Australia – Holy Adventures

The Magnificat for Gaudete

Isaiah 35:1-10 Magnificat James 5:7-10 Matthew 11:2-11

On this one Sunday of advent, the church confuses many of its members every time. You see, the Sundays in advent are dedicated to key aspects of the incarnation story – the patriarchs, prophets, John the Baptist and blessed Mary – and the world’s logical brain says pink equals girls, so today must be about Mary. Not so!

Today we light the rose candle and wear rose vestments because we lighten this slightly heavier season of advent, we press pause on our repentance and celebrate joy…so we lighten the colour purple to pink. Rose. I may’ve been easier to comprehend if the church had chosen lilac. Anyway, today is not pink for Mary. Today is Rose for John the Baptist. Right? Excellent… Except…just to add to the confusion, I’m going to preach on those fabulous words from Mary’s Magnificat, because it is utterly magnificent.

Mary is greeted by an angel, told she will give birth, and her response is ‘my soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord, my spirit rejoices’, and then prophesies about how remarkable and different the world will be once God has come to live among us; the humble will be lifted, the mighty brought down, the hungry will be filled with good things and the rich will be sent away with nothing.

Regardless of what we can or can’t believe about the virgin birth, the truth is, her words are an incredible foresight into how life might be, how we may dare to believe it could be as people trying to follow in the same steps as our blessed mother.

So threatening were these words to world leaders – it was illegal for anyone to recite them publicly in certain countries even until the mid 1980s. In Guatemala, parts of India and other places, rulers and presidents banned these words in fear that the poorest people might hear them, believe them and revolt. If our faith isn’t that terrifying to those who are rich and mighty, we are doing something wrong. We really are doing something wrong.

I was thinking about that this week, whilst also considering whether it is important, essential, possible, to believe in the immaculate conception and virgin birth. We have wondered about this together before. And as I wondered this time, I came across words from my very favourite preacher, Nadia Bolz-Weber, who wrote, ‘I know people get hung up on believing the virgin birth thing, but honestly, the harder miracle to believe is that the angel Gabriel actually found someone willing to say yes.”

She goes on to say that if she had been visited by Gabriel, she would have needed a list of guarantees, assurances of blessing, evidence of personal benefit. She admits she would only have said yes if she understood exactly how God planned to protect or reward her. But Mary receives almost no information, no assurances, no safety net. Mary only hears a bewildering, disruptive invitation — and she responds with unreserved trust: “I am God’s servant. Let it be with me according to your word.”

Perhaps it is possible that Mary’s yes is the greater miracle: the courage to surrender to God’s call before she had clarity, before she could possibly understand what it would mean, before anything looked safe or promising. And that reminded me of something that happened to me last year, that I wondered if I would ever share, but here goes…

Last year, early November, I was walking along Francisco street, coming home from coffee at Kerfuffle. Advent was approaching and I was beginning to consider the advent stories ahead. I was thinking about Mary, and her surprise pregnancy and I found myself thinking about Sarah, and Elizabeth. And about how both those women had babies so late in life. Impossibly late, completely outside of childbearing age. And I wondered how it would have felt to tell their friends, ‘I’m pregnant’. How would strangers have reacted to their growing bump in their 80s or beyond? And as I thought about this, these words dropped into my brain, ‘you’re going to have a baby’. Just that. it was very simple and incredibly clear. You are going to have a baby.

Now, if I had been as devout and obedient as Mary, I would have fallen to my knees right there and then and said ‘here am I a servant of the lord’. I didn’t do that. Instead, I went down an entire rabbit hole of biology and logic. Five years before I had a hysterectomy and my first thought – I kid you not – was ‘if the surgeon left one cell behind in my body maybe a new womb could regenerate somehow’. That’s where I went. For the rest of the walk home. And then I thought no more of it.

Around 2 or 3 weeks later I was handed this sleeping 16 month old baby. Again, I didn’t say ‘ah yes God. Now I understand. ‘Let it be to me according to your word’. I said, ‘just one night’. Then there were days, weeks, of me saying, ‘we can’t keep her…this is impossible…this is insane…we are too old and too busy and too tired and there are a million people who would be better for her’. And then one day I said yes. I said ‘maybe she is a gift for us, from God’. And when I said yes, I remembered those words from Francisco Street. And I said sorry to God and accepted this gift, this call, for however long it lasts.

And I wondered if I would ever tell you that because it might sound like I am saying I am just like Mary. I am definitely not. This event, this whole situation doesn’t set me apart from anyone else who is determined to follow Jesus wherever the path leads.

What I am saying is that Mary’s yes was radical and fierce and incredible AND God still speaks to God’s people, and says ‘I want you to do this thing. Will you do it?’, and the unfolding miracle is twofold – one that God might trust these essential tasks to mere people like us, and two that sometimes we say yes. Even if it is eventually.

My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my saviour, Mary sings. And heaven heard the yes it needed. At the end of today’s service we are going to sing Mary’s own words. Will your heart also say yes to whatever it is God is asking? May we be the miracle. Amen.

Trees of Hope

Isaiah 11:1-10 Psalm 72:1-7, 18-21 Romans 15:4-13 Matthew 3:1-12

Two weeks ago, we went on a tour of Trafalgar Square. Today I invite you on another trip; to the Northern most point of England – to Hadrian’s wall.

Hadrian’s Wall was built by the Romans in the 2^nd century. It is almost 120 km long and it stretches from the North Sea to the Irish Sea, across the whole of England. It was built as a clear boundary to mark the northern limit of the Roman Empire — and as a defence against the unconquered peoples of Scotland. The wall is an extraordinary work of engineering: up to 6 metres high, with milecastles, gateways, observation towers, and a deep ditch to the north. It has housed thousands of soldiers from all over the empire, creating one of the most multicultural communities in ancient Britain. Today, Hadrian’s Wall is a World Heritage Site, one of the most iconic archaeological landmarks in Britain, and is a place where empire, history, and wild beauty all meet.

Why am I telling you this? Well, because a couple of weeks ago I got a message from my sister back in the UK. She was filming a news story on her phone and sent it to me with the words, “You’ve got to see this.” She was right — and I replied, “This will preach.” I didn’t realise how soon. Because today the story fits perfectly, and it begins with a tree.

For more than a century, a single sycamore stood in a deep fold of land beside Hadrian’s Wall. The Sycamore Gap Tree. Planted in the 1800s, it grew where the land dipped between two hills, and it was breathtaking.

People loved it. Walkers rested beneath it. Couples proposed there. Families scattered ashes. It was probably the most photographed tree in the whole of UK, if not beyond. It became a star of the silver screen when it starred in the movie, Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. It was everyone’s tree: steadfast, solitary, beautiful in every season. Then, one night in September 2023, someone came along with a chainsaw.

By morning, walkers found it felled — a raw stump where life had stretched so tall, the great trunk lying across the ancient stones like a dead giant. News travelled fast. I had retreated to that section of the wall many times and I was surprised to see how upset I was by the cutting down of this one tree. And I was not alone. People wept. Children left flowers. It felt like desecration, a guttural reaction. Police called it vandalism. Most people simply called it heartbreak.

And yet — as in so many of God’s stories — that wasn’t the end. Rangers and conservationists rushed in. They gathered seeds, took cuttings, lifted tiny pieces of living wood, hoping that life might begin again elsewhere. And it did. From that fallen tree, forty-nine saplings grew — one for every foot of its height. A project called Trees of Hope nurtured them and is now planting them across the UK.

The reason my sister was filming the news story was because the first sapling was planted in Coventry — my hometown — a city that knows about resurrection. Bombed to rubble in the war, and rebuilt around forgiveness and peace. At that replanting, people gathered, holding soil and silence, and grief turned to hope, and with a commitment to peace.

These 49 saplings will spring up across the UK, telling a new story of the tenacity and resilience of God’s great goodness to us in Creation. But even the original stump has sent out new green shoots this spring, nature preaching its own Advent sermon:

What was cut down can rise again. Life finds a way through. God is stubborn.

Isaiah knew this long before. He spoke to a nation stripped bare, its leaders corrupt, its future uncertain, and he dared to say: “A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse; a branch shall grow out of its roots.” Just you wait and see. Isaiah doesn’t offer optimism; he offers the courage to stare at a stump and still imagine green. Then John the Baptist appears in our Gospel, standing in the wilderness, saying, “Prepare the way.” His urgency isn’t anger — it’s invitation. Make space, he says. Something new is trying to grow.

And this is Advent: a time of preparation, readiness, optimism, belief that something better isn’t just possible, it’s on its way. It’s not pretending all is well, but it is a resilient refusal that darkness has the final word. This is the season of saplings and stumps, and of trusting God is at work…and sometimes it is beneath the surface.

And today we baptise baby India. This new life, entrusted to her parents, Sherry and Claire, is being planted into the soil of God’s love in this community. Baptism is our Sycamore Gap moment — not the felling, but the rising. India is a Tree of Hope. Here we mark her with oil and pour holy water over her head, and in so doing we proclaim God is never done creating, healing, or beginning again. India’s life is a sign that God still believes in beginnings. Her baptism reminds us that the world is not finished, not beyond repair.

Sherry and Claire, today you say yes to raising her in a story where love outlasts destruction, where mercy outgrows fear, where even the hardest stumps can send out new shoots. Your yes is an act of profound hope. Because God’s kingdom doesn’t come like a bulldozer. It comes like a sapling. Like a child.

The whole Christian story is Sycamore Gap:
Love cut down. Love rising again. Love replanted in the world.

So as we welcome India into the life of Christ, may this truth root itself in us:

The final word is never the stump. It is always the shoot. Amen.

Advent 1A

Isaiah 2:1-5 Psalm 122 Romans 13:9-14 Matthew 24:36-44

I grew up with the soundtrack of the great heartthrob, Cliff Richard. My parents had all the records, and some of his classic hits were based on this morning’s gospel, so have been my ear worm all week. Don’t Get Left Behind talked about people disappearing from fields and beds and I remember panicking about being the one who got left behind, and then, switching to feel rather pleased with myself because I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be. Faith and fear make strange companions.

It wasn’t until theological college I learned the concept of the “rapture”— some people being whisked away while others were left behind — was pretty new, barely a couple of centuries old. That discovery was both a relief and a revelation and sent me straight back to passages like these, to discover what it might be about and this passage isn’t about escape; it’s about awareness. Jesus isn’t talking about being lifted out of the world, but about being awake to God within the world — awake to hope and noticing her as she breaks through the ordinary.

And that’s what Advent is about — not fear, but focus. Not quite penitential, like Lent, but a time for getting sorted – leaving things behind so we might be prepared and ready. A readiness for the kingdom that keeps arriving, whether we notice or not, whether we’re ready, or not. And all of that, says Jesus, is exactly where hope begins. And hope is our theme for advent 1.

Isaiah saw that hope long before it came. He dreamed of nations streaming to God’s Mountain; of swords melted into ploughshares; of people learning war no more.
It’s a vision of a world that is awake to peace — a world in which despair is not the final word. And he ends with an invitation: “Come, let us walk in the light of the Lord.” How much does the world need that invitation now? Put darkness behind you, great nations and world leaders, and walk in light. Wouldn’t that be incredible?

That’s the invitation of Advent — to wake up and walk – to walk out of darkness and towards and into light. To look for light, even when it’s faint and pursue it. To trust God’s dawn is always nearer than we think. We need that reminder more than ever. The news, the wars — they whisper that hope is naïve. But Advent whispers back, No — hope is holy defiance. Hope keeps our eyes open for God. And it might feel feint but, man, Hope is fierce.

In these verses Jesus is calling his followers – down through the ages – to be attentive. It’s a wake-up call: Notice what’s sacred right beside you. And that’s why this gospel is perfect for today. Because this morning Cecilia stands at this altar for the first time as a priest — a new beginning for her, and for us.

Priesthood, at its heart, is the ministry of staying awake to hope.

To lift the bread and see God in it. To bless the cup and taste grace in it.

To look at the gathered people and glimpse Christ among you.

Every time she stands here, she’ll be practising holy attentiveness; naming hope where others may see only habit. That’s what a priest does, and that’s what the Church is called to do: stay awake to hope.

There’s a phrase among priests about the privilege of standing at the altar to make present the body and blood of Christ. This first time is terrifying, and profound and incredibly precious. And priests commit to, and encourage one another, to make every time the first time. So Cecilia – may every time you stand before God’s people be like this first time. May you be awake to the hope God is entrusting to you, and awake to the holy surprises God has for your priestly ministry. Be awake to what is happening in the spiritual realm, because that is what is most significant, most real.

And that is our challenge too; being awake to what’s real: awake to injustice, awake to suffering, awake to possibility. That’s gospel wakefulness. A heart that won’t go numb. Keep awake, because God’s kingdom doesn’t akways crash in with trumpets; it more often slips quietly into everyday life, and only those who are open will notice it.

In the last year, we have learned a fair bit about what it is to be awake in the rectory. Friday marked the first anniversary of Kennie joining our family. This little ball of chaos and love likes to get up at 4 or 5 or occasionally 6am. We are, honestly, wrecked, bone-tired — but it’s good and holy. Kennie wakes up every morning as if the dawn happened just for her. No gentle stretch — just full attention, full curiosity, and joy, ready to see what good things might happen next. She’s a living Advent sermon: eyes wide open to everything, soaking in the world, trusting each new day will bring something good. She doesn’t question if the light will come — she knows it will. That’s hope; that confident, childlike trust that the world will be beautiful again and seeing where it already is. If Kennie can wake to the world like that — so can we.

So as we begin a new church year, as Cecilia begins her priestly ministry, we commit again to being a people of hope. Hope that rises early and learns to see. Hope that knows light is stronger than night. The world needs people who are awake —to beauty, to pain, to the nearness of God. So, let’s stay awake to what this world knows and offer more. Let’s stay hopeful in times of despair and kind when the world is cruel, because we are children of the Light. The night is far gone; the day is near. Thanks be to God. Amen.

Win, looking like you’re losing

Jeremiah 23:1-6 Benedictus Colossians 1:11-20 Luke 23:33-43

Priests and preachers, the world over, hope and pray they say something memorable. But

they realise the sad truth that most of us – while maybe finding a sermon enjoyable or engaging at the time – barely remember more than 3 or 4, across a lifetime. We know this. Sometimes it feels depressing, other times it is a massive relief! But today’s gospel passage, reminds me of one of the sermons I really do remember from many, many years ago.

The preacher’s name was Steve. He was a Baptist minister, turned charity CEO, turned TV and radio celebrity, and he was preaching at a large Christian conference in the UK. It must’ve been around 2002, and he was talking about the great London landmark, Trafalgar Square.

Built in the early 19^th century, with Nelson’s Column in the centre, it commemorates the victory at the battle of Trafalgar. Nelson’s Column stands over 50 meters high and is flanked by fountains and brass lions and in each of the four corners of the square are four other columns, each standing 5 meters high. Three of them have large statues atop – some the same height again. And until 1999 the fourth plinth stood empty, due to funding running out. And so, for 150 years the column stayed that way. Over that time there was much discussion, even plans drawn up, of which famous world hero might adorn the 4^th plinth. Suggestions came and went but neither consensus nor funding was found.

Then, just before the turn of the 21^st century, it wasproposed that the Fourth Plinth be used for temporary contemporary art, instead of another permanent statue. A huge competition ensued, and the winner was a relatively unknown artist, only 40 years old and not wildly experienced at the time. His name is Mark Wallinger and his piece of artwork is called Ecce Homo. Behold, the man — the phrase Pilate used when presenting Jesus, bruised and bound, before the people. Just before the crucifixion passage today. The one the lectionary chooses for Christ the King.

Now consider this. Wallinger’s Jesus is placed on a plinth 5 meters high, alongside Admiral Nelson, whose statue is 10 times bigger…45 meters taller. The other statues are made of brass and Ecce Homo is made of simple scrubbed resin – deliberately marked and streaked.

When Wallinger won the commission, he sat in his London bedsit and looked across at his housemate, an inch or two taller than me, and decided he was plain and ordinary enough to become the Jesus he wanted on this plinth. Using the bedsit’s bath he made a cast of his housemate and created his artwork from there. Less than 2 meters tall, alongside 50 meters of Nelson Grandeur.

The world’s press turned out for the grand unveiling – the first hero to be placed in Trafalgar Square for almost 200 years and they indeed saw an Ecce Homo – behold the man. Nothing but a man. One reporter summed it up perfectly and said, ‘he looks miniscule’. And that was the point. It’s a piece about vulnerability and truth, set high on a plinth built for power.

And, as Revd Steve spoke about this to a crowd of 5000 Christians I was transfixed.

Jesus is our King. And his Kingdom is unlike any other. He refuses power and instead is vulnerable. And this is what his sermon said; the message of our God is that you win, looking like you’re losing. You win, looking like you’re losing. And that phrase has come back to me again and again over the last 2 or more decades. With the Kingdom of God, and with Christ as King, we win looking like we’re losing.

This man, this God-man, is beaten and whipped and tortured. He is spat at and stripped naked. He is wrongfully convicted, in some botched trial, deserted by his friends and taken out and killed. With criminals who mock him. And he is our King?

This man, this broken, humble, dominated man, to quote St Paul, is the image of the invisible God? What are we supposed to do with a King whose throne is a cross and who’s jewels are a crown of thorns? How do we follow and worship a King who looks like he’s losing rather than lording it over this kingdom? And what does it mean to be the citizens of this kingdom?

Christ, our King, is not a monarch enthroned over the world, but is Love enveloping it. Enveloping us. And that is what we are called to, too. To live as citizens of this upside-down kingdom means standing beside those the world overlooks, speaking peace into shouting places, choosing mercy over might. God keeps turning the plinths of power into stages for grace, and calls us to see holiness where the world sees failure.

And as I said last week, and many times before, every time we come to this table and break bread, we remember again that brokenness is not the end. Out of brokenness and death comes resurrection and life. And that changes everything, because death no longer wins, even though it looks like it won’t lose. We win, looking like we’re losing. Yet, actually, in this dimension, winning isn’t even the point. Loving is.

Outrageous grace and mercy is the currency of this Kingdom and, that changes everything, because when we fall on our knees before this King we look up and see He isn’t there looming over us, at all. He is alongside us, knelt too, in humility, washing the feet of his friends and offering to wash us.

When we call Christ “King”, we are not bowing to domination.
We are saying yes to a reign of love — to let kindness have authority, to allow forgiveness to rule our hearts, to let peace become our law.

And let’s face it — the world has tried the alternative. We have crowned domineering kings, obeyed despotic rulers, followed power-hungry presidents — and made a right mess of it.

So maybe what we need is something entirely different. And that is what our King offers.
This is the gospel.

God shows us a different kind of majesty — the kind that bends low, carries the cross, meets us where we are and calls us beloved. May we choose, again and again, to be faithful citizens of this kingdom, to whom all glory and worship and Kingship belongs, now and forever, Amen.

Blessed are YOU…

Daniel 7:1-3; 15-18 Psalm 149 Ephesians 1:11-23 Luke 6:20-31

All Saints’ Day always makes me laugh, because often we talk about saints like they’re solemn, glowing figures who float gracefully through life like spiritual ballerinas. But the actual communion of saints — the one that includes us — and those we have loved and lost, who we remember today – the real communion of saints is much messier and funnier than that… I mean, have you *met* the saints? They are wild.

So, this year’s contenders for Saint of the Year… First up; St. Drogo, the patron saint of coffee and unattractive people. Then, St. Joseph of Cupertino, who levitated so often during mass his brothers had to tie him down. And St. Christina the Astonishing, who literally floated up to the rafters at her own funeral because she said she couldn’t stand “the stench of sin.” And then my current favourite, St. Guinefort the dog. An actual French dog who was venerated as a saint for saving a baby’s life.

The saints are ridiculous and radiant, human and holy, just like us. They remind us that sainthood is not about perfection — it’s about grace leaking through the cracks, because Heaven isn’t a hall of fame — it’s a family photo. A bit blurry. Slightly chaotic. Utterly dysfunctional. And somehow, still beautiful. And we are in the picture too. So, when Jesus says, “Blessed are you,” he’s not blessing the shiny people. He’s blessing the messy ones. The poor. The grieving. The hungry. The ones who cry themselves to sleep and still get up the next day. The ones who keep forgiving when it would be easier to quit. The ones who doubt, who break, who start again.

When Jesus looked out over that hillside, he didn’t see the perfect ones. He saw the ones barely hanging on — the poor, the grieving, the hungry, the ones who’d been told they didn’t belong anywhere holy. And he said, “Blessed are you.” He didn’t start with demands or doctrine. He began with blessing. He noticed the pain, the courage, the rawness of being human — and he called it holy. That’s the scandal of the Beatitudes: they aren’t advice or expectations. They’re a declaration of love. They’re Jesus saying, *I see you. Right in the thick of it — and God is in it with you.*

Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh. Blessed are you who hunger for justice, who keep showing up even when you’re tired. Blessed are you who have nothing left to give — because grace still finds you.

And then — more scandalous still – and before we can get too comfortable — Jesus flips it. Woe to you who are rich. Woe to you who are full. Woe to you who laugh when others cry. Not as punishment. Not as threat. But as warning — as mercy, even. As another expression of love, actually. Because comfort can make us forget compassion. Privilege can make us numb. And laughter, when it’s too loud, can drown out someone else’s cry. The woes are Jesus’ heartbreak for us when we settle for shallow joy. They’re his way of saying: Don’t harden your heart. Don’t miss the miracle happening at the margins. Because the kingdom isn’t up there somewhere — it’s breaking out in the cracks of our lives right now. Right here. All around us. Even in the space left by the one we loved so much and felt like their death might kill us too.

So, if Jesus were preaching today, his words might sound like this:

Blessed are you who are exhausted from caring for everyone else,

and blessed are you who can finally admit you need care yourself.

Blessed are you who cry in the car, who weep in the shower, and keep loving people who are gone.

Blessed are you who laugh too loud at the wake, and remind us that joy and sorrow share a table.

Blessed are you who are angry about injustice, and blessed are you who don’t yet know what to do with that anger, nor even where to find it.

Blessed are the ones who doubt but still show up, the ones whose prayers have run out, the ones who can’t say the creed but still light a candle.

Blessed are the addicts, the anxious, the overworked, the underpaid, the burnt-out carers, the single parents, the ones barely hanging on.

Blessed are the saints whose halos are dented and tarnished, and blessed are the souls who thought they’d lost their faith entirely.

Blessed are you —

in your tears and your laughter, in your weariness and your wonder, in your holding on and your letting go.

Because you belong. You belong to the great communion of saints and to the God who calls every one of us beloved.

And maybe the woes would sound like this — not as curses, but as encouragement for more, for better. Not better for God, but better for us – God’s beloved children:

Woe to us when our comfort dulls our compassion.

Woe to us when we confuse abundance with worth.

Woe to us when our laughter becomes defence, not delight.

Woe to us when we polish our halos instead of washing feet.

Woe to us when we are too busy to be kind, too right to be humble, too safe to be brave.

Because the saints — the real ones — didn’t live safe or polished lives.

They loved until it cost them something. Until it cost them everything. They let their hearts stay breakable. They chose tenderness over certainty, mercy over pride.

So as we light our candles today, and whisper names that still ache in our chests — remember this: The same God who held them, holds us. And holds them still. The same Spirit that burned in their hearts still burns in ours. And one day, when someone lights a candle for us, may it be said that we loved well. That we blessed more than we cursed. That the light shone through us and others learned more about love, and life, and all that is good and human and divine, through us. May that be our prayer. Until then — may we remember: there’s a great communion gathered around us — saints and souls, angels and ancestors — whispering in our ears and hearts the same truth Jesus spoke first on that hillside:

You are loved. You are seen. You are blessed. Exactly as you are. Amen.

In Him, all things hold together…

A homily for the Diocese of Perth app

Reflection: Held Together

In his letter to the Colossians, Paul gives us a vast, cosmic vision of Christ:

“He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation…in him all things hold together.” (Colossians 1:15–17)

Not just the spiritual parts of life. Not just Sunday mornings or silent prayers. Paul says all things — every atom, every relationship, every spinning planet and breaking heart — are held together by Christ.

That’s not a metaphor. It’s a claim about the deepest structure of reality. That Christ is not only our Saviour but also the sustainer of all that is.

Years ago, preacher Louis Giglio gave a talk about this very passage, referencing a protein molecule called laminin. Present in every single body, Laminin is literally the scaffolding of the human body — a glue that binds our cells and organs together. Without it, we would physically fall apart.

And when you look at laminin under a microscope, its shape is unmistakable: a cross.

Now, no one’s claiming that’s divine proof — but it is a breathtaking image. A visible sign in creation of a deeper spiritual truth: that the cross — the self-giving love of Christ — really does hold us together. At the cellular level. At the soul level.

This is good news when life feels like it’s fraying at the edges.

Which is where today’s Gospel takes us.
In Luke 10, Jesus visits the home of Mary and Martha. Martha does what many of us do: she gets things done. She fills the silence with service. But all her striving leaves her anxious. Her life — for that moment — threatens to fall apart if she doesn’t keep every plate spinning.

Mary, by contrast, chooses to sit. To be present. To listen to the One in whom all things hold together.

And Jesus says gently:

“Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing.” (Luke 10:41–42)

One thing.

And that “one thing” isn’t passive or lazy.

It’s attentive. Grounded. Anchored in Christ. And it holds all the rest of the things together.

So much in this world pulls us in different directions — expectations, obligations, pressure, pain. And it’s easy to think we need to hold everything together ourselves. But Paul and Luke remind us of something radical: we’re not the ones holding it all together. Christ is.

We are not the centre. He is.
And we are not left to fall apart unnoticed.

St Paul reminds us: this isn’t just about something happening out there in the heavens.
Christ is not just above all — he is in you, the hope of glory. (Col. 1:27)

So, when the world is loud…
When you feel the pressure to prove or to produce…
When your soul is anxious and your spirit is scattered…
Remember Mary.

Sit down. Be still. Listen.

The same Christ who holds the stars in place is holding you.
And he isn’t asking for your perfection — just your attention.
Because in him, all things hold together.

Even you. Amen.

The relentless pursuit of God

Or, ‘Perhaps Fr Peter CR was wrong’…

Isaiah 65:1–9 | Psalm 22:20–29 | Galatians 3:10–14, 23–29 | Luke 8:26–39

I have told you this story before. It’s possible you might even remember it. But it is so fitting with the themes from this morning’s readings, and it’s quite likely that you may well have forgotten it in the passing of time, so please indulge me, once again, as I recall the beautiful tale of The Pilgrim at Tinker Creek…

In my first week at theological college we had a lecture with the college principal — Fr Peter — a wise old owl of a man, slow-spoken and razor-sharp, and a storyteller of great power. An octogenarian who swooshed around the corridors, cassock-clad, and preached from text on his mobile phone screen.

That first week, he retold us a story from one of his favourite books, of a woman who, once saw a muskrat gliding through moonlit water — a muskrat so beautiful, so unexpectedly holy in its ordinariness, that she returned again and again, hoping to see it once more. She never did. But that one glimpse changed everything. That one shimmer of wonder called her back, again and again.

Fr Peter said it was the same with God — that each of us had glimpsed divine beauty once, maybe just once, and it had been enough to draw us in. To make us show up again and again, even if God never showed up again in quite the same way.

And I heard this exclamation and realized it was me: “But isn’t God also looking for us? Doesn’t God also long to see us?” And Fr Peter, ever the monk, ever the mystery, said: “Is that what you think? That’s nice…”

And for a while, I wondered if I’d got it wrong. Because here was someone who had given up everything, spent decades in silence and prayer, someone who knew the rhythms of God like breath. If he wasn’t sure God came seeking… maybe I was naive.

But then we have this morning’s reading from Isaiah, who writes:

“I was ready to be sought out by those who did not ask,
to be found by those who did not seek me.

I said, “Here I am, here I am,” to a nation
that did not call on my name. I held out my hands all day long…”

It seems very clear: God moves first. Isn’t that what the whole incarnation shows us?
God shows up uninvited, unexpected, undeterred. Relentlessly pursuing.
God says “Here I am” not once, but twice — as if to be sure we hear it. As if to say: You don’t have to chase glimpses. I’m already here.

And then we meet Jesus, in that fascinating reading from Luke’s gospel.

And we find him sailing across the sea to a place everyone else avoided — Gentile land, haunted land, tomb-filled land — and stepping ashore to find a man no one wanted.

Naked. Alone. Possessed. A man whose very presence made others afraid.
A man society had chained up, cast out, left to rot.

And Jesus seeks him out. Relentlessly pursues him.

Speaks to him. Sees him. Frees him.

It wasn’t the man crying out for God —
it was God crossing the sea to find the man.

This is not a passive God.
This is a God who pursues.
Who disturbs.
Who insists on love even when no one asks for it.

And in Galatians, Paul hammers it home with revolutionary force:

“There is no longer Jew or Greek, no longer slave or free, no longer male and female;
for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.”

This is the God who shatters the categories. Who crosses every boundary.
Who flattens every hierarchy. This is the God who says, ‘You belong, even if the world says otherwise’.

So yes, I’ve come to believe — with my whole heart — that we do glimpse beauty and return to it, again and again. But also, and more deeply, that God comes looking for us.
That the One who made us also misses us. That the divine presence doesn’t just wait in mystery, but comes tearing across boundaries — sailing into unclean lands, shouting “Here I am” to the ones who weren’t even seeking. Even when we’re chained. Even when we’re lost. Even when we’ve given up hope. God finds us. And keeps finding us. Again and again and again.

And we are the body of Christ in this place. We are the hands and feet and presence of God in this place, for this generation. And if we have anything to do in our time here, it is to show that same welcome, that same relentless pursuit of grace and kindness and love, even to those who don’t ask. Even to those who the world tells us to shun. Especially to those, because the grace of our God is always extended beyond every boundary. And if the world doesn’t find acceptance from God’s people, where will they find it?

So whether you feel close to God today, or distant, whether you’re full of faith or full of fear — know this:
You don’t need to chase the muskrat.
The muskrat is swimming toward you.

Amen.

Trinity Sunday 2025

Today is Trinity Sunday — the one Sunday in the church year where preachers attempt to explain the unexplainable, that one plus one plus one equals one.

We use well-worn metaphors — ice, water, steam. Clover leaves. Sunshine. And commit our heresy of choice. And none of them quite hold.

And it’s a strange, because nobody fell in love with God because of a good explanation of the Trinity, and yet, people find themselves caught up, sought after, transfixed, running from or to, the God who is three and one.

You see, the Trinity isn’t a concept to understand — it’s a mystery to embrace.

It’s not about understanding. It’s about belonging.

What we meet in the Trinity — is love.

Love in motion, in relationship. Love that makes space for more.

Creator. Christ. Spirit.
God above, beside and within us.

This is not doctrine; it is a love story — and we are part of it.

So instead of trying to explain the Trinity, maybe the best way to honour it is to write our own creed — not of how it works, but what we believe (on a good day…or want to…or would, if we thought it believable) …So, I offer this. A creed of sorts. Totally unauthorised…

We believe in the Creator — the Source of all breath and beginning,
who paints galaxies with light, and sees sparrows fall.
The One who calls creation good,
who made us not out of need but of love,
and who is still creating.

We believe in the Christ — the face of God we could touch,
who healed and fed and wept and laughed,
who called the unqualified, ate with the outcast,
and walked into death with open arms.
Jesus, crucified and risen, not to appease God, but to show love.
Jesus, who joins the human story, so no one is alone again.

We believe in the Spirit — fire and breath and wild wind,
comforter and disrupter, who speaks in many languages and lands on every head.
She is the whisper and the roar, the wind that won’t be boxed,
who prays in us when we cannot, and calls us into God’s dream for the world.

We believe God is not one voice but a harmony.
Not a hierarchy but a dance.
Not power over, but love poured out.

We believe the Trinity is a lived experience.
That to be made in God’s image is to be made for community.
That love is our origin, our calling, and our future.
That God is not a solitary throne, but a table with space for all.

We believe that when we baptise, we enter this dance.
When we break bread, we share in this life.
When we forgive, we join in this grace.
When we say yes to love — we say yes to God.

We believe the Trinity teaches us God is bigger, wider, wilder than our words.

And so we won’t try to explain God today.
We will simply breathe, in awe. And bathe in worship.

The Trinity is not a test of faith. It is the shape of our faith.

It’s how we pray, and live, and love.

It’s why we believe community matters.

That justice is relational. That faith is not a ladder but a circle.

Trinity belongs us to a God who is never alone — and never leaves us alone.

And so today, we come to this table, not with explanations, but with awe, hope, and love. We come to say: this is the God we don’t understand, but we trust.

This is the mystery we live in, and the dance we choose to join.

And this dance, this relationship, this God, always sends us outward.

To believe in the Trinity is to believe in relationship. In communion. In radical welcome. In community that reflects the very heart of God.

To believe in an all-embracing Trinity means we welcome the Refugee and challenge the voices that say ‘close the borders’ and ‘turn back the boats’.

To bear the name of the Trinity dares us to embrace a slogan that says All Are Welcome, and mean it. And challenge ourselves when we don’t.

So today, let this be our creed —in word, and in action.

Let our affinity with the Trinity affect our Refugee Week, our AGM, our life of discipleship.
Let our table be wide. Our arms open. Our decisions compassionate.
Let our church look more and more like the Trinity: diverse, loving, active in service.

Let us not seek to understand, but to embrace and love, and if this is heresy, may we speak it and live it, boldly, and always. For the glory of the Holy Trinity, One God, now and forever. Amen.

Pentecost 2025

Genesis 11:1-9 Psalm 104:26-36 Acts 2:1-21 John 14:8-17

Earlier this week, my mum sent me an email and the subject line said BEAUTIFUL, in capitals, and the body of the email was just a link. It was a link to a poem by the inspiring poet and civil rights activist, Maya Angelou, and is called Caged Bird. It says this:

A free bird leaps on the back of the wind, and floats downstream till the current ends

and dips his wing in the orange sun rays and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage can seldom see through his bars of rage,

his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown…but longed for still,

and his tune is heard on the distant hill, for the caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze, and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees, and the fat worms waiting on a dawn bright lawn, and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams:

his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream

his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown…but longed for still,

and his tune is heard on the distant hill, for the caged bird sings of freedom.

I have long been enamoured by the idea of the Holy Spirit as a bird that flies through history, impossible to pin down, and chooses to come to nest in the cages of our heart. She beats her wings, and we are enlivened, and she has the key to that cage, which she opens slowly, gradually, to set us free, so we might be free-makers for others. So it is fitting she came to nest again, a few days before Pentecost.

Pentecost – originally a Jewish festival – became a significant way-marker on an unstoppable process that began at the dawn of Creation when God spoke Light into being. The continuation of one eternal, act of grace; a gift of God’s very self, given to us, for always. The flightiest part of God came to live within the cages of humanity – to fulfil God’s ministry of love.

She came to invite and accompany us on acts of holy mischief. She is subversive and cunning, in all the best ways. Dangerous as fire, and essential as air. She is one to be encountered, experienced, not just talked about.

It is by the Holy Spirit that our gifts of bread and wine become the body and blood of Christ in our holy meal. It is the Holy Spirit of Pentecost descending on us in every blessing, absolution and dismissal. She baptises and confirms and ordains and consecrates. By the Holy Spirit new people wander into Church and stay. The Holy Spirit drew you to church this morning, even if you think it’s just what you do on a Sunday morning.

Pentecost didn’t begin and end in the event we heard in our Acts reading. It is breaking out all over the place and it can’t be hindered or stopped. You can’t resist Her, and you can’t avoid Her. You can only choose to spot what she is up to, and decide whether you want to join in.

And to return to Maya’s inspired words, the Holy Spirit is ‘A free bird [who] leaps on the back of the wind and floats downstream till the current ends…and dares to claim the sky’. She claims it because she was there at the dawn of time, saw it created, laughed as the first sun rose, whispered as it set…

And we, we are invited to be that same sky that She soars on and with and through

Yet, far too often, we remain in the cages of our own selves and confine the Spirit there too.

We establish and guard the bars of our rage, we clip the Spirit’s wings and tie Her feet.

We think the song we hear the Spirit sing is fearful, because we are…

And we long for more but are just a little too afraid to step off into it, because what

if freedom is just too dangerous?

And yet our hearts know something our brains can’t quite comprehend.

Our heart knows it is designed for courage and hope and joy and dance, not safety.

And when our brain says ‘why’, our hearts say, ‘why not’.

And over and over, since the first light of Creation, the wind and flames of the Spirit has been drawing us into whatever is next. Wings wide and unfurled, voice calling out freedom, we have chance after chance to step into the depths of God’s mercy and see where that flow takes us.

How often do we notice that,

let alone consider saying yes,

let alone step off and step in.

How often? Rarely, I would say. Really rarely.

But if not today, on the day of Pentecost, then when?

And if not here, then where?

Pentecost isn’t about looking back—it’s about leaning in.

Not because we have a plan. But because we trust God.

The Spirit still longs for hearts to land in. Still sings of freedom. So today, you are invited to come forward and experience Her; receive a fresh anointing of the Holy Spirit. The sign of the cross, on your head, with holy oil.

Not to understand the Holy Spirit—but to welcome her.

Not to explain Pentecost—but to receive it. To say yes. Even without knowing what yes will mean. To open your cage. To be, once more, made new.

And if you listen closely—perhaps you’ll hear her already.

The flutter of wings. The rush of wind. The sound of fire. The voice of love.

Because the caged bird sings of freedom.

And today, the song is yours.

Amen.

Healing Gaza…

John 5:1-9

1 After this there was a festival of the Jews, and Jesus went up to Jerusalem. 2 Now in Jerusalem by the Sheep Gate there is a pool, called in Hebrew Beth-zatha, which has five porticoes. ³ In these lay many invalids—blind, lame, and paralyzed. ⁵ One man was there who had been ill for thirty-eight years. ⁶ When Jesus saw him lying there and knew that he had been there a long time, he said to him, ‘Do you want to be made well?’ ⁷ The sick man answered him, ‘Sir, I have no one to put me into the pool when the water is stirred up; and while I am making my way, someone else steps down ahead of me.’ ⁸ Jesus said to him, ‘Stand up, take your mat and walk.’ ⁹ At once the man was made well, and he took up his mat and began to walk. Now that day was a sabbath.

Every now and then, very rarely, a gospel reading appears in the service that doesn’t match the one the priest diligently worked on through the week. A moment of panic ensues and then there’s a choice to make…rewrite, or confuse the people by reading and preaching on something not in their pew sheet. This week, I opted for the latter, and so it is that we find ourselves, almost unexpectedly, beside the portico of Solomon, waiting for those waters to stir…

This week, ABC news reported that minimal aid would be allowed to enter the Palestinian territory for the first time in over 11 weeks. Those trucks were held up at the border for another 3 days, while a further 29 babies and children died of malnutrition. Eventually, on Friday, 90 trucks crossed the border, stocked with flour, baby food and medical supplies. People were trampled and killed in the desperate scramble for things that might bring life, healing, nourishment, hope. There was precious little for the 2.1million people caught up in this genocide. Ninety trucks in 12 weeks is a far cry from the five hundred trucks that used to enter Gaza daily, before the war. 140,000 tonnes of food, on 6,000 lorries waits in aid corridors; enough to feed the entire population for two months, but the access is blocked. The world watches while a mama feeds her baby saltwater, to trick its newborn belly into thinking it has been fed. Saltwater, like tears.

It’s hard not to think of those people while we hear the story of the man lying beside that pool for 38 years, hanging onto the belief that if he could just be the first person to make it into the pool when the water is stirred up, he might be healed.

If only he could get to the water, but he has nobody to help him.

If only they could get to the truck.

If only the truck could get to the people, but they have nobody to help them.

A clumsy comparison, for sure, but one that has plagued me all week.

And then Jesus walks by and does three things.

First, he sees him – when Jesus saw him lying there. He saw him among the many invalids – blind, lame and paralysed – and he knew he had been there for a long time. He sees him in a world that looks away when faced with disease and disability.

Then he speaks to him – he said to him, ‘do you want to be made well?’ Not in judgment or chastisement, but in invitation, offering an outstretched hand. Do you want to be made well – a beautiful, compassionate phrase in a world where those lying on the roadside are looked over or ignored.

He sees him. He speaks to him. And then he heals him.

He frees him from that which has kept him captive for the last 38 years or more – stand up, take up your mat and walk.

And then… Jesus disappears from the story. We never hear what the man does next. We don’t know if he dances or runs or weeps. We don’t know if he tells the others or fades into the crowd. But we know this: something changed. Someone saw him. Someone spoke. Someone moved toward his pain — and through that encounter, something new began. His health was restored, but much more importantly, his humanity was restored. He was given the chance to be whole again.

How much I would love that for the people of Gaza – health, humanity, healing, wholeness. How much I would love that for all humankind. How much God longs for that.

And friends, on Thursday — we remember the Ascension. That strange and holy moment when Jesus left his disciples, blessing them even as he was raised from their sight. And I wonder if they were tempted to do what we’re tempted to do:
Stand staring upward, hoping for another miracle. Waiting for the next flash of divine light. Waiting for something, and then the dawning realisation as the angels say, “Why do you stand looking up toward heaven?” that what is really being said is it’s your turn now.

When Jesus ascends, he doesn’t abandon the world. He entrusted it to his disciples. And that means he entrusts it to us. We are the body of Christ now. We are the ones called to see the ones no one sees.
To speak with compassion where silence reigns.

To stretch out our hands — not in power, but in mercy.

To ask the world, “Do you want to be made well?”

And to be ready to listen to the answer and do something about it.

We are the ones who carry the healing presence of Christ.

Not to fix everything. Not to end all suffering. But to witness it. To weep with it.

To make real, here and now, the love that will never walk past a suffering soul.

That is what it means to be Ascension people: Not to wait for heaven to act, but to embody the Christ who is already here. Through us. Not perfect. But present. So, this week, if, when, you see someone lying beside the metaphorical pool — someone exhausted from waiting for justice, aching for recognition, yearning for life — don’t look up to heaven. Look toward them. Live like Jesus is here — because through you, he is.

Before we close, let’s return to those Gazan streets.

People of God, we have been seen and loved and made whole by Christ, so we cannot walk away from those we remembered at the start — the mothers holding out their arms, the children waiting for food, the elderly caught between walls and checkpoints — they are not just news stories. They are Christ, they are that paralytic, lying beside the pool. And we are his body now.

We feel powerless, but we can act. We can send aid. We can pray. We can pressure. We can speak. We can stay awake to suffering, even when the headlines move on.

We can carry hope, not as something soft and sentimental — but as something stubborn and active.

So today, may we not stand, looking up, waiting for God to do something.

May we Be Christ. The world is waiting for us. We are the hands and feet and eyes, ears and voice of the crucified, risen and ascended Christ. At his Ascension he passes on the baton and says ‘your move’. May we move swiftly and with mercy. Amen.