Tag: cross

Embracing Christian Unity

There’s a quiet urgency in Paul’s appeal to the church in Corinth (1 Corinthians 1:10-18), a voice that still reaches tenderly and truthfully into our own divided moment. “I appeal to you, brothers and sisters, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you agree with one another in what you say and that there be no divisions among you.” He isn’t asking for bland uniformity, he’s inviting a scattered people to gather their lives around one living centre, shaped by grace rather than rivalry. The Week of Prayer for Christian Unity calls us to hear that invitation anew, not as a burden, but as a gift.

We recognise the ache of fractured witness because we live with it. We’ve heard the labels, “I follow Paul,” “I follow Apollos,” “I follow Cephas,” or their quieter modern equivalents that reveal themselves in loyalties, assumptions, and subtle pride. Paul’s piercing question still stands before us, “Is Christ divided?” The answer remains no, yet our habits can suggest otherwise. Unity doesn’t mean pretending our differences don’t exist, it means choosing, again and again, to let Christ be at the centre rather than our preferences.

Paul gently, firmly, draws our gaze to the Cross, that holy place where all human boasting is undone. For the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God. Here, at this strange intersection of suffering and love, we discover the true ground of our oneness. We’re not united by style, politics, or tradition, but by shared surrender and shared hope.

This week becomes a practice of turning towards one another with humility. It’s a time to listen more deeply, to bless more readily, to notice the grace of God alive in communities not our own. Unity grows quietly, in prayers whispered for neighbouring churches, in conversations softened by kindness, in the courage to believe that the Spirit is still at work, patiently weaving us together.

May we remember that our oneness isn’t something we manufacture. It’s a gift we receive with gratitude, tend with care, and live out with joy, for the sake of Christ and for the healing of the world.

Catching our Breath

The Sunday after Christmas often feels quieter, as though the world is catching its breath. The decorations are still up, but something has shifted. The miracle has happened, and now we’re left to ask what it means to live in its light.

Isaiah 63:7-9 remembers the steadfast love of the Lord, calling to mind all that God has done for God’s people, how in all their distress, God too was distressed, and the angel of his presence saved them. Christmas isn’t God visiting from a safe distance. It’s God stepping into human suffering, choosing nearness over comfort, solidarity over safety. The manger already casts the shadow of the cross, not as threat, but as promise: you are not alone.

Psalm 148 widens the lens. Everything is invited to praise, angels and stars, sea creatures and storms, children and elders alike. Praise here isn’t sentimental, it’s defiant. Creation sings because it has seen that God’s love doesn’t hover above the world but enters it. The baby in Bethlehem draws heaven and earth into a single song.

Hebrews 2:10-18 presses this even further. We’re urged to pay careful attention to what we’ve heard, because this God has shared our flesh and blood. Jesus isn’t ashamed to call us brothers and sisters. He knows fear, weakness, and death from the inside, and by doing so breaks their hold. Salvation, then, isn’t escape from humanity, it’s humanity healed from within.

So this Sunday invites us to linger. To notice the extraordinary humility of God, still wrapped in ordinariness. To keep praising, even when the song feels fragile. And to live attentively, awake to the truth that in Jesus, God has chosen to be with us, fully, faithfully, and forever.