Marching for a new world

A Sermon for Palm Sunday 13 April 2025, 
Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

Psalm 118.1-2, 19-29 

Luke 19.28-40

Imagine, if you can, a population that has lost faith in its national leaders…

            Imagine a country where political instability is the order of the day,

                        and those who govern cling to power using a toxic mix

                        of deceit, bullying, and outright coercion.

            Imagine a country where the alternatives aren’t much better.

 

Imagine a vast crowd, marching through the streets of the capital city,

            chanting and laughing and crying out

                        that the way things have turned out

                        is not the way any of them wanted things to be.

Imagine a crowd longing for an alternative, a new leader,

            who will finally do things differently.

 

And, of course, there are others who aren’t so convinced,

            who watch the crowd from a distance, fearful of the power of the mob,

            those who want the crowds to disperse,

                        to allow the processes of government to proceed,

                        for better or not, in good order;

            those who are afraid of making things worse by pandering to populist opinion,

                        who see the rule of law, and due process, as paramount.

 

Welcome, to first century Palestine.

 

And as you retrace the steps of Jesus from Luke 19,

            taking the road from Jericho to Jerusalem,

            you find that it’s uphill all… the… way…

 

Jericho is 258 metres below sea level,

            part of the Dead Sea depression

            that forms the lowest point on the surface of the earth.

Whilst Jerusalem is 754 metres above sea level,

            giving an elevation change of over a kilometre,

            all to be climbed, in the first century, on foot in the desert heat;

                        a very different experience from the air conditioned minibus

            that we were fortunate enough to have at our disposal

                        when we made this same journey a couple of years ago.

 

By the time Jesus got near to Bethphage and Bethany,

            situated on the Mount of Olives facing Jerusalem,

                        just the other side of the Kidron Valley,

            he and his disciples had already put in

                        a couple of days’ of hard uphill slog.

 

And then Luke tells us about this slightly strange scene

            where Jesus sends his disciples on ahead into the village

                        to find a young male horse that has never been ridden,

                        and bring it to him.

 

It quickly becomes clear that this is something Jesus has been planning for a while,

            because it seems there’s some prior arrangement with the people in the village

            to let his disciples take their animal without challenge.

 

And so the colt is brought to Jesus,

            the disciples throw their cloaks on it, Jesus jumps on,

                        and they all set off across the Mount of Olives,

                        making their way towards Jerusalem.

 

And then, suddenly, the handful of disciples

                        who had come up with Jesus from Jericho,

            become a multitude of disciples, praising God joyfully with loud voices,

                        loud enough to be heard across the valley

                                    and attract the attention of the Pharisees

                                    who quickly come to see what’s going on.

 

And then, equally suddenly, and for the first time in the gospel,

            Jesus gets a new title.

 

‘Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!’,

            people start to chant.

 

After a whole ministry of assiduously avoiding the title ‘King’,

            unexpectedly, sitting on a colt on the Mount of Olives,

            Jesus is loudly hailed as ‘King’ by his own disciples.

 

The whole thing has the air of being a massive setup.

            This isn’t happening by accident:

                        A suspiciously large crowd of disciples,

                        the pre-arranged availability of symbolically important horse,

                        and a new chant which takes things to a whole new level in terms of impact.

 

It’s all starting to sound very Zechariah chapter 9 verse 9.

 

Let me remind you, in case you’ve forgotten.

 

The book of Zechariah, one of so-called ‘minor prophets’ of the Hebrew Bible,

            was written some time after the Jewish return from Babylonian exile,

and it speaks, tantalisingly, of a hopeful future:

            of a time when Israel’s political strength would be restored,

            when the economic stability of its capital city would be re-established,

            and when its rebuilt temple would have religious superiority once again.

 

And as part of this hope for a new world order,

            of a renewed political, economic, and religious ascendancy for the people of Israel,

Zechariah painted a picture that profoundly shaped Jewish theology

            for the next five hundred years,

giving shape to what became known

            as the hope for a future messiah.

 

Zechariah said (in chapter 9, verse 9),

 

“Rejoice greatly, O daughter Zion! Shout aloud, O daughter Jerusalem!

Lo, your king comes to you; triumphant and victorious is he,

humble and riding on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey.”

 

The Jews of the first century knew full well

            what their Messiah was going to look like,

and Jesus and his disciples

            deliberately enact that scene almost to the letter.

 

What on earth is going on here?

 

Well, I think it sounds like what, in community organising terms,

            we would call an ‘action’.

 

Many of you will know that Bloomsbury is an active part

            of the community organising network London Citizens,

            which seeks to make our city a more just place.

 

And one of the key lessons of community organising,

            is that you only get the change in society

            that you have the power to demand.

 

You can shout about injustice until you’re blue in the face,

            but if you don’t have enough power

                        to persuade the-powers-that-be to change,

            nothing is likely to change.

 

The Citizens method suggest that there are three kinds of power in the world:

            financial power, political power, and people-power.

And if you don’t have a lot of money,

            and if you don’t have politicians in your pocket,

            then the way to bring about greater justice in society is to organise people.

 

So you network people together, drawing in churches, mosques, synagogues,

            schools, universities, and community groups,

until you have enough people who care about injustice

            to begin to make a difference.

 

And then you plan what’s known as an ‘action’:

            a deliberate act, involving people in sufficient numbers to get noticed,

to draw attention to the injustice you want to challenge,

            and to put pressure on the gatekeepers of power.

 

So, for example:

            A business that is not paying the living wage,

                        may find a large group of people outside its head office

                                    on the day of their AGM,

                        visibly drawing attention to the fact

                                    that they are not treating their employees with dignity.

 

            Or a City Hall might find a large group of people

                        making a tent camp on its doorstep,

                        on the very day they are taking decisions about affordable housing…

 

You get the idea.

 

And I think that what we have going on here in Luke’s story of Palm Sunday,

            is Jesus undertaking what we would, today, call an ‘action’.

 

He’s done his power analysis,

            and he knows what he is setting out to challenge:

He is setting his face

            against the economic corruption of the Herodian regime,

            and against the political domination of the Roman empire,

            and against the religious compromises of the Pharisees.

 

Just like Zechariah before him,

            he identifies in his society the unholy trinity of power

                        that is economics, politics, and religion

                        all in each other’s pockets;

            and he can see that each of these has become corrupted,

                        so that it no longer serves the people,

                        but rather controls and oppresses them.

 

So Jesus gathers his crowd, and enacts his action;

            deliberately modelling his entry into Jerusalem

            on the archetypical messianic text from the Jewish Scriptures.

 

“Lo, your king comes to you; triumphant and victorious is he,

humble and riding on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey.”

 

Zechariah would have been proud.

 

Sometimes, on Palm Sunday, we emphasise Jesus going to Jerusalem to die,

            setting his face towards the cross,

            to sacrifice himself for the sake of humanity.

 

But today, I’d like to suggest that we look at it slightly differently.

 

This isn’t Jesus going to Jerusalem to die,

            although clearly that is a possible outcome.

But rather, this is Jesus going to Jerusalem

            to announce his kingdom.

 

Just as Martin Luther King never set out to be assassinated,

            but nevertheless recognised that his actions were endangering his life

            as he spoke and acted against the oppressive powers of his day;

so Jesus didn’t set out to be crucified,

            even though his actions to call out the abuses of power

            were certainly making that a possibility.

 

This is not a death march,

            this is not a dead man walking.

 

This is Jesus symbolically embodying

            all the things he had been talking about

            over the past years of his public ministry.

 

All the parables, all the healings, all the exorcisms,

            had been pointing to one thing:

which is that the old world of power and domination

            was not going to get its way for ever,

because a new world is coming into being,

            where evil will be cast out, where corrupt power will be challenged,

            and where those who have been diminished will be raised up.

 

It’s no wonder the crowd started to go wild,

            the thing they’ve been waiting for, for five hundred years,

            is finally happening.

 

And the timing couldn’t have been better,

            Jesus is entering Jerusalem in fulfilment of Zechariah’s prophecy,

            in the precise week of the great Passover celebration,

which introduces a whole other layer of symbolism to Jesus public ‘action’:

 

The original Passover, you will remember,

            was the final act of God in persuading the Pharaoh

            to release the people of Israel from slavery in Egypt.

 

After the plagues of frogs, locusts, and the like,

            the angel of death visited the houses of the Egyptians

                        taking the lives of their firstborn children,

            but passing over the houses of the Israelites

                        who had marked their doorposts with the blood of a lamb.

 

And Jesus’ symbolic entry to Jerusalem

            is timed to coincide with the annual celebration

            of Israel’s release from slavery.

 

The point couldn’t be clearer:

            this is God’s new exodus, it is God’s great Passover,

Jesus has come to bring into being a new world,

            where the powers of empires like Egypt and Rome

                        would be challenged at their very core,

            and where the corruptions of religious compromise and economic exploitation

                        would be named and shamed,

            opening a new path to freedom for those enslaved.

 

And so the crowd shout words from Psalm 118.26

 

"Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!

Peace in heaven, and glory in the highest heaven!" (19.38)

 

giving us yet another highly symbolic reference from the Hebrew Bible.

 

Psalm 118 was a traditional song sung by pilgrims on the way to Jerusalem,

            it is a hymn of praise to the God who defeats all his foes,

                        and establishes his kingdom.

And the crowd around Jesus start chanting it,

            pinning yet more hopes on Jesus

                        as the fulfilment of all the nation’s deepest longings

                        for justice, renewal, and restoration.

 

And so Jesus enters Jerusalem,

            taking the path from the Mount of Olives,

            though the Kidron Valley

            and back up the hill on the other side to the city of David.

 

And although Luke doesn’t record it,

            I don’t think it’s too much of a stretch to hear the crowds

            still singing Psalm 118 as they draw near to the city gates:

 

“Open to me the gates of righteousness,

that I may enter through them and give thanks to the LORD.

This is the gate of the LORD; the righteous shall enter through it.” (118.19-20)

 

I spoke a few minutes ago about how public actions

            are designed to challenge the gatekeepers of power,

            to bring about the possibility of change.

 

Well, the triumphal entry of Jesus to Jerusalem is just such an action,

            and by anyone’s measure it was supremely effective.

 

We get the initial response within our passage from Luke’s gospel,

            as the Pharisees who have joined the crowd

            tell Jesus to order his disciples to stop.

 

But of course, Jesus is having none of it,

            the moment of his great public action has arrived,

            and nothing is going to get in its way.

 

So he tells the Pharisees that it’s useless

            to try and put a plug in the dam once the crack has appeared,

            and that the flood of God’s new kingdom is coming whether they like it or not.

‘If these disciples were silent, the stones would shout out’, he says.

 

And, of course, so it proves to be.

            The revolution is coming, and nothing, nothing at all, can stop it.

 

Of course, as we who have heard the story before know very well,

            the revolution doesn’t come in the way that the crowd around Jesus expected.

There’s the horror of Good Friday to get through

            before Easter Sunday dawns.

 

But the tide has turned, the dam has cracked,

            the possibility of a new way of being has been glimpsed,

and the good news of the in-breaking kingdom of God

            will not be silenced.

 

People are going to find release from their sins,

            those who are bowed down by the powerful trinity

                        of politics, economics, and religion,

            are going to find a way through the darkness

                        to new life and new hope,

            as they encounter a new trinity of faith, hope, and love.

 

The revolution that Jesus brought to Jerusalem

            wasn’t, in the end, the revolution the crowd were shouting for.

He didn’t take David’s throne, overthrow Rome, depose Herod,

            and send the Pharisees packing.

 

He did something far more significant.

 

The kingdom that Jesus inaugurated,

            was not a renewed kingdom of Israel,

            based in Jerusalem and defined by geographic limits.

 

It was the kingdom of God,

            which extends to all people, in all places, in all times.

 

It was the universal kingdom of love

            which always, in all places, and in all times,

                        offers a persistent, unquenchable challenge

            to those unholy powers that seek to deny love,

                        and to require people to live in fear.

 

And so we come to ourselves,

            gathered here in central London,

celebrating the entry of Jesus into Jerusalem.

 

And I wonder what the significance of this event is for us?

            What is the good news of the in-breaking kingdom for us, in this place?

 

Lent and passiontide are probably the most depressing

            season in the Christian year.

 

Some of us might have been echoing

            Jesus’ fasting in the wilderness for 40 days and nights,

            by denying ourselves of something through Lent.

 

Some of us have already fixed our sights on the cross of Good Friday.

            We know the desolation of Easter Saturday is coming.

            We know there is a journey of suffering before we get to Easter Sunday.

 

And yet, what do we meet today on Passion Sunday,

            Palm Sunday as it is sometimes called?

Here at the start of the Octave of Holy Week?

 

We meet Jesus triumphant!

            We meet Jesus entering the city

                        to a fiesta of praise and acclamation

            as the crowds cast their cloaks before him

                        honouring and praising him

                        as the king who comes to bring good news to the city.

 

And I can’t help but think, sometimes,

            that if Jesus, the week before his crucifixion,

            with the weight of the world on his shoulders,

can enter the city and share in the joy of its citizens at his arrival,

            then maybe we too can find joy in the midst of the troubles of our lives.

 

You see, another one of the lessons of community organising,

            is that changing the world should be fun.

 

Laughter is a powerful tool for healing hurt and defusing tension,

            a smile can unlock gates that no battering will shift.

 

And you don’t need me to tell you this morning

            what the problems are in our world.

 

Death and despair, politics and power, suffering and starvation

            confront us every time we turn on our TVs

            or open a newspaper or news app.

 

And Jesus knew all about the difficulties and dramas of human life,

            he knew what the Romans were doing to people,

            he knew that Herod had betrayed his people

                        in exchange for money and power,

            he knew that the religious leaders

                        had sold their souls in exchange for security.

 

But that didn’t stop him from entering into the triumphant joy

            of his people at the coming of their messiah.

 

We often speak of the gospel of Jesus,

            we often proclaim the good news of his coming.

 

But all too often we live as though the message he proclaimed

            was one of middle class guilt and mild self loathing,

rather than one of triumph in the face of death,

            and joy in the face of sorrow.

 

There is good news to be found on Palm Sunday,

            there is joy to be found in following Jesus into Jerusalem.

 

Sure, it may not turn out as we expect,

            and I’m pretty sure that this time next week,

                        even after we have lived through the cross and got to resurrection,

            there will still be news of corrupt politicians,

                        morally bankrupt economics, and religious compromise.

 

But this is what Jesus came to challenge,

            and he invites us to join him, not just in sorrow,

but in the moments of joy and laughter

            that summon into being a new world.

 

He calls us to create with him a world

            where power is transformed, where oppression is challenged,

                        and where the mourning of death

                        is turned to the bright day of new life.

 

So as we march together over the threshold of Palm Sunday

            and enter the sacred, powerful ground of Holy Week,

as we open the gates to a future unknown and unchartered,

            which certainly includes suffering and death

            every bit as much as it includes resurrection and new life,

let us do so with joy,

            because we are following in the footsteps

                        of the one who came to Jerusalem

            to enact a message of good news for all people.

Through the Eye of a Needle: Zacchaeus and the Call to Generosity

Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

6 April 2025

By http://www.svtluka.com/dushe-poleznoe-chtenie/images/33_Nedelya_po_50ce_14.jpg, 

Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=55735250

Luke 18.18-27; 19.1-10

Today’s story from Luke’s gospel is one
            that I think I’ve known my whole life.
 
I can remember as a little child in Sunday School
            learning that song about Zacchaeus
                        who, apparently, was a very little man
                                    and a very little man was he.
            He climbed into a sycamore tree,
                        for, in defiance of the normal conventions
                                    of conversational grammar,
                        the saviour he wanted to see…
 
Well, we all know Zacchaeus, don’t we?
            Good old Zacchaeus, good old tiny little Zacchaeus.
 
But the question that occurred to me,
            as I was preparing this sermon, was this:
                        Exactly how little was he?
 
We don’t know very much about this pint-sized hero
            of the opening paragraph of Luke 19.
But I’d like to know
            just how vertically challenged he was.
 
I mean, would our fun-sized tax collector
            be tall enough
            to see over this lectern?
 
Or would our well endowed Lilliputian
            be diminutive enough
            to walk under the communion table?
 
Or would our arboreal Borrower
            be petite enough
            to slip into my pocket?
 
Or would Zacchaeus be small enough, possibly,
            to pass through the eye of a needle?
 
You see, we cannot read the story of Zacchaeus
            in isolation from that of the rich young ruler
            from the previous chapter.
 
In the rich young ruler, we meet a good man,
            a law-abiding and godly man,
who ultimately goes away saddened by his encounter with Jesus,
            because he discovers that he loves his possessions
                        too much to be parted from them.
And then Jesus says,
            "How hard it is for those who have wealth to enter the kingdom of God! 
            Indeed, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle
                        than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God."
 
So who then, we are left wondering,
            can enter the kingdom?
Is it only those who give away all their money?
            Are the righteous only to be found among the penniless?
 
I hope the answer to this is ‘no’,
            because I, along with many others, am far from penniless.
 
And so we come to Zacchaeus,
            a small man who has received something of a bad press over the years.
 
I started the sermon with a passing observation
            about the importance of grammar,
and I’m afraid we have to spend a moment or two
            on a technicality of Greek grammar
because it affects the way we read our passage.
 
Normally, Zacchaeus is presented as a bad man, a corrupt man,
            someone who has grown very wealthy by defrauding others
            and collaborating with the Roman occupation of Israel.
 
And his encounter with Jesus is normally understood as a conversion story,
            with his decision to give away half his money
                        and to repay those he has defrauded
            providing the evidence of his repentance and salvation.
 
And the Bible version we use here at Bloomsbury, the NRSV,
            certainly translates the story in this way:
 
⁸ Zacchaeus stood there and said to the Lord,
            "Look, half of my possessions, Lord, I will give to the poor;
            and if I have defrauded anyone of anything,
            I will pay back four times as much."
 
But the difficulty here is that this passage, in the original Greek,
            is not in the future tense at all.
 
It’s in the present tense…
            In other words, Zacchaeus isn’t promising
                        to change his ways from here on in;
            rather, he is explaining that this is already his practice!
 
The RSV captures this sense much better:
 
And Zacchaeus stood and said to the Lord,
‘Behold, Lord, the half of my goods I give to the poor;
and if I have defrauded any one of anything, I restore it fourfold.’
 
He isn’t so much repenting,
            as he is attesting his righteousness.
 
And if this reading is right,
            a very different Zacchaeus starts to emerge from the story.
 
He’s not the bad man who repents,
            rather, he’s a man trying desperately to be good,
            in the midst of a financial system
                        that tends towards corruption at every turn.
 
After all, he is a tax collector, and a chief tax collector at that!
            He’s the big cheese at the top of the tree,
                        and the tree he’s at the top of is pretty dirty in places.
            He’s a man who has managed to climb his way to the top,
                        but who knows that the climb has left his hands somewhat soiled.
 
            And so he already has a system in place
                        to ensure that his money doesn’t own him,
                        to ensure that his money doesn’t corrupt him.
 
            He gives half his money to the poor,
                        and if he defrauds someone, knowingly or not,
                        he repays them four times as much.
 
Tom Wright sums up the problem facing Zacchaeus,
            and it’s the same problem faced by so many of us…
He says, ‘Wherever money changes hands,
                        whether across a grubby table in a tin shack
                        or across a sparking computer screen in a shiny office
                                    on the ninety-ninth floor of a Wall Street skyscraper,
                        the hands all too easily get dirty.
            Whenever money starts to talk,
                        it shouts louder than the claims
                        of honesty, respect and human dignity.’
 
In the eyes of his society,
            Zacchaeus the chief tax collector was a negative figure.
The game of ‘bash the banker’ is clearly nothing new,
            with those who succeed financially
            having always been an easy target
                        for those further down the pyramid.
 
Jericho was a centre for the collection of taxes,
            and the Romans worked with the Jewish tax authorities
            to ensure that not only were the taxes collected
                        for the local government of Judea,
            but also that taxes were taken
                        to pay for the Roman occupation of the land,
                        and to fund the wider regime of the Roman empire.
 
The Jewish population massively resented paying taxes to Rome,
            and regarded those who were involved in the taxation system
                        as traitors to their nation,
                        as collaborators with the Romans.
 
And so Zacchaeus would have been ostracised by his own people,
            pre-judged as a sinner
            because of his profession and his success.
 
Zacchaeus could protest his personal ethical code all he liked,
            but in the eyes of his own people,
            he was no longer fit to be called a Jew.
 
He was, to put it another way,
            lost to the house of Israel.
He had been crowded out
            by those who would belittle and demean him.
 
‘Zacchaeus was a very little man, and a very little man was he’
            you can almost hear the local children chanting,
            as he is diminished in their eyes.
 
Crowd-mentality can be an ugly thing, can’t it?
            As we collectively decide who’s in, and who’s out;
                        who’s part of us, and who’s lost to us.
 
Society fixates on certain people, certain professions,
            and rules them persona non grata.
 
And so some people live at one remove from society,
            not necessarily because they are bad people,
            but just because they don’t fit.
 
It seems there was something about Zacchaeus
            that drew him to Jesus.
 
Like so many of us who have money and possessions,
            there was something in him that nagged,
            something that drove him to seek a better way.
 
It’s surely no co-incidence that when Zacchaeus tries to see Jesus,
            he climbs a tree to the top,
            over the heads of the crowd who were in the way.
 
He might not be the bad man of his own legend,
            but he certainly seems to be a man who was used to getting to the top.
 
The crowd would have kept him in his place,
            but he is determined to catch a glimpse of the good rabbi,
            who is talking about a better way, a new way of being human,
                        where status and hierarchy case to matter,
            and where each person is valued for who they are,
                        not for who other people think they are.
 
And as so many others have discovered since Zacchaeus,
            when someone goes looking for Jesus,
            they discover that Jesus has been looking for them all the while.
 
In the background to Luke’s story of this lost tax collector,
            are three other stories of ‘lost-ness’ also unique to Luke’s gospel,
                        I’m thinking of the parables of the lost sheep, the lost coin,
                                    and the lost (or prodigal) son,
            all of which demonstrate that God’s primary concern,
                        as revealed in Jesus,
            is to recover that which is lost.
 
Like the good shepherd searching for the lost sheep,
            like the woman searching for the lost coin,
            like the father searching for the lost son,
so the Son of Man seeks those who are lost,
            in order to restore them
            and to bring salvation to their house.
 
These parables of chapter 15 become reality here in chapter 19,
            and the stories of finding that which has been lost
                        take flesh in the telling,
            becoming real in the life of a little tax collector.
 
And so Zacchaeus climbed his tree,
            rising above the crowd that had already written him off,
            that had already consigned him to the back of the queue.
 
And so the stage was set for his encounter with Jesus,
            the scene so beloved by Sunday School teachers down the years.
 
Zacchaeus looks down, Jesus looks up,
            and suddenly everything is different.
 
Zacchaeus starts as a spectator,
            but quickly finds himself drawn in
            as an active participant for the kingdom.
 
And then Jesus does what he has done elsewhere,
            and invites himself to share a meal
            with this ostracised tax collector.
 
Luke’s gospel is particularly, and somewhat surprisingly,
                        positive about tax collectors:
            they are listed amongst those coming to be baptised (3.12, 7.29),
                        they come near to Jesus to listen to him (15.1),
            Jesus regularly shares food with them (5.29-30; 7.34),
                        one of the disciples, Levi, is a tax collector (5.27),
            and the tax collector in the parable of chapter 18
                        goes away justified (18.13-14).
 
It’s almost as if, for Luke, the socially marginalised tax collector
            is the perfect example of exactly the kind of person
            who the religious establishment would write off
                        as unredeemably compromised,
            but whom Jesus intentionally reaches out to.
 
The children’s song captures the moment beautifully:
 
            And when the Saviour passed that way,
            He looked into the tree and said,
            'Now, Zacchaeus, you come down,
            For I'm coming to your house to tea.'
 
In the ancient world, eating with someone was a highly symbolic action.
            To go to someone’s house, and to receive hospitality from them,
                        was to impart value upon them.
            To take the gift of food from someone
                        was to pay the giver an honour.
 
And for a rabbi like Jesus to take the initiative
            and invite himself to the house of a notorious outsider like Zacchaeus
            was an unusual move, to put it mildly.
 
The visit of Jesus to the house of Zacchaeus
            was an intentional breaking down of the barriers
            that had kept him apart from society.
 
To eat with him, to share food with him,
            was to impart to him an honour
            that no-one else would grant.
 
And it’s as Jesus sits at his house,
            that the righteousness of Zacchaeus is revealed.
 
It emerges that he is not what others had thought he was,
            he isn’t a man on the make,
            determined to succeed whatever and whoever the cost.
 
Rather, he is a man who has not allowed his money to own him,
            and who has discovered the possibility
                        of a life lived out of grace and generosity;
                        both generosity of spirit, and generosity of pocket.
 
The contrast with the rich young ruler couldn’t be more clear:
            The rich young ruler was publicly holy and visibly righteous,
                        a great man, a tall man,
                        the kind of man others would look up to,
                        as an example of someone who had it all and had made it work.
 
            And yet, when he met the call of Christ,
                        he discovered that his love of money
                        was keeping him from entering the kingdom.
 
            Zacchaeus on the other hand was shunned by his own people
                        he was looked down on as a small man,
                        looked up to by no-one.
 
            And yet, when he met the call of Christ,
                        he discovered that his generosity and humility
                        attested his righteousness far more
                                    than any public display of holiness could have done.
 
His fourfold repayment to anyone who he may have defrauded
            was at the top end of that required by the Jewish law (Ex 22.1)
and his giving of half of his money to the poor
            was clearly a highly generous act.
 
But, and here’s the significant thing,
            we are not led to believe that either of these acts on Zacchaeus’ part
            left him as a poor or an impoverished man.
 
Half of a lot, is still a lot,
            and even once compensation has been given
                        to those who have been defrauded
            we can still think of Zacchaeus as a man of means.
 
And yet, his response is clearly adequate in Jesus’ eyes…
 
Plainly, ‘giving it all away’ is not the economic response
            that is required of everyone who would follow Jesus.
 
Perhaps what we can learn from Zacchaeus,
            the small man who passes through the eye of the needle,
is that what is required is a discovery and embodiment
            of the kingdom values of generosity and humility.
 
For some of us this may involve a radical transformation
            of our approach towards money.
 
But others of us may find here a gracious assurance
            that we are loved and accepted by Jesus
            and welcomed into the kingdom of God.
 
Whatever it is that Christ asks of us,
            it begins with hospitality,
                        it begins with him reaching out to us
                                    across all assumptions and attitudes
                                    that would divide, exclude, and condemn
            it begins with the sharing of food,
                        and the breaking down of barriers.
 
And so Jesus invites us, too, to eat with him,
            and to see what we might discover about ourselves as we do so.
 
And so we come to the table,
            at the invitation of Jesus.
 
We come as we are:
            little people, tall people,
            the sinners and the righteous,
            the poor and the wealthy,
            the holy and the compromised.
 
We come, not because of any goodness of our own,
            but because we need mercy and help.
 
And as we eat with Jesus, and he with us,
            salvation comes to our house also,
            as our eyes are opened to the possibilities
                        of a life lived out of generosity and grace.
 
That which was lost is found,
            that which was excluded is made welcome,
and the new society of the people of God,
            that new way of being human that is the kingdom of God,
            becomes real in our midst.
 
So Jesus invites us to eat with him,
            and he comes to our house to eat with us.

Assisted Dying: A Christian Perspective on Compassion, Dignity, and Choice

A Talk For London Baptists, Thinking Faith, 20 March 2025

In November 2024 MPs voted in favour, for the first time, for an Assisted Dying Bill for the UK. The Terminally Ill Adults (End of Life) Bill would make it legal for over-18s who are terminally ill to be given assistance to end their own life. Christians are divided on this issue, with a range of views from opposition to endorsement, and various scales in between. The chances are that in your congregations there are a diversity of views. The debates continue as the bill makes its way through the committee and report stages before coming back to Parliament. This session will engage with arguments both for and against assisted dying, facilitated by Simon Woodman who has been an advocate for a change in the law on assisted dying.

1. Introduction

Good morning, and thank you for the invitation to speak with you today.

It’s always an honour to engage in meaningful conversation with fellow ministers, especially on a subject as complex and emotionally charged as assisted dying.

I imagine we come to this discussion today with a diversity of views, experiences, and theological convictions.

And that’s as it should be—this is a topic that goes to the heart of what it means to live faithfully as disciples of Christ in the midst of a broken and fragile world.

Let me begin by situating this conversation in a wider context.

Last November, MPs voted for the first time in favour of an Assisted Dying Bill, the Terminally Ill Adults (End of Life) Bill. This proposed legislation would allow terminally ill adults who meet specific criteria to request assistance to end their own lives.

While the Bill is still a long way from becoming law, its progress through Parliament has opened up significant debates—debates that are not only political or legal but deeply moral, spiritual, and pastoral.

The chances are that in your congregations, as in mine, people will hold a range of opinions on this issue.

For some, assisted dying represents a compassionate and humane response to the suffering of those facing the end of life.

For others, it challenges deeply held convictions about the sanctity of life and raises fears about where such legislation might lead.

And for many, it is a profoundly personal issue, coloured by their own experiences of illness, loss, and grief.

As ministers, we are called to navigate these tensions with wisdom, sensitivity, and grace.

But we are also called to think theologically and prophetically about the issues of our time.

What does it mean to proclaim the good news of Jesus Christ in a society grappling with questions of life and death?

How do we offer pastoral care to those wrestling with these decisions while remaining faithful to our own convictions?

And how do we engage constructively with the public debates, speaking into the conversation as people of faith?

I want to be clear from the outset that I approach this subject as someone who supports the principle of assisted dying.

My own thinking on this issue has been shaped by years of pastoral ministry, walking alongside individuals and families at the end of life.

It has also been shaped by my theological reflections on the nature of God’s compassion, the meaning of human dignity, and the ethical complexities of living in a fallen world.

That said, I recognise that not everyone in this room will share my perspective, and I welcome the opportunity to engage with your questions and concerns.

Today, I want to offer some reflections that, I hope, will help us think through this issue together.

I’ll begin by exploring the theological and pastoral dimensions of assisted dying—how we understand life and death in the light of our faith, and how those convictions inform our ministry.

Then, I’ll turn to some of the specific arguments and concerns that have been raised in the public debate, considering both the challenges and opportunities this legislation presents for Christians.

Finally, I’ll invite us to consider how we can respond to this issue as communities of faith—through our preaching, our pastoral care, and our public witness.

This is not an easy conversation to have, and I don’t pretend to have all the answers.

But I do believe it is an important one. Because at its heart, this is not just a debate about legislation or medical ethics.

It is a conversation about what it means to love our neighbours as ourselves, to bear one another’s burdens, and to live as people of hope in the face of death.

My prayer is that our time together today will help us to think deeply, listen carefully, and respond faithfully to the challenges of this moment.

2. Framing the Issue: What Is Assisted Dying?

To engage meaningfully in the discussion about assisted dying, it’s important to begin by defining what it is—and, crucially, what it is not.

Assisted dying, as outlined in the proposed Terminally Ill Adults (End of Life) Bill currently under debate, refers to a legal process whereby an adult who is terminally ill, has mental capacity, and is expected to die within six months can request and receive assistance to end their own life.

This assistance would typically involve the prescription of life-ending medication, which the individual would self-administer.

The Bill includes stringent safeguards, such as approval by two independent doctors, the requirement of a cooling-off period, and protections to ensure the decision is made voluntarily and without coercion.

It is essential to differentiate assisted dying from other related practices, such as euthanasia.

Euthanasia involves a third party actively ending the life of a person, typically via injection, and it is not included in this proposed legislation.

Similarly, assisted dying is distinct from the withdrawal of life-sustaining treatment, which is already permitted in the UK under specific circumstances.

This practice allows patients to refuse or discontinue treatments that are keeping them alive, such as mechanical ventilation or artificial nutrition and hydration, recognising that individuals have a legal right to die with dignity.

The distinction between these practices often gets blurred in public discourse, leading to confusion and, at times, fear.

Some opponents of assisted dying raise concerns about it being a “slippery slope,” leading to abuses or pressure on vulnerable people.

However, the proposed legislation seeks to avoid such outcomes through strict safeguards.

For example, the individual must be over 18, have a terminal illness confirmed by medical professionals, and demonstrate a sustained, voluntary desire for assisted dying.

Understanding the terminology and scope of this debate is crucial for ministers and congregants alike as we navigate these discussions in our faith communities.

Many of the emotional arguments surrounding this issue stem from misunderstandings about what assisted dying actually entails.

It is not about devaluing life or undermining palliative care, but rather about offering individuals autonomy in their final days.

Assisted dying laws have been enacted in several other countries and jurisdictions, including Canada, New Zealand, parts of the United States such as Oregon, and closer to home, Belgium, and Switzerland.

The evidence from these contexts can inform our discussions, as they demonstrate how safeguards can work effectively to prevent abuse and uphold the dignity of those involved.

Ultimately, this is a deeply personal and moral issue, one that touches on our understanding of autonomy, suffering, compassion, and the sanctity of life.

As ministers, I believe we are called to engage thoughtfully, recognising that people in our congregations may have deeply held beliefs on both sides of this debate.

Framing the issue clearly and compassionately allows us to enter into these conversations with openness, respect, and a focus on the human stories at the heart of this complex topic.

3. Biblical and Theological Considerations

When discussing assisted dying, one of the most significant theological principles often cited is the sanctity of life.

For many Christians, this concept lies at the heart of their moral and ethical reasoning.

But what do we mean by the sanctity of life, and how does it shape our response to questions about the end of life?

The Biblical Foundations

The concept of the sanctity of life emerges from the Bible's affirmation that human life is sacred because it is created by God. In Genesis 1:27, we read that God created humanity in God's own image: "So God created humankind in his image, in the image of God he created them; male and female he created them."

This foundational text has been interpreted throughout Christian history to affirm the inherent dignity and value of every human being, regardless of circumstances.

In Psalm 139:13-16, the psalmist marvels at God's intimate involvement in the formation of life: "For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb… My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place."

These verses convey a profound sense of the sacredness of life, even before birth, affirming that life is not accidental but held in the hands of God.

From these passages, we derive a theology that values life as a gift from God. This is the basis for the Christian conviction that human life should not be treated lightly, commodified, or ended without serious moral consideration.

For many, this forms the basis of an argument against assisted dying: if life is sacred, the intentional ending of it – even to alleviate suffering – could seem to violate God's creative intent.

Life as a Gift, Not an Absolute

However, it is also important to recognise that while the Bible celebrates life as a gift from God, it does not portray life as an absolute to be preserved at all costs.

In Ecclesiastes 3:1-2, we read: "There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens: a time to be born and a time to die." This acknowledgment of mortality as part of the created order reminds us that death is not an aberration but part of life’s rhythm.

Theologically, Christians hold to the hope of resurrection and the promise of eternal life. As Paul writes in 1 Corinthians 15:54-55: "Death has been swallowed up in victory. Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?"

For Christians, life on earth is not the end of the story; death is a transition into the fullness of God's presence. This understanding should shape our approach to the end of life, not as something to be feared or fought indefinitely, but as a threshold to be crossed with faith and hope.

Jesus’ Ministry of Compassion

A key aspect of Jesus' ministry was his care for the suffering, the sick, and the dying. Throughout the Gospels, Jesus is depicted as someone deeply moved by human pain.

In John 11:35, when confronted with the death of his friend Lazarus, we read the shortest and yet one of the most profound verses in the Bible: "Jesus wept." This simple statement reveals Jesus’ empathy and his solidarity with those who grieve.

Jesus’ healing miracles also demonstrate his desire to bring relief to human suffering. In Mark 1:40-42, a man with leprosy comes to Jesus and says, “If you are willing, you can make me clean.” Jesus’ response is deeply compassionate: “I am willing… Be clean!” This willingness to alleviate suffering reflects the character of God.

In light of this, some Christians argue that alleviating suffering – even if it means assisting in death – can be an expression of Christ-like compassion.

This perspective suggests that the sanctity of life is not diminished by ending it when its continuation is marked by unbearable suffering, but rather, the way we accompany people in their final moments can reflect God’s love and care.

The Tension Between Autonomy and Divine Sovereignty

Another important theological tension lies between human autonomy and divine sovereignty.

In contemporary discussions, much emphasis is placed on individual choice and the right to determine the course of one’s own life, including its end.

From a theological perspective, this raises the question of how human autonomy relates to God’s ultimate authority over life and death.

Psalm 31:15 declares, "My times are in your hands," a verse often cited to affirm that the timing of our death belongs to God, not to us.

This has led some Christians to oppose assisted dying on the grounds that it usurps God’s role as the giver and taker of life.

Yet, others argue that God’s sovereignty does not negate human responsibility.

In Genesis 1:28, humanity is given the mandate to "fill the earth and subdue it," which includes the exercise of wisdom and stewardship over creation, including our own lives.

From this perspective, making decisions about the end of life, in consultation with medical professionals and loved ones, can be seen as part of our God-given responsibility.

A Complex Ethical Landscape

The sanctity of life is a vital biblical and theological principle, but it does not provide simple answers to the complex ethical questions surrounding assisted dying.

While some Christians conclude that the sanctity of life prohibits any intentional ending of it, others see in the ministry of Jesus and the hope of resurrection a call to approach end-of-life care with compassion, dignity, and a willingness to alleviate suffering.

Ultimately, the challenge is to hold these tensions together: affirming the sacredness of life while recognising its limits, respecting God’s sovereignty while exercising human responsibility, and embodying Christ’s compassion for the suffering in our decisions.

This theological complexity is why Christians hold such diverse views on assisted dying, and why it is vital for us to approach this issue with humility, grace, and a willingness to listen to one another.

4. Ethical and Pastoral Challenges

When considering the ethical and pastoral challenges associated with assisted dying, we must acknowledge the deeply personal and divisive nature of this issue.

It touches the core of our understanding of life, death, and what it means to care for one another.

For ministers, this subject is not a hypothetical theological exercise; it is one we encounter in the raw realities of pastoral care and in the conversations that unfold in hospital rooms, living rooms, and around the Lord’s Table.

Putting it bluntly, we will each of us have to provide pastoral care for members of our congregation who disagree with us on this issue.

Is Suicide a Sin?

The question of whether suicide is a sin has received a variety of answers through Christian history.

The dominant culture of the ancient world was a system of shame and honour, with death by suicide being seen as an ‘honourable’ death compared to being executed or exiled (e.g. ‘falling on one’s sword’ or drinking hemlock as Socrates did).

There are examples in the Bible where people attempt or succeed in killing themselves (Abimelech in Judges 9:52-54; Samson in Judges 16.28-30; Saul in 1 Samuel 31.4-5; Ahithophel in 2 Samuel 17.23; Zimri in 1 Kings 16.18-19; Judas in Matthew 27:3-5; The Philippian Jailer in Acts 16.27), but there is no clear-cut biblical condemnation of suicide.

Rather, as Paul Middleton notes, ‘There is nothing in any of these stories to suggest that the biblical narrators disapprove of the characters’ suicides.’

The tradition of Christian opposition to suicide came to prominence in the writings of Augustine of Hippo (354-430 CE), who interpreted the commandment ‘do not kill’ as applying to killing oneself as well as others.

Suicide came to be seen as a sin, with those who took their own life being denied a Christian burial.

Suicide was decriminalised in the United Kingdom in 1961, but the language of illegality remains in the popular phraseology that someone ‘committed suicide’: it is preferable to say that someone ‘died by suicide’, or that they ‘took their own life’.

But at the moment, pending the current assisted dying bill’s enaction, it remains a criminal offence for a third party to assist or encourage another to commit suicide.

In 1983 the Roman Catholic Church removed suicide from the list of mortal sins, however it remains a ‘grave offence’, with the catechism stating that ‘we are stewards, not owners, of the life God has entrusted to us. It is not ours to dispose of’, however the catechism continues by recognising that certain circumstances such as grave psychological disturbance, anguish, or grave fear of hardship or suffering can diminish a person’s responsibility, concluding that ‘we should not despair of the eternal salvation of persons who have taken their own lives’ (Nos. 2280, 2282-83).

In 2017 the Church of England amended canon law to allow those who died by suicide to receive a standard burial service. 

5. A Faithful Case in Favour of Assisted Dying

A personal perspective

For a few minutes now I’d like to offer my own perspective.

The first time I ever saw a dead body was in a hospital morgue when I was 24 years old. I was training for Baptist ministry and doing a chaplaincy placement. This man had taken his own life in his cell at the local prison, where he was serving life for murder.

The next dead body I saw was my mother-in-law, who had died after a long and protracted battle with a terminal illness.

The difference between these two was striking: the first was a tragedy of lives ruined and cut short, the second was a merciful and welcome release from pain and suffering.

As a minister I have spent many hours with the bereaved and the dying, and I have come to learn that not all deaths are the same.

I still remember a funeral I took in my late twenties, when I stood at the front looking at the girlfriend and young children of the deceased man, who was the same age as me, and heard the daughter ask her mother, ‘Is that Daddy in there?’ How I got through my lines I will never know.

I am well aware of the danger of extrapolating policy from personal experience. But I’m not here to argue policy, I’m here to talk theology; and it seems to me that if our theology doesn’t resonate meaningfully with our experience, then it’s not really doing its job.

So what, I wonder, might a Christian perspective on end-of-life choice look like? It seems to me that, sometimes, death might not be the worst thing that can happen to a person.

Actually, I’ll put it a bit more positively than that: Sometimes, death is the best thing that can happen to a person.

And I say this born out of a deep theological conviction that, from the perspective of eternity, death is not the enemy, because ultimately, I do not believe that death gets the final word on life.

I think that the author of the book of Revelation grasped something of this when he offered his readers a vision of the death of death.

He said, ‘Death and Hades gave up the dead that were in them, and … then Death and Hades were thrown into the lake of fire. … Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more.’ (Rev. 20.13,14; 21.4).

The author of Revelation knew all about suffering and torture and pain and death, but he didn’t accept that death gets the last word on life. If he is right this means, practically speaking, that life can be lived free from the dominating and debilitating fear of death.

This, I think, is a profoundly Christian perspective, challenging the ideology of ‘life at all costs’ that determines so much of our medicalized approach to death and dying.

If death is not the ultimate enemy, then death can be embraced as a good part of life, to be welcomed rather than resisted when its time has come near.

Staying with the Bible for a minute, but moving swiftly from the end to the beginning, the opening vision of a garden offers a picture not of a world without death, but of a world where death is a friend, and not an enemy.

The vision of Eden in the book of Genesis is not of a world rapidly facing over-population and resource-scarcity due to the immortality of the animals and humans that live there.

Rather, it is a vision of a world where death is so much a part of life that it is as much a friend to those who live there as the rising of the sun on another day.

The Bible thus both begins and ends with visions of life where death is transformed, and humans are released from its tyranny.

Even St Paul, in his letter to the Philippians, maintains a remarkably ambiguous perspective on life and death, commenting that:, ‘For me, living is Christ and dying is gain.’ (1.21)

And this biblical-theological perspective, I believe, is profoundly relevant to the pastoral realities that we encounter in our own lives and in the lives of those we love.

If death does not get the final word on life, then our lives are so much more than the moment of our passing.

I firmly believe that every good moment of life is held safe by God and passes into his eternal embrace; and that nothing true, honorable, or just, pure, pleasing, or commendable, is ever lost to the love of God.

So at the moment of our death, we are neither constrained nor judged in the manner of our passing. We are rather freed to embrace death, knowing that in death we are held eternally in God’s love.

And so, back to assisted dying.

It does not seem to me unthinkable that modern medicine here has a great gift to offer those who are nearing the end of their life.

It could even be a gift from God to be received with the same gratitude that we receive the other medical miracles that make our lives so much more bearable than those of any generation of humanity before us.

I hear and echo all the arguments around safeguards and ethical constraints, but these should no more prevent us using assisted dying appropriately than the safeguards and constraints that govern surgical or pharmaceutical medicine prevent us using those services.

I’m not trying to convince you all that I’m right, I might not be! Rather, my point here has been to establish the principle that there is a Christian perspective on assisted dying which sees it as a gift and not a curse, and which states very firmly that, in Christ, death need neither be feared nor fought, because death does not get the final word on life.

I started attending the group, Inter-faith leaders for Dignity in Dying, a few years ago, and it was a welcome relief to discover that other ‘people of faith’ shared my growing conviction that the end of a life is not always something to be resisted, and that sometimes it is the best that can happen for a person.

For Christians, death is not seen as the ultimate enemy, which means that it can be embraced as a good part of life, to be welcomed rather than resisted when its time has come near.

It seems to me to that such a perspective can helpfully challenge the ideology of ‘life at all costs’ that determines so much of our medicalised approach to death and dying.

When I have discussed assisted dying with other church leaders, I have found that many are sympathetic to the cause, but are afraid to speak out because of what their congregations or others might think of them.

Similarly, there are many who attend churches, whose experience of death within their family makes them question the ‘Christian’ view that life must never be shortened through choice, but who are afraid to speak out for fear of being judged.

Dying Well: A Christian Perspective

The Christian tradition has long been concerned with what it means to die well. Medieval theology developed the concept of the ars moriendi—the “art of dying well”—which emphasised the importance of preparation, peace, and the presence of loved ones.

In many ways, modern assisted dying laws seek to uphold these same values: they allow a person to prepare for death, to say their goodbyes, and to die in a way that is consistent with their beliefs and wishes.

Contrast this with the reality that many people today face at the end of their lives.

Some experience immense physical pain, despite palliative care. Others endure the distress of a slow and undignified decline, losing all control over their bodily functions and their ability to communicate.

In such cases, the absence of an option for assisted dying can itself be cruel.

The argument for assisted dying is not an argument for devaluing life, but for ensuring that life ends in a way that reflects the values of compassion, dignity, and care.

It is about recognising that death is a natural part of life, and that just as we accompany people with love in birth and in life, we should do so in death.

6. Engaging the Diversity of Views

As Baptist ministers, we are no strangers to theological diversity. Our tradition has long upheld the principle of liberty of conscience, recognising that faithful Christians can, and do, disagree on significant moral and ethical issues.

Assisted dying is one such issue.

Within our congregations—and likely even within this room—there will be a range of perspectives, from those who are passionately opposed to a change in the law to those who strongly support it, with many holding nuanced positions in between.

Our task as ministers is not simply to declare our own position and expect others to fall in line, but to facilitate meaningful, thoughtful, and compassionate discussion.

The way we engage with this diversity matters.

1. Listening Well

A significant part of our role is to create space for people to express their views, their fears, and their hopes.

This means listening carefully—especially to those who have different perspectives from our own.

For some, opposition to assisted dying is deeply rooted in their understanding of God’s sovereignty, their reading of scripture, or their personal experience of good end-of-life care.

Others may support a change in the law because they have witnessed unbearable suffering in a loved one, or because they believe in the importance of autonomy.

In all these cases, people’s views are rarely held lightly.

They emerge from personal experiences, deep convictions, and, often, significant pastoral encounters.

As ministers, we are called to listen with grace, ensuring that people feel heard rather than dismissed.

2. Creating Safe Spaces for Discussion

Churches should be places where difficult conversations can happen in an atmosphere of respect.

Too often, ethical debates—especially those concerning life and death—become polarised, with each side assuming the worst of the other.

But the reality is that those who support assisted dying and those who oppose it are often motivated by the same fundamental concerns: care, compassion, dignity, and the sanctity of life.

They simply weigh these values differently.

One way to facilitate healthy discussion is to encourage storytelling rather than argument.

When people share their experiences—of walking with a dying loved one, of facing illness themselves, or of struggling with ethical dilemmas—they help others see the issue in a deeply human way.

As ministers, we can model this by approaching the conversation with humility and by acknowledging the complexity of the issue.

3. Honouring Differences in Ministry

The reality of this diversity means that different ministers will make different ethical and pastoral choices.

Some will feel comfortable supporting members of their congregation who choose assisted dying; others will not.

There is no single “Baptist” answer to this issue—just as there has never been a single Baptist answer on many ethical debates in history.

But what we can do is commit to supporting one another as we navigate these complexities.

Ministers should be able to discuss their own struggles with trusted colleagues, to seek wisdom from one another, and to respect one another’s positions, even when they differ.

4. Creating an Ethic of Compassion and Respect

Regardless of where we stand on assisted dying, one thing is clear: people in our churches will be affected by this issue.

Some will face terminal illness themselves.

Others will walk with family members who are considering assisted dying.

Still others will struggle with grief and moral uncertainty.

Our primary calling is to be pastors—to offer care, not condemnation; to bring wisdom, not simplistic answers; and to be a compassionate presence in moments of pain and decision-making.

Our churches must be places where people feel supported, no matter their views on assisted dying, and where they can explore these questions in light of their faith.

Conclusion

As ministers, we are called not only to teach, but to accompany—to walk with people through the hardest moments of life with love, humility, and grace.

The diversity of views on assisted dying is not a problem to be solved but a reality to be engaged with care and wisdom.

Our role is to hold space for theological reflection, to encourage conversations marked by kindness and respect, and to ensure that, whatever choices people face, they know they are not alone.

A Final Word

In the end, this is not just a legal or political issue—it is a pastoral one.

It is about how we care for people in the most vulnerable moments of their lives.

Whatever our position, our calling remains the same: to bear witness to God’s love, to offer hope in the face of fear, and to accompany people with grace as they journey toward the end of life.

Thank you for engaging in this conversation today. I welcome any reflections, questions, or further discussion as we continue to discern together.