Guided Meditation on Isaiah 55

Isaiah 55:1–9        Psalm 63:1–9        1 Corinthians 10:1–13               Luke 13:1-9

“Come, all you who are thirsty, come to the waters…”

Let’s take a moment to settle. Close your eyes gently, breathe deeply.

God is Spirit, Spirit is breath.

Breathe in the fullness of God. Breathe out all that is not of God.

Now, imagine you are standing in a vast, dry land.

The air is warm, the ground hot and cracked beneath your feet.

You feel a deep thirst—not just for water, but for more.

A longing for peace, for purpose, for renewal.

Your body and soul echo the words of Psalm 63:

“O God, you are my God, earnestly I seek you;

my soul thirsts for you, my flesh faints for you,

as in a dry and weary land where there is no water.”

Stay with that vision. Feel your thirst. Feel that longing inside you for more.

More goodness, more refreshment, more of God.

And then, you hear a voice. A gentle yet powerful call:

“Come, all you who are thirsty, come to the waters;

and you who have no money, come, buy and eat!”

You look ahead and see a flowing river—pure, clear, and endless.

The water shimmers in the sunlight, inviting you closer. You are transfixed. This isn’t usual water, hydrogen and oxygen, this is the living water of God’s love, freely given, abundant beyond measure.

You feel an irresistible invitation to move nearer. A compulsion to drink.

You take a moment to decide but your thirst spurs you on and you kneel, and bow; face close to the water.  

Feel its coolness as you cup your hands; lift the water to your lips. As you drink, life returns to you —refreshing, restoring, healing. You are revived and you didn’t even know you were dead.

“Why spend money on what is not bread, and your labour on what does not satisfy?”

What are you striving for? What fills your time, energy, and thoughts?

Are they things that truly satisfy your soul?

God’s voice calls again:

“Listen to me, and eat what is good, and you will delight in the richest of fare.”

As you sit by the waters, God offers you a feast—not just of food, but of grace, wisdom, and love. A table prepared with everything your soul truly needs.

What is God offering to you today? What nourishment do you long for?

“Seek the Lord while he may be found; call on him while he is near.”

Feel the closeness of God. Present, not distant.

Call on God. What is it you need?

And now, in the distance, you see a fig tree.

Its branches are bare, its leaves withered. It has struggled for years, unable to bear fruit. A gardener still kneels beside it, tending it, gently working the soil.

Hear the words from Luke’s Gospel:

“Leave it alone for one more year, and I’ll dig around it and fertilize it. If it bears fruit next year, fine! If not, then cut it down.” (Luke 13:8-9)

The gardener does not give up. He tends the tree, nourishes it with care. And now, you see the same life-giving water flowing from where you kneel, toward the roots of the fig tree. The dry earth drinks it in, and slowly, you notice signs of life—tiny buds, hints of green.

It is the water of grace and mercy. The water that revives all that is barren and lifeless.

The words of Psalm 63 return to you:

“My soul will be satisfied …

with joyful lips [I] will praise you.

For you have been my help,

and in the shadow of your wings, I sing for joy.”

The same God who invites you to drink, who nourishes your soul, is at work in your life, restoring what is weary, reviving what is fruitless.

“For my thoughts are not your thoughts,

neither are your ways my ways,” declares the Lord.

Let these words settle in your heart.

my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways

God’s ways are higher, God’s plans greater, God’s love deeper than you can imagine. And there is never a time where God abandons and cuts down.

The Living Water is always running after you and the invitation to come and drink is everlasting.

“Come, all you who are thirsty, come to the waters…”

Amen.

Guided Meditation for Lent II

Genesis 15:1–12,17–18            Psalm 27     Philippians 3:17–4:1      Luke 13:31-35

The second Sunday in Lent. Our second guided meditation.

Let’s pause and be still. Close your eyes.

God is spirit. Spirit is breath.

Breathe in deeply. Breathe in God.

Breathe out all that is not God.

Hear these words from Luke’s gospel, again…

Some Pharisees came and said to Jesus, ‘Get away from here, for Herod wants to kill you.’  And Jesus said, ‘Go and tell that fox for me, “Listen, I am casting out demons and performing cures today and tomorrow, and on the third day I finish my work. 

Imagine yourself in that crowd,

You hear the Pharisees warn Jesus about Herod’s threats.

You can feel the tension, the urgency in their voices.

But Jesus is not afraid. He responds with certainty; speaking of three days —a pattern that echoes the mystery of our faith.

The first two days are filled with struggle, healing, and confronting evil.

But the third day is different. On the third day I finish my work, he says.

The day of fulfilment. The day of resurrection.

Where do you feel stuck in the first two days?

Where do you see suffering, struggle, even death?

Even in the darkest days, resurrection is coming.

Breathe in deeply, breathe in Christ’s courage to fill you.

Breathe out fear into God’s hands.

Now, listen, as He turns toward Jerusalem.

His tone changes. No longer resolute…full of sorrow:

“Jerusalem, Jerusalem. How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!”

Picture Jesus looking out over the city.

His arms are open, His voice breaking with grief.

He longs to gather His people, to shelter them, to bring peace.

But they are not willing. His heart aches.

Jerusalem Jerusalem.

We can’t hear those words without imagining the same Christ looking over the Holy Land today—upon Gaza, Israel, upon all who suffer in this broken and bloodstained land.

Listen to those words; the same sorrow fills His voice:

“How often have I desired to gather your children together… and you were not willing!”

Feel the weight of His lament. The innocent who suffer. The homes reduced to rubble. The children crying out in fear. The hatred that divides. The greed for land and power. The foxes are in the hen house.

What do you feel?

What do you feel?

Can you feel anything?

Hold these emotions – and lack of them – before God.

Do not rush to explain. It is what it is. Let it be.

Notice the presence of Jesus.

Breathe in deeply, breathe in Christ’s lament and allow it to fill you.

Breathe out grief and anxiety and anger.

Jesus’ lament is not only for Jerusalem, or even the war-torn lands of today.

It is for all of us.

For every place where love is rejected.

For every time we refuse His shelter, choosing instead *whatever it might be*.

The Christ still longs to gather; still stands with open arms; still loves relentlessly.

In your mind, heart and soul will you pause. Stop. Allow yourself to be gathered?

What would it be like to enfolded in the care of the protective, divine mama hen? Winged feathers stretched taut, a shield and barrier between all that could harm, and her chicks, ready, alert, prepared to do anything for them.

What would it mean for the world to be willing?

For the world to turn from the cycle of violence and step toward peace?

Can you hold this torn, broken, divided world and church and people before Jesus?

Breathe in deeply, Breathe in peace.

Breathe out conflict and greed into the wounded hands of the Prince of Peace.

Take a deep breath. Hold Gaza, Israel, and all suffering places in your heart.

Imagine Jesus; arms open, longing to gather His children.

You were not willing, he says.

Imagine a world willing. A church willing. Imagine yourself willing.

Are you?

“Jesus Christ.  Gather Your children under Your wings, melt our hearts and show us how to be willing. May we see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. And when all seems lost, remind us of the third day—the day of resurrection, when all things are gathered up and transformed in to life. Amen.”

A guided meditation on the temptation of Christ

Deuteronomy 26:1–11             Psalm 91:1–2,9–16         Romans 10:4–13 Luke 4:1–15

During the next 40 days we will hear some very familiar passages from scripture. Many of them accompany us each year and, if you have been in church all your life they will be very familiar to you. To awaken our senses to them, and encounter them in a different way, we are going to use this time to inhabit these gospel texts in guided meditations, recognising that scripture is to be explored, lived in and through, seen from the inside out and not simply studied.

Sit back, close your eyes, and breathe deeply. Inhale, filling your lungs and stomach completely, and exhale slowly. Allow yourself to settle into a quiet place of stillness. Let your mind become open and receptive, as we begin this new journey together, with Jesus, straight from the waters of baptism, out into the wilderness.

You are Jesus.
Imagine the wilderness around you.

The earth is dry, cracked beneath your feet.

Your body is weak after forty days of fasting. Hunger gnaws at you.

The tempter approaches. “If you are the Son of God, turn these stones into bread.” You feel the deep yearning for relief, but you know better. You are here for a purpose.

You stand firm, recalling the assurance of your ancestors from Deuteronomy: “we cried to the Lord. He heard our voice and saw our affliction, toil, and oppression.”

This is your God. You know you must stand firm.
Pause.
Cry out to God, certain you are always heard, known and loved.

In that strength, respond to the tempter; “One doesn’t live on bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of God.”

You know God’s Word sustains you more than physical food.

Reject the temptation to fill your emptiness with anything other than Truth.

Reflect:
What areas of emptiness are you trying to fill with temporary fixes?
What is God calling you to trust Him with, instead of controlling it yourself?

In your mind and heart, hand it to God…

You are the Tempter.
Feel the coldness of the moment.

You see Jesus, worn and vulnerable, yet resolute.

You offer Him a challenge; “If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down from here. For it is written: ‘He will command His angels to guard you…’”

You seek to manipulate, twist Scriptures to your own advantage, make God prove Himself. But Jesus stands firm and responds: “It is said, ‘Do not put the Lord your God to the test.’”  His trust in God is unshakable.

Pause and reflect:
Where have you been demanding signs, testing God to prove His faithfulness?
What would it be like to trust completely?
Can you rest in the promise from the psalmist that “those who dwell in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty”?

You are the World.
You present an image—power, success, control, all within reach.

You offer Jesus kingdoms, glory, and fame. “All this can be yours, if you worship me.”

The allure of quick success, without sacrifice, is right there. You ask for loyalty, for Jesus to turn away from His mission and allegiance to God. But Jesus rejects you firmly: “Away from me, Satan! For it is written, ‘Worship the Lord your God, and serve Him only.’” (Luke 4:8)

Feel the pull of that temptation.
The world offers power, and glory in exchange for your soul.

Where is the world asking for your devotion in exchange for momentary satisfaction?

Pause:
What does it look like to reject the world’s promises of power, wealth, or comfort?

How can you choose to worship God alone and serve Him faithfully?

You are the Wilderness.
Sense the barren landscape beneath and before you, the dry wind in your face.

You are not a place of comfort but a place of transformation. It’s here that Jesus faces the rawest parts of Himself—His hunger, temptations, humanity. Yet it’s here, in the wilderness, that He grows in preparation for His mission.

Pause:
What is your wilderness?
What difficult or barren places are you facing?

Remember, the wilderness is not a place of defeat—it’s a place where strength is forged, growth happens, and God meets you in your deepest needs.

Take a moment to reflect on each of these aspects—

You are Jesus,

You are the Tempter,

You are the World,

You are the Wilderness.

Where do you see yourself most clearly?

Which elicits the biggest response in you?

What is God inviting you to do, to become, to trust?

Take a deep breath in, and exhale slowly.

Let the wisdom of the wilderness sink in.

When you’re ready, gently open your eyes.

Carry with you the clarity to face the temptations, the power to resist, and the trust to walk through your own wilderness with God. Amen.

Ash Wednesday 2025

Isaiah 58:1-12       Psalm 51:1-17       2 Cor 5:20b-6:10             Matt 6:1-6,16-21

So much that is beautiful has been written about Ash Wednesday and I am grateful for the wisdom and riches from the prophet Isaiah, the psalmist, Rachel Held-Evans, Jan Richardson, Nadia Bolz-Weber, Anna Woofenden and Sara Miles who have written the words I am about to share. So, for the next few minutes, I invite you to close down your eyes, allow these words to seep into your soul, like oily ash, and remember you are dust.

[RHE]

We are made of stardust, the scientists say—the iron in our blood, the calcium in our bones, and the chlorine in our skin forged in the furnaces of ancient stars whose explosions scattered the elements across the galaxy. From the ashes grew new stars, and around one of them, a …cluster of dust coalesced to form the earth, and life emerged from the detritus of eight billion-year-old deaths.

[And then…] Once a year, on a Wednesday, we mix ashes with oil. We confess…  We tell the truth. Then we smear the ashes on our foreheads and acknowledge the single reality upon which every … believer and atheist, scientist and mystic can agree: “Remember you are dust and to dust you will return.” It’s the only thing we know for sure: we will die.

Remember you are dust…

Is not this the fast I choose: to loose the bonds of injustice and let the oppressed go free…? Is it not to share your bread with the hungry, and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked, to cover them, and not to hide yourself from your own kin?  Then your light shall break forth like the dawn, and your healing shall spring up quickly;… Then you shall call, and the Lord …will say, Here I am

Remember you are dust …

[NBW:]

If our lives were a long piece of fabric with our baptism on one end and our funeral on another, … then Ash Wednesday is a time when that fabric is pinched in the middle and the ends are held up so that our baptism in the past and our funeral in the future meet. The water and words from our baptism plus the earth and words from our funerals have come from the past and future to meet us in the present. And in that meeting we are reminded of the promises of God: That we are God’s, that there is no sin, no darkness, and no grave that God will not come to find us in and love us back to life. The ashes we receive on our foreheads are a reminder that we are dust. But they are also a reminder that we are loved and forgiven by the One who made us.”

Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return…

Have mercy on me, O God, according to your steadfast love; …
Create in me a clean heart, O God,
   and put a new and right spirit within me.
The sacrifice acceptable to God is a broken spirit;
   a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.

Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return …

[Sara Miles]

[On Ash Wednesday, the Church] asks you to face the truth about yourself—that you are mortal, broken, and in need of love. It offers the reality of human failure, but also the grace that meets us there. The ashes mark us as dust, but also as beloved dust—dust that God has touched and loved, and will one day raise up. The cross we receive on our foreheads is not only a reminder of our mortality, but also a mark of belonging to a God who doesn’t leave us in the ashes.”

Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return, turn away from sin…

[Anna]

Each time I pressed the slightly oily ash onto someone’s forehead, I felt—even if just for that moment—a dissolving of the things that separated us from each other.

Ash Wednesday is the connecting thread that takes us from the hopeful waiting of Advent to the new birth of Christmas, walks us through Epiphany and into the depths of Lent, then goes with us all the way to the death on the cross, and finally, to the new life of resurrection.

Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return, turn away from sin…

[Blessing the Dust For Ash Wednesday, by Jan Richardson]

All those days

you felt like dust,

like dirt,

as if all you had to do

was turn your face

toward the wind

and be scattered

to the four corners

or swept away

by the smallest breath

as insubstantial—

did you not know

what the Holy One

can do with dust?

This is the day

we freely say

we are scorched.

This is the hour

we are marked

by what has made it

through the burning.

This is the moment

we ask for the blessing

that lives within

the ancient ashes,

that makes its home

inside the soil of

this sacred earth.

So let us be marked

not for sorrow.

And let us be marked

not for shame.

Let us be marked

not for false humility

or for thinking

we are less

than we are

but for claiming

what God can do

within the dust,

within the dirt,

within the stuff

of which the world

is made

and the stars that blaze

in our bones

and the galaxies that spiral

inside the smudge

we bear.

Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return, turn away from sin and be faithful to Christ, Amen.

The gospel according to Corrie ten Boom

Genesis 45:3-11,15         Ps 37:1-11,40-41 1 Cor 15:35-50      Luke 6:27-38

This morning’s gospel reading follows directly on from last week’s, where we heard that difficult passage of the blesseds and the woes. And today’s is not more palatable, is it? Moments before these words, Jesus’ first disciples were fishing or collecting taxes but after accepting the invitation to follow this messiah, they are discovering what is expected of them. And Jesus pulls no punches…

Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, 

28 bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you. 

30 Give to everyone who begs;

37 ‘Do not judge, and you will not be judged;

do not condemn, and you will not be condemned.

Forgive, and you will be forgiven…

Jesus is very clear with how his disciples must behave – loving, doing good, blessing not cursing, giving not taking, not judging, forgiving. And not just with those you like but to those you find most difficult and those who hate you.

Our Old Testament reading also spoke about Joseph’s forgiveness of his brothers who’d beaten him, sold him into slavery and told his dad he was dead. Centuries and centuries before Jesus’ command he had fulfilled it in his treatment of those who had made themselves his enemy.

And as I thought about Joseph and his brothers, so I was reminded of another sibling story that reflects the power and importance of outrageous forgiveness so well; the story of Corrie ten Boom. It is best heard in her own words, so allow me read them to you…

It was in a church in Munich that I saw him, a heavyset man in a gray overcoat…  It was 1947 and I had come from Holland to defeated Germany with the message that God forgives.

[It was at the end of the talk] when I saw him, working his way forward against the others. One moment I saw the overcoat and the brown hat; the next, a blue uniform and visored cap with its skull and crossbones.

It came back with a rush: the huge room with its harsh lights, the pathetic pile of dresses and shoes in the centre of the floor, the shame of walking naked past this man. I could see my sister’s frail form ahead of me, ribs sharp beneath the parchment skin. Betsie, how thin you were!

Betsie and I had been arrested for concealing Jews in our home during the Nazi occupation of Holland; this man had been a guard at the concentration camp where we were sent.

Now he was in front of me, hand thrust out: “A fine message, fräulein! How good it is to know that all our sins are [forgiven]!”

And I, who had spoken so glibly of forgiveness, fumbled in my pocketbook rather than take that hand. He would not remember me, of course– But I remembered him … It was the first time since my release that I had been face to face with one of my captors and my blood seemed to freeze.

“You mentioned Ravensbrück in your talk,” he was saying. “I was a guard there.”

No, he did not remember me.

“But since that time,” he went on, “I have become a Christian. I know God has forgiven me for the cruel things I did there, but I would like to hear it from your lips as well”–again the hand came out–“will you forgive me?”

And I stood there–I whose sins had every day to be forgiven–and could not.

Betsie had died in that place–could he erase her terrible death simply by asking?

It could not have been many seconds that he stood there, hand held out, but to me it seemed hours as I wrestled with the most difficult thing I had ever had to do.

For I had to do it–I knew that…

“Jesus, help me!” I prayed silently. “I can lift my hand. I can do that much. You supply the feeling.” And so woodenly, mechanically, I thrust my hand into the one stretched out to me. And as I did, an incredible thing took place. The current started in my shoulder, raced down my arm, sprang into our joined hands. And then this healing warmth seemed to flood my whole being, bringing tears to my eyes.

“I forgive you, brother!” I cried. “With all my heart!”

For a long moment we grasped each other’s hands, the former guard and the former prisoner. I had never known God’s love so intensely as I did then.

Love your enemies, Jesus says, do good to those who hate you, 

28 bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you…

Forgive and you will be forgiven

What Corrie discovered, and countless Jesus followers before and since, is that Jesus doesn’t ask us to forgive because it is merely kind, but because it brings freedom – it is the best thing for the one who forgives – it frees us from hatred and resentment and it frees the one we forgive from being carried around on our backs all the time. It releases the one who was our enemy from the blackest part of our heart and allows the light to shine in there.

Corrie ten boom goes on to write ‘to forgive is to set a prisoner free and discover the prisoner was you’.

Jesus calls those first disciples, and us, to such a high account because it is best for us. He calls us this way out of an all-encompassing, eternal act of love; because loving others is good for us, because repaying hatred with goodness and kindness is counter cultural and speaks of the Kingdom we are seeking to build. Jesus commands these things because they are good for everyone; for the one who is begging and for the one who gives.

Jesus’ design for his followers is life in abundance, not misery.

Freedom, not the captivity of bitterness and unforgiveness.

And it is a life’s work, a lifelong quest.

Each week, in our confession, we pray:

‘[W]e confess before You

those places in our hearts

where we have refused you entrance:

people we have refused to love;…

And we ask God to ‘Show us new ways to live.’

In this passage Jesus answers that prayer, very clearly; you want to see a new way to live? Then do this; forgive, love, pray, give, release and free. And do that for those who hate you most. Do that first. Because I love you, Jesus says.

Might we try it? Might we follow in that way, for our own good and for the good of everyone around us, amen. 

The beatitudes…but not as we know it

Jeremiah 17:5-10            Psalm 1        1 Corinthians 15:12-20             Luke 6:17-26

Parenting is wild, isn’t it?

One minute I’m happily singing nursery rhymes, and the next I realise what messages I am imparting to this child! The first shock was 3 blind mice…they all run after the farmer’s wife who cuts off their tails with her carving knife… and the other day we were just going to take this little piggy off to market before we realised he wasn’t going shopping but was being sold for bacon. Entirely not vegan. I thought I knew these old classics, but sometimes we hear them as if for the first time. And what happened with the gospel reading this week.

We know the beatitudes, right?  In our three-year cycle of gospel readings, it is one of the passages that crops up every year, so we hear it three times as often as other bits. Except this morning’s passage feels familiar, but different. There is no mountain – it is preached from the plain. There are only 4 ‘blessed are you…’ statements, instead of the 8 we find in Matthew, and Luke’s account involves woes. Four of them.

Matthew’s account is more future-oriented, with a heavenly theme (so Jesus speaks of those who are poor in spirit, or hunger and thirst for righteousness), whereas Luke’s Jesus considers the upside Kingdom of God as a reality on earth, here and now; blessed are you who are poor, blessed are you who are hungry now, blessed are you who weep now, blessed are you who are hated, excluded, reviled.

And the woes align; blessed are the poor; woe to you who are rich,

Blessed are the hungry; woe to you who are full,

Blessed are those who mourn; woe to you who are laughing,

Blessed are the hated; woe to you when all speak well of you.

This juxtaposition underlines the total reversal of the kingdom of God; that the things the world holds dear don’t carry the same weight; that worldly powers will be rendered powerless and social justice will be the foundations on which all else is built.

For Luke, the blessings are for those who suffer in their everyday lives, and the Kingdom of God brings justice by lifting them up. It’s the Magnificat again, with a slightly different face. Or like he’s saying there’s enough and some to share; blessed are you when you receive enough of the world’s resources, and woe to you if you keep them to yourself at the expense of others.

Luke’s passage is so different from Matthew’s account it is likely it was preached on a different occasion. I guess it shouldn’t surprise us that Jesus would preach these fundamental truths more than once, so foundational are they to the world he came to create and co-build.

But the creeping truth is; Matthew’s sermon on the mount is more palatable. Everyone is promised blessings and there are no woes. Luke’s account is much harder to hear, unless you are counted among the marginalised. It is good news for the poor, food for the hungry, comfort for the sad, kindness towards the hated. Luke’s Jesus is very much like that; uncomfortable, challenging, direct, erring on the side of those on the outside.

And who is Luke’s gospel addressed to?

At the start of chapter 1, the writer explains that lots of people have recorded what Jesus did so they could pass it on to others. He says, ‘I too decided to write a well-ordered account for you, most excellent Theophilius (so you have a firm grasp on what you have been instructed)’.

Most excellent Theophilus – by its placing in the canon of scripture, it is intended for a much broader audience, of course, but – most excellent Theophilus must have been someone of good social standing. He is thought to be a Gentile, maybe a Roman soldier. The name itself means Theo – God, philo – lover; one who loves God, so perhaps this represents all who believe or commit to following the divine. And that includes us.

Luke writes to the one who is of good standing in society to make clear this counts for nothing in the kingdom of God, except that they, and we, have more to give, more to share, more to die to, that others might live. And blessed are you if you take your privilege, wealth and power and use it to care for those in need.

Reading these words could have been difficult for Theophilus, they certainly should be difficult for us, right? These beatitudes demonstrate a total reversal of fortunes – the poor, hungry and suffering are first and blessed. And the warnings, the woes, come for the rich and powerful; for us.

I remember when I first arrived, I told you every preacher only has one sermon. I remember several of you remarking on that, not sure, or not having thought of it before. I still think it is true and it is certainly true for Luke.

Throughout his writings he challenges Theophilus and all the Theo-philes that come after him – to receive the radical teaching of Jesus, to rethink their/our understanding of the world and to show favour for those on the edges. His message is not only to elevate those who are oppressed but is an invitation to those higher in society to consider changing, so they can align themselves with the values of God’s Kingdom; values of humility, compassion and justice, where hunger and poverty has no place, where nobody suffers alone, and the currency is kindness.

When we hear the Beatitudes, we should shuffle in our seats because we are more likely to find ourselves in the woes than the blessed. And, as we shuffle uncomfortably, we, once again, have a choice to make. We can understand that God’s Kingdom operates differently. We can accept that we are trying to align ourselves with this Kingdom. And we can act accordingly.

It is uncomfortable. It is challenging. It is hard to hear. But it is actually really simple; be the blessing. Feed the hungry, share your wealth, sit with the grieving, don’t join in with the negativity and slandering but speak kindness and hope.

Sometimes we need to hear things as if for the first time.

Sometimes it is easier to think of ourselves as blessed and ignore the woes.

We are blessed. We really are. And we are blessed to be a blessing to those doing it the toughest.

Jesus is clear; woe to us if we don’t. Amen.

Miraculous Catch of Fish

Isaiah 6:1-8            Psalm 138               1 Corinthians 15:1-11    Luke 5:1-11

Many years ago, when I was just beginning to wonder if the priesthood might be the path I was being invited to walk, I remember feeling such awe and enormity – the tiniest glimpse into those words from that fabulous Isaiah reading – that the Holy, Holy, Holy One, might be calling me, and did I dare say, ‘here am I, send me’. And I remember talking to a friend who was at the start of his vocations process and when I voiced this sense of awe he said to me, ‘getting ordained just seems to make sense of my experiences this far’.

Make sense?!

I’d never even considered that sense would come into this in any way. Sense was for logic and reason and didn’t enter into the realms of eternity. Mine was a much more thresholds shaking… burning coals sort of encounter. None of it made sense.

So, it is interesting to me that both of us got ordained. It is interesting to me that God called the little girl who started to dance, aged two, to a church with dancing each week. And it is interesting to me to see these two passages alongside each other – this reading from Isaiah and the story from Luke. It makes it possible that sometimes God works in the ordinary – in the realm of things that just make sense – and other times is so other, so extraordinary, it is almost ludicrous.

Luke’s account, of Jesus calling the first disciples in this way, is unique. Mark and Matthew both speak about Jesus walking along the waterside and calling those fishermen to ‘follow me’, but only Luke includes this miraculous catch of fish. And when we hear a story of Simon and an abundance of fish and a declaration of ‘Lord’ and his fear of being a sinful man, we might also recall John’s post resurrection account of the barbecue breakfast, yes? These transformational, redemptive, fishing stories bookend Christ’s earthly ministry; beginning and ending at the work site, the place that had formed Simon since a child, and his family before him. It kind of makes sense to call a fisherman while he was fishing.

Jesus sees two boats. The fishermen are deflated, exhausted, they fished all night and caught nothing so they give up. Jesus borrows their boat, gets Simon to row out a little way and teaches the crowd from there. I wonder what he said. Whatever it was, it isn’t the thing of note, and it is only when he has finished preaching that our story really begins.

It is not in the ordinary act of teaching and preaching, but in the extraordinary act of fishing in silent still waters. Even though it made no sense to do so, Simon says ‘if you say so, I will’. And they caught so many fish their nets were beginning to break and their friends came to help and then their boats began to sink, so swamped were they with fish, and then, then Simon Peter sees and falls to the ground and says ‘go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man’. Right there, in the ordinary work of fishing, something extraordinary happens and it changes things.

It changes Simon (yet to become Peter). He sees the extraordinary and feels unworthy. Right there, in the middle of that which is most familiar to him, most ordinary, comes something inexplicable, unexpected. He had the most boring of nights, not even so much as a nibble, and then is swamped. No wonder he is filled with fear – he has seen something against the usual order of things. He knows these waters, he knows fishing and this carpenter – the one who is supposed to know about the wood of his boat, not the fish of the water – he has really done something.

As in our Isaiah reading, Simon has heard the voice of the Lord asking him to go and he has responded, he has gone, he has fished, and the response is overwhelming.

Then Jesus said to Simon, ‘do not be afraid; from now on you will be catching people’.

Yesterday I read that the Greek word for catching, used here, is zogron; it is rare in the New Testament and has a very specific meaning – it means to catch alive. The fish Simon and his friends have caught will soon be dead, but Jesus is inviting them to catch people alive – and more than that, to catch people so that they might live, and really live, fully and forever. What an invitation – catch fish that will surely die or catch people who will truly live. Even though they just landed the catch of their lives, is there any wonder they immediately leave everything and follow Him?

The fisherfolk Jesus met at the water’s edge were boringly ordinary. There was nothing outstanding about them. They were doing what they did every night and day and the Christ met them there, walked right into their mundane life and invited them to change direction, take their existing skills and experience and apply it to things with deeper, greater, world changing significance.

Simon knows he is really nothing much. What on earth can he contribute? But Jesus calls him, as he is, tells him not to be afraid and to come now. And we see that all the way through the pages of scripture – God is always calling the ill-equipped and unprepared; Moses, Gideon, Jeremiah, King David, Mary, our own St Paul. And it doesn’t stop there. Down through history, ever since, we have seen the same – Joan of Arc, Mother Teresa, Martin Luther King Jr, Oscar Romero, Ghandi, Schindler, the list is endless. And it includes me and it includes you.

God doesn’t wait for God’s people to be ready, for it to make sense, and yet there are times we are ready, there are times it does make sense. Simon was ready with his boat and his nets. He might not yet be the greatest public speaker or healer or the bravest or whatever it is, but it made sense that fishermen might now fish for people.

So, whether we are ready and prepared, whether the call makes sense or is nonsense, when God calls, when God asks ‘whom shall I send?’, and when we meet the Christ, and hear the call to follow we have the same choice as those at the water’s edge with broken boats. Will we choose to leave our fear, preconceptions, reasoning, excuses behind? Will we add our voice to those in the pages of scripture and those echoing through the ages and say yes? Again. Over and over? Will we leave everything and follow.

Here I am, send me. Amen.

See the light – be the light

Jeremiah 1:4-10                  Psalm 71:1-6 1          Corinthians 13:1-13            Luke 2:22-40

On January 20, 2021, Amanda Gorman stepped out onto the world’s stage and became the youngest poet to ever read at a U.S. presidential inauguration at just 22 years of age. This prophet-poet stole the show as she recited her original work, ‘The Hill we Climb’. In her closing words she memorably said, ‘For there is always light, if only we’re brave enough to see it. If only we’re brave enough to be it.’

Some 2000 years before that there was a man in Jerusalem whose name was Simeon; this man was righteous and devout, looking forward to the consolation of Israel and the Holy Spirit rested on him. As he came into the temple that day and saw the child Jesus – eight days old. He took him in his arms and praised God, saying ‘My eyes have seen your salvation which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation…and for glory’. And the people were amazed.

And somewhere in between the two, or since, those of us who are baptised Christians have been entrusted with the responsibility to go from those waters and shine as a light in the world to the glory of God the Father.

There is always Light. A light for revelation. Shine as a light in the world.

We are children of the Light and our call, our duty and our joy, is to shine that light into the darkest corners of this world to illumine where Christ already is, to show the way of Love, to dispel the dark, to create vision, to bring healing and peace.

So I wonder, where have you seen the light?

And where have you been the light in this last week?

This week I sat with four different families who have been bereaved in the last few days. In their despair and grief, in all their questioning and in trying to make sense and make plans, I had these verses in my mind. I knew that our role in these situations is to see the light – the light of the memories of their loved ones, the stories of the ways they had made life better – and to be the light, to bring comfort and hope.

And while I was with a British family, whose loved one had died unexpectedly back in the UK, we lit candles. I wasn’t sure why I had laid out enough candles for each of the four family members to light until I heard myself say, ‘we light these candles as a reminder that even in the darkest moments we are not alone and Jesus, who is the Light of the World, is with us’.

On Tuesday I went to a home that has been gifted to the Cana Charity, as a refuge for the most vulnerable women in their care. As the owner moved out, she handed me a bag full of candles. She told me that she knew her home had never been for her own use, even when she bought it 5 years ago. She said she always knew God had plans that it would be a refuge and now those plans were coming to pass. And she handed me those candles as a way of passing on the light – it wasn’t hers to burn there anymore – she had done her bit, laid the foundations, listened to God’s prompting – and now she was handing it over that it might be light for others. And it will be.

On Friday I went to Josh Wilson’s office to ask him to lobby parliament for an increase in the global aid budget from 0.68% to a slightly more generous 1%, to care for the world’s poorest, and our nearest neighbours. He was cautious, not optimistic, but as we talked, he said, ‘we have the moral responsibility to care for those most in need and we can afford it. We must afford it’ he said.

He wanted Australia to be the light for the darkest, poorest corners, for the 1 in 5 children living in conflict zones and the 700 million people living in extreme poverty. He sees his role in politics as being able to make that change and he wants to see it happen.

Amanda Gorman says, ‘there is always light, if only we’re brave enough to see it. If only we’re brave enough to be it’. Simeon spotted it there in the temple in the face of that baby – the one we tentatively try to follow, and fail, and try again. A light for all people and a light to reflect the glory of God. And we are charged with being that light by the means of our baptism and the promises made over us, or by us, there.

Being brave enough to be it sounds daunting. Sometimes it feels daunting. But it isn’t. it’s really not. Because the same light that was in the temple that day is in this temple here today and is in the temple of our hearts. That light, of course, is the Christ – we are simply the vessels of it – and that light cannot and will not ever be extinguished. Sometimes we might throw that light into shade, cover it over with our own actions or inactions, or threaten to snuff it out entirely.

And sometimes this world seems dark. Right now, it feels like there are forces at work that are disgustingly dark, frightening even; mass deportation, drilling and fracking, war, hideously fragile ceasefire arrangements, an end to international aid, swathes of funding cuts to health and housing, the list goes on – and not all overseas either.  Spotting the light might feel difficult but doing so, revealing it, focussing on it, celebrating the light is miraculously defiant, counter cultural, an act of rebellion. Seeing the light and being the light is more important now than ever.

There is always light, if only we’re brave enough to see it.

If only we’re brave enough to be it.

So, let me end with some questions for you to ponder in the stillness…

Where have you seen the light of Christ shining most brightly?

Where might you be brave enough to be the light?

What might you need to remove or lay down to shine more brightly?

Amen.

The Jesus Manifesto

Nehemiah 8:1-3,5-6,8-10         Psalm 19      1 Cor 12:12-31      Luke 4:14-21

In today’s world it seems impossible there would be anyone who might’ve escaped the news of the inauguration of the 47th president of the USA this week. News feeds, TV, radio shows, social media and conversations over the dinner table have been full of it so it seems remiss to not make mention of it this morning, particularly with this gospel reading, where we hear something like Jesus’ own inaugural speech. And some people might find the mix of politics and religion unpalatable, but this week we have heard the prophetic voice of Bishop Mariann Budde who set an example of the importance of speaking Truth to power, and inspired many of us to commit to speaking up.

So our gospel passage takes us to the synagogue in Galilee where Jesus stands up to read, and the scroll of the prophet Isaiah was handed to him and he read the following words:

The spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free and to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favour.

And then he sat down and said, today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing. Today, we are on the edge of this all coming true. Today is the start of a new era.

Good news to the poor.            Release to the captives.            Healing for the blind

Freedom for the oppressed.                           The favour of the Lord.

That’s quite a manifesto. It echoes the words of his mama Mary, when she sang out the Magnificat at his conception. Justice and healing and wholeness, freedom, hope and favour; those are the characteristics of the Kingdom Jesus is building, the one he is inviting everyone to become a part of.

Trump spoke of a new era too; one where power is restored to the most powerful and money is king. And while Jesus speaks of profound change in the spiritual realms, the president promises nationalistic change, political change, economic change – and that change doesn’t favour the poor.

He mentions them, and the imprisoned too. But whereas Jesus speaks of good news and release, of freedom and favour, this week’s news was filled with blame and retribution, a locking up of the world’s most vulnerable and a release of those with privilege.

The focus of these two inaugural speeches are diametrically opposed.

Jesus speaks of empowering the poor, the prisoners, the blind, and the oppressed; to lift up those on the margins of society. The Spirit of the Lord is on him to bring healing and justice to those who have been excluded. Whereas Trump’s rhetoric focuses on restoring power through dominance and strength, especially through economic growth and military power. He favours the everyday guy and encourages him or her (no other pronouns, of course) to be suspicious of people of colour or those newly arrived; to further marginalise the marginalised. His reign is through fearmongering and exclusion whereas Jesus preaches love and absolute inclusion.

Jesus speaks of the dawning of a new era, the start of something new, the fulfilment of what has been long promised. Always moving closer to the completeness of the Kingdom of God. Trump looks backwards – looking to recover that which is lost and doing so by force.

And the most direct opposite; Jesus’ message is about turning upside down the hierarchies of power, so the poor are lifted up, the homeless are housed, the blind can see, the rich are sent away empty. The other is about giving power to the most powerful. Not the way of the gospel at all.

Jesus speaks of the anointing of the Spirit – the Spirit of the Lord is upon me. A direct contrast to the worldly power, found in money and status and with a gun in hand. And Jesus speaks on the small stage of the synagogue, rather than the world’s stage.

Everything about these two inaugural addresses is opposite.

Humility versus power

Inclusion versus exclusion

Release versus imprisonment

Freedom versus fear

Love versus hate

And we stand in a world where we have a choice to make about whether we will align ourselves with the policies of the world, or the policies of the kingdom of God. And as those who call ourselves followers of Jesus we have signed up for his manifesto and not for that of the world, and that is a challenge. It’s not the simple or easy way. In a few verses time we hear how some of Jesus’ listeners hated his message so much they wanted to kill him. This isn’t the path of least resistance and saying we will choose to walk in the ways of light and truth each time is not a forgone conclusion.

We, as citizens of the 21st century in the richest parts of world have power; the odds are stacked in our favour and in order for Jesus’ manifesto to be fulfilled today, we must give so that others might have.

Good news to the poor is money in the hand, medical bills paid, food on tables, decent wages, debt cancelled.

Release to the captives is an overhaul of our judicial system and penal reform. It is fair immigration policies and an end to detention. It is well-resourced mental health care and treatment for addiction.

Letting the oppressed go free is the dismantling of systems that oppress and creating support systems to manage freedom safely.

Proclaiming the year of the Lord’s favour is an end to guilt-based abusive spirituality, a radical acceptance for all, a gospel of love not judgment.

This is what the Spirit of the Lord is anointing us to do and when we are the ones, as a nation, as a wealthy people, who are getting in the way of this being fulfilled, it is our job to get out of the way, to make change and advocate for those who are most in need, like Bishop Budde did in her address to Trump. In addressing him I think she addressed us all and I will close with a line or two from her…

“Let me make one final plea… I ask you to have mercy… [and] May God grant us the strength and courage to honour the dignity of every human being, to speak the truth to one another in love and walk humbly with each other and our God for the good of all people. Good of all people in this nation and the world. Amen”

Water into wine…

Isaiah 62:1-5         Psalm 36:5-10       1 Corinthians 12:1-11    John 2:1-11

When a stranger first spots my collar, there is a range of familiar responses. I’m amazed how often I am asked if *this* is real, or if I am on my way to a fancy dress party (if there is a fancy dress party at lunchtime on some random Wednesday and I’m invited, I will go full Mother Superior and won’t just turn up in a dog collar). I also get asked ‘are you religious then?’, and the old ‘I didn’t know women could be priests’, and somewhere in the top ten of things I’m asked is whether I can turn water into wine. Honestly. So, this gospel passage feels more familiar than many.

I love this story. I love the imagery it stirs up; the wedding, Jesus, his mama and disciples, the wine, water jars, and then the first of Jesus’ great signs; the overflowing abundant outpouring of the very best wine, not for any lasting purpose, but simply for pure joy. I love that Jesus’ first sign reveals his glory in this way.

And I love that Jesus didn’t change water into wine because he was a lover of wine, but because he is a lover of people; He cared about the bride and groom; he cared about how they would feel if they became *that* couple – the poor ones – the embarrassed ones – the ones who couldn’t provide for others.

And what demonstrates the abundance of the God we follow more than this; Jesus doesn’t just make a few bottles, until they can buy some more. He makes 180 gallons of wine – around 900 bottles – enough and some to share – enough for this party, and the next – enough to remember forever that lavish gift from the carpenter Jesus (could this be the God-man?). 

And here’s what I love the most, the most Jesusy thing about it all.   

We’re on day 3 of a 5 day wedding festival; everyone is drinking; Jesus could’ve served something mediocre, but he serves up the equivalent of the best champagne in the land.  And that is what God is like – abundant, extravagant, always outdoing us with grace and blessings.  We come grovelling, daring to hope for a tiny sip of vaguely fermented grape juice and Jesus pours out bottles of champagne.  Always waiting to give us more than we can ever ask or imagine.

Jesus’ actions changed a wedding. It turned stone jars of water into bottles of the finest wine. And it speaks of so much more; an audacious claim from our Lord, that, by doing whatever Jesus tells us, we can be transformed too. Just as Jesus can change water into wine, so He can change us from our broken humanity, into people of holiness, wholeness and beauty.  And just as Jesus can change us, so He and we, together, can change the world.

And on this Aboriginal Sunday, we might dare to believe we could partner with Jesus to heal the wounds of history, to rebuild the land and relationships that greed and domination and fear has damaged and destroyed; that the water of this land might be changed to the abundance of the best wine, because that is the whisper of the promise we hear from Christ in this passage.

And that is the real miracle: not that Jesus changed water into wine, but that Jesus can change us, our past, present and future, from broken to whole, from fearful to bold, from hurt to healed, from alone to belonging, and that this happens simply by doing whatever he tells you; handing it all over to Jesus and allowing Him to abundantly do whatever He chooses.

This message of water and wine brings me, every time, back to the altar and the mass. As the priest lays up the table for our meal you might hear us mumble private prayers to God. As the chalice is filled with wine and then dashed with water, so I pray, ‘through the mystery of this water and wine, may we share in the divinity of Christ who humbled himself to share in our humanity’.

May we share in the divinity, just as, or because, Christ shared in our humanity.

Water; the symbol of humanity.

Wine; the symbol of divinity, Godliness.

So in the bringing of the water jars to Jesus we discover we can bring all our humanness – our best and worst bits – and trust Jesus to take them and change them into pure holiness. And all of that is contained at every mass, in the mystery of the chalice.

Within the water and wine, we meet a God, in Christ, who longs to be in relationship with us; who longs to give good things to all people, with nobody excluded. We meet a Christ who takes something and makes abundantly more. And in the outpouring of the chalice we get to encounter Him again and again, every single time.

In this story we see a God who can and will transform the ordinary into something that is the very best, and we hear a God inviting us to be transformed too. And as we approach this altar, we partake in this story too – we become like the water jars; we who are human, place ourselves in God’s hands and, in consuming the Christ, we become more of who we are created to be. We exchange our humanity for divinity and, in turn, become more fully human.

In a way it is crazy; it’s hard to comprehend, which is why we take and eat and drink and do this physical act, because simply trying to figure it out in our minds alone is impossible. But the message is clear really; do whatever he tells you and, in doing so, you will be changed, and changed to change the world.

So, today, as we eat and drink, may we remember that; may we respond to that; and, may we say an enormous yes to these abundant gifts from God – that God’s glory might be further revealed, and that many more may believe in God.  Amen.