Holy Adventures

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.

A new look at the Widow’s Mite…

1 Kings 17:8-16 Psalm 146 Hebrews 9:23-28 Mark 12:38-44

How often do we genuinely approach scripture as if for the first time?

Usually we scan a passage, recognise the key figures, and assume we know the moral of the story – just as I did this week. Ah, the widow’s mite. We know the message of this one; loving and serving God demands my soul, my life, my all. Give everything. And then, something happens – something as seismic as the election of a president, and something as minor as reading a commentary from decades ago – and suddenly, the passage takes on a new message that is so ‘other’ to what I was previously taught, so opposite from what I previously believed, even what I preached before, that it stops you in your tracks.

I thought I knew this passage – Jesus and his disciples are watching the worshippers going into the temple. Some swan around in their wealth and riches and cascade their coins into the treasury. Jesus is not pleased with them. The widow brings her two copper coins and is highly commended for giving all she has. But is that what happens? I don’t think it is.

For sure, Jesus is very clear of his condemnation of the scribes – ‘beware’, he says, ‘they devour widow’s houses for the sake of appearance… they will receive the greater condemnation’. But does he commend the actions of the widow? ‘She, out of her poverty has put in everything…she had to live on’. It’s an observation, not necessarily a commendation. And when we read it alongside the verses from our other readings, they shed useful light on it too…

In our Old Testament reading we meet another widow. We hear her say, ‘I have only a handful of meal in a jar…I am going home to prepare it for myself and my son that we may eat it and die’ and Elijah tells her she will not die but will be cared for by the Lord until the rains come.

And our psalm is clear too: ‘the Lord executes justice for the oppressed…gives food to the hungry…lifts up those who are bowed down…watches over the strangers…[and] upholds the orphan and widow’.

God’s opinion of the poor and the widow is abundantly clear. God’s directive for how these groups of people should be cared for is unquestionable; care, lift up, give, watch over.

So, a new reading of this gospel passage might decry the systems that command this poor widow to give her last two coins before she can enter the temple. It condemns the rules that say only the rich can enter. It disrupts the processes that keep the rich at the front, relegate the poor to the back whilst taking their last coins so all they can do is go home to die.

The Lord of Heaven and Earth is very clear. Poverty is avoidable. It should not be a terminal illness. And we, as the world’s rich, are the medication to heal it. The world’s rich, are God’s solution to ending poverty and oppression.

So how have we got this so wrong?

How are we those who perpetuate poverty, even perpetrate it.

And while I haven’t made a complete u-turn from my deepest belief that following Jesus does mean giving up my own rights, my own comfort, even my own wealth – that still remains true – I am beginning to hear, in this gospel passage, that sometimes following Jesus looks like being the one who makes sure the widow has enough to live on, rather than demanding she give her last coin to the treasury. It has become a cry to see the systems that keep the poor as poor as possible – even to the point where they must donate their last coin to the wealthy, and go home to die. In the economy of God, we cannot be those people. We must not build or maintain those systems and, if we look ahead to next Sunday’s readings, Jesus continues this message and talks about the destruction of those systems.

But we are here in this week, in this place in history, where more than 74 million people voted to be led by a man who makes promises for mass deportation of immigrants, whilst giving tax breaks for the top wage earners; whose policies end diversity, equity and inclusion programs, while denying climate change and increasing drilling for fossil fuels which, of course, has a catastrophic impact on the world’s poorest first. He will restrict education for those who are poorest and only permit medical aid for those who work. He will keep the rich rich, and take the last two copper coins from the world’s poorest before sending them home to die. And I am sorry if mixing politics and religion is not palatable but these choices, this behaviour, is not what is asked of us when we sign up to follow the prince of peace.

We are asked to put more coins into the hands of those who think they are on their way home to die…and give them the promise of life. And we are asked to dismantle the systems that make them believe they must give that last coin in the first place.

This precious widow in our gospel reading did not need to give money before she was acceptable to God and beloved in God’s sight. And if she did die of poverty, then surely, she is one of the most glorious saints in light. As I say, so many times, there is enough wealth in this world for everyone – enough and some to share. What we need is an equitable sharing of it, and a bringing down of those systems that exist to line the pockets of the fat cats and starve the poor to death.

Every three years in the Anglican church we get the same readings from scripture. This time around the widow and Jesus are calling loudly to me to care for the poor, raise up the downtrodden, call out the systems of oppression – even destroy them. And because that is such a scriptural imperative, I think they always were.

Give us ears to listen, eyes to see, wealth and willingness to make change and voices to speak out for those who are kept silent. Amen.

All Saints and All Souls

Isaiah 25:6-9 Psalm 24 Revelation 21:1-6a John 11:32-44

(Today we celebrate All Saints Day and remember All Souls; the souls of those we have loved and lost and who are now counted among the saints in light).

For someone who was brought up conservatively Baptist, I have a surprising devotion to the saints. I love the big hitters, particularly blessed Mary and Mary Magdalene, but they are merely the beginning of my saintly interest. When the Church went online for those long months of COVID our dispersed virtual congregation accidentally formed a new worshipping community under the watchful eyes of Ss Isidore and Carlo; the patron saints of the computer, and the internet. And this week I discovered the delight that is St Drogo – the patron of coffee, insanity and unattractive people and uncovered the irony that it’s St Gemma who’s the saint of all things back pain related. Who knew?!

And while we might petition St Anthony when we lose something, I am more interested today in the quieter, less famous, more under-stated saints that are around us, both living and departed, every day – because today is ALL Saint’s day, not SOME saints day.

Today we pause, breathe deeply, and seek comfort in the assurances of our Old Testament reading, that tells us there are those now feasting with the Lord at a lavish banquet. We hold tight to the promise that death will be swallowed up forever; there will be no more tears, no disgrace, no more waiting – just rejoicing and gladness.

Today we wait, together, for the day when we and our loved ones will be reunited, with God, in the new heaven and the new earth; where God will fully dwell with all humanity – our tears will be wiped away, mourning and pain will be no more, and all things will be made new.

Today we collectively gather at the universal tomb of death as we eagerly wait for Jesus to come and weep with us, take away the stone, and call life to ‘come out’ again.

We gather in this liminal space where we know death and grief – where, for some, this is the first All Saints Day where our favourite human saint is at the eternal banquet instead of eating with us – we gather here where our memories of our loved ones cause anxiety because we can no longer remember what their voice sounds like, we can no longer hear their laugh or smell their scent. And we gather here, taking our place in the line of the Saints – holding the baton that is ours to run with at this time, until it is time to hand it over.

And as we gather to honour those who have allowed the light of Christ to stream through them and warm our own faces, so we recognise that we each have a role in allowing ourselves to be used as saints – light bearers – on the journey of life for another.

You see, we are all saints. We are all forgiven, redeemed, made holy, given grace. There are those who came before us – great champions of the faith, stretching right back to the dawn of time – and there are undoubtedly those who will come after us. And here we are, right now, with our own part to play, trying to spot the saintliness in one another. Sometimes our light is tarnished, sometimes it is easier to spot. Sometimes we mar the image of the creator as it seeks to stream out of us. Sometimes we look at another and it is like we look directly into the face of Christ.

Last year I told you my favourite All Saints story, about the little girl wandering through a church, looking at the imagery of saints in the stained-glass window, before saying to her mummy, ‘now I understand! A saint is the one the light shines through’. Absolutely.

A saint is the one the light shines through. And one of the reasons we miss those who have gone before us is because the light that shone through them was fascinating and beautiful and life-giving and beguiling. Our call, as baptised children of God is to be that light for others or, as our gospel reading puts it, to follow Jesus’ invitation and command to be – like Lazarus – unbound, so the light might stream out of us, unhindered, undistorted, too.

We have a lifetime to do this, a lifetime to make an impact, and forever to be missed – like those we remember today. We grow into saints throughout our earthly lives, every day, ready to receive the crown when we reach the eternal banquet. And this is a lot to take in – a lot to process.

Today, we allow ourselves the time in this sacred place to recall the souls of all the saints; living and departed. We allow ourselves the capacity to be surprised by feelings that come unexpectedly to the surface and we sit with them, hold them, maybe light a candle for them and allow them to float upwards and outwards towards God.

We take a pause to allow the Christ to do that next bit of work in unbinding us, so that God’s Light might beam more brightly through us and, as God does God’s gentle work of grace in all these feelings, we simply breathe, say yes, and allow it to happen. So let us pray…

Time to speak out!

Jeremiah 31:7-9 Psalm 126 Hebrews 7:21-28 Mark 10:46-52

Last week I led a session at Wollaston Theological College, for those training for ordination. I had one hour to talk about the role of the church in the world. A whole hour! I began with my favourite question – one you will almost certainly have heard me ask before. I asked them ‘what is the one thing you would stand up in court for, go to prison for, even die for?’ And we took time to consider that, and to explore what the role of the Church might be in these situations. And we talked about immigration and poverty and injustice, but then, as I read this week’s readings, I realise what we were really discussing was what it is we refuse to stay silent about. What is the thing that breaks our silence and makes us speak out?

Human trafficking, child sexual abuse, the environment, homelessness, addiction, education, lack of access to services, loneliness, care for the sick and elderly. What are the issues, what will we do, what should the church – God’s people collectively – do?

Often, the focus of the story of Bartimaeus is the miracle of the restoration of his sight. And that is remarkable. Miraculous. But that isn’t the thing that caught my attention most this week. It was all the noise!

In the Old Testament reading we have people singing aloud, raising shouts, proclaiming (you can’t do that quietly), giving praise, and weeping. In our Psalm there is laughter and shouts of joy and then we meet the blind man, sat on the roadside. Or rather, we walk past the blind man on the side of the road. Totally pass him by and don’t notice him at all and Blind Bartimaeus begins to shout out, ‘Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me’! Many order him to be quiet – but this is the thing he will break his silence over, and he cries out even more loudly, ‘Son of David, have mercy on me!’

The crowds are moving, the people are noisy and the voice that rings out above it all asks for mercy. People try to shut him up and Jesus stops. He stands still and he says, ‘call him here’ and they do.

The blind man refuses to stay silent when he knows his healing is available to him. He refuses to keep quiet, regardless of custom or tradition or respect. He cries out his own protest shout. And while we reflect on him breaking his silence, I wonder again what I might break my silence over. What is your Bartimaeus moment? When will we find ourselves standing alongside our own Bartimaeus and speak out for the sake of that man. What is it that will do away with our excuses of being too shy, not brave enough, not educated enough? What will open our hearts enough so our voices will follow?

And that leads me to ask the question, what will the church – worldwide – refuse to stay silent over? What loud calling voice do we need to hear from the church in the world, right now?

This past week I received an email from an organisation called ‘Palestinian Christians in Australia’, asking for the church in Australia to speak out against the genocide in Palestine. They wrote,

This past weekend, we commemorated one year since the Church of St. Porphyrios was hit by an Israeli airstrike, killing 22 and injuring 18 members of our community. Hundreds of Palestinian Christians remained sheltering [in churches] in Gaza. They have been there since October 2023, with nowhere to escape. Close to 200 have valid visitor visas for Australia. But the Australian government has not adequately supported them to leave Gaza, and now their visas are due to expire.

We are inviting Christian leaders around Australia to advocate with and for us.

In direct response to this advocacy, the government has pledged just over $477,000 to Palestinian Christians in Australia to house families arriving from Gaza. We are thankful for God’s faithfulness, the Church’s support, and the government’s provision… But thousands of the Australia Palestinian community’s family members remain trapped in Gaza, suffering famine, destruction and bloodshed. We are calling for the Australian Church to join us once again, as we say, more must be done.

We are inviting you to join the coalition of Christian leaders, as we call on the government to:

Grant emergency humanitarian visas to thousands of Palestinians in Gaza.
Provide sustained diplomatic pressure on the Israeli government about border crossings to allow safe evacuation from Gaza
Provide assistance once these families arrive in Australia.

We are looking for churches to endorse the campaign…

And that makes me want to stand, like Bartimaeus did, and cry Lord Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on us…

Last week, I preached that sometimes we need to say yes to God and then stay silent. And that remains true. It is also true that sometimes we need to say more – not just in prayer, but in word and action, in letters, in protests, in court or parliament, online and in person. Sometimes we don’t have the luxury of remaining silent. Sometimes speaking out leads to healing and freedom. Sometimes speaking up shines the light on that which is wrong and brings about change.

The words of the collect at the start of the service captured it beautifully when we prayed, ‘Jesus Christ…you heard the cry of the blind beggar when others would have silenced him. Teach us to be attentive to the voices others ignore, that we might respond and heal and welcome, for the sake of the gospel.’

So, in a few moments of silent reflection, let’s consider the question I began with; ‘What is the thing that will break your silence and makes you speak out’. There are those who are waiting for your voice. Amen.

Say yes…then shut up!

Isaiah 53:4-12 Psalm 91:9-16 Hebrews 5:1-10 Mark 10:35-45

Last week, Revd Ros read the story of the rich ruler. This morning’s gospel passage follows almost directly on from that one. Almost, but not quite, because those who compile the lectionary chose to leave out 3 little verses. Three verses that change the context of this morning’s passage, pretty significantly…

They say this, ‘The disciples were on the road, going up to Jerusalem, and Jesus was walking ahead of them… He took the twelve aside and began to tell them what was to happen to him, 33saying, ‘the Son of Man will be handed over, and they will condemn him to death; 34they will mock him, and spit upon him, and flog him, and kill him; and after three days he will rise again’.

For the third time in a few days, Jesus tells his disciples he is about to be arrested, beaten and killed; he’s going to die; and James and John respond with, ‘Teacher, we want you to do for us whatever we ask of you.’ Do for us whatever we ask.

And hasn’t it always been thus? How often do we approach Jesus in that way? Jesus here is my list; please do this for me. Sort this, fix this, make this go away and this happen… how often are we tempted to that?

But Jesus doesn’t answer their request; instead he says to them ‘you do not know what you are asking’. Can you drink the cup I drink? Can you be baptised with the baptism I am baptised with?

James and John are asking the man who is God to do for them exactly what they want. Their request of Jesus is the wrong way around; Jesus we want you to do for us whatever we ask of you… That doesn’t seem to be the right order of things at all.

How different would things be if we somehow managed to allow God to be God – total surrender – and didn’t ask for anything, but rather allowed the one who is the originator of all that is Good to do the asking of us. What if we listened rather than spoke? If we spent time consciously in the Lord’s presence, not saying, do for us what we ask of you, but rather saying give me the grace that I might do for you God, whatever you ask of ME. I will do whatever you ask of me – I’ll even drink the cup of suffering, and say yes to the baptism of death. I’m yours and I’m in. And then just wait.

What might God ask? What is it that God want each of us to do? In today’s reading God asks for service; serve those around us and love and serve God too, following the example of Christ.

The example of Christ is servanthood; total self-giving, always putting the needs of others before our own, always going the extra mile, choosing love and kindness, outdoing others in all that is good, and loving God with all that we have and all that we are and all that we do. If we spent our whole lives concentrating on that, what a difference we would find around us. If we committed to always serving others and loving God, first, and fully, and left our ‘do whatever we ask of you’ demands out, we may find that we were as close to God as if we were sat at God’s right or left hand.

I’ve been really thinking about these words this week and it has caused me to reflect on my own prayers. Since being in Australia I feel like the Holy Spirit has been inviting me into a deeper, wider, broader, space. When I first started getting into the ocean each morning the invitation that came to me was to ‘swim deeper’ – to swim in the depth of God’s grace like the parts of the ocean where hydrographers don’t even know where the seabed is. And to keep swimming. And as I have tried to respond to that invite, so I have found the words of my prayers falling away, until they just become Yes. I call them my ocean prayers and on a good day all I find myself simply praying is yes. Yes God, whatever it is; yes. Not asking anything, just swimming in that richness of grace and love, knowing that whatever God asks or gives or does is good and it is safe to say yes…and that there are probably no other words.

Because, as Jesus says, when we do ask, we don’t really know what we are asking. Lord give me a parking space – yuck.
Even Lord end world poverty – well, isn’t that ours to do, rather than absolving all responsibility to our shopping list God in the sky.

Instead of ‘my’ will be done, shouldn’t we always be asking for ‘thy’ will to be done?

Last week we were invited to give up all we had, sell all our possessions, and follow Jesus. And today, we see where that road goes. It is the road that leads to life, never forget that, but first it is the road that journeys through death. It costs us all we are and all we have, even our very lives.

Can you drink the cup I drink, Jesus asks? That’s not just the cup of wine from the last supper, but the cup of suffering that Jesus begs God to take from him in the garden of gethsemane. Can you drink from that cup James and John? Can you? Can we?

As we take this question seriously, may we take a break from asking anything of God; may we err on the side of silence rather than hollow requests; may we instead follow the example of Christ; loving God and serving one another, and giving all we have. May we simply say yes, and leave the rest to God. Amen.

A sermon for St Francis Day 2024

Genesis 2: 18-25 Canticle of the Sun Rev 5: 11-14 Matt 6: 25-29

Today we come to the end of our Season of Creation, and we celebrate the life and witness of St Francis of Assisi; the patron saint of animals, ecology and the environment. We began the season with John’s sermon on the Earth. He concluded that sermon with a beautiful quote from Pope Francis, so it seems fitting to begin this sermon with an equally wonderful quote from the same. In his encyclical on the environment, thePope writes this tribute to St Francis:

I do not want to write this encyclical without turning to that attractive and compelling figure whose name I took as my guide and inspiration… I believe St Francis is the example par excellence of care for the vulnerable, and of an integral ecology lived out joyfully and authentically … He was particularly concerned for God’s creation and for the poor and outcast… He shows us how inseparable the bond is between concern for nature, justice for the poor, commitment to society and inner peace.

This is the third consecutive year we have celebrated the feast of this Saint, often described as being the most popular and admired…but probably the least imitated.

When we have celebrated this great saint in previous years, I have told you about his upbringing and his refusal of the family wealth. I have spoken about his hearing from God in a rundown chapel in San Damiano, where he received the call to ‘repair my church which is falling into ruins’…and the building projects that ensued. I have explained how he rejected his inheritance, publicly, nakedly and even violently at the hands of his rich father, and then went on to unintentionally form a monastic community of followers around him. And these are remarkable and admirable things about this saint. If these things pique your interest do go and read about them for yourself because this time around, I am captured by an account written by Dr Frances MacKay in her article entitled, Saint Francis; Saint as Holy Fool.

I think she would’ve liked Christabel’s explorations of humanity, because she writes, ‘I find myself wondering about the man behind the saint’, and I do too. And she goes on to explore his humanity and his rise (or stumble) towards sainthood.

She explains how grounded Francis was in his own humanity, how one of his brothers overheard him in prayer one night, asking over and over, ‘Who are you O God, and who am I?’ She says, ‘Like other mystics, he understood that the search for God and the search for his deepest self are two sides to the one coin.’

Who are you, O God, and who am I?

This was a question Francis asked his God throughout his life. It held answers that shaped his life and ministry and religious order. It is the basis upon which he penned that glorious canticle we just read together and that beautiful poetry of becoming a channel of God’s peace. This question, and his exploration of the answers, seeped into his bones. It meant he could see his place in all of creation; that God is all powerful, all good, worthy of all praise. And that we – the entire cosmos – belong to God and are siblings together in that huge family of creation; the sun is his brother; the moon is our sister; wind, air, clouds, storms, water, fire – they are all our siblings and we, and they, reflect something of God’s glory.

Who are you O God? You are the creator, the source of divinity, worthy of service.

And who am I? I am part of your family; your child, one another’s sibling. I am one who praises and worships. I enjoy creation. I revel in the beauty and power and strength and value and colour of all you have made, and I am sustained by it.

Who are you O God? You are the one who is Love

And who am I? I am one who forgives for love

Who are you O God? You are most high

And who am I? I am peaceful, I am happy, I am following you. I am thankful.

Francis’ two-fold question was everything. It was all he needed to go through life. Knowing God, and knowing himself in relation to God directed all he did. It was these two questions that took him from his lofty ambition of being a knight and a troubadour, carried him through sickness that brought him near to death. These questions took him to the feet of lepers who he kissed and motivated him to embrace the marginalised – they were his siblings too.

And then, on 4^th October 1226, he embraced the one he called Sister Bodily Death, dying, naked and on the rubbish tip outside the town walls, just as he requested. He had lived with those questions – who are you, O God, and who am I – throughout his life. He allowed them to mould and inspire and shape him. And then, just as he took the hand of Sister Death, he told his brothers, ‘I have done what is mine to do, now you must do yours’. And so left behind this legacy for others to consider and act upon.

Who are you O God?

Who am i?

I have done what is mine – now you must do yours

Those words are challenging. And I hope they speak to our next new venture that begins today, as we take Church to the Beach, as we extend hands of blessing – just like Francis did – to animals and humans and as we pray together for peace in the world.

Who are you O God? You are the creator of the cosmos and all created things, the King of peace.

Who am I? who are we? We are God’s children, created to praise and worship.

I have done what is mine – now you must do yours. What is ours to do?

Dr MacKay describes Francis as a holy fool, quoting Francis himself who said ‘The Lord told me what he wanted. He wanted me to be a new fool for the world’.

As we consider what is ours to do, those words spoke to me so clearly.

‘Holy fools’, she says, ‘tear down illusions, illuminate what is new, are subversive, at one with ourselves and the cosmos, being unselfconsciously who we are, not trying to conceal it under some persona designed to impress. The holy fool is single-minded and wholehearted’.

Who are you O God? You are good.

And who are we? We are holy fools, ready to follow you whatever the cost. And wherever it takes us.

Francis did what was his to do. Now it is our turn. Amen.

Clean heart – dirty hands

Deuteronomy 4:1-2,6-9 Psalm 15 James 1:17-27 Mark 7:1-8,14-23

One of the things I remember when I arrived at the monastery where I trained for ordination, was being handed a weighty manual of rules for college living. Page after page explained the times to be in church and the times to be in our rooms; when to speak and when to stay silent; when to walk and when to be seated. It taught us what to wear for offices or lessons, and how to clear the tables at the end of mealtimes; ‘swiftly and with dignity’. And while it was pages and pages thick, it could have been summed up really concisely; love God, care for your fellow ordinands and tutors, and follow the traditions of those who have been here longer.

In today’s gospel reading we find a similar kind of discussion. The pharisees and some of the scribes are surprised to find that Jesus’ disciples aren’t keeping the purity rules of Judaism. They’re not washing their hands, they aren’t following the traditions of their elders, they aren’t scrubbing the produce they bought from the market, and they aren’t scouring the pots and pans.

Jesus tells them God does not care for human traditions. He replaces the rule book by saying, ‘there is nothing outside a person that by going in can defile, but the things that come out are what defile’. God does not care for clean hands, washed vegetables and scrubbed cooking utensils. God cares about the human heart. Jesus goes on to say, ‘it is from within, from the human heart, that evil intentions come: [and then lists them]. All these evil things come from within, and they defile a person.’

You see, it’s not that God doesn’t care about purity. God really does. But the purity God is concerned with is purity of the heart, and that is much bigger, much deeper.

Let me say that again; God cares about the state of our hearts. Or, as St James says, in the epistle we just heard, ‘Religion that is pure and undefiled before God is this: to care for orphans and widows in their distress, and to keep oneself unstained by the world’. Keep your hearts clean, and don’t be afraid to get your hands dirty in meeting the needs of the world.

God is concerned with the state of our hearts, because from our hearts can come evil and wickedness or love and worship and care for those in need. Actually, the truth is much more nuanced. It is more likely that all these things come from our hearts at one time or another – we need to pay attention to wheedling out that which is not from God and cultivating that which is Godly, pure and worthwhile. Clean hearts, dirty hands.

The work required on our own hearts is lifelong and requires commitment and attention. What in me is good? Let’s do more of that, be more of that.

What in me is not good, what is defiled? Let me get that out, give it to God, repent, turn around and make purposeful steps away from it. That takes time and effort. It doesn’t happen by accident, and it is important. Don’t worry about your hands or food or containers – the germs and goodness from all that will end up in the sewer anyway – worry about your heart. Focus on your heart. Give me your heart, let’s work together on that, says God.

And maybe that sounds terrifying to you – certainly uncomfortable, maybe a bit invasive, vulnerable-making? Washing hands, food and pans is one thing but washing my heart – allowing God to wash clean my heart – what will God find there? What have I hidden there even from myself?! What will be exposed? How loveable am I if the whole of my heart is known? Keeping purity laws is much easier but now you’re saying God wants to purify my heart?

……………………………

As I was thinking about this passage this week I got an email from the Australian musician, writer and actor, Nick Cave. He sends out sporadic emails to his mailing list called the Red Hand Files. People write in with questions and he chooses one or two to answer each time. They vary from things like ‘do you ever worry about being on the wrong side of history’ to ‘what is joy and where is it?’ and anything in between. Nothing is off limits, he says, and his responses are often insightful, poignant, witty, wise.

This week he answered a question from a British Poet who wrote a poem with the same title as Cave’s latest album. As he shared the poem I found that it spoke, somehow, to this passage. It is called Sometimes a Wild God. You can read it in full online but here is an excerpt…

Sometimes a Wild God.

Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.
He is awkward and does not know the ways
Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
His voice makes vinegar from wine.

When the wild god arrives at the door,
You will probably fear him.
He reminds you of something dark
That you might have dreamt,
Or the secret you do not wish to be shared.

He will not ring the doorbell;
Instead he scrapes with his fingers
Leaving blood on the paintwork,

Though primroses grow
In circles round his feet.

You do not want to let him in

You are very busy.
It is late, or early, and besides…
You cannot look at him straight
Because he makes you want to cry.

Your dog barks;
The wild god smiles.
He holds out his hand and
The dog licks his wounds,
Then leads him inside.

The wild god stands in your kitchen.
Ivy is taking over your sideboard;
Mistletoe has moved into the lampshades
And wrens have begun to sing
an old song in the mouth of your kettle.

‘I haven’t much,’ you say
And give him the worst of your food.

[It goes on, but it ends like this…]

Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.
He is awkward and does not know the ways
Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
His voice makes vinegar from wine
And brings the dead to life.

We worship a wild God and that wild God is way more concerned with the state of our heart than our hands. May we make our hearts clean and not be afraid to get our hands dirty. Amen.