PATRONAL FESTIVAL SERMON - ST MARGARET'S - Sarah Curl

We human beings do love a good story.

From the moment we're old enough to sit still for five minutes, someone begins telling us stories.

We hear about fair maidens not been in the hairdressers for years trapped in towers wrapped in thorny hedges, waiting for handsome princes to come to the rescue. We cheer when the ugly sisters finally get what they deserve. We somehow think it's perfectly normal that wolves dress up as grandmothers, little girls wander through dangerous forests wearing bright red capes, and everyone thinks this is an excellent safeguarding policy.

As children we never seem to question any of it.

We happily accepted that a girl called Goldilocks could break into somebody else's house, eat all their breakfast, break their furniture, have a nap in all their beds and somehow emerge as the heroine of the tale rather than facing a rather stern conversation with the local police.

We thought three little pigs could solve the housing crisis by ignoring building regulations, cutting corners on materials and discovering, rather late in the day, that straw perhaps wasn't the ideal choice for a detached residence.

We delighted in a magic porridge pot that flooded an entire town with breakfast. Clearly no one had invented Tupperware.

There were tiny elves who worked through the night making shoes for a bewildered cobbler who never once thought to ask whether he ought to be paying them the living wage.

There was a gingerbread man who managed to outrun absolutely everybody, old women, old men, farmers, horses, cows, only to discover that trusting a fox with your transport arrangements is rarely a wise career move.

Jack planted beans in the garden—something most parents would positively encourage—only to wake up and discover they had become a giant beanstalk reaching into the clouds where there lived, apparently, a giant who kept a goose that laid golden eggs and sang, "Fee-fi-fo-fum," instead of simply locking his front door.

Cinderella travelled to a royal ball in a pumpkin, wearing glass slippers—surely one of the least practical forms of footwear ever invented.

Snow White accepted fruit from complete strangers. Sleeping Beauty pricked her finger on a spinning wheel after everyone had spent years trying to hide every spinning wheel in the kingdom. Hansel and Gretel followed a trail of breadcrumbs, apparently forgetting that birds exist.

There were billy goats who defeated trolls. Billy Goats Gruff had the confidence to cross bridges guarded by monsters. The Princess and the Pea managed to identify one tiny pea beneath twenty mattresses, a level of sensitivity many of us wish we had when staying in hotels.

The tortoise somehow beat the hare simply by keeping going. The boy who cried wolf discovered that lying has consequences. The lion and the mouse taught us that even the smallest person can make the biggest difference. The ugly duckling reminded us that growing into who God created us to be sometimes takes time.

Then came the stories on our television screens.

We learned from Toy Story that loyalty and friendship matter more than being the newest or shiniest toy. The Lion King reminded us that we all have a place in the great circle of life, even if we sometimes spend years running away from who we're meant to be. The Jungle Book taught us about belonging and finding your family in unexpected places. The Incredibles reminded us that everyone has gifts, and that life works best when those gifts are used together rather than alone. We laughed at fish who got lost, ogres who weren't what they first appeared to be, and talking snowmen who discovered that love is worth melting for.

And then there were the stories many of us first heard in church or at school.

A beautiful garden where everything began. A man called Noah building an enormous ark while everyone thought he'd lost the plot. A shepherd boy facing a giant with nothing but a sling and faith. Joseph forgiving the brothers who had betrayed him. Moses leading God's people through the sea. Daniel calmly spending the night with lions who, rather unusually, forgot to be lions. Jonah discovering that you can run away from God, but not very successfully if there's a large fish involved.

Whether fairy tales, Disney films or Bible stories, children rarely stop to ask, "Did that really happen exactly like that?"

They simply enter the story.

Because stories capture our imagination in ways facts alone often cannot. They teach us about courage and kindness, about greed and generosity, about honesty and hope. They tell us that goodness is worth pursuing, that evil will not have the final word, and that somehow, despite all appearances, things can be put right.

And then... there's St Margaret.

She was said to be a young Christian woman who loved Christ so deeply that nothing, not imprisonment, not persecution, not even a dragon,co uld separate her from him. According to the legend, she was swallowed whole by a dragon, only for the cross she carried to burst the dragon open from the inside.

Now... I should reassure anyone who was wondering... dragons are in rather shorter supply these days. It's a story. A legend. It almost certainly didn't happen like that.

But legends often carry truths that facts alone cannot express.

The dragon is every force that tries to consume hope. Every fear that swallows us. Every authority that says faith cannot survive. And the cross triumphs because love is stronger than fear, Christ is stronger than death, and God's light is stronger than any darkness.

That's why Margaret appears in our stained glass. Not because we think dragons once roamed Putney, but because every generation needs reminding that Christ overcomes whatever threatens to swallow us.

But today isn't simply about remembering her story. It's about asking...

What's our story?

If someone came here a hundred years from now and asked, "Tell me the story of St Margaret's," what would they hear?

Perhaps they'd begin with our wonderfully eccentric clergy. Every church has stories about its vicars, and thankfully most of them can't be repeated from the pulpit.

Since becoming its own parish in 1924, St Margaret's has been served by just eight incumbents, from the Revd Grannard Cross to the Revd Dr Brutus Green. And before long, we'll welcome the 9^th Vicar of St Margaret’s Revd Susan Wright to begin the next chapter.

But no church is really remembered because of its vicars. Churches are remembered because of their people.

Our recent story has included building the Worth Centre. We've survived crumbling plaster, floods—quite a few of them. The latest, for anyone keeping score, was only last week. Apparently Noah's Ark was unavailable.

We've had mice come... and, thanks to the Pied Piper otherwise known as pest control, we've had mice go. We've planted a beautiful rose garden in memory of those we love and see no longer. Today and in years before them children have come to the Lord's Table for the first time. Adults and young people have been confirmed. Babies have been born and parents have brought them for baptism. Couples have stood here to make lifelong promises. Marriages have been blessed. Friends have moved away in search of houses that don't require winning the lottery first. Staff have changed. Musicians have handed over the organ bench. Vicars have come. Vicars have gone. Curates have come and this one will go soon to continue her own story

And through every chapter, God has remained. That's the real story. Not the buildings. Not the floods. Not the mice. Not even the clergy. The story is that, year after year, ordinary people have gathered in this place to worship an extraordinary God. They have prayed. They have laughed. They have sung. They have grieved. They have celebrated. They have carried one another. They have welcomed strangers who became friends. They have discovered, sometimes in the most difficult moments of life, that Christ was already there before they arrived.

That's our story.

And here's the wonderful thing. The story isn't finished. Patronal festivals aren't just about looking backwards with nostalgia. They're about remembering that we are now holding the pen. The next chapter belongs to you. The children running around today will one day tell stories about this church. They'll remember the people who welcomed them. The hymns they learned. The biscuits after the service. The laughter. The love. The faith they saw lived out before their eyes.

One day they'll say, "When I was little at St Margaret's..." And those stories will become part of the long story of this parish. Just as Margaret's story has lasted for centuries, not because of dragons, but because it points beyond itself to Christ, our story matters only if it points beyond ourselves. To Jesus. The author and finisher of our faith. So today we give thanks for all those who have gone before us. For Margaret. For every priest. Every churchwarden. Every chorister. Every flower arranger. Every cleaner. Every tea-maker. Every child. Every faithful worshipper whose quiet acts of love have written another line in this remarkable story.

And may those who come after us look back and say: "They loved God. They loved one another. They welcomed us. And because of them, we discovered that we too had a place in God's great story."

And that is a story worth telling.

Amen.

Amen.