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.

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.