Living Water, Risky Encounters, and the Shape of Witness

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

1 February 2026

John 4.1–42

If you wanted to design a scene
            that disrupted every expectation of how religious life is supposed to work,
            you could do worse than John chapter 4.

A Jewish man speaks publicly with a Samaritan woman.
            A rabbi asks to receive, not to give.
A woman with no recognised authority
            becomes the first evangelist to her community.
A conversation begins with water
            and ends with transformed relationships.

And all of this takes place not in a synagogue, not in Jerusalem,
            not on a mountain charged with holiness, but beside a well.
An ordinary place. A necessary place.
            A place people go because they need to survive.

John’s gospel, more than any other, invites us to slow down and linger.
            This is not a story that can be rushed.
It unfolds in layers, with misunderstandings, interruptions, silences,
            and moments where what matters most is not what is said,
            but who stays present to whom.

At Bloomsbury, we are used to complexity.
            We are used to faith that does not come neatly packaged,
            to lives that do not conform to religious scripts,
            to questions that remain open longer than some traditions find comfortable.
And this story, I think, speaks precisely into that space.

Because this is not a story about getting it right.
            It is not a story about repentance before welcome.
            It is not a story about moral reform as the price of encounter.

Rather, it is a story about what happens
            when Jesus meets someone where they actually are,
            and what that encounter sets in motion.

Crossing the wrong boundaries

John tells us that Jesus “had to go through Samaria”.
            That line can sound deceptively neutral,
            as though it were simply the shortest route.

But every first-century listener would know
            that this is not straightforward geography.

Many Jews avoided Samaria entirely,
            even if it meant a longer and more difficult journey.

Samaria was a contested place,
            marked by ethnic hostility, theological dispute, and historical trauma.
Jews and Samaritans shared scriptures but not interpretations.
            They shared ancestry but not trust.
            They shared land but not table fellowship.

So when John says that Jesus “had to go through Samaria”,
            we are already being alerted that necessity here is not about convenience.
            It is about vocation.

Jesus stops at Jacob’s well, a site heavy with ancestral memory.
            Wells in scripture are places where stories turn.
            They are sites of betrothal, revelation, and unexpected meeting.
Think of Rebecca, Rachel, Zipporah.
            Wells are places where survival and relationship meet.

Jesus is tired. John makes a point of telling us that.
            And this isn’t incidental.
The Word made flesh doesn’t float above the body.
            He is thirsty. He needs water. He sits.

And then comes the encounter that should not happen.

A Samaritan woman comes to draw water,
            and Jesus asks her for a drink.

The request itself is already transgressive.
            Jewish purity codes, ethnic hostility, and gender conventions
            all say that this interaction is inappropriate.
But John doesn’t treat this as a dramatic shock moment.
            He allows it to unfold with almost quiet insistence.

Jesus does not open with theology.
            He doesn’t begin with judgement.
He begins with vulnerability.

            “Give me a drink.” He says to her.

The one through whom all things came into being
            asks to receive something from someone
            whose society tells her she should not even be addressed.

This is where the story begins,
            and this is where we need to linger.

Because Christian faith has often been framed as something we dispense,
            rather than something we receive.
As certainty we offer,
            rather than encounter we risk.
As answers we possess,
            rather than thirst we acknowledge.

But here, Jesus begins not with authority, but with need.

Misunderstanding as invitation

The conversation that follows is full of misunderstanding.
            Jesus speaks of living water,
                        and the woman hears a promise of running water.
            Jesus speaks symbolically,
                        and she responds practically.

This pattern recurs throughout John’s gospel.
            Nicodemus misunderstands being born from above.
            The crowds misunderstand the bread of life.
            Martha misunderstands resurrection.
John is not mocking these misunderstandings.
            Rather, he uses them as doorways.

Misunderstanding is not failure.
            It is often the first step of engagement.

The Samaritan woman is not slow or obtuse.
            She is sharp, perceptive, and quick to respond.
She notices the boundary crossing.
            “How is it that you, a Jew, ask a drink of me, a Samaritan woman?” she says.

She names what is usually left unspoken.
            And Jesus doesn’t correct her.
He doesn’t deny the reality of the boundary.
            He simply steps across it.

When Jesus speaks of living water,
            he’s not offering a spiritual upgrade.
            He’s not dismissing her material need.
Rather, he is speaking of a different kind of life,
            a life that doesn’t run dry,
            a life that isn’t dependent on constant return to the same sources
                        that never quite satisfy.

In John’s gospel, eternal life is not a future reward.
            It is a present quality of life rooted in relationship with God.
It is life lived in the light, life that flows,
            life that doesn’t need to be hoarded.

And this is important,
            because the woman’s life
            has clearly required careful management of resources.
Water must be drawn daily.
            Relationships have been complex.
            Security hasn’t been guaranteed.

One detail in this story that is easy to pass over too quickly is the time of day.
            John tells us that it is about noon, the hottest part of the day.

Preachers have often used this to suggest
            that the woman comes to the well at an unusual hour to avoid other people,
            implying shame or social exclusion.

But once again, the text doesn’t require that conclusion.
            What it does insist upon is the exposure of the moment.

This isn’t a conversation that takes place under cover of darkness,
            like Nicodemus’ visit earlier in the gospel.
This isn’t a private, protected, night-time exchange
            where questions can be asked without being seen.

This encounter happens in full light,
            when the sun is high and shadows are short.

Nothing is hidden here.
            Nothing is softened by anonymity.

John is careful with such details,
            and here the contrast matters.

Nicodemus, a respected male religious leader, came to Jesus by night.
            This unnamed Samaritan woman, without status or protection,
            meets Jesus in the full glare of day.

If John is inviting comparison, then the implication is unsettling.
            Those with social power often seek the safety of darkness,
            while those without it conduct their lives in full visibility.

And yet, it is in the brightness of noon
            that recognition and transformation take place.

The living water Jesus offers is not something dispensed in secret.
            It isn’t reserved for those who can manage their reputation.
Rather, it’s given in the open, where life is actually lived.

For a church like ours, this matters.
            Much harm has been done by forms of faith that operate in shadows,
            that demand secrecy, denial, or silence in order to belong.

This story insists that encounter with God doesn’t require concealment.
            It happens in the light, with lives as they really are.

Living water is not about escape from exposure,
            but about sustaining life within it.
It is the gift of being able to stand in the open,
            known and unhidden,
            and still discover that God is present there.

And so we return to the woman,
            and we find that Jesus doesn’t romanticise her situation.
But neither does he reduce her to it.

“Go, call your husband”, he says

Few lines in scripture have generated as much damage as this one.

            “Go, call your husband, and come back.”

So often this moment has been treated as a dramatic unmasking,
            a revelation of hidden sin,
            a turning point where the woman’s moral failure is exposed.

And as I have preached before,
            the text simply does not support that reading.

There is no accusation.
            There is no call to repentance.
            There is no offer of forgiveness.

What there is, is recognition.

Jesus acknowledges the reality of her life without commentary.
            He names it accurately, without judgement or rescue.
And the woman doesn’t collapse in shame.
            She doesn’t apologise. She doesn’t defend herself.

She simply recognises that she has been seen.

“He told me everything I have ever done.”

Not everything she has ever done wrong.
            But everything she has ever done.

In a world where women’s lives were often rendered invisible
            unless they transgressed,
to be fully seen was itself transformative.

We don’t know the story behind her marriages, and we don’t need to.
            The gospel isn’t interested in satisfying our curiosity.
Rather it’s interested in showing us what it looks like
            when someone’s whole life is acknowledged
            as the context for encounter with God.

This isn’t a story about moral correction.
            It’s a story about relational truth.

And that matters deeply in a church context,
            because too many people have been taught
            that they must explain, justify, or repair themselves
            before they are eligible for divine encounter.

But this story says otherwise.

Worship beyond the right place

The conversation shifts, as conversations often do
            when something vulnerable has been named.

The woman raises a theological question about worship.
            Which mountain is the right one?

This isn’t deflection. It’s discernment.
            She is testing whether this encounter can hold the weight of real difference.

Jesus’ response is one of the most radical statements in the gospel.
            Worship is no longer anchored to geography.
            It’s no longer confined to sacred sites.
            Rather, it is re-located in relationship.

God is not accessed through the correct location,
            but through truth and spirit.

And truth here is not doctrinal precision.
            It is openness. It is alignment.
            It is life lived without duplicity.

This is not an argument against tradition or embodied practice.
            It is a refusal to allow any system to monopolise access to God.

And for a congregation like Bloomsbury,
            rooted in a tradition that has always questioned established power,
            this matters.
It reminds us that God is not contained by our structures,
            even the ones we cherish.

The Spirit blows where it will.
            Grace refuses to stay put.
And encounter happens in places we didn’t plan.

The interruption of discipleship

And then, just as the conversation reaches its depth,
            the disciples return. And their reaction is telling.

They are astonished that Jesus is speaking with a woman.
            But they don’t say anything.

John often uses silence as commentary.
            And their silence reveals discomfort.
They don’t yet have the language for what they are witnessing.

The woman, meanwhile, leaves her water jar and goes back to the city.

This detail is easy to overlook, but it’s significant.
            She leaves behind the very thing she came for.
Not because water no longer matters,
            but because something else has claimed her attention.

She becomes a witness, not because she has everything figured out,
            but because she has encountered something she cannot keep to herself.

“Come and see a man who told me everything I have ever done.
            He cannot be the Messiah, can he?”

Her testimony is tentative. It is invitational.
            It leaves room for others to discover for themselves.

This is not evangelism as persuasion.
            It is evangelism as overflow.

The woman’s witness contrasts with the disciples’ misunderstanding.
            While they are concerned with food and status,
            she is attentive to transformation.

She becomes the bridge through which her community encounters Jesus.

Abundance redefined

When the Samaritans come to Jesus,
            they ask him to stay. And he does. For two days.

This is remarkable.
            Jesus doesn’t rush on.
He doesn’t treat Samaria as a brief stopover.
            Rather he stays in a place that religious convention told him to avoid.

And many come to believe,
            not because of the woman’s testimony alone,
            but because of their own encounter with Jesus.

This is how faith spreads in John’s gospel.
            Not through coercion, not through argument,
            but through relationship.

The story ends with a declaration that Jesus is the Saviour of the world.
            Not the saviour of the righteous.
            Not the saviour of those who get it right.
But the saviour of the world.

And that is a profoundly political claim.
            It relativises every boundary, every hierarchy,
            every claim to exclusive access.

It says that no one’s life is outside the scope of divine concern.
            It says that no one’s story is too complex for encounter.
It says that abundant life begins not in the future, but here.

Living water today

So what does this story ask of us?

It asks whether we are willing to meet people where they actually are,
            rather than where we think they should be.

It asks whether we can allow misunderstanding to be part of the journey,
            rather than a reason to withdraw.

It asks whether we trust that God is already at work
            beyond our boundaries.

And perhaps most searchingly,
            it asks whether we are willing to recognise our own thirst.

Because this is not just a story about the Samaritan woman.
            It is a story about Jesus, tired and thirsty, sitting at a well.

It is a story about a God who does not wait for us to get it right,
            but meets us in the heat of the day,
            in the ordinary places of survival, and offers life that flows.

Life that does not depend on constant self-justification.
            Life that is not exhausted by complexity.
Life that is sustained by relationship.

And that, surely, is good news worth sharing.

Not as certainty.
Not as control.
But as an invitation.

As the woman says, “Come and see.”

 

Is Doubt the End of Faith?

This week's Bloomsbury Online Group will be reflecting on the question of 'Is Doubt the End of Faith?' 

For many Christians, doubt is treated as something to be managed quietly, if not eliminated altogether. We worry that questions signal weakness, that uncertainty betrays a lack of trust, or that admitting doubt somehow places us on the edge of faith rather than within it. Yet when we listen carefully to the Christian story, a very different picture emerges.

Doubt is not a modern failure of nerve. It is woven into the fabric of Scripture itself.

From the beginning, the people of God are those who question, hesitate, argue, and wrestle. Abraham laughs at the promise of a child. Moses doubts his ability to lead. The psalmists cry out in confusion and protest. The prophets rail against God as much as they speak for God. Even the disciples, who walk with Jesus, repeatedly misunderstand, falter, and fail to grasp what is happening in front of them.

Doubt, it seems, is not the opposite of faith. It is part of faith’s lived reality.

Often when we speak of doubt, we imagine its opposite to be certainty. But biblical faith is rarely about certainty in the modern sense. It is not the possession of airtight answers or unshakeable propositions. Faith is trust. Faith is relationship. Faith is faithfulness over time. And trust, by its very nature, involves risk, vulnerability, and the willingness to step forward without full clarity.

This is why the familiar caricature of “Doubting Thomas” deserves closer attention. Thomas is not presented in the gospel as a cynical sceptic or a spoiler of Easter joy. He is absent when the risen Jesus first appears. He hears testimony that feels too good to be true. He refuses to rely on second-hand faith. He wants to know for himself.

That desire is not condemned.

When Jesus meets Thomas, he does not shame him for asking. He does not withdraw his presence. He does not say, “You should have known better.” Instead, he offers himself. He invites Thomas into encounter. And out of that encounter comes one of the most profound confessions in the New Testament: “My lord and my god.”

What stands opposed to faith here is not doubt, but faithlessness. Not honest questioning, but disengagement. Thomas is not drifting away. He is still in the community. Still listening. Still seeking. His doubt is not an exit from faith, but a stage within it.

This matters deeply for the church today.

Too often our communities imply that good Christians have things neatly sorted out. That faith means confidence. That spiritual maturity looks like having fewer questions rather than better ones. The result is that doubt becomes something to hide. Questions are suppressed. Uncertainty is carried alone.

Yet a faith that cannot accommodate doubt is a brittle faith. It may look strong on the surface, but it fractures under pressure. When life disrupts our assumptions, when suffering resists easy explanations, when inherited beliefs no longer make sense, a faith built on certainty alone often cannot hold.

By contrast, a faith that has learned to live with doubt is often more resilient. It has already practised trust without guarantees. It knows that God is not reduced to our understanding. It is less threatened by ambiguity, and more open to growth.

Doubt can be a catalyst. It can push us to think more deeply, pray more honestly, and engage more seriously with Scripture and tradition. It can lead us away from borrowed faith and towards something more personal and embodied. It can open us to community, because questions invite conversation rather than closure.

None of this means that doubt is comfortable. It can be unsettling, even painful. It can feel like standing on shifting ground. But Scripture suggests that God is not anxious about our questions. God meets people in their wrestling. God seems willing to be argued with, lamented before, even accused, rather than ignored.

Faith, in this light, is not the absence of doubt but the decision to keep turning towards God within it.

This has implications for how we relate to one another in the church. If doubt is part of the Christian life, then our communities need to be places where questions are welcomed rather than policed. Where uncertainty is met with patience rather than correction. Where people are allowed to speak honestly without fear of being judged as deficient or unfaithful.

It also invites us to be gentler with ourselves. Many people carry quiet anxiety that their questions disqualify them. That if they were “really faithful” they would feel more certain, more settled, more sure. But faith is not a static possession. It grows, shifts, deepens, and sometimes unravels before it is re-formed.

The God we encounter in Scripture is not a fragile deity who requires our certainty to survive. This is a God who enters human vulnerability, who meets people in locked rooms and broken expectations, who bears wounds rather than erasing them. A God who invites relationship, not performance.

So perhaps the better question is not whether doubt is the end of faith, but whether it might be one of the ways faith becomes real.

A faith that has never doubted may never have been tested. A faith that has wrestled, questioned, and struggled may be one that has learned how to trust more deeply, more honestly, and more humbly.

Doubt, then, is not something to fear. It is something to attend to. Something to carry thoughtfully. Something that, held within community and prayer, can become a doorway rather than a dead end.

Faith does not begin where questions end. Often, it begins where we dare to ask them.

Peace from the Margins

A Sermon for Metropolitan Community Church North London

Sunday 25 January 2026

Image: Brother Klaus, the Swiss peace-making saint.

Matthew 4.12–23

Good evening, it’s wonderful to be with you again this evening,

            as we continue to follow the story of Jesus as told in Matthew’s Gospel.

Let’s begin by remembering where we are in the story.

Jesus has just been baptised.
            He has just heard a voice say, “You are my beloved.”
He has just faced temptation in the wilderness,
            where power was offered to him in exchange for obedience to empire.

And then, almost immediately, the story turns dark.

John the Baptist is arrested.

John, the truth-teller.
            John, the one who spoke plainly.
John, the one who named injustice and paid the price.

And Matthew tells us that when Jesus hears this news, he withdraws to Galilee.

That word, “withdraws”, can sound like retreat.
            It can sound like fear.
            It can sound like hiding.

But Matthew wants us to understand something much deeper.

This is not Jesus stepping back from danger.
            This is Jesus stepping directly into it.

Jesus goes to Galilee.
            Not to Jerusalem.
Not to the centre of religious power.
            Not to safety.

He goes to Galilee of the Gentiles.

Or, more accurately, Galilee under the Gentiles.
            Galilee under the Romans, to put it another way!

Occupied land.
            Watched land.
            Controlled land.

A place marked by military presence, political suspicion,
            economic exploitation, and cultural marginalisation.

This is where Jesus chooses to live.
This is where Jesus chooses to begin.

And Matthew reaches back into the book of Isaiah
            to help us see why this matters:

“The people who sat in darkness have seen a great light,
            and for those who sat in the region and shadow of death,
            light has dawned.”

This is not poetic decoration.
            It is political theology.

Because in the Bible, darkness is not about ignorance or lack of faith.
            Darkness is about what happens to people
            when power is used against them.

Darkness is what happens
            when empires decide who belongs and who does not.
Darkness is what happens
            when bodies are controlled, voices silenced, lives made unsafe.

Galilee was dark not because its people were sinful,
            but because they were occupied.

And it is precisely there that the light appears.
            It is to the people who sit in darkness
            that the light of Christ appears

That matters deeply for a church like this one.

Many here today know what it means to live in occupied space.
            Not always with soldiers on the streets,
            but with systems watching, judging, excluding.

Some of you know what it is
            to live with the constant fear of detention or deportation.
Some of you know what it is
            to have your love, your gender, your body declared illegal or immoral.
Some of you know what it is
            to be told, by church or by state, that you are the problem.

And to you, Matthew’s gospel says something very clear:
            God does not wait for people to escape those places before showing up.

Jesus does not bring light after people are safe.
            Jesus brings light into the danger.

And what does Jesus say when he arrives?

Not “Submit.”
            Not “Keep your head down.”
            Not “Wait patiently for heaven.”

Rather, Jesus says,
            “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.”

This word “repent” has been used violently against LGBTQ people.
            It has been used to shame, threaten, and exclude.

But in the Bible, repentance does not mean hating yourself.
            It does not mean denying who you are.

It means changing direction.
            It means turning away from systems of death
            and turning towards life.

Jesus is not telling the oppressed to repent.
            Jesus is announcing that the world itself must change.

And he continues, telling them
            that the kingdom of heaven has come near.

That phrase doesn’t mean something spiritual, far away, or later.
            It means God’s way of being in the world is breaking into this one.

Jesus brings a different way of ordering power.
            A different way of relating to bodies.
            A different way of deciding who matters.

And notice this:
            Jesus announces the kingdom of heaven
            in a place controlled by the kingdom of Rome.

This is not neutral language.

Rome had its own gospel.
            Rome had its own good news.
            Rome claimed to bring its own particular kind of peace.

The famous Roman slogan was Pax Romana, the peace of Rome.

But Roman peace was built on violence.
            It was peace enforced by swords.
It was peace that required silence.
            Peace that depended on knowing your place.

And yet Jesus stands in Galilee under Roman control
            and says, in effect, this is not peace.

The peace of God
            is not the absence of conflict created by fear.
Rather the peace of God
            is the presence of justice that makes life possible.

This is why Jesus doesn’t begin by building an army.
            But instead begins by calling people,
            ordinary people, like you, and me…!

And there is something else we need to notice
            about the kind of peace Jesus is bringing.

Jesus doesn’t respond to John’s arrest by organising a protest,
            gathering weapons,
            or trying to overthrow Herod directly.
But neither does he accept the situation as unchangeable.

Instead, Jesus practises a dangerous peace.

A peace that refuses violence,
            but also refuses silence.
A peace that does not imitate the empire,
            but steadily undermines it.

This matters, because many people hear the word “peace”
            and think it means keeping your head down,
            not causing trouble, not drawing attention to yourself.

For people who are already vulnerable,
            that kind of peace can sound attractive.

If I am quiet enough,
            maybe I will not be noticed.
If I am careful enough,
            maybe I will be allowed to stay.

But that is not the peace Jesus proclaims.

The peace of Rome was built on fear.
            It depended on people knowing what would happen
                        if they stepped out of line.
            It rewarded obedience and punished difference.

But Jesus offers a peace that is built on truthful presence.

He goes where the harm is happening.
            He lives among those who are watched.
            He makes himself visible.

This is why Matthew is so careful
            to locate Jesus in Galilee under the Gentiles.

Jesus doesn’t float above politics.
            He doesn’t spiritualise suffering.

Rather he stands in occupied territory
            and says, “God’s reign is near.”

That is a deeply unsettling thing to say.

For those in power, it sounds like a threat.
            For those who are suffering, it sounds like hope.

But hope like this can be risky.

For many LGBTQ people,
            especially those who have fled their home countries,
            survival has often depended on hiding.
On not being seen.
            On not naming the truth too clearly.

So when we talk about peacemaking, we must be honest.
            Peacemaking is not always safe.

It asks: what would it mean to live
            as though God’s peace is already closer than fear?
What would it mean to trust that your life, your body, your love,
            are not mistakes to be concealed,
            but gifts to be honoured?

Jesus doesm’t force anyone to answer those questions.
            He simply says, “Follow me.”

And following him does not mean everyone does the same thing,
            at the same speed, or in the same way.

Some follow loudly.
            Some follow quietly.
            Some follow by staying alive another day.

But together, they form a community
            that begins to look like the kingdom of heaven.

A community where people are fed.
            Where bodies are healed.
Where no one is disposable.
            Where peace is not imposed from above, but built from below.

Matthew tells us that Jesus calls fishermen:

            Ordinary people.
            Working people.
            People without status.
            People whose lives were shaped by uncertainty.

And to these ordinary people, he simply says, “Follow me.”

And that is what these fishermen do, leaving their nets.

But those nets were not just tools.
            They were survival.
They were income.
            They were identity.

To ‘leave your nets’ is not a spiritual metaphor here.
            It is an economic risk.

Jesus is forming a community that will live differently in the middle of empire.

This is where peace becomes concrete.

Peace, in Matthew’s gospel, is not passive.
            It is not silence.
            It is not compliance.

Peace is the work of building alternative ways of living together.

But if peace is something we practise together in public,
            it is also something we need to be rooted in deeply within ourselves.

Because living in occupied places,
            whether political, social, or emotional,
            does something to the inside of a person.

Fear does not only come from outside.
            It settles in the body.
It shapes the breath.
            It tightens the chest.
It whispers, again and again, that danger is always near.

Many of you know this from lived experience.

The uncertainty of asylum processes.
            The long waiting.
The interviews.
            The paperwork.
The feeling that your life is always being assessed.

Even when nothing is happening, the body remembers.

This is why Jesus’ work is never only about changing structures,
            important though that is.
It is also about restoring the inner life.

Matthew tells us that Jesus goes through Galilee
            teaching, proclaiming, and healing.

Healing here is not only physical.
            It is the healing of wounded spirits.
The easing of fear.
            The restoring of trust.

This is where prayer matters.

Prayer is not an escape from the world.
            Prayer is where we learn to breathe again
            in a world that takes our breath away.

When we pray, we place ourselves in the presence of Jesus.

Not the distant Jesus of rules and judgement,
            but the Jesus who chose to live in Galilee under the Gentiles.
The Jesus who knows what it is to live under threat.
            The Jesus who knows what it is to be watched.

Encountering Jesus in prayer is not about having the right words.
            Especially for those whose English is limited,
            this is important to say clearly.

Prayer does not depend on perfect language.
            It doesn’t depend on speaking the language of power fluently.
It doesn’t depend on having your theology sorted.
            It doesn’t depend on having enough confidence.

Sometimes prayer is simply sitting quietly
            and saying, “I am here.”
Sometimes it is holding fear before God
            without trying to explain it.
Sometimes it is allowing yourself, for a moment,
            to be seen without judgement.

This kind of prayer creates inner peace
            not by denying reality,
            but by grounding us more deeply in it.

Jesus does not promise that fear will disappear.
            But he offers presence within fear.

And inner peace matters because peacemaking is costly.

If we are always giving, always resisting, always caring,
            without returning to the source of life, we burn out.
We become exhausted.
            We become numb.
We lose hope.

Prayer is how peacemakers stay human.

It is how we remember
            that our worth does not depend on outcomes.
It is how we remember that our lives are held
            by love deeper than any system of power.

For LGBTQ people who have been told that God is against them,
            prayer can be painful.
It can reopen wounds.

So it is important to say this clearly.

The Jesus you meet in prayer is not checking whether you are acceptable.
            Jesus is not measuring your faith.
            Jesus is not waiting for you to change.

Jesus meets you as you are.
            Jesus loves you, as you are.

Inner peace, in the Christian tradition,
            is not self-control or emotional suppression.
It is the quiet assurance that you are not alone,
            that you are deeply, completely, loved and accepted.

And from that place, slowly, gently, peace-making becomes possible.

Not as heroism.
Not as pressure.
But as a life rooted in love.

Later in this gospel, Jesus will say, “Blessed are the peacemakers.”

Not peace-lovers.
            Not peace-wishers.

But peace-makers:
            The people who actively create conditions where life can flourish.

For a community like MCC, this is not abstract theology.

Peace-making looks like creating sanctuary
                        when the state creates fear.
            It looks like believing people’s stories
                        when systems demand proof.
            It looks like bodies being honoured
                        rather than controlled.
            It looks like worship that heals
                        rather than harms.

Jesus’ ministry begins, Matthew tells us,
            with teaching, proclaiming, and healing.

Teaching:
            telling the truth about God and the world.
Proclaiming:
            naming good news where others only see threat.
Healing:
            restoring bodies and lives damaged by power.

That is what peace looks like in practice.

Not the peace of quiet compliance,
            but the peace of restored dignity.

The light that dawns in Galilee is not a spotlight from above.
            It is a lamp lit among people who have learned to live in shadow.

And here is the good news.

Jesus does not call perfect people to do this work.
            He calls people already shaped by marginal life.

The fishermen know what it is to live with uncertainty.
            They know what it is to work under taxation and control.
            They know what it is to survive.

Jesus does not ask them to become respectable first.
            He asks them to follow.

For those of you who carry fear in your bodies,
            for those of you whose English may be hesitant
                        but whose courage is deep,
            for those of you who have been told
                        that peace will come only if you change,

Matthew offers another vision.

Peace begins when light is named in dark places.
            Peace begins when people refuse the lies of empire.
Peace begins when communities choose solidarity over safety.

And in a world gone mad, we need this kind of peace,
            this kind of peace-making, as much as ever.

It is to a world like ours, indeed it is to our world,
            that Jesus proclaims that the kingdom of heaven has come near.

The Kingdom is not far away.
            It’s not later.
            It’s not only for some, who meet certain criteria.

Unlike Rome’s kingdom, the Kingdom of Jesus is here.
            It is now.
And it is found among those the world has pushed aside.

In Palestine, Ukraine, Sudan,
            in Minneapolis, and in London,
indeed wherever power seeks dominance
            and violence is threatened or enacted,
the Kingdom of Christ stands as a peaceful alternative
            to the kingdoms of domination.

But hear this: the peace of Christ is not an easy peace.
            It will cost Jesus his life.

But it is a real peace.
            A peace that cannot be deported.
            A peace that cannot be erased.

A peace that began in Galilee under the Gentiles,
            and continues wherever people dare to live
            as though God’s justice, mercy, and love
            are already breaking into the world.

Amen.