Sermon for the 27th of July - Feast of St James the Great

For many years now, I’ve found myself fascinated—disturbed, even—by the 19th-century German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche. Nietzsche, as many of you will know, famously declared that “God is dead.” But what is often missed is what he understood this to mean: if God is truly dead, then everything changes. Dostoevsky, writing at a similar time, put it starkly: if God is dead, then everything is permitted. Without God, there is no final measure of right or wrong—no ultimate justice.

For Nietzsche, this wasn’t a lament—it was a challenge. He regarded Judeo-Christian morality, particularly its emphasis on compassion for the weak and vulnerable, as a kind of moral weakness. He believed instead in the triumph of the strong, in what he called the "will to power"—a relentless drive to dominate, to impose oneself, to ascend. His idea of the Übermensch—the "superman"—was tragically co-opted by Nazi ideology to justify a vision of racial and biological supremacy. We know the horrific consequences of that vision: genocide, cruelty, and the brutal silencing of the weak, the disabled, the ‘deviant.’

So why, on the feast of St James, are we talking about Nietzsche?

Because today’s Gospel reading brings us face to face with the very same human impulse: the desire for power, position, and prestige. James and John, or more precisely their mother, are lobbying Jesus for top spots in his kingdom. They want influence. Status. Glory. It’s easy to mock them, but the impulse is a very human one—one we all share.

We might scoff at politicians for their machinations, but if we’re honest, we’re not immune. We seek recognition. We jostle for position. We like to be noticed, respected, remembered. And in institutions—yes, even in the church—we know how power can corrupt. Even well-meaning leadership can become controlling. Even good intentions can harden into gatekeeping.

 The tradition holds that St James went on a missionary journey to Spain. After his martyrdom in Jerusalem, legend says that his body was brought back and buried at Santiago de Compostela, now one of the most famous pilgrimage sites in the Christian world.

Every year, thousands walk the Camino, travelling for hundreds of miles—on foot, by bicycle, even horseback—to reach the cathedral for the Feast of St James on July 25th. For many, the journey offers time to reflect, to slow down, to reconnect with something deeper—perhaps to heal, to seek direction, or simply to remember what it means to be human.

And yet, inside the cathedral at Santiago de Compostela, there is a troubling image. A statue of St James on horseback, sword in hand. Beneath him, slain Muslims lie defeated. For centuries, St James was celebrated not as a humble apostle, but as the Moor-slayer, the patron saint of the violent Christian reconquest of Spain from Islam. [you can see a photograph on your service sheets.] Pilgrimage in the Middle Ages wasn’t just spiritual—it was political. It was a declaration of domination. It was the church wielding its power with deadly force.

This is where Nietzsche, unsettling as he is, has a point. Much of religion’s history—our history—is stained with the abuse of power. Religion is here being used not for love, but control. Not for grace, but supremacy.

And this is where the way of the gospel, the way of Christ, is so different.

Jesus turns to James—not as a commander, not as a warrior, not as a prince—but as a servant. “You do not know what you are asking,” he tells them. "Can you drink the cup I will drink?" Jesus instead invites them not into dominance, but into suffering. Not into thrones, but into a cross. He redefines greatness as service. Authority as humility. Power as love.

That is the true pilgrimage.

And that is still our challenge today. While we no longer wield swords, the church can still cling to power in other ways—through exclusion, silence, and superiority. Who have we ignored? Who have we pushed to the margins? Whose voices have we deemed unworthy?

Over the past months, I’ve reflected on how the church in this country has overlooked and side-lined people from Black, Asian, and working-class communities. The artist Grayson Perry said something that struck me: “I often feel discomfort in spaces dominated by the middle and upper classes in a very bodily way. I’ve had more negative and sarcastic comments about the way I look in Church of England spaces than I care to mention.”

What a challenge. Because if Christ came to redraw the lines between power and love, then we are called to be a different kind of community. A humble church. A listening church. A place not of polish and prestige, but of people on pilgrimage together.

My prayer for us—here at St John’s—is that we would become a church willing to confess our mistakes, eager to learn, open to those who are not like us. A community that welcomes the scandal of grace and the surprise of the Spirit.

On this feast of St James, let’s reject the will to power. Let us walk the way of humility. Let us all know that all who enter these doors are equally.

Amen.