Reflection on the readings for the 10 May, the 6th Sunday of Easter
- May 10
- 5 min read
Readings: Acts 17:22-31; John 14:15-21
Today’s reflection is by the Vicar, the Revd Canon Jonathan Cain.
People of Woodside! I see that in every way you are very religious. For as I walked around the St James’ campus and looked carefully at your objects of worship, I found the Parish Centre, the Horsforth Shed, the Horsforth Pantry, and this fine building. I even found a banner with this inscription: TRY PRAYING.
Now, I’ve borrowed that opening from Paul’s sermon in Athens — not because I think we’re secretly worshipping the Parish Centre or bowing down before the Pantry — but because Paul gives us a masterclass in how to speak the gospel into the world as it actually is. He begins where people already are. He pays attention to their context, their questions, their longings, even their confusions. And from that foothold, he leads them gently but boldly toward the God made known in Jesus Christ.
So, what was Paul doing that day on the Areopagus? He was standing in a city full of shrines, altars, and statues — a whole landscape of devotion. The Greeks honoured a vast array of gods and goddesses, each with their own sphere of influence, each with their own personality, each capable of being helpful or harmful depending on their mood. These deities were not moral in any meaningful sense; they were unpredictable, sometimes petty, sometimes generous, often meddling. And the people, unsure of how to keep all these divine beings satisfied, built shrines in the hope of securing favour.
But by Paul’s time, belief in this system was fraying. Scepticism was growing. People were beginning to suspect that these gods were projections of their own anxieties rather than sources of real hope. And into this atmosphere of uncertainty, Paul steps with a remarkable strategy: he looks for a point of connection. He finds an altar with the inscription, “To an unknown god.” Perhaps it had been erected by someone who feared they had forgotten a deity and didn’t want to risk offending them. But Paul sees in it an opening — a way to speak of the God who is not unknown, but who has made himself known in Jesus Christ.
Paul moves from the unknown god to the Creator of all things, and from the Creator to the risen Christ. He moves from confusion to clarity, from superstition to resurrection hope. And he does it by paying attention to the world around him.
Let’s return to our own context for a moment. Here at St James’, we don’t have shrines to Zeus or Athena. But we do have the Parish Centre, the Horsforth Shed, the Horsforth Pantry, and this church building. They are not objects of worship — but they do reveal something about us. They show what we value, what we invest in, what we hope for in this community.
The Parish Centre speaks of our desire to serve our neighbours by providing space for family celebrations, community gatherings, and moments of connection. It’s a place where people come together — sometimes for joy, sometimes for support, sometimes simply to belong.
The Horsforth Shed tells another story: a story of restoring relationships, especially for those who have become isolated or who are at risk of isolation. It’s a place where people pick up tools but also pick up friendships. Where confidence is rebuilt and where loneliness is met with companionship.
The Horsforth Pantry reveals our commitment to sharing resources with those who struggle with the cost of living. It’s a practical expression of compassion, a way of saying that no one in our community should have to choose between heating and eating or face the shame of going without.
And this church building — 178 years of Christian witness in this place — stands as a reminder that faith has been lived, prayed, sung, and shared here across generations. It is a sign of continuity, of hope, of the gospel taking root in a particular place.
These are not idols. They are signs of life. They are entry points for the proclamation of the gospel — places where the love of Christ is already at work, often quietly, often without fanfare, but unmistakably.
And then there is that banner: TRY PRAYING. It’s simple, almost disarmingly so. But it raises a question: to whom are we praying? What do people imagine when they hear the word “God”? Research suggests that while many people pray — especially in moments of crisis or uncertainty — confidence in, or perhaps more accurately knowledge of, the God of the Bible is waning. Many people describe themselves as “spiritual,” but without any clear sense of what that means. Spirituality becomes a kind of free-floating feeling, a vague openness, a therapeutic practice rather than a relationship with the living God.
Meditation is valued for its calming effect, not for the One in whom we meditate. Spirituality becomes an escape rather than an incarnation — a way of stepping back from the world rather than stepping into it with hope and purpose.
And so perhaps the “unknown god” of our own time is spirituality itself — a spirituality without content, without story, without the grounding of a God who speaks, who loves, who acts, who raises the dead.
Paul’s message in Athens, and the Church’s message ever since, is that prayer is not directed into the void. It is directed to the God who made the world and everything in it. The God who is not far from each one of us. The God who has shown his face in Jesus Christ. The God who raised Jesus from the dead and who promises life to all who turn to him.
Knowledge of Jesus — confidence in Jesus — is what our world needs. Not confidence in ourselves, not confidence in vague spirituality, but confidence in the One who says in today’s gospel reading, “I will not leave you as orphans.” The One who promises the Spirit of truth. The One who abides with us and in us.
So let me return to those four places on our campus. They are not only entry points for the gospel — they are the gospel in action. They are signs that the risen Christ is already at work among us. They are expressions of love, compassion, hospitality, and hope. They are ways in which we follow Jesus who says: “If you love me, you will obey what I command.”
And there is an important point to make here. Unlike the ancient Greeks, we do not need to obey Jesus commands to secure his vavour or earn his love. Rather our obedience flows from our love of God who first loved us.
For ourselves, then, a question: does our involvement in these ministries spring from our knowledge of and confidence in Jesus? Are we serving because we know the One who first served us? Are we loving because we know the One who first loved us?
And for others: are we ready to witness to our confidence? To speak, as Paul did, from the context we know so well — this parish, this community, these projects — and to point beyond them to the God who is not unknown, but who has made himself known in Jesus Christ?
People of Woodside, be encouraged. The gospel is already alive among you. And the God who raised Jesus from the dead is still drawing people from the unknown into the known, from uncertainty into hope, from isolation into community, from death into life.
Amen