The town of Middlesbrough in the north east of England is not very famous, and the average New Jersian can be forgiven for never having heard of it. It is home to 174,000 people, a football club that bounces between the Premier League and the second tier of English professional soccer, and the ghosts of factories and shipyards long dead.

But it’s the spooky story of one of those 174,000 residents that makes this average post-industrial town worthy of beginning this sermon.

April 23 is a famous day. For one, it’s Shakespeare’s birthday. For another, it’s St George’s Day, so if you’re English April 23 is a day to celebrate. But, thousands of miles west of England, April 23 1985 was a momentous, historic, even world-changing day for less joyous reason. Not a day of celebration, but of dismay; not of glory but of ugliness; not of jubilation but of catastrophe. April 23 1985. If you were alive that day, what were you doing? Where were you enjoying that beautiful spring morning, what daffodils were you picking, what blossoms were you sniffing, what birdsong were you enjoying? I hope you were oblivious to the pain caused by that day. I hope the agony did not trouble you or the despair come near your door. Because April 23 1985 will long live in the archives of infamy.

Last week I Googled the phrase “What went wrong?” and it returned 923,000,000 links. Everything from “what went wrong with Christianity, with the economy, with Afghanistan, with Netflix, with Kim Kardashian, the entire 20th Century, Three-Mile Island, something - anything that went wrong and caused unexpected problems. It seems that an awful lot has gone wrong. I’m beginning to think that ‘WWW’ stands for ‘what went wrong’. I also tried the phrase “tragic mistake” – Google returned 13.4 million web pages. “Where did it all go wrong?” – 1.3 billion hits, including ‘The NY Giants – where did it all go wrong?' The most amazing thing about that is that millions of people are still asking it.

He stands on the highest peak of preaching endeavors, a colossus towering over your average priest or pastor. Those of us who occupy the foothills of Mount Sermon can only gaze adoringly at his feet, because that is all we can see of him, so far above us does he tower. At gatherings of clergy, his name is mentioned in hushed tones, if it is mentioned at all. Some of us are too in awe of him and too conscious of our own inadequacy, that even naming him appears disrespectful. Donald Thomas, but you can call him 'your majesty'. Quite simply, he is listed in the Guinness Book of Records as having preached the longest sermon ever delivered. A challenging 93 hours. God's filibuster. There are no reports of any survivors. And you'll be pleased to hear that his record is in no danger this morning. Actually, research by social scientists has found that if you took everyone who has ever fallen asleep in a sermon and laid them end to end, they'd be much more comfortable.

The shrine gleamed in the winter sun, as I took my place in the queue of pilgrims waiting to pay homage. The atmosphere bubbled with excitement - the anticipation of ecstasy, which called the faithful to flock here from all over the world. This modern house of worship was dedicated to the glory of its god in just 2007. In fact, the deity it houses is a mere youngster - its incarnation occurring just 132 years ago. Yet, despite its brief life, this idol has won billions of devotees from every nation, tribe, and tongue. Worshipers often refer to their savior as "The Real Thing". For they have tasted and seen that their lord is good. And now, in downtown Atlanta, in the corner of Centennial Olympic Park, proudly rubbing shoulders with the 20-year ghosts of the world's best athletes, I was visiting this place of prayer, this temple of tacky, this mind-blowing tribute to instant gratification.

While I was still living in Pennsylvania I was shopping in the supermarket, and I was wearing my clerical collar. Now, bagging my groceries that day was a small, cheerful, and very talkative woman. It's always refreshing to see someone enjoying their work, and she was certainly enjoying her work, chatting away to the bagger at the next checkout about nothing in particular. Actually, it was about something in particular - it was about make-up. And I made some knee-jerk, and not very flattering, assumptions about her.

This week all New Jersians should be celebrating two of our athletic stars. Two native daughters, who scaled the heights of physical prowess and mental resolve in the ice and fire of mid-winter competition. For one, the challenge was pure athleticism. Months, years even, of building muscles, toning body, honing technique. For the other, the field of dreams was more mental - perhaps a sterner, more testing arena than the other - for in her sport only the most agile of mind and intense of focus carries home the crown of laurels.

To say that Elizabeth Throckmorton had a bad case of missing her husband would be an understatement. We know this fine, but slightly eccentric, woman as Lady Raleigh, the wife of Sir Walter Raleigh, the English explorer who visited this continent at the end of the 16th century and gave his name to an airport in N Carolina. Among other things he named Virginia after the Virgin Queen Elizabeth, and he took back to England the potato and tobacco. Thanks for spuds, Walt, but you can keep the cigarettes. If Lady Raleigh were alive today, I don't really know what psychotherapists would make of her. There must be some disorder or syndrome that we could attribute to her, because she really did do something very odd.

When I was very young there was a place I would never go. In fact, even the thought of that dreaded place would cause me to panic - heart racing, hands sweating, pupils dilated, feet restless - all the signs that my tiny, four-year-old body was getting ready to fight or run away. And for me, running away has always seemed the smart option. So, there was no way I was ever venturing anywhere near That Place. That Place - that chamber of blood-curdling horror, was in my grandmother's backyard.

Well, to take a leaf out of the book of our patron saint, whose conversion we celebrate today, and who famously wrote in 1 Corinthians 13, "If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels but have not love, I am nothing", I'd like to start by reading in a foreign language. Here goes. "vaD joH'a' vaj loved the qo', vetlh ghaH nobta' Daj wa' je neH puqloD, vetlh 'Iv HartaH Daq ghaH should ghobe' chIlqu', 'ach ghaj eternal yIn." Anyone know the language? Well, it was John 3:16 ('For God so loved the world that he gave his only son that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life.') And the language was ...