Opening Meditation on God's Healing for the 2026 Après Ski Series

 

Opening Meditation for the All Saints Collingwood Après Ski services for 2026, by Father Michael.

If you joined our series last year, you may remember that the theme of our readings and meditations was on the Holy Family.  Tonight as part of this year’s Après Ski series we begin a series of readings and meditations on the theme of healing and Christian faith.  I’ve asked our clergy team to offer their thoughts and experiences on healing, and I’m looking forward to hearing what they have to say because I am very much not an expert on the subject, and, truth be told, I think that when it comes to healing I am like the man who tells Jesus “Lord, I believe, help my unbelief” (Mk 9:24).

I’ve had lots of experience with illness and with dying, as part of my training and work as a priest and as part of my own life history.   I’ve had no training in healing prayer, and while I’ve met a few people who’ve told me that God has healed their medical conditions, I’ve never been sure how to take these statements.  I believe that they believe they’ve been healed, but part of my rational, sceptical brain can’t help thinking that their stories are more belief than fact.

Where does this scepticism come from?    Partly it comes from what we call the secular, the whole weight of science, medicine, and technology that seems to drive God out of the world and into the corners of our personal belief.    After all, we believe in MRI machines, chemotherapy, psychotherapy, and all the other resources that promise us longer and better lives.    At the same time we have the whole wellness industry, that urges us to improve our bodies and our wellbeing through  healthy diets and  healthy habits.   None of these forces leave much room for God to act in our lives.

And yet, as we shall hear in the readings chosen for this series, Jewish and Christian scripture speaks with one voice to say that God can heal and wants to heal.     In Luke’s gospel, Jesus gives his disciples “power and authority over all demons and to cure diseases, and he sent them out to proclaim the kingdom of God and to heal” (Lk 9:1-2).   I think many of us, myself included, interpret this broadly, so that healing the world and proclaiming the kingdom of God can be our outreach, our food ministries, our hospitality to strangers and to the lonely.      And indeed these are worthwhile things to do, they are part of our calling as followers of Jesus, but God wants to do more than that, God wants to heal, and heal through us.

Last fall, Rev. Amy led a few of us through a remarkable book by an Avery Brooke, an Anglican layperson.   She describes how a dozen retired women met regularly in Brooke’s Conneticut parish to learn about spiritual healing.    Over time, as they prayed and laid hands on others, remarkable things happened:  hands grew “hot as radiators” and  “small physical, psychological, and spiritual healings were occuring”.   

As Brooke described it, they learned  that making  “room for God … is at the crux of healing.  It is not our compassion that heals, it is God’s compassion.  It is not our words of prayer that heal, it is God using our words and hands and the energy flowing through us”.

I found Brooke’s advice very encouraging, because I think my disbelief is because my own ego, with all it’s learning and scpeticism and my pride in my sophistication can get in the way of God’s work.  We all know that there is a time to live and time to die, and that these times, like our souls, are in God’s hands, but what if there is also a time to  be healed?  

My hope for this series is that we will learn to more deeply appreciate some of the good things that we already do here, like the ministry of annointing, but that we will make room for God to do more healing in the midst of us, and through us.

You Can Go Home Again: A Homily for the Baptism of Our Lord

Preached at All Saints, Collingwood, and Good Shepherd, Stayner, Sunday, 11 January, 2026, the Feast of the Baptism of Our Lord.

Readings for this Sunday:  Isaiah 42:1-9; Psalm 29; Acts 10:34-43; Matthew 3:13-17

“And a voice from heaven said, "This is my Son, the Beloved, with

whom I am well pleased."

There’s an expression that goes, “You can’t go home again”, which seems to ring true for many of us once we reach a certain point in our lives.

Have you ever had a moment when you realized that this was true for you?

Perhaps it was when the house or cottage where you grew up in was sold or demolished, or when your family church was closed.  Perhaps it was when your parents were both passed away or had become frail and untethered to memory and identity.

As teenagers, many of us longed for independence, couldn’t wait to get out in the world and be free of the demands of our parents.  But as adults, I think many of might acknowledge a certain wistful sadness that we can no longer go back to that place where we were once cared for, nurtured and protected.

Today I’d like to think with you about how the story of Jesus’ baptism is actually an invitation to return home, to find our place and our grounding in a deep relationship with the God who loves us profoundly and whose love gives us strength and purpose.

So let’s begin briefly with baptism.   It’s worth noting that while most of us were baptized, probably as infants, Jesus’ baptism is in fact not Christian baptism, it’s unique.     The baptism that John was offering in the River Jordan was about repentance, a cleansing and washing away of sin and guilt and an invitation to lead a better life going forward.

John the Baptist understood that Jesus was clean, with no sins to repent of, and so he protests.  But Jesus, when he stands in the muddy footsteps of all those who have already come to John, stands with all of us, who need to be cleansed.  

Now in one sense this can be seen as an act of solidarity, of Jesus coming to be with us in all of our messy humanity, and that is certainly part of it.  It’s why Jesus’ opponents accuse him of spending too much time hanging out in taverns with a bad crowd.  But Jesus’ ministry was about much more than just hanging out with sinners.  It was about calling sinners to come home.  

Jesus’ baptism is an invitation to come for us to come home.  We hear that invitation in the words from heaven, “This is my son, the beloved, with whom i am well pleased”.    Matthew’s use of the demonstrative pronoun, “This”, is important, and suggests that these words are meant to be heard by others, and particularly to be heard by us.   

The words from heaven are not just a statement of Jesus’ identity, but are also about our new identity as followers of Jesus.    Our baptism brings us into the mysterious and wonderful life of the Trinity that Jesus shares with the Father and with the Holy Spirit.  The early Christian writer Justin Martyr wrote words to the effect that Jesus is born every time knowledge of him is born in people.   So baptism, and this is a wild thought, allows us to be part of the Incarnation, it allows us to be born into the life and family of God.  And because we are part of the life and family of God, then we always have a place to come home to.

So what would having a life and a home with God look like?   We might think of being with God as our final destination, a heavenly home, but I think scripture offers us more interesting visions of what coming home to God might look like, depending on where we are.

If we’re feeling lost or alone, it might be the shepherd who leaves his flock to come find us and protect us (Luke 15:3-7).   

If we’re ashamed, it might be the father waiting at his gate,  who will pull us into his embrace and forgiveness.

If we’re feeling joyful, it might be the wedding guest sitting across the table for us, his eyes laughing as we drink from the finest wine we’ve ever tasted.

And if we’re suffering and distressed, or coming to the end of our earthly lives, it will be the crucified king beside us, who promises us that there will be a place for us in his father’s house.

The baptism of Jesus makes all of these things possible because it opens the way for us to share in the rich life and love and community of our three personed Triune God.    Our baptism is the cure for our sin, but it is also the cure for our loneliness and isolation because it gives us a place we can always come home to.

Or, in the words of the old Shaker Hymn, 

'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free,
'Tis the gift to come down where I ought to be;
And when we find ourselves in the place just right,
'Twill be in the valley of love and delight.

Travellers in a Dark World: A Homily on the Magi for Epiphany

Preached at All Saints, Collingwood, Anglican Diocese of Toronto, Sunday, 4 January, 2026, The Epiphany of Our Lord.

Readings for this Sunday: Isaiah 60:1-6; Psalm 72:1-7, 10-14; Ephesians 3:1-12; Matthew 2:1-12

The first Sunday of Epiphany is a magical time in the church year because, in the afterglow of Christmas, we get those three wonderful and exotic figures that we call the Magi, the Wise Men.     In the crêche they are the loveliest figures (well, next to the angel) with their lavish robes, turbans, and gifts.  Some churches start the crêche figures of the Magi at the back of the church and move them forward gradually throughout Advent, until we get to this Sunday when they finally arrive at their destination (though sometimes churches will put them into their Christmas Eve nativity plays, and why not?).

We don’t know exactly who the Magi were, what they looked like, where they actually came from, or even how many they were (for some reason the number three struck, presumably because of the three gifts, but it could have been a whole caravan!   In the Christian tradition, they represent the kings who Isaiah said would come from afar to worship the God of Israel, gentile rulers who show that Christ is born for the peoples of all the earth.

In popular art, they are often portrayed as three figures riding camels (which may have been their likely ride but certainly makes them exotic to westerners) at night, three figures shilouetted by the light of the star they follow. 

I’m sure some of you got at least one Christmas card like this, though Christmas cards seem to be less of a thing these days as we send less and less paper mail.  Often in these images it appears as if the Magi are travelling through am empty desert landscape, but this year in particular it seems like they are moving through a landscape that looks a lot like the world we live in.

Saturday morning we woke to find that a minor king was toppled by an Emperor.   Now “king” and “emperor” aren’t really words that you hear in the news anymore, but they exist.   Emperors have names like Trump, or Xi, or Putin.  Kings today (not the nice ones like Charles) have names like Maduro, or Bolsonaro, or Kim Jung Un.  When the Wise Men came to Jerusalem, they came to the court of one of these petty, vicious hireling kings.  At Herod’s court, three learned travellers found themselves in a world of ruthless power politics, and rulers who, for all their strutting and blustering, were like their counterparts today, deeply anxious and insecure.

Herod was a king, but we might better call him a puppet, a stooge on the Roman payroll.   His father came to power because he ruled Galilee for Julius Caesar and raised taxes for the Romans.  Herod himself was useful to Mark Antony, and after the Romans captured Jerusalem the Roman senate named Herod king of Judea.   So Herod wasn’t a king like David or Solomon.  He was basically a small mob boss who worked for a big mob boss.   

So for the Magi to come to Herod’s court and to tell him that they are looking for “ the child who has been born king of the Jews” (Mt 2.2), well, that is as one commentator has noted, “an extraordinardily naïve question”.   We can imagine the buzz of conversation among Herod’s courtiers going dead silent at this point, and Herod’s face freezing.  

Small wonder, as the gospel says, that Herod was “frightened”.  He must have been wondering, “What do these foreigners know that I don’t know?   Is there a rebellion against me, or worse, are the Romans going to replace me?   I’ve got to get on top of this”.  So Herod, who is a master of cunning, enlists the Magi as his unwitting spies, so they can tell him where this child is, so he can kill him.   If you look at the histories of this period, Herod wasn’t reluctant to kill people.  He had even had his second wife Mariamme executed for plotting to overthrow him, so he was as ruthless as they come.

The Herods and Caesars of today are as ruthless as Herod, even though they live with greater scrutiny of their actions and are a little more devious.   Even so, one of the strange things about the times we live in is that no one seems sure how to stop bad powerful people any more.    Ruthless, powerful people have journalists murdered, they enrich themselves and their families through blatant corruption, they invade other countries and they break rules, and it seems like all we can do is shrug.   The 21st century seems more like the world of Herod than it seems like the world we grew up in, where rules and shame still mostly worked.   So maybe we can relate more to these travellers who passed through a scheming, ruthless world, searching for their true king.

Something we might well ask is why these three men, wealthy and learned, would have left their comfortable, far away lives and made the long journey to seek Jesus.   T.S. Eliot well imagines the discomfort of their journey in his famous poem.  Herod’s advisors had told him that a king of Israel would be born in Bethlehem, and they were quoting the prophet Micah (Mi 5:1-6), but the Wise Men weren’t Jews, so why did they care?

Perhaps all we can say is what is often said about the Magi, that they were willing to be led by something far above the scheming kingdoms of earth, that miraculous, westward leading star.    In all the scriptures around the Christmas story, the light breaking into the darkness is a sign of God’s revealed truth.    For Isaiah it was the promise that a people too long used to darkness would see the dawn of a new light.  For John in the prologue to his gospel, the light was the truth come into the world, a light no darkness or evil could extinguish.

The Magi’s trust in that guiding star is an encouragement to us to believe that there is still light and truth and goodness in the world, and that we are called to follow that light and truth and goodness as they did.    The world can seem terribly dark at times, and the Herods can seem like the winners in the struggle between dark and light.    Indeed, the frankinscense and myrrh of the Magi are gifts that look towards a tragic outcome.   

In T.S. Eliot’s poem “The Journey of the Magi”, there is much foreshadowing of the cross, and indeed one of the Wise man asks, “were we led all that way for Birth or Death?’  Death is further layered onto Matthew’s nativity account in Herod’s massacre of the boy children of Bethlehem, and if history is full of anything, it’s full of massacres and atrocities.    The birth of Jesus does not end the world of tyrants and massacres, but it does put the tyrants on notice.  The mystery of the Incarnation is that Jesus is born to die, and in his dying and rising to life again, the slow but sure undoing of death and sin and tyranny begins.

Like the Magi before us, it may seem at times that we also travel through darkness, but we are never far from the light, the light of God’s truth and goodness and faithfulness.  As believers, we follow a king who makes the kings and emperors of our time look like foolish and petty and doomed.   Like the Magi, we follow the light of God’s truth and goodness, because we know that the light will lead us out of the darkness.