amanda gorman – Holy Adventures

See the light – be the light

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

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

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

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

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

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

So I wonder, where have you seen the light?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If only we’re brave enough to be it.

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

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

Where might you be brave enough to be the light?

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

Amen.

For God so loves…

Numbers 21:4-9 Psalm 107:1-3,17-22 Ephesians 2:1-10 John 3:14-21

For God so loved the world that he gave his only son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.

Objectively, this verse is the most famous of all Jesus’ quotes. It is probably the most popular bible reference in the world. And a verse that elicits more than 2 million internet searches, month upon month. It is often described as the ‘bible in a nutshell’. It features on signs at sporting events, on the underside of paper cups in a well-known American burger chain. In the Baptist church of my childhood, it was even the code for the burglar alarm – 43:16! And is a passage one is hard pressed to pass over, when it crops up in the gospel reading for the day. Truth be told though; I don’t love it. And spending a week studying it has forced me to consider why.

As I have read commentaries and sermons, so I discovered I’m not alone in this opinion. More than a few other preachers struggle with it too. Some write that they don’t like the ease with which it can be used as an exclusionary way of saying ‘I am in’ and ‘you are out’. And because it isn’t the whole message of God’s love for God’s world. And for too long, it has been used in more conservative contexts to highlight the doctrine of Penal Substitution, which says God gave His son to die on the cross, to take the punishment of the sins of the world; that Jesus died as an atoning sacrifice, so humanity could be reconciled to God.

And, as one commentary writer said, either we believe in a God who forgives, or we don’t. And if we subscribe to a belief in a forgiving God then we can’t also subscribe to penal substitution – because that isn’t forgiveness, that is atonement. If we believe in outrageous grace and unconditional love, we can’t also believe a price needed to be paid.

You see why I have struggled with this verse?! But I think it says three really important things. The first is this:

It says that God looks at the world and loves it, loves us, loves. God loves.

For God loved the world so much that He gave.

God’s heart, God’s opinion of the world is summed up in one word – LOVE. It is God’s love for us – for us all, for all God has created – that means we can be in relationship. Not blood sacrifices, not right thinking or believing or feeling – simply that we are the recipients of God’s love and grace. And that is enough.

As St Paul wrote in our epistle for today, ‘God, who is rich in mercy, out of the great love with which he loved us… made us alive together with Christ – by grace you have been saved …this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God’.

The next thing we can learn is that this gift of love changes everything.

So here is an interesting thing; almost everywhere else in John’s gospel, the word “world” is used negatively — to refer to an entity that is at odds with God, even the enemy of God. So, in Jesus’ farewell discourse we hear that he is not of the world, we are not of the world, the world will hate us, just as it hated Christ…and so it continues. So, it is remarkable in this passage to find Jesus say God loves this God-hating world so much that God is willing to give the most precious gift God has, as God’s most profound act of love for this world. And this gift is so that the world might be changed and saved.

Not from a wrathful God, but from itself. From a place of darkness into a place of light.

And that is the third thing…

God sent God’s son as a transforming gift, from darkness to light.

Jesus came to a world that was hostile, but beloved of God, as a life-giving, love-proclaiming gift, and a source of unquenchable light.

And what did the world do? The world loved darkness.

The world loved darkness because darkness hides our actions, our meanness, our corruption, our wrongdoings. The world loves darkness because we can do what we want and not get caught.

So God, the brightest light of the world, the one who created light, sent a fraction of Godself, wrapped up in the skin of Jesus to bring light – the light of the world. Not to shame the world, not to trick the world into being exposed, but as an outrageous gift of love, to say ‘I see you, and I know you, and I still utterly adore you’. I can see what you are doing, and I love you. Don’t run and hide – you are loved.

And the world hated it.

Not the whole world, of course, but the people and places of power and evil – the systems and structures that needed darkness so their work could thrive and spread. They didn’t want light. They needed darkness to be able to function. So when they encountered The Light, they killed it. They killed the expression of undeserving, unmerited love – the gift of God – the true light.

But God’s love has never been destroyed. God’s light has never been extinguished. And in this generation and in this place, we are it. We are the light bearers of the God who loved the world so much. And that gift – that free gift – needs to be taken to the world’s darkest places and shone on the world’s most corrupt and dark systems, policies, and ruling forces so they are revealed and potentially redeemed in that blaze of light. And we are the hands and feet and voices and actions that carry it.

In our baptism, we were given the charge to ‘shine as a light in the world to the glory of God the father’ and that charge has never been revoked. We don’t need to chase darkness away – indeed, we cannot – we simply need to shine God’s light, that the world may know it is loved, and that we might be reminded that we are too.

So shine as a light in the world to the glory of God the Father.

Or as one of my favourite poets would say:

‘we step out of the shade, aflame and unafraid…

For there is always light,
if only we’re brave enough to see it.
If only we’re brave enough to be it.’

May we see it, may we be it and may the world be changed. Amen.

The healing of a man born blind: a guided meditation

1 Samuel 16:1-13 Psalm 23 Ephesians 5:8-14 John 9:1-41

Our gospel readings this Lent are super long; they are stories within stories. There is so much packed into each one, it feels impossible to try and find just one message to take away with you. I wonder if sometimes it is worth spending time immersed in the text, looking around it from the inside, somehow. So come with me, if you will, to this dusty street in Jerusalem and hear what the Spirit is saying. I invite you to close your eyes – as strange as that may feel – to see what your senses encounter.

Imagine you are this nameless blind man, sitting on the side of the road, in the heat of the day. You know this space; you have sat there every day for as long as you can remember. You know how it feels, underneath you. You know every sound of every person who passes, every scent of every market trader, each person’s tone. You know the time of day by where the sun hits your skin, and the season by the warmth of it. You’ve never seen it, of course. But you know it better than anyone who has.

And you know, recently, there has been a new person doing the rounds, with his group of friends. He’s been causing quite a stir – just hours ago there were raised voices, outrageous claims. He seems to be saying he is God, that he has seen Abraham. The pharisees are livid. Rocks were raised and thrown and dropped, and they’ve lost him. There’s confusion, chaos and then silence. Tensions have been rising, for good and for bad. Could he be a prophet? Could he maybe even be God? You would love to see him. You would love to see. Him.

And then footsteps, as always. People walking. Its busy here – you’re more likely to get money if you sit here; more likely to eat, maybe even take something home, so footsteps are good, even if they mean the occasional kick. And then the footsteps stop, several sets, and they are right in front of you. People are standing right in front of you. You hear local voices, ‘Rabbi, who sinned? This man, or his parents, that he was born blind?’ and you want to disappear – not this again. Not the blame thing. Yes, of course, one of us must be bad – either me, or my parents. It must be someone’s fault, right? Someone was wrong? Wrong. You’re wrong.

‘Neither this man, nor his parents sinned; he was born blind so God’s works might be revealed in him’. What? He is talking to his friends. He hasn’t spoken to you. He hasn’t even asked your name or what you want. He’s the same as everyone else. He talks about you, not to you. He is the same as everyone else. And then he spat. He spits.

He drips saliva onto the ground in front of you, over and over, to turn dust into mud. Saliva, dust, mud, mixed, and smeared onto your face, disgusting – covers over your eyes and tells you to go to Siloam. He sends you to the place that is sent, and you wash your face – you wash because you are covered in dust, spit and mud. You wash, and you open your eyes, and you see. You see? The sun is not just warm it is bright – it burns your eyes, and you shield them with your hands that you’ve never seen before, but you can see them now. You can see your skin and the water and the people. All the people. They are watching you. You can see!

And you don’t know what you looked like before, because you are seeing yourself for the first time, but it seems they are too!

‘Is this not the man who used to sit and beg?’

Yes it is, no its not, nobody is quite sure.

You tell them it is you – some believe, some aren’t quite sure.

And all you know is that this man, the one they call Jesus, spoke and spat and smeared and sent you. And now you can see.

Once you were in darkness – you were always in darkness – and now you are in the light. Though you were blind, now you see.

The pharisees don’t get it. Your parents don’t get it. You don’t get it; you don’t understand, you don’t know what happened, you didn’t ask for it, but everything has changed. Darkness becomes light. Darkness becomes life. The mud didn’t do it. The water didn’t do it. Jesus did it. He must be a prophet. He must be God.

And your blindness had kept you out of the temple. You couldn’t enter because you couldn’t see. You would never be ritually pure enough to enter the temple. But now you are clean so you take your first step in. And everyone is questioning, everyone wants to know what happened.

But nobody will listen to you. Everyone is angry. You don’t know why they are angry but you can see it in their faces – what you could once only hear in their voice, now you see in their eyes. And their anger grows with every word you say and every new thing you see, and they grab you and shove you. And as they shout so their words spit on you but this time, spit is hurt, not healing. And they throw you out. Still kept out.

And then you see the man. The one you heard speak and spit and smear and send. You see him. And he tells you he is God. First, he opened your eyes and then he opens your heart. First you saw him. Then you worshipped him.

He came to bring light to dark places. Life to dark places. Light and life to those living in darkness and he tells you I am the Light of the World, and you know it is the truth. And you know his work is now your work.

And as it was for that nameless blind man, so it is for us.

As Jesus said to him, so he says to us; I am the light of the world and I have come to bring light and life to those who are fumbling around in the darkness.

His work is our work.

In this place, in Beaconsfield, we are to shine as a light in the world, to shine with the light of the world. To be a beacon to those in darkness and despair around us. To bring light to dark places – even if we don’t know their name. Even if they don’t ask. To be a light, to bring people home.

And, in the words of the 21^st century poet-prophet Amanda Gorman:

For there is always light, if only we are brave enough to see it.

If only we are brave enough to be it!

May Beaconsfield be known as a place of light, as a people of light.

May we be brave enough to see it and brave enough to be it. Amen.