Rivers of Justice

Amos 5:18-24                   Psalm 70    1Thess 4:9-18                  Matthew 25:1-13

And so it was, at 4am on Tuesday morning in the recent past, 6 sleepy pilgrims piled into a minibus to make the journey to watch the sunrise over Everest. They quietly climbed the steps in the inky darkness, to reach their vantage point and the air was still and cold as it awaited the dawn. And then, just as the birds began to clear their throats for the first song of the day, one pilgrim – Christabel by name – broadcast through the darkness, ‘I feel like a foolish virgin for not bringing my coat’. And then, lo, within a week of returning from the trip, we have the exact same parable before us, and how is a preacher to reflect on these holy words when all she can hear is the warbling of a cold pilgrim, ringing in her ears?

And, more seriously, how is one to pass over the prophesies of Amos when they are sounding so close to the experiences of our global family, right now. And today is Remembrance Sunday and it feels so hollow a thing that we might cast our minds back to the world wars of the last century when we could more easily, and more painfully, cast our eyes over the world news this morning.

Amos woefully prophesies that the day of the lord ‘be darkness, not light – pitch-dark, without a ray of brightness’. Pitch darkness, like a group of women huddled over snuffed out lamps, wondering how they will bring back any kind of light to be able to find their way to the wedding banquet. Pitch darkness that can only be lit by those who would share their own wealth, with those who are without. Darkness that might only be lighted by the one who is the true light. The light of Christ.

That darkness is what life looks like for so many, so often.

The darkness of despair and depression. The darkness of poverty and hunger.

The darkness as they lie in wait, listening for the next bomb to fall, hoping to hear their baby cry, instead of the deep ugly silence of death.

Amos paints this picture of deep darkness. Then God speaks, cutting through the prophesy to say, ‘I hate, I despise your religious festivals; your assemblies are a stench to me. I will not accept your offerings. I will have no regard for them. Away with the noise of your songs! I will not listen…’

But the message of the parable that goes alongside this prophesy is the bridegroom appears when it is darkest. The Holy One, arrives at midnight and brings light. Those bridesmaids needn’t have gone to find the all-night oil shop – they simply needed to go to the source of Light – the one who spoke into darkness and created light at the dawn of time – they simply needed to arrive empty handed and say, ‘I have nothing and I need you’. And light would have been their gift, their reward for their vulnerability and their honesty.

Amos’ prophesy is clear – God didn’t, doesn’t want religion.

God doesn’t want crowds or big displays or sacrifices or offering or music.

God wants us. The whole of us. And God wants us to take that precious gift of light to the darkest places. To go to those darkest places and kick them until they bleed light. And we are sent with one challenge – one purpose:

To let justice roll on like a river, righteousness like a never-failing stream.

And I have thought about that verse all week. I love it so much. But in this world, where yesterday’s headline says Israel is urged to stop bombing babies in Gaza, where hospitals don’t have enough power, let alone bed-space, staff or resources, to care for those in need, where fires and volcanoes are raging and children are being recruited as soldiers. In this world, on this day, what on earth does justice rolling like a river even look like. And how can we be bringers of it. What can we even pray, let alone do.

So I took a look back to that stunning text from that River Documentary we heard last month and I read these words…

Where rivers wander, life flourishes

For rivers are world makers.

The mystery and beauty of a wild river is beyond our ability to comprehend

And I imagined justice cascading down ravines, rather than water, and bringing life.

The narrator went on to say…

To think like a river means to dream downstream in time

To imagine what will flow far into the future from our actions in the present

To be good ancestors to those who come after us

Downstream of us…

And that is our goal. That is our aim as followers of the Light, as those who are trying to live by the commands of the one who says the final word to darkness; to make the future better and brighter for those downstream. And for this we must pray.

Let justice roll on like a river, righteousness like a never-failing stream.

And we pray until we find a way of being that river of justice, until we find ways to trickle righteousness to places in deepest darkest need. And we pray for light.

So let us pray…

All Saints Day, 2023

Revelation 7: 9-17          Psalm 34            1 John 3:1-3         Matthew 5:1-12

 

I have a favourite story for All Saints’ Day and as I am writing this in the airport hotel at Kuala Lumpur, on my way back from Nepal, I can’t check if I told you the story last year, or the year before, so please forgive me if you’ve heard it before, and just enjoy it again…

 

The story goes that there was a little girl, wandering through an English cathedral with her mum and as they walked through the ancient church, so the mum was pointing out each of the saints, memorialised in the stained-glass windows. This is St Peter; this is St Mary and St John and St Francis and so they went on. And then the little girl tugged on her mum’s arm, and she said, ‘I get it! The saints are the ones the light shines through…’ and I think that is probably the best description of a saint I have ever heard. A saint is the one the light shines through.

 

Crafting a sermon about the ones the light shines through is easy work after a week in Kathmandu with IGWR. In Giving We Receive is a charity that was set up here, some 13+ years ago, to care for some of the poorest children in Nepal; it links sponsors with children, to fund their education and housing and food and to show them that there is definitely still hope in the world, there is still light, and it shines in the darkest places.  Many of you are supporters of this amazing work, and I met many of the children you sponsor. Some of you have even been up to see the work, first hand, and can tell your own stories. And I am also aware that we are not the community that we were 13 years ago, and some people may not know about the transformative work that happens in Nepal – and just how many examples there are of living saints being the ones that the light shines through.

 

So let me tell you about Raja, or Saint Raja as he should now more accurately be known.

 

Raja is a big man with an enormous heart. He lives on the 3rd floor of a tall house, with his wife and daughter. The two floors below him accommodate 16 children who otherwise would almost certainly be street kids. He oversees another children’s home, a stones throw away, and 9 other tin sheds or single rooms where mothers live with their children and have no way of paying for their food or education. At the moment Raja is uncle to 41 children and he knows their stories and he knows their dreams and he is determined to break the cycle of poverty and change the destiny that the world dealt to them. And with his big voice and his cheeky grin and his high standards and his boundless energy and endless problem-solving abilities, Raja shines light. It bursts out of him. And he goes to the darkest places and shines it right there.

 

Like the day when he found Rita left in a garbage bin, literally thrown away, aged 2, because she had special needs. Or when he discovered Ajay and his siblings, begging on the roadside to raise funds for their alcoholic parents so they could buy their next drink. Ajay, covered in 60% burns, inflicted by his parents, so they could earn more to “pay for their child’s medical treatment”. Or when he met Sunita, who had been trafficked twice – sold by her brother both times – and left with her two beautiful and clever kids with no way of being able to afford to shelter, feed or educate them. Or when he found three brothers trying to survive in the jungle, the youngest being under 18 months old. Or the boy living in the liquor store to escape his violent and abusive drunk dad, covered in human bite marks and with complex broken bones.

 

The work we started here, and continue to fund, goes to those dark places and shines brightly. That light says darkness doesn’t get to win. And that light says blessed are the poor in spirit, blessed are those who mourn, blessed are the meek, blessed are the hungry and thirsty and blessed are those who are mistreated and hurt and hated. The kingdom of heaven is yours.

 

I spotted this light shining through Raja easily and straight away. But as the week went on so I began to realise the most grace-filled, redemptive thing I’ve seen for a long time. You see, Raja went and took light to the darkness and as he left each situation with those precious kids in tow, so a light was lit in them; a tiny flicker at first, but every good deed, every meal, every hug, every day in the community of their new 41-strong family, the light is tended to, the flames are kindled and protected and they grow into true brightness.

 

The saints are the ones the light shines through. And it shines through every single one of those tiny saints. They have seen light and then, quite by consequence, they have begun shining light. They needed hands and feet and funds to take the light to them but they quickly discovered the light is catching and they are now the hands and feet that take the light to others. Saints are the ones the light shines through and it they are shining brightly in the IGWR houses in Nepal.

 

Of course, you don’t have to go to Nepal to find those whom the light shines through. We see it here, in the faces of one another, so often. In those who choose kindness and care and put themselves out to help others. Those who feed the hungry, show mercy, pray deeply, mourn fiercely, chase justice, seek peace and pursue it, those who live lightly and love outrageously. Saints are the ones the light shines through and you are here just as clearly as elsewhere.

 

And this saintly ‘glow’ I’m speaking of isn’t based on one’s good works, although that might make it easier to spot, it is entirely based on the work of the one true light, the light of the world, shining in and through each person beloved of God, shining through everyone.

 

But what I am left pondering is this…

~ how much does the light shine through me? How much does it shine through any of us?

~ and what might we need to do, or stop doing, to proverbially polish those cathedral windows to let the light shine brighter?

 

The saints are the ones the light shines through. Or as another one who clearly meets that saintly criteria, the amazing poet Amanda Gorman puts it – there is always light, if only we are brave enough to see it. If only we are brave enough to be it. Amen.

 

The trouble with radical inclusion…

ISAIAH 25: 1-9       PSALM 23       PHIL 4:1-9      MATT 22:1-14

On Thursday this week I sat in the amphitheatre, feeling the weight of the things of this week – the referendum, the events in Israel/Palestine, and I was mulling over this difficult parable for today. As I sat there, the dark coloured circle on the ground caught my eye. Have you noticed it? It goes around the edge of the lower section, circling around the cauldron, and it is made of hundreds of tiny stones. Many of you will know this much better than me but I remembered being told that when the east end building project was completed, those black stones were all lose and they were there to represent all the people who would gather in this place, who would come from all over, together, to worship. What an incredible analogy. And then it became clear that this was too tempting a thing – some people were picking up stones and throwing them and damage was being caused and they were becoming trip hazards…so the black stones representing the people gathering to build this worshipping community were securely concreted into place.

Forgive me for any inaccuracies of my retelling of this piece of history, but it reminded me somehow of this morning’s wedding banquet with its questionable guest list, and the risks associated with it.

It’s a remarkably awful story, by all accounts.  In it we meet this king who is so keen to fill the hall for his son’s wedding banquet that he sends his slaves to tempt the guests with descriptions of luxury food. They don’t want to come; instead, they turn on those who invited them and the slaves are killed.  The king is enraged and redoubles his efforts, killing those who killed the slaves and burning the whole place to the ground. And then a new invitation is issued, and suddenly everyone is invited – the good and the bad – as many as it takes to fill the hall in the place where half the population has just been murdered.

And I find myself wondering what the atmosphere would be like, with smoke and the smell of death heavy in the air. I imagine myself there. And I look to my left and see someone I like. And I look to my right, and I see someone who I really don’t want to be beside. But everyone is invited – the good and the bad – all the little black stones, gathered, all in the circle.

And that’s the thing. In the King’s banquet we don’t get to choose who comes. It is all by the King’s invitation. And we don’t get to tidy it up by concreting those stones into place. We don’t get to decide that having everyone – all the stones – is too messy or too dangerous and we don’t get to say when enough is enough. Because the King – or the more perfect version – God, keeps on issuing the invitation, over and over again. And that gets messy and dangerous and uncomfortable but it is also beautiful, because it is steeped in grace and mercy and unconditional abundant welcome and there is no concrete in sight.

And today, following yesterday’s news, it means people who believed with all their hearts that yes was the right outcome are as invited and as welcome to sit at the table as those who believed that no was the best outcome for this country and its people at this time. And we sit at the table together, and we approach this table together. Even though it is painful and hurts.

And considering this past week’s news it means that the victims and perpetrators of war are all invited to sit and eat together because the invitation to the banqueting table, in the Kingdom of Heaven, is an invitation to all.

And if there is still a list of who is in and those who are out then it is not God’s table. If everyone truly is invited then this is much more difficult, much harder work, much less palatable.  

True inclusion is messy stuff and I don’t know what to do because concreting it neatly into place, or closing the doors and saying we’re done here is easier and it feels preferable. But trusting in the grace of God that allows even me to approach this table of mercy means having to extend that same grace and mercy to people don’t agree with and don’t want to be there. And that’s the truth.

Everyone is welcome is great, until it means we approach the true banqueting table alongside those who, like this morning’s story, have murdered our friends and neighbours.

I want to be genuinely delighted that all are welcome – even after having seriously considered and weighed what that truly means. That is where we need to be travelling as a bunch of Jesus followers. And it is costly and big and a life’s work, but it is full of the grace that each of us are utterly dependent upon. Imagine if we could truly model that here. May it be so.

I’m going to end with a poem by Jan Richardson, called, AND THE TABLE WILL BE WIDE

And the table will be wide.

And the welcome will be wide.

And the arms will open wide to gather us in.

And our hearts will open wide to receive.

And we will come as children who trust there is enough.

And we will come unhindered and free.

And our aching will be met with bread.

And our sorrow will be met with wine.

And we will open our hands to the feast without shame.

And we will turn toward each other without fear.

And we will give up our appetite for despair.

And we will taste and know of delight.

And we will become bread for a hungering world.

And we will become drink for those who thirst.

And the blessed will become the blessing.

And everywhere will be the feast.

The Parable of the Wicked Tenants – Australia 2023 edition

Isaiah 5:1-7         Psalm 80:7-15              Phil 3:4-14          Matthew 21: 33-46

On Friday I spent hours trying to form a sermon from this morning’s gospel passage. Honestly, it was mediocre at best, but I knew I would be at synod all day yesterday so I figured it would have to do. When will I learn that God will drop God’s words into my heart whenever God chooses – like last week with the church that was falling into ruins analogy!? So, it will come as no surprise to you, but still a surprise to me that, at the opening Eucharist early yesterday, the members of Synod were treated to a sermon by the Reverend Canon Uncle Glenn Loughrey, Chair of the National Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Anglican Council, and priest in the diocese of Melbourne. He blew us all away with his words about this coming week’s Voice to Parliament Referendum, and as he spoke – not on this passage at all, but on something quite different – so the meaning of this passage from Matthew’s gospel took on a message I couldn’t ignore. I scribbled in my synod books and here is my reflection on the Parable of the Wicked Tenants, the Australia 2023 edition.

Listen to another parable… there were landowners who planted a civilisation.

The land was rich and prosperous for almost 60,000 centuries and then Tenants came – uninvited tenants – and they took the vineyards and the watchtowers and the land and their children and their country. And they turned the landowners and their children and their children’s children into their slaves. They beat them and stoned them and put them to death. They stole the land, kept it and dominated it.

And the landowners, for 60,000 years still lived in hope that there might be relationship – that tenants and landowners might be able to live together well. The first landowners didn’t want to own the land in domination – they wanted to share their beautiful land and its produce and wealth with the tenants, and their families and visitors who came to explore and enjoy it. But never was it thus, because the tenants rose up, took over, and kept from the landowners what was theirs.

And now we are at harvest time again – this week, this Saturday, in 2023. And again, the first landowners are sending their own children to claim their harvest. And they are not asking for everything, just for what they are owed – they are not even asking for all they are owed – just a small share of it.

And whether we like it or not, we are part of the group of tenants. We hold in our arms the entire harvest and it is for us to share. It is our chance of repentance for the years we have been greedy and grabbing. And it is time.

It is time to give to the landowners what is rightfully theirs – theirs and their children’s. And it is time to do this small thing that says thank you for the years you have shown patience and perseverance in considering that these tenants are worth investing in – worth keeping on sending their children to, to make another attempt and another one, and another one, to receive what is theirs and share with us what we already have.

And when the spirits of the first landowners see what we tenants do, what will they think?

Will we give them their produce at this harvest time?

It is time.

It is time to say yes.  Amen.

The Parable of the Wicked Tenants

Isaiah 5:1-7        Psalm 80:7-15             Phil 3:4-14         Matthew 21: 33-46

Martin Luther apparently once said ‘sometimes you have to squeeze the biblical text until it leaks the gospel’. I can think of several passages like that but none more so than the one we just heard from Matthew; this parable of the wicked tenants. Let’s squeeze it and see if we can get it to leak gospel for us.

So, we have this landowner who plants a vineyard, puts a fence around it, digs a winepress, builds a watchtower, and leases it to tenants before going off to another country. Harvest comes and he sends his slaves to go and collect his profits. The tenants don’t want to hand it over, so they beat the first guy. The landowner sends more – they get beaten and killed and stoned, so he finally sends his son, thinking he will be respected, but they kill him too.

And I have so many issues with this passage, even in those short few verses, because it just doesn’t make any sense to me.

First, the landowner – he takes all this time and effort and money to create his perfect vineyard, for himself and generations to come, and when he ups and leaves, he keeps sending people to get what is owed to him even though they can’t bring him his wealth because they are killed or injured. And then, eventually he sends his own son…even though he knows full-well how the people before him were treated. That is dangerous, foolish even.

And then we have those tenants – the violent, murderous tenants – and they somehow believe that if they kill the slaves they will get to keep the harvest, and if that wasn’t crazy enough, they seem to think that if they kill the son, the heir, then they will actually get to keep his inheritance. And it may be tentatively possible, but it is certainly misguided. It’s actually insane.

For centuries this parable has been used to fuel an antisemitic rhetoric so it’s even more disagreeable for that reason, but the truth is, it just doesn’t sound like good news.  It doesn’t sound like the gospel. It doesn’t sound like God.

Can we squeeze this passage, so it leaks the gospel? Well, as I read, so I began to find the first leak in the actions of that landowner. Initially I felt mad with him – why had he upped and left? The landowner represents God, and don’t we believe in a God who neither leaves nor forsakes us, a God that is not far off; the one Isaiah describes as our Beloved in the prophesy we just heard. That God is nearer than our own breath. In my musing I felt abandoned by that Divine Landowner until I realised, he hadn’t disappeared at all. He was near enough to send his own slaves and servants and even his son to the vineyard.

Consider his actions and see if it leaks the gospel for you…

First, he sends his slaves. They don’t return, or they return battered and bruised. Then he sends more, and the same thing happens. And then he delivers his only son into the hands of those who have treated others so badly, even unto death. And he does it because he will do whatever it takes, risk whatever it is, to have a relationship with those tenants who are tending the land he has created.

One theologian put it like this, ‘This landowner acts more like a desperate parent, willing to do or say or try anything to reach out to a beloved and wayward child, than a businessman. It’s crazy – the kind of crazy that comes from being in love’.

And then Jesus turns to the pharisees and the chief priests who are listening to this story and says to them ‘when the owner of the vineyard comes, what will he do to those tenants?’ They respond with a hefty sentence – he will put them to a miserable death – but we have the benefit of being post-resurrection people.

So, our Jesus question isn’t ‘what will he do to the tenants?’ it is more ‘what did he do?’ and the answer is quite different. The answer drips with gospel goodness – our Divine Landowner sent their only son, out of love for us, to open the way to life in all its fullness – to show us a new way to live – to tell death it is no longer the end – to kick the darkness until it bleeds light and to restore hope and peace and joy.

Didn’t our season of Creation remind us, just this past month, that we are the tenants of the land God created? That we have been left to tend and harvest and care for the earth? And do we believe that God will, is, returning – not in judgement, not in anger and wrath, but out of crazy outrageous love that means God will risk anything and everything to keep us as God’s children.

And how often we cling tightly onto all that is God’s. We hold onto the blessings we receive – even though they are directly from the throne room of heaven; all things come from you O God, and of your own do we give you. We have nothing of our own – everything is gift, pure grace and yet, we hold onto it all so tightly that we are at risk of smothering it, damaging it, even killing it.

So, the question is not ‘when the owner of the vineyard comes, what will he do to us who are God’s tenants?’ The question is much more, while we are waiting for harvest time, and for the Divine Landowner to return, how will we tend and care for this part of the land God has entrusted to us. May we hold gently and lightly to all God has given and may we be effective stewards, not destructive tenants. Amen.

Maiden speech for Synod (Anglican Diocese of Perth 2023)

Madam President, members of synod,

Gemma Baseley, Rector of St Paul’s Beaconsfield

I rise to move motion 17.7 on Modern Slavery, which stands in my name and is seconded by Revd Tim Russell from All Saints College, Bullcreek.

I first learned about modern slavery in 2001. At that time, it was estimated there were 21 million slaves in the world. In the past year, that figure reached 50 million.

The average price of a human in 2023 is 66 aussie dollars and, in the 5 minutes it takes me to move this motion, another 10 people will have been bought and sold, worldwide.

And while modern slavery and human trafficking is not as prevalent in Australia as it is elsewhere, there is not a single country in the world that isn’t impacted by this crime; either as a place where people are bought or sold, a route they are trafficked through, or somewhere complicit in buying the goods and services they are forced to create.

In Australia there are thought to be more than 41,000 people trapped in slavery but those working on the ground believe that even if you add a zero to that figure it would still be a conservative estimate. Here, the most common forms of slavery are forced labour in industries such as agriculture, horticulture, meat processing, and construction, forced marriage, and commercial sexual exploitation of adults and children.

And we are not excluded from this crime. Due to globalisation, products of slavery are prevalent in our homes. According to the Global Slavery Index, produced by the Minderoo Foundation, the most at risk products imported into Australia are computers, mobile phones, clothing and accessories, fish, rice and cocoa. These come to us via the hands of 16 million people enslaved and exploited by global supply chains. The problem is immense – so huge that it feels impossible to imagine, but each statistic has a name.

So, I stand here today on behalf of Miriam, who was trafficked from Nigeria to London, where she was bought by three different Christian families, over ten years. She lived on the kitchen floor, eating scraps left by the children, and working 16 or more hours each day. Every Sunday, Miriam was taken to church and sat in Anglican pews, between her slave owners. When I met Miriam, she told me that, week after week, she hoped someone would ask if she was ok. She said she tried to communicate with her eyes that she needed help, but nobody noticed, and nobody asked. It took a raid from the home office for Miriam to be freed.

And I am standing on behalf of the man who walked into a church-run café and slid a piece of paper across the counter as he ordered his coffee, saying ‘I am a slave. Please help’. And those who were serving refreshments didn’t know what to do.

And I am standing on behalf of Ruqia Haidari, an Afghan girl from Melbourne who was sold into a forced marriage for $15,000 and trafficked to Perth. She confided in her school friend that she didn’t want to marry a stranger, but her friend didn’t know what to do and two months later she was murdered by her husband, In Balcatta, in this diocese.

I believe we want to help. We want to stop this crime against humanity and restore dignity for all God’s children, but we don’t necessarily know how.

This motion provides all faith leaders with opportunities for meaningful and appropriate training by Walk Free and My Blue Sky, via the Social Responsibilities Commission, so we can spot the signs, source effective referral pathways, and communicate effectively with those who are in our pews, our prisons, our care homes and our classrooms, so future Miriams and Ruqias and visitors to our drop-in centres might be safe and free.

I urge you to support this motion.

A sermon for St Francis Day

Micah 6:6-8             Canticle of the Sun            Gal 6:14-end                       Luke 12:22-34

What a month we’ve had, haven’t we? We’ve suspended our usual liturgy to focus instead on the God of all creation, taking our place in the ecumenical movement of the Season of Creation.  We have affirmed our responsibility to partner with the Creator in recreating and caring for all that is good.

On the first Sunday, Peter helped us consider the trees from Babylon to Zion to Fremantle and beyond. Next, Carol came and shared her connection to this beautiful country on Land Sunday. In the third week, Jo Vallentine spoke about wilderness and our responsibility to the earth, and last week we thought about rivers when Alias gave us that glorious visual aid as he went through the rivers of baptism. Today we reach the end of the Season of Creation as we remember the life and witness of the creation saint, St Francis of Assisi; the patron saint of animals, ecology and the environment.

St Francis, or Giovanni as he was born, was a man who knew God. He knew the words of his creator and he knew what they were asking of him. He was single-minded in his attempts to do what his Lord asked, and he put these commands before all things, even when it cost him all he had, and all he owned, and his entire earthly inheritance.

Giovanni was a lover of Christ and a wandering spirit. On his travels he came across a tumbledown chapel in San Damiano, just outside Assisi. While praying there he had a vision of God and clearly heard the words ‘repair my church which is falling into ruins’. Sat in a building falling into disrepair, Giovanni took this command to mean a physical rebuilding and set about his work.

And I’ve been thinking on that a lot, in preparation for today.

Repair my church, which is falling into ruins.

And I have wondered about Francis’ interpretation of what he heard from God that day because the church is way more than the stones that make or break it. The church is always, first and foremost, the people.

And then the diocese called. Literally, you can’t make these things up…

Gemma, we have been up to have a look at the cross on the top of St Paul’s that was damaged in recent storms and I’m afraid to say it is unsafe. We are going to have to remove it completely. If it falls it will damage the roof, or car park or people.

Repair my church, which is falling into ruins. God said to Francis. And now the diocese seemed to be saying the same thing. And if it wasn’t the cross, it could have been finishing what we started on the west wall or repairing the masonry in the hall or countless other tasks.

And yet, I still wonder about the Creation Saint’s translation of his message from the one who created him.

Repairing churches is important – I am not saying that it isn’t. Of course we must repair this storm damage. Of course we must make it safe for us and for those who pass by and for all who will come this afternoon. We must care for our buildings – they are the places we gather and worship and bury our loved ones and feed those in need and live out our promise that all are welcome. And yet, the church is always, first and foremost, the people.

And when we hear God’s command to Francis, against this morning’s passages from scripture, maybe it becomes clearer…

The prophecy from Micah warned us that God doesn’t want our sacrifices or our sin offerings – God has told us – O mortals – what is good and what the Lord requires and it is to do justice, and love kindness and walk humbly with God.

And when you get a call from the property department before 9am talking about emergency safety plans and cranes and potential risks then it is soothing to hear the words from that beautiful gospel passage that reminds us – do not worry about your life or what you’ll wear or about any of the rest. And don’t worry about what you’ll eat or drink. Don’t keep worrying. And in place of worry, we are urged to, instead, strive for God’s Kingdom. Strive for it. And don’t be afraid because your Father is going to give you good things.

So, friends, while we must pay attention to fixing broken buildings, how much more must we attend to broken people. How much more must we notice those around us who are not ok and do all we can, in outrageous acts of kindness to restore and rebuild them.

Poor Francis is always talked about with this story of the chapel at San Damiano but he was a full advocate of care for people and animals and the environment – way more than caring for bricks and mortar. He is the originator of the fabulous charge to “Preach the Gospel at all times. Use words if necessary.” And the reminder that “The deeds you do may be the only sermon some people will hear today.”

Quite apart from preaching to birds and wolves and recognising his kinship with all of creation, Francis was a devoted follower of his Lord Jesus. Fixing a broken building allowed him to gather others around him – who probably also needed fixing – and was the basis of forming his religious order, that became the Franciscans. And as he rebuilt, so he taught and embodied the gospel.

Perhaps we can learn from him in that too. And as we work together to rebuild this church, maybe it could become a witness to the people who walk past, or visit, or worship here, that we are doing so out of love for our Creator, and first and foremost as a care for the people who make it church today and will do so for generations to come. Amen.

Season of Creation: River Sunday

Genesis 8:20-22, 9:12-17             Psalm 104:25-35                Rev. 22:1-5               Mark 1:4-11

Last Sunday Kath Jordan stopped me as we were leaving church and said ‘have you seen the ABC documentary called River? It is wonderful!’ I hadn’t but, knowing River Sunday was coming, I decided it would be good preparation. And Kath was right. It is wonderful. It has an incredible soundtrack by the Australian Symphony Orchestra and a beguiling commentary by Willem Dafoe. I was so mesmerised by it that I sat and scribed the whole script and I want to share some of its wisdom with you, if I may…

It began like this:

When the first rains fell the earth awakened,

It rained without pause for thousands of years,

Sculpting the landscapes into being;

Drops gathered as streams,

Streams braided into rivers,

Growing in force as they grow ever onwards and downwards.

Patient and persistent it wore mountains away

As it looped and meandered.

Where rivers wandered, life could flourish

For rivers are world makers

They have shaped the earth and they have shaped us as a species

Rivers are the source of human dreams

It was rivers that created fertile land and made it possible for us to settle and to dwell

Over time they became highways by which trade and technology spread inland

And along them also flowed poetry, stories and religions, politics and conflict

Rivers grew towns and cities, but they were also indifferent to human plans and dreams

Fickle and unpredictable

In flood they could wreak havoc

In drought they could disappear completely.

I paused the film here because it starkly reminded me of something I heard when I was in Canberra last month. A colleague spoke about her recent trip to Laikipia, Kenya, where the rains have failed for the last 5 seasons and are predicted to fail again. The drought they face is the worst in more than 40 years and their riverbeds are baked dry. Livestock and livelihoods are being lost, daily. Desperate wild elephants storm and destroy water tanks. More than 4 million people are without food and water; one million are under the age of 5. Women and children dig for hours in the dry riverbeds, searching for small pools of moisture, grateful to find even a cup full.

Water is life. Our rivers carry streams of life. And we fail to treat them carefully, with the worth they deserve.

But back to the soundtrack…

We’ve stopped going to the river: now we bring the river to us

But there is always a downstream cost

Somebody somewhere must have less

The amount of water in the hydrosphere hasn’t changed since the first waters fell

But the number of people on earth has grown exponentially

And every one of us is utterly dependent on water

[Instead of respect and care] we have riddled our rivers with poison in the name of progress

Leaving the water unswimable, undrinkable, even fatal

Instead of life-giving sediment and nutrients, rivers carry millions of tonnes of plastic waste into the sea each year

As always, the poorest suffer most.

Many rivers now fight for survival

The mystery and beauty of a wild river is beyond our ability to comprehend

But within our capacity to destroy.

Rivers that have flown for eons have been cut off in decades

Time and again, upstream need and upstream greed have led to downstream disaster

The lives of our rivers now will determine the destinies of generations to come

We will be remembered for all that we have depleted damaged and killed

Rivers are vulnerable to our harm but they also possess miraculous powers of recovery

Given a chance their life pours back

To think like a river means to dream downstream in time

To imagine what will flow far into the future from our actions in the present

To be good ancestors to those who come after us

Downstream of us…

So, Rivers really are the source of life and livelihood.

But today we gather at a different kind of river; today we come to the river of the water of life, bright as crystal, flowing from the throne of God.

Today we come to the rivers of baptism, where God revealed the majesty of Jesus, renewed the promise God made in the Genesis reading we heard today and proclaimed God’s deepest love for God’s children – you are my son, the beloved, with you I am well pleased.

Today, on River Sunday, we gather at the rivers of baptism with Alias, to hear those words from God again; to hear God whisper, ‘Alias, you are my child and I love you. I am so pleased with you’.

And we each come with him. And as we reach the water’s edge, we acknowledge that, together, we need God like we need water – for life and all things.

We come and stand alongside Alias as he makes his own promises to follow the example of Jesus, as he steps into the flow of God’s grace, and as he gets drenched by the love of God. We do this together – we acknowledge our need of God and our gratitude for God’s provision of water to wash away sin and bring life in abundance.

On this River Sunday we ‘dream downstream in time’

We ‘imagine what will flow far into the future from our actions in the present’.

We commit once again to be ‘good ancestors to those who will come after us, downstream of us’ by looking after our waters. And as baptised children of God, rivers take on an additional significance to us. To the world, rivers bring life. To us they also bring our redemption, our healing, our wholeness, and our life’s worth.

That documentary ended by saying, ‘We share our fate with rivers.  We flow together’. As those who have been baptised in the river of life, the river of God, never has that been truer. May we always bring life to all who are downstream of us. Amen.

A Witness Talk for Perth Cursillo

When you volunteer to give a witness talk like this, you are sent some guidelines. They begin with this… ‘The prime purpose of a witness talk is to demonstrate the effectiveness of the Cursillo method in the life of the speaker’. Gotcha. That’s easy. Some of the most transformational aspects of my life and faith journey can be directly attributed to the cursillo movement. But then the guidelines go on to say… ‘A witness talk is not an extraordinary event or sensation’. Well, I am sorry, but my experiences through and because of cursillo are pretty extraordinary and maybe even sensational, which is hardly surprising because we follow an extraordinary and definitely sensational God!

I made my Cursillo in Coventry, in the UK, back in 2005 – Cursillo #30. I knew nothing of what I was going along to, nothing of what awaited me there and certainly nothing of the ripple effects it would have on the rest of my life. I was already strong in my faith. I was a sold-out Jesus follower and I knew it would be me and him, against the world, forever but little did I know quite what those kind of promises would mean.

I walked into the room on the first evening, found my way to my table group, looked across the room and saw this tall, gorgeous man, in a red t-shirt, standing at another table. I was secretly gutted he wasn’t my table leader and felt determined to arrange mealtimes so I could speak to him.

The weekend progressed and the talks were amazing, the atmosphere was incredibly spirit-filled and I didn’t even mind the arts and craft activities. God was so tangibly present, all of the time, speaking, encouraging, pouring out love in every piece of palanca and every meal and every talk and I had never felt so close to God in my life, I don’t think.

And then, in the stillness of the church, surrounded by hundreds and hundreds of tealights and before an enormous cross, God asked me if I would say yes to ordination. Was I prepared to become a priest if that was what God was asking of me? At the time my own priest was utterly terrifying. She was a bully and an abuser and I knew that saying yes to God meant having to go and speak with her so, even though, in the silence of that church that night I had whispered a tentative yes to God’s outrageous invitation, I left my cursillo weekend and did nothing.

A year later I found myself back at cursillo, this time staffing as a table leader. God’s invitation to the priesthood had got stronger in my mind, and my quiet whisper of yes had become a pretty hard hearted no. But still God called and still other people kept saying to me ‘when will you be a priest’ or ‘have you thought about ordination’.

In all other things I really wanted to say yes to God. I wanted to do what God wanted for me. But ordination? I just couldn’t. So I set off from home for my weekend and made a dreadful deal with God. My deal was, if 10 people on the weekend suggested I get ordained, I would do something about it. Ten people. On a weekend where there was only going to be 16 people. I was really cutting it fine.

On the first evening 6 people had already mentioned ordination and I was livid! And surely enough, as the weekend progressed, the remaining 4 added their voice to the call. But the most incredible thing was that there was a woman in my table group called Alison. Alison had a disability that meant she couldn’t speak, except in a very gentle whisper. All weekend, our arrangement was, if she wanted to contribute to group discussions she would tap my arm, I would lean in and she would whisper her words for me to share. We did this all weekend and it worked well, so when she once again tapped my arm on the last day, I leant in to hear what she wanted to offer. And she said to me ‘when you get your own church I am going to come to it’. What could I do? God is sneaky and always gets what God wants. So, I returned to that candlelit sacred space where I had first heard the call, said sorry to God for not responding, and promised I would test out this vocation. And, exactly ten years after that first whisper – in 2015 – I found myself knelt before the bishop in Durham Cathedral, committing to serve God for the rest of my days as a priest in God’s church.

And as for the red t-shirt guy? When palanca arrived for the cursillo I staffed on there was something each day with an Australian postmark on. Red t-shirt guy had moved to Australia where he had begun a new life, preferably somewhere God couldn’t reach him. Five years ago, we reconnected, fell in love and he and God invited me on an adventure to create holy chaos down-under so two years ago I left the UK, emigrated to Australia, got married and became rector here.

To say Cursillo changed my life is not an understatement, is it? Saying an unequivocal yes to God, no matter what it costs and what it takes, will always do that. And I think that Cursillo is set up to create the perfect atmosphere, the perfect climate, to make those grand promises and to mean them.

So, you see, it is possible to speak about the effectiveness of the Cursillo method in the life of the speaker, but it’s definitely not possible to do so without mentioning extraordinary and sensational events.

Thanks be to God for God’s extraordinary and sensational invitations. May God give us the grace to always say yes. Amen.

Speaking Truth to Power

1 Kings 19: 9-18        Ps 85:8-13            Rom 10:4-15            Matt 14:22-33

They say everyone has at least one book in them, waiting to be written. I’ve never been sure of mine, but in the few weeks I think I’ve discovered it… My book would be called, ‘Things they never taught you at theological college’. And it is volumes and volumes long!

Two weeks ago, during that horrendous storm, a poor woman beat the door of the rectory in a near hysterical state, saying ‘you need to come quickly. Someone has left a dead body on our doorstep’. It turned out it was an abandoned urn of cremated remains that was eventually reunited with the next of kin but, yes, they never taught that at theological college.

And this past week has provided material for at least a few chapters, if not an entire volume.

On Monday I went to Canberra to join a delegation of 40 Christian leaders, all women, coordinated by a movement named Micah Australia. Micah empowers Christians to advocate for global justice to end extreme poverty, stop conflict, and protect communities from climate change. They do this in a variety of ways, one of which is this annual event at Parliament House. Now in its 5th year, a representative from every Christian denomination and charity is invited to walk those corridors of power, meeting with politicians from across the political spectrum to lobby on global justice.

This year, 40 of us – in small groups – met with 43 politicians; 21 from the ALP, 11 coalition members, 3 greens and 6 independent or cross bench members.  Our delegation from WA – one Anglican, one Baptist and one from the Salvos met with Senator Matt O’Sullivan, Patrick Gorman, Kate Chaney and the president of the Senate, Sue Lines. And in each meeting, in each chamber, and in the presidential suite, we asked these politicians to campaign for a Safer World for All, beginning with the poorest and most marginalised people in the world.

We told them, on the current trajectory, by 2030 there will be 575 million people living in extreme poverty. There will be 600 million people facing hunger and 84 million children (predominantly girls) not in education.

We reminded them that 22 of our 26 nearest neighbours are developing countries and the border between Australia and PNG represents the starkest difference, in terms of rich versus poor, in the whole world.

We showed them that Australia’s global aid budget has slipped from 14th to 27th, now sitting alongside Korea in terms of how financially compassionate we are towards our global neighbours.

And we told them why we care.

43 political leaders heard that as Christian leaders we are passionate about action being taken because we believe all people are made in the image of God and are full of dignity, value and worth. And we seek a world where there is justice for the oppressed, food for the hungry and nobody is left behind. And then a few of us shared our own experiences of global poverty. My colleague from Anglican Overseas Aid spoke about visiting Kenya where riverbeds are completely dried up and famines are the worst in 40 years. I spoke about how poverty pushes people towards selling their own children into slavery, so other family members might be able to eat.

Each meeting was different. We debated climate change and the voice referendum and what our political leaders could do to change the world for the most vulnerable.

And I kept thinking ‘they never taught me this at theological college’. And they didn’t. But the truth is, as people who follow the God who shows preferential treatment towards the poor, we absolutely have something to say in this space. We have more than 2000 years’ experience of following the One who stands up for those most in need and who calls others to lead with compassion and justice, asking us to go to those in power and speak the truth.

And sometimes it is terrifying. Of course it is, because we feel ill-equipped to do all God asks of us. We feel tongue-tied or inexperienced or like someone else would do a better job.

But we mustn’t forget the lessons from this morning’s gospel reading.

When Jesus calls us, it might feel like we are flailing around in a storm – I mean, what can 40 women say in Parliament House about the needs of the world that can make any difference? It might feel like the waters are battering us and we might be terrified, but Jesus comes in peace – take heart, it is I, he says, do not be afraid.

At our briefing the day before, we were asked how we were feeling.

Terrified I said. I am terrified.

But Jesus came in peace. More than that, he came in peace and then he came in power, and I went from terrified to brave. Bold, even. We have something to say in the face of poverty and injustice because we serve a God who says this is not ok. This is not how it is meant to be. Be more compassionate. Care for those in need. Make change – yes you. And go and speak truth to power and call them to make change too.

So, Jesus comes in peace and tells us not to be afraid and he invites us to do hard things – come, he says. Come. I’ve got you. And when we accept that invite, when we step out and do hard things sometimes it is overwhelming, but Jesus reaches out God’s hand and catches us. And it wasn’t in the walking on the water that people saw he was God, it was when he calmed the storm, when he took away the fear, when he takes our hand, it is then people say, ‘truly you are the son of God’ and worship him.

And, no they never taught me that in theological college. We never got trained in storming the corridors of power and calling politicians to account. We never learned how to lobby or petition for the needs of the poor. But the disciples never got taught to walk on water either.

And the same hand that drags them from drowning, and the same voice that says peace, is the same hand that leads us and the same voice that calls us. So, may we take hold of that hand, listen to that voice, go where we are led and do what is asked of us and in it all, may we know we are held and called by the one who is truly the Son of God, and may we worship. Amen.