Although not able to attend Stockton Salvation Army this morning (Sunday 16 November 2025) I’ve been able to reflect on the Bible reading at home.
Exodus 13:17 to 14:14 is a gentle reminder that God’s guidance is often longer, slower, and wiser than the paths we’d choose. When Pharaoh finally lets the people go, God doesn’t take them by the quickest route but leads them by the desert road towards the Red Sea, knowing they aren’t ready for the shock of conflict. There’s something tender in that, something that speaks to the long story of every church and every believer: God doesn’t rush maturity, and he doesn’t abandon us when the journey bends in ways we never expected.
The pillar of cloud and fire becomes a symbol of that patient, steady presence. By day and by night, God stays ahead of his people, guiding them with a quiet constancy that doesn’t demand attention but offers reassurance. When I think of my own church celebrating its anniversary, I see echoes of that presence: the unexpected turns navigated with grace, the seasons of joy, the times of strain, and the quiet ways God has held the fellowship together. Even from a distance, I can be part of that gratitude.
Then comes the moment of fear: the roar of Pharaoh’s chariots behind, the sea blocking the way ahead, and the people crying out in panic. Their protests feel painfully human: Was it because there were no graves in Egypt that you brought us to the desert to die? It’s the voice we all know when pressure closes in and the future feels impossible. And into that fear, Moses speaks words that settle deeply into the heart of any congregation marking its years: Do not be afraid. Stand firm and you’ll see the deliverance the Lord will bring you today… the Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still (Exodus 14:13–14).
A church anniversary is a moment to breathe in those words again, to remember how many times God has made a way where none seemed open, and to trust that he’s still leading, still guiding, still walking ahead with a faithfulness that doesn’t falter. Even at home, I’m grateful for the journey so far and hopeful for the road still unfolding.
Psalm 98 rises like a bright dawn, calling us to lift our voices because God’s faithful love keeps breaking into the world, renewing what’s weary and reclaiming what’s lost. It remembers that God has made his salvation known and revealed his righteousness to the nations, and those words feel especially powerful when justice and truth seem fragile.
The psalm reminds us that God’s rescue isn’t hidden or selective; it’s public, generous, and rooted in a goodness that refuses to be diluted by human failure. When we’re tempted to believe that dishonesty carries the day, Psalm 98 quietly insists that truth still has weight, still has substance, still has a heartbeat.
The invitation to sing a new song becomes more than poetic instruction; it’s a gentle protest against despair. New songs rise when truth has been defended, when justice has been honoured, when mercy has touched what was broken. They rise when people refuse to succumb to cynicism, choosing instead to trust that God’s character remains steady. And while the psalm shimmers with joy, it’s not naïve joy. It’s the kind that knows darkness well yet refuses to let darkness write the ending.
Then creation joins in, rivers clapping, mountains shouting for joy, the whole earth exhaling praise as the true judge draws near. It isn’t the joy of avoidance, but of alignment. Creation longs for God’s judgement because his judgement isn’t cruel, it’s right. It sets things straight, restores dignity, exposes lies, and shelters the vulnerable. In a world where truth can be bent and justice delayed, the image of God coming to judge with equity feels like a deep breath for the soul.
Psalm 98 invites us into that hope, to stand with creation and sing, trusting that the God who loves truth and upholds justice is already at work, already moving, already drawing near.
This is my Remembrance Sunday Sermon at Stockton Salvation Army on Sunday 9 November 2025.
It starts with three short Bible readings (each with brief context), moves into two quotes (which I come back to later in the sermon), and then the sermon itself. There is an additional prayer at the end.
Psalm 51:3–5
For I know my transgressions, and my sin is always before me. 4 Against you, you only, have I sinned and done what is evil in your sight; so you are right in your verdict and justified when you judge. 5 Surely I was sinful at birth, sinful from the time my mother conceived me.
David recognises the depth of sin not just in his actions but in his very nature, expressing the idea that human brokenness is inherited and universal.
Luke 6:43–45
‘No good tree bears bad fruit, nor does a bad tree bear good fruit. 44 Each tree is recognised by its own fruit. People do not pick figs from thorn-bushes, or grapes from briers. 45 A good man brings good things out of the good stored up in his heart, and an evil man brings evil things out of the evil stored up in his heart. For the mouth speaks what the heart is full of.
Jesus uses simple imagery to show that goodness can flow from a good heart. It shows that goodness isn’t foreign to us, it springs from within, from the heart shaped by God’s image and nurtured by his grace. It reminds us that the human heart, though capable of terrible wrong, still holds the seed of goodness that God can help grow.
Galatians 5:22–23
But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, 23 gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law.
Paul describes how the Holy Spirit brings forth goodness and other virtues in those who open their hearts to God. This reminds us that genuine goodness isn’t merely human effort, but the Spirit’s life within us. Even though we’re marked by sin, the Spirit cultivates in us a new nature, one that reflects the goodness of God himself.
True lament is not born from that trite sentiment that the world is bad but rather from a deep conviction that it is worthy of goodness.
We are not meant for war, For target-seeking arms, For blood that stains a fun-meant shore, For shells that scream alarms.
Before we speak of Remembrance, we begin with lament – the honest naming of pain and the longing for goodness.
Remembrance Sunday invites us to pause between the silence of loss and the call of hope. It’s a day when memory feels sacred, when we remember those who gave their lives, and the terrible cost of human pride, fear, and sin.
Psalm 51 reminds us that brokenness runs deep, not only in history but in every human heart. David’s confession, surely I was sinful at birth, acknowledges a truth we’d rather avoid, that the seeds of destruction lie not only in nations but in us.
Yet Jesus, in Luke 6, speaks of another seed, goodness that can still grow within the human heart. A good tree bears good fruit, he says, hinting that beneath the ash of sin, the image of God remains – a spark of life that grace can fan into flame.
Paul takes us further, describing the fruit of the Spirit, love, joy, peace, and the rest, as evidence that goodness isn’t lost but renewed. It isn’t our achievement, but God’s own life flowering within us. So even as we lament the wars of the past and the wars still raging in hearts and lands, we dare to believe that goodness is possible.
So as we hold these scriptures together, we face a paradox that reaches to the heart of our faith…
Original sin reminds us we’re all touched by brokenness. The image of God reminds us we’re all capable of goodness. The first shows our need for grace, the second reveals our dignity and our hope.
This paradox has deep roots in Christian theology. It stretches back to the debates between Augustine, who emphasised humanity’s inherited sinfulness, and Pelagius, who believed in the innate capacity for goodness and moral choice. Over the centuries, theologians have wrestled with this tension, seeking to balance the reality of sin with the redeeming grace that restores human goodness through Christ.
On the one hand, the doctrine of original sin teaches that humanity is marked by a brokenness inherited from Adam and Eve, a bent towards self-centredness that no one can escape. On the other, the Scriptures affirm that every person bears the image of God, and so carries the possibility of goodness, love, and truth.
The reconciliation lies in holding both truths together without letting one cancel out the other. Original sin doesn’t mean humanity is utterly evil, but rather that even our best intentions are tinged with self-interest, fear, or pride.
Augustine and later theologians stressed that while sin distorts the image of God in us, it doesn’t erase it. That divine imprint remains, like a flame flickering under ash.
So, the possibility of goodness is real, but it isn’t self-sufficient. Our goodness always points back to God’s sustaining grace, the Spirit moving within us. Paul speaks of people who do by nature things required by the law, showing that even those outside the covenant can reflect God’s goodness written on the heart. And yet he also says, all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.
The paradox is that both can be true: goodness is possible because of God’s image within us, but salvation and wholeness require grace beyond us.
In that way, original sin underscores the need for redemption, while the possibility of goodness affirms our dignity and responsibility. We are neither condemned to despair nor able to save ourselves by our own light; instead, we’re invited to trust the God who renews the image already planted within us.
Let’s return to that first quote:
True lament is not born from that trite sentiment that the world is bad but rather from a deep conviction that it is worthy of goodness. Cole Arthur Riley
This striking quote reframes what it means to grieve. Lament isn’t shallow pessimism or complaint. It doesn’t flow from cynicism, the shrug that says the world is hopeless and always will be. Instead, Riley shows that lament is rooted in love, in the belief that the world can and should be different. To cry out against injustice or brokenness is to affirm that goodness is possible, that life is meant for something more.
Lament demands both courage and imagination, asking us to recognize current pain while envisioning better possibilities. It resists giving in to suffering or cruelty and instead acts as a form of hope, those who mourn deeply often do so because they truly believe in meaning, justice, and beauty.
Riley’s understanding of lament turns it into a form of witness. To lament is to stand against indifference, to speak truth to the world’s brokenness, and to demand something better. It’s an active testimony, one that refuses to let the world settle for less than goodness.
Through her writing, Riley insists on a more human and liberating expression of faith; one that makes space for grief and tenderness yet never gives up on goodness. In her vision, lament is not weakness but love, not despair but hope strong enough to weep.
True remembrance is more than sorrow, it’s a cry of faith. Like she says, lament is born not of cynicism but of conviction that the world is worthy of goodness. We remember, then, not just to mourn what’s been lost, but to nurture what can yet grow: peace, mercy, and the Spirit’s fruit in every heart.
And so, we remember not just with tears, but with longing – longing for peace, for goodness, for the renewal of all things in God.
Harry Read was a wireless operator in the 6th Airborne Division when he was parachuted into Normandy in the early hours of 6 June 1944, aged 20.
As Commissioner Harry Read, he was a much-loved Salvation Army Officer, who served with distinction, and in later life shared his poetry on Facebook. These poems have been compiled into anthologies, books I treasure especially as he was my Training Principal.
These are his words:
We are not meant for war, For target-seeking arms, For blood that stains a fun-meant shore, For shells that scream alarms.
We are not meant to kill Or, even worse, to maim Because of some despotic will, And do it in God’s name.
We are not meant to mourn, Have chilling memories; Of youth and innocence be shorn, Call good men enemies.
We are not meant to hate And hate with gathering force, Because our hate we cultivate And poison reason’s source.
But we are meant for peace And joy and harmony, For hearts that know a blest release From hate and enmity.
And we are meant for God, For whom our spirits yearn, Who has our war-torn pathways trod In hope of our return.
[Pause]
Prayer for Remembrance Sunday
God of peace and mercy, we come before you with hearts full of gratitude and sorrow. We remember those who gave their lives in war— those who fell in foreign fields, those who never came home, and those whose wounds, seen and unseen, carried the weight of the world’s brokenness.
We remember, too, those who still serve today, striving to keep peace in troubled lands; and we pray for all who live with the grief, fear, or silence that war leaves behind.
Teach us, Lord, to remember not only with words, but with lives that honour their sacrifice— by seeking peace where there is hatred, by building bridges where there are walls, by loving even our enemies, as Christ loved us.
May your Spirit comfort the sorrowing, strengthen the weary, and guide all nations in the ways of justice and compassion. Until that day when swords are beaten into ploughshares, and your kingdom of peace reigns over all the earth.
Remembrance Sunday calls us to pause, to remember, and to seek peace. James writes, Who is wise and understanding among you? Let them show it by their good life, by deeds done in the humility that comes from wisdom. James 3:13-18. True wisdom, he says, isn’t about cleverness or control, but about gentleness and sincerity, qualities that echo the quiet strength of those we honour today.
As we remember the fallen, we think of lives given not in pursuit of pride, but in the hope of peace. James contrasts earthly wisdom, driven by envy and selfish ambition, with wisdom from above, which is pure, peace-loving, considerate, submissive, full of mercy and good fruit, impartial and sincere. Such wisdom doesn’t roar; it whispers through acts of courage, compassion, and costly love.
War is the tragic failure of wisdom, yet even in its shadows we see glimpses of heaven’s light. The peacemaker who comforts the broken, the nurse who tends the wounded, the soldier who lays down his life for others, all reflect the divine wisdom that sows peace.
So on this Remembrance Sunday, as the bugle’s call fades and silence falls, may we not only remember the cost of peace but also commit ourselves to live wisely, to be people whose humility and mercy sow peace in our homes, our communities, and our world. For, as James reminds us, Peacemakers who sow in peace reap a harvest of righteousness.
Paul’s words in 1 Corinthians 12:12–27 offer a beautiful picture of what it means to belong to the body of Christ. Just as the human body is made up of many parts, each with its own function, so too the body of Christ is made up of many members, each with a distinct role and gift. For just as the body is one and has many members, but all the members of the body, though many, are one body, so it is with Christ.
Paul paints vivid images of the eye, the ear, the hand, and the foot, reminding us that no part can say to another, “I don’t need you.” Every member matters. The eye can’t replace the ear, nor can the hand dismiss the foot; each one contributes to the whole. When one part suffers, the rest of the body feels it; when one part is honoured, the whole body rejoices. It’s a powerful reminder of how deeply we’re connected to one another in Christ.
Paul concludes, Now you are the body of Christ, and each one of you is a part of it. These words cut against the grain of individualism. We aren’t isolated believers but members of something larger, bound together by grace and called to serve one another. This passage calls us to unity in diversity, to value each person’s gift, and to recognise that only together do we reflect the fullness of Christ’s living body in the world.
Jesus’ words in Luke 6:20–31 turn the world on its head. Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the Kingdom of God. They’re part of what we call the Beatitudes, and they paint a picture of a kingdom that honours humility, mercy, and love over wealth, power, and pride. On All Saints’ Day, we remember the holy ones who’ve lived out this upside-down way of life, those who’ve loved in ways the world rarely notices, and who’ve trusted God’s promises even when life was hard.
Jesus blesses those who hunger, who weep, who are excluded and insulted because of him. It’s not that pain or poverty are good in themselves, but that God’s presence transforms them. The saints remind us that faith doesn’t shield us from suffering, it gives us eyes to see beyond it. They knew that joy doesn’t come from having everything, but from belonging to God. They believed that kindness and forgiveness weren’t optional extras, they were the shape of holiness itself.
When Jesus says, Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you, he’s not offering pious advice; he’s describing how heaven looks when it breaks into earth. The saints, both famous and forgotten, have taken those words seriously. They’ve broken cycles of vengeance with compassion. They’ve turned the other cheek not in weakness, but in strength. They’ve lived the Golden Rule – Do to others as you would have them do to you.
All Saints’ Day isn’t just about remembering those who’ve gone before, it’s about hearing the call to join them. Holiness isn’t reserved for the perfect, it’s the daily choice to live with grace in a graceless world. As we give thanks for the communion of saints, we’re reminded that we, too, are part of that communion: ordinary people, blessed and broken, learning to love as Jesus loves.
Rejoice in that day and leap for joy, because great is your reward in heaven. May those words lift us, inspire us, and remind us that the Kingdom of God is already among us, hidden in mercy, revealed in love, and alive in every saint who dares to follow Christ’s way.
The Bible tells a timeless story of the human spirit’s journey toward God. It begins in Eden, where humankind walked in harmony with its Creator, and continues through exile, covenant, and redemption. Though that first closeness was broken by disobedience, God’s love never withdrew. A promise of restoration was planted even in the soil of the Fall, it grew through the live of the prophets, and bloomed in the life of Jesus Christ.
Throughout Scripture, God’s people stand at crossroads, choosing between faith and fear, obedience, and rebellion. The Israelites faced the Red Sea, Elijah stood before the prophets of Baal, and Jeremiah cried, Stand at the crossroads and look; ask for the ancient paths, ask where the good way is, and walk in it, and you will find rest for your souls. (Jeremiah 6:16). Yet time and again, the people said, We will not walk in it. Their refusal led to exile, a symbol of spiritual disconnection that echoes every time we turn away from God’s ways.
But grace always waits at the crossroads. Jesus came as the “good way” made flesh, calling us to follow him through the narrow gate that leads to life. He invites the weary and burdened to come and find rest, not just as a feeling, but as a deep peace rooted in restored relationship. The early church learned this truth anew when they chose inclusion over exclusion, grace over law, love over fear.
Our journey of faith still unfolds in daily choices; to listen or ignore, to trust or resist, to walk in the ancient paths of mercy and truth. Each moment of prayer, forgiveness, and quiet obedience is another step toward home. God’s word remains a lamp to our feet and a light to our path, guiding us when the road is unclear.
At every crossroads, he still whispers, this is the way; walk in it. And when we do, we find what Jeremiah promised, rest for our souls.
There’s a moment in Jeremiah when the tone shifts from lament to hope, from exile to promise. In Chapter 31:27-34, God speaks of planting again, people and animals, life and laughter. It’s a turning point in Israel’s story, but it’s also something deeper: a vision of renewal that stretches across time, reaching right into the heart of biblical prophecy.
The days are coming, declares the Lord, when I will make a new covenant… I will put my law in their minds and write it on their hearts. This isn’t about tablets of stone or broken promises; it’s about intimacy. God is moving closer, rewriting the relationship not in ink or ritual, but in love. It’s the same longing that runs through the prophets, the hope that one day humanity won’t just follow God, but know God, in the marrow of our being.
In exile, Israel had learned what it meant to lose everything familiar. Yet out of that loss came revelation. God wasn’t confined to the temple, nor limited by geography or history. The new covenant Jeremiah spoke of finds its fullness in Jesus, who took the scattered fragments of humanity and wove them into something whole. Through him, forgiveness isn’t a theory but a pulse, alive in every act of grace, every whispered prayer of return.
When we fail, when the world feels exiled from its better self, this prophecy breathes again. It tells us that restoration isn’t about going back, it’s about being made new. God’s word, written not on scrolls but on hearts, continues to shape us quietly, faithfully, from the inside out – until knowing him becomes as natural as breathing.
I will be their God, and they will be my people. That promise still holds, tender and unbroken.
Constantly taking things personally can be very destructive to our mental health and wellbeing. When you get too attached to how others think or feel about you, it can cause anxiety and hurt feelings. This makes it hard to talk to people and resolve conflicts.
When you don’t tie your self-worth to what others think, you can think more clearly and communicate better. This helps you handle tough conversations and maintain healthy relationships. When you’re not trying to be right or be liked, you can listen better and respond with kindness. This helps calm down tense situations and creates a positive atmosphere. Think of feedback as a chance to learn and grow, not as a personal attack. This helps you become more resilient and open to new ideas.
Additionally, from a faith perspective, when you start to see yourself through God’s eyes rather than through the eyes of others, everything changes. You remember that you’re already loved, already chosen, already enough. As the psalmist wrote, I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made (Psalm 139:14). When your confidence rests in that truth, other people’s opinions lose their power. You can listen without fear, speak without pride, and forgive without resentment. Each moment becomes an opportunity to reflect Christ’s gentleness and strength, trusting that your worth is secure in him, not in what anyone else says or thinks.
So, try to avoid getting caught up in drama and negativity. Focus on your own thoughts, feelings, and actions. This helps you live a more authentic and happy life, free from others’ expectations.
Paul’s words in Romans 12:1–2 are like a doorway into a new way of living: Therefore, I urge you, brothers and sisters, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God – this is your true and proper worship. Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you’ll be able to test and approve what God’s will is – his good, pleasing and perfect will.
Here Paul doesn’t speak of worship as an event, a song, or a moment in church. He calls it a life. Worship isn’t confined to Sunday; it’s the offering of ourselves – our bodies, our choices, our energy, our time – to God every day. And notice how he begins: in view of God’s mercy. We don’t give ourselves to earn God’s love, but because we’ve already received it. Our sacrifice flows from gratitude, not fear.
Paul also recognises that we’re always being shaped by something. The world presses its patterns onto us: self-centredness, consumerism, the chase for success and approval. Left unchecked, these moulds quietly define how we think and live. But Paul says there’s another way. Transformation comes as our minds are renewed – through Scripture, prayer, fellowship, and the Spirit’s gentle work. This is no quick fix. It’s a lifelong reshaping, like clay in the hands of a patient potter.
The promise is beautiful. As our minds are renewed, we begin to discern God’s will, not as a riddle to be solved but as a life that tastes of goodness, delight, and perfection. God’s will isn’t meant to crush us but to set us free, to align us with the one who knows us best.
So today, what might it look like for you to offer yourself as a living sacrifice? Perhaps it’s an act of kindness unseen by others, a choice for integrity when compromise would be easier, or a few quiet minutes of prayer instead of another scroll through your phone. Each moment offered to God becomes worship. Each small surrender allows the Spirit to renew you. And step by step, you find yourself walking in the rhythm of God’s good and perfect will.
John Ager's Home on the Web! 