Come and be healed…

Isaiah 58:9b-14       Psalm 103:1-8         Hebrews 12:18-29          Luke 13:10-17

I have spent some time with the woman in this morning’s gospel passage in recent months. Let’s call her Sally.  She was living in one of the elderly care homes I visit. Her daughter had called to ask if I could visit her mum. She felt Sally was reaching the end of her life and, to use her words, she ‘needed some help to get there’.

The first time I met her she was bent over, on the lounge in her dining room… Her neck was elongated, contorted, and her face was turned right inwards, to the floor. She couldn’t raise her head. I wondered how long she had sat like that. I didn’t get the warmest of welcomes that first visit! She offered one-word answers, and I wasn’t sure if she was glad I visited or not. As I left I asked if she would like to be brought to our next communion service and she decided she would.

I talked at length with Sally’s daughter, who wasn’t surprised by the curt replies. I assumed her head was bowed low because of her dementia, or another medical condition, but I discovered it occurred after the death of her husband and was, in part, due to grief and shame and memories she carried heavily on her shoulders. Literally laid low, bent double.

Sally was there at our next holy communion service, and the one after, and, she began to open up. She would hold my hand and slightly lift her head. In the last few days I saw Sally often and she told me she was scared of dying because she didn’t know how, nor what would happen. We spoke about her capacity to choose, and about how beautiful I believe death will be. And then, she looked me in the eye and asked me, ‘you promise?’ and I could confidently say, yes, I promise.

The day after I saw her for the last time she looked up, right up, at the corner of the room she had only seen the floor of, for many years, and with an undeniable look of bright recognition on her face she smiled as she transitioned to her eternal life. Fully healed, and free. For someone who said she was fearful, because she didn’t know how to die, she managed it beautifully and with such dignity. And many of these words are those I shared at her funeral.

I thought of Sally a lot when I read this morning’s gospel reading, and those verses from Isaiah have been significant on my faith journey many times. But when we read them together, as our lectionary allows us to today it makes me ask, Why on earth did this woman walk crippled over for eighteen long years. How had help not been extended to her before, when Isaiah’s words are so clear?

Her community knew those words from Isaiah. They would have read his words week after week in the synagogue. “Break the yoke, feed the hungry, satisfy the afflicted.” They could quote the scroll. They believed it. And yet — for eighteen years, she remained bent double. And that really challenges me, really unsettles me. They did know. They just didn’t act on it. Their heads knew it but their hands didn’t do it.

And, the unsettling thing is, aren’t we quite similar? We know the words of Jesus. We know the call of Isaiah. We know what love looks like. And still, we walk past people weighed down with poverty, grief, injustice, isolation. Still, we find excuses for delay. We might even dress it up as being the right or wrong thing to do, like the people in the temple that day.

It took eighteen years… but it didn’t need to. Isaiah’s writings are clear: do it now. And then Jesus puts flesh on them and shows us: do it now. Set free the ones who are bent down. Lift the burden. Repair the breach. Don’t wait. Because the good news is this: however long the shadow has lasted, God’s light can rise in an instant. That is the gospel.

And the gospel is clear: where there is brokenness and pain, or exclusion and isolation, be the one to carry the freedom and healing and wholeness of Christ into that situation. Don’t argue about the law or wait for a committee. Don’t say, “Perhaps in eighteen years things will be different.” Christ lays his hands on her, and she is set free. And that is what we are called to do.

Friends, it is so easy for churches to say: “One day. When the time is right. Not today”. And, meanwhile, another 18 years pass. Another generation. Another war, another death by suicide, another child taken into care, another thing that we might have been able to rescue or help or stop or heal, if only we had reached out our hands and offered healing and wholeness. The hungry are waiting. The oppressed are waiting. Creation itself is groaning, waiting. The bent over, weighed down woman is waiting. It has been eighteen years. It does not need to be nineteen. May we never be the ones who choose law over love and doctrine over grace.

Maybe some of us feel bent low today. Not necessarily with a physical affliction, but with burdens you can hardly carry — anxiety, grief, exhaustion, loneliness. Maybe the weight of the world’s pain has you stooped over, unable to lift your eyes. Maybe you have waited a long time for healing, or for the healing of your family. Maybe your prayers feel unanswered, unheard even.  The good news is that Christ is coming. However long the shadow has lasted, God’s light can rise in an instant.

So, my friends, let’s not wait another eighteen years.

Isaiah says: do it now. Jesus shows us: do it now.
So that is what we are going to do.

For the next few minutes, as the choir sings, I invite you to come to this rail and receive healing. Healing from whatever it is that bends you low, weighs you down. You don’t need to say what it is, just receive an anointing from God and the invitation to be set free. It doesn’t need to take another 18 years – not for you, or your family, or this world – not for the causes and situations that lie heavy across your shoulders. Come and bring whatever it is and lay it down and then stand, lift up your head and see the face of Christ shining on you. Amen.

Store your grain in the bellies of the poor…

Ecclesiastes 1:2,12-14, 2:18-23        Psalm 49:1-12        Colossians 3:1-11    Luke 12:13-21

Hearing this morning’s parable, about food and grain and greed, it is impossible not to think of the images in the media about the starving poor, particularly those we have seen coming out of Gaza. It is hard to process the vast numbers, when we hear from the United Nations that nearly 320 million people face acute hunger and almost 2 million face, what is called, catastrophic hunger primarily in Gaza and Sudan. Our minds don’t allow us to imagine what those numbers mean.

But last week, a UK newspaper printed a horrific photo on the front page of tiny Muhammed al-Matouq, weighing barely 6 kilos at 18 months of age, in his mother’s arms, bones poking through his paper-thin skin, sat outside their tent that resembles a tomb. The stark reality of the starvation and war that is all this child has ever known is complex, but it boils down to greed. Greed and the quest for ownership and power, which is also greed.

‘Take care’, Jesus says, ‘be on your guard against all kinds of greed’ and then he told them a parable.  And this parable is an interesting one.

Usually, in parables we have characters representing someone else, and we might try to put ourselves or God into the story. Am I the prodigal? Is God the good Samaritan? Which of us is the seed on the path or among the thorns, and who is the sower? Is it God? Should it be me? And on it goes. But in this parable, like, I think, only one other, we have God, named as God’s self. There is no confusion. It is definitely God who appears to the rich man.

There is a rich man who produced a whole lot of grain; so much that he didn’t know what to do with it. He sits and considers his crops, but really all he considers is himself.

Listen again: What should I do?  I have no place to store my crops. I will pull down my barns and store my grain and my goods and say to my soul you have ample. 

And God calls him a fool.  And he is a fool. 

He’s alright, but he has only served himself. 

And when he dies, all he has done will die too.  He set his mind on earthly things only, with no care or concern for anyone else.  And that is foolish. God is right. This man really is a fool.

St Augustine, one of the early church fathers, back in the third century, commented that the rich man was ‘planning to fill his soul with excessive and unnecessary feasting and was proudly disregarding the empty bellies of the poor’. He went on to make possibly the greatest comment about this parable when he said ‘[the rich man] did not realize that the bellies of the poor were much safer storerooms than his barns’.

This rich man could have made a huge difference with his huge stores of grain.

And instead, he was a self-centred fool.

So what about us? In the world’s terms we are among those who are the rich. And we have the privilege and ability of making change for those who are facing famine, hunger, poverty and death. We have the means to bring life and light to places of death and darkness. We can do that. We really can and we absolutely must. Because, as the parable says our life is being demanded of us today.  Our life is demanded of us every day.  God doesn’t just demand our life of us on the day we die.  God demands our life of us every single day.

In Paul’s letter to the Colossians, that we heard just now, he reminds those who have chosen to follow Christ – us included – that we need to set our minds on bigger, greater things. Things that will outlive our own lifetimes. When we said yes to following Jesus, we gave up our rights, our own life died, and we committed to showing Christ wherever we went. We said yes to a new way of living – leaving behind greed, deceit and control, and trying to keep to a new path that reflects the ways of the one we tentatively try to follow.

That is what we promised when we said yes to Jesus; that our life was now his, not ‘mine’, and we will do what we can to live it, fully, in his ways. And that is a life’s work, our primary purpose, and everything else, as the writer of the proverbs reminded us, is ‘vanity of vanitys’.

The wealthy landowner had huge barns; the best anyone could hope for; but he filled them with things for him, so that HIS soul could rest, and HIS life could be relaxing and HE could eat, drink and be merry.  He kept his barns for himself instead of taking the opportunity to store his grain in the bellies of those who were poorest and most hungry. He put himself first, and screw everyone else.

Isn’t that what we see modelled and magnified, again and again on the world stage, in horrific technicolour? Political landowners, rich barn owners, with barns the size of countries, filling and hoarding and grabbing and gloating, while millions of starving eyes and empty bellies watch on, as they die??? Isn’t this parable 21st century world news? Have we learned nothing?

As followers of Jesus, we have given up all rights to behave like that. 

As followers of Jesus, our primary concern can no longer be me. 

As followers of Jesus, we must live lives that give out to others. 

We can no longer sit idly by and say nothing.  This very day our life is being demanded of us; your life is being demanded of you.

Please God, may we take this seriously and may our lives be those of love, joy and peace. May our lives make the lives of others better. May our choices impact positively on others. May our lives even change the world and bring glory to God’s holy name.  And may we store our grain, our wealth in the bellies and pockets of the poor. Amen.

In Him, all things hold together…

A homily for the Diocese of Perth app

Reflection: Held Together

In his letter to the Colossians, Paul gives us a vast, cosmic vision of Christ:

“He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation…in him all things hold together.” (Colossians 1:15–17)

Not just the spiritual parts of life. Not just Sunday mornings or silent prayers. Paul says all things — every atom, every relationship, every spinning planet and breaking heart — are held together by Christ.

That’s not a metaphor. It’s a claim about the deepest structure of reality. That Christ is not only our Saviour but also the sustainer of all that is.

Years ago, preacher Louis Giglio gave a talk about this very passage, referencing a protein molecule called laminin. Present in every single body, Laminin is literally the scaffolding of the human body — a glue that binds our cells and organs together. Without it, we would physically fall apart.

And when you look at laminin under a microscope, its shape is unmistakable: a cross.

Now, no one’s claiming that’s divine proof — but it is a breathtaking image. A visible sign in creation of a deeper spiritual truth: that the cross — the self-giving love of Christ — really does hold us together. At the cellular level. At the soul level.

This is good news when life feels like it’s fraying at the edges.

Which is where today’s Gospel takes us.
In Luke 10, Jesus visits the home of Mary and Martha. Martha does what many of us do: she gets things done. She fills the silence with service. But all her striving leaves her anxious. Her life — for that moment — threatens to fall apart if she doesn’t keep every plate spinning.

Mary, by contrast, chooses to sit. To be present. To listen to the One in whom all things hold together.

And Jesus says gently:

“Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing.” (Luke 10:41–42)

One thing.

And that “one thing” isn’t passive or lazy.

It’s attentive. Grounded. Anchored in Christ. And it holds all the rest of the things together.

So much in this world pulls us in different directions — expectations, obligations, pressure, pain. And it’s easy to think we need to hold everything together ourselves. But Paul and Luke remind us of something radical: we’re not the ones holding it all together. Christ is.

We are not the centre. He is.
And we are not left to fall apart unnoticed.

St Paul reminds us: this isn’t just about something happening out there in the heavens.
Christ is not just above all — he is in you, the hope of glory. (Col. 1:27)

So, when the world is loud…
When you feel the pressure to prove or to produce…
When your soul is anxious and your spirit is scattered…
Remember Mary.

Sit down. Be still. Listen.

The same Christ who holds the stars in place is holding you.
And he isn’t asking for your perfection — just your attention.
Because in him, all things hold together.

Even you. Amen.

The relentless pursuit of God

Or, ‘Perhaps Fr Peter CR was wrong’…

Isaiah 65:1–9 | Psalm 22:20–29 | Galatians 3:10–14, 23–29 | Luke 8:26–39

I have told you this story before. It’s possible you might even remember it. But it is so fitting with the themes from this morning’s readings, and it’s quite likely that you may well have forgotten it in the passing of time, so please indulge me, once again, as I recall the beautiful tale of The Pilgrim at Tinker Creek…

In my first week at theological college we had a lecture with the college principal — Fr Peter — a wise old owl of a man, slow-spoken and razor-sharp, and a storyteller of great power. An octogenarian who swooshed around the corridors, cassock-clad, and preached from text on his mobile phone screen.

That first week, he retold us a story from one of his favourite books, of a woman who, once saw a muskrat gliding through moonlit water — a muskrat so beautiful, so unexpectedly holy in its ordinariness, that she returned again and again, hoping to see it once more. She never did. But that one glimpse changed everything. That one shimmer of wonder called her back, again and again.

Fr Peter said it was the same with God — that each of us had glimpsed divine beauty once, maybe just once, and it had been enough to draw us in. To make us show up again and again, even if God never showed up again in quite the same way.

And I heard this exclamation and realized it was me: “But isn’t God also looking for us? Doesn’t God also long to see us?” And Fr Peter, ever the monk, ever the mystery, said: “Is that what you think? That’s nice…”

And for a while, I wondered if I’d got it wrong. Because here was someone who had given up everything, spent decades in silence and prayer, someone who knew the rhythms of God like breath. If he wasn’t sure God came seeking… maybe I was naive.

But then we have this morning’s reading from Isaiah, who writes:

“I was ready to be sought out by those who did not ask,
to be found by those who did not seek me.

I said, “Here I am, here I am,” to a nation
that did not call on my name. I held out my hands all day long…”

It seems very clear: God moves first. Isn’t that what the whole incarnation shows us?
God shows up uninvited, unexpected, undeterred. Relentlessly pursuing.
God says “Here I am” not once, but twice — as if to be sure we hear it. As if to say: You don’t have to chase glimpses. I’m already here.

And then we meet Jesus, in that fascinating reading from Luke’s gospel.

And we find him sailing across the sea to a place everyone else avoided — Gentile land, haunted land, tomb-filled land — and stepping ashore to find a man no one wanted.

Naked. Alone. Possessed. A man whose very presence made others afraid.
A man society had chained up, cast out, left to rot.

And Jesus seeks him out. Relentlessly pursues him.

Speaks to him. Sees him. Frees him.

It wasn’t the man crying out for God —
it was God crossing the sea to find the man.

This is not a passive God.
This is a God who pursues.
Who disturbs.
Who insists on love even when no one asks for it.

And in Galatians, Paul hammers it home with revolutionary force:

“There is no longer Jew or Greek, no longer slave or free, no longer male and female;
for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.”

This is the God who shatters the categories. Who crosses every boundary.
Who flattens every hierarchy. This is the God who says, ‘You belong, even if the world says otherwise’.

So yes, I’ve come to believe — with my whole heart — that we do glimpse beauty and return to it, again and again. But also, and more deeply, that God comes looking for us.
That the One who made us also misses us. That the divine presence doesn’t just wait in mystery, but comes tearing across boundaries — sailing into unclean lands, shouting “Here I am” to the ones who weren’t even seeking. Even when we’re chained. Even when we’re lost. Even when we’ve given up hope. God finds us. And keeps finding us. Again and again and again.

And we are the body of Christ in this place. We are the hands and feet and presence of God in this place, for this generation. And if we have anything to do in our time here, it is to show that same welcome, that same relentless pursuit of grace and kindness and love, even to those who don’t ask. Even to those who the world tells us to shun. Especially to those, because the grace of our God is always extended beyond every boundary. And if the world doesn’t find acceptance from God’s people, where will they find it?

So whether you feel close to God today, or distant, whether you’re full of faith or full of fear — know this:
You don’t need to chase the muskrat.
The muskrat is swimming toward you.

Amen.

Trinity Sunday 2025

Today is Trinity Sunday — the one Sunday in the church year where preachers attempt to explain the unexplainable, that one plus one plus one equals one.

We use well-worn metaphors — ice, water, steam. Clover leaves. Sunshine. And commit our heresy of choice.  And none of them quite hold.

And it’s a strange, because nobody fell in love with God because of a good explanation of the Trinity, and yet, people find themselves caught up, sought after, transfixed, running from or to, the God who is three and one.

You see, the Trinity isn’t a concept to understand — it’s a mystery to embrace.

It’s not about understanding. It’s about belonging.

What we meet in the Trinity — is love.

Love in motion, in relationship. Love that makes space for more.

Creator. Christ. Spirit.
God above, beside and within us.

This is not doctrine; it is a love story — and we are part of it.

So instead of trying to explain the Trinity, maybe the best way to honour it is to write our own creed — not of how it works, but what we believe (on a good day…or want to…or would, if we thought it believable) …So, I offer this. A creed of sorts. Totally unauthorised…

We believe in the Creator — the Source of all breath and beginning,
who paints galaxies with light, and sees sparrows fall.
The One who calls creation good,
who made us not out of need but of love,
and who is still creating.

We believe in the Christ — the face of God we could touch,
who healed and fed and wept and laughed,
who called the unqualified, ate with the outcast,
and walked into death with open arms.
Jesus, crucified and risen, not to appease God, but to show love.
Jesus, who joins the human story, so no one is alone again.

We believe in the Spirit — fire and breath and wild wind,
comforter and disrupter, who speaks in many languages and lands on every head.
She is the whisper and the roar, the wind that won’t be boxed,
who prays in us when we cannot, and calls us into God’s dream for the world.

We believe God is not one voice but a harmony.
Not a hierarchy but a dance.
Not power over, but love poured out.

We believe the Trinity is a lived experience.
That to be made in God’s image is to be made for community.
That love is our origin, our calling, and our future.
That God is not a solitary throne, but a table with space for all.

We believe that when we baptise, we enter this dance.
When we break bread, we share in this life.
When we forgive, we join in this grace.
When we say yes to love — we say yes to God.

We believe the Trinity teaches us God is bigger, wider, wilder than our words.

And so we won’t try to explain God today.
We will simply breathe, in awe. And bathe in worship.

The Trinity is not a test of faith. It is the shape of our faith.

It’s how we pray, and live, and love.

It’s why we believe community matters.

That justice is relational. That faith is not a ladder but a circle.

Trinity belongs us to a God who is never alone — and never leaves us alone.

And so today, we come to this table, not with explanations, but with awe, hope, and love. We come to say: this is the God we don’t understand, but we trust.

This is the mystery we live in, and the dance we choose to join.

And this dance, this relationship, this God, always sends us outward.

To believe in the Trinity is to believe in relationship. In communion. In radical welcome. In community that reflects the very heart of God.

To believe in an all-embracing Trinity means we welcome the Refugee and challenge the voices that say ‘close the borders’ and ‘turn back the boats’.

To bear the name of the Trinity dares us to embrace a slogan that says All Are Welcome, and mean it. And challenge ourselves when we don’t.

So today, let this be our creed —in word, and in action.

Let our affinity with the Trinity affect our Refugee Week, our AGM, our life of discipleship.
Let our table be wide. Our arms open. Our decisions compassionate.
Let our church look more and more like the Trinity: diverse, loving, active in service.

Let us not seek to understand, but to embrace and love, and if this is heresy, may we speak it and live it, boldly, and always. For the glory of the Holy Trinity, One God, now and forever. Amen.

Pentecost 2025

Genesis 11:1-9                      Psalm 104:26-36                   Acts 2:1-21                John 14:8-17

Earlier this week, my mum sent me an email and the subject line said BEAUTIFUL, in capitals, and the body of the email was just a link. It was a link to a poem by the inspiring poet and civil rights activist, Maya Angelou, and is called Caged Bird. It says this:

A free bird leaps on the back of the wind, and floats downstream till the current ends

and dips his wing in the orange sun rays and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage can seldom see through his bars of rage,

his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown…but longed for still,

and his tune is heard on the distant hill, for the caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze, and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees, and the fat worms waiting on a dawn bright lawn, and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams:

his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream

his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown…but longed for still,

and his tune is heard on the distant hill, for the caged bird sings of freedom.

I have long been enamoured by the idea of the Holy Spirit as a bird that flies through history, impossible to pin down, and chooses to come to nest in the cages of our heart. She beats her wings, and we are enlivened, and she has the key to that cage, which she opens slowly, gradually, to set us free, so we might be free-makers for others. So it is fitting she came to nest again, a few days before Pentecost.

Pentecost – originally a Jewish festival – became a significant way-marker on an unstoppable process that began at the dawn of Creation when God spoke Light into being.  The continuation of one eternal, act of grace; a gift of God’s very self, given to us, for always.  The flightiest part of God came to live within the cages of humanity – to fulfil God’s ministry of love.

She came to invite and accompany us on acts of holy mischief. She is subversive and cunning, in all the best ways. Dangerous as fire, and essential as air. She is one to be encountered, experienced, not just talked about. 

It is by the Holy Spirit that our gifts of bread and wine become the body and blood of Christ in our holy meal. It is the Holy Spirit of Pentecost descending on us in every blessing, absolution and dismissal.  She baptises and confirms and ordains and consecrates. By the Holy Spirit new people wander into Church and stay. The Holy Spirit drew you to church this morning, even if you think it’s just what you do on a Sunday morning.

Pentecost didn’t begin and end in the event we heard in our Acts reading. It is breaking out all over the place and it can’t be hindered or stopped.  You can’t resist Her, and you can’t avoid Her.  You can only choose to spot what she is up to, and decide whether you want to join in. 

And to return to Maya’s inspired words, the Holy Spirit is ‘A free bird [who] leaps on the back of the wind and floats downstream till the current ends…and dares to claim the sky’. She claims it because she was there at the dawn of time, saw it created, laughed as the first sun rose, whispered as it set…

And we, we are invited to be that same sky that She soars on and with and through

Yet, far too often, we remain in the cages of our own selves and confine the Spirit there too.

We establish and guard the bars of our rage, we clip the Spirit’s wings and tie Her feet.

We think the song we hear the Spirit sing is fearful, because we are…

And we long for more but are just a little too afraid to step off into it, because what

if freedom is just too dangerous?

And yet our hearts know something our brains can’t quite comprehend.

Our heart knows it is designed for courage and hope and joy and dance, not safety.

And when our brain says ‘why’, our hearts say, ‘why not’.

And over and over, since the first light of Creation, the wind and flames of the Spirit has been drawing us into whatever is next. Wings wide and unfurled, voice calling out freedom, we have chance after chance to step into the depths of God’s mercy and see where that flow takes us.

How often do we notice that,

let alone consider saying yes,

let alone step off and step in.

How often? Rarely, I would say. Really rarely.

But if not today, on the day of Pentecost, then when?

And if not here, then where?

Pentecost isn’t about looking back—it’s about leaning in.

Not because we have a plan. But because we trust God.

The Spirit still longs for hearts to land in. Still sings of freedom. So today, you are invited to come forward and experience Her; receive a fresh anointing of the Holy Spirit. The sign of the cross, on your head, with holy oil.

Not to understand the Holy Spirit—but to welcome her.

Not to explain Pentecost—but to receive it. To say yes. Even without knowing what yes will mean. To open your cage. To be, once more, made new.

And if you listen closely—perhaps you’ll hear her already.

The flutter of wings. The rush of wind. The sound of fire. The voice of love.

Because the caged bird sings of freedom.

And today, the song is yours.

Amen.

Healing Gaza…

John 5:1-9

1 After this there was a festival of the Jews, and Jesus went up to Jerusalem. 2 Now in Jerusalem by the Sheep Gate there is a pool, called in Hebrew Beth-zatha, which has five porticoes. 3 In these lay many invalids—blind, lame, and paralyzed. 5 One man was there who had been ill for thirty-eight years. 6 When Jesus saw him lying there and knew that he had been there a long time, he said to him, ‘Do you want to be made well?’ 7 The sick man answered him, ‘Sir, I have no one to put me into the pool when the water is stirred up; and while I am making my way, someone else steps down ahead of me.’ 8 Jesus said to him, ‘Stand up, take your mat and walk.’ 9 At once the man was made well, and he took up his mat and began to walk. Now that day was a sabbath.

Every now and then, very rarely, a gospel reading appears in the service that doesn’t match the one the priest diligently worked on through the week. A moment of panic ensues and then there’s a choice to make…rewrite, or confuse the people by reading and preaching on something not in their pew sheet. This week, I opted for the latter, and so it is that we find ourselves, almost unexpectedly, beside the portico of Solomon, waiting for those waters to stir…

This week, ABC news reported that minimal aid would be allowed to enter the Palestinian territory for the first time in over 11 weeks. Those trucks were held up at the border for another 3 days, while a further 29 babies and children died of malnutrition. Eventually, on Friday, 90 trucks crossed the border, stocked with flour, baby food and medical supplies. People were trampled and killed in the desperate scramble for things that might bring life, healing, nourishment, hope.  There was precious little for the 2.1million people caught up in this genocide. Ninety trucks in 12 weeks is a far cry from the five hundred trucks that used to enter Gaza daily, before the war. 140,000 tonnes of food, on 6,000 lorries waits in aid corridors; enough to feed the entire population for two months, but the access is blocked. The world watches while a mama feeds her baby saltwater, to trick its newborn belly into thinking it has been fed. Saltwater, like tears.

It’s hard not to think of those people while we hear the story of the man lying beside that pool for 38 years, hanging onto the belief that if he could just be the first person to make it into the pool when the water is stirred up, he might be healed.

If only he could get to the water, but he has nobody to help him.

If only they could get to the truck.

If only the truck could get to the people, but they have nobody to help them.

A clumsy comparison, for sure, but one that has plagued me all week.

And then Jesus walks by and does three things.

First, he sees him – when Jesus saw him lying there. He saw him among the many invalids – blind, lame and paralysed – and he knew he had been there for a long time. He sees him in a world that looks away when faced with disease and disability.

Then he speaks to him – he said to him, ‘do you want to be made well?’ Not in judgment or chastisement, but in invitation, offering an outstretched hand. Do you want to be made well – a beautiful, compassionate phrase in a world where those lying on the roadside are looked over or ignored.

He sees him. He speaks to him. And then he heals him.

He frees him from that which has kept him captive for the last 38 years or more – stand up, take up your mat and walk.

And then… Jesus disappears from the story. We never hear what the man does next. We don’t know if he dances or runs or weeps. We don’t know if he tells the others or fades into the crowd. But we know this: something changed. Someone saw him. Someone spoke. Someone moved toward his pain — and through that encounter, something new began. His health was restored, but much more importantly, his humanity was restored. He was given the chance to be whole again.

How much I would love that for the people of Gaza – health, humanity, healing, wholeness. How much I would love that for all humankind. How much God longs for that.

And friends, on Thursday — we remember the Ascension. That strange and holy moment when Jesus left his disciples, blessing them even as he was raised from their sight. And I wonder if they were tempted to do what we’re tempted to do:
Stand staring upward, hoping for another miracle. Waiting for the next flash of divine light. Waiting for something, and then the dawning realisation as the angels say, “Why do you stand looking up toward heaven?” that what is really being said is it’s your turn now.

When Jesus ascends, he doesn’t abandon the world. He entrusted it to his disciples. And that means he entrusts it to us.  We are the body of Christ now. We are the ones called to see the ones no one sees.
To speak with compassion where silence reigns.

To stretch out our hands — not in power, but in mercy.

To ask the world, “Do you want to be made well?”

And to be ready to listen to the answer and do something about it.

We are the ones who carry the healing presence of Christ.

Not to fix everything. Not to end all suffering. But to witness it. To weep with it.

To make real, here and now, the love that will never walk past a suffering soul.

That is what it means to be Ascension people: Not to wait for heaven to act, but to embody the Christ who is already here. Through us. Not perfect. But present.  So, this week, if, when, you see someone lying beside the metaphorical pool — someone exhausted from waiting for justice, aching for recognition, yearning for life — don’t look up to heaven. Look toward them. Live like Jesus is here — because through you, he is.

Before we close, let’s return to those Gazan streets.

People of God, we have been seen and loved and made whole by Christ, so we cannot walk away from those we remembered at the start — the mothers holding out their arms, the children waiting for food, the elderly caught between walls and checkpoints — they are not just news stories. They are Christ, they are that paralytic, lying beside the pool. And we are his body now.

We feel powerless, but we can act. We can send aid. We can pray. We can pressure. We can speak. We can stay awake to suffering, even when the headlines move on.

We can carry hope, not as something soft and sentimental — but as something stubborn and active.

So today, may we not stand, looking up, waiting for God to do something.

May we Be Christ. The world is waiting for us. We are the hands and feet and eyes, ears and voice of the crucified, risen and ascended Christ. At his Ascension he passes on the baton and says ‘your move’. May we move swiftly and with mercy. Amen.

Glory in the Dark…

John 13:31–35 | Acts 11:1–18 | Revelation 21:1–6

In our bible readings just now, we heard almost 1000 words – 983 to be exact. Words full of commands and intrigue and challenge and hope. And yet, all week, I found myself thinking about 12 words that didn’t even feature in our readings. Those 12 words come immediately before our Gospel verses from John and say this:

‘…after receiving the bread he [Judas] immediately went out. And it was night’.

And then we come to our Gospel reading, which says ‘When he had gone out, Jesus said, “Now the Son of Man has been glorified…’ That little exchange has followed me around all week – he went out. It was night. Now the son of man is glorified.

Before we dive into the moment Judas leaves, we need to understand something about the Gospel of John. It is full of symbols — and the recurring one is light and darkness.  “The light shines in the darkness,” he writes, “and the darkness did not overcome it.”

In John’s world, light is the presence of God, of life. And darkness is the realm of confusion… betrayal… absence. So when John tells us Judas went out “and it was night,” it’s not a time stamp. It’s a theological statement. Judas steps into the dark — not just outside the room, but into confusion, spiritual darkness, into the very absence of God (if that were possible).

Hold onto that because that’s where we begin this morning:

“When he had gone out, Jesus said, ‘Now the Son of Man has been glorified, and God has been glorified in him.’”

“When he had gone out…”

Judas. The betrayer. The one who sat at the table… received the bread… and then stepped into the night — only then — does Jesus say: “Now the Son of Man is glorified.”

How can glory arise at this moment of ultimate betrayal?

Because in John’s Gospel, the path to the cross is not a detour — it’s the destination.

Judas’ act doesn’t interrupt Jesus’ mission. It initiates the final, holy stretch of it.

And Jesus walks into it — with courage, and love. He is glorified because he demonstrates a love that chooses mercy over revenge. A love that continues to give itself, even while being rejected.

Judas walks out, into the darkness — and Jesus walks into it. Into the darkness. Into death itself. This is glory; because Jesus refuses to abandon love, even when it costs everything.

And what if, “Now the Son of Man is glorified,” isn’t only about the accelerated route to the cross — but also about redeeming even the darkest acts? What if Judas’s actions — as devastating as they were, for Jesus and Judas too — becomes part of the story of salvation?

And if that’s true… then maybe our own darkest acts and our own experiences of an absence of God can be transformed to Glory too.

In this, Jesus redefines Glory completely. It is not the absence of pain. It is not shining lights and trumpets.  It’s love refusing to give up — right in the middle of pain. It’s choosing to love, trust and serve, and keep bloody going — even as the story takes its worst turn.

Glory is not found in winning — but in being faithful. Even when you’re betrayed. Even when you make mistakes.

Jesus is glorified not because of Judas’ act, but because in response to it, he answers with love. He walks into the night carrying nothing but truth and mercy. And glory is apparent there. In the darkness.

We don’t have to wait until resurrection morning to see God’s Glory.

It is found in the foot washing.
It is found in the bread broken for the one who will leave.
Glory is found in love that stays, and speaks, and serves.

That is the glory of God: love that does not flinch, even when darkness enters the room.

And Glory in the darkness keeps happening.

We saw it there in our first reading, too. The early church is facing its own upheaval.

Peter stands before a sceptical crowd. He’s explaining why he ate with Gentiles… why he welcomed outsiders in. And Peter tells them about his vision. And he says: “Who was I that I could hinder God?” This paradigm shift moves the church from restriction to radical welcome. From insider control… to divine surprise. The Spirit has already gone ahead — falling on those ‘The Church’ thought were beyond the reach of grace. And Peter has the humility — and the courage — to say yes. It’s a moment of glory. Not because it was smooth and shiny but because love became real in new, boundary-breaking ways.

Glory says Judas’ acts can be made beautiful

Glory says barriers will come down, all will be welcomed, even those we hate

And then we turn to Revelation 21 — And hear the voice that holds all this together:

“See — I am making all things new.”

That’s what happened in that upper room. That’s what’s happening in Peter’s vision. That’s what’s happening in your own confusion and sorrow.

God is making, will make, all things new — even in the night.

Because this is what God does:

Not bypass the pain. But transform it.

Not abandon the world. But move into it.

Not erase the betrayer. But redeem the broken story.

So if you’re in a moment that feels like night — You’re not alone.

When Judas walks out — Jesus walks in.

When the church clings to hard borders — the Spirit blows them wide open.

When the world groans for hope — God says: “See — I am making all things new.”

So… let’s stand for a moment in the dark. In our own darkness, or alongside those who find themselves there and let’s believe that even in the darkness, even in our biggest mistakes, God can and will bring Glory. And that Glory shines brightest in the dark. We just keep going, and wait to hear Jesus say: Now. Now the Son of Man is glorified. I am making all things new.  Amen.

Breakfast is Ready…

Acts 9:1–20                        Ps 30             Revelation 5:.6–14         John 21:.1–19

Today is Domestic Violence Awareness Sunday.

It’s interesting that it falls during the season of Resurrection— when we are leaning into the hope we have in Jesus. So what might these scriptures say to those living with or recovering from domestic abuse? What might they say to those who perpetrate it? And what might the Holy Spirit want us to hear this morning?

A short time has passed since the first Easter, and the disciples are in a real spin.

They’ve walked with Jesus. They’ve witnessed healing. Fed multitudes. Had their feet washed. They fled Gethsemane. And they failed him. They watched him die. And just when grief and guilt had swallowed them whole— Jesus returned. Not once, but again and again. “Peace be with you,” he said. “Breathe in the Spirit.”

But today, we find Peter saying: “I’m going fishing.” And the others go too.

We often miss the despair in those words.

“I’m going fishing” isn’t recreational. It’s resignation.

It’s Peter saying, “I don’t know who I am anymore. I give up. I just want things to go back to how they were.” When grief or trauma knocks us down, we reach for what’s familiar, for survival. Even if it’s not what gives life.

They fish all night. And catch nothing. But—yet again—Jesus appears and everything changes. The net overflows. A fire is already burning. There’s fish, and bread, and grace already waiting. They have breakfast with the Risen One— awkward, intimate.

And then… Jesus turns to Peter and says: “Simon, son of John.”

He takes him back to the beginning— to the name before the bravado. To the one he called.  “Do you love me?” Three times. And three times, Peter—wounded by the memory—answers: “Yes.” And each time, Jesus replies: “Feed my sheep.”

This is not just Peter’s restoration. It’s his recommissioning.

“Follow me,” Jesus says again. Just like at the start. But now Peter knows the cost. And still—he’s invited. Still—he’s sent. This is another resurrection story. Peter’s. And what was possible then, is promised for now.

In this country, one woman dies every week from domestic and family violence.

One in four women, and one in eight men, experience abuse from a partner.

First Nations people are 33 times more likely to be harmed.

And our children are not spared.

It is those who can no longer walk into church because they were told: “Pray more.” “Marriage is for life.” “God hates divorce more than violence.” It is those with deep wounds who haven’t told a soul. And it is people who cause harm.

And it is not just “somewhere out there.” It is people in the pews. People leading worship, because research shows experiences of domestic abuse are statistically as likely in Anglican Churches in Australia, if not more likely than wider society.

To survivors: we see you. We are you. You deserve safety. You deserve healing.

The risen Christ does not abandon you. And nor do we.

Now let me say something clearly, and without apology:

If you are someone who harms your partner or children— this Gospel is for you too.

Jesus says to Peter: “Do you love me? Feed my sheep.”

That love is protection, not power. It is honour, not control. It is repentance— deep, painful, necessary change. Resurrection starts here. You are not beyond grace. None of us are. But grace is not soft. She is fierce. She calls us to account. She burns away excuses. Reveals truth. And waits to rebuild us into someone new. She still brings resurrection.

Resurrection is not a metaphor. It is God’s unflinching commitment to life when death and despair think they have the last word. The risen Christ does not say to Peter, “Forget it happened.” He says, “Bring your pain. Bring your shame. Let’s start again.”

Not by erasing the past— but by transforming it. Resurrection means the body of Jesus is still wounded… yet fully alive. It means love is stronger than death. Even the slow deaths people suffer behind closed doors.

So what does resurrection look like, in a world where family violence still persists?

It looks like churches becoming places of safety. A refuge that says, clearly and without hesitation: “We believe you. We support you. You are not alone.”

It looks like learning what to do: How to listen. When to act. It means realising Jesus’ call to “tend my sheep” includes those whose homes are warzones. It means checking our liturgies and language— because Scripture is sometimes weaponised. And we are called to speak differently. It means showing up. Staying present. Having compassionate courage. And it means being a space where all are safe, valued, and free.

As those who have chosen to follow Christ, we are resurrection people. That call is real. And it is costly. It is the call to tend bruised sheep, protect the lambs, follow Jesus to the shoreline and into the awkward spaces, and say: “Breakfast is ready. You are loved. There is a place for you here.” This call is confronting. It asks something of us. It means putting down the nets of indifference. Letting go of the safety of silence.

It means walking with survivors. Listening as they speak. And staying when it’s uncomfortable. It means action over feelings. “Feed my sheep” is a commission to justice. To care. To protection. It’s a call to every community that dares to bear Christ’s name.

The resurrection becomes a second calling. A deeper one. The first time, we followed without knowing. The second time, we follow with full knowledge of the risk, the discomfort, the cost— and the hope. Because resurrection hope is not naive.

It says: Even when you’ve given up. Even when you’ve denied Love and gone back to your old life—there is still a place for you. Hope comes to find you. A fire burns on the beach. Bread is being broken. The call is still being spoken: “Follow me.”

Resurrection is not for the clean and pristine. It is for the ones who fled. Who failed. The ones who are dead. And the ones who’ve endured more than anyone should, who’ve hidden bruises, silenced cries, and carry scars.

Christ says: “Do you love me? Feed my sheep. Tend my lambs. Follow me.”

So hear the invitation again. And follow with eyes wide open— knowing what it costs and knowing what it’s worth. Hope is here. Breakfast is ready. Feed my sheep.

Amen.

A guided meditation on John 12

Isaiah 43:16–21                Ps 126           Philippians 3:3–14                      John 12:1–8

This is the last of our guided meditations for lent. Next week we return to the familiarity of Palm Sunday and then Holy Week, so for one last time, I invite you to close your eyes. Breathe deeply. Pause and do all you can to still your noisy mind and restless heart.

We enter the house in Bethany; the air is thick with voices, the warm hum of companionship, with the smell of food prepared for a funeral that never happened.

You see Lazarus reclining at the table.

Days ago, he was dead. Wrapped in linen. Sealed in a tomb. His body had begun to decay, and the stench of death hung around. But there he is – alive – eating and drinking. Jesus is here, too, surrounded by those he loves, the weight of what’s to come presses in on him. But for now, for this moment, he is safe. All is a bit strange, but strangely well. And then the mood shifts…

Mary comes in. Do you see her? Sense her? Moving with purpose, carrying an alabaster jar. Her fingers clutch the cool clay, her shoulders move with deep, measured breaths. She walks to Jesus and kneels. Then, without hesitation, she breaks the jar open. The crack of pottery as it splinters against stone silences the room. And then — The smell. Rich, deep, overwhelming.

The scent of pure nard rises, filling every corner, clinging to skin, seeping into cloth.

It overpowers the scent of the meal, the warm sweat of the gathered men, the lingering memory of death.

It is the smell of extravagance, of reckless love, of something poured out completely, with nothing held back.

Mary’s hands move over Jesus’ feet. She pours the perfume freely, anointing him, touching him. And then, in an act as intimate as it is shocking, she loosens her hair, lets it fall freely, and wipes his feet. Her hair darkens; heavy with the oil, fragrant with devotion. The act is servant-like yet regal, humble and anointing. She sees what others do not. She knows who he is. She knows what is coming.

This is the foreshadowing of another night, days away, when Jesus himself will kneel over feet too. Mary, in her love, takes the posture of a servant, just as Jesus will take the posture of a servant-king. But there is more. This is the anointing of one who is to die.

Smell the perfume again. Let it settle into your own skin, into your own memory. This is the scent of preparation, the smell of life pressed against death.

The house is full of expensive perfume. It’s excessive and extravagant, and Judas’ anger cuts through it; “Why was this perfume not sold for 300 denarii and the money given to the poor?” he snarls.

Three hundred denarii—300 silver pieces—a year’s salary— incidentally, ten times more than Judas will receive in the coming days for handing Jesus over to death.

Pause. How do you feel as you hear his words? Does part of you agree? The wastefulness, the impracticality—does it unsettle you? Or does it rile you. do you also understand something Mary seems to know instinctively?

Jesus defends her. “Leave her alone.”

Mary has anointed him, not as a triumphant king, but as one who will die. The scent of this moment will cling to him, will follow him to the upper room, to Gethsemane, to the trial, to the cross. As he prays in agony in the garden, will the fragrance seep from his pores? As he is stripped and beaten, as whips tear into his flesh, as he stumbles under the weight of the cross, will the scent of Mary’s love rise from his body? And as he hangs on the cross, gasping for breath, will this perfume mingle with the smell of blood and sweat and death?

And there is another mystery in that room: the breaking of the jar, the pouring out of the oil— a sacramental moment. What does it foreshadow?

Bread will soon be broken. Wine will soon be poured out.

“This is my body. This is my blood.”

The scent of Mary’s perfume lingers on. Even here in the present. Let it settle into your soul. Let it remind you that true love costs everything. Love breaks open; pours out; gives everything. The fragrance remains. Love is unending. The scent of death is overcome. The cross awaits. Let us go there with Him.

Amen.