Sermons

Being excluded feels horrible.

Children in the playground, deliberately leaving out a child they don’t like. A group of work colleagues going out for a drink, deliberately not telling one of their number where they’re going.

Even worse is religious exclusion. Being told that you’re not a proper Christian, not a true member of the people of God. If you care about God and his purposes, that hurts.

I greatly respect our doctors. They work hard. And a good doctor knows how to measure a person’s vital signs. Not every death can be prevented. But if they spot that body temperature, blood pressure, heart rate, breathing are getting weak, quick intervention could save them.

That’s people. What about churches? They die too. How would you know if your church was on its last legs? What could be done to nurse a church back to health?

It’s hard to keep going if you feel isolated.

Picture the scene. You’re at Kings Cross, boarding a train to Edinburgh. A large crowd is watching the departure signs. Finally, a platform number: platform 4. The crowd surges that way, and you’re among them. But once you’re through the ticket gates, most people board the train the other side, on platform 3. You get on the Edinburgh train, along with a number of others. And you sit watching platform 3 fill up. And you wonder. Did I get on the right train?

Let me tell you about a church I’ve got to know, and some of the pressures it faces.

Some people in the town really don’t like this particular church. They’ve had major aggravation from the town council, and from the media. There’s real hatred from a few, but sometimes that’s all it needs to sway public opinion.

It’s a tough place to be a Christian, but they’ve weathered it well. They’ve kept worshipping. “We’re Christians,” they say, “and that’s what we’ll remain however unpopular it makes us.”

On 26th July, a Roman Catholic priest named Jacques Hamel was murdered inside his church by violent Muslims. His funeral was attended by thousands. Since then, the British security services have issued fresh advice to English churches on counter-terrorism security.

From time to time in Britain, people who are preaching on the streets of Britain spend the night in police cells. What they were doing was perfectly legal, and they are eventually released without charge. But someone goaded them to say something that could be construed as hateful, and then the police are called.

Many of you will remember the experience of falling in love for the very first time. You can’t get enough of the other person. Their voice. Time with them. Everything’s wonderful. Your friends comment that you’ve got a fresh spring in your step, a smile on your face.

It’s wonderful. But there’s a problem. It rarely lasts. Not with that delightful, initial rosiness, the fire, the intensity.

Over time, things have cooled off. And those memories of first love are just that: memories.

“Who do you think you are to speak to me like that?”

I’m sure you find yourself thinking that from time to time. Someone asks you to do something, offers you some advice. It’s not entirely welcome. And then you start to think: “Who is this person who’s talking to me? Why should I do what they say? Do they even know me well enough to give me this advice, or to boss me around?” “Who do you think you are?”

The past few weeks have been bewildering. Since the referendum, never mind a week, it’s felt like an hour is a long time in politics. It’s been unsettling, driven by two questions we can’t easily answer. “Who’s in charge?” David Cameron, Nigel Farage, Roy Hodgson, Chris Evans, all resigning, and Jeremy Corbyn’s position looking uncertain. An alien invasion was easily thwarted the other week. They landed in Great Britain, and asked to be taken to our leader. “Who’s in charge?”

What is the first thought that comes into your head when I mention the book of Revelation? We’re going to be looking at it for the next few weeks, so I wonder how that makes you feel?

A few folk here have not been coming to church for long, and quite possibly you’ve never heard of Revelation, or you’ve heard of it but know very little about it. If that’s you, you’re in for a treat. It’s a fantastic book, as I’m about to show us.

Is there such a thing as an unforgivable sin?

It’s a dreadful thing to do something so bad that it could never be forgiven.

There are certain things that our society treats as unforgiveable. Certain forms of abuse. Specific crimes from years back. Things that will leave the offenders tarred forever, standing no chance of ever integrating back into society again.

But what about with God? Is there anything that is so awful God could never forgive it?