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John 13:31-35 – “Love One Another as I Have Loved You”

In our lectionary passage today (John 13:31-35) we hear very familiar words of Jesus: 

“A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.”

They are familiar, but we seldom read them in context.

In John 13 we find ourselves in the Upper Room. Jesus has washed his disciples feet, Judas has just left to betray Jesus, and the final hours of Jesus’ earthly life are unfolding. John’s Gospel is deliberately and often explicitly symbolic and so when John tells us in verse 30 that it was night we can read this both literally and symbolically. Darkness is falling around Jesus. 

In the shadow of farewell, with the weight of betrayal in the air, Jesus speaks not of fear, but of love. Not of escape, but of glory. “Love one another,” he says, “as I have loved you.” Reminding us that love is only truly love when it continues in times of darkness and difficulty.  

But this commandment to love is also a new commandment – it is not just a commandment to love in a polite and distant kind of way, it is a new commandment because it is a command to love as Jesus himself has loved them.  “A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another.”

As we see across all the Gospels, this is a love that transcends ego, clinging, and condition. It is not based on the worthiness of the other, nor on shared beliefs, nor even on affection. It flows from a different source, the wellspring of a deeper divine awareness. It is the space in which Jesus lives and breathes – he lives constantly in the Divine Awareness at the centre of his being. 

And so the love Jesus commands is not so much a striving, but a recognition.  It is to see the Eternal Divine I Am in all things and in all people. It is also to see this same Eternal Divine I Am dwelling in the depths of our own hearts.  As Jesus says to the Jewish leaders who are interrogating him a few chapters before in John 10:34 “Do your own scriptures not say that you are gods” (in other words, you are Divine, Divinity dwells within you).  Like Jesus, we too have been made to be expressions of the Divine Logos, the Divine Wisdom and Love that we see in the opening verses of John’s Gospel.

Jesus commandment to love one another as he has loved us is to to discover the Divine I Am dwelling within us, that flows up like a spring of water - welling up with eternal life love (John 4:14). 

And so to love like Jesus is to see the world and other people with the eyes of Christ, the eyes of Divine Love, to see everything as an expression of the Divine Logos through which all things are created and come into being, that Divine Logos which is a light that enlightens every person coming into the world, shining upon and shining within every person even thought they may live in ignorance of it. 

To love as Jesus has loved in John’s Gospel is also to be willing to take on the role of a servant, to be willing to identify with the least and the lowest, as Jesus does at the beginning of the chapter 13,when, even though he is the host of the meal, he takes off his outer garment and bends down to wash his disciples feet, even the feet of the enemy, Judas, the one he already knows is going to betray him. 

To love as Jesus has loved in John’s Gospel is also ultimately also to be willing to suffer in the cause of love as Jesus was willing to do in his crucifixion.  In John’s Gospel the Glory of Jesus is that even in his darkest hour he does not let himself be overcome by evil, but steadfastly continues to live in the awareness of Divine Love. 

And that connects us with verse 32 which comes just before Jesus gives the disciples his new commandment when Jesus says: “Now the Son of Man has been glorified, and God has been glorified in him”

What exactly does he mean when he says “Now the Son of Man has been glorified,”? 

As we have mentioned, Judas has just left. Betrayal has been set in motion. And yet, for Jesus, this is the hour of glory—not because suffering is good in itself, but because his love remains steadfast and unmoved and begins to shine brighter even in the face of betrayal. Glory, in John’s Gospel, is not splendour in the worldly sense, it is the shining forth of Divine Light through human vulnerability. It is the shining forth of Divine Love even as the depth of human darkness seems to be growing. This is the whole focus of John’s gospel: the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness cannot overcome it – we know how this story is going to end. 

In a world where it sometimes feels like darkness is growing again, where battle-lines are being drawn, where enemies are being more clearly defined we face a choice: Do we get drawn into the darkness, allowing ourselves to be overcome by it, allowing fear, darkness and hatred to creep into our own hearts and minds, narrowing our hearts and narrowing our love, or, do we hold onto the glory of Divine Love that shines unrelenting in the face of darkness and evil. 

When darkness descends this is the time for true Divine Love to begin to shine within them. 

Note how in our passage today in verse 33 Jesus addresses his disciples as “Little children.” It is a tender phrase. Not patronising, or condescending but intimate. On the one hand it might reminds us that the spiritual journey, is a return to childlike seeing, not childishness, but the openness of one who trusts the presence of God in all things. It is perhaps also an indication that the disciples still have some spiritual growing to do. 

Jesus is leaving them, at least in physical form, but not in truth or in spirit. The whole of the Farewell Discourse of John’s Gospel from chapter 13-17 is an invitation to move into a new kind of relationship with Jesus. “I will not leave you orphaned,” he will later say. “Abide in me as I abide in you.” The spiritual path is to realise that Christ is not elsewhere, but can be discovered here and now, in the heart of the one who abides in Christ-like love. 

But what is one to make of the words that follow on in verse 33 “Where I am going, you cannot come”? It sounds a little exclusionary.  But in verse 36 we see that Jesus is speaking of a lack of readiness. “Where I am going, you cannot follow now, but you will follow later.” (John 13:36). Where Jesus is going, is not so much a place, but rather a state of being. They may not be ready to enter fully into that state of being now, but one day they will.  They are still like children on the spiritual path. They are only just beginning to learn the path of Christ-like love.  

They may not be ready yet to truly love as Jesus loves, but the path of transformation will open to them, as they abide in Christ, as they practice his way, and as the Spirit awakens them to the Christ within.  For such love is not ours to produce. It is already present. It is the very energy of God at the heart of being. To “love as I have loved you” is to awaken to the truth that there is only One Love, and it lives in and through all.  

The Sufi poet Rumi once wrote: “Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.”

And so this commandment should comes to us, not as a burden, but as an invitation to live from the centre, from that place where Christ and the soul are not two, but one. As Jesus will say later in John’s Gospel – “On that day you will know that I am in you and you are in me.”  (John 14:20)

But for now, like little children who are still learning and who falter, fail and fall, like the disciples, we practice this way of Christ-like Love – and above all things we practice the art of abiding or resting in Christ for it is in abiding or resting in Christ that the fruit of Divine Love will begin to grow in our lives.  Amen.

John 10:22–30 – Dedication of the Inner Temple (Oneness with Source/Father)

Today’s Gospel reading brings us into a moment of tension and revelation. Jesus is walking in the temple during the festival of Dedication (Hanukkah),when some Jewish religious leaders surround him and ask, “If you are the Messiah, tell us plainly.”

They want a clear, black-and-white answer. But Jesus, as he so often does in John’s Gospel, doesn’t give them what they expect. Instead, he points to something deeper, something that goes beyond words or titles. He says, “I have told you, and you do not believe... My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me.”

In other words, those who are truly listening, those who are open-hearted and ‘attuned’, alert or aware, already know. They’ve seen it in his actions, they’ve felt it in his presence, they’ve recognized it in their hearts. It’s not about figuring it out in your head, it’s about hearing and responding from the heart.

And then Jesus says something truly profound: “I and the Father are one.” John 10 is not merely a debate about messiahship; it is a deeper unveiling of union, between Jesus and the Father, and ultimately, between the Divine and those who “hear his voice.” 

And so this statement is not just a theological statement about who Jesus is. It comes as an invitation to see the deeper reality of all things. John’s Gospel is full of this kind of language from the very beginning, when we’re told that the Word was with God, and the Word was God, and that Word became flesh and dwelt among us.

John isn’t just telling us stories about Jesus. In the writing of his gospel, he’s trying to open our eyes to something bigger, that God is not far away, but right here, right now. That divine presence is woven into the fabric of life. Yes, Jesus shows us the face of God, “If you have seen me you have seen the Father” (14:9). but he also shows us the true face of humanity: “Don’t your own scriptures tell you ‘You are gods’” he says to them just a few verses later in vs 34. His unity with the Father is meant to draw us into that same unity – As Jesus says in John 14:20 “On that day you will realize that I am in my Father, and you are in me, and I am in you.”

The mystics across many traditions, Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, have spoken of this same deep truth: that underneath all our differences, there is a single divine reality, and we are all part of it. Some call it the perennial wisdom, the understanding that the heart of all spiritual paths leads to the same place: to love, to union, to the realization that we are never truly separate from God.

When Jesus says, “My sheep hear my voice,” he’s not just talking about a chosen few. He’s speaking of anyone, who is willing to listen with the ears of the heart. And when he says, “No one will snatch them out of my hand,” it’s a promise of deep spiritual safety. That whatever storms we go through, whatever doubts we wrestle with, we are held. We belong. But we will not truly know these things until we listen deeply with the ears of the heart. 

In verse 26 when he says to his questioners “you do not believe because you are not my sheep”. It is important to note that this is not exclusionary; rather it is descriptive of interior disposition. To “belong” is to be attuned, to be receptive to the voice of the Shepherd, which calls from beyond our egoic thinking into presence.  At this point they are unable to respond to the One who is their true shepherd because they are not listening deeply enough with the ears of their hearts.  They are still listening to and being defined by the voice of the ego in their heads.  They do not yet know their Oneness with God. They have not yet been able to intuit this deeper truth. 

The Feast of Dedication, or Hanukkah, is not an insignificant detail in the story. It commemorates the rededication of the Second Temple in Jerusalem around 164 BCE after it was defiled by foreign rule during the time of the Maccabean Revolt. The temple, once desecrated, was purified and rededicated to the worship of the God of Israel. In our passage today, the listeners are being invited into the deeper meaning of Hannukkah,  the cleansing of the heart and the rededication of the heart as the true inner Temple where the Divine dwells within each of us. 

So perhaps the question for us today is not, “Do we understand it all?” or “Can we explain who Jesus is?” Maybe the better question is, ‘Are we listening deeply’? Are we attuned to that still, small voice, the voice of the Good Shepherd, that calls us beyond fear and division and into deeper trust? 
At the end of our passage Jesus says, “I and the Father are one.” And in a very real way, so are we. And not just us but every human being even if this deeper truth has been obscured and hidden.  We are not alone. We are part of something greater than ours small egoic selves tell us. We are held in love, grounded in being, and if we are listening deeply, guided by the voice of the Shepherd.

In verse 28 we read these words of reassurance: “No one will snatch them out of my hand...” Here we glimpse the security of our spiritual belonging. For those who have awakened to the Divine within and beyond, there is a deep knowing that cannot be undone by external circumstance. It is the deep realisation of the divinity within us that is never separate from its Source.

And so to reflect on John 10:22–30, then, is to be invited into the heart of the Christian mystical tradition, which proclaims, that the goal of spiritual life is not belief with our heads alone, but rather a deeper union of the heart, a deeper inner knowing of the Divine from within that transforms how we see God, ourselves, and the world.

As we meditate on this Gospel passage, perhaps we can hear the voice of the Shepherd not as a voice from outside, but as the inner voice of love and truth, calling us beyond fear, beyond separation, and into the freedom and security of the One in whom we live and move and have our being.  Amen.

​Prayer - 
O Holy One, Over all, in all and through all, whom we have encountered in the face of Jesus, may we listen deeply to hear the voice of the Shepherd within, as the inner voice of love and truth, inviting us to rededicate our hearts as Temples of the Divine, calling us beyond fear, and beyond separation into a deeper knowledge of our own Oneness with you in whom we live and move and have our being and the deep inner knowing that nothing can ever snatch us away from Your hands. Amen.

"What is a Non-Subscribing Presbyterian approach to Communion?"

Friends, today as we gather around the communion table, I would like to explore a Non-Subscribing Presbyterian approach to Holy Communion, in light of our Ethos and Constitution.

Now it’s important to say from the outset that it is not easy to give a single definitive view on communion from a Non-Subscribing Presbyterian perspective. That’s not due to uncertainty or a lack of reverence, but because one of the core convictions of our church is this: the right of private judgement and individual conscience in matters of faith.

Within the Non-Subscribing Presbyterian Church of Ireland, there is room for different understandings, personal interpretations, and diverse experiences of this sacred meal. There is no single dogmatic statement that defines how each one of us must understand or approach communion.

To help us each discern for ourselves our own understandings of communion it is perhaps helpful to briefly consider how other Christian traditions view communion.

In Roman Catholicism, for instance, communion—or the Holy Mass—is seen as a literal transformation of the bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ (called transubstantiation). The sacrifice of christ 2000 years ago is said to be made present in the here and now under the guise of bread and wine. Outwardly the elements may look like Bread and Wine but in truth they are now the body and blood of Christ. They would say that when Jesus instituted communion at the last supper he didn’t say: “this is a symbol of my body… this is a symbol of my blood”, but rather “this is my body” “this is my blood”. Some High Anglicans hold the same view.

But for Lutherans and some other Anglicans, there is slightly different understanding - a belief in a real spiritual presence of Christ in the elements of Bread and Wine. However, the bread remains bread and the wine remains wine but they have now been infused or energised with the Real Presence of Christ.


But still other Anglicans would hold the view of the Reformer John Calvin who believed that Christ is truly present in Communion but not connected specifically to the Bread and the Wine.

Other Reformed traditions emphasize communion simply as a memorial; a remembering—a powerful reminder of Christ's death and resurrection, a symbol of grace rather than a mystical event, an act of sacred remembering.

This would also be the view of most Unitarians. A sacred remembering. But while most traditions would emphasize the atoning death of Christ, a sacrifice for sin, Unitarians would emphasize communion as a remembering of Christ’s shared love around a table and the supreme example of his life of sacrificial love.

And then the question arises: Who can receive communion?

In the Roman Catholic Church, only those who are baptised members of the Roman Catholic Church in good standing are permitted to receive Communion – only those who have been taught to recognise that the Bread and Wine are no longer just bread and wine, but are now the actual Body and Blood of Christ under the outward form of Bread and Wine. This is in part to ensure that due reverence is paid. That is why preparing for first communion is so important in the Roman Catholic Church – to ensure that children show due reverence and have a correct understanding that the bread is no longer bread and the wine is no longer wine but rather, the actual body and blood of Christ.
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Up until the ecumenical movement of the 1960’s most denominations would have had some kind of exclusionary approach to communion. Only baptised members in good standing in the denomination could receive communion. So for example only baptised Anglicans in good standing could receive communion in an Anglican Church. Only baptised Lutherans in good standing could receive in a Lutheran church. Etc... But in more recent decades that has loosened up – now many mainline Protestant churches would say you can receive communion as a visitor if you are a baptised member in good standing in your own denomination.
In many evangelical traditions there are also further restrictions; communion in Evangelical traditions also often serve as a test of worthiness, with a strong exclusionary tone—those who are not "right with God" are encouraged not to partake until they have repented or conformed to particular beliefs.

Having considered briefly how other Christian traditions might understand communion, what might a Non-Subscribing Presbyterian approach to communion be that is grounded in our ethos as enshrined in our Constitution?

Firstly, Non-Subscribers tend to focus on the teachings of Jesus over and above the teachings about Jesus. Whatever else Communion is about it should over and above everything else connect us with the teachings and the way of Jesus. If there is a conflict or discrepancy for example between the teaching of Jesus and the teaching of St Paul, our obligation is to follow Jesus.

Secondly Non-Subscribers focus on the inalienable right of private judgement—the right of each person to interpret Scripture and respond according to their own conscience. There is room for differences of opinion in understanding exactly what is happening is communion… of how Christ is present – or even not present if that is what one believes. Most non-subscribers have probably over the centuries understood Communion more along the lines of a simple memorial, but there is room in the NSPCI for those who might have a more mystical view of communion. If in Ephesians, the writer speaks Christ’s presence now filling the whole universe there is room for those who might affirm and believe that Christ is truly present in the bread and the wine. There is room for each of us to come to our own conclusions on these things. At the very least it might be said that Christ is present where two or three gather in his name and break bread to remember him. But some Unitarians who emphasize the humanity of Jesus over his divinity might question that interpretation… For unitarains it is the shared experience of love around the table that reminds us of the spirit in which Jesus lived and loved… and there is room for all of these perspectives in the NSPCI.

Thirdly Non-Subscribers have tended to emphasize the supremacy of love—both as a key attribute of God and as the mark of true discipleship (John 13:35). In this regard Non-Subscribers have tended to emphasize the boundless grace of God, as shown in the parable of the Prodigal Son – where the wayward prodigal was welcomed in and included in the celebratory meal of his return home. The older brother however has excluded himself from the celebratory meal of his brothers return and in response the Father leaves the celebratory meal to invite to urge and to encourage the older brother to join them.

Fourthly Non-Subscribers have tended to emphasize the call to do the will of God, not merely to profess faith with our lips (Matthew 7:21)… ‘You will know they are Christians, not by what they profess to believe, not by how well they know their Bible’s or how many verses they have memorised. Rather, you will know them by their love. Jesus said, “By this shall all know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” (John 13:35)

And so these broad principles form a kind of spiritual compass for how we might approach communion—not with fear or obligation, but with love, reflection, and a deep reverence for the teachings of Christ.

We remember that Jesus welcomed all to his table: the faithful and the faltering, the confused and the confident. He broke bread with those who would soon deny him, betray him, and abandon him – Luke’s Gospel emphasizes that the hand of the betrayer was with Jesus at the table at the Last Supper. His invitation was an act of radical grace extended to all.

It is for this reason that Non-Subscribing Presbyterians as well as Methodists together with Unitarains are among the few traditions who practice what is called an Open Table. All are invited to partake without restriction whether baptised or un-baptised, whether worthy or unworthy – for both Communion is an expression of unearned grace, of God’s love freely extended to all without exceptions.

And so we believe that communion is not a reward for the righteous, but a reminder of grace for the seeking. It is not a test of doctrinal agreement, but a shared experience of Christ’s love, and a moment of spiritual nourishment. It is not a sacrament fenced off by dogma, but a shared meal open to all who seek to walk in the spirit and love of Jesus.

In the parable of the Prodigal Son, we see the heart of the God whom Jesus reveals: a God who runs to meet the lost, who rejoices over their return, who throws a feast not as a prize for perfection but as a celebration of reconciliation. The lost son has come home.

At this table, no matter who we are or whatever our understanding, we too are invited to come home. To come home to love. It is here, in bread and wine, that in remembering Jesus we enact a simple truth: we are loved, we are welcome, we belong. Amen.

Triumphal Entry of Love & Peace-  Luke 19:28–40

We gather today on the threshold of Holy Week, a time when the great archetypal drama of descent, death, and resurrection unfolds once more — not only in the story of Jesus, but in the landscape of our own souls. Palm Sunday begins this journey with paradox: a triumphant procession of a king, yet one who comes in humility the name of peace and love.

This morning’s Gospel reading from Luke 19:28 - 40 offers us the familiar scene of Jesus entering Jerusalem, welcomed by crowds with shouts of joy. But Luke’s version is subtle, distinctive, and with its own nuance. If we pause and look closely, we may find that this is not just a story about the past — it’s a parable for our times.

Interestingly, unlike Matthew and Mark, Luke does not mention palms, nor does he refer to the people shouting “Hosanna.” Instead, the people shout, “Peace in heaven, and glory in the highest heaven!” an echo of the angelic chorus at Jesus’ birth earlier in Luke’s Gospel (Luke 2:14). Peace at the beginning. Peace at the end.

This is one of Luke’s key perspectives. His Gospel, more than the others, highlights Jesus as a prophet of peace and inclusion — someone who consistently uplifts the poor, welcomes outsiders, and critiques the powerful with both compassion and clarity.

Only Luke tells the story of the Good Samaritan the despised outsider who reaches out compassionately across the ethnic and sectarian divide
Only Luke includes the Magnificat, Mary’s song proclaiming that the proud will be scattered and the lowly lifted.  
Only Luke gives us the story of Zacchaeus, the rich man who climbs a tree to see Jesus and then gives almost all of his wealth away.

And so when Jesus rides into Jerusalem in Luke’s Gospel, he is not a warrior Messiah nor a celebrity preacher. He is a messenger and a bringer of peace. He comes not on a war horse, but on a borrowed colt – he does not even own the donkey he is riding. He comes not to dominate, but to demonstrate a different kind of power — the power of humility, of solidarity, of love in action.

In exploring this passage, it helps to remember the context. This was the time of Passover — a festival that recalled the ancient liberation of the Hebrews from the oppressive Egyptian Empire that held them as slaves. But in Jesus day they were once again a captured people – dominated and oppressed, but this time by Rome. Passover was therefore had very real political overtones. Revolutionary fervor ran high as many longed for freedom and a new liberation from their oppressors.  

Marcus Borg a biblical scholar tells us that in this volatile situation in Jerusalem at the time of Passover, in a dramatic display of Roman power and authority, Pontius Pilate, the Roman Governor,  would have processed into Jerusalem from the west with all the pomp and ceremony of a Roman military parade, banners flying, soldiers armed, and imperial power on full display with an increased military presence to quell any potential rebellions.  By contrast, Jesus enters Jerusalem from the east in a very different procession riding on a humble colt. 

Marcus Borg suggests that this stark contrast was not accidental. Jesus’ entry is a counter-procession, a kind of street theatre, one that draws on Jewish prophetic tradition as Jesus enacts a different way of being in the world – a procession of peace not through power and the sword, but a procession for peace through humility, integrity, solidarity and love.  He was inviting his own people to put aside the way of revolutionary violence that would only bring upon itself more violence and to walk a different path a revolution of integrity and love. 

As we explore Luke’s narrative we see that it is rich with references to the Hebrew Scriptures:

- The choice of a colt “on which no one has ever sat” (v. 30) echoes the purity laws for sacred use in Numbers and Deuteronomy. This is no ordinary animal. It’s a symbol of something new and pure, something set apart. Jesus enacts and embodies a deeper meaning of purity – the heart that refuses the way of violence and domination.  Another interesting interpretation of the donkey is the it represents our animal nature that has been tamed and purified and put in the service of a greater cause. 

- This image of a humble king riding on a donkey comes directly from Zechariah 9:9  
  “Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion! Lo, your king comes to you; triumphant and victorious is he, humble and riding on a donkey…”

But here’s what comes next in Zechariah:     “…He shall command peace to the nations; his dominion shall be from sea to sea.” 

For Zachariah, the one who comes in humility is the one who brings peace — not through force or violence, but through inner strength, through divine-centered action, integrity, selflessness, suffering love.

- And in Luke’s version of the story when the people shout, “Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!”, they are quoting Psalm 118, a festival psalm traditionally sung at the gates of Jerusalem. It was a welcome given to pilgrims, but now offered to Jesus, the peasant rabbi, who turns their expectations inside out.

Luke ends this passage with a curious moment. Some religious Pharisees tell Jesus to rebuke his disciples. Perhaps they fear that such bold acclamations will stir political unrest. Perhaps they fear Jesus influence over the people.

But Jesus answers: “I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would cry out.”

His words are not just poetic, but also deeply prophetic. In the Hebrew Scriptures, stones often symbolize both ‘witness’ and ‘judgment’. For example, the prophet Habakkuk once wrote:   “The very stones will cry out from the wall, and the beams of the woodwork will echo it.” (Habakkuk 2:11).  What Habakkuk is pointing to is that injustice cannot be hidden forever. The earth itself testifies when peace is denied and truth is silenced. Even creation longs for liberation. As St Paul writes in Romans: “...the whole creation groans as in the pains of child-birth… in anticipation and hope for the coming renewal and the coming glory of the children of God.”  (Romans 8:18-22).

So what does all this mean for us? 

Palm Sunday invites us to ask:  What kind of procession are we part of?

Are we caught up in the noisy parades of ego, spectacle, and power?  Or are we following the quiet path of peace, the one that challenges the injustices of this world without violence, that chooses humility over dominance, compassion over coercive control?

In a world still marked by militarism, injustice, and exclusion, the message of Palm Sunday is as relevant as ever. It is the quiet revolution of love that moves gently, yet decisively, through the hearts of those who refuse to play by the rules of empire and domination.

But this is not just a drama that plays out in the external world. In Luke’s Gospel, Jesus reminds us that the Kingdom of God is within, a the Kingdom of the Heart. If we are to be bearers of peace and love in the world, the drama of Jesus processing into Jerusalem also needs to play out within each of us as well. 

We are invited to allow Christ the humble messenger of peace to enter the city gates of our own being, to lay down our cloaks — our identities, our certainties, our ego masks — and to walk with him the path of humility, self-knowledge, integrity compassion and suffering love. 

In Luke’s Gospel, Jesus weeps over Jerusalem just after this passage. He laments that they “did not recognize the time of their visitation” — the moment when the Divine drew near in gentle humility. May we not make the same mistake.

The path ahead leads through suffering, but also through surrender, and finally, to new life.

So let us open the gates — of the city, and of the soul — and welcome the One who comes in the name of Love and Peace.

John 8:1-11 - Throwing Stones & the Mirror of Conscience

The story of the woman caught in adultery in John 8 is, I believe, more than just an episode in the life of Jesus; it is a timeless parable of the human condition and the divine response inviting us to reflect on universal spiritual truths. 

As we explore the story in the context of John’s Gospel, we find the story is set in the midst the Festival of Booths, a time when the Jewish people commemorated their journey through the wilderness and celebrated God’s providence. It was a festival of light and water, reminding them of God’s guidance through the desert and provision from the rock.  

Amid this celebration and a time of revelry in Jerusalem, with people longing for light to dispel their darkness, the religious leaders bring a woman caught in adultery before Jesus. Their intention is clearly not justice, otherwise they would have brought the man along with the women. Instead their intention is entrapment. They wish to trap Jesus, pouncing on the more vulnerable woman as bait for the trap, and using the law as a weapon rather than a guide to righteousness. 

On the surface, this story is about judgment and mercy, law and grace. But I believe that beneath those themes lies an even deeper spiritual truth. In what is sometimes called ‘the Perennial Philosophy’—the wisdom that unites and lies at the heart of all the deeper spiritual traditions—this story speaks of the universal human tendency to condemn others to avoid confronting our own inner darkness.  

The accusers represent the ego, that part of us that asserts superiority through judgment and condemnation. The woman on the other hand represents the vulnerable soul—caught, exposed, and shamed. And Jesus represents the awakened consciousness, that mostly lies hidden within every person, that sees through illusion seeing with deeper understanding and wisdom and which calls forth a deeper truth.  

In response to being confronted by the women’s angry accusers, Jesus stops, bends down and begins to write in the sand. In doing so, as Jesus stoops to write on the ground, he is not merely buying time or ignoring the crowd. He is I believe, grounding himself in silence and presence—reminding us that wisdom emerges from stillness, not reaction. 

This past week, I received what came across as a heated and an angry email. It was quite overwhelming with certain words capitalised which gave the effect of feeling a little like I was being shouted at over email.  I should add that it had nothing to do with either Dromore or Banbridge but rather a wider Presbytery and denominational issue. My initial feeling was to get into reactive mode and I realised that I needed to take a step back a breathe a little so that I could respond, not out of emotion, but with a clear head with some deeper understanding. 

 In all the deeper spiritual traditions, silence is often seen as the doorway to truth. In that moment of writing on the earth, Jesus grounds himself, finds his center, and in doing so embodies the still point where reaction and judgment ceases and where clarity, awareness and insight begins to dawn.  

The words Jesus finally speaks, “Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone”, are not a rejection of justice or righteousness but an invitation to self-knowledge. Jesus, in effect, holds up a mirror to the accusers, inviting them to see their own participation in the brokenness of the world.  It is a truth that St Paul expresses in a different way when he says in Romans 3:23 “For all have sinned, and fallen short of the glory of God”. We all have our failings and weaknesses, but when we stand ready to hurl condemnatory stones at others we tend to weigh up another’s weakness against our own strengths conventiently forgetting those places where we too fall short. 

In response to Jesus invitation for those without sin to throw the first stone, one by one, the accusers leave, confronted not by Jesus but by the light of their own conscience – the light of God within them that they had failed to access. This is the deeper spiritual insight: transformation begins not by condemning others but by confronting our own illusions. The ego wants to project its darkness outward, but the soul must reclaim that darkness, to own it, acknowledge it in ourselves, and to allow it to be transformed by the light of Divine love that is our truer and deeper nature.  

As the story unfolds, when the woman is left standing alone with Jesus, he asks her, “Where are they? Has no one condemned you?” And she replies, “No one, sir.”  And Jesus responds, “Neither do I condemn you. Go your way, and from now on do not sin again.”  

Notice the profound truth here: grace precedes transformation. Jesus does not first demand that she change and then offer forgiveness. He forgives her without condition, inviting her to let go of the false self that seeks fulfilment in all the wrong places and to awaken to a new way of being.  In the book of Romans, St Paul expresses this truth in a different way when he says: “Christ died for us, while we were  yet sinners”. And earlier in John’s Gospel the writer of John has Jesus say:  “For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him.”John 3:17. Divine grace precedes transformation. 

Interpreting the story from this perspective, Jesus embodies the divine awareness that sees through the illusion of separateness. In this story, the woman and her accusers are not fundamentally different—they are all caught in the web of ignorance, clinging to judgment and shame. The awakened heart sees beyond those divisions and knows that condemnation only deepens separation.  

And so this story challenges us to see ourselves in both the woman and her accusers. Even though we may struggle to admit it, both live inside of us. The perennial wisdom calls us to examine where we still hold stones of judgment, where we project our darkness onto others rather than owning it within ourselves. But in addition to the woman and her accusers who dwell as hidden parts of ourselves, sometimes denied and sometimes expressed, the awakened consciousness of Christ that embraces both without condemnation, is also present within each of us

Lent is a season to awaken to the truth that divine grace is already present, waiting for us to see through our illusions and receive it. As we drop our stones of condemnation, we find that we, too, are forgiven and set free. In that realization, the inner light of true wisdom and compassion can shine forth—just as Jesus declared immediately after this story: “I am the light of the world” (John 8:12).  John O’Donohue writes  “The soul redeems and transfigures everything because the soul is the divine space.” - the place from which the Light of God shines forth. 

To live from this light means letting go of the ego’s need to condemn and embracing the soul’s capacity for true insight, wisdom, love and forgiveness. 

It means recognizing that every act of condemnation and judgment is rooted in fear and every act of true wisdom is rooted in Divine Love.  

In this Lenten season, as next time we find ourselves ready to pick up stones to entrap, accuse and condemn,  may we gently question our quick judgments and blanket condemnations, that we might open ourselves to receive grace, and become bearers of the light that awakens and transforms.  

Amen.

Mother’s Day Reflection on Mary, Mother of Jesus

Today is Mother’s Day in the UK. Or Mothering Sunday as it is more traditionally called here. It’s a day when we say thank you to our mothers, grandmothers, and anyone who loves and cares for us like a mother. Also a day to get in touch with that mothering spirit that resides in every heart as a gift from God, that spirit within each of us that would nurture, care and protect.  And today, I would to take us on a little journey through the life of Mary, the Mother of Jesus glimpsing her life through the Gospels as we reflect on the many dimensions of motherhood, its joys, its sorrows, and its profound mysteries.

1. We begin with the Annunciation, the call to Motherhood, (Luke 1:26-38) where according to he story the angel Gabriel comes to Mary with astonishing news: she will bear a son who will be called the Son of the Most High. 

This moment reminds us that motherhood often begins with a call, sometimes unexpected, sometimes overwhelming, always life-changing. Mary’s response, “Let it be done to me according to your word”, speaks to the courage and trust that so many mothers embody. They step into an unknown future, saying yes to a love that will shape their lives forever.

2. Next, we reflect on the visitation, the power of support and sisterhood (Luke 1:39-56). After receiving her calling, Mary travels to see her cousin Elizabeth. This beautiful encounter reminds us that motherhood is never meant to be walked alone. Mary and Elizabeth rejoice together, sharing their awe and uncertainty. Here, we see the importance of support, how mothers lean on one another, finding strength in community.

3. From there the Gospel story takes us to the moment of birth, the labour of love (Luke 2:1-20). The birth of Jesus is a moment of joy and exhaustion, of wonder and vulnerability. We can picture Mary in a stable, difficult circumstances, as she holds her newborn son, pondering all these things in her heart. Most mothers would know this feeling, the awe of new life, the fierce desire to protect, the exhaustion of sleepless nights. 

In the simple, sacred act of holding her child, Mary reflects the universal experience of motherhood: love poured out in tenderness and sacrifice. A mothers love that makes do even in the most difficult of circumstances. 

4. Next, as Mary and Joseph take Jesus to the Temple to present him before God (Luke 2:22-35), the prophecy of Simeon is a reminder that motherhood and parenthood will never be an easy journey. There will be joy, but there will also be moments of profound worry and concern that sometimes might feel like a sword piercing the soul. But the presentation in the temple is also a reminder that our children ultimately belong to God. Mothers and parents are temporary caretakers. God is the ultimate guardian of our children's souls.  And as we are reminded by St Paul , there is nothing in all creation that can separate them from God's parental love made known in Jesus.

5. As Jesus grows a little older we witness something of the worry and panic of motherhood (Luke 2:41-50).  When Jesus is twelve, he goes missing during a trip to Jerusalem. Mary and Joseph search frantically for three days before finding him in the temple. Relief, frustration, and worry all mix together as Mary asks, “Why did you do this to us?”

I imagine that many Mothers have experienced something of the panic turned to relief of Mary in this passage…. Being a mother is clearly not for the faint hearted. 

6. Fast forward to early adulthood we see the power of a mother’s influence. (John 2:1-12)

At the wedding at Cana, Mary notices a need, “They have no wine”, and she brings it to Jesus. Even as an adult, Jesus listens to his mother’s urging. This moment reminds us of the quiet but profound influence mothers have. They see needs others overlook, encourage potential before it is realized, and call forth the best in their children.

7. Next we witness the protective love of a mother (Mark 3:31-35).  As Jesus begins his ministry, his family becomes concerned. People are saying strange things about him, and Mary wonders if he’s okay. She and his brothers go looking for him, hoping to bring him home. But when they arrive, Jesus says something surprising: “Who are my mother and my brothers? Those who do God’s will are my family.”

As we enter the story, we can imagine it must have been hard for Mary to hear those words, yet they’re a reminder that mothering love sometimes means letting go and allowing our loved ones to follow their own path, a recognition that our children don’t belong to us, they are part of a bigger and wider human family.

8. Next, at the cross we see a mother’s suffering and love (John 19:25-27).  Perhaps the most poignant moment of all, Mary stands at the foot of the cross, watching her son suffer. Here, we see the deepest truth of motherhood, the willingness to bear pain alongside the one you love. Mary does not turn away; she remains present. Her presence speaks of a love that does not abandon, even in suffering.

9. Lastly, a mother’s love remains devoted to the end. (Acts 1:14) After Jesus’ resurrection, Mary is found among the disciples, praying as they await the coming of the Spirit.

This final image reminds us that motherhood does not end, it evolves. Mothers become companions in faith, wise counsellors, steady presences even as children grow. Mary remains part of the story, just as mothers remain anchors in the lives of their children.

The Promise of a Mother’s Love - A Closing Reflection 

A mother’s love is one of the strongest forces in the world. You only need to witness the fierceness of animal mother’s protecting and defending their young. From the moment a mother carries her child, through every joy and sorrow, a mother’s heart beats with devotion. We have seen this in Mary’s life, how she said yes, welcoming Jesus with love before he was even born, how she watched over him as a child, stood by him in his ministry, and remained with him even at the cross.

Mary’s love for Jesus is a reflection of something even greater, the unshakable love of God. Just as Mary never abandoned her son, God never abandons us. Just as Mary treasured Jesus’ life in her heart, God treasures each of us as beloved children.

St. Paul reminds us in Romans that nothing, nothing in life or in death, no power on earth or in heaven, can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus. God’s love holds us in joy and carries us through suffering. Like Mary, who stayed faithful through everything, God’s love stays with us no matter where we go or what we face.
This is the promise of a mother’s love. And this is the even greater promise of God’s love, a love that will never let us go.

Luke 13:1-9   Second Chances and Fresh Starts 

I’d like to begin with a question: Have you ever found yourself asking, “Why do bad things happen to good people?” It is one of the oldest and most difficult questions we face as human beings. When we see tragedy strike, we often look for reasons—was it their fault? Was it random? Could it have been prevented? Was it some kind of Divine retribution – a punishment from God?

This impulse to interpret tragedy as divine punishment is not new. When disasters strike, people of faith have often looked for moral or spiritual explanations. Take, for example, the sinking of the Titanic in 1912. Many saw it as a judgment on human arrogance and pride— the so-called “unsinkable” ship, ‘unsinkable even by God’ according to one White Star employee, was lost on its maiden voyage. In fact some preachers at the time claimed it was divine retribution for society’s increasing materialism. More recently, disasters like Hurricane Katrina or the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami have been interpreted by some as acts of divine punishment for societal failings.  

This way of thinking mirrors the mindset of those who came to Jesus in Luke 13. In this passage, Jesus is confronted with news of two tragic events. First, Pilate has ordered the slaughter of some Galileans, mingling their blood with their sacrifices. Second, a tower in Siloam has collapsed, killing eighteen people. The people questioning Jesus seem to assume that these victims must have done something wrong to deserve such fates. Jesus challenges this assumption, saying, “Do you think they were worse sinners than all the others?” He answers his own question: “No.” But then he adds something striking: “Unless you repent, you will all likewise perish.” He follows this with a parable of a fig tree that has not borne fruit for three years. The owner wants to cut it down, but the gardener pleads for one more year of care and nourishment to help it flourish.

Luke’s Gospel often emphasizes the themes of repentance, grace, and the urgency of transformation. This passage falls in a section of Luke where Jesus is journeying toward Jerusalem, teaching the crowds about the nature of God’s kingdom. Just before this, Jesus has spoken about the need for discernment in reading the signs of the times (Luke 12:54-56) and the call to be prepared (Luke 12:35-40). This passage continues that theme, urging people not to be complacent about their spiritual growth.

Historically, the references in this passage would have resonated deeply with Jesus’ audience. Pilate was a brutal governor known for his violent suppression of uprisings. His slaughter of the Galileans was likely part of Rome’s wider effort to crush dissent. The collapse of the tower of Siloam, on the other hand, appears to have been an accident—one of those random tragedies that strike without warning. But Jesus rejects the idea that these events were divine punishment. Instead, he shifts the focus: Rather than speculating about the sins of others, look at your own life. Are you living fully? Are you bearing the fruit of love, justice, and compassion? Are your current attitudes and actions leading you on a trajectory towards greater wholeness and harmony of life or are they leading one towards suffering for oneself and others?  What Jesus is pointing to I believe is more about the law of consequence than Divine retribution.

Turning to the parable of the fig tree, in the Old Testament, the fig tree is often used as a symbol for Israel and its spiritual condition. The prophets frequently depicted Israel as a vineyard or a fig tree that was meant to bear fruit but had instead become barren due to unfaithfulness (Jeremiah 8:13, Hosea 9:10, Micah 7:1). In this context, Jesus’ parable of the fig tree takes on a deeper meaning. It is not just about an individual’s need for transformation, but also a warning to Israel as a whole. Just as the fig tree is given one last chance to bear fruit before being cut down, so too is Israel being given an opportunity to turn back to God and live in alignment with divine justice and mercy. The parable reflects both divine patience and the urgency of repentance: T
But there comes a time when the consequences of our actions, individual and collective, inevitably catch up with us and the opportunity to avert these consequences is lost. 

N.T. Wright, a prominent New Testament scholar, suggests that Jesus’ warning here is deeply apocalyptic. He was not merely speaking of personal repentance but issuing a stark warning to the Jewish people of his time. Many in first-century Judea were on a trajectory toward violent confrontation with Rome—whether through radical nationalism, armed resistance, or a refusal to seek peace. Jesus saw where this path was leading. If the people did not turn away from this course, disaster would inevitably come. And, as history bore out, it did. In 70 AD, the Roman army besieged and destroyed Jerusalem, razing the Temple to the ground. Jesus’ call to repentance was not just about individual transformation but about the collective fate of a nation. The urgency of repentance – a collective change of heart and mind -  was not theoretical—it was a matter of life and death

What might the passage mean for us today…?

This passage challenges us to rethink how we interpret suffering. The human impulse to seek blame—either in ourselves or in others—is strong. When disaster strikes, we might wonder if we could have done something differently or if those affected somehow “deserved” it. But Jesus moves the conversation away from blame and toward transformation. Instead of asking, “Why did this happen to them?” he asks, “What will you do with the time you have?”

The parable of the fig tree reminds us that transformation takes time, but it also has a sense of urgency. The tree has been unfruitful, yet it is not condemned outright. The gardener offers care, nourishment, and another year of grace. This is an image of God’s patience, but also a call to action. We are given time to grow, to change, to live in ways that reflect the love and justice at the heart of the divine. But we cannot assume that time is endless or that the law of consequence will never catch up.

Jesus’ warning remains relevant today. Actions bring consequences. Are we ready to face the consequences of the decisions we are making in our lives? Are we choosing paths that lead to life, wholeness, and peace, or are we heading toward destructive outcomes—personally, socially, or environmentally? Whether it’s in our relationships, our communities, or the way we care for the world around us, the choices we make today shape the future. The urgency of transformation is not just about avoiding disaster—it’s about embracing the opportunity to create something better before it’s too late.

If the gardener in the parable were speaking to us today, perhaps he would say, “Give yourself and others time to grow, but don’t wait forever to start.” We live in a world that is fragile, uncertain, and filled with suffering. But we also live in a world where change is possible, where love can take root, and where each of us is invited to bear fruit that nourishes others. 
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May we take this passage as an invitation—not to fear divine punishment, but to embrace divine possibility.