Singing Faith, Sharing Hope

I’ve just returned from a week in Taizé, the community of brothers in France who welcome thousands of young people and pilgrims each year. This was my second visit – different from the first, and yet somehow the same. Different people, same God. Different theme, same rhythm. Different worries, same peace.

As I journey home, the songs of Taizé are still with me. They play like prayers on repeat, carrying the memories of the week and the people I met. Four in particular stand out.

Laudate omnes gentes, laudate Dominum

Sing praises, all you people, sing praises to the Lord.

There is something both humbling and heart-warming about sitting among more than two thousand people from all over the world and singing these words together. Different languages, different traditions, different lives – and yet one song, one faith, one God. That’s Taizé.

Confitemini Domino, quoniam bonus

Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good.

Gratitude became a theme of the week for me. Even the journey there – which was almost cancelled when our coach got cancelled ten days before we were due to travel – became something to give thanks for. Determined not to miss the week, a small group of us cobbled together an alternative route: an early morning lift to Dover, ferry to Calais, three trains across France, and finally a bus to the village. We pitched tents in the dark, weary but relieved.

It could have been a disaster, but instead it became a story of provision, resilience, and grace. By the time we sat in worship singing Confitemini Domino, I realised just how much I take for granted – and how much I truly have to give thanks for.

Nada te turbe, nada te espante; quien a Dios tiene nada le falta. Sólo Dios basta.

Nothing can trouble, nothing can frighten. Those who seek God shall never go wanting. God alone fills us.

The most profound moment of the week came after one of the evening prayers. Brother Matthew, the Prior of Taizé, invited a young Ukrainian man to speak.

He told us about separation from his family. About the daily uncertainty of living in a war-torn country. About clinging to fleeting moments of joy in the midst of so much pain. This wasn’t a distant news story; it was a first-hand testimony. His voice broke, but his faith was unwavering. And then he finished with words that undid me completely:
“Thank you for your prayers. Thank you for not forgetting us.”

“Nada te turbe, nada te espante…” Nothing can trouble, nothing can frighten. To sing those words with two thousand voices after hearing that story? The power of faith and hope. It genuinely brought tears to my eye.

Nimm alles von mir, was mich fernhält von dir. Gib alles mir, was mich hinführt zu dir. Lebendiger Gott, nimm mich mir und gib mich ganz zu eigen dir.

Take everything from me that keeps me from you.
Give everything that brings me near to you.
Living God, take me away from myself and give me completely to you.

This final song was new to me, but it struck deep. After hearing stories of war and loss, after conversations about abuse, injustice, and brokenness, this simple prayer felt like both a cry and a commitment.

It is a cry to draw nearer to God, to share the faith and trust I glimpsed in those whose lives are marked by suffering. But it is also an invitation – to be used by God, to long for peace, to work for justice, to offer myself for the healing of the world.

I return from Taizé the same, and yet different. The songs stay with me, weaving themselves into prayer, shaping my longings, deepening my faith.

And so I end with the words of that final song, which have become my own prayer:

“Nimm alles von mir, was mich fernhält von dir.
Gib alles mir, was mich hinführt zu dir.
Lebendiger Gott, gib mich ganz zu eigen dir.”

Take everything from me that keeps me from you.
Give everything that brings me near to you.
Living God, take me away from myself and give me completely to you.

Lent 2025: Through the lens of Grace

Today is Holy Saturday. Traditionally, a day of stillness and silence between the devastation of Good Friday and the triumph of Easter Day. It’s interesting to wonder how the disciples would have felt. The whole world has changed, and yet life continues. Would they have been thinking back over the last few days, wondering what went wrong, what they could have done differently? Would they have felt numb, knowing a beloved friend and teacher was gone and they’d never see him again? Were they thinking back, comparing stories of the good times and the lessons he had taught? I guess we’ll never know – the bible skips over that part.

But for us, it’s gives space to reflect. I know for me, Holy Saturday is a day when I try not to make any plans, enjoying the opportunity to catch up with loved ones and just to have some space to myself. But I’ve also found myself reflecting on the journey of the last week. My key themes for this Lent were grace, gratitude and trust, and they seem fitting companions to reflecting on the events of Holy Week, especially viewing the events through the eyes of grace.

Just a week ago, I wrote about the joy of Palm Sunday. Jesus rides into Jerusalem to shouts of “Hosanna!” But Jesus knew he was approaching the end. Luke 9:51 says, “Jesus resolutely set out for Jerusalem.” He knew, even as he was hailed a champion of the people, that they would turn on him. And yet he chose to go. Grace meets us even in the midst of celebration – quietly, intentionally, walking towards sacrifice while others wave palm branches in triumph. It is grace that walks willingly into pain for the sake of love.

Skipping ahead a few days, we reach Maundy Thursday. Jesus shares a final Passover meal with his friends, sharing food and drink even though he knows one will betray him, one will deny him, and the others will abandon him. He ties a towel around his waist and washes their feet. Grace shows itself as Jesus humbles himself to do a servant’s work, knowing that not one of the men around that table deserves it. Grace doesn’t wait until we are worthy, it meets us as we are. It bends low, washes feet, and offers love in the face of betrayal.

And later, in the garden, Jesus kneels before God and cries out in desperation, hoping for another way but knowing there isn’t one. He submits, trusting God even at this darkest point. Grace doesn’t mean the absence of fear or struggle. It means choosing to trust and surrender, even when the cost is everything.

Then comes Good Friday. Jesus is beaten, mocked, and crucified. And even on the cross, we see grace in action. Jesus prays for forgiveness – for the soldiers who crucify him, for the crowd who turned on him, and even for us, whose sins he carries. In his agony, he still looks outward. He shows mercy to the criminal beside him, promising paradise even though there’s no time left to prove repentance. He entrusts his mother to John, ensuring she will not be left alone. Grace doesn’t falter in suffering. It pours itself out, even when there’s nothing left to give.

And now we arrive at Holy Saturday. The day of silence. The in-between. The day when it looks like grace has failed. But grace isn’t gone, it’s waiting. Working in the unseen. Grace holds space for grief and stillness. It doesn’t rush to the resolution. It allows the weight of sorrow to be felt. It holds us when we don’t know what comes next.

Maybe that’s where some of us are today – not yet at Easter morning, but waiting in the dark. If that’s you, know this: grace is here too. Grace sits beside you in the silence. Grace holds on, even when we can’t. And tomorrow, grace will rise.

Lent 2025: “I Thirst”

Today, for a Good Friday service, we were exploring the last seven sayings of Jesus from the cross. I was assigned the fifth saying, “I thirst,” and asked to speak for five minutes on it.

At first, I wondered how on earth I was going to talk for five minutes about just two words. But within half an hour of starting to research, I was wondering how I’d ever manage to cut it down! In the end, I had three reflections I could have given and picked the one that felt right in the moment.

But it felt a shame to let what I’d learnt stay with me, so I decided it was worth sharing here too – a Good Friday blog post for a small but profound saying.

“I thirst.”
Two words that are so simple, yet hold within them raw vulnerability. On the verge of death, with cracked lips and a parched throat, Jesus calls for something to drink.

This moment is recorded in John’s gospel, and John is always keen for his readers to see Jesus as the fulfillment of Old Testament prophecy. He points us back to Psalm 69: “They put gall in my food and gave me vinegar for my thirst.”

There are so many layers here.
On one level, this is a cry of human suffering, a physical need. It reminds us that Jesus truly experienced pain. He didn’t float above it all with supernatural detachment. He felt it. He thirsted.

But this moment also shows us Jesus’ obedience. He knew the Scriptures. He knew what was foretold. He knew what he had come to do. Even in agony, Jesus continues to fulfill the mission he has embraced, right to the end.

I found myself wrestling with the tension between those two ideas. If Jesus only said “I thirst” to fulfill Scripture, does that somehow make the suffering feel staged, less real? Or if this was simply a cry of pain, does that mean the fulfillment was accidental?

But I think the beauty of this moment is that both are true. Jesus doesn’t perform suffering – he lives it. And in living it, he shows us a love that is both deeply human and divinely faithful. His obedience doesn’t lessen the pain. And the pain doesn’t dilute his purpose.

There was also a third layer I began to explore.

Last night, during our Maundy Thursday Watch in the Garden, the leader invited us to imagine something different as we read the account of Jesus in Gethsemane. She said: What if, rather than just imagining Jesus ministering to us, we imagined ourselves ministering to him?

That thought stayed with me.

Because when I returned to the cross and heard “I thirst,” I remembered those words from Jesus earlier in his ministry: “Whatever you do for the least of these, you do for me.”

The cry of thirst didn’t end on the cross. It echoes through time.

It’s there in the parched throats of those without clean water. In those in refugee camps, hospitals, war zones. In those denied dignity, care, or even their basic needs. The voice of the crucified Christ still speaks: “I thirst.”

And maybe part of our calling – as his followers – is to listen. To respond. To quench that thirst where we can. To minister to Jesus, hidden in the brokenness of our world.

So today, as we hear the cry “I thirst,” where do we see Christ still thirsting in our world, and how might we respond?

Lent 2025: Anointing, Abandonment and a Peace that holds

It’s been another busy day. This morning we held a Chrism Mass – a service where the oils used for anointing are blessed, and clergy and lay people have the opportunity to renew their vows of commitment to God. There were hundreds of people on site; the car park was full, the congregation sang with gusto, and the whole place was buzzing with (good) chaos.

So when I stepped out of my office that afternoon into the sun, I paused. The crowds had gone, the site was quiet, and there was a calm stillness in the air. I just stood for a moment, letting the sun warm my face, and noticed a genuine sense of peace. A peace that settles in when the storm has passed, if only for a moment.

After work, I went to a simple said evening service. As we sat quietly in the chapel, we could hear the wind outside and the bustle of preparations in the main part of the Cathedral – the organ and choir rehearsing for the later liturgy. And yet, in that chapel, in the presence of God, there was peace. Not silence, but stillness. Not the absence of sound, but the presence of calm.

It reminded me of a story I once heard: a king holds a competition, asking artists to paint a picture of peace. Many submit idyllic scenes – sunsets, still lakes, green fields. But the winning entry is different. It shows a stormy sky, crashing waterfall, and wild waves. And there, tucked beneath a rocky cliff, is a small bird in her nest, calm and secure. That painting won because it captured true peace; not the absence of trouble, but peace in the midst of it.

That idea resonates with me. The “calm lake” moments in life are rare and fleeting. More often, I’m surrounded by noise, deadlines, activity, and distraction. So remembering that peace can still be found in the middle of it all feels like a lifeline.

Tonight, on Maundy Thursday, I’m struck by the contrast between two responses to Jesus in the hours before his death.
There’s the woman who anoints him. She breaks open an expensive jar of perfume, pours it on him, and wipes his feet with her hair. It’s a moment of pure, extravagant devotion. The disciples are shocked at the waste, but Jesus defends her. “She has done a beautiful thing,” he says. “She has prepared me for burial.” In the growing storm, she brings honour, tenderness, peace.

And then there are the disciples. They fall asleep in the garden when Jesus asks them to stay awake and pray. When the guards come, they run. And Peter – bold, beloved Peter – denies even knowing him. In the thick of fear and confusion, they abandon him.

One brings presence. The others scatter.
One acts in love. The others act in fear.

I don’t judge them. If I’m honest, I see myself in both responses.
Some days, I pour out what I have, kneeling at the feet of Jesus with peace in my heart.
Other days, I fall asleep. I disappear. I deny.
And yet, even in those moments, Jesus still moves toward the cross in love. For the woman, for the disciples, for me.

Because the peace he offers isn’t dependent on my performance.
It’s found in his presence.
It’s the peace of a bird in a nest, while the storm rages on.
It’s a peace that holds.

Lent 2025: Spy Wednesday

Continuing my discovery of the additional themes of Holy Week, today is known, in some traditions, as Spy Wednesday – the day we remember Judas Iscariot making the choice to betray Jesus. A far cry from the glory of James Bond or Jason Bourne, here the term spy means to ambush or snare. It’s an uneasy name for an uneasy story. A man who walked with Jesus, heard his teaching, saw the miracles, shared meals and laughter, choosing to sell him out for silver.

Even before the events of Holy Week, Judas used to steal from the common purse. He’s not exactly your poster boy for Christianity! It’s easy to keep Judas at arm’s length. To cast him as the villain. To say, “I would never.”

But would I?

I don’t have a situation as a direct comparison, but what about the times I don’t choose Jesus? When I choose comfort over compassion. When I stay silent rather than speak truth. When I grasp for control instead of trusting God. When I walk my own path and pretend it’s the faithful one.

None of these look like thirty pieces of silver. But they are still small betrayals – of trust, of love, of who I am called to be.

And yet, here’s the mystery: tomorrow at Maundy Thursday, Jesus still washes Judas’ feet. He still calls him friend. Grace doesn’t flinch, even at betrayal.

Spy Wednesday is an invitation to us – not to wallow in guilt – but to look honestly at our own hearts. To ask, where am I turning away from Jesus, even quietly, even in the shadows? And then to turn back to remember that grace is still extended, even here.

Even to me.

Even to you.

A Prayer for Spy Wednesday

Lord Jesus,
You knew betrayal, and still chose love.
You saw the shadows in Judas—and in me—
and knelt to wash feet anyway.
Search my heart,
and where you find fear, pride, or turning away,
draw me back with grace.
Teach me to walk your path, even in the dark.
Amen.

Lent 2025: Truth in the Temple

Today, I found out that traditionally on the Tuesday of Holy Week, we remember Jesus in the temple – teaching, challenging, confronting. It’s an interesting passage on the way to the cross. It shows a different side of Jesus. The tension is rising. The cross is coming. And yet, Jesus doesn’t back down.

Combining the account from the 4 gospels, we find Jesus speaks truth to power, tells uncomfortable parables, and exposes hypocrisy. The religious leaders are watching closely, trying to trap Him. But Jesus, firm in His relationship with God, turns their traps around, using clever words and parables to cut away their masks while presenting the same truth he has always proclaimed.

This passage always fascinated a member of my church. Every year, he would offer a fresh insight, helping us look again. One year, he pointed out something I’d never noticed: Jesus didn’t react in a fit of rage. He entered the temple, saw what was happening – the corruption, the injustice – and left. It was the next day that He returned and overturned the tables.

Even in righteous anger, Jesus was deliberate. His actions were considered, purposeful. And they were compassionate – He drove out the cattle, yes, but released the birds, sparing the vulnerable. He disrupted the systems that were exploiting the poor and the foreigner, especially in the very part of the temple – the Court of the Gentiles – meant to welcome those on the margins.

There are so many layers to this scene. It is rich with symbolism and challenge. It gives us permission to feel angry at situations, and it reminds us that God is for everyone.

As for me, when I see injustice, I find it hard to watch. But I also find it hard to confront. My voice trembles. My hands shake. My heart races. Speaking up comes at a personal emotional cost. But more and more, I realise I must imitate Christ, as hard and as uncomfortable as that might be.

Because there are people who don’t have a voice. Who don’t have the opportunity to speak up. And if I can, then I must. Not just out of duty, but as a privilege. To stand in solidarity. To protect the vulnerable. To clear space for worship, welcome, and justice – just like Jesus did in the temple.

So today, I’m asking myself where is Jesus encouraging me to speak up, even when it’s costly and uncomfortable?

May God give me the strength and the courage to imitate Jesus.

Lent 2025: The Picnic Basket and the Cluttered Table

Yesterday’s reflection took me to a familiar verse—one I’d already chatted about last week in a conversation about prayer. Philippians 4:6-7:

“Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

It’s comforting… and also challenging.

Because I do bring my requests to God. I lay them out like items from a picnic basket – my worries, my fears, my concerns for people I love. I try to be honest and open, to do exactly what this verse says.

And then? I pack it all back up again and carry it with me.

I wonder if anyone else does that.

It’s not that I don’t trust God. I do. Rationally, I believe God can handle far more than I can. But emotionally? Letting go feels unnatural. Especially when it comes to people I love; how can I just leave those concerns at God’s feet and walk away?

But maybe prayer isn’t about pretending our worries don’t exist. Maybe it’s more like clearing clutter from a dining table.

You know that moment when you’re trying to share a meal with someone, but the table is piled high with unopened post, paperwork, and laundry that still hasn’t found a home? There’s no space for connection until you move all that stuff aside.

That’s what prayer can be. Not just handing over our fears, but making room. Saying, “Here it is, Lord – all of it – and now I want to sit with You.”

We might still feel the weight of our concerns. But we’re no longer holding them alone. And in that space, peace, unexpected, inexplicable peace, can begin to grow.

It reminds me of something I have on a poster at home and at work. It says:

“I am God. Today I’ll be handling all your problems. Please remember that I don’t need your help. If the devil happens to deliver a situation to you that you can’t handle—do not attempt to resolve it! Kindly put it in the S-F-J-T-D box: the Something For Jesus To Do box. It will be addressed in My time, not yours. Once the matter has been placed in the box, do not hold onto it or attempt to remove it—holding on or removing it will delay the resolution of your problem! If it’s a situation that you think you are capable of handling, please consult Me in prayer to be sure it’s the proper resolution. Because I do not sleep, nor do I slumber, there’s no reason for you to lose any sleep. Rest, My child. If you need to contact Me, I’m only a prayer away.”

Maybe I need to read that more often.

So here’s my gentle challenge today—to myself and to you: what if we really did try to leave it with God? What if we let the clutter go, even just for today, and made room at the table?

In that space, God’s peace has a way of showing up—often quietly, always faithfully.

Lent 2025: Letting Joy In

Today marks the beginning of Holy Week, the final stretch of Lent. We’ve been preparing for this for weeks, waiting, reflecting, drawing nearer to God.

Palm Sunday always feels a little odd to me. It’s a day of triumph, of Hosannas and palm branches waved in the air. Jesus enters Jerusalem to the cheers of the crowd, riding on a donkey as prophecy foretold. It’s joyful, symbolic, powerful.

And yet, we know what’s coming.

We know that in just a few days, the cheers will turn to jeers. The palm branches will be trampled underfoot. The crowd will cry “Crucify.” There will be betrayal, suffering, and a death that shakes the earth. And then, there will be an empty tomb, confusion and, eventually, celebration.

So it’s hard to stay in this moment. Hard to hold Palm Sunday in its own right without skipping ahead to what’s next.

But maybe that’s the point. Maybe Palm Sunday invites us into the tension, into a moment of praise that lives alongside foreboding. Into joy that isn’t naïve, but brave.

Because Jesus knows what’s ahead. He knows the path leads to betrayal, pain, and death. And still, he rides into the city. Still, he accepts the praise, receives the joy, and allows this moment to be what it is: a celebration of the coming Kingdom.

Jesus doesn’t deflect the joy or stop the crowd. When the religious leaders urge him to quiet things down, he says, “If they keep silent, even the rocks will cry out.” It’s as if the joy must be expressed. It matters.

And that, perhaps, is something we can learn from.

Even when there’s something we dread on the horizon, even when the future feels uncertain or heavy, we are still allowed joy. We are allowed to stay in the moment and celebrate what is good and true, even for a little while. Not to deny what’s coming, but to strengthen us for it.

So today, I’m trying to stay with Palm Sunday. To hold the Hosannas in my heart. To celebrate the King who comes in peace, even when I know the path ahead leads to the cross. Because the joy is part of the story too.

Lent 2025: Our Fruit

Some days, a passing comment can stay with you, nudging your heart, stirring a quiet reflection.

In Paul’s letter to the Galatians, he writes about life by the Spirit, and the fruit that shows in our lives as a result. It’s one of those Bible lists I learnt by heart growing up: “The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.” (Though, if I’m honest, I usually forget gentleness when trying to recite them from memory!)

What’s striking is how these fruits often show up in everyday, ordinary interactions. You probably know people who bring joy with them wherever they go, or who just radiate kindness or patience. I do, and I find myself drawn to them. I want to be around them.

Today, I had one of those moments that made me stop and wonder. A friend at work asked if I was going to be at something tomorrow. I said I wasn’t sure, I wasn’t scheduled to be there. They just smiled and said, “It’s just better when you’re there.”

That simple comment made me pause. Could it be that I’m showing some fruit of the Spirit? Maybe there’s a gentleness that puts people at ease, or a peace that settles a room?

And it made me wonder: what fruit is growing in me? What’s the evidence of the Spirit at work in my life?

What about you? What fruit of the Spirit do others see in you? What fruit do you want to see more of in your life and your relationships?

Maybe take a quiet moment today to pray, to reflect, and to ask God to grow that fruit in you.

Lent 2025: A Mixed Bag and a Merciful God

Phew! I’ve arrived at Friday evening.
Do you ever have weeks that feel too full, like you’re not quite sure how you managed to fit everything in? That’s been my experience this week. A week that’s been rich and busy, a mixture of beautiful and overwhelming moments. And now I’ve reached the end feeling tired, but with so much to be thankful for. Stretched, yes, but somehow still grounded.

One highlight was meeting with my spiritual director – someone I see regularly who helps me reflect on and deepen my relationship with God. We sat in his living room, looking out over the garden and soaking up the sunshine. We covered a lot in a short space of time, but especially explored my growing sense of being God’s beloved daughter. It feels like such a victory to be able to say that with confidence, a milestone in a long journey of learning to believe this fundamental truth of my faith.

We also talked about keeping that relationship with God fresh. Prayer can become routine, even dry, so I try to explore different ways of connecting. Recently, I’ve been finding life in journaling prayers writing my thoughts and feelings helps keep my mind focused. He introduced me to something new: centering prayer. I’d never come across it before, but I’m excited to try it. Stay tuned – there might be a blog post about it soon! There was something special about having that pause, that moment of peace in the midst of a full week.

But it hasn’t all been peaceful. Work brought a fair amount of pressure. I’m someone who likes to help, to solve problems, but this week, that willingness came with weight. I heard more than once, “We don’t know what we’d do without you.” It’s a kind sentiment, but it also carries pressure. I don’t want to let people down. In the middle of it all, I’ve had to remind myself that my worth doesn’t come from what I do, but from who I am: a child of God.

Still, in the mix, there have been little moments of joy. Cheesy chips and catch-ups with a colleague. Chocolate chip and banana bread and butter pudding, and a quiz with friends. Awful TV and laughter with my housemates. Moments to let go and simply enjoy.

So yes, it’s been a full week – a mixed bag of emotions, energy, and encounters. It hasn’t always been peaceful, but I’ve known God with me through it all.
And that, I think, counts as grace.