Holy Adventures

The Baptism of Christ…on tour!

Isaiah 43:1-7 Psalm 29 Acts 8:14-17 Luke 3:15-22

This past Sunday I was on tour, preaching at Grace Chapel, Kwinana for the baptism of a child named Bertie. Here is the sermon…

I love a fun fact. Do you love a fun fact?

Did you know that elephants are the only mammal that can’t jump, or horned lizards squirt blood out of their eyeballs to ward off predators?! Butterflies taste with their feet and cows moo with regional accents and have best friends. Did you know that?

Did you know that Bertie’s favourite things are his swimming pool (bodes well!), zip wire and spiderman?! Could you have guessed?

Did you also know that there is the same amount of water on the earth now as there was when the earth was formed? And while it is possible that this means the water you drink is likely to have been drunk by dinosaurs at some point in time, I have a way better thought… how about this… some of the water you drink today, some of the water you swim in, or the water we will baptise Bertie in, might just be the same water in which Jesus was baptised, as we heard about just now. How about that?

When I first realised water was recycled over and over since the dawn of time – raining down into rivers, sweeping out to seas, evaporating into clouds and beginning again – and the atoms making up my own glass of water could be part of the water the spirit brooded over back in Genesis One, or that Moses parted or Jesus was baptised in – when I first realised that, my mind was blown and here we are again, this morning, right back by the river Jordan, with John and our Lord waist deep in that water…

Can you picture that moment?

People, filled with expectation: is John the messiah we’ve waited for??

John’s cryptic answers and strange clothing. His mentions of fire, water and spirit.

Herod, breathing out murderous threats.

And people queueing to get into those waters, die to sin and come out the other side – dripping on the riverbanks. And then along comes the Palestinian carpenter, Joseph’s son, wading into the water. John sinks him under and then it happens.

He’s lifted out of the water, the heavens open; the spirit descends, visibly, like an actual dove and there is the voice…

You are my son, the beloved; with you I am well pleased.

An epiphany

And Jesus is baptised in water that has been around since the dawn of time.

And so are we.

At each baptism service, I think ‘what one thing do I want this family to know today’. What one thing? And often it’s this: even though you can’t see the heavens open, or the spirit descend like a dove – even though you can’t see it, and probably can’t hear this voice of God saying ‘you are my son, you are my daughter and I love you’ – please know that is exactly what is happening today. That’s what I want every baptism child and family and supporters and godparents to know.

That is what I want Bertie to know deep inside his spiderman heart. That’s what I want you to know, mum and dad, Matthew and Kirsty. You are loved, Bertie is loved and God is insanely proud of you – not for anything you’ve done but simply because you are you. Or the way our first reading put it; ‘I have called you by name, you are mine. You are precious in my sight, honoured and I love you’.

And that’s what I want you all to know today too. Because it is the audacious claim of our faith! This is what we believe – that the one who created every atom of water, every single moment of history, sees us, right here, right now, and loves us. God speaks. Out loud. And says to us ‘you are my child, my beloved, and with you I am well pleased’. And it’s not dependent on what we’ve done or not done. It’s just because.

So, Jesus is baptised…and the love of God pours over him and down onto him and the voice of God cries out LOVE. And we, many of us, were also baptised in water – maybe even some of the very same molecules. The very same H₂0. And every single day since, the heavens continue to open over us and the spirit descends on us. The voice of our creator, the source of life, declares those words over us – you are my child, I adore you. Whether you’ve seen it or heard it, is not what is important. What is important is what is true. And the truth is, you are loved.

You were loved before you were born, you were loved as you were born and while you have grown. You were loved when you were at your best. You were loved even when you were at your worst. And you’ve never deserved it; it has always been outrageous grace. There’s nothing you can do to make God love you more and God will never love you less. What a message of hope. What an epiphany!

Whether we share the same molecules in our own baptism that Christ was drenched in at his – whether it’s splashes of the same water or not, the truth is that it is the same God tearing the heavens apart, lavishing God’s spirit upon us and pouring out affirmations of love and belonging. The same love, the same promises, the same parenting, the same holy acceptance, streaming through history, ever towards us. Always in our favour.

And this is what we celebrate for Bertie and his family today; a significant moment in Bertie’s life when we stop and say, precious one, you are loved. May you always know it, always be it, always share it, keep becoming it. And as a reminder of that for us all, and a reminder of our own baptism, this holy water will remain in the font and after you have received your communion you might want to revisit these waters of baptism again, dip your fingers in, make the sign of the cross once more on your forehead, drink it, drench yourself if you want to and receive the assurance once more that you are loved with the abundant love of God…

Remember your baptism and be thankful.

Amen.

Epiphany 2025

Isaiah 60:1-6 Ps 72:1-7,10-14 Eph3:1-12 Matt2:1-12

Happy Epiphany Season!

We survived Christmas, and here we are, peeping out from under the corner and ready to embark on the church’s next season. Epiphany; where we have our own epiphanies, through the pages of scripture, and the inspiration of the Holy Spirit, about who this Christ Child is and what his coming means for the world. And today we have probably the most well-known of all the epiphany stories; the journey of the wise men.

These star gazers travelled for miles and miles, years and years, searching the skies, watching for the secrets it will give up, wandering and wondering and finally, the star stops and they are overwhelmed with joy. They enter the house, see the child with his mother Mary; and they kneel in worship and hand over their gifts; gold, frankincense and myrrh and declare he is a king, who is God, and destined to die.

That’s what their gifts represent – you, little man, are a King (so here is gold to crown you), you are fully divine, THE holy priest (so here is frankincense for worship) and here is myrrh, because we’re anointing you for death.

But these gifts paled in comparison to the primary purpose of their visit. We hear, ‘we have come to pay him homage – we have come to worship’. They bring themselves before God in complete adoration. In this moment, their lives were forever changed, and a new road stretched out before them – an encounter with the Christ Child is often like that.

This journey, this visit, these gifts, this epiphany is a significant part of the faith story. It encapsulates every traveller’s road; we hear or suspect there might be something happening in this God story and we want to explore. We look, watch from far off, figure out if we want to know more. We follow where we may have seen the light of Christ – usually in people, sometimes in places. We make our journey, and then, when we inevitably meet the Christ (because he is never hiding and is always relentlessly pursuing us too) we fall on our knees in worship – so beautiful is his presence it sweeps us off our feet, onto our knees.

The astronomer’s journey is such a foreshadowing of our own journey in faith that we need reminding of it; that others have gone before, that Christ is there to be found, that when we reach the end of ourselves, we simply need to kneel in worship. It is so essential we need to do all we can to keep it in mind, to be able to access it in our heart. And the church gives us rich traditions to help.

You may have seen homes and doorposts, even around this site, with chalk markings above the doorway. It is a tradition that came to us from Europe and is a simple way of blessing our homes and all who visit, based on this story of the journey of the magi.

Several years ago, when I changed from curate to priest-in-charge, I had to move house into the vicarage. House moves went as house moves do and I began to settle in. A couple of months later a little girl from the local primary school came running over to me, jumping and squealing that she now lived in my house. She said ‘I saw the chalk above the door and knew it was your house’ and she was right. And when I moved here, all those miles from home, it was a comforting thing to see chalked doorposts around the place – even over the door of the new, strange place we were about to call home.

The chalking of the doors comes back to a command to God’s people in Deuteronomy, saying “These words shall be on your heart… You shall write them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates.” So we bless chalk and take it to each home and write the year and 3 letters on each one. This time it will be 2025, and always the letters C M B, partly to remind us of the names assigned to the Magi – Caspar, Melchior and Balthazar – and also standing for the Latin Christus Mansionem Benedicat meaning May Christ Bless this Home.

What this action says is ‘this house, and all who live here, want to be a blessing to God and who visit in this coming year’. A tangible way of saying that we want to give our gifts to Jesus, just like the magi did, and that we want those around us to see the beauty and hope of the good news of Jesus Christ in our lives and in our homes.

We don’t have gold, frankincense and myrrh, but we are not being asked for those. What we have is something far more valuable, far more costly; we have ourselves and our homes. And we have countless opportunities in this coming year to use both of those to worship God and bless those around us.

If you want to commit to you home being a place of blessing in this coming year – for yourselves and those who pass by or visit – for all who will see the chalk scrawl and wonder – then when you come up for communion in a few minutes you will see here chalk in bags, with instructions. You are invited to take one and use it.

The beauty of our faith that we hold so dear is that we know the star – that divine light of Christ – has stopped here too, over Beaconsfield, over our very homes. People nearby are searching, and we want to help them to seek and find. This tradition is a way for our lives and homes to point people towards Him, and in their seeking may they find and, in their finding, may they worship.

So let us pray,

Lord God, source of all light and grace,

we ask You to bless this chalk which you have created.

May it serve as a reminder that Christ, the true Light of the World,

has come to illuminate our lives.

As we mark our doorposts with this chalk,

may we remember to open our hearts

to Christ’s presence in our homes and in our lives. Amen.

Surrender all?!

1 Samuel 2:18-20, 26 Psalm 148 Colossians 3:12-17 Luke 2:41-52

I’ve been doing a bit of a crash course in motherhood this past month. I am learning that, while there will inevitably be something you forget when you leave the house, you must make sure it isn’t a spare nappy, or the child. I almost always have no idea what I am doing but the little human who has moved into our home and hearts no longer terrifies me 100% of the time and when she raises her peanut butter encrusted hands up for me to give her a cuddle something happens inside me that I can’t explain. So, imagine my delight that this morning’s readings look at parenting too.

In our Gospel reading from Luke, we find twelve-year-old Jesus in the temple, astonishing the teachers with His wisdom. His parents are frantic, having searched for Him for three days. THREE DAYS? Imagine?! And when they finally find Him, (imagine that mix of relief, anger, blame, more relief) Jesus responds with, “Did you not know I must be in my Father’s house?” Mary and Joseph must have had all kinds of feelings at that point! The wonder of hindsight shows us Jesus beginning to embrace His true identity, as his divine mission begins to unfold. And then He returns with His parents to Nazareth, continuing to grow in wisdom and favour with God and people.

Our gospel story connects to another story of surrender: the account of Hannah and Samuel from the Old Testament. Hannah, in her desperation for a child, makes a deal with God that if she is granted a son, she will dedicate him to the Lord. When Samuel is born, she fulfils her promise, leaving him in the temple with the priest Eli. She only gets to see him once a year, and her only parenting task is to take him the robe she lovingly makes each year. It’s heartbreaking, isn’t it?? Give me a child God, I beg you; and if you do, I will give him straight back to you, for your service. Wow. What an incredible act of surrender. Hannah didn’t just offer Samuel back to God; she gave up her vision of motherhood to trust God’s plan for her son.

Both stories—Hannah’s and Mary’s—are about surrender. Maybe every parenting story is. For Hannah, it was the surrender of her deep longing for a child and her dream of raising him herself. For Mary, it was the surrender of her son to a divine purpose she couldn’t truly understand. Both women had to let go of their own plans and accept God’s vision, which was greater than anything they could have imagined.

And today we stand on the threshold of another new year. Christmas is being cleared away, to make room for New Year’s resolutions, visioning boards and all that talk of becoming our best selves. New Year’s resolutions often centre on taking control—setting goals, making plans, striving for self-improvement. But we are invited to consider a different approach. Not so much, what can I do for me, but what can I do or be or surrender to God. Today’s readings invite us to choose a surrendering of control. What do we need to release to God? What are we holding too tightly, out of fear or need for certainty? What is God inviting us to entrust to His care?

Surrender doesn’t mean we stop planning or dreaming. It means offering those dreams with open hands, trusting that God’s purposes for us are always greater than our own. Surrender means releasing the illusion of control and allowing God’s story to unfold in ways we may not expect.

Surrender is clear as we explore both Hannah and Mary’s story. It is clear each time we hear the call of Christ to follow Him.

This theme of surrender and parenting and discipleship is beautifully captured in the words of Meister Eckhart, the 13^th century friar, mystic and theologian, who said, “We are all meant to be mothers of God, for God is always needing to be born.”

Eckhart reminds us that just as Mary gave her body to God for the birth of Jesus, we are also called to make space for God to be born in us—through our actions, our relationships, our choices, and our faith. In a sense, we are all invited to be mothers of God, to be open and receptive to the divine presence within us, and to trust that God is continually birthing something new in the world through us.

Isn’t that beautiful? We are all called – male, female, human, parents, non-parents, adult or child – we are all called to give ourselves fully to God so that, through us, God might bring Jesus to this world; this world that needs him so much.

So we have this amazing invitation to surrender: to make room for God to act in our lives, to step aside and allow His plans to unfold, even when we don’t fully understand what it will look like. In surrendering, we don’t lose ourselves; rather, we discover our truest selves, the ones God always intended us to be. Just as Mary said “yes” to God’s calling, we, too, are invited to say “yes” to the new birth that is being brought into our lives and the world.

So as we enter this new year, might we choose to pray for the courage to surrender our tightly held plans and our fears, to make space for God’s greater purposes. May we be willing to let go, trusting that God is always with us and working in us, to bring life, hope, and transformation. And just as Mary and Hannah gave their children to God’s service, may we offer our lives—our time and resources, our hearts and hopes—into God’s hands.

And may we each, become mothers of God, making room for His presence and His love to be born anew in us, that we might share it with the world.

Amen.

A sermon for Christmas Eve, midnight…

Christmas Eve Midnight Homily

On this holy night, we come to celebrate a story we know so well: a baby born in a manger, shepherds, wise men, an innkeeper and angels, and a light that shines in the darkness. A moment in history that we remember and celebrate all these generations later, because it changed everything.

John’s Gospel opens with an ancient truth: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” Before time itself, before creation, the Word – Jesus – was with God, creating and sustaining everything. The very same Word that spoke the stars into being, that shaped mountains and seas, now enters our world as a vulnerable child. God, the Creator of the universe, comes to us not in strength, but in weakness, not in power, but in humility. Or, as one bible paraphrase puts it, the Word put on flesh and moved into the neighbourhood.

The angels, announcing His birth, sing of a light that has come to pierce the darkness of our world: “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, goodwill toward all people.” They sang on that star-lit night, and they sing still today – Glory to God! Peace! Alleluia. Sometimes we join in, sometimes, mostly, we don’t even notice, but the angelic praise rings out, always, without ceasing. And they proclaim, ‘the light shines in the darkness. The darkness doesn’t win. Light has dawned. Light overcomes’.

And this light is not just a distant star in the sky. It isn’t even the dazzling dawn of sunrise. It is a light that enters our lives, our world — into our struggles, our fears, our brokenness. It is the light of God’s love that shines in the places where we need it most. As Isaiah says, “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness — on them light has shined.” (Isaiah 9:2)

That light means no matter how dark our lives may get — whether we’re carrying the weight of personal struggles, feeling the pain of loss, or watching a world torn by conflict and despair — Christ’s light is brighter. It doesn’t erase the darkness, but it gives us hope in the middle of it. The light of Christ is not a promise that all will be easy, but that we are never alone. And that is the story, the true story of Christmas. That we are never alone – God is with us. Immanuel, God came near, God remains near, God is right beside us, within and without us, above, beneath, and always alongside.

In a world where so many feel forgotten, rejected, or helpless, the birth of Jesus is the ultimate reminder that God is with us — not as a distant, unreachable figure, but as one who knows our pain, who walks with us, and who calls us to bring that light into the world and shine in small but powerful ways: offering a kind word to someone in need, standing up for justice where there is inequality, reaching out to those who are suffering.

This year, I took all the leftover bits and pieces of discarded candle wax from church. Old tea lights and drips and scraps and I melted them down and repurposed them into new candles, as gifts. I thought it was a nice idea, and it was, but it gave a message way greater than just a sweet little new votive candle, even one made of holy wax.

Just as a small candle can light a dark room, simply by being there, so the smallest acts of love and compassion can break through the darkness in our world. The truth of the incarnation, the truth of the readings we have heard tonight, is that there was once darkness, and now there is light.

Light has dawned and it has brought joy. It has broken oppression; this light brings peace and justice and righteousness. It has brought singing and salvation and beauty and honour, and incredible, undeserved grace and it has brought life, to all people. And this light – the light of Christ – shines in the darkness and the darkness cannot, will not, can never, overcome it. and the word, the light, became flesh and lived among us.

Tonight, we celebrate the birth of Jesus, the Word made flesh, who is the true light of the world. Our challenge, our purpose, is to carry that light to the darkest places of the world so it might simply shine – outshine the darkness. So, this Christmas, may we remember that Christ’s light is here to guide us, to give us hope, and to empower us to be light in a world that desperately needs it.

The darkness will not overcome it, because the light of Christ is stronger than any darkness we face. May the peace and light of Christ be with you always. Amen.

Advent III – Year C

Zephaniah 3:14-20 Isaiah 12:2-6 Phil 4:4-7 Luke 3:7-18

Earlier this week I got a text from a friend I haven’t seen in way too long and it said ‘how are you? Is advent unfolding in the beautiful way it can, or is it a voice crying in the wilderness? Thinking of you…’

The question made me pause and take notice; honestly, it’s been a bit more wilderness crying than beautiful unfolding, but here we are, arriving at this 3rd Sunday in advent and it is Gaudete Sunday – the Sunday of joy – the one where we stop to rejoice; rejoice at our Lord’s first coming; rejoice that he is with us now and rejoice in the sure and certain promise that he is coming again.

As our epistle reminded us, rejoice in the Lord always, the Lord is near, do not worry. Rejoice always.

Rejoicing, or joy, is different from just being happy; happiness is often dependent upon external sources, but joy bubbles up from within – a gift from God, a fruit of God’s holy spirit – and can be found even in the darkest places at the darkest times.

Our other readings tell us about joy and rejoicing too. Our Old Testament reading says we can rejoice with all our hearts because God’s very self is here with us, delighting in us; that God is rejoicing in who we are; that God is actually singing over us. Isn’t that beautiful?

And then we have John, with his brood of vipers and his coming wrath and his scary call for repentance and his axe and his fires and gosh, it doesn’t sound very joyful. But he shares the perfect ingredients for rejoicing – share all you have, treat everyone fairly, don’t steal, threaten or lie, be satisfied, and God will do the rest. And this is his good news, the source and reason to rejoice.

But it’s in the Hebrew scriptures I have spent most of the week; mulling over the passage that says God is near enough to allay our fears, drive away our enemies, and strengthen the work of our hands. God is close enough to gather up the lame and the outcast and bring them home and that God is so near that, if we listen, we might even hear God rejoicing over us with singing; loud singing it says. Singing that drives away disaster.

And as I have gone about this week I have thought about God’s singing. I have wondered what God’s voice might sound like and what song God might choose to sing, and if I can dare to believe, let alone hear, the song that is chosen for me.

A while ago, I told you about a woman I have met in one of the care homes I visit. Nearly 18 months ago the doctors diagnosed her with cancer and gave her 3 months to live. She hoped she might make it to Christmas, last year, and she continued to knit. She’s the woman who said she would knit and knit until Jesus called her home, until she ran out of wool, she would say. And she would return to her room and find bags of wool on her bed with no idea where it had come from, and she knitted beanie hats for prem babies or teddies and socks.

This week I went into her care home again and she wasn’t in the service. The staff told me she was in hospital and is palliative. I went to see her that afternoon and sat beside her bed. She was holding one of her teddies, her breathing was laboured, her glasses were askew, and she was sleeping. I sat and prayed for her, held her hand and just before I was about to leave, I remembered the hymn she would always request at our communion services and I began to sing Amazing Grace over her. Before she opened her eyes she said, ‘I want this at my funeral’ and we shared communion and she said to me ‘if you ever want to tell anyone my story, I give you my permission’.

Because I had this passage from Zephaniah in my mind, I wondered if God might sometimes sound like the voice of one sitting beside a hospital bed, singing the favourite hymn of a dying woman.

*******************

Yesterday in the car, we had a very tired little person in the back, fighting sleep, crying because she didn’t know what to do with herself. As we started to sing wind the bobbin up and row row row your boat so her crying stopped and the car became calmer and then clapping and laughing started. And I wondered if God might sometimes sound like nursery rhymes and action songs in the ears of a fractious baby.

And as I walked the dog, I heard birdsong, really loudly. And it lifted my attention from the pavement to the skies. And I wondered if sometimes God sings like a flock of birds, building nests in tree canopies.

I have read this passage before. I have loved this image for a long time. I had longed to hear God or the angels singing over me. But now I wonder if it is much nearer than I had ever known, more audible than I have ever realised.

So let me ask you the same questions:

How is your advent? Is it unfolding in the beautiful way that it can, or is it more crying in the wilderness?

And, have you wondered what God’s voice might sound like and what song God might choose to sing over you? Have you heard it?

Have you stopped still long enough to listen?

Zephaniah says, ‘The Lord, your God, is in your midst… rejoic[ing] over you with gladness, renew[ing] you in his love;…exult[ing] over you with loud singing’.

Let us pause, listen, hear and rejoice, amen.

Advent II – Year C

Malachi 3:1-14 Psalm: The Song of Zechariah (Luke 1:68-79)

Philippians 1:1-11 Luke 3:1-6

This week has been wild. With squashed banana and congealing yoghurt, and sticky fingers on every pane of glass, there isn’t much purifying going on in the rectory and if this sermon begins to go all singsong, like a nursery rhyme, then I’m sorry, but we’re upright, and that’s the best we can expect right now, right?!

Fortunately, this is one of my most favourite passages in the Hebrew scriptures, this prophesy from Malachi about the coming king. Hear it again…

See I am sending my messenger to prepare the way before me, and the Lord whom you seek will suddenly come to his temple… He is coming. But who can endure it? For he is like a refiner’s fire. He will sit as a refiner and purifier of silver.

Such rich imagery. What a clear picture. A refiner’s fire, a purifier of silver.

Several years ago, I investigated what it is that a silversmith does and, it was as I read that this passage rocketed up the list of favourite verses. Do you know how a silversmith refines metal? Do you know how a goldsmith tests for purity? Maybe I’ve told you before.

They sit, for long periods of time, holding the metal in very intense heat and they keep it there until the dross burns off and it is free from impurity. They burn it to make it clean. And how do they know it is pure? What is the test? It is only complete once they can see their own reflection in it. The face of the one who creates it.

So, what does this prophecy say for God’s people?

The Lord is coming.

And in God’s coming is the promise that we will be held in God’s fire until all that is dross burns away, and until God sees us as pure, and as perfectly reflecting God’s own face. We, and all God’s people, down through the ages, will be made perfect, so we can reflect the image of the Divine Silversmith – so people will look at us and see the Great Creator.

And as a gold or silversmith sits at their refining fire, are they concerned about the impurity? Do you think they spend time worrying about the dross and the grime? I bet they don’t. I expect they know that all that is precious is right there waiting to emerge, waiting to bubble to the surface. They simply hold that precious metal in the fire until their own face can be seen in it and then they know it is ready.

‘The Lord whom you seek will suddenly come to his Temple’, says Malachi.

He promised this to God’s people 400+ years before…and then there was silence… nothing.

God’s people, through the ages, knew they were waiting for The One to come to the temple, ready to refine and purify, and reflect the image of the creator. Maybe they would be the generation that would be chosen to next reflect the glory of God. Always watching, listening, waiting, hoping. But for centuries it all went quiet…

And then suddenly we get this crazy prophet bursting onto the scene. John; the last of the Old Testament prophets, cries out in the wilderness, ‘prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight. Every valley shall be made straight, and the rough ways made smooth, and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.

The time has come.

The time of purifying and refining, the holy burning, to remove the dross and reflect the Glory of the Divine…it is near.

Who can endure the day of his coming, and who can stand, Malachi’s prophesy asked. And I wonder what that is asking of us, here and now. Who can endure? Who can stand? Will we give in to the process of our creator, whatever it takes and wherever it takes us, so that we can be made pure – not sinless, not shiny clean, I don’t mean that – I mean truly pure so that, in the words of our gospel prophet a few decades hence, ‘we must decrease, and you must increase’.

God making us pure means seeing more of God in us. More of God and less of self, less of ego, less of our own good works and more of God’s work.

And that’s tricky, right, because we want to do those things that God asks of us, and sometimes we get in the way of God’s glory being seen, sometimes we might almost block out the light. So we must return again and again to the refining fire and hand ourselves over to the Divine Jeweller – make of me what you will, Great Creator – take my simple offering, my tasks, my hopes, my attempts, my heart and soul and burn off all that is impure and make it pure.

Handing ourselves over, even once, let alone over and again, sounds uncomfortable, risky even. Maybe that’s why the prophecy asks ‘who can endure and who can stand’. Knowing we are delivering ourselves into Hands, even the holiest of hands, where all that is purely-self is potentially painful. What if I like the bits that are burned away? What if I was particularly attached to them? But, it is the call of those who are seeking after God. It is the offer, the invitation, that we might be made refined and pure, that we might reflect God’s glory and not our own.

Uncomfortable, yes. But how liberating? Imagine the freedom of complete purity.

Yesterday Gabby posted another fabulous Gabby image on our Facebook page, with words from the Indigenous Leader, Steven Charleston. His poem ‘Wild Places’ perfectly span our two prophets for this morning – Malachi and John the Baptist. He writes this:

A voice crying in the wilderness.

The call of the Spirit does not come in quiet places of comfort.

It beckons us from wild places: that interior wilderness, just outside the walls of polite society.

The dark woods where we are afraid we may meet the stranger.

It is the risky land of encounter.

The invitation of the Spirit is to go out by going in.

To question what we know.

To encounter what we fear.

We are purified not with drops of water but with beads of sweat.

Amen.

Advent 1 – Hope

Jeremiah 33:14-16 Advent Prose 1 Thessalonians 3:9-13 Luke 21:25-38

Very occasionally I have a solid idea for my sermon on a Thursday. Even more rare is it that I have actual words on the page before my day off on a Friday. This week, I thought I had both. It was almost finished. I’d made the decision to preach on the Old Testament readings through Advent. Just after 5pm, I sent off a last-minute email and my day off was about to begin…and then the phone rang. And less than 45 minutes later, life at the rectory was pretty significantly changed, and my sermon draft with it.

The book of Jeremiah is full of messages of judgment, and promise. Each of his promises from God point to a new world, where justice, righteousness, and peace reign. Jeremiah speaks these words, from his prison cell, to a people who have been torn apart by war, injustice, and exile. They have lost their homes, their city, their temple. He has lost his freedom. And they are longing for a way out, for restoration, for hope. In their suffering, God gives them a promise that reaches towards a future reality: “The days are surely coming…”

God promises that a day is coming when all things will be right. Justice will be restored, broken systems will be healed and a society will be established where everyone can live with dignity and safety. God is promising to bring forth a righteous Branch—one who will do what is just and right in the land. This is not a distant, abstract concept; it is concrete and urgent. The idea of a righteous ruler in the tradition of David is about political and social justice; one who would lift the oppressed and protect the vulnerable.

As Christians we dare to believe that Jesus is the fulfilment of this prophecy. But more than that, we might make the audacious claim that we have a part to play in its fulfilment too; that we, more than 2000 years after this was fulfilled in Christ, must give our lives to create justice, challenge oppression, speak a language of respect and kindness, call for peace, bring healing to the planet and to those who suffer most. We hear Jeremiah’s prophesy, see it’s fulfilment in Christ and STILL hear a call to action for us; a call to engage in the work of holy justice, now. And if we hear it that way, what might that look like? What might that demand of us?…

And that was about as far as I got, by Thursday evening.

I thought it was fine, y’know. But who wants to hear ‘fine’? Who wants to follow a God who is fine?! I didn’t really want to preach something fine. But then the phone rang.

It was quarter past 5, on Thursday evening, and it was a number I didn’t know. The woman introduced herself as working for the department of child protection. Craig and I have had a few fleeting interactions with DCP because we occasionally provide respite care for one child. We aren’t approved to do more than that. The woman knew her request was a longshot, but she wondered if we might have room for 2 brothers to stay for that night. All other avenues had been exhausted.

You have heard me, over and over, make grand calls for action; but I was terrified! Anyway, we said yes, and we said yes again ten minutes later when they called back to ask if we could make space for their baby sister too.

And in the middle of nappies and escape attempts and cooking experiments and horrendous stories of neglect and abuse unfolding in front of us, there were times where I could pause and observe long enough to realise this is what the work of executing justice and righteousness really is. And our call in the rectory might be different from yours, but this is what it looks like for the baby sister, right now.

We follow a God who’s name is Righteousness and what could be more right-making than restoring hope where it has been lost, and planting it where it has never been known.

And our first advent candle is the one we light for Hope.

Hope sees the police raid a tent, to rescue three small children so a bright future might still be possible (it’s not just possible, it’s on its way, maybe).

Hope sees an imprisoned prophet promise days are surely coming where justice and righteousness will be clear and present.

And get this, Hope sees a young family bring their child for baptism because perhaps they are looking for a way back to church…and when they randomly select this day, they choose Hope Sunday…and their baby is named Paige Hope.

This God of righteousness and hope is a tricky customer, a radical saviour, a holy fulfiller of ancient prophesies, and we are still being called and drawn and trusted to be the hands and feet that deliver hope and righteousness to the world, today.

In this generation, we see communities torn apart by violence, racial injustice, inequality, and environmental degradation. Families struggle to make ends meet, and marginalized groups fight for basic rights and recognition. The promise of God’s justice is that these things will not have the last word. God’s vision, God’s HOPE, is that safety is not a privilege for a few but a right for all.

So as we reflect on these words from Jeremiah, we are reminded that God’s promises of restoration and justice are not abstract ideas—they are concrete, and urgent. And some of them will be brought about by us. Some of them can only be brought about by us, even. We are the ones who are called to embody the justice and righteousness of Christ in every area of life.

Let us be a community that continues to make present the vision of God’s Kingdom for all, and when that feels overwhelming and impossible, may we heed the advice of Mother Teresa, who famously says, “Never worry about numbers. Help one person at a time and always start with the person nearest you.”

Amen.

16 days of activism against gender-based violence

This homily was preached at St George’s Cathedral, Perth, on the eve of 16 Days of Activism Against Gender-Based Violence (24/11/24)

It was in the back room of a Cathedral like this, in another continent, that I attended a session called ‘Domestic Abuse and how the Church should respond’. Maybe a decade had passed since my first marriage ended, but in the words of our first reading, I was still ashamed, disgraced about it, and pretty discouraged about the way the church had handled it.

Battered from my marriage breakup and seeking some sort of familiarity and comfort – seeking God, although I didn’t know it at the time – I tiptoed back into the church of my youth. The church where I met my first husband and where we had married. The minister called me a scarlet woman and asked how I dared to walk into his church with my head held high. His wife – ironically the ‘welcomer’ on the door –refused to give me a notice sheet – she said there would be no need for me to know what was happening in church that week.

The requirements to be allowed back into the fold were clearly laid down to me; I would need to stand at the front and explain to the congregation why my marriage had ended, and repent. There were no similar requirements for my husband. No requirements at all. The minister knew nothing of the state of my marriage, nor the reasons for its breakdown. He never asked. And that added to my shame.

And yet, because God had breathed God’s promise into my heart that said ‘I’m pleased to hear from you Gemma, and I love you’, because God was proving again and again to be a trustworthy and redeeming husband who was not casting me off – ever – and had gathered me up and was beginning to whisper terrifying plans about ordination, I dared to wholeheartedly, even foolishly believe the church should have something to say about the things that break marriage, and people, and should be able to offer a way back.

And if the church should respond to divorce, then it must also be able to respond to issues of domestic abuse – those marriages that had been way worse than mine, because I had believed that mine was just a mismatch, a mutual falling out…and he had never hit me.

So, I sat in this training – domestic abuse and how the church should respond – and I felt empowered and hopeful and ready to become that Christian, even that Christian leader, that helped ‘those people’. Those poor women whose husbands beat them.

Mid-morning we began to look at different types of abuse. I can picture the piece of paper she handed out; there was a person in the middle with speech bubbles around her – emotional abuse, physical abuse, sexual abuse, financial abuse, and so on – and there were dot points under each, listing behaviours.

And as I stared at the page it began to swirl, and I filled in my own dot points;

that time he told me I looked like a cow because I was chewing gum,
the way he gave me pocket money – from my own wages – because he controlled the money;
when he told me which church we were moving to because he was the spiritual head of the house and I had promised to obey;
removing the pizza from me, so he could help me not get fat;
the clothes I was allowed to wear with him, but never with other men;
the time he told me, ‘close your mouth; you looked retarded’ when I was marvelling at the intricacy of dew on a sparkling new spider’s web;
the times he wanted sex and I didn’t, so he did it anyway
the day he finally raised his hand in anger, because I wanted chips

Shaken, I excused myself from the training and locked myself in the bathroom. I can still picture the inside of that bathroom door where I rested my forehead and wept, realising for the first time, 10 years after it was over, that I had been in an abusive marriage, and its breakdown wasn’t all my fault, despite what the divorce papers said.

The world taught me domestic abuse was only physical. That nothing else counted, nothing else was as bad.

The church taught me divorce is always the woman’s fault and always because she had an affair, so she wasn’t welcome, unless she publicly repented.

God taught me that wasn’t true; that I was beautiful and called and loved everlastingly. And that God is a trustworthy husband, and other men might be too.

I returned to that training session, red-eyed but resolute; determined I would face the trauma of what had been, would commit to healing from it, and would use all I was feeling, including my anger and pain, to strengthen me so I could support, challenge and help others. And that I would do my bit to make sure the church really could respond to domestic abuse, generously, courageously, without misogyny; being kind, tender hearted, forgiving, melting bitterness, giving grace.

In Australia, 1 in 4 women experience domestic abuse in their lifetime.

1 in 16 men.

Indigenous women are 33 times more likely to be hospitalised by FDV and 7 times more likely to be murdered by an intimate partner than non-indigenous women.

And these statistics are at least as high in Anglican churches, if not higher.

Friends, you may have heard it said that domestic abuse is only abuse if she is battered and bruised or raped.

You may have heard it said that the man is the head of the household and the head of his wife.

You may have heard it said that she deserved it or that Christian marriages are exempt or it doesn’t happen here or any number of other false statements about FDV in faith settings and homes.

But now we say to you, domestic abuse happens all around us, in our churches, our schools, our communities, even in our own homes. And the responsibility of shining the light of Christ on perpetrators and survivors alike is in our hands.

You may have heard it said that it’s not your business, not your job.

Now hear us say to you, yes, it is. Amen.

Another World is on its way…

Daniel 7:9-10,13-14 Psalm 93 Revelation 1:4b-8 John 18:33-37

One of the most beautiful things I ever heard is from the Prize-Winning Author, Arundhati Roy, who wrote ‘another world is not only possible; she is on her way. On a quiet day, I can hear her breathing’. Isn’t that stunning?

Back in 2017, I accidentally landed up being part of an American cohort of preachers – I say accidentally, because I’m not American – and we were given funding to develop a project that preached resistance, through word and song. Preaching resistance, with gospel passages like this was a simple task and one of our group wrote a chant from that beautiful quote. You can see the words on page 6 in your service book and I’m going to step out of my comfort zone and teach it to you.

It goes like this:

Another world, another world is not just possible it’s on its way

And we sing that twice. Let’s try:

Another world, another world is not just possible it’s on its way

And then it goes…

And I can hear it breathing, and I can feel it coming

It’s not just possible, it’s on its way.

Let’s try that…

All week I have been singing it because it encapsulates what happens in these verses from John’s gospel.

A beaten and bloodied Jesus is before Pilate and is asked ‘what have you done?’.

And Jesus doesn’t answer the question. Not specifically. But he could. He’s got a whole resume of things he’s done. What have I done? I’ve healed the sick and raised the dead. I have eaten with outcasts. I have spent time with the hated and kissed the untouchables. I have spoken against lies and falsehood and injustice. And I have inspired others to do the same – fishermen, tax collectors, women – they’re springing up all over and are feeding the hungry and claiming I am the messiah.

But he doesn’t say any of that.

What have you done, Pilate says. And Jesus answers, “My kingdom is not from this world… My kingdom is not from here.”

Jesus reigns over a kingdom that is unrecognisable to Pilate. His kingdom is not like the kingdom of Caesar or Pilate or Herod; a kingdom operating on violence and oppression. It was, and is, entirely other.

What have you done Jesus?

What had he done?

He had turned the whole kingly order of things upside down. He had not lived as a king and he was not ruling as a king, and his crown was about to be one of thorns and his throne was about to be a cross of wood. What have you done Jesus? This is not kingly. Are you really the king?

And Jesus never confirms whether he is or isn’t. But his actions say more than words ever can. He’s creating a new world, and it’s not just possible; it’s on its way. And it is unstoppable. It has been coming since the dawn of time, and it is still on its way.

In this generation, people are looking for help and looking for a way out, and for freedom and liberation, and they might glance at the church and wonder if maybe it could be true. What has Jesus done? Could he be our King? Do we need a King or a kingdom different to what we’ve got? We need something other, something trustworthy and true.

What have you done?

And what are you doing?

Can I join in? Is there space for me?

For those of us who are trying to follow Christ as King, and align ourselves with the values of his rule and reign, we might dare to believe the Kingdom of God is not just possible – she’s on her way. And on a quiet day, we might hear her breathing.

Another world, another world is not just possible, it’s on its way…

What have you done, Pilate asks?

And now Jesus asks us the same question…

What have you done? Are you co-creators in my building of this other world?

And that really got me thinking because if we can hear it breathing, and feel it coming, what might it sound and feel like? And if we are going to choose to create those things along with our Divine Creator, what might they look like.

This ‘other world’ that is on its way is good and just and equitable. And every time we pray ‘your kingdom come, your will be done on earth as in heaven’ we are committing and recommitting to be a part of the construction team; to be kingdom builders to create this other world that’s not just possible, it’s on its way.

What have we done, what are we doing, to point to the Kingdom of Christ here, in Beaconsfield? A kingdom of peace and non-violence; a kingdom of life and light and love and freedom; a kingdom of good news, where the hungry are fed and the homeless are housed, where the naked are clothed and the lonely have friends; where prisons and hospitals are empty, and the environment is clean and green.

Every time we contribute to something of light, we starve out a piece of darkness. Every time we light a candle of hope or gentleness or kindness in a situation, an element of darkness is snuffed out. And we can choose to create. We can choose to construct and build. And we can choose not to.

Another world is possible. The reign of Christ really is unstoppable. She’s on her way but she doesn’t come with drones and weaponry and she doesn’t kill or destroy. She builds up and rebuilds and blossoms and brings life. And this new world is so compelling, and it requires our input. And we can choose to be divine builders, because there is space and work for us all.

Pilate asks Jesus, ‘what have you done’?

Jesus asks us, ‘what have you done? What will you do? Will you be part of the building of this other world?’

So we have a choice to make – we can stay as we are, feet firmly rooted in this time and place, or we can summon our courage, listen for the new world, hear her breathing and join in. it’s not just possible, it’s on its way…

Another world…

Apocalypse Sunday

Daniel 12:1-3 Hebrews 10:11-14,19-25 Mark 13:1-11

The 16^th Century church reformer Martin Luther once approached this passage, relying on the promise at the end, ‘do not worry beforehand about what you are to say; but say whatever is given you at that time’. He is said to have ascended into the pulpit without a single thing written and asked the Holy Spirit for the words to say, and he received this answer; Martin, you have not prepared.

So that scuppered that approach!

Last week we heard Jesus’ commentary on the widow, as she entered the temple, and dropped her last two coins in the treasury, before going home to die. They were demanded of her, presumably to fund the large stones and large buildings that are impressing the disciples so much in today’s passage.

‘Look at them’, they say! And Jesus says ‘do you see these great buildings? Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down’. And he continues later, in private, with the closest of his friends, with his apocalyptic discourse.

This Sunday in the church year is always Apocalypse Sunday, before we reach Christ the King next week, and then move headlong into advent. We always hear about the so-called ‘end times’, just before we move into the promise of the dawn of the new era where Christ reigns and the upside-down kingdom of love is ushered in.

But this week The Anglican Church had something of its own apocalypse when Archbishop Justin Welby announced his resignation after the results of the Makin report were published.

The report exposed the failings of the church to protect and respond to vulnerable boys who had been systematically abused in the most horrendous ways; including physically and sexually. The archbishop had become aware of this and informed the police in 2013, but action was not taken and the abuse was allowed to continue, was even silenced and covered up, until the death of the perpetrator in 2018, and even beyond. Archbishop Justin’s statement said he ‘must take personal and institutional responsibility for the long and retraumatising period between 2013 and 2024’. And even this week more and more boys, now men, are coming forwards and their pain is palpable and the archbishop’s resignation is not the comfort they hoped for.

And while all this was unfolding in the world’s media, these bible verses were waiting to be proclaimed in churches across the Anglican communion, worldwide, today. Social media was full of cries for his resignation and then sadness at the same. One priest friend wrote ‘you can take a brick from the top layer of a jenga game and nothing changes’, but it felt more like someone had pulled the brick from the bottom.

But Justin Welby is just one stone amidst the living stones of God’s Holy Temple, the Church – and so are we. So, this passage calls for something far more radical than the resignation of one man, even if it is the Archbishop of Canterbury.

Here, in the first century, Jesus predicts the destruction of the temple that indeed came to pass but is it also true that there are times in history when the whole temple of God needs a total breakdown, a total rebuild, and if God were to do that with God’s church here and now in the twenty first century, what might be rebuilt in its place? What would be kept and what would be broken and remade into something new?

And more pertinently, if God were to destroy and rebuild the temple of our hearts, what would be lost, what would be refined, what would be cherished, what would be encouraged to grow in its place? Big questions!

How would God reshape and remake the Church, universal?

How would God reshape and remake our heart? Your heart?

The disciples ask Christ for a sign – how will we know that all these things are about to be accomplished and his response is detailed; beware no one leads you astray, people will say all kinds of things but don’t be alarmed. He speaks of wars and earthquakes and famines, and he talks about birth pangs, about labour.

Wars, earthquakes, persecution, and this is only the beginning?! Destruction and rebuilding sound painful. And for any of us who have been through a church split, or a marriage breakup or bereavement or any other kind of deep dismantling and rebuilding then we know that it is painful. It can even feel like we might just die.

But in our gospel reading today, Jesus has wise words for his followers – in these few verses he tells his friends, he tells us, beware…don’t be alarmed…proclaim the good news…do not worry. Those words promise beauty for the brokenness of the temple, hope for the brokenness that springs from historic abuse, or broken promises, or deep deep grief.

Don’t be alarmed. Proclaim the good news. Do not worry.

And that feels like wise advice for today, just as it was for those first century disciples too. It’s going to get bad. Maybe it already is bad. But don’t worry. You might feel like you’re even in the middle of death but resurrection is on its way. That’s always the promise, isn’t it. even in the deepest, darkest place of death, resurrection will still win. Destruction doesn’t get the last word. Redemption does. Do not worry.

And then, as if to reassure us that everything would be ok, the current day prophet Leunig popped up on my news feed with these words of wisdom too:

Don’t be alarmed. Proclaim the good news. Do not worry.

Destruction doesn’t get the final word. Resurrection is on its way. Amen.