Second Sunday of Epiphany Sermon

On this Second Sunday of Epiphany, the light of God breaks into the heart of London.

Not as something distant or decorative.
Not as a soft religious glow to warm us briefly and leave us unchanged.

But as light that floods the streets outside these doors.
Light that spills into Piccadilly, into the noise, the crowds, the longing, the loneliness.
Light that enters this church, through Wren’s clear windows—this ancient, holy place that has seen centuries of prayer, protest, beauty, argument, courage, and compromise—and refuses to leave us untouched.

This is Epiphany light.
Searching light.
Truth-telling light.
Light that does not flatter the Church, but loves it enough to tell the truth.

And today, here at St James’s, many of us stand in that light with heavy hearts.

The decision of the bishops of the Church of England to conclude the Living in Love and Faith process has landed painfully in this community. This is not abstract here. It is not theoretical. It has names. Faces. Stories. Relationships. For LGBTQ+ Christians in particular, it has been deeply costly—costly in courage, costly in trust, costly in hope offered in good faith and not met with the change so many longed for.

For some, it feels not simply like disappointment, but like a narrowing of welcome—like being told that your life, your love, your calling is still something the Church is unsure it can fully receive.

And that hurts all the more in a place like this.
A church known as a place of sanctuary.
A church many have come to because they believed—perhaps for the first time—that here they might breathe freely.
A church whose doors open daily onto a city full of people asking whether God has any good news left for them.

We must not rush past this pain. God does not ask us to pretend we are fine when we are not. Jesus never demanded emotional compliance. Resurrection always comes after wounds are named. The wounds of the Church must be spoken aloud if they are ever to be healed.

And this pain does not stand alone. It sits within a longer, more troubling story.

Women told to wait—for equality, for voice, for the recognition of their calling.
People told that racial justice is “important,” but never urgent.
Children pushed to the margins—or worse, silenced—when institutions chose self-protection over truth.
Disabled people excluded by steps, by language, by assumptions about worth.
The poor judged. Migrants feared. Survivors doubted.

Again and again, the Church has asked marginalised people to be patient, prayerful, grateful for crumbs—and called that faithfulness.

And into this reality—into a Church both beautiful and broken—John the Baptist points and says:

“Here is the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world.”

Not the sin of those who are excluded.
Not the sin of those who speak up.
Not the sin of those who dare to hope for more.

But the sin of the world—the vast, entangled systems of fear, racism, patriarchy, violence, and exclusion that distort God’s dream for humanity.

Sin is not difference.
Sin is not desire.
Sin is not identity.

Sin is whatever denies the dignity of those made in the image of God.

And Jesus comes not to manage that sin, not to dress it up in religious language, not to ask the wounded to bear it quietly—but to take it away.

The first words Jesus speaks in John’s Gospel are not a command, not a rule, but a question:

“What are you looking for?”

It is a question that honours longing.
That trusts desire.
That assumes the ache of our hearts matters to God.

What are you looking for?

Some of us are looking for justice that goes beyond statements.
Some are looking for a Church that will stop centring the comfort of the powerful.
Some are looking for safety—for our children, for our bodies, for our lives.
Some are simply looking for a home.

The disciples reply, “Where are you staying?”

Where do you abide?
Where is your home?

This is the question beneath so much of our struggle with the Church of England. Is there really a place here for all of us? Not someday. Not theoretically. But now.

And Jesus answers with breath-taking simplicity and courage:

“Come and see.”

Not “Come when the structures are fixed.”
Not “Come once the debates are settled.”
Not “Come if you fit.”

Come.
See.
Stay.

Paul, writing to the Corinthians—a Church fractured by inequality, power struggles, and exclusion—begins not with condemnation but with truth:

“You are called. You are enriched. You are not lacking in any spiritual gift.”

Not lacking.

Hear that today, especially if recent events have made you doubt it.

Women are not lacking in authority or wisdom.
People of every race are not lacking in holiness or leadership.
Children are not lacking in spiritual depth.
Disabled people are not lacking in value.
LGBTQ+ people are not lacking in faith, faithfulness, or grace.

The Church is lacking when it refuses to recognise the gifts already in its midst.

Desmond Tutu once said, “If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor.” And with Gospel clarity he reminded us: “God is not neutral.”

That is the heart of Epiphany. God shows up. God takes sides. God is revealed not in abstraction, but in flesh, in relationship, in solidarity with those pushed to the edges.

And so this must be said—here, of all places—clearly, loudly, without apology:

The world is desperate for a Church that looks like Jesus.

A Church that notices who is being pushed aside—and goes there first.
A Church that understands holiness not as control, but as compassion.
A Church that does not confuse exclusion with unity or delay with wisdom.
A Church that breaks bread with those religion has wounded.

The world is desperate for a Church that looks like Jesus—
who welcomed women as disciples,
who crossed racial boundaries without hesitation,
who placed children at the centre,
who touched the untouchable,
who told the truth even when it cost him everything.

At this table, in this place, we do not celebrate an institution.
We receive a body—broken.

At this table, we do not defend power.
We proclaim love poured out.

At this table, Christ gives himself without condition, without hierarchy, without exclusion.

And here is the fierce, stubborn, defiant hope of Epiphany:

Jesus is not finished with the Church.

When Jesus renames Simon as Peter—Rock—he does so knowing Peter will fail. Knowing he will deny. Knowing he will be afraid. And still, Jesus builds.

God has never waited for perfect disciples.
God has never relied on flawless institutions.
God has always worked through wounded, arguing, fragile communities—and transformed them from within.

So we do not give up.
We do not disappear.
We do not surrender the Gospel to fear.

We stay.
We speak.
We resist.
We hope.

Because the Lamb of God is still taking away the sin of the world.
Because the light of Epiphany still shines in the heart of London.
Because Christ is already present—in queer lives, in women’s leadership, in children’s faith, in struggles for racial justice, in every place love refuses to be silent.

So come.

Come with your anger and your tenderness.
Come with your grief and your courage.
Come with your whole, glorious, complicated self.

And let us be—together—here, at St James’s, Piccadilly—
the Church the world is crying out for:
a Church that looks like Jesus,
until justice shines like light,
and welcome burns like an unquenchable flame.

Epiphany tells us that God is revealed not in spite of our humanity, but through it—through bodies, through desire, through relationship, through the risky act of showing up as we are and hearing the words:

Come and see.

So hear this as good news—not as sentiment, but as truth that costs something to live:

If you are searching, you are welcome.
If you are certain, you are welcome.
If you are wounded by the Church, you are welcome.
If you are queer, trans, non-binary, questioning, joyful, angry, exhausted—you are welcome.

Not as a project.
Not as a problem.
Not as a concession to modernity.

But as part of the Body of Christ—
necessary, beloved, irreplaceable.

And this welcome is not fragile.
It is not provisional.
It does not depend on future votes or delayed permissions.

It is rooted in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ.

So let us leave this place changed.
Not quieter, but braver.
Not smaller, but truer.

Let us be a Church that refuses to make peace with injustice.
A Church that does not wait politely while people are harmed.
A Church that knows that fidelity to the Gospel will sometimes put us at odds with comfort, with consensus, even with parts of our own institution.

Let us be, here at St James’s Piccadilly, a living epiphany—
a sign in the heart of this city that God’s love is wider than fear,
stronger than exclusion,
and more enduring than disappointment.

And when the world asks whether the Church has anything left to offer,
may our lives answer before our words:

Come and see.

Amen.

The Revd. Daniel Norris

St James’s Church Piccadilly