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.
When it comes to same-sex relationships and equal marriage within Christianity, we can’t continue with our collective head in the sand, stifling discussion and not allowing room for the possibility of a theology that treats the lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender community with respect. I say this as a straight man whose heart breaks to see individuals and same-sex couples excluded by dogma and rejected by the church, lose faith in the inclusive love of God, and (in the worst cases) take their own lives.
The Christian tradition, rooted in love, compassion, and the teachings of Jesus, has always emphasized the dignity of every person created in the image of God. Jesus’ actions, such as healing the sick, welcoming the outcast, and dining with sinners, demonstrate a radical inclusivity that challenges exclusionary interpretations of scripture. When we interpret scripture through a lens of exclusion, we risk distorting the very message of grace and mercy that defines Christianity.
The Gospel calls us to love our neighbours as ourselves, and that includes loving those who live in same-sex relationships, who identify as LGBTQ+, or who face societal marginalization. Theologians throughout history have long argued that love, not rigid categorizations, is the central tenet of Christian faith. The church must move beyond outdated traditions that were shaped by cultural and historical contexts that no longer reflect the spirit of Christ.
Equal marriage isn’t a political demand, it’s a moral imperative grounded in the biblical call to justice and equality. It’s not about changing God’s will, but about aligning our understanding of God’s love with the reality of human diversity. When we affirm same-sex relationships as valid expressions of love and commitment, we aren’t rejecting Christianity, we’re deepening it. We’re honoring the commandment to love one another, to forgive, to serve, and to embrace all people without judgment.
The church must become a place of healing, not division. It must provide safe spaces where LGBTQ+ individuals can find belonging, support, and spiritual growth. This isn’t a compromise of faith, it’s a fulfillment of it. In embracing inclusion, the church becomes more faithful to the teachings of Jesus, who saw no one as unworthy of love. True Christian witness isn’t found in exclusion, but in radical acceptance.
Are we wrong to expect the Royal Family to be good role models? It’s a question that seems to surface every time a scandal or misstep finds its way into the headlines. The truth is, the Royal Family live in a strange tension between privilege and duty. They’re not elected, yet they represent the nation. They’re not ordinary citizens, yet they live under a scrutiny that few of us could bear.
It’s natural, then, that we expect them to embody qualities like dignity, integrity, service, and compassion. They’re woven into the fabric of our national identity, and many people look to them as symbols of continuity and moral steadiness in uncertain times. We want them to be a source of pride, an example of grace under pressure.
But perhaps the question isn’t whether we should expect them to be role models, but whether it’s realistic to expect them to always be so. After all, they’re human, flawed, complicated, sometimes wounded by the very system they were born into. When they fall short, their failings aren’t just personal; they’re public, dissected and amplified for the world to see.
Jesus once said, From everyone who has been given much, much will be demanded (Luke 12:48). The Royals have indeed been given much (wealth, privilege, and a platform) but also responsibility, scrutiny, and the burden of expectation. So no, we’re not wrong to hope for goodness and humility in those who represent us. But maybe the true test of character isn’t perfection, it’s how they respond when they stumble.
Role models, after all, aren’t those who never fall. They’re the ones who get up again, a little wiser, a little kinder, and perhaps a little more human. Maybe, we all need to strive to be role models.
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.
Remembrance Sunday, observed on the second Sunday of November, remains a deeply significant day in the UK. A time to honour those who gave their lives in war, and to reflect on the cost of peace.
Its roots lie in the aftermath of the First World War, when Armistice Day on 11 November marked the end of the fighting in 1918.
Over time, as more conflicts followed, the nation’s focus broadened beyond that single war to remember all who have served, suffered, or died in the defence of freedom.
Today, Remembrance Sunday carries both solemnity and relevance. While the generation who fought in the world wars has largely passed, their legacy lives on in the freedoms and democracy we enjoy. The poppy, inspired by the resilient flowers that grew on the battlefields of Flanders, has become a living symbol of remembrance, its vivid red reminding us of sacrifice, courage, and hope renewed.
The two-minute silence and the Cenotaph ceremony remain powerful acts of collective memory and gratitude. Yet remembrance has also evolved, it now embraces not just soldiers of past wars, but those who’ve served in more recent conflicts, from the Falklands to Iraq and Afghanistan, as well as civilians caught up in the violence of war.
In our own time, when conflict still scars the world and peace often feels fragile, Remembrance Sunday invites reflection on humanity’s shared responsibility. It’s not about glorifying war, but about acknowledging sacrifice, seeking understanding, and recommitting ourselves to reconciliation.
Many find meaning in the words of Jesus, Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God (Matthew 5:9). In that spirit, Remembrance Sunday becomes not just an act of looking back, but a call to live differently – to value compassion, to work for peace, and to remember that remembrance itself is a moral choice: to never forget, and never cease striving for a world made whole.
The algorithms of social media often ensure that we live within an echo chamber of friends who share our outlook on life. Yet not everyone agrees with us, nor do we always agree with others. The adage of ‘agreeing to disagree agreeably’ sometimes goes out of the window when passions run high, and social media can act as a catalyst to entrench our opinions and polarise debate.
In an increasingly divisive society, we may need to relearn the simple art of being kind, affirming one another and appreciating diversity. When I post something on Facebook, I expect disagreement, but I don’t expect rudeness. People can become so angry that others hold a different, well-considered opinion, one that may be part of their very identity.
Often on social media there’s no real engagement with the issue at hand, just a loud alternative opinion shouted into the void, with little sense of nuance or listening. We aren’t heard by shouting. There must be respect, both for ourselves and for others. It’s also perfectly acceptable to acknowledge the merits of someone else’s position, even if we don’t share it.
Please don’t think I’m claiming to be perfect in this regard, I’m not. But I do believe we all need to take a careful, humble look at how we respond to what’s posted on Facebook and social media in general.
Personally, I approach this as a person of faith. Many of my attitudes, thoughts, and actions flow from that and shape who I am. Paul, writing to the Philippians, said: Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interests of the others.
Here lies the heart of the matter, Paul’s call to have the same mindset as Christ Jesus. Be kind to each other.
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.
John Ager's Home on the Web! 