Sermon preached at the Sung Eucharist on the Eighth Sunday after Trinity 2025

Two Sundays ago, I was on leave, away from the Abbey, in the countryside, many miles from London. And, I decided not to go to church.

I had taken with me a book of psalms, my prayer book and my rosary—but no other books, no podcasts, no inputs of any kind to direct my thoughts. In the chanting of psalms, and in the silence, I needed to let what was within come to the surface. To simply ‘be’ in the presence of God. I needed some distance from the familiar patterns and routines.

From the place where I was staying, in Somerset, I could see Glastonbury Tor and its tower in the far distance. But, seeking the unfamiliar, when I ventured out through the lush, green, undulating landscape, it was to see the ruins of another Benedictine Abbey—one that I had just found on the map—one I had never heard of before.[1]

And so, it was there I found myself standing on that Sunday morning two weeks ago, saying my prayers and contemplating the foundations of Christian community—its vitality, its fragility, and the centuries of growth and change revealed in the pattern of stones in the mown grass, and the shaping of a landscape—and at the centre, the small, original chapel where it had all begun there over a thousand years past.

There, in its day, was the whole world for some—the mystery of God, the pattern of life, the working out of promises made and promises received. The architecture of salvation maybe? A place of faith, life, death and burial certainly. But now, from centuries past, all brought down to earth by the destructive hand of man (at the Reformation). Were they wrong in their hope?

Or was the error mine? For there they had stood and contemplated heaven; and there I stood amongst the foundations of former, earthly glory... contemplating them, and what had been lost. 

Psalm 42 came to mind, and readily to my lips:

These things I remember,
   as I pour out my soul:
how I went with the throng,
   and led them in procession to the house of God,
with glad shouts and songs of thanksgiving,
   a multitude keeping festival.

As I stood there, I asked myself why I feel so connected to Christ in a place like that. In contemplating a pattern of life like theirs. As its flaws, historic and contemporary, are plenty and known (as well as mine are known to me and to God!). Is there anywhere to go where we can escape the truth of ourselves and the flaws of our institutions? Is anywhere perfect, and holy? 

Such perfection belongs to God, and not to us. These are matters of grace, and not of our own making. But we glimpse them. In communion, and in all the holy sacrament. In the community at prayer. In the gracious act of mercy or hospitality from a stranger, or that which we may perform for another. A fleeting grace—for a moment—the full encounter without fear or filter. We do find it, but it slips away in a moment too. It is here—and here today. 

Back in Somerset, I prayed for courage to follow the call of Christ wherever it will take me (not wanting it to take me where I do not want to go of course!—my prayers are no better than yours) ... not looking for easy answers either, though—but, for clarity. For a vision as clear as the tower on the Tor at Glastonbury that morning—sunlit, like a flaming beacon so many miles away. 

A focus—a sign that I was travelling in the right direction. That if I were to be lost, I could find my way home. 

Our readings today are about faith. The faith of Abraham and the faithfulness of God. They call us to look forward and to be prepared. To see with the eyes and the understanding of faith. And they are about community—where we live out our faith and hope.

Our reading from Hebrews speaks of faith as the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. It tells of Abraham, Sarah, Jacob, Isaac,—and earlier, Noah, Enoch and Abel—looking and living in faith, receiving grace after grace, but not receiving the fulness of the promises of God in their lifetime. But we are told, “from a distance they saw and greeted them”[2]. The eyes of faith looking to the source of light and truth. 

Abraham was called to make a physical journey, and in obedience he set out into the unknown—looking forward to the city that has foundations, whose architect and builder is God. Abraham believed, and Abraham journeyed on.

The Christian journey we have inherited, to which we have all been called is, of course, not literally one of topography or geography—not one of Tors and rolling hills—but it is a journey deeper into a relationship and mystery. One that brings contemplation, revelation, doubt, faith, trust, challenge, joy—and surprises (often revealed in the unknown and unknowable). It is not in our possession or control. And you could view that as troubling, or (might I suggest) liberating. 

The journey is not linear, but circular—going over and over the same ground of our lives, prayers and scripture. Going deeper—or is it higher?  Deepening our relationship—and improving our perspective (a metaphorical paradox!).

What I found compelling in Somerset and what I find compelling here[3] is the Architecture of Community... of commitment... a commitment to change and become: the metanoia of St John the Baptist, the conversatio morum of St Benedict. A way of seeing, looking, being... a perception and a state. This is the Architecture of Christian Community of course—in all its denominations—and not the preserve of monasteries, or abbeys... or buildings. A multitude of individual souls, yet one in Christ—living, working, praying—and at home together.

As Thomas Merton, the Cistercian, says, we are “Learning the ways of the spirit and of grace, and of being ready and open to respond to the unpredictable working of a God whose ways are not our ways.”[4] 

When I stood amongst the ruins in Somerset, I prayed for clarity—and for courage. Christ is the answer to that prayer. We look for patterns and paths, and we find a variety of approaches, but Christ is the comforting and arresting answer. It must be more complicated, surely—and we quickly seek to make it so.

It is Christ—but not Christ alone. We come to Christ in the Communion of Saints;

with the inheritance of the Patriarchs and Prophets; in the company of the Church. This is not about style or presentation—it is the substance that counts. Christ builds his church—and guides his flock. It is in the visible community that we come to glimpse and know the invisible truth. Faith and community—working on us, shaping us, guiding us. 

As the author of Hebrews says, “with a true heart in full assurance of faith... let us hold fast the confession of our hope... and let us consider how to provoke one another to love and good deeds, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some”[5]

And this invitation to think about, build up and serve one another is a great joy of Christian community.

The author of Hebrews reminds us that, individually, we are not the centre of things—we are each one in a vast multitude, as many as the stars of heaven. We see and stand with those around us—and we look toward Christ. Whether in a remote field in Somerset, or in the centre of a great city like this. We seem to understand this inherently when we contemplate nature—the fruits of creation—but we lose such perspective when we return to daily duties and routines. One of a multitude—each known, seen and loved by Christ. But it is not about us—we are not the locus. We are part of the story—part of the community. We belong here, and we belong together.

“If they had been thinking of the land that they had left behind, they would have had opportunity to return. But as it is, they desire a better country, that is, a heavenly one.”[6]

One of the great joys of being at this Abbey, is the chance to worship, every week, with brothers and sisters from across the world. Christians from all denominations. We come together with Christ as our host. If we spent enough time together, we would soon find our fault lines and divisions... but, by grace, we glimpse here a unity in Christ.

The example of Abraham teaches us not to look back and lament—but to look forward in hope. Physical communities will rise and fall, but the beacon of Christ shines brightly to all who seek him. Calling us into community wherever we are—be it for a day, a season, or a lifetime.

If we attend to our place in community with open hearts and courage, learning the ways of the spirit and of grace, we will be ready to receive Christ when he comes. Not an anxious scanning of the horizon—but a hopeful, faithful looking forward.

Brothers and sisters—in our time—as children of faith, hope and love, let us journey on together.