Peace and the Sword and Jeremiah. A Sermon for 25th June from Rev’d Ian Tattum

When I first started going to church as a teenager in the 1970’s Dietrich Bonhoeffer frequently got a mention. Hands up anyone who can tell me anything about him?

He got mentioned for two main reasons. He wrote theology which was down to earth and engaged with the world. The realities of the modern world were not just things he mused upon. He had been in the centre of the storm. But probably the main reason was that he fitted the category of modern martyr, being executed by the Nazi regime hours before Berlin was liberated by the Allies in 1945. No one could argue that he didn’t give testimony to his faith, and although I was only about 14 when I first heard of him, for my parents’ generation and the one above, the shadow cast by both World Wars was still overwhelming.

I am always reminded of Bonhoeffer whenever I read passages like the ones from Jeremiah 20 and Matthew 10. Bonhoeffer not only took an active part in one of the plots to kill Hitler, he was also a double agent working for German intelligence and a man who believed killing was wrong. He was involved in a plot to kill because he was so intensely against murder. And when you read some of his thoughts from the time before his arrest, you see into the mind of someone who knew about the power of conscience and the fear of death and the contradictions involved in doing what is right and courageous in the service of people and God.

The prophet Jeremiah speaks about the same tensions in his poetic and angry outburst against God. He complains that God has seduced him into being his messenger and thrown him into a situation of terror. This isn’t mere mental anxiety that we all feel at times. His words here come in the wake of him being put into the equivalent of the stocks by the religious authorities and subjected not only to dishonour but to a kind of public torture.

The great Reformation theologian Calvin couldn’t believe that Jeremiah could really rant like this against God, and suggested he was being ironic. But the next thing that Jeremiah says, ‘Cursed be the day I was born’, cropped up word for word a hundred years later in the book of Job, that breath-taking meditation on suffering

In our Gospel reading today we have some extremely scary advice from Jesus on the Cost of Discipleship – which was also the title of one of Bonhoeffer’s most influential books. Probably, the standout example is verse 34: ‘Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth; I have not come to bring peace, but a sword.’

But if we take a step back and consider how St Matthew has shaped his Gospel, this may seem less startling. St Matthew was a great clumper, and he has just finished with Jesus’ spiritual and ethical teaching all gathered together in the Sermon on the Mount. He has now turned to what Jesus said about some of the great dangers and challenges of taking a different path – the sorts of considerations that would have tempted Jeremiah to say ‘I will never be a prophet, as it is far too dangerous’ and Bonhoeffer to keep out of politics and not risk his own soul and his life and separation from his family and fiancée in a perilous enterprise.

St Matthew’s Gospel was written when the church as we know it was coming into being, and Matthew would not only have been quoting the traditions about Jesus but also adding in reflections on them in the light of experience. Isn’t this last what we all have to do whenever we read or listen to Scripture?

There are Christians who risk their lives daily for what they believe. There are people who try to protect indigenous people and their homes from ruthless business interests, who know that any moment could set their loved ones grieving. And we can think of them and pray for them.

But all our lives have dilemmas over when to speak up or keep silent. When we should act or do nothing. Like in the House of Commons last week. And far more often than we care to admit we can’t square the circle. We do the wrong thing or act in ways which are compromised. We don’t necessarily choose to do something wrong, but find ourselves in situations which are grey or murky.

I think one of the most valuable parts of church ritual and practice is the confession. It is not a simple form of words to get us off the hook and neither is it a way to dwell on our flaws and frailties in a negative way. It gives us the chance, like Jeremiah to be honest and to be angry, and like Bonhoeffer to be open about our contradictions and bring them before God in assurance that we are heard and can start again. There is a cost to discipleship, but sins are forgiven.

Peace and the Sword and Jeremiah. A Sermon for 25th June from Rev’d Ian Tattum Read More »

Easter Sermon 2023 from Rev’d Ian Tattum

Just before the school broke up, I took an assembly at St Michael’s School on the theme of Easter.

And I tried to tell the story straight.  I took them through the events of Holy Week, including the Last Supper and Good Friday, and the empty tomb.

But I told one further story, which I suggested is a way to begin to get the point of it all. I told them the parable known as the Prodigal Son, a story in which a child who has wasted his inheritance and found himself far from home and in desperate straits decides to return. He says to himself that he will repent and apologise to his father when he gets there, but he doesn’t get the chance. His father sees him coming and rushes to meet him. This parable is behind the prayer we say most weeks, after communion.

‘Father of all,
we give you thanks and praise,
that when we were still far off
you met us in your Son and brought us home.
Dying and living he declared your love,
gave us grace and opened the gate of heaven.

Easter is God’s initiative. And in St Matthew’s Gospel this is made dramatically clear, in a way that is all noise and fury signifying something. We begin on a quiet early morning, before dawn, with the two Mary’s coming to see the tomb. But the silence and the peace of the early morning, no doubt accompanied by the dawn chorus, is shattered.

‘And suddenly there was a great earthquake.’

An angel descends from heaven to unblock the tomb. A very spectacular angel too, ike lightning in a snow blizzard. The vision knocks the guards unconscious. No wonder the angel says the same words to the women as they said to Mary at the Annunciation and to the shepherds at the Nativity.

‘Do not be afraid.’

This moment is a shock and just a beginning. And perhaps that needs to be emphasised too. If Easter is God’s initiative, Easter morning is only the point at which it begins. Where it will lead is not yet apparent. The consequences are not yet clear. As the angel says.

‘He has been raised from the dead, and he is going ahead of you to Galilee.

The letter to the Hebrews calls Christ the pioneer of salvation. R S Thomas refers to the ‘fast God, always ahead of us and leaving as we arrive’, and a popular hymn has Christ saying,

‘I’ll lead you all in the dance.’

Early Christian writers wrote about our full humanity being restored by God coming down to earth to lead us back to heaven. An idea that also appears in the prayer I quoted earlier. God ‘gave us grace and opened the gate of heaven. It is a very hopeful message, particularly in the light of its context. Christ might lead the way, but only after navigating the terrors of Holy Week. The road to heaven is paved with political expediency and religious controversy, love betrayed, unjust accusations, cruelty and abandonment.

One of my favourite novels is set in Crete at Easter, at the time when it was under Turkish occupation. The joy of the Greek crowds celebrating the resurrection on a spring morning is genuine, but not sentimental because danger is ever present. And possibly that is one of the reasons that Easter is such a powerful festival. It is not about forgetting or denying how bad things can be or how bad we humans can be, but about celebrating and cherishing how God can bring life out of all kinds of death, on account of Christ’s resurrection. That love will have the victory.

I will leave you with how the American writer John Updike put this, In vivid, visceral, and challenging words:

‘It was not as the flowers,
each soft Spring recurrent;
it was not as His Spirit in the mouths and fuddled
eyes of the eleven apostles;
it was as His flesh: ours.

The same hinged thumbs and toes,
the same valved heart…
regathered out of his Father’s might, new strength.

Jesus Christ is risen.

Easter Sermon 2023 from Rev’d Ian Tattum Read More »

Sermon on the Samaritan Woman at the Well from Rev’d Ian Tattum

How handy to have a reading about water on the day we have a baptism!

It might we worth imagining, for a moment, that the font is a well, a place from which we draw deep water – water that sustains us for the whole of our life’s journey.

This might seem a bit confusing, because very often baptism is associated with washing: a rite of purification, a cleansing from sin. Such are its most prominent associations for many.

I do think that we have problems thinking about symbols these days. In science and mathematics it is quite important that it is obvious what the radiation sign or a plus sign means. If road signs were ambiguous we would be in big trouble. An icon on our computer usually indicates one thing, one function; but in theology, as in poetry, symbols, like water, are appropriately fluid.

In the prayer which is said in every baptism over the water in the font, we hear of the Holy Spirit moving over the water at the beginning of creation. We are reminded that the children of Israel escaped from Israel due to the parting of the waves of the Red Sea, and that Jesus himself was baptised in the Jordan. So, water there is seen as the source of life, a sign of freedom, and something that Jesus went through before us. It is a sign of God’s solidarity with humanity. But the first sentence of that prayer also connects with the story of Jesus and the Samaritan woman at the well: ‘We thank you, almighty God, for the gift of water to sustain, refresh and cleanse all life.’

That Gospel reading is a very long story and has many layers and complexities – some of which are explicit, but others of which are just under the surface. The well in the story is not just any well but is the one traditionally associated with the great figures from the Hebrew Scriptures, Jacob and Joseph – ancestors who were exemplary of the Jewish way of life. Joseph didn’t just have a multi-coloured coat, but was a survivor of fratricidal hatred and slavery, who became a person of great nobility, who also happened to be a prophet who could read dreams. No wonder the Samaritan woman who found herself strangely and marvellously understood by Jesus, immediately called him a prophet, ‘a new Joseph.’ The deep well here is the wisdom of past spiritual insight and lives lived in a way that honours God.

Like too many of the most extraordinary women recorded in the Bible, this one from Samaria has had her name forgotten, but she is a great example of someone on the edges of society who spars with Jesus. She is compared positively with the disciples, who are a bit slow to catch on and fret that Jesus is associating with such a person; she, by contrast, comes over as someone who can see who Jesus is and what he means.

Religious matters are not, for her, about theory but about something life- changing, and she is very quick to catch on to the distinction Jesus makes between water as a necessity for being alive and as a metaphor for something that makes life meaningful and true: ‘…the spring of water gushing up to eternal life’.

Which leads me to one final point, following on from what Daniel said in his sermon last week. In the baptism service there is a reference to being born again, another to being reborn, and finally, after the baptism when a child is anointed, to being renewed every day by God’s Spirit. All mean the same thing: that by drawing on the deep well of faith and by listening to God and one another, we can all change and grow in love.

One of the most helpful illustrations I have heard for what this process of rebirth is like is the story behind the opening scenes of The Sound of Music – all those close-ups of Julie Andrews singing. This was filmed by a passing helicopter which not only deafened her but knocked her over. So, she had to keep on getting up and starting all over again. I read that it took ten takes to get it right.

This is a process we find continues throughout our lives. Being reborn isn’t a magic moment; it is a process that lasts a lifetime. Each time we get to our feet again, we will have changed a little – with God’s grace.

Sermon on the Samaritan Woman at the Well from Rev’d Ian Tattum Read More »

Sermon for epiphany, plus two baptisms from rev’d Ian Tattum

When I was 10 I received a completely unexpected gift for Christmas. My parents did not have much money. We lived in a council house, and my mother also fostered two Nigerian children, Foluka and Olaitan, as well as trying to raise me and my brother Peter. My sisters had lived with us for three years by then, so they were family too. My unexpected gift was from an aunt and it was a pair of binoculars. I had recently got a taste for ornithology and, on that very Christmas day, I got the chance to see some of my favourite birds up close and I have never forgotten it.

Neither have I ever forgotten my sisters. If the word gift means anything they were a gift too. They brought something precious into the life of our family. And they shared my life for a large part of my childhood.

We are celebrating Epiphany today. A time of gifts. When the wise men bring strange gifts to the infant Christ: gold, frankincense and myrrh.

I have to pause for a digression here and answer the usual question. What is myrrh? It was, just like frankincense, a gum from a tree, which was added to the incense burned in the Temple in Jerusalem, but was also named after its taste – ‘bitter’ – and was used as a pain killer and healing ointment.

And we are celebrating two baptisms – of Ethan and Ottilie.

In the wedding service, one of the blessings of marriage is ‘the gift of children.’

Any good gift, I would suggest, whether we are thinking of an object or a person, makes a difference, changes our way of seeing, perhaps, or brings a delight which far transcends any financial cost and opens up our life and expands our horizons.

One of the great themes of Epiphany is that God’s supreme gift is the gift of Christ. Although today our attention is drawn to the questing Magi, the whole period from Christmas to Candlemas is an introduction to the impact of Christ. All those of you who have ever been here for every Sunday between Christmas Day and Candlemas when the Christmas season comes to an end at the beginning of February will be used to the way the stories we hear on Sundays this time of the year dart backwards and forwards. The flight to Egypt, then Jesus’ baptism and the wedding feast of Cana; then back to Jesus’ Nazareth home today with those very peculiar and unexpected gift bearers; then concluding with Mary and Joseph watching with wonder as Saint Simeon takes their infant child in his arms and give thanks to God saying:

‘My eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the presence of all the peoples, a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for the glory of your people Israel.’

That God’s light is present in every child and available to us every step of our lives is at the heart of every baptism.

When the water is sanctified, I say a prayer which is not just for the children but for all of us trying to live our lives in response to the love and forgiveness of God, revealed through Christ.

‘Renewed in your image, may they walk in the light of faith and continue for ever in the risen life of Jesus Christ our Lord.’

And it is worth listening out for how many times the word gift appears in this service — Christ the light-bearer being the ultimate gift.

But there is another note to a baptism and the story of the Magi, which sometimes gets lost – a note of struggle and conflict. In the baptism service we explicitly commit to repenting of our sins and renouncing evil.

I will pray that Otillie and Ethan will be able to fight valiantly against the powers of darkness.

Maybe in today’s world of invasions, climate change and a cost of living crisis, the importance of these elements might rise to the surface. And, if we look back at some of the art that has been inspired by the gift bearing strangers, that awareness has always been there.

In one famous painting, by Pieter Bruegel, as the ‘kings’ (as the travellers are depicted in that sixteenth-century version) offer their gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh, the Christ child seems to be trying to hide himself. And no wonder. Behind him a man is whispering into his father Joseph’s ear about Herod’s murderous intentions. There is a platoon of spear-carrying soldiers in the background, and just beside the black ‘king’ who carries a beautiful frankincense container is a man whose face hasn’t got a look of wonder or adoration but of avaricious desire for its golden treasure.

Our gifts, whether people or things, need to be received in the right way: with gratitude, responsibility, reverence and love.

Sermon for epiphany, plus two baptisms from rev’d Ian Tattum Read More »

Sermon for Advent 4 from Rev’d Ian Tattum

How many gospels are there?

You might say four: Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. If you have read about the so-called apocryphal gospels, you might also be able to add the Gospel of Thomas or Peter, or Nicodemus. To the conspiracy theorist, these are witnesses to other brands of Christianity which were written out of history. The more conventional tend to view them as footnotes and tidying up exercises by people who wanted to fill in gaps left unfilled by the Big Four. The Gospel of James, for example, was about Mary’s childhood, and the Gospel of Nicodemus purports to fill in the missing bits in Jesus’ trial – a kind of speculative fiction.

But the only Gospel which calls itself a Gospel is the Gospel of St Mark, and it does not call itself the Gospel of St Mark, but The Gospel of Jesus Christ. Its focus is its subject, Jesus.

We can trace through history the first mentions of what we now call the Gospels. Justin Martyr, in the second century, called them ‘Memoirs of the Apostles’ and coined a brilliant word for them, which for some inexplicable reason never caught on: Apomnemononeumata.

The strength though of calling them memoirs is that, as with St Mark calling his little book ‘the Gospel of Jesus Christ,’ the focus remains on Christ, not the author.

St Paul, who wrote all of his letters before any of what came to be called Gospels were ever written, wrote a lot about the Gospel , and his meaning was clear: the good news about who Jesus was, what he did and what he meant for the world.

So there is one Gospel. And all the New Testament letter-writers, as well as Mathew, Mark , Luke and John, were trying to tell it.

This multiplicity of voices and perspectives has sometimes alarmed people. One response has been to try to iron out any apparent contradictions. One early attempt in the life of the church was an attempt to stick them all together in one consistent version.

This instinct is behind the way we often tell the Nativity story. Rather than concentrating on St Luke’s version, which has the annunciation and the shepherds, we add in King Herod and the Magi from St Matthew. One of the casualties is Joseph, who also plays more of a role according to the reading we just heard than in St Luke’s telling, but inevitably gets trumped by Mary’s more dramatic contribution.

Mary has a visit from an angel and sings the Magnificat. Joseph just has a dream. But that dream is significant. According to St Matthew’s Gospel it is Joseph who has a religious experience of a divine messenger. You might not have noticed that this echoes the story of a famous Joseph from the Hebrew Scriptures.

Receiving a message, a spiritual insight from God, during a dream has a very ancient precedent. I would never count out the promptings from deep within our unconscious minds, which can come when our surface mind gets a rest anyway, but that is not really my point.

St Matthew is clearly trying to make a number of points by what he writes. Primarily, he wants to assert that there is continuity between the Hebrew Scriptures and the shape of Christ’s teaching and ministry. When St Mark begins his book by proclaiming the Gospel of Jesus Christ, the Son of God, he is insisting that Jesus is the real thing, unlike those pretenders on the imperial throne who, as bloody and flawed as they are, make that claim about themselves.

As it is thought that Mark’s Gospel was written in Rome with a gentile Christian audience, this slant makes sense, but St Matthew, on the other hand, almost certainly had a Jewish Christian audience in mind. From the very off he concentrates on Jesus’ identity as the Messiah, as the Saviour sent by God to redeem the people. That this is his aim is revealed by the first two words of his book. You don’t need to be a Greek scholar to sit up when you hear the words Biblos geneseos: literally, ‘the book of Genesis’. This is a new creation story, a new origins story, deeply rooted in the Hebrew Scriptures.

And Joseph plays an important part. He assents to the whole thing too, just as Mary does in the beautiful story of the Annunciation. It is Joseph too, according to St Matthew, who has yet another dream, which tells him to take his family to Egypt when King Herod starts trying to find the potential rival to his throne.

We have an icon of St Mary with Christ at the back of church. It is a very familiar image. Mary has long been called the God Bearer – the Theotokos – and given an exalted role.

There are statues too of St Joseph, carrying the infant Christ.

In the Gospel reading this morning we hear of the fulfilment of a prophecy from the Hebrew Scriptures.

Look, the virgin (in Hebrew, ‘young woman’) shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall name him Emmanuel’, which means ‘God with us.’

‘God with us’. Poets talk of the phrase where the poem lands. In this case, the words ‘God with us’ stand at the crunch point.

Our hopes for Christmas are centred on this child – who he is, what he will do – this child, who is announced to his parents by divine messengers: the saviour to be born in Bethlehem.

Sermon for Advent 4 from Rev’d Ian Tattum Read More »

Messianic moments of healing: Reflection on Matthew 11.2-11 for the Third Sunday of Advent (11 Dec 2022) from Krista Ovist

Today’s Gospel reading prompts me to reflect on something I once witnessed that I can’t explain, something that amazed me.  I’ll call it a healing.  It happened in the South Pacific, in the small village of Tawatana on the island of Makira in the nation-state of Solomon Islands.

What was I doing there, you might ask.  That’s a good question.  I’ll tell you.

My husband, Michael, is a social anthropologist, and since 1992 when he began field research for his PhD, Tawatana has been his primary host village among the Solomon Islanders known as the Arosi.  In February of 2006 Michael began an eight-month period of new field research based at Tawatana, and I went with him for the first six weeks.

For Michael, this stay with the Arosi was a kind of homecoming, a return to old friends who had already taught him their language and way of life.  For me, it was, I have to admit, something of an ordeal.  Tawatana in 2006 had no electricity.  People relied on the local stream for all their fresh water needs, and men and women used separate stretches along the beach as their respective ‘his’ and ‘hers’ toilet areas.  Most dwellings were leaf huts used mainly for sleeping, and life was conducted primarily outdoors in the sticky tropical heat.  I developed a prickly rash from overexposure to the sun, despite assiduous efforts to stay covered up, and a cut under my right ankle bone grew into a hellishly itchy, weeping sore.  Only once did I make it up to the area above the village where people plant their sweet potato gardens.  The pathway up was nearly vertical at intervals and slick with wet vegetation.  It was too arduous a climb for me, although somehow Arosi of all ages did it every day – often multiple times a day – barefoot.

Not only was I physically uncomfortable most of the time, I was in the midst of people who practiced a strange ancestral religion.  Arosi are, and have been since the mid nineteenth century, high church, surplice-wearing, thurible-swinging, Anglo-Catholic Anglicans.  Arosi were my first Anglicans, in fact, the people whose example first attracted me to the Anglican tradition when I thought I had turned my back against Christianity.

Of course, Michael had already told me a great deal about the Arosi before I ever met them.  He told me, for example, the story of how a man named Suri from the village of ‘Ubuna, just down the coast from Tawatana, had started an Anglican lay healing ministry back in the 1970s.  During Michael’s first period of field research in the 1990s, Suri had given him detailed oral accounts of four dreams he had had over the course of four years.  Through these dreams, Suri told Michael, Jesus had called him and shown him how to perform healings using holy water and prayers.  Then, when Suri tried out, in waking life, the techniques he had seen in his dreams, he was hailed as successful and attracted followers.  With the support of local Anglican priests, he and his followers formed a recognized lay healing ministry.  They even adopted a distinctive uniform: a bright red, full-length tunic with a white sash, based on a design shown to Suri in another dream.

As a student of the history of religions, I had found all this fascinating and enjoyed discerning in Suri’s dreams his brilliant Arosi interpretations and extensions of biblical narratives.  Intellectually, I could appreciate Suri’s theological creativity and even find it beautiful.  But the very idea of a healing ministry still seemed to me to be just one more impossible thing Christianity asks you to believe in.

Then one afternoon, during my stay at Tawatana, Michael and I paid a call at the home of Ben and Elena Aharo, a married couple about our own age.  While we were enjoying their hospitality, we heard a sudden commotion.  A pick-up truck came rattling along the dirt road that passed near Ben and Elena’s house and stopped, full of what sounded like a bunch of rowdy young men.  But it soon became clear that one of them was violently ill, and his companions were struggling to help him.  He flailed about and groaned as if in agony.  They brought him inside Ben and Elena’s house, and Michael, who understands and speaks the Arosi language, hurriedly explained to me that the sick man had been drinking kwaso, an illegal and dangerous home brew that is 100% alcohol.

All this unfolded very quickly, and before I could even take it in, Ben’s father, Martin Toku, who was a member of Suri’s healing ministry, suddenly appeared with two companions.  The three of them had all brought what looked to me like bundled up parcels of cloth, but in a literal flash they unwrapped them, donned their bright red robes, and pulled out their prayer books.  They went instantly to the side of the sick man, who was now writhing and moaning on a bed, and began to pray and lay their hands on him.  Other villagers had arrived and were gathered around the bed too, creating a circle of intense concentration on the man and the work of the healers.  I looked on in shock and fear, never having been exposed to audible, visceral suffering in my sheltered life, and thinking, ‘This is serious; this man is seriously ill and there is no real medical help anywhere near here.’

And then I was put to shame.  My inability to imagine that three men in red robes with prayer books could do the sick man any good was put to shame.  I don’t know how long it took.  I only know that, as I looked on, and as I heard familiar-sounding prayers and psalms intoned in an unfamiliar tongue, and as I saw hands touching the man’s swollen stomach and pressing his arms and chest, he grew calmer and calmer and calmer, until a gentle peace came over him, and I couldn’t believe the transformation.

No, it wasn’t a miraculous restoration of sight to the blind, or a reversal of paralysis, or the spontaneous remission of a terminal cancer.  But it was real.  Something happened there.  Some power arose and circulated there, a power that humbled me and made me acknowledge what we call the Holy Spirit.  Something messianic happened, a moment of messianic salvation, healing.  Not a miracle, yet wonderful.  People conspiring, mingling their breath in prayers together, generating currents of comfort through touch, weaving someone who had strayed into anti-social behaviour back into the fabric of community support.

Today’s Gospel reading is all about what it means to be messianic.  John the Baptist’s disciples come to Jesus and ask him, ‘Are you the one who is to come?’, which is to say, are you the Messiah, the anointed one promised from of old by the prophets?  In reply Jesus simply points to his ministry of healing with the implication that this alone should enable them and John to draw their own conclusions.  But, of course, by this time Jesus has already sent his own disciples out to do the very same messianic things he himself is said to have been doing.  Matthew is clearly keen to establish unequivocally that Jesus – and not John – is the one, the Messiah.  But Jesus himself doesn’t seem so insistent on being the one and only one, the only messianic one.  Arguably, all of us who are baptized into Christ are anointed to be messianic, to bring moments of salvific healing to each other.

Regarding John the Baptist, Jesus goes on to ask the crowd, ‘What did you go out to the wilderness to see?’  Whenever I read or recall that question, I find that I want to turn it around and address it to myself, but with regard to Jesus, rather than John.  What do I keep going out to see and find in Jesus?  What am I looking for in him?  A Messiah?  Yes, inevitably; but what do I want from a Messiah?  There was a time, I think, when I thought I wanted Absolute Truth, complete revelation of the divine nature, the mind of God.  But I’m more demanding than that now.  Now when I go out to see Jesus – when I look for him here – I am hoping to find, not miracles, or omniscience, or immortality, but a few messianic moments of healing, like the one I saw in Solomon Islands.  And thanks to all of you, the messiahs of St Barnabas, I am finding them.

Messianic moments of healing: Reflection on Matthew 11.2-11 for the Third Sunday of Advent (11 Dec 2022) from Krista Ovist Read More »

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