Of course, every country has episodes of shame in its history as well as episodes of glory. The story of the Church is one containing much wickedness as well as good – when we encounter members of other faiths, we need to remember that.

Christianity emerged into the world from Judaism. Except for Luke and Acts, the entire New Testament was written by people who, like Christ Himself, lived and died as Jews – Jews who happened to come to faith that Jesus was the long-awaited Messiah. But none of them ever thought of themselves as being anything other than Jewish, and indeed there was quite a battle in the first two decades or so of the Church about whether Gentiles – in other words, people who weren’t Jews – could become Christians at all unless they became Jews first. St Paul argued that they needn’t do so, and Paul won the argument in the end, but we can hear echoes of it throughout his writing.

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A Devouring Minotaur – Enver Hoxha: Twentieth-Century Tyrant

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Some notes after reading Enver Hoxha: Twentieth-Century Tyrant by Robert C. Austin and Artan R. Hoxha (London: Reaktion Books, 2026).

Book cover, duotone red, for "Enver Hoxha: Twentieth-Century Tyrant" by Robert C. Austin and Artan R. Hoxha. Hoxha in a coat and trilby, mid-wave with one hand raised, against a background of the letter Z repeated in a fence-like pattern.

“After Nixon’s visit to China, a group of disappointed radical Marxists from Washington state hung a banner in downtown Seattle reading: ‘Defend Albania, Marxism’s last hope’.”[1]

Despite its diminutive scale and its poverty, Albania in the latter decades of the Cold War retained a wider importance to cognoscenti on the Far Left worldwide because of its unflinching and unembarrassed Stalinism. This was the product of the unflinching and unembarrassed tyrant who ruled the Balkan country for forty of its forty-seven years of Communist rule, Enver Hoxha, most of it as a minotaur defending his maze. With perfect timing, Hoxha died exactly one month after Mikhail Gorbachev assumed power in the USSR in early 1985 – granting the world just the tiniest sliver of overlap between the last holdout of Communism’s murderous but potent heyday in the aftermath of the Second World War, and the man who would inadvertently dismantle the structures that allowed the system to remain rigid despite its increasingly obvious contradictions.

Hoxha thought he and his régime were of global importance every bit as much as his more enthusiastic overseas admirers. In my latter primary school years, those immediately after Hoxha’s death, Radio Tirana, at some financial cost to this small and impoverished country, dominated the shortwaves with its portentous, somewhat sinister, interval signal introducing programmes in twenty languages, aiming to export Albania’s vision of revolution. I doubt programming in other languages was any less tedious than that in English, which was soporifically dry and always delivered in a halting, heavily accented monotone, bemoaning the machinations of “American imperialists” and “Soviet socialist imperialists”.

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Politicians are Scared of Calling Out Muslim Homophobia

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Three people embracing in a close group hug at an outdoor event, seen from behind, with the Brandenburg Gate visible in the background under a bright sky. A rainbow pride flag is partially visible at the edge of the frame.

My thanks to Unherd for running my short piece on the comments of Sir Chris Bryant MP, Secretary of State for Northern Ireland, on the attack on the Christopher Street Day LGBT+ parade in Berlin last weekend. Sir Chris refused to acknowledge that the attacker was an Islamist even after the German Interior Minister publicly stated that to be the case.

Sir Chris was “ordained as a priest in the Church of England before he first left active ministry and later Anglicanism entirely because he couldn’t reconcile his homosexuality with his Church’s treatment of gay relationships. Naming Christian homophobia is considered laudable in his own support base.

“But naming Muslim homophobia? This, in contrast, threatens the unofficial British state settlement around crimes which undercut the narrative that multiculturalism only has benefits and never brings new problems. The most obvious case is of nationwide grooming gangs. But there has been a constant drumbeat of lesser yet still serious incidents, from the reaction to Salman Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses in 1988 to the Wakefield woman forced to go to the local mosque to plead for her son’s life in 2023 after he damaged a Quran.”

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The Pearl and the Furnace – Sermon Preached on 26th July 2026 (Eighth Sunday after Trinity)

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Preached at St Peter’s, Poulshot, Christ Church, Bulkington, and Holy Cross, Seend

Romans 8.26–39; Matthew 13.31-33, 44-52.

“‘Have you understood all this?’ They answered ‘Yes.’

A woman stands bent over a large open trough or tub, her sleeves pushed back and her arms sunk into a mass of dough, working leaven through the meal. She wears long, plain robes gathered at the waist, her head covered, inclined toward her work. The setting is a spare domestic interior with a suggestion of a wall and floor behind her, and light falling from one side. The composition is close and shadowed, the figure filling most of the frame. Fine cross-hatching models the folds of cloth and the bulk of the dough.
Sir John Everett Millais, The Leaven (1864) in the Prints and Drawings Room, Tate Britain, London.

Have you understood all this? The yeast and the flour and the treasure in the field, and the pearl of great price? And the good fish and the bad fish – and the furnace of fire?

The disciples confidently told Jesus that, yes, they had. But at this stage of Matthew’s Gospel, when He is still teaching and healing in Galilee, there is much they don’t understand about Jesus Himself. The disciples are far from working out that Jesus is the Messiah, further still from realising that Jesus is not here to bring them a lifetime of comfort and worldly success, but to die for the sake of their eternities. So perhaps one of the things that we’re seeing in this morning’s Gospel is how much the disciples have yet to understand about Christ, how much work the yeast has yet to do, how far the mustard seed has yet to grow. As with them, so also with us – or at least let us hope that God still has much spiritual growth to raise in us.

One point of parables is that people can never understand them in their entirety – they land differently with each of us, and each of us will read them differently at different points of our lives. Like the kingdom of heaven itself, when we try to grasp the parables too tightly, to turn them into definitive statements of policy that we can use to make ourselves into insiders and others into outsiders, then they disappear into meaninglessness.

Yet there are insiders and outsiders, says Christ. Which is which is for Him to judge, not us, but there are good and bad fish – and the bad fish will be thrown into a furnace of fire. I always like to sidestep the implications the implications of the bits of the Bible where people get put in the fire by talking about the refiner’s fire, the furnace that turns a cheap alloy into gold or silver. But what is left when you throw an unhealthy fish into a furnace, but perhaps a few charred bones? This set of parables isn’t just hard to understand, it finishes on a hard and judging note.

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Living Amid the Weeds – Sermon Preached on 19th July 2026 (Seventh Sunday after Trinity)

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Preached at Holy Cross, Seend

Romans 8.12–25; Matthew 13.24–30, 36–43

“The slaves said to him, ‘Then do you want us to go and gather them?’ But he replied, ‘No…’”

What happens when the people we are supposed to look up to fail? What happens when the people we would like to see as examples and patterns for our own lives turn out to be no better than the rest of us – and often much worse?

Oil painting of a riverside landscape with windswept trees under a cloudy sky. In the centre, a bare-chested man scatters seed from a basket on his hip as he walks across a harvested field. On the left, two labourers lie slumped and asleep against a tree trunk; on the right, another man lies asleep on the ground, his head resting on his arm. A river with a small boat and distant hills is visible in the background.
Domenico Fetti, The Parable of the Wheat and the Tares (1620-21). Hangs in the Courtauld Institute, London.

As a society, we’re speedrunning that experiment. Trust in democratic institutions is crumbling. Only one in eight of us now trusts governments to put nation before party all or most of the time. There is a growing political gap in how much people say they trust judges, scientists, teachers, professors, and civil servants – for a large minority of the population, they are the political priesthood of the other side.

As for other sources of authority, they too have seen their credibility dissolve. The Royal Family? Let’s not dwell too long on Prince Andrew. The world of celebrities? Rife with abuse.

The Church, and its priests and bishops – [fx: LOUD CLEARING OF THROAT] – well, they certainly have their share of wrongdoers, with regard to sex and money, of course, but also in handling safeguarding disclosures and episodes of bullying.

Most people aren’t interested in the Church – and if what we were selling was the idea that we’re in a position to stand in judgement over others, then they’d be right. The Church will not be the judge of the world, only the Saviour to whom it points the human race, Jesus Christ. Those who call themselves Christians will be under His judgement as much as anyone else. Now, if we truly seek to make Christ the guiding light of our lives, we can hope to live better lives than we would otherwise, but we certainly aren’t perfect.

In this life, God allows the good and the bad to grow together. Often, the wicked flourish. Now, I’m sure most of us have chapters in our lives that we’re not proud of, and most of us know how they tend to start. We do something small that we know isn’t quite right, and we get away with it, and it doesn’t cause us that much worry – after all, other people are getting away with the same sort of thing and mostly they seem to be perfectly nice people most of the time. Then our moral compass starts to go awry, small steps lead to larger steps, and we find ourselves deep amid the weeds, living in a way that would once have caused us shame.

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