Exodus 3:1–15 | Psalm 26:1–8 | Romans 12:9–21 | Matthew 16:21–28
We have now been together for the grand total of twelve days. Not quite two weeks.
Maybe it feels longer, because we’ve already fitted quite a lot in: a Sunday, a midweek Mass, a parish council meeting; we laid Allan to rest; and I popped over to Adelaide for four days for the national conference for ordained women.
But cast your mind back, if you can, to last Sunday.
Jesus said: “I will build my church.” And I suggested those might be some of the most important words for us as we begin this new chapter together.
I will build my church. That is Christ’s promise. Not you. Not me. Christ.
Today, our readings take us one step further.
If Christ is going to build God’s church — right here, in North Beach — what will that church look like? I think today’s readings give us three things…
First: it will be a church that burns with the glory of God.
Our Old Testament reading tells us, Moses is going about an entirely ordinary day when something catches his attention. A bush is burning, but it is not consumed.
And Moses says: “I must turn aside and look.”
A surprisingly calm response to a blazing fire that isn’t destroying the tree…
But he stops. He looks. There is something here. Something different. Something that makes him stop what he is doing and come closer. And God says: “Remove the sandals from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground.”
You may have noticed I celebrate the Eucharist barefoot. My training priest used to do it, and I thought it was gross. The floor was freezing — we were in the north-east of England — and his feet were not pretty. “You’ll never catch me doing that,” I remember saying. And yet… Often, when I say Mass, I take off my shoes. Because I need to remember: The place on which we stand is holy ground. There is nothing magical about being up here. My words don’t make this holy. It is holy because God is here. Christ gathers his people, speaks to us in scripture, and meets us in bread and wine. The Spirit moves among us. God builds and draws and calls and creates and sends us out. God comes so close, right here. My longing is that St Michael’s will burn with that glory. That our neighbours might encounter this place and it might make them stop and think: There’s something different here. I need to look. Not because we’re flashy or clever or successful. But because there is something here. Something alive and compelling and holy. Actually, not something. Someone. God is here.
That’s the first characteristic of the church Christ is building among us. It burns with glory.
Secondly: Christ builds a church that loves differently.
Paul says: “Let love be genuine.” Genuine. Not merely polite. Not really nice. Genuine love. And in case we’re not sure what that means, Paul makes it extraordinarily clear.
- Contribute to the needs of others.
- Extend hospitality to strangers.
- Rejoice with those who rejoice.
- Weep with those who weep.
- Live peaceably with all.
- If someone is hungry, feed them.
- If someone is thirsty, give them something to drink.
Unfortunately, genuine love is inconvenient. It notices, comes alongside, gets our hands dirty. It costs us something — time, money, effort, emotion. It’s hard work. And it is utterly transformational. It is the only kind of love I want to be concerned with. And then Paul pushes it even further: “Overcome evil with good.” The world already knows how to return anger for anger, hurt for hurt, hatred for hatred. But Christ builds a church that is different.
We don’t overcome hatred with better hatred. We overcome evil with good.
Perhaps that is how the glory becomes visible: a community that genuinely, practically and inconveniently loves differently.
And thirdly — and this is the biggest one: Christ builds a church of people who give their whole lives to him. Jesus says: “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.” That is an enormous ask. Whole-heartedly. No half measures. Your whole life. One of the speakers in Adelaide put it like this: the call of Christ is to hand over all that we are to God — all that is good in us, and all our sin and darkness too. It is what we do in baptism. We give ourselves to Christ. And then we spend the rest of our lives learning to live that way, until our baptism is finally completed in death. And I want to be really clear here. We don’t give our lives to the Church; this one or any other one. We do not give our lives to an institution. And certainly not because we like the music, or the liturgy, or the morning tea, or even the priest.
None of those things is worth giving your life to. Christ is. And Christ alone.
Jesus doesn’t say, “Take up your cross and support a religious institution.”
He says: “Take up your cross and follow me.” We give our lives to Christ. But something extraordinary happens when we do. Christ gathers us together. Following Jesus is deeply personal, but it is never merely private. Christ calls us to himself, and in calling us to himself he joins us to one another. That is the Church. Not the object of our devotion. Not the thing we worship. But the Body that Christ makes out of those who follow him. And then he sends that Body into the world. So, Christ has hands, feet, eyes and a voice and heart here in North Beach. Ours. We give our lives to Christ. And Christ takes those lives and gifts and people — and makes them his Body. Perhaps that is how these three things finally belong together.
Last Sunday we heard Christ’s promise: “I will build my church.”
This Sunday we begin to see what that church looks like.
A church alive with the glory of God
A church learning to love as Christ loves
And a church made up of people who hear Jesus say, “Follow me,” and are learning, day by day, to give their whole lives.
Glory. Love. Life. Not a church we build for Christ.
A church Christ builds for us, with us, and from us.
May it be so in this place, amen.
Holy Adventures 