what's on
Sunday 16 August - AGM after the service
Wednesday 26 August - Young at Heart (10:30am)
Wednesday 26 August - Young at Heart (10:30am)
tenth sunday after pentecost (2 august)
The disciples had a perfectly reasonable plan. “Send the crowds away so they can buy food for themselves.” Measure the need, calculate the shortfall, and let the marketplace sort it out. Jesus will have none of it. “They need not go away,” He says. “You give them something to eat.”
With five loaves and two fish He ends the whole system of measuring, pricing, and scrambling. Moses could only manage complaints and temporary manna. Jesus takes the little that is offered, blesses it, and creates abundance. The wilderness becomes a place of free gift. In the kingdom of heaven nothing has a price.
This is no mere lesson in sharing, nor a clever sign pointing somewhere else. Christ is actually present in His word, feeding both body and soul. He cares about the belly that growls and the heart that doubts. He provides ordinary bread through farmers and parents, and He gives the living word that creates faith and never dies.
So come hungry. Come with your five loaves of inadequacy and your two fish of fear. Christ does not send you away to buy what you cannot afford. He takes what you have, multiplies it by pure promise, and satisfies you.
You are chosen. Christ is present. His Word is spoken over you. And that promise will never leave you hungry.
We Pray For:
† The church, that it may always speak the truth of Christ.
† Those who serve the church with their gifts: those who prophesy, those who serve, those who teach, those who encourage, those who give, those who lead, and those who show compassion.
† Those who persecute the church.
† The nations of the world and their rulers, that God's will may be done.
† Health and welfare institutions and personnel: doctors, nurses, hospitals, homes for the aged, carers, social services, administrators, social workers.
With five loaves and two fish He ends the whole system of measuring, pricing, and scrambling. Moses could only manage complaints and temporary manna. Jesus takes the little that is offered, blesses it, and creates abundance. The wilderness becomes a place of free gift. In the kingdom of heaven nothing has a price.
This is no mere lesson in sharing, nor a clever sign pointing somewhere else. Christ is actually present in His word, feeding both body and soul. He cares about the belly that growls and the heart that doubts. He provides ordinary bread through farmers and parents, and He gives the living word that creates faith and never dies.
So come hungry. Come with your five loaves of inadequacy and your two fish of fear. Christ does not send you away to buy what you cannot afford. He takes what you have, multiplies it by pure promise, and satisfies you.
You are chosen. Christ is present. His Word is spoken over you. And that promise will never leave you hungry.
We Pray For:
† The church, that it may always speak the truth of Christ.
† Those who serve the church with their gifts: those who prophesy, those who serve, those who teach, those who encourage, those who give, those who lead, and those who show compassion.
† Those who persecute the church.
† The nations of the world and their rulers, that God's will may be done.
† Health and welfare institutions and personnel: doctors, nurses, hospitals, homes for the aged, carers, social services, administrators, social workers.
eleventh sunday after pentecost (9 august)
Jesus does not ease the disciples into the storm. He compels them into the boat, dismisses the crowds, and leaves them to battle the wind and waves alone. Then, in the dead of night, he comes walking on the water. Without a word he is pure terror, a phantasm, a ghost, something divine and therefore deadly. The sight of Jesus Christ without his speaking is not comforting. It is the law made visible, and it drives them to cry out in fear.
Into that terror he speaks: “Fear not, it is I.” Not “try harder,” not “believe more strongly,” not even “come.” Just the pure promise. The word that creates what it declares. The absolution that unites rather than separates. This is the gospel that arrives near you, in your mouth and in your heart, exactly as Paul says in Romans 10. No climbing to heaven to drag Christ down. No descending into the depths to haul him up. He comes speaking.
Peter does what we all do. He answers a promise as though it were a question. “Lord, if it is you, command me…” The little word “if” turns gift into condition. He asks for law after the gospel has already been given. He wants Jesus as an example to imitate rather than as the sacrament who gives. So, he steps out, eyes fixed on the wind instead of the word, and the law does its proper work: fear rises, the conscience collapses, and he sinks.
Jesus reaches out and pulls him up, yet even then he does not soften the diagnosis. “O you of little faith, why did you doubt?” That is not gentle encouragement. It is the law’s final verdict on every attempt to turn the promise into a performance. Faith is not a power we muster while looking at the waves. Faith is created by hearing, and hearing comes only through the word that says, “Fear not, it is I.”
So, hear it again, without addition, without question, without a single thing for you to do: Fear not, it is I speaking to you. I have taken your sin. I forgive it entirely. Do not be afraid.
Into that terror he speaks: “Fear not, it is I.” Not “try harder,” not “believe more strongly,” not even “come.” Just the pure promise. The word that creates what it declares. The absolution that unites rather than separates. This is the gospel that arrives near you, in your mouth and in your heart, exactly as Paul says in Romans 10. No climbing to heaven to drag Christ down. No descending into the depths to haul him up. He comes speaking.
Peter does what we all do. He answers a promise as though it were a question. “Lord, if it is you, command me…” The little word “if” turns gift into condition. He asks for law after the gospel has already been given. He wants Jesus as an example to imitate rather than as the sacrament who gives. So, he steps out, eyes fixed on the wind instead of the word, and the law does its proper work: fear rises, the conscience collapses, and he sinks.
Jesus reaches out and pulls him up, yet even then he does not soften the diagnosis. “O you of little faith, why did you doubt?” That is not gentle encouragement. It is the law’s final verdict on every attempt to turn the promise into a performance. Faith is not a power we muster while looking at the waves. Faith is created by hearing, and hearing comes only through the word that says, “Fear not, it is I.”
So, hear it again, without addition, without question, without a single thing for you to do: Fear not, it is I speaking to you. I have taken your sin. I forgive it entirely. Do not be afraid.
twelfth sunday after pentecost (16 august)
Jesus is not the gentle, always-affirming figure we so often invent. When a desperate Canaanite mother begs him for her demon-oppressed daughter, he first meets her with silence. Then he tells the disciples he was sent only to the lost sheep of Israel. Finally, he speaks the hard word of the law: “It is not right to take the children’s bread and throw it to the dogs.” No softening. No polite evasion.
The law draws a sharp line and leaves her on the wrong side of it.
Yet she does not try to negotiate a softer sentence or claim some hidden right under the covenant. She simply answers, “Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their master’s table.” By the Holy Spirit she hears the curse as a promise. The children’s bread—the inheritance of the kingdom—is so abundant that scraps of pure grace are already falling. She claims them by faith, and Jesus rejoices: “O woman, great is your faith! Be it done for you as you desire.”
We stand with her. Under the law we have no claim. We are outsiders, defiled, without rights, bearing our own burdens and the burdens of those we love. The law does not open a path for us; it condemns. Silence from God is terrible. A clear word of exclusion is worse. Yet the Spirit still creates faith that refuses to let the hard word remain only a curse.
The gospel is not a milder version of the law. It is the overflowing bread of the Father’s kingdom, given freely to those who have no right to it. Crumbs of mercy fall for the weary, the outsider, the one whose child or heart is oppressed. Faith clings to that gift and will not let it go.
So, hear the promise spoken over you today: the children’s bread is already falling. The gospel removes what oppresses and sets free. Be it done for you as you desire—pure gift, outside the law, for Jesus’ sake.
The law draws a sharp line and leaves her on the wrong side of it.
Yet she does not try to negotiate a softer sentence or claim some hidden right under the covenant. She simply answers, “Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their master’s table.” By the Holy Spirit she hears the curse as a promise. The children’s bread—the inheritance of the kingdom—is so abundant that scraps of pure grace are already falling. She claims them by faith, and Jesus rejoices: “O woman, great is your faith! Be it done for you as you desire.”
We stand with her. Under the law we have no claim. We are outsiders, defiled, without rights, bearing our own burdens and the burdens of those we love. The law does not open a path for us; it condemns. Silence from God is terrible. A clear word of exclusion is worse. Yet the Spirit still creates faith that refuses to let the hard word remain only a curse.
The gospel is not a milder version of the law. It is the overflowing bread of the Father’s kingdom, given freely to those who have no right to it. Crumbs of mercy fall for the weary, the outsider, the one whose child or heart is oppressed. Faith clings to that gift and will not let it go.
So, hear the promise spoken over you today: the children’s bread is already falling. The gospel removes what oppresses and sets free. Be it done for you as you desire—pure gift, outside the law, for Jesus’ sake.
Not by Flesh and Blood (23 august)
Jesus takes his disciples into pagan Caesarea Philippi and asks the only question that finally matters: “Who do you say that I am?” The crowds have their answers, John the Baptist, Elijah, Jeremiah, another prophet. Safe, religious, familiar. Peter speaks what flesh and blood cannot produce: “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.” It is not a decision he makes. It is a gift the Father places on his lips.
Jesus does not congratulate Peter on getting the title right. He blesses him. A blessing is the opposite of the curse the law lays on us when we fail. “Flesh and blood has not revealed this to you.” Left to ourselves we only ever want a Messiah who will rule by the law, the strong, just, successful king we think we need. Jesus will not be that king. The moment Peter tries to put him back under the law, the blessing turns to rebuke.
On this rock, this confession given from heaven, Christ builds his church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it. Then he gives the keys: whatever you bind on earth is bound in heaven; whatever you loose is loosed. The church is not Peter’s person, nor a chain of bishops, nor our decisions for Jesus. The church is the place where the word of absolution is spoken. That is the office that makes the church.
Hear it now. Your sins are forgiven. The Father has given you the same confession and placed the same keys in your hands, as parents, spouses, neighbours, workers. Use them. Speak the word that frees. The power is in that word, not in us, and the gates of hell shall not prevail.
Jesus does not congratulate Peter on getting the title right. He blesses him. A blessing is the opposite of the curse the law lays on us when we fail. “Flesh and blood has not revealed this to you.” Left to ourselves we only ever want a Messiah who will rule by the law, the strong, just, successful king we think we need. Jesus will not be that king. The moment Peter tries to put him back under the law, the blessing turns to rebuke.
On this rock, this confession given from heaven, Christ builds his church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it. Then he gives the keys: whatever you bind on earth is bound in heaven; whatever you loose is loosed. The church is not Peter’s person, nor a chain of bishops, nor our decisions for Jesus. The church is the place where the word of absolution is spoken. That is the office that makes the church.
Hear it now. Your sins are forgiven. The Father has given you the same confession and placed the same keys in your hands, as parents, spouses, neighbours, workers. Use them. Speak the word that frees. The power is in that word, not in us, and the gates of hell shall not prevail.
fourteenth sunday after pentecost (30 august)
Jesus drops a bombshell. From this moment he begins to show his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem, suffer many things, be killed, and on the third day be raised. Peter, fresh from his Spirit-given confession, takes him aside and rebukes him: “Far be it from you, Lord!” It is not just Peter speaking. Satan himself is using Peter’s mouth to try and talk the Messiah out of the cross. Jesus turns and answers with the binding key: “Get behind me, Satan.”
We so easily make the same mistake. We hear “take up your cross” and start manufacturing our own. We turn self-denial into a spiritual diet plan, a private struggle against desires, a monkish effort to prove we are serious. That is a fake cross. Jesus is not calling us to limit food, sleep or comfort so that we can feel worthy. He is linking himself to Isaiah 53. The suffering he announces is the taking on of the world’s iniquity. The law will find him clothed in our sin and kill him. That is the real cross.
To deny yourself, then, is not to manage your appetites. It is to disown the old self that still expects an inheritance by the law, status, reward, a place of honour in some restored kingdom. To take up the cross is to be put to death with him. This happens in baptism. Your old Adam is not improved or given a second chance; he is drowned. The only thing you feel is the dying. The new life is already given, though you do not yet see or feel it.
Yet the story does not end in death. The risen Lord comes to his frightened disciples with the first word of the new kingdom: “Peace be with you.” He comes with his preachers, with the promise of forgiveness spoken over you. You are not left trying to save your life. In Christ it has already been lost and found. The Son of Man has come. Your conscience is free.
We so easily make the same mistake. We hear “take up your cross” and start manufacturing our own. We turn self-denial into a spiritual diet plan, a private struggle against desires, a monkish effort to prove we are serious. That is a fake cross. Jesus is not calling us to limit food, sleep or comfort so that we can feel worthy. He is linking himself to Isaiah 53. The suffering he announces is the taking on of the world’s iniquity. The law will find him clothed in our sin and kill him. That is the real cross.
To deny yourself, then, is not to manage your appetites. It is to disown the old self that still expects an inheritance by the law, status, reward, a place of honour in some restored kingdom. To take up the cross is to be put to death with him. This happens in baptism. Your old Adam is not improved or given a second chance; he is drowned. The only thing you feel is the dying. The new life is already given, though you do not yet see or feel it.
Yet the story does not end in death. The risen Lord comes to his frightened disciples with the first word of the new kingdom: “Peace be with you.” He comes with his preachers, with the promise of forgiveness spoken over you. You are not left trying to save your life. In Christ it has already been lost and found. The Son of Man has come. Your conscience is free.