A sermon preached at St Saviour on Sunday 20 July
by the Revd Yin-An Chen,
Assistant Curate of St John's Hampstead
(Genesis 18:1-10a, Colossians 1:15-28, Luke 10:38-end)
It is never easy to live through a time of transition. But what happens when the transition
stretches—not for weeks or months—but for years? What happens when a church
has no permanent clergy for so long that the so-called ‘interregnum’ becomes
not a brief chapter, but a defining season?
I think that’s the reality here. And I want to begin this sermon with admiration.
I want to say: Well done, St Saviour’s, good and faithful servants .
Because it takes great courage to keep welcoming others when your own arms are tired.
It takes resilience to keep the prayers going, to maintain the building, to care for
one another, to keep the community alive—not just through a gap, but through
a long wilderness. And you have done that. Not without weariness.
Not without questions or battles. But you’ve remained.
Perhaps now there is talk of something changing—perhaps even someone arriving.
That’s a cause for hope. But it can also stir anxiety. After all this time, can we trust again?
Will new leadership understand what we’ve carried?
Will it be the beginning of something new—or just another chapter of waiting?
And what are we really waiting for?
Today’s readings speak directly into this kind of moment. They are stories of faithful
people navigating weariness, uncertainty, and the challenge of both hospitality and hope.
They speak not just to short-term waiting, but to long-term endurance.
I believe what they say may be very relevant to us.
They may speak to us here today in Chalk Farm.
Let’s begin with the Gospel: Mary and Martha.
We’ve often been told this story is about choosing contemplation over action,
loving Jesus himself over doing service—Mary, sitting at Jesus’ feet,
versus Martha, busy in the kitchen. But that’s too simplistic.
Because the problem is NOT Martha’s service. The text says she was distracted
by many things. She was overwhelmed. She was doing what had to be done—
but her heart was heavy. Her labour, once joyful, had become anxious.
And in that moment of stress, she turns to Jesus with a very human complaint:
‘Lord, don’t you care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself?’
How many of us have felt that?
Especially in churches during a long vacancy: ‘Lord, don’t you care?
Don’t you see how much we’re doing? Don’t you see how tired we are?
Don’t you see we’re holding this together?’
Jesus doesn’t rebuke Martha. He doesn’t deny the difficulty.
But he gently invites her to re-centre: ‘Martha, Martha, you are worried
and distracted by many things.But one thing is necessary.’
He’s not rejecting her work—he’s reminding her of her source.
Her attention has shifted from Jesus to resentment, from love to frustration.
And we’ve all been there.
This church, like Martha, has had no choice but to keep going. You’ve done what needed
to be done. But sometimes—when we serve for too long without support—our hearts can
slip from joy into exhaustion. We begin to notice not the blessings, but the burdens.
We begin to wonder if Jesus sees us at all.
But Jesus does. And Jesus still speaks.
He reminds us that faithfulness is not just about doing more—
it’s about staying rooted in him.
He is the ‘one thing needed.’ Even when there is no clergy, even when
the rotas are thin and the numbers are down, even when the candles are low
and the roof leaks—Jesus is still here. And when our eyes return to him,
even our Martha-like duties can be renewed with Mary-like peace.
And that brings us to Genesis chapter 18.
Abraham sees three strangers coming. He runs to welcome them, prepares a meal,
offers water and rest. It’s a picture of radical hospitality—not based on comfort or surplus,
but on openness and faith. And the astonishing thing is this:
God is in the midst of the strangers.
Abraham and Sarah are old, tired, and barren. They’ve heard promises before.
Years have passed. Hope has already faded.
And yet, at just this moment—at a moment when Abraham has no reason
to expect anything—God speaks. A promise is given again:
‘I will return to you... and Sarah shall have a son.’
God does not wait for everything to be tidy. He speaks right in the middle of human
limitation and weariness. He doesn’t wait for Abraham and Sarah to feel strong
or become younger. He shows up in the tiredness and uncertainty (more relevantly,
‘in the heat of the day!)— God speaks new life.
This is a picture of God’s timing, of how God comes, not when we’ve fixed everything—
but precisely when we’ve run out of ways to fix it.
If a new chapter is beginning for this congregation, I hope you hear this: God doesn’t
need your energy to be perfect. God doesn’t wait for all the right structures to be in place.
He speaks promises right into places that feel worn out. Like Sarah’s womb.
Like long-empty pulpits. Like tired churchwardens and PCC members,
and aging congregations. This is exactly where God loves to speak new life.
And Colossians?
Paul gives us the grand view: Jesus Christ is the image of the invisible God,
the one through whom all things were made, and in whom all things hold together.
He is not absent. He is not far off. He is before all things, and in him all things
hold together—including your church, even now.
But then Paul shifts from cosmic glory to personal suffering. He says:
‘I am now rejoicing in my sufferings for your sake, and in my flesh I am completing
what is lacking in Christ’s afflictions.’
In other words: God's reconciling work is ongoing, and we get to participate in it—
not by being powerful, but by being faithful. By enduring. By proclaiming hope
even when it costs us something.
This is not a theology of triumph. It’s a theology of resilience. Of long-haul discipleship.
Of continuing to welcome others, continuing to love one another, even when the road
is hard and challenging, even when we feel we are completely worn out and barren.
That’s our story, the story of many faithful congregations struggling.
But THAT is a Christ-shaped story.
So where does all of this leave us?
It leaves us, I think, at a place of both realism and hope.
Realism: the long wait has been real. The cost has been real.
There’s no need to pretend otherwise. Like Martha, you’ve carried a lot.
Like Abraham and Sarah, you’ve waited a long time. And like Paul, you may
have suffered more than anyone outside this community really understands.
But there is hope, too.
Because God shows up in the waiting. He speaks promises into barrenness.
He sustains weary hands. And he reminds us, even now, that one thing is needed—
to keep our eyes on him, on Jesus who always loves and cares.
A new vicar may come soon. That is a gift. But the deeper truth is this:
Christ has already come. Christ is already here. And whether your future is full of change
or full of continued challenge, he will not leave you.
The better part—the presence of Christ—is yours, and it will not be taken away
under any change of circumstances.
So keep welcoming. Keep serving. Keep listening. Keep hoping.
You are not alone. Christ is here.
And the better part we have chosen will not be taken away from anybody else.
Amen.