Category: Acts

Rooms in the Ruins: Stephen, Coventry, and the room God makes in the midst of violence

David HerbertLeave a comment

In the ruins a fire is lit.
In the midst of violence, a man sees heaven open.
This sermon traces a thread from Saint Stephen to Coventry cathedral, and from the “many rooms” of John’s Gospel to the fractures places of our own lives – suggesting that the rooms God prepares are not elsewhere, but here, wherever love makes space in the face of conflict.

Easter 5 (A)
This morning we meet Stephen at the very end of his story,
Standing before an angry crowd,
accused, opposed,
and about to be killed.

And we hear that extraordinary line:
”Filled with the Holy Spirit, he gazed into heaven …”

But if we start there, we miss what makes that moment so powerful.
Because Stephen didn’t begin here.


He first appears a chapter earlier, in Acts of the Apostles,
when the early church is already under strain.

There is a complaint –
that some widows are being overlooked in the daily distribution of food.

It’s about fairness.
Culture.
Whose voice matters.

A real fault line has opened up.

And Stephen is one of those chosen to step into that situation –
because he is known to be full of the Spirit and wisdom.

Not removed from the tensions,
but right in the middle of them.

He learns to follow the Spirit there,
at the tables,
among those who are last, and least, and easily forgotten.


From there, things escalate.

Stephen begins to speak – boldly – about what God is doing.

He challenges the assumption that God can be contained in the temple,
or managed by those in power.

He reminds his hearers of the words of Isaiah:
“Heaven is my throne, and the earth is my footstool …
What kind of house will you build for me?”

God is not contained.
Not controlled.
Not organised around our comfort.

And that is what turns disagreement into fury.

So that by the time we reach today’s reading,
Stephen is no longer serving at tables –
he is standing before those who want him silenced.


And there –
in that moment of pressure, accusation and danger –
we are told:
“Filled with the Holy Spirit, he gazed into heaven …”

Now, we might imagine that this means Stephen is being lifted out of reality –
given a glimpse of somewhere else,
somewhere safer,
somewhere beyond the reach of what is about to happen.

But that cannot be what it means.

Because when he looks into heaven,
he does not see buildings.
He does not see rooms.

He sees the glory of God –
and Jesus Christ standing at the right hand of God.

Standing.
Alive.
Present.


Hold that alongside the words of Jesus in John’s gospel:
“In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places …
I go to prepare a place for you.”

We have often heard those words as a promise about where we go when we die.

A heavenly building.
Rooms prepared somewhere else.

And there is comfort in that.

But Stephen – standing under accusation,
with stones already in the air –
suggests something different.


Because in John’s Gospel, “dwelling” is not about property.
It is about life shared.

“Abide in me, as I abide in you.”
“We will come and make our home with them.”

So when Jesus says,
“I go to prepare a place for you,”
the question is:

How, and in what way?

It’s not about a heavenly mansion with (how) many rooms.
It’s not a building
a building somewhere else.

No.

It’s about what love is building
here and now
    in the middle of the world as it is.

It’s about love making room,
one room on top of another,
room for strangers,
room for sinners,
room even for enemies
and those who attack us,
room for those left out in the cold,
those homeless and neglected
like those widows previously unheard.

The Father’s house isn’t something set in concrete,
built somewhere else.

It is God’s work,
building love,
making room for forgiveness.

And it is here that Stephen stands,
in the place prepared for him.
And he sees it,
and his face so shines,
even as the stones are hurled in anger.

Because to see into heaven
is not to gain information about the afterlife.

It is to see reality as it truly is:

that God is not absent,
not contained,
not defeated –

But present,
active,
and drawing all things into the life of his kingdom.


And once Stephen sees that,

he begins to reflect it.

His face shines, and
his words echo Jesus:
“Lord, do not hold this sin against them.”

This is not weakness.

This is the life of the Father’s house
breaking out
in the middle of the world’s violence.

In the middle of the world’s violence,
there are those who have found room for God –
the room that God has prepared for them.

The room we have for God in our lives
is the room that God has prepared for us –
one of so many rooms.

And it is this life –
this room opened to God
In the middle of the world’s violence –
that cannot be tolerated,
And Stephen will pay for it with his life.

Because if God’s dwelling is not contained,
and not somewhere else,
then neither is God’s authority.

If heaven is breaking out here –
then the systems built on power and control are exposed.

And so they cover their ears.

And they rush at him.


But this way of seeing did not end with Stephen.

It has appeared again and again,
where people have been formed by the Spirit
in the middle of real world fault lines.

In this diocese, we cannot hear this story
without thinking of Coventry Cathedral.

In the ruins of Coventry Cathedral at first light on Easter Day 2026

In 1940, the cathedral was destroyed by bombing.

Stones – not thrown by hand this time,
but falling all the same.

And in the ruins,
Provost Dick Howard did something extraordinary.

He did not call for revenge.

He did not divide the world into “us” and “them”.

Instead, he had these words inscribed:

Father forgive.

Not “forgive them.”
Just: Father forgive.

That is not sentiment.
That is not denial of suffering.

That is someone seeing into heaven.

Someone recognising that the Father’s house
is not destroyed by violence –
because it was never contained in stone.

And that the life of that house
with its many rooms
is forgiveness,
even here.

Even now.

And this is not just something that happened then.

It is something we are caught up in here.

Because in this diocese, when people are ordained,
they are ordained in that cathedral –
in that space opened up in the midst of destruction.

A place where violence did not have the final word.

A place where, in the ruins,
room was found for forgiveness.

Stephen was a deacon –
formed at tables,
among the overlooked,
in the fault lines of his community.

And from there, he learned to see into heaven.

And those ordained in that cathedral
are ordained in that same pattern:

not away from the world’s conflict,
but into it –

trusting that even there,
God has made room.

The room we have for God in our lives
is the room that God has prepared for us –
one of so many rooms.

And we have seen that recently.

Gary and Brittany were confirmed there on Easter Day
at the crack of dawn,
when the Easter fire was lit
in the ruins of the cathedral.

Fire again in that place –
but not the fire that destroys.

Not the fire that reduces everything to ash.

But the fire of resurrection.

The fire of the Spirit.

In the very place where flames once consumed,
a different fire now burns –

not to destroy,
but to give light,
to gather,
to kindle new life.

And there, in that same place,
a life opening to God,
a place being made,
a dwelling beginning.


Not somewhere else.

But here.


So the question is not whether there is room in the Father’s house.

The question is whether we will enter the room
that God has already prepared for us –

in the places where the world is most fractured,

where the fire is still being lit in the ruins,

and where, even there,
heaven is already open.

The Feeding of the Three Thousand and the Small Flock

David HerbertLeave a comment

In a world that prizes numbers, growth, and standing out, the early church points us somewhere different. In Christ, even a small flock—known, gathered, and fed together—is already enough. This reflection for two small churches takes its cue from the scriptures for the Fourth Sunday of Easter (Year A): Acts of the Apostles 2:42–end, Gospel of John 10:1–10, and Psalm 23.

“They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and to fellowship, to the breaking of bread and to prayer.” (Acts 2:42).

That’s how Luke describes the life of the disciples after God has become present to them in a new way.
Those are the first words of our reading this morning from Acts of the Apostles.

But the verse just before – heard in our churches last Sunday – tells us something else.
It tells us that about 3000 people accepted Peter’s message and were added to their number.

Three thousand.

We’ve heard many times, the story of the Feeding of the Five Thousand.
It’s in all the gospels.

And there’s another feeding – the 4000 – told by Matthew and Mark, but not by Luke.

But Luke does give us another feeding.

Not the feeding of the 4000.
But the feeding of the 3000.

In those gospel stories, crowds gather around Jesus.
They are hungry.
And with very little – just a few loaves and fish – Jesus feeds them.

A sign of the kingdom of God:
that what is little becomes enough …
that what is least becomes abundance.

And here, in Acts, there is another crowd.

Three thousand, drawn from a larger crowd in Jerusalem at Pentecost.

And Luke says of them:

They devoted themselves …
They were together …
They had everything in common …

He is speaking about those three thousand.

So again we might say:

Luke doesn’t tell us about the feeding of the 4000.
But he does tell us about the feeding of the 3000.

Because they too were hungry.

You can almost see it on their faces.

But not for bread and fish.

They were hungry for something deeper –
for a new way of life.

And what they are given is this:

Teaching.
Fellowship.
Shared life.
Bread broken together.
Meals shared with glad and generous hearts.

This is the feeding of a deeper hunger.

The hunger for meaning.
The hunger for belonging.
The hunger for righteousness – for things to be as they should be.

And what they are given …
is a whole new life.

Not just food for the day,
but life together in Christ.

The life of the risen Christ,
lived out in humanity.

And that life –
the life of the risen Christ lived out in humanity –
it didn’t end with those three thousand.

It is the life of the church.

It is our life.

And that’s where this meets us.

Because when we hear about the three thousand,
it’s easy to think: that’s not us.

We are not a crowd.
We are small in number.
A handful here … a handful there

More like a small flock than a great multitude.

A shepherd with sheep and lambs by Cornelis van Leemputten
This is a small flock. They too need a good shepherd.

But listen again to what Luke describes in Acts of the Apostles.

He doesn’t describe something that only works for large numbers.

He describes something close …
shared …
personal …

They devoted themselves …
They were together …
They broke bread …
They prayed …

That’s not a stadium.
That’s something much more like this.

And then we hear Jesus in John’s Gospel:

“I am the good shepherd …
My sheep hear my voice …
I know them …
and they follow me.”

Not a crowd.

A flock.

So perhaps the question for us is not:
how do we become like the three thousand?

But how do we recognise what we already are?

A small flock.
Known.
Gathered.
Fed.
Held together by the voice of the shepherd.

And the gift of a small flock is this:

You cannot disappear here.

You are not one face in a crowd.

You are known.
You are noticed.
You belong.

And yet … there is a danger for churches like ours,
in times like ours,
when it’s all about numbers, growth and influence.

Because when we hear about the three thousand,
it is very easy to start thinking:

if only we were more …
if only things were different …

And slowly, almost without noticing,
our attention shifts.

Away from who is here …
to who is not.

Away from what we have been given
to what we think we lack.

And when that happens, something else can creep in.

A quiet dissatisfaction.
Even resentment.

A feeling that we are being held back –
by numbers,
by circumstance,
even, perhaps, by one another.

But that is to go after the wrong prize.

Because the prize was never the three thousand.

The gift –
the miracle –
was what they became.

A people who shared life.
A people who belonged to one another.
A people who were fed with the life of Christ.

And that is not something we have to chase.

It is something we have already been given.

Here.

Among us.

So the question is not: how do we become more?

But:
how do we become more deeply what we already are?

More attentive to one another …
More ready to share life …
More open to the voice of the shepherd …

Because when that happens –

this small flock,
this ordinary gathering of people –

becomes something extraordinary.

Not because we stand out from the crowd.

But because we belong to one another,
and are led by the one who knows us by name.

In the end, the gift is not becoming something else,
or someone else,
bigger, better, or whatever it may be –

but recognising that, in Christ,
what we have …
is already enough.

The good shepherd
leads the small flock –

even the two or three –

through the valley overshadowed by death.

He leads us.
He sets a table before us.
He feeds us
as we break bread together.

He satisfies our deepest longings –

as he has satisfied thousands before us.

The Lord is here.
In this small flock.
In this shared life.

The Lord is here.
His spirit is with us.

Who do we see on our way to worship? A reflection on Acts 3:1-10

David Herbert1 Comment

This is part of a series of reflections inspired by readings from the Book of Acts. This time the focus is on a scene at the Beautiful Gate of the Temple in Acts 3:1-10. The text is included at the end of the reflection. You might want to read that first because, after all, this is just a reflection. This is the part of the passage where I started:

One day Peter and John were going up to the temple at the hour of prayer … And a man lame from birth was being carried in. People would lay him at the gate of the temple called the Beautiful Gate so that he could ask for alms from those entering the temple.

And this is the question my reading left me with:

Who do we see on our way to worship? Who don’t we see?

The beggar isn’t named but I want to find a name for him. He is sitting at the Beautiful Gate and has his eye on all those going into worship, including Peter and John. They recognise him though they might not already know him. They see him as he looks at them.

Who do we see on our way to worship? Who don’t we see?

Willie James Jennings, in Acts, writes “At the doorway to worship are those whose very presence should discipline praise and guide hope. Before praises go up to God the poor and lame, the sick and pained must be seen.” (p41). Luke has already given his readers the story of the Good Samaritan featuring the pious hypocrites who fail to notice the needs of the wounded in the gutter.

Who do we see on our way to worship? Who don’t we see?

There is a lot of seeing in this passage. The lame man “saw Peter and John”, Peter “looked intently at him” and said “look at us”. Those in need need to be seen. So many in need remain invisible in corridors of power – being seen by those on their way to worship is their hope.

Who do we see on our way to worship? Who don’t we see?

The lame man, the beggar, probably didn’t know that he too was on his way to worship. Peter and John tell him to look at them. And Peter said to him: “I have no silver or gold, but what I have I give you; in the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, stand up and walk”. (Acts 3:6). His feet and ankles became strong and he was able to jump up, stand and walk, entering the temple with Peter and John, “walking and leaping and praising God”. (Acts 3:8)

Who do we see on our way to worship? Who don’t we see?

Jesus sees himself in the prisoner, the hungry, the stranger and the sick. In a parable the king curses those who gave him no food, no welcome, no clothing and no companionship. Those guilty ask the king, “When was it that we saw you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison and did not take care of you?” He answers them: “Truly I tell you, just as you did not do it to the least of these, you did not do it to me.” (Matthew 25:31-46). Do we see Jesus in and with the vulnerable or do we overlook them?

Who do we see on our way to worship? Who don’t we see?

Perhaps we see Israel. From the beginning Israel walked with a limp. It might not be stretching imagination too far to see here those who inherited the name Israel from the patriarch Jacob who was called Israel because he wrestled with God. Israel is the Hebrew name that stands for those who wrestle with God. Israelites are bound by the injury and blessing of that wrestling and struggle. Jacob’s hip was put out of joint and he always limped after that. (Genesis 32:24-30). Is this who Peter and John saw? Perhaps significantly, we’re told that the man is more than 40 years old (Acts 4:22). 40 years is always the length of time that Israel waits. Did Peter and John see this man as Israel, limping and lame from the start, and now standing and leaping and praising God? If this is Israel, is this the Jewish people so often overlooked by Christians on their way to worship?

Who do we see on our way to worship? Who don’t we see?

Or, is this the church (or us), lying there lame in our excuses for mission and our attempts at Jesus begging for the power of the Holy Spirit.

Who do we see on our way to worship? Who don’t we see?

I said I wanted to find a name for the man born lame – we have a choice: he is the man born lame, he is Christ, he is Israel, he is church, he is us – all needing to be seen on the way to worship. Whatever his name, he is one who has been lame from the beginning and he is vulnerable. He begs to be seen and he begs to be seen by us, even on our way to worship. We need to make peace with him and take him with us in our hearts and imagination into our worship. If we don’t then our worship is hollow, hypocritical and unacceptable to God.

Who do we see on our way to worship? Who don’t we see?

Here’s the passage:

Acts 3:1-10
One day Peter and John were going up to the temple at the hour of prayer at three o’clock in the afternoon. And a man lame from birth was being carried in. People would lay him at the gate of the temple called the Beautiful Gate so that he could ask for alms from those entering the temple. When he saw Peter and John about to go into the temple, he asked them for alms. Peter looked intently at him, as did John, and said, “Look at us.” And he fixed his attention on them, expecting to receive something from them. Peter said, ” I have no silver or gold, but what I have I give you; in the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, stand up and walk.” And he took him by the right hand and raised him up, and immediately his feet and ankles were made strong. Jumping up, he stood and began to walk, and he entered the temple with them, walking and leaping and praising God. All the people saw him walking and praising God, and they recognised him as the one who used to sit and ask for alms at the Beautiful Gate of the temple, and they were filled with wonder and astonishment at what had happened to him.

New Revised Standard Version, Updated Edition. Copyright © 2021 National Council of Churches of Christ in the United States of America.

Pentecost and the love of language

David Herbert2 Comments

This is the second of a series of reflections inspired by readings from the Book of Acts. Acts is a book of beginnings and the focus of this reflection is on what began at Pentecost through the gift of language.

This is Acts 2:1-6 (I’m using the New Revised Standard Version Updated Edition):

When the day of Pentecost had come, they were all together in one place. 2 And suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the rush of a violent wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting. 3 Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, and a tongue rested on each of them. 4 All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability.
5 Now there were devout Jews from every people under heaven living in Jerusalem. 6 And at this sound the crowd gathered and was bewildered, because each one heard them speaking in the native language of each.

In short, Luke describes a violent rush of wind that shakes up our settled ways of living and possessing. Life can never be the same again. Settled structures are blown apart and the apostles together with some women and some others (Acts 1:14) are blown to join thousands of others through the gift of language and a miracle of hearing.

Language has always been a barrier between people (from Babel) but this miracle brings people together who would have been stranger to each other. Here words are translated by love and the words are taken to heart by people from all parts of the world – “here at last, someone speaking my language”. Alongside that violent rush of wind there is this enormous sigh of people understood – the sigh of relief that here at last, someone is speaking my language.

What does it take to speak the language that makes sense to others, that makes their heart sing? To speak to people in a language they understand requires us to keep silent while we listen to them, while we learn from their words and the emotional history that lies behind them. To speak to a people in any way that makes sense requires an emotional intelligence and empathy that inspires the confidence in one anther that we have something worth saying to one another, and worth hearing from one another. Words on their own will never do because body language communicates far more in the bearing we bring to our words. For a miracle of hearing there needs to be nothing short of love.

The language of vulnerable people is often lost on people of power and many a language has been lost. The English used to forbid the use of Irish in the Irish pig markets insisting that English is the perfect language to sell pigs in. “That English is the perfect language to sell pigs in” is a line from Michael Hartnett’s poem A Farewell to English in which he announced to the world that he would no longer write in English. He did this as resistance and as a way of treasuring the Irish language.

When we think of the languages we are taught in school, they are all the languages of empire, the languages that are supposed to help us get on in life, that help us to get jobs in successful companies. Compulsory language education takes many forms. In the UK language education is benign, but Willie James Jennings writing from an Afro-American perspective, invites us to imagine something far more sinister. In his commentary on Acts he writes: “Imagine centuries of submission and internalised hatred of mother tongues and in the quiet spaces of many villages, many homes, women, men and children practising these new enlightened languages not by choice but by force.”

What of those who insist on the language of empire, who insist on the Queen’s English (should that now be King’s English)? They deprive people of language and understanding : their values, practical wisdom and subtlety are imperilled by a colonising power which conscripts the other for empire. They rob people of their past, present and future. They are responsible for the loss of language. Language makes the store and story of history and all of us want to have ourselves heard and understood. But so many have lost their language, and with it the store and story of their histories.

The book of Genesis sees languages as the curse of empire builders. The story of the Tower of Babel is a story of powerful people thinking they could build all the way to heaven. The seeds of confusion that were sown through their different languages were intended to prevent them getting above themselves.

The way of the empire is not the way of the Spirit or of Spirited people. The Spirit uses the languages long forgotten by the powers that be. In the beginning of this book of beginnings which is Acts Luke goes into detail where everyone has come from. Often readers skip over this long list. They shouldn’t because everyone of them heard the disciples speaking their language. Every one counts and not one of them should be overlooked by us readers.

Imagine this:

Amazed and astonished, they asked, “Are not all these who are speaking Galileans? 8 And how is it that we hear, each of us, in our own native language? 9 Parthians, Medes, Elamites, and residents of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, 10 Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of Libya belonging to Cyrene, and visitors from Rome, both Jews and proselytes, 11 Cretans and Arabs—in our own languages we hear them speaking about God’s deeds of power.” Acts 2:7-11.

We might add other language barriers that would have been present – the young, the old, men, women, deaf, disabled – “we all hear them speaking our language”. This is a beginning for all of them. Now that they have heard God spoken to their heart they now have their own language for God-talk to take back home to their villages and communities. That was a beginning for them.

But we live in a world where divisions won’t go away, where little empires everywhere build their walled communities of exclusion. How do we make sense to one another through the thick walls of separation and in environments made increasingly hostile? What is the way of the Spirit of God? There is a promising beginning in this miracle of Pentecost. The gift of language, the gift in their tongues, is not for one way communication. It is a gift which enables the believers to join others and to enter into their language and life. It is for the act of living together, for the art of heartfelt conversation and for the creation of new relationships.

This is the way with God, embracing others with a love that is utterly understandable. Love translates, and only translates as good news.

Acts 2:1-21 is read in churches at Pentecost.

Mission that ends ends: preaching from Ascension to Pentecost

David Herbert4 Comments

This is a sermon preached at Holy Trinity, Leamington for Easter 7(A), the Sunday between Ascension and Pentecost. (I am hoping it will be the first in a series of reflections inspired by readings from the Book of Acts.)

The text is Acts 1:6-14.

When we were finding our way round, when we moved to Leamington nearly two years ago, people kept telling us, “you don’t want to go to Coventry”. 

Apologies to those of you who live in Coventry. Never mind. People will be flocking to Coventry if they beat Luton in the play off final next Saturday, possibly taking the place of my team in the Premier League.

It was a punishment to be “sent to Coventry*. Being sent to Coventry meant people turned their back on you, refused to talk to you, shunned you. 

The origin of the sentence probably dates back to the 1640’s to the English Civil War. Royalist troops captured in Birmingham were taken as prisoners to Coventry which was a parliamentarian stronghold. They were not received warmly by the locals. That’s what happened when they were sent to Coventry.

Samaria from this morning’s reading is the Coventry of its day. “You don’t want to go to Samaria” would have been the equivalent for the Jewish people who found a way round Samaria rather than going through it. Part of the power of the parable of the Good Samaritan is that the hero is a Samaritan and that there was a Samaritan that could be called good.

But Jesus puts Samaria on the mission map, along with everywhere else that was considered off limits.

According to Luke, these are the last words of Jesus before his ascension: You will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes on you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.

Yes – to Samaria, and to the ends of the earth!

Before this, the disciples ask Jesus this question: Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel? Jesus refuses to give a direct answer. It was an old question, reflecting the old troubles of nationalism brought on by too narrow a view of God’s love. 

Instead of a direct answer to their question, Jesus gives them his last word: a promise of power as witnesses, not just in Jerusalem and Judea, but even in Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.

These last words of Jesus are the first words in the beginning of the church’s missionary journey, a journey which takes us further that we could ever imagine, and a journey which undermines any boundaries which prevent God’s love reaching where God desires, to the ends of the earth.

To the ends of the earth – that is beyond the boundaries, the borders and margins of our current imaginations, undermining any attachment to nationalism, undermining the certainties and conservatism of our belief systems. Guy Garvey of Elbow sings (in Come On, Blue), love transcends anything that ever ends. Love transcends anything that ever ends, including the ends, limits, boundaries set by our imaginations and culture. 

Jesus’s words, to the ends of the earth, would be far too one-dimensional if we were only to think geographically about the extent of God’s mission, as if the first disciples had a map of the world at their disposal.

To the ends of the earth is about love’s reach. Think sociologically, think psychologically, not just geographically, think musically, think any way you can – to the ends of the earth, as far as your eye can see, and further – that is where the love of God goes, that is where the love of God comes again and again.

Think psychologically about the ends of the earth, those who are on the very edge, those in the darkest places, those in self harm’s way, those bombarded with cruel internal voices – this is where God’s love goes.

Think as peacemakers – or, better, live as peacemakers. Who have we made enemies? This is where God’s love takes us.

Think socio-economically about the ends of the earth. Who are in the margins? Who’s all at sea unable to make safety on land? To the ends of the earth – encompassing all ages, including children and young people (and it was good to hear about our partnership with Thrive from Ryan last Sunday), including those in their dying days. To the ends of the earth – encompassing enemies, strangers and those we’ve thought beyond the pale. Think the extent from cradle to grave, from prison cell to hospice bed, from palace to hovel, this is where God’s love goes.

To the ends of the earth is the scope of God’s love and the measure of God’s desire. Love isn’t just for Israel but for everyone in God’s creation. Love reaches far beyond our borders and boundaries, undermining those borders and boundaries, challenging wherever we draw the line between who’s ruled in and who’s ruled out, who’s right and who’s wrong.

The Book of Acts is often described as a book of beginnings. Our reading comes from the beginning of this book of beginnings. They are Jesus’ last words which become the first words of mission. To the ends of the earth – anything less doesn’t do justice to the desire and power of God. These are Jesus’ last words which last till the end of time, to the ends of the earth.

Acts reports the early days of mission, on the troubles Jesus’ followers got into on this journey. In the beginnings of this mission Luke shows us all the old certainties being cast to the wind, to the violent wind of Pentecost. He excitedly shows us people of all sorts being joined by the Holy Spirit, their differences and disputes being resolved by the wisdom and love which constitute God’s mission. 

He shows us what these first words of mission means as he spotlights the boundaries undermined by God’s mission and those affected by them. These include boundaries of gender, sexuality, ethnicity, class and religion.

Love still struggles against the same borders and boundaries we see beginning to be undermined in Acts, which is why I suggest these days of our lives are still the first days of mission. 

This is the beginning where we have to cast our old certainties to the wind, one of the old certainties being that we aren’t fit for such a tall order of mission. Who am I for such a thing? We are bound by the voices which say we’re not good enough, we’re not clever enough and we know we’re not confident enough.

BUT. Luke tells the story of two men in white who ask the disciples, “why do you stand here looking at the sky”. The disciples had seen Jesus ascend, they’d seen him go. But they kept on looking where he’d gone, where he was no more. The two men in white redirect the gaze of the church. They’re saying, don’t look where he’s disappeared, look for where he comes again.

It’s seeing where he comes again which encourages us and heartens us. 

It is when we see him coming again as we break bread together, as we listen for his word in preaching, teaching and prayer, as we see the wonderful work of reconciliation that we become inspired for the joy of mission, and joined by

the Spirit who makes herself known as the strengthener, the encourager and the comforter, empowering us to reach beyond our comfort zone.

We never know how we are going to be turned out. There isn’t one way of joining mission. There’s no stereotype. 

Paraphrasing Paul, there’s a whole variety of gifts, there’s a whole variety of services, there’s a whole range of activities in the mission of God so some of us will turn out to be wise counsellors, others will become healers, others will have gifts for administration, some will become great encouragers, some will become teachers, or nurses, or the sort of heartening person we are always delighted to meet on our streets, or the shy person who thinks deeply and critically about the way things are. 

When praying in God’s mission none of us ever knows who we are going to turn out to be.

Going back to Coventry. The night of November 14th/15th 1940 must have seemed like the end of the world as 30,000 incendiary bombs were dropped on Coventry, destroying 43,000 homes, 71 factories, the city centre, 2 hospitals, 2 churches, killing 560 people and injuring over 1000 more. 

The Provost of the ruined cathedral, Richard Howard, witnessed Jesus’ words as he chalked his words Father, forgive them on the Cathedral’s sanctuary walls. 

He can’t have known how that would turn out to open up a whole ministry of reconciliation with what happened in Coventry as its capital. Nor could he have known that his words, (Jesus’ words) would be the first words of a missionary journey that has taken the Coventry Cross of Nails to the ends of the earth, to so many situations of conflict.

In those days, the days of prayer between Ascension and Pentecost, the disciples, the men and women gathered together, didn’t know how they were going to be turned out, and how their mission would turn out. Neither did Provost Howard. Neither do we as we wait and pray, with our eyes trained not on where Jesus has disappeared, but on where he comes again in the triumphs of love as well as our falls from grace.

Acts 1:6-14
So when they had come together, they asked him, “Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel?” 7 He replied, “It is not for you to know the times or periods that the Father has set by his own authority. 8 But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you, and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.” 9 When he had said this, as they were watching, he was lifted up, and a cloud took him out of their sight. 10 While he was going and they were gazing up toward heaven, suddenly two men in white robes stood by them. 11 They said, “Men of Galilee, why do you stand looking up toward heaven? This Jesus, who has been taken up from you into heaven, will come in the same way as you saw him go into heaven.”
12 Then they returned to Jerusalem from the mount called Olivet, which is near Jerusalem, a Sabbath day’s journey away. 13 When they had entered the city, they went to the room upstairs where they were staying: Peter, and John, and James, and Andrew, Philip and Thomas, Bartholomew and Matthew, James son of Alphaeus, and Simon the Zealot, and Judas son of[a] James. 14 All these were constantly devoting themselves to prayer, together with certain women, including Mary the mother of Jesus, as well as his brothers.

Note: Acts 1:1-11 is read in churches on Ascension Day and Acts 1:6-14 is read on the 7th Sunday of Easter (Year A)