Summer Faith?
Sunday 31 August 2025 The 11th Sunday after Trinity, Choral Evensong
‘Summer Faith?’ The Very Reverend Nicholas Papadopulos, Dean of Salisbury
Isaiah 33: 13–22
John 3: 22–36
Summer is no longer just a season – a quarter of the year, the three months sandwiched between May and September. Summer is a lifestyle. It’s a brand. You can choose books from list of recommended summer reads; you can dine from a summer menu; you can slip into a summer wardrobe; and you can adjust to a summer timetable.
This is the last day of August. Tomorrow is the first day of a new month, and the year begins to turn. Schools open; colleagues return from their holidays; visiting choirs depart; political parties hold their conferences; a sense emerges of normal service being resumed. But that’s tomorrow. Today let’s ignore the rain, cling to the last vestiges of August, and ask what summer might mean for people of faith. Might the many of us who follow the Way of Jesus throughout the year be permitted some leeway during the weeks of summer? It’s a time to relax, after all; a time to take leave; and a time to go on holiday. It’s a time to read summer books, eat summer food, wear summer clothes, and follow a summer timetable. So – is it also time to practice summer faith?
A summer read is judged by its capacity to distract its reader effectively. No one wants a massive doorstep of philosophy or economic theory when they’re reclining by the pool. Well, some may, but most of us to wallow in the slush of a romance, get entangled in the thrill of international espionage, or be gripped the drama of a murder mystery. Summer faith might similarly distract us from the awfulness of daily life – from unjust war, from genocide, from our increasingly violent and intolerant public discourse. Summer faith might offer us the solace of angels and the promise of holy consolation; it might offer the precision of beautifully-choreographed worship, ravishing music, stirring preaching, and heartfelt praying – and in all of these it might indeed distract us and dull the pain of the world. But the reality of the Way of Jesus is that it is not a distraction. Faith in God protects us from nothing. Faith in God means simply that we encounter nothing alone, and that whatever we encounter, we encounter it in the company of the one over whom death has not prevailed.
A summer menu is replete with big flavours and bold colours. Watermelon in the salad; piri-piri sauce on the barbequed chicken; mint and lime in the mojito. It’s not a season for thick gravy or sponge pudding; it’s a time for ice-cream rather than custard; for sharpness rather than stodge. Summer faith might similarly duck the tedium of heavy lifting – of wrestling with sacred texts, of sweating over prayer, of giving hours to listening. Summer faith might offer the gratification of absolute certitude; it might offer sparking visions and celestial voices; it might enlarge our social circle, gladden our hearts, and (most importantly) entertain us. But the big flavours and bold colours of the Way of Jesus are flavours and colours we might think twice before consuming at any time of year. For they are the daily return to the Scriptures and their patient reading, over and over again; they are the blood of the martyrs, whose sacrifice is the seed of the living Church; they are the constant, unceasing prayers of men and women around the world at every hour of the day and the night, encircling and upholding us.
A summer wardrobe is light in colour and, well, light. Sleeves are short, tops are cropped, toes are exposed, and long trouser legs are banished. Wool and fleece disappear, and cotton and linen take their place. Navy blue, charcoal grey and deep black are packed away (unless you happen to be ordained). Bright, cheerful, sunshiny shades dominate. Summer faith might be cut short, coloured bright, and not be so bulky that it won’t fit into your in-flight luggage. Summer faith might be crease-free good news for yesterday, today, and tomorrow. But by now you can probably guess where this is heading. It’s not a compliment to call anything ‘lightweight’ unless it’s a pack-a-mac or a certain sort of boxer. And the Way of Jesus is not lightweight: it resembles our summer wardrobes in one particular only. Our linen shirts and short sleeves allow the sun to touch us. We feel its warmth on our skin; it seeps into us and radiates throughout the whole of our being. The Way – faith – does that, too: it is the means through which God touches us, seeps into us, and radiates throughout the whole of our being.
And a summer timetable? A summer timetable is brief, brief, brief. Schools empty; Parliament rises; workplaces thin out. Summer faith might follow suit, and offer a skeleton service, covering the basics and without too much length or depth. Essentials only. But the timetable of the Way of Jesus is different. It is not measured out in hours, or weeks, or even seasons. It is measured out in our lifetimes, and in our lifetimes set against God’s lifetime. And God’s lifetime is eternal. God willing, we will never stop learning and never stop growing. Not before we die, and not afterwards, either.
So: is there such a thing as ‘summer faith’? Yes there is. But it’s a distracting pastime, like a rollercoaster ride in a seaside town. Big on thrills, big on spills, short on detail, and irretrievably… lightweight. Pack it away, and follow the Way of Jesus – a faith for all seasons.