Acts 17:22-31 & John 14:15-21
Sermon Preached by Rev’d Tracey Gracey on Sunday, 10 May 2026
Imagine walking beside Paul as he enters Athens.
Before you, the Acropolis rises —
gleaming marble temples catching the sunlight.
Statues tower above the streets.
Shrines stand on corners.
Altars line the marketplaces.
Philosophers debate publicly in the Agora.
Everywhere you look there are images of power:
the power of empire,
the power of wisdom,
the power of beauty,
the power of religion,
the power of culture.
And Paul is deeply distressed because the city is “full of idols.”
Yet what is remarkable is how Paul responds.
He does not begin with attack.
He does not shout condemnation from a street corner.
He does not mock the Athenians.
Instead he walks the city.
He observes. He notices. He listens.
Paul respects the people enough to understand them before speaking to them.
And eventually he is brought before the Areopagus,
the great intellectual and cultural centre of Athens,
surrounded by philosophers, thinkers and religious leaders.
And there Paul begins not with accusation,
but with recognition:
“Athenians, I see how extremely religious you are in every way.”
Then he speaks about an altar he has noticed:
“To an Unknown God.”
This becomes Paul’s bridge.
Paul recognises that beneath all the statues,
all the temples,
all the philosophy,
all the sophistication,
there remains a restlessness and longing.
For all its wisdom,
Athens is still searching.
For all its beauty,
Athens is still unsatisfied.
For all its knowledge,
there remains something it cannot explain or control.
And Paul seems to recognise that this longing is not something to be mocked, but something that can lead people towards God.
So Paul speaks of a God who is not distant.
A God who is not trapped inside marble temples.
A God who does not need to be appeased or controlled.
Paul’s God is the source of life itself.
“For in him we live and move and have our being.”
Paul does not begin with fear.
He does not begin with judgement.
He begins with presence.
God is already nearer than they realise.
The God Paul proclaims is not a rival to human life,
but the very ground of life itself.
And in many ways, these are the same themes we hear in our Gospel reading this morning.
The disciples are anxious about Jesus leaving them.
How will they cope without his physical presence?
How will they continue?
Where will their hope come from now?
And Jesus responds not with promises of power or control,
but with reassurance:
“I will not leave you orphaned.”
“I will come to you.”
Then Jesus begins to reshape what it means for God to remain with his people.
Not through force, control or overwhelming displays of power.
But through relationship, belonging, and love.
We already know something about this in ordinary human experiences.
Imagine four people in a room.
The first is a powerful dictator who rules a nation.
His words shape economies and armies.
People fear him and obey him.
The second is a world-class athlete at the peak of physical ability.
Strong, disciplined, admired for what the human body can achieve.
The third is a famous musician or film star.
Recognised everywhere.
Able to influence culture, shape opinion, and draw crowds wherever they go.
And then, in the corner of the room, lies a newborn baby in a cot.
Small.
Fragile.
Unable to speak.
Unable even to lift its own head.
Which person in the room holds the greatest power?
The dictator who can command armies?
The athlete with strength and ability?
The celebrity with influence and admiration?
Or the child who appears to have no power at all?
The irony is that the baby may in fact hold the greatest influence of all.
The athlete could crush the child with physical strength.
The dictator could destroy it with force.
The celebrity could outshine it in fame, influence, and charisma.
And yet the baby possesses something entirely different.
Its vulnerable, wordless presence can transform a room in ways that force, status, and charisma cannot.
People instinctively soften around a child.
Voices become gentler.
Actions become more careful.
Something deeper within us is awakened.
Because vulnerability can open the human heart in ways power and control cannot.
And this is the vulnerable presence revealed in Jesus himself.
Not a presence that overwhelms people.
Not a presence built on fear.
But the self-giving presence of love.
A presence revealed not through control, but through intimacy.
Not through intimidation, but through an abiding,
Not through control, but through relationship.
And that changes the way we understand our human experience.
Because our world still admires what is impressive.
What is successful. What appears certain and in control.
But today’s readings point us towards something deeper.
The presence of God that remains alongside people.
The love of God that does not abandon.
And this is also the kind of life we are invited to live.
Not simply by speaking about God,
but by becoming people through whom the presence of God is recognised and experienced.
People who listen before speaking.
People who notice before judging.
People who create space for others to search, question, and wonder.
And people willing to recognise where God may already be present within our own lives —
within the unsettled parts of life,
within our longing for peace,
within our searching for meaning,
within the questions we still carry.
For in God, we live and move and have our being.
Amen