The cross

Sunday, 14 September, Holy Cross: Numbers 21:4-9, Philippians 2:6–11 

and John 3:13-17

The legend of the story of the discovery of the true cross is that Emperor Constantine’s mother Helena found it in Jerusalem during a pilgrimage to holy sites in Palestine in 326.

She was guided to the place where it had lain buried by an elderly Jewish man - who carried ancient knowledge - and after excavating the ground, three crosses were found, along with nails.

Finding this ‘true’ or holy cross turned a sign of brutal and shameful torture into an object of devotion: something that prompts reflection on the breadth and depth of God’s love and forgiveness. 

Today the cross is still found in familiar and complex ways. A sign of God’s grace and our commitment to live in love, yes; but also tagged with questions of identity and power, challenge or conformity.

It’s worn as an item of jewellery - a fashion accessory, blingy or subtle; a cherished gift, a statement of faith. 

It is found in galleries and churches - an object of art and devotion in paint and sculpture, in stained glass, wood or brass, stitched into tapestries.

We stumble across it: chalked on pavements, crossed twigs, marks in sand; found and noticed, an unexpected reminder of faith. 

It’s part of our body language: a gesture made by sportsmen and women before taking a penalty or sprinting from the blocks;  a sign traced on our foreheads in baptism, an invisible yet indelible mark of being ‘in Christ’. 

We find it flown from flag poles, waved aloft and draped across shoulders: at the last night of the proms and in citizenship ceremonies, at football or athletics tournaments and significant moments in our national life.

It is flown, waved and draped in pride, belonging and unity; but also in protest, exclusion and fear. The cross has been claimed as a sign by which to conquer and a means of liberation.  

Wherever we find the cross, we need to notice its effects - does it heal and bless, or divide and wound? Our readings today take us beyond flags and jewellery to the heart of that; to the gesture of God in Christ. 

The sign of the cross is traced on text and lips and heart as we proclaim the gospel - reminding us to dwell on God’s love in thought, word and deed. A sign traced in the air - taking up space as we receive gifts of forgiveness and blessing. 

It is a sign of God’s hope breaking into a broken world: a sign of healing, of salvation; the overcoming of an old order of sin and death, an invitation to life and hope.  

In that sense, the cross cannot be limited or defined by a nation, but it can reshape a nation’s imagination. It cannot by definition be claimed as a mark of exceptionalism, but it can make us look beyond ourselves.

As members of Christ’s body, it makes visible our ‘in Christ-ness’ as a community, in all our diversity and individuality. Whatever our age, gender, class, health, occupation, sexuality, ability or ethnicity we belong; we are set free, valued, accepted, being transformed.

To take words from a statement from Bishop Anderson this weekend, freedom - whether it is freedom of speech or freedom in Christ - should be something we exercise ‘not to deepen fear or exclusion, but to foster compassion and unity’.

Sometimes our familiarity with the cross can domesticate it. Sometimes we need artists to shock us to think afresh about its meaning. 

During her Confessions tour, almost 20 years ago,  Madonna performed “Live to tell” whilst hanging on a giant mirrored cross wearing a crown of thorns. 

Still from YouTube video of "Live to Tell"

Unsurprisingly she faced a strong negative reaction from religious groups.  Her performance was described as blasphemous, distasteful and heretical.   

Her  response to this criticism was to say that her main intention was to highlight the plight of millions of children dying from poverty and hunger in Africa. 

During the performance, the death toll of victims is counted on a screen behind her; the words “in Africa 12 million children are orphaned by AIDS” are projected onto the stage. Images of children fade in and out as she sings.

In 2025, maybe she would have used the scandal of the cross to focus on a different aspect of the scandalous suffering of humanity: the millions facing starvation or displacement and exploitation; those feeling disillusioned, ignored or hopeless..

Somehow the cross we find brings us back to our common humanity made in the image of God - provoking us to recall our need for repentance and the enormity of God’s love and forgiveness. 

As “Live to tell” draws to an end, Madonna steps down from the cross and removes the crown of thorns. She kneels and bows her head. It’s the body language of prayer. 

Above her words from Matthew 25 appear: ‘And God said… whatever you do for the least of these…’: the hungry, abused, marginalized, excluded, homeless.

To quote Madonna’s own lyrics: ‘how will they hear, when will they learn, how will they know.’

The hearing, learning and knowing is addressed to those who have power and to the powerless - by the one who takes on our humanity in humility, who restores our human nature.

That imagery taken from the letter to the Philippians is one of the earliest creedal statements or hymns to Christ. It reminds us that we are called to walk in the steps of the one who did not cling to equality but humbled himself, taking the form of a servant.  

The cross we find invites us to respond to the one who came into the world not to condemn but to save: to reconcile all things in self-giving love that bears the pain and judgement – to redeem, restore, heal and transform us.

John’s gospel records an episode at the beginning of Jesus’ ministry: it’s a conversation with someone who had considerable learning and curiosity, whose own authority meant he came to see Jesus undercover of darkness. 

This man, Nicodemus, is faced not only with a message but a person. He is being invited to go beyond his previous understanding of life and faith. We catch the end of his exchange with Jesus today.

Jesus is stretching his imagination - taking images from the Hebrew scriptures that Nicodemus knows so well and inviting him to see the truth of God’s love for the world. 

When God’s people become impatient and disgruntled, they only repent when confronted with the painful and deathly consequences of turning away from God’s ways. Moses lifts up the symbol of their suffering and it becomes a source of healing. Playing with this idea, Jesus talks about how he will be lifted up on the cross.

When people saw it, they were also, in the words of one commentator, looking at ‘the mirrored representation of their own destruction - the evil of empire, the oppression they participate in, the violence that beats at the heart of society, the scapegoating tendencies of people to allow innocent people to suffer sins that aren’t their own.’

The cross becomes the means by which we repent of such a cycle of blame, violence and indifference; systems that overlook, demonise, impoverish : God in Jesus goes to the depths of that self-destructive pattern which drives us from compassion to fear, from unity to exclusion.

In the cross we find a mirror which opens up the possibility of trust - to put our faith in God: for God so loves the world in this way - giving the only Son - so that everyone who trusts and follows Jesus will have abundant and everlasting life. 

Finding the cross allows us to see the truth, to find healing and to follow Jesus - the one in whom love ultimately wins. 

In being lifted up on the cross, he calls us to hear, learn and know the scandal of love: our need for forgiveness for the mirco-agressions and ambitions that dehumanise us and deny God’s image in the other; the economic, technical and social-political systems that silence us and drive us apart.. 

The shock of the cross reminds us of the scope of God’s love: it shapes our response to injustice and violence; humbled yet restored in dignity, we are forgiven and called to self-giving. 

Others will hear, learn and know such love when we go to the cross and know its power to heal; when love pours out through us. In prison, Bonhoeffer shared this poem with his friend Bethge:

People go to God in their need,

For help, happiness and bread they plead

For deliverance from sickness, guilt and death,

Thus do they all, Christians and pagans.

People go to God in God’s need,

Find God poor, reviled, with neither shelter nor bread,

See God entangled in sin, weakness, and death.

Christians stand by God in God’s suffering.

God comes to all human beings in need,

Sates them body and soul with Hi s bread,

Dies the death of the cross for Christians and pagans,

And forgives them both. 

© Julie Gittoes 2025

Entertaining angels unawares

 31st August, Trinity 11: Jeremiah 2:4-13, Hebrews 13:1-8, 15-16 and Luke 14:1, 7-14

At Evensong, I revisited some themes in this sermon through the lens of the readings, anthem and a blog by my friend and colleague Al Barrett (Hodge Hill Vicar). In the face of protest, he writes about his parishes experience of courage, solidarity, listening and care which can be found here. Jesus goes beyond Debrett's guide on manners it is a way into thinking about what binds us together, treading others with dignity, shaping a future around harmony rather than discord. When of Al's reflections is about softening hardening eyes and finding common ground. There is so much more to attend to - listening deeply and acting out of that with hope.

In an uncertain world, where many of us are preoccupied by everyday survival and global challenges, it is easy to dismiss manners as a triviality. 

Words from the opening of an article on "why manners matter" from the Debretts website earlier this month. Debrett’s describes itself as a record-keeper and chronicler of British society since 1769; and also an authority of modern manners, from protocol and precedence to etiquette and behaviour. 

Marc Chagall - Abraham and Three Angels

The article acknowledges that in the past, social codes became weapons to exclude ‘undesirables’ and reinforce social class; but today, they argue that ‘good manners’ - online, professionally and in everyday encounters - are simply a matter of treating others as we would like to be treated. 

In that sense,  by saying they make the case for manners being [quote] a positive beacon in times of upheaval and transition… an indication of thoughtfulness and empathy, a desire to find social harmony and agreeableness rather than discord and friction. 

Thinking about table manners and social etiquette in the light of Jesus’ interactions in today’s gospel doesn’t map onto the world of Debrett’s: on the one hand, Jesus is routinely exploring with those he meets what it means to love one’s neighbour; but on the other, his interventions can be provocative and demanding. 

Over the course of his ministry, he accepted many dinner invitations as a guest - eating with friends or joining those who held positions of authority. He kept company with those not considered respectable or part of the right crowd. He noticed what was going on and said what no-one wanted to hear. 

Sometimes there were moments of disruption or interruption as his hosts were joined by those seeking forgiveness or healing or the woman anointing his feet with tears. On other occasions, he acted as host, whilst also taking on the role of servant. Sometimes others picked him or his disciples up on whether they were following the correct customs like ritual washing. 

In today’s gospel, he’s been invited for a Sabbath meal. He watches how his fellow guests behave and notices how they jostle for honoured places next to the host. Maybe we can recall similar situations at work-dos or family gatherings. 

He watches them consumed with choosing the places of honour and tells them a story: echoing the reaching of Proverbs, he speaks of humility rather than self-promotion or self-assertion. 

It sounds like a common sense approach to manners - something that would sit alongside how Debrett’s talks about the road to social success.  In their terms, consideration and attentiveness makes people likeable. Making others feel comfortable and at ease, they write, means you’re  less likely to patronise other people, put them down or shore up your shaky self-confidence by bullying or dominating behaviour. 

Jesus goes further. He turns from parable to direct advice: share hospitality with those who cannot repay you; invite into your social space those who cannot invite you back. He undercuts the social status quo and extends a circle of blessing. 

Luke doesn’t record the reaction of those at the table with Jesus: did they ask questions or enter into a discussion? Or was there an awkward silence before the host steered the conversation towards something less contentious?

No doubt his words will land with us in different ways - surprise or discomfort, or perhaps relief or curiosity about how we shape our life together differently.

There is something liberating about subverting the demands to schmooze or compete for attention. There is something challenging about opening our hearts to those who are different from us, or who can’t do us a favour.

God does not want us caught up in a game of social snakes and ladders: weighing connections, chances and risks in relation to status, popularity, influence; any of the ways in which we weigh who’s the greatest. 

All that becomes "great" then are our levels of competition, mistrust, indifference and anxiety. It is anti-social - a weakening of social bonds; reduced reciprocity and recognition. 

Instead Jesus promises not only a table, but a kingdom where we all find seats of honour: a place where we are already known, loved, forgiven, restored. It is a place marked by humility and generosity; by the risk of hospitality rather than fear. 

This is not easy. It requires conviction, patience and sustained effort - including listening carefully. It's why our partnership with North London Citizens matter, increasing our capacity to listen.

The article in Debrett’s ends with a conclusion entitled ‘pay attention’. Being alert and observant; opting into social interactions, rather than disengaging from the people around us; using manners as channels of positivity and good will.

The final line is striking [quote]: Life on our crowded planet is increasingly hectic and challenging and now, more than ever,we need to moderate our behaviour and promote civility and courtesy. 

Hectic and challenging might sound like an understatement given the social, economic and political and environmental pressures that confront us. It’s a complex web - aging populations, falling birthrates, patterns of migration. 

All that and more impacts upon each of us personally and our collective lives and responsibilities. They shape how we see the past, our present hopes and concerns and also the vision of our future life across villages, towns and cities. 

In an article published yesterday, Rowan Williams names the chaos and under-resourcing of legal processes; the conditions that lead to insecurity and rootlessness and at worst resentment and criminality; and the lethal systems rather than safe routes which means integration can’t be planned, trapping asylum seekers in ‘a situation both dehumanising for them and challenging for the localities in which they are placed’.

He calls for a better cross-party conversation. But he also suggests that an urgent priority in the standoff between the ordinary and alien is opportunities to ‘help each other to recognise in the other some of the shared experience of being silenced and vulnerable.’

There is something about the way in which we eat together Sunday by Sunday - in communion with God and each other - that begins to form our social imaginations. A place of shared vulnerability; where we can listen and speak.

We stand on holy ground: dazzling and disorientating. We need to tread carefully. We need to be full of care to attend to what it is we fear - and what kind of future we want. 

There is no pecking order or hierarchy around this table, we humbly and hopefully extend our hands or bow our heads to receive the same food, the same blessing. This is the palace where Chrsit’s sacrifice of love draws us into pardon and peace; giving us a firm foundation to base our lives on.

To be drawn into something so radically different is both an experience of immense grace and also an unsettling challenge. It reminds us that our encounter with the stranger, the one who cannot repay,  might be the moment we entertain angels unawares. 

Hebrews speaks of mutual love continuing. It’s the kind of love that invites us to remember the stranger - the imprisoned, the tortured, those whose lives and experiences might be far removed from what we experience. Or for some, an experience very close to their own trauma.

It’s the kind of mutual love that honours marriage with an invitation to fidelity which might shape all our households and relationships.

Mutual love is also known in contentment - shunning pursuit of money for its own sake with the freedom of trusting in God. If mutual love is a form of good manners, then the writer of the Hebrews stretches the guidance of Debrett’s to not only doing good, but sharing what we have. 

In the face of upheaval and transition we continue to eat together here, at this table. Our desire to find social harmony is kindled by the one who gave himself for us. 

His self-giving love draws us into agreeableness rather than friction - though we are many, we are one body; a moment of faction, of breaking, becomes the place of our wholeness. We glimpse, for a moment, the possibility of it. 

To break bread together is an indication of thoughtfulness and empathy that begins not with the good manners of Debrett’s but in the heart of a God who loves us and draws us to Godself in Christ. 

In homes, cafes, canteens we continue to eat with friends and strangers. At this table, God’s grace renews our humanity and gives us something to take pride in; finding safety and dignity in the ordinariness of our lives, the lives of others and the life of our community. 

© Julie Gittoes 2025

Bart - self-delusion and grace

 24 August - St Bartholomew: Isaiah 43:8-13, Acts 5:12-16 and Luke 22:24-30

Some years ago, Rowan Williams made headlines for sharing his love of The Simpsons. His then eight-year-old loved it and he appreciated the richness of allusions and references. 

He said in a BBC interview that ‘what you see in The Simpsons’ is not a dysfunctional family but a family with remarkable strength and remarkable mutual commitment’. 

Rowan continues ‘for all that Homer is a slob and Bart is a brat and Lisa is a pain in the neck, you know there’s affection and loyalty’. 

Bart Simpson - wikipedia

Today the church remembers another ‘Bart’: one of the twelve disciples called  Bartholomew. 

We know much less about him than his namesake in The Simpsons.  He is listed alongside the other disciples by Mathhew, Mark and Luke - and 400 years later, the church historian Eusebius writes that he went on to preach in India. 

Some have conflated this Bart with Nathaniel who encountered Jesus early on in John’s Gospel and became a disciple. Jesus describes him as someone without guile or deceit - someone honest and transparent in his dealings. 

We might therefore seek encouragement in remembering him today: recalling a faithful follower of Jesus, obscure yet known and loved by name;  who shared the same quirks and imperfection  as The Simpsons - or indeed us!

Someone who embodied loving service in the face of oppression; one who lived and died in Christ - in mutual affection and commitment - steady, reliable, trustworthy, loyal.

Yet, as with the sibling, friendship or community rivalries we experience - reflected back to us in shows like The Simpsons - he was caught up in disputes. Luke records one such moment which takes place moments after a shared meal.  The context of what we call the Last Supper. 

Before his betrayal and arrest, Jesus has shared bread and wine with them. He has signalled that they are to ‘do this’, to remember him; to receive these gifts as his own body and blood. It is profound, intimate. 

Perhaps we can recall evenings which descend into heated debate provoked by a seemingly casual remark or a comment taken in offence. Today we glimpse the disciples becoming entangled in a disagreement about who among them was to be regarded as the greatest. 

Perhaps they had the structures of empire in mind. We might draw parallels with tech billionaires, social influencers and politicians in our own generation. Jesus makes comparisons with other forms of leadership and authority to point out that the way of their fellowship and community life should be marked by different qualities. 

They may have observed the hierarchies at play at other meals, when Jesus was invited to eat with those in positions of influence. They wouldn’t have been immune to the jostling for social status; or the expectations of those enslaved in service within such a system. 

Jesus bursts bubbles of privilege and entitlement by saying it would not be like them with them because he  was among them as one who serves. 

He is the one who comes amongst as that we might know, believe and understand the love of God, as Isaiah puts it. 

Bartholomew is one such witness to the self-offering of such love: from the manger to the sermon on the mount, from busy streets to a shared meal, from the cross to the grave and resurrection. This love restores life and hope, bringing healing and forgiveness. 

He points not only to himself but to the ones who lacked status, authority and position: to the very youngest. This is something picked up in the Rule of Benedict in the ordering of community life as he advises consulting younger people before important decisions - having the courage to listen to their faith, questions, ideas and challenges. 

Jesus looks around the table where he and his disciples are eating and talking and reminds them that they have been with him in times of trial as well as blessing. He moves them from a place of dysfunction and disagreement to a remarkable vision of mutual commitment that he calls the kingdom. 

Such an imagination and lived reality is to be shaped by this supper. Jesus speaks of a time when people of all ages and backgrounds will eat and drink at his table. 

The Eucharist - the communion - we celebrate week by week is our Lord’s Supper: echoing his last with every repetition and re-enactment. In this present moment we remember, through the lens of cross and resurrection. 

Our past is set behind us as restored penitents, but the future is also spread out before us. Jesus is casting our hearts and minds forward to a time when God will be all in all. A kingdom of justice, mercy and compassion fulfilled.

Jesus points to a time of complete reversal of the world’s version of greatness. In this sacred meal, our hands out-stretched, we are reminded of who we are: servants of a loving and gracious God called to be servants of others. 

In the community of Christ no one person lays claim to greatness. Instead filled with the bread of his life we are called to live as he did. To be willing servants of all. 

In our creaturely quirks and imperfections, we are drawn into the solidarity of mutual affection and commitment. 

We see some of that radical imagination in our reading from Acts. In his commentary on this passage, Willie Jennings reminds us that God is present with us in this community - ‘untamed, uncontrollable, but desired’.  He reminds us that we are called to live and move in what he calls the ‘sacred meeting space between wounded human cry  and out-streteched divine arm’. 

Like Bartholomew and countless others, named and unnamed, have sought to do this. 

When Rowan Williams was asked if he saw himself in Homer Simpson, he replied, ‘Homer is the average human creature liable to self-delusion and somehow by the grace of God, or something like that, surviving. So yes, there is an element of that.’

We are all liable to self-delusion - yet we also know something of God’s grace. We survive. We find joy and contentment. We work through grief and trauma. We find ways of charting our own course amidst the world’s assumptions. We aren’t merely consumers indifferent to the plight of others. We are to listen to the human cries - and stench out our arms in love.

May the fellowship in the Spirit which we share in the receiving of forgiveness, peace, communion and blessing stir our hearts to a vision of a better world: being people who listen well, seeking healing rather than division, looking to Christ who is our mediator. Amen. 

© Julie Gittoes 2025

The adventure of faith

 27 April 2025, Easter 2: Acts 5:27-32, Revelation 1:4-8 and John 20:19-end

Yesterday morning, Cardinal Giovani Battista Re (the Dean of the College of Cardinals) preached a homily which reflected on the way in which Pope Francis showed warmth and sensitivity in the face of today’s challenges. He shared our anxieties and our hopes, reminding us that the joyful heart of the gospel is God’s mercy. 

Such mercy which means God never tires of forgiving us, healing our wounds.   For Pope Francis, the church was to be a ‘home for all, a home with its doors always open’.  

How do we get to that place? How do we get to a  place of healing and openness, of mercy and joy? For Pope Francis, Thomas is our guide.

St Thomas - stock image

Three years ago, in a short address, he said that Thomas ‘represents all of us’ because he was not present the first time the risen Lord Jesus appeared to the apostles. 

He is one who shares our struggles. How do we believe without having seen him? How do we know Christ’s presence and love without having touched him? 

Thomas shares our reasoning, doubts and questions; our longing for relationship with the risen Lord. Thankfully, Pope Francis reminds us that God is not looking for perfect Christians!

Today’s gospel allows us to be honest about wounds and questions. It begins with the reminder that Jesus’ risen body is still wounded. The wounds witness to pain and to loss, to the traumas inflicted on mind and body; to the traces of relational hurt and suffering. 

Wounds do not heal instantly. They become scars over time - we see the outer transformation. The deep tissue healing - that takes longer. The knitting together of fibres and growth of new cells is sometimes felt, always unseen. 

The medical term for such deep healing is ‘granulation’. A term my late supervisor picked up during his treatment for cancer - and creatively re-deployed to describe the time and patience needed for healing to occur. 

Healing of past hurts or regrets; of challenging relationships. Healing in how we live differently in relation to grief or chronic illness. Healing in our communities - the life long work of bridge building. 

In Jesus we see the wounded God whose wounds are healing ours. 

He is present with us - in the tender heart of things; the places where we still wince at the touch. This is real presence in the wounds, the pain; presence in the granular healing, in the deep tissues of our fear and confusion, in our hurt, yes; but also in the experience of mercy, in the depths where joy might begin to emerge; in the depths of our lungs as peace is exhaled. 

We are embodied people. So was our Jesus in his life, death and resurrection. 

Our bodies tell something of our stories: scars of childhood and of surgery; of first loves and lasting griefs; of challenges faced and moments of happiness; successes, failures and everything in-between. 

Jesus’ body tells a story too: the one who was and is and is to come dwelt with us; a story of solidarity and encounter; of love and mercy; of forgiveness and peace; of wounds that heal. 

If God does not seek perfect Christians but wounded, healing ones then Pope Francis is right. Thomas stands for us.

He says: 'the adventure of faith, as for Thomas, consists of lights and shadows. Otherwise, what kind of faith would that be? It knows times of comfort, zeal and enthusiasm, but also of weariness, confusion, doubt and darkness.’

He highlights the way Thomas teaches us that we should not fear the moment of crisis: they are part of the story. 

The crisis he experienced is not hard for us to imagine. We live with FOMO - the fear of missing out. Thomas may have felt that acutely - his closest friends had encountered the real presence and peace of their risen friend and Lord. 

He wasn’t there. It wasn’t enough for him to have their account of what happened - however detailed, emotional and vivid. If you weren’t there as the applause erupts or as an infant takes a first breath; if you weren’t there for that shared joke or that parting word, we do feel as if we have missed out. 

It’s not something to write off as weakness or stubbornness or a lack of trust. 

It is an expression of our yearning for encounter; to hope in the face of uncertainty.

If Thomas stands for all of us, we can take courage from him - from his witness - as one who recognised his Lord in woundedness. As one whose own wounds were healed by a wounded Lord.

Thomas knew his need. He was not ashamed to express it - his crisis of missing out was part of his journey.  Such moments, as Pope Francis put it, ‘rekindle the need for God and thus enable us to return to the Lord, to touch his wounds, to experience his love anew as if it were the first time.’

Our need exposes our humility. It strips us of our pride. 

That week of waiting must have felt very long for Thomas. Waiting without knowing if or when he would encounter Jesus. 

Did he think his fellow disciples were suffering from grief-induced delusion? Did he find hope in the murmurings of peace? 

Jesus knows these moments of crisis and vulnerability. And as the gospel reminds us he does come back. Pope Francis says ‘he always comes back: When doors are closed, he comes back; when we are in doubt, he comes back; when, like Thomas, we need to encounter him and to touch him up close, he comes back.’

And this moment of return is the moment of Thomas’s recalling. He went - legend has it to Kerala - he witnessed to others of the one who was his wounded and risen Lord. 

Perhaps, with a pastoral tenderness born of his experience, he was able to speak peace to others; to speak of mercy and joy. Perhaps breathing those words - softly, urgently - ‘blessed are those who have not seen, and yet believe.’

Perhaps he is the one who not only represents us, but bears witness to us, so that we can live out the good news of resurrection life. 

Perhaps it is in this place of woundedness that healing happens: at a granular level life begins, faith blossoms; a new future in community is made possible. 

As David Ford puts it: ‘Here the breathing in of life is inseparable from the words of peace, sending, receiving and forgiveness.’

When John writes of forgiveness and what is retained, he is reminding us of Jesus’ promise to hold us fast. In all our woundedness and capacity to wound others, we are held fast. Jesus holds on to us in that - loving as God desires us. Forgiveness is tied to such an embrace. 

Peter went on to speak of what it is to bear witness to the resurrection and forgiveness, to repentance and obedience. As part of a fragile and fallible community of friends, we are invited to love and serve - breathing in and breathing out the Spirit of peace. 

Revelation reminds us that we are loved and set free from sin. We are made a kingdom - a people of solidarity and encounter, serving God and our neighbours, drawing the margins into the centre of our life.

Thomas is the one who asks the awkward questions - who stands for us in seeking faith and love, worship and embrace.  As we break bread together, we relearn  mercy which means God never tires of forgiving us, healing our wounds.   May we embody those gifts in the local, in the unseen and granular, so that this church might be: a ‘home for all, a home with its doors always open’.  

© Julie Gittoes 2025