Reflection on the readings for the 19th July, the 7th Sunday after Trinity
- 6 days ago
- 5 min read
Readings: Isaiah 44:6-8
Today’s reflection is by the Vicar, the Revd Canon Jonathan Cain.
The Baptism of Barney
There are seasons in life when we find ourselves asking anxious questions about the future. As many of you know, Rebecca and I have four sons. The elder two are in long-term relationships and flourishing. The younger two are in that unpredictable, occasionally nerve‑wracking dating phase.
Parents know this territory well. We watch our children grow, we watch them choose, and we realise — often long before they do — that some choices will shape their lives profoundly.
When they fall in love, children don’t always recognise the weight of what is happening. They see excitement, affection, possibility. Parents, though, see further. We see the kind of person who will walk beside them. We see whether that person will help them flourish or slowly diminish them. And when we sense that a child is giving their heart to someone who may not help them grow, it hurts. It is a quiet, helpless pain — the pain of loving someone whose choices you cannot control.
And when they choose well, when they find someone who brings out their best, our hearts lift. We see them becoming more themselves. We see them flourish.
This is one of the deepest truths of parenthood: our children’s choices shape their lives, and we feel those choices in our bones.
But there is another truth we parents must acknowledge, and it is not always comfortable: our foresight is not perfect. We see a great deal — but not everything. We sometimes misread situations. We sometimes worry unnecessarily. We sometimes fear what turns out to be good, or welcome what turns out to be harmful.
We love our children fiercely, but our vision is limited. We look ahead, but only so far. We try to discern what will help them flourish, but we do so with partial sight, with mixed motives, with the inevitable blind spots of being human.
And this is where the contrast between human beings and God is both humbling and hopeful.
Because God feels the same longing for our flourishing — but God sees perfectly.
Where our parental love is deep but limited, God’s love is deep and limitless. Where our judgement is sometimes clouded, God’s judgement is always clear. Where we sometimes get it wrong, God never does.
So when God says through the prophet Isaiah,
“I am the first and I am the last; apart from me there is no God,” it is not simply a statement of identity. It is an invitation to trust the one whose love is perfect and whose sight is sure.
In that first reading, Isaiah is speaking to people who have made choices that led them into exile — political choices, spiritual choices, communal choices. Choices that have not brought flourishing. And into that pain, God speaks not with anger but with longing:
“I am the first and I am the last; apart from me there is no God.”
Isaiah’s God is not distant or indifferent. Isaiah’s God is a parent whose heart aches when his children give themselves to things that cannot love them back — and who sees with perfect clarity what will lead them into life.
Isaiah’s people did not end up in exile by accident. They were drawn away by other gods — forces that promised life but delivered emptiness.
In a collection of his sermons, priest‑theologian Mark Oakley names four of these “other gods” that still capture our attention today:
Gloss – the goddess of beauty and surfaces, who makes us confuse our wants with our needs and leads many to tears. Obese – the god of gathering and acquiring and consuming, who is never satisfied. Instantaneous – the goddess of now, of quick fixes and easy answers, who hates ambiguity and nuance. Punch – the god of violence and division, who makes us yawn whenever the conversation turns to human responsibilities for minorities and those on the margins.
These gods are subtle. They rarely announce themselves. They simply whisper: Trust me. Follow me. I will give your life meaning. And often, without noticing, we do. Gloss, Obese, Instantaneous, and Punch were at work in Isaiah’s time. They shaped Israel’s desires, distorted its priorities, and ultimately led the nation into exile.
And they lead us into exile now.
Not geographical exile, but spiritual exile. Exile from connection and relationship. Exile from peace and joy. Exile from the God who longs for our flourishing and sees perfectly what will sustain us.
Isaiah’s message is simple and urgent: Only one God can hold your life. Only one God can bear the weight of your hope. Only one God sees clearly enough to lead you into flourishing. And this is the God of Israel who came to be with us in the person of Jesus Christ.
Today we celebrate Barney’s baptism. And baptism is, at its heart, an act of orientation. It is a turning — a deliberate choice to face toward the God who says, “I am the first and the last.”
In my recent conversation with Barney’s parents, they recognised the wrong turns made in their own lives. That is not a confession of failure; it is a sign of wisdom. As we will hear soon in the baptism liturgy, we all wander far from God and lose our way. All of us make wrong turns. All of us follow other gods at times. What matters is the courage to recognise it and the desire to set ourselves — and a child — on a better path.
What does it mean to set Barney on a good path?
It means teaching him that his worth is not found in Gloss the goddess of appearances, but in the fact that he is loved by God. It means showing him that life is not about Obese the god of gathering, but about generosity, compassion, and joy. It means helping him resist Instantaneous the goddess of now — learning patience, resilience, and the slow work of faith. It means guiding him away from Punch the god of violence — toward peace, forgiveness, and courage. It means helping him discover that the God revealed in Jesus Christ is trustworthy, faithful, and good — and sees perfectly what will help him flourish.
And baptism gives us all the opportunity to be reminded of these truths.
Baptism is never a private act. It is always communal. As God’s Church here in this place, may we commit to be a community that remembers Isaiah’s words:
“I am the first and I am the last; apart from me there is no God.”
And to let these words shape our common life.
In a few moments, water will touch Barney’s forehead. It will seem small — a gesture, a symbol, a moment. But in that moment, something vast is named: that Barney’s life is held by the One who sees perfectly; that his story begins and ends in love; that he is already known, already cherished, already called.
And as we watch, we are invited to remember our own calling — to turn again from the gods that scatter us, and to face the God who gathers us home. The God who is first and last. The God who leads us out of exile. The God who longs for our flourishing.
May Barney grow into that truth.
May his parents and godparents be strengthened in that hope.
And may we, as God’s church, walk beside him with faith, courage, and joy.
Amen.