Australia – Page 10 – Holy Adventures

An Epiphany about Epiphany

Isaiah 42:1-9 Psalm 29 Acts 10: 24-43 Matthew 3: 13-17

A few years ago, I had an epiphany about epiphany. Until then, I had thought epiphany was the word to describe the journey of the wise men. A day in the year. A celebration. I hadn’t connected that epiphany was a word we use in other contexts when speaking about sudden realisation or revelation. Recognising that was an epiphany in itself! And here we are in Epiphany season – the wise men came and went last week and epiphany continues. Today we find ourselves at the banks of the River Jordan, where Jesus and John the Baptiser are gathered with a crowd.

Imagine that…

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

Queues waiting to get into those waters, dying to sin and coming out the other side – dripping on the riverbanks.

And then along comes the Palestinian carpenter, Joseph’s son, wading into the water.

There’s an exchange – will he, won’t he? He will! And John sinks him under and then something happens.

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

This is my son, the beloved, with whom I am well pleased.

An epiphany

The epiphany – the surprise realisation – in the baptism of Christ is that Jesus is the Son of God, and because of this, things are about to change. It is a revelation, an epiphany, of the reality of the Christ. And maybe this was an epiphany to Jesus too. This is the Son of God, You are my son, and God is not angry – God is well pleased. This is who they have been waiting for, the dawning of the age of salvation, grace, mercy and Love. An epiphany of a seismic change in history.

And when people come for baptism, like baby Kaius and little Gabrielle who I am baptising in the ocean this afternoon, all I really want for them and their family is their own epiphany; an overwhelming realisation that they are a child of God and that God is well pleased with them. That’s what I pray for each time. That’s what I always try to communicate; if you are going to leave here with just one message let it be that you are a beloved member of God’s family; God’s child, utterly loved.

When I was at college, our principal worked hard to hold together a group of ordinands from different traditions, with differing theologies and vastly varying opinions. Time and again he would remind us that our greatest calling is our baptism; that the thing that unites us is our God-given status as baptised and beloved children of the living God; that there is nothing greater than that – not our call to ordination, not if we go on to be bishops or archbishops, not our family wealth or intellect. Our greatest call is our call to walk through those waters of baptism – like Kaius and Gabrielle will today – and know in our hearts that the heavens broke open over us and God’s voice declared you are my child and I love you. With you I am well pleased.

And God tells us that regardless of what we have done and what we will go on to do. God declares that over each one of us regardless of where we have come from and where we are going. And God keeps on telling us that, every last moment of every last day, until God can tell us face to face. And that is the epiphany of baptism – that you are loved, just as dearly as Christ and just as profoundly as you were at that moment of your baptism.

And I pray that this is an epiphany for you today; that today might not just celebrate the epiphany of Jesus being proclaimed as the beloved Son of God, but that it might be an epiphany for each of us too. That today might be overwhelmingly significant for Kaius and Gabrielle and their family and friends, but also it might be significant for you too; that you see and hear and sense and feel the enormity of your greatest calling – a beloved child of God who is proud of you. May that be an epiphany that lives in your heart for this whole season and beyond because it is the truth.

You are my child, God says, my beloved. And with you I am well pleased. Amen.

BAPTISM

How is a baby made?

Isaiah 7: 10-16 Psalm 80: 1-8 Romans 1: 1-7 Matthew 1: 18-end

Virgin births are complicated.

We know how babies are made; it requires a sperm and egg. So, for some, the idea that the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way…without sex but with a divine conception from the Holy Spirit…, this is where their encounter with Christianity ends. This is where they get off. This claim is too audacious, too crazy. It doesn’t make sense. And they’re right. You’re right. It doesn’t make sense. Babies aren’t made that way.

When I was about 3, my mum decided it was time my sister and I should learn these basic facts about life, so she bought an animated story book called ‘how a baby is made’. Not wanting to make too much of it, she casually sequestered it away on our bookcase, waiting for the time we might select *that* book for our bedtime story. So, imagine the scene…grandad comes over and offers to read to the cute little grandchildren sat on his knee. Little Gemma scurries off and selects a book. Ooh, a new book, let’s have this one! And grandad begins to read… ‘mummy and daddy love each other very much’… ‘sometimes, to show their love, they take their clothes off…’ and so it continued, resulting in the most toe curling experience grandad ever had. By age 3, I could tell you exactly how babies are made. And it wasn’t like this.

But, if we allow the unusual conception and remarkable pregnancy and birth to derail our faith journey; if we allow the questions and even the logic to distract us entirely, then we risk failing to encounter this wonderful truth: the son shall be named Emmanuel, which means God is with us.

God is with us.

And that is the beauty of the Christmas story, that is the outrageous claim of our faith – the fundamental truth – that God chose to leave heaven aside, put on flesh and come and be with us; no longer simply above us, but with us, alongside us, intimately connected with, and part of, humanity.

And what could be more intimate, more vulnerable, more ‘with’ than being right inside another human being, growing, moving, being nurtured and nourished, in the act of conception, pregnancy and childbirth. God was ‘with’ Mary. And Mary was with child, and that child was God.

Doesn’t that say something remarkable about the incarnation? That God’s intention was always to be with humanity – not doing things to us but actually being with us, in real intimacy, even depending upon us for God’s very birth.

And God didn’t just come to earth once, in that first nativity. Yes, God’s incarnation was absolutely sufficient for all time and eternity. That once was enough. But God keeps on incarnating, keeps being born, keeps showing up on earth, with all humanity – you’ll see the wonderful Meister Eckhart quote on page 10 in your service book, which explains it just perfectly, ‘we are all to be mothers of God, for God is always needing to be born’.

And that is the truth.

God is always needing to be born; every moment is a nativity; every moment is the incarnation. And God still relies on humankind for that birth.

Mary’s role was very clear – be a vessel, a carrier of the divine. Be the one to hold and nurture and intimately carry the Christ. And then, when the time came, when the world needed him most, present that Christ to the world – bring him forth and reveal him to others – bring his light to the places of darkness and then set him free, that his goodness might be free to grow and spread and multiply and be passed on exponentially. Mary’s job was to know her encounter with the divine, experience it in her very body and then share it with the world.

And Mary’s job is our job too.

We are also called and created to be vessels and carriers of the divine. We also need to hold and nurture and carry Christ and then take him to the darkest places of this world and share his light and life and love with others. Our role is to encounter the divine; not keep him to ourselves but share his goodness and joy with the world.

And that is why we meet together here, and keep on coming back to this place, over and over. In our gathering we see something of the Christ in one another, we have opportunities to encounter the Christ and know Emmanuel – that God is with us. And in the breaking of the bread; in the eating and the drinking, we get to carry the Christ, literally in our body – just as Mary did – and then we are sent from here to take the Christ into the world.

In that first Christmas, Mary became Theotokos – literally the God-bearer. Growing and carrying the Christ in her body must have assured her, beyond all doubt, that in this event God is with her, with us. In our own journey, and uniquely in this mass, we too become the carrier of the divine and have that same responsibility to make the world a different, better place – a place that is acutely aware that God is – as God always was – with us.

I will end with the beautiful words of a Roman catholic sister – Frances Croake Frank – who wrote the stunning words of the poem ‘Did the Woman Say’. She writes this…

Did the woman say
When she held him for the first time
in the dark dank of a stable,
After the pain and the bleeding and the crying,
“This is my body, this is my blood?”

So, as Mary encountered her Christ in that dark dank stable, may we encounter him here, in the faces and actions of one another and in the body and blood of the eucharist. May we, and in turn the world, be changed by our encounter. And may we always know that God is with us. Amen.

Advent 2: Peace like a shoot…

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

Back in 2005 I was fortunate enough to take a group of young people to Hiroshima, for a conference marking the 60^th anniversary of the dreadful destruction caused by the first atomic bomb ever used in warfare. In that moment, 140,000 people died in a split second as they were vaporised in a flash of heat reaching 4000 degrees Celsius.

I remember as we walked through the city there was a small, insignificant plaque standing in front of an enormous tree. The plaque said the first green shoot appeared right there, just 3 days after the bomb wiped out the entire city. Three days – from death to the first signs of resurrection: the symbolism is impossible to ignore.

That green shoot grew into this tree; a tree of hope, a symbol of well-fought-for peace. A sign that nature would indeed be right back, and She would not be silenced forever. An indication that peace and hope will always eventually win.

A shoot will come up from the stump of Jesse; Isaiah prophesied; from his roots a branch will bear fruit.

A shoot will appear; a symbol of hope…and the prophecy goes on to say, its appearing will result in all good things – wisdom, knowledge and delight. Righteousness will flourish, there will be peace in abundance, and justice for the poor. Mountains laden with peace. Oppression crushed. Predators and their prey will live together. Children will play safely. And there will be rest.

And then John the Baptist tells us that Jesus is the one the prophet speaks of. And, through him, we will come to the day that is promised, when all these wonderful things will be restored, when the kingdom of heaven is fully and entirely established.

But we are not there yet, are we? We really aren’t.

And while there are signs of hope springing up like those wildflowers I spoke about last week…while there are glimpses of peace…and sometimes humanity does amaze us by doing some incredible acts of kindness…on the whole, this world still feels pretty broken, and we have to recognise that this is not what God intended God’s divine gift of creation to be. And the way humanity manages this gift is not what we were created for either.

And yet the prophecy remains. The promise was made. And God does not break them. So, it means it is still on its way, even when it is hard to imagine, impossible to see and difficult to believe. And, as people who are trying to follow Jesus – the root of Jesse, the hope of the nations – we have a role to play in spotting and nurturing those shoots as they appear.

It is God’s promise, not ours, and God will do all God needs to do to make it come to pass. It is not entirely down to us, but we are called and commissioned and entrusted to do all we can to partner with God – to be God’s hands and feet, here, where we are ‘planted’. To make Beaconsfield, Perth, WA, and beyond, a better place, in this generation.

So, the question is, what will we do to help to bring this about; to see hope, joy, and peace spring up around us? What can we do to prepare the way of the Lord and make his paths straight? Maybe we can’t change the whole world, but we can do our bit to change that which we are dissatisfied with in our own streets, in our town. We can do something in order to see those tiny shoots spring up in places of destruction, like that tree in Hiroshima. And it is essential, imperative, that the Church is the one leading the way in that, because we follow the one who promises it’s not just possible; it’s on its way.

But our theme for this second Sunday in advent is peace. Yet these words from Matthew’s gospel don’t say a great deal about peace; repent, John says! There is wrath to come! The axe is at the root of the tree…every tree that doesn’t bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire…there will be baptisms of fire…and unquenchable fire at that.

And yet, I keep returning to that shoot in the park in Japan. After so much destruction, such extreme temperatures, so much fire… a shoot appeared. And I wonder if sometimes the path to peace takes us through hard and testing times before we can see it. Sometimes the road to peace is hard-fought. Sometimes the way to peace involves uproar, hard work, self-examination, change.

Oftentimes, the concept of peace gets a bad rap – like its meek, passive, an absence of something – like a lack of conflict, a gap, rather than something fierce. But that little shoot said so much. It said ‘war thought it had won. Destruction seemed to be the end. But I’m here to say something different’.

And the shoot that comes out of the stump of Jesse – Jesus – says the same thing. Darkness threatened to win but I’m here to say something different – me and my kingdom, says the Lord, shall be glorious and peace will be abundant. And we will get there; the path to it might be strewn with rocks and stumbling blocks, but it’s not just possible – it’s on its way.

Today is the Sunday of peace. The day we commit again to being agents of peace – to taking up the weapons that lead to peace. But our weapons are different. They are the belts of righteousness and faithfulness. Our judgements are equitable and right. We rescue the child and the needy and crush the oppressor. Our language is love and right-speaking. Our actions bring blessing and hope and great rejoicing. And all that we do makes the paths straight for those who come after us who want to follow our Lord.

This advent every parish is being encouraged by our Archbishop to plant a tree, as a symbol of hope and peace and as a tangible commitment to caring for our planet. In the coming days we will be planting a eucalyptus tree in our gardens – a tree of peace. As we see it planted, may it be a reminder to us of our call to be agents of peace. May it remind us that sometimes the pathway to peace takes hard work and struggle but is always worth it. And as we see it shoot and grow, may we be reminded that peace will blossom until the earth is full of the knowledge of the Lord as the waters cover the sea. Amen.

Advent 1 – Hope is untameable!

Isaiah 2:1-5 Psalm 122 Romans 13: 9-14 Matt 24: 33-44

When I first arrived in WA people kept telling me, ‘You must see the wildflowers’. And because everything in WA felt, feels, so huge to me, expected the wildflowers to be huge too. I was expecting flowers the size of my head and leaves bigger than my palms and instead, what I kept finding, were these tiny delicate beautiful little flowers, popping out in the most unexpected places.

This week, Craig and I set out on our first attempt at walking a section of the Bibbulmun Track. It was hot and hilly and dry and dusty…and it was hard work…but all over the place there were these breath-taking wildflowers. Every shade of colour. Every shape, just so tiny and delicate and seeming to be springing up against the odds, almost. Beautiful flowers in barren places.

And they spoke to me, over and over, about hope.

Hope blossoming in places I didn’t expect to see it.

Today is Advent Sunday – the first day of our new church year – the beginning of a new season that leads to Christmas – the beginning of a period of waiting, in the church. And what is it that we are waiting for?

Well, we’re NOT waiting for Christmas, or the birth of a baby. During advent the church watches and waits for the return of the Christ, for God to come back. During advent we are watching and waiting for the fulfilment of the promises Jesus made to return.

But, here’s the thing. I don’t like waiting. It feels too passive, too boring. And how do we know what we are waiting for? How do we know if it’s anywhere close? How can we see if it’s on its way? Because we’re not waiting for the arrival of God – God is already here – always has been, always will be – what we are waiting for is the full arrival of God’s entire kingdom.

And if we’re waiting for the arrival of a whole new kingdom, might it be possible that we could begin building that kingdom while we wait?

Or, might it be possible that it isn’t entirely dependent upon us and is already being built around us already, but sometimes we get the privilege of actually joining in? Could that be true?!

If we get to join in, that completely transforms our time of waiting. It is no longer a passive observance – it is no longer just watching…sitting around…waiting – it becomes our life’s work, our entire purpose even. Something we watch out for, and take part in, each and every day.

You see, the kingdom of God is springing up all over the place. And it is a kingdom characterised by hope. It is that hope that the day of salvation is here…and coming…that it’s something that is not just possible but is on its way.

It’s on its way! And we can see it because it is a kingdom that looks like those tiny delicate wildflowers, budding and blossoming in barren dry sand where it seems to make no sense.

It looks like swords being repurposed as ploughshares and spears being used as pruning hooks instead.

The springing up of the Kingdom of God looks like light in dark places, work for the unemployed, food for the hungry, release for those who are indefinitely detained, housing for the homeless, clothing for the naked, healing for the sick – hope for those who are just in the depths of despair.

The unravelling and revealing of the Kingdom of God among us is pure hope for today and the future. It is hope-filled and hope-giving.

And right now, right here, it looks like a family who found our church and chose it to be the place where they would bring their tiny baby to pass through the waters of baptism to join our family of faith.

Today, the Kingdom of God is seen in the visible sign that there is hope of another generation – characterised by baby Honey – there is another generation that is choosing to follow Jesus. Another generation that is saying yes to this invitation to join in with bringing hope to the world, while we wait for the true fulfilment of the promises of God.

Friends, hope is all around us and it is unstoppable. Let us spot it, let us spread it, let us be it! Amen.

BAPTISM

Christ the King!

I wonder if there is a church in the 56 countries of the commonwealth where reference isn’t made to the new King Charles III today, on this day when we remember the Reign of our true King, Christ. It’s surely the case that there won’t be a single person preaching today who has preached on this Sunday in the church year while there is a king on the throne. It’s almost possible that there won’t even be anyone in church, across every country under the reign of the new monarch, who recalls a service celebrating Christ the King, while there is a living human king too. Isn’t that remarkable? So it feels impossible to observe this Sunday without drawing some kind of comparison between the two – even if the similarities begin and end with their title; King.

The coronation of the next King will be a grand affair; a religious service, conducted by the Archbishop of Canterbury. There will be a huge guest list of the great and the good, and crowds cheering, from all over the world. He will have his queen consort at his side and a weighty solid gold crown on this head and he will be seated on a royal throne. He will be anointed with holy oil, scented with orange, rose, cinnamon and musk, and in his hand will be the orb and sceptre. He will reign as King over 56 countries and 2.5 billion people, and the world will watch it all.

And when we hear all that, in light of this morning’s gospel reading, could the two kingships be more different?

Our King, Christ, was consecrated on a cross at the place called the Skull in a barbaric ceremony carried out by soldiers and guards. At his side were criminals – on his left and his right – and on his head was a crown made of thorns. His throne was a cross. His anointing was with a whip and sour wine. His robes were torn and gambled over and the crowds jeered and spat at him. His hands held no jewels because they were nailed to the cross and he was abandoned by those who promised to be there for him.

This man, this God-man, is beaten and whipped and tortured. He is spat at and stripped naked. He is wrongfully convicted, in a botched trial, deserted by his friends and taken out and killed. With criminals. And he is our King? This is the image of the invisible God? Really?

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? And how do we know how to be citizens of this kingdom?

Clearly, Christ’s Kingship, is not like any other. And so, it follows that Christ’s kingdom is not like any other either.

King Charles inherits a kingdom that favours the rich at the cost of the poor. His kingdom puts first those who own much, and excludes those who have little. King Charles’ kingdom is based on merit and wealth – on who has and who has not. It speaks of rights…rights for those who shout the loudest…not righteousness. And as much as he might like to govern with justice, his kingdom seems rather to favour injustice, particularly for those who are most often marginalised and forgotten.

But, in Christ’s kingdom, all are welcome; none are outsiders – there are no borders or passports or walls or fences.

It is a Kingdom of love and mercy, re-creation and peace. It executes righteousness and justice and operates on a currency of redemption and forgiveness.

It is a kingdom that serves the needy and the poor and gives them places of honour. A kingdom that doesn’t dominate, or threaten, or rule by fear.

It is a kingdom where children are educated, and adults have work; where the sick are healed, and the prisoner is visited and set free.

It is 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.

It is a Kingdom whose ruler reigns with kindness and love and is utterly trustworthy.

And following this king is not like being subjects of any other ruler…

Life in the Kingdom of Christ is a powerful rejection of all that is dark and hate-filled.

As people who choose to live in this kingdom and under the rule of Christ the King, we commit to follow the example of our leader; being prepared to stand up for what is true, exercising righteousness and justice, redemption and forgiveness; serving, loving, honouring… And, it is hard, but it’s right. It’s the way of holiness. It is the way of our King and his Kingdom.

And it doesn’t look like royal thrones and glistening robes, crowds of supporters, public holidays, and faces on coins and notes; sometimes it looks like mockery, nakedness, being lifted up on a cross, with a thorn crown and a torrent of abuse, and it leads to death…and we are all invited. But what an invitation?!

It sounds like Charles has the right idea – his kingship sounds glamorous and victorious and way easier. It sounds like he got it right and our Lord got it wrong…except…the longest, the absolute longest that Charles can reign is until the day he dies. That is all. But Christ is king for ever and ever and his kingdom will never end. Charles’ kingdom leads to a definitive ending, but Jesus’ kingdom leads the way to unending paradise.

Christ’s kingdom is here…and it is coming…and you are invited to be citizens of it today and forever. And in this kingdom, the fullness of God is pleased to dwell.

So, having counted the cost, having seen it will demand of you all you have and all you are, having recognised that this road takes you through mockery, pain, and even death, will you take this invitation, because it leads to life; life everlasting for all people, now and forever. Amen.

Muskrats and Men who are Short…

Have you ever had a eureka moment? A moment where something foggy suddenly becomes clear and you can see it, as if for the first time? I had a moment like that at bible study this week, while we were discussing this morning’s gospel reading so, apologies to you who were there, but you have to hear it again.

In my first week at theological college we had a lecture with the college principal; a wise old owl of a man – Fr Peter; a man who spoke in a gentle, slow and measured way and could wither you with a look. This aging saint had spent more than 50 years in the monastery where I trained and he dripped pearls of wisdom wherever he went. And he was a fabulous story-teller.

In that first week, he recounted a tale found in the 1975 Pulitzer Prize Winning book, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. (I’ve since read the book and, if I may dare to say, Fr Peter’s retelling was even better than the original). This book tells the true story of a woman who encounters a floating muskrat, basking in the moonlight at her local creek. So entranced was she by this muskrat; so enamoured by the detail of his eyelashes and the way the light shone off his silky wet belly that she returned day after day, week after week, season after season, hoping beyond all hope that she might again see mister muskrat. And she never did[1].

The point was, the fact she glimpsed this beauty once was enough to make her return, over and over. And, Fr Peter said, that was what brought us to this place, to that college, to respond to the call of God in saying yes to ordination. He said that at one point we’d glimpsed the beauty of God and kept on returning, over and over and that one glimpse might have to be enough, because we might never see God again but we must keep showing up, just in case.

Something inside me broke and, forgetting myself, I threw my hand in the air and said ‘but that suggests God isn’t also seeking us out. That suggests God isn’t relentlessly pursuing us because God wants to see us too!’ And Fr Peter turned to me and said ‘is that what you think? That’s nice…’

And I thought I must have got it wrong because he was wiser and more devoted and more dedicated to God than I was, than I am. He had given up everything and committed every second of every day for many decades to prayer and bible study and silence and listening. Maybe God wasn’t relentlessly pursuing me after all. I must have it wrong. Right?

But then, this week, we meet Zacchaeus – ‘he was a chief tax collector and was rich’. And he was trying to see who Jesus was but he couldn’t, because he was ‘short in stature’. So this little man ran ahead and climbed a tree, knowing Jesus was going to pass that way. And then Jesus comes along and he doesn’t pass by at all. He doesn’t pass Zacchaeus by. He absolutely relentlessly pursues him! And when he finds him, he stops.

Zacchaeus was looking for Jesus and – would you look at that – Jesus was looking for Zacchaeus too! ‘When Jesus came to that place he looked up and said Zacchaeus! Hurry down because I must stay at your house today’.

And people didn’t like it, of course – ‘all who saw it began to grumble because Jesus was the guest of a sinner’ – but Zacchaeus didn’t care – he hurried down and was happy to welcome him.

Zacchaeus knew what his reputation was. He knew what everyone thought of him. But he also knew he wanted to see Jesus. I wonder if he also knew Jesus wanted to see him too? I wonder if he even dared to believe that was possible? Hurry and come down, Jesus said; I’m coming to your house today. And Zacchaeus was happy to welcome him.

And what about us? We come here, week after week, because something inside us is looking for Jesus, something within us wants to see something of the Divine – whether we know it or not, something inside us is seeking for something bigger – for God. And every single week, God passes this way. And every single week – every single minute of every single day actually – God is seeking us out. Even if we’re hiding. Especially if we’re hiding.

Zacchaeus was up a tree, but it didn’t stop him from being seen and found, because Jesus seeks out everyone, wherever they are; Jesus seeks out and saves the lost. So it doesn’t matter where we are hiding or where we have been. It doesn’t even matter where we are going – Jesus will pass that way too.

On our best days we are looking for the Divine. On our best days we notice him in creation. We hear her in the ocean. We see them in the sunset. On our best days we really still ourselves and maybe even utter some words to heaven. On our best days we do a lot of seeking, but even on our worst days God is still seeking after us.

So Fr Peter was wrong! We don’t have to keep returning to that proverbial riverbank in the vain hope of spotting the moonlit muskrat…and constantly risk being disappointed. God is seeking us out and will never stop.

God will delve into our guilt and shame and find us hiding there. She will find us on the mountaintop of happiness and the pit of despair and everywhere in between, and will always greet us with the same divine welcome; hurry up! I choose you! I’m coming to your house today and when we, like Zacchaeus, hurry happily from where we are and fall into step beside Jesus then salvation comes to our house too.

God is seeking you out. Will you let yourself be found? Amen.

[1] She did, actually, but Fr Peter’s retelling was that she didn’t…and that was essential to the point he was making…so he didn’t let the truth get in the way of a good story…

Pray!

By a series of divine accidents we find ourselves at this morning’s gospel passage, and it might sound familiar. It IS familiar – it is part of the same passage we heard last week! Perhaps the holy spirit has something she wants to convey in these verses, so let’s have a look.

The pharisee is standing by himself and praying aloud – God I thank you I am not like other people; thieves, rogues, adulterers, or this tax collector…I fast, I tithe… basically, I’m pretty great. The tax collector – who calls himself a sinner – stands far off and can’t even dare to look towards heaven and Jesus says he is the one who went home justified – all who exalt themselves will be humbled, he says, and all who humble themselves will be exalted.

A quick read of the text might lead us to think this parable is only about being humble. Be humble and you will be exalted. Be like the sinful tax collector. He is the goody and the pharisee is the baddy. But it’s not as simple as that.

In this story we have two of 1^st century society’s baddies; the pharisee knows his scriptures inside out – and he knows how to use his scriptures to oppress and corrupt and extort money…and all in the name of religion.

And the tax collector isn’t much better. He doesn’t earn enough to live on so he has learned to extort his customers. At the lower end of the elite he isn’t high enough to be high but he’s damn sure he won’t be counted among the low so he tricks and bullies and takes from those he looks down on.

So Jesus can’t be saying don’t be like the pharisee…be like the tax collector. He isn’t setting one man against the other because, if we wander too far down that line, we fall into the trap where we become the equal but opposite of the pharisee and we also find ourselves praying, Thank you God that I’m not like other people – those pompous, puffed up ones who pray aloud outside of temples about how great they are. Thank you God that I’m so humble! But that’s not humility, of course.

So, what might this parable mean?

You see, what the pharisee says is partly true – he probably does fast twice a week and give a tenth of his income. But the problem is his prayer is all about him. He’s addressing the most high God and telling God all about himself. He tells the almighty that he is so grateful – thank you God, that I am so great; He is the source of his own gratitude. How wrong his attention has become – he chose a path of righteousness out of devotion to God and his focus has slipped from heaven to himself. He believes his own goodness is enough and that is never true. Not then, not now. Not for him and not for us.

And equally, what the tax collector says is true too; God be merciful to me because I am a sinner. He’s right, he is. They both are! But here is the contrast; the first man makes his claim to righteousness based on what he has achieved and the second man relies entirely on the goodness, grace and mercy of God.

Rather than be grateful for his blessings, the Pharisee is grateful for his own greatness. He has become self-admiring to the point of despising others. In his mind there are two kinds of people: the righteous and the immoral, and he is smack bang in the middle of the righteous.

The tax collector, on the other hand, isn’t so much humble as desperate. He is overwhelmed by his own sin in the face of such holiness that he can’t even look up. All he recognizes as he stands near the Temple is his own great need. So he stakes his hopes and claims not on anything he has done but entirely on the mercy of God.*

At the end of this story, the tax collector went down to his home justified. How has this happened? The tax collector hasn’t made any of the temple sacrifices. He hasn’t even promised to change his ways! So how is he made righteous? Purely on the basis of God’s love and grace and mercy!

So the parable isn’t saying be more righteous. It’s not saying be like the tax collector. It’s telling us to recognise who and what we are and to pray.

Pray – but focus on the divine, not on yourself.

Pray – but don’t distinguish between us and them – whenever we concentrate on our own greatness over someone else’s lack of perceived greatness – or consider one group to be in and another group to be out – we fail to recognise the outrageous grace of God.

Pray – and never think that there is anything you’ve done, or anything you are that means God won’t be utterly delighted to hear from you.

Pray – and don’t worry if the only words you have are ‘have mercy on me’ – because that is enough.

Pray – and never worry about whether you’re far off or right here at the front.

Pray without fear that you are better or worse than anyone else. There is no such thing.

It’s not that the tax collector was more loved by God or that the Pharisee’s prayer was left unheard, or despised. Every prayer is heard. Every prayer is received. And every pray-er is loved. It’s just that the tax collector left changed and the pharisee’s heart got a little harder that day.

Prayer, in a really large part, is for the benefit of the one who prays. God doesn’t need us to pray in order for Him to feel bigger and better and more loved and more adored. God is not arrogant or needy. God invites us to speak with Her because of our own need – praying does something to us – it melts and breaks and changes our heart and helps us to see the world and others differently.

The pharisee left the temple that day just as he arrived; feeling righteous and full of contempt. The tax collector left, justified and exalted.

So throw yourself on the grace and mercy of God. Recognise that you are a sinner and God is pleased to hear from you. And, at all times, pray. Amen.

* at this point I abandoned my script and went off piste, talking about prayers in prisons and the floodgates of heaven being flung open. To hear the full version, you can click here… https://fb.watch/glNi-BHY_G/

The Gospel according to Wadjemup: Chapter Two

Back in May I went to Wadjemup as Chaplain for the first time. As you surely know, it was a profound experience; deeply moving, challenging, and super creative. And when I got back, the gospel reading that Sunday was the familiar and comforting words, ‘peace I leave with you…peace I give to you…do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid’. And I preached what I have now named in my head, The Gospel According to Wadjemup – Chapter One.

I asked the question, what does peace look like to an island, a country, built on colonialism, domination and oppression? How do we find peace there, or here?

I’d immersed myself in the stories of that holy island. I heard the cries of history and felt the deep wounds of its past and it was loud… and yet, I was able to spot this tangible sense of peace. Despite itself, or maybe even because of its history, that place is dripping with peace. And I think, that is the essence of Jesus’ promise.

Peace is not the absence of war. It is not just silence or quiet. Peace is profound and counter cultural. It is the port in the storm, the centre of the tornado, the sense of calm when everything falls down around us. It is the sunrise and sunset and lapping waves on the shores of Wadjemup, against the backdrop of its brutal history. That is peace.

This past week I have been back on Wadjemup again, this time with a dozen pilgrims, and the gospel reading is, once again, about peace. Kind of. So, now hear the gospel according to Wadjemup, Chapter Two.

‘Do you think I came to bring peace to the earth?’ Jesus asks.

Well, yes Lord, I do.

Isn’t that what the angels proclaimed at your birth – Glory to God in the highest and peace to his people on earth?

Aren’t those the first words you breathed on your disciples after your death – peace be with you?

Wasn’t it with the command of peace that you calmed the storm and sent the demoniac away healed? – peace, be still.

Is it not the gift you left with your disciples – my peace I leave with you?

‘Do you think I came to bring peace to the earth?’ Jesus asks. ‘No, I tell you, but rather division’.

No? Come on Lord, you can’t renege on that promise. Can you?

What do we do when Jesus seems to change his mind about something we have been relying on, depending on? Because that’s what seems to happen here, am I right?

Do you know, in the gospels, Jesus speaks of peace twenty-four times. And only twice does he say he hasn’t come to bring peace at all; he’s come to bring division or a sword. But that doesn’t help us when we are faced with that time…

The gospel according to Wadjemup, chapter one, was dependent on God’s provision of peace. It was the only thing that made sense of the ugliness of its history and the beauty of its present. And now, Wadjemup chapter two messes things up. Peace is gone, division reigns, households are against one another, families are falling out and we are called hypocrites.

How can both things be true – how can Jesus come in peace and come to cause division – and that reminded me of moments from our pilgrimage.

Uncle Neville – an aboriginal elder from our parish – came with us to the island. We began with a smoking ceremony and sand ceremony at the water’s edge. He told us the noongar people have complex feelings about how we can best move forwards. Decisions are trying to be made about what to do with the Quod and burial ground. He was confident he could do whatever he chooses in that place because it is his…but others might not agree with him.

In the afternoon we took ribbons and tied them to the padlocks at the site where countless people were incarcerated and hanged. We tied ribbons to the bars of the earliest prison cell. We tied ribbons to the branches of trees at the unmarked graves. Those ribbons were inoffensive really; a symbol of prayers said, and blessings given and hope for the future. But I spotted the anxiety of the tour guide who sat at the prison cell – she didn’t seem that happy about these pilgrims and their ribbons. We came in peace but there was also this kind of underlying division.

You see, chapter one taught us that peace is the port in the storm, and the centre of the tornado, but sometimes we are called to step out of that port, right into the storm. Sometimes we can’t stay in the centre of the tornado – we must brave the wild bits. And I think that absolutely brings division.

Remember the iconic man, named Tank Man, who stood in front of the tanks in Tiananmen Square at the end of the siege in 1989? I was thinking about what his family thought of his act of defiance when it was broadcast across the world. Did his act, intended for peace, bring division – father against son, mother against daughter? And what about the families of Martin Luther King and Oscar Romero and countless others? When they stood up for what they knew to be right, and paid with their lives, did their families hate it?

And what ripples are you prepared to make? What is more important to you than keeping the peace in your family? Following all of Jesus’ teaching is hard friends. It’s not all plain sailing and not everyone will like us or it. It got Jesus killed, and many of his followers since. And here he is asking the same of us.**

‘Why do you not judge for yourselves what is right?’ Jesus says.

Judging what is right, and choosing to do it, is our call as followers of the Christ – even when it brings division, even when it splits family, even when it costs us our whole lives. Seeking peace that way feels a lot like ‘not peace’ and yet it is asked of us here.

The gospel of Wadjemup, chapter two asks us the important question: will we choose to do what is right over what is peaceful, even if it costs us everything?

May God give us grace to do so. Amen.

** at this point I went off script and began ad libbing about how we are not called to be merely ‘peace keepers’, but rather to commit to the radical hard work of peace building. Peace keeping is collusive but peace building is what we are really called to do – regardless of whether people will like it, or not, or whether it will lead to some kind of division…

Martha, Martha…

I’m one of those people who loves a personality test. You know the type? I can tell you I’m an enneagram four, a Myers Briggs ISFJ and, in one test I once came out as a sunshine yellow fox. I don’t know… I think my interest in these tests stems back to when I was that geeky teenager I told you about before. I would buy the magazines the cool teens were reading and do the tests that would tell me when I was going to fall in love, or whether I was pear or apple shaped, and I would live the cool teen existence vicariously through those pages.

Anyway, in churches across the world today there is another personality test being foisted upon congregation members: are you a Mary, or are you a Martha?

Clergy will have their people self-identify with the sisters in today’s gospel reading and they will encourage the Marthas to slow down a bit and remind the Marys that they can’t sit there all day – there might be times they need to be a bit more Martha. And the more-Martha-types among us will feel a bit bad for constantly being distracted or will become more and more frustrated at the Marys who don’t seem to notice that there’s so much to do. And the Marys will continue to sit at the feet of our Lord, hanging on his every word, (maybe slightly smug about how right they are). But I feel like, in doing so, we might miss the true sentiment of the passage. We might fail to hear the deepest invitation.

See, I am way more Martha than Mary. But none of us are entirely one and not the other. We’re all on this continuum, from Mary to Martha. Here, we have wonderful opportunities to lean into our Mary side – with our contemplation mornings and Heartsong and quiet gardens. And then, because of our community living and extensive grounds and our beautiful outreach in Just Manna and IGWR, we also recognise there is always work to be done and ‘if not us then who’, so we are also often on our feet, Martha-ing. So, no, we’re never entirely Mary nor are we entirely Martha.

And not one verse before this morning’s passage we finished last week’s story of the Good Samaritan and didn’t our Lord end by saying ‘go and do likewise’ – GO and DO. Go and care for the injured and tend their wounds and pay their bill and put yourselves out and allow the pain of others to disrupt your day. Go and do.

And now it is sit and listen. So it seems both have their merits. Of course they do. It’s not that. Jesus isn’t saying don’t do the jobs. He’s not saying don’t be Martha or be Mary. He’s saying something else entirely. And I think it’s probably best summed up by something that I hear in these two words in verse 41; Martha, Martha.

Martha is whizzing around. And she’s cooking and cleaning and welcoming and busying. And she’s annoyed. She’s really grumpy. She’s doing all the work for Jesus and his entourage. I mean, let’s face it, Jesus never travels alone, does He? He’s turned up, with all the other guys and she’s trying to turn the contents of her pantry into a veritable feast whilst sweeping the floor with her spare hand and washing yesterday’s pots with her left foot or whatever. And Mary is just sitting, and Martha spits out, ‘do you not CARE that she’s left me to do everything. Tell her to help me!’

If she had been calmer, she probably could’ve leant over and said, ‘grab this Mary, please can you give me a hand?’, but she’s exasperated, so it comes out ‘do you not care Jesus?!’

And Jesus sees her.

He sees her heart and her flustered cheeks and her overflowing hands and he speaks to it all. Martha. Martha. First to the chaos that fills her mind and then to the person who is right there in her heart. Martha, precious wonderful grumpy anxious Martha. Just stop my darling. You’re alright. I’m here. I see you and I know you and I love you and there’s nothing you need to do or say or bring or sort or clean or hide. Just come. You are invited. You are welcome. You are enough.

Mary has chosen to sit at the feet of her Lord and listen to his word. Sit in the presence of the Living Word. She recognised that invitation and she responded. And maybe Martha didn’t know that she was also invited, just as she was. That there was nothing she could do that would make her more welcome but that she was invited – all of her. Her distracted mind and her anxious heart. Her messy house and unwashed floors. Martha, Martha, come here my darling and just sit. Bring it all. You are enough.

And that is beautiful. Jesus sees her heart and he adores her. When he says her name, it’s not a voice of admonishment. He’s not cross. He’s not shouting at her. Martha, Martha, stop. You are enough.

And once again, as it is with her, so it is with us.

Jesus doesn’t care if we are busy or anxious or sunshine yellow foxes. He doesn’t care if we are grumpy or serene. He doesn’t care if we want to be here or would rather be somewhere else. He doesn’t care if we prefer silence or noise. He doesn’t care if we come with our hands full or our minds blank. He just wants us to come. Come to this place. Come to this table. Come to the beach or the gardens or to see the sunrise or whatever it is. Just come.

That eternal invitation is extended to everyone, every personality type, wherever you are on the Mary-Martha continuum. Whether you feel like you are worthy and enough, or not. And that invitation is extended to you.

Last week, John ended his sermon with the great line, ‘go and do likewise’…and may the Lord be with you, he said. Jesus is still encouraging us to go and do likewise, especially if that is the way your mind and heart are fired. But he also extends this invitation to come and sit at his feet and listen. To go and do, but also come and be.

So, come and be. And may the Lord be with you.

Pentecost! 🔥

Another week, another round of lessons in Australian life. This week it was the birds. They’re so LOUD! Huge magpies, Stunning pink galahs, and the kookaburras. Well, I don’t know that I’ll ever get accustomed to the sound of them – they’re incredible. But, on our dog walk yesterday, along with the bird song, I saw a large bird cage sat on the verge, waiting for its next owner to claim it and it reminded me of a wonderful thing that started – with birds – just before I left the UK.

I had a friend, Ronnie, who was a prison chaplain, and he was setting up a project for prisoners. He was offering those in treatment for addiction the opportunity to own a budgie, and he was on the lookout for donations of bird cages. And yesterday, with that cage on the roadside, it came back to me again. And the more I thought about it, the more I thought this sounded a bit like Pentecost…

Birds are the freest of all animals. You can’t pin them down. You can’t catch them. They leap off buildings and migrate to other countries and swoop and dive…and even their very design – those wings and feathers – speak of freedom and flight. So, it’s no wonder that a bird is often used as a symbol of the Holy Spirit.

Birds don’t live in cages, not ordinarily. But for these budgies to fulfil their purpose in this project, they need a cage. They need a cage so that they can go to these prisoners, who are in cages of their own. The cages of addiction as well as the physical cage of their prison cell. And I wonder if that is a useful image for the outpouring of God’s Holy Spirit, at Pentecost, and since the dawn of time, and every day since.

Pentecost was a kind of hijacked Jewish festival that then became a significant way-marker on an unstoppable process beginning at the dawn of Creation when God spoke Light into being. The outpouring of something incredible and unmovable. The continuation of one long, eternal, act of grace; a gift literally OF God, part of God’s self, given to us, for always. The freest, flightiest, most free-flowing part of God came down to earth to live within the cages of humanity – to dwell fully in the cage of our hearts, to fulfil God’s ministry of love.

She inspires us to acts of holy mischief; invites us and accompanies us on it. She is subversive and cunning, in all the best ways. She should be taken seriously because She is dangerous as fire, and essential as air. But the Holy Spirit is not simply to be described or pinned down or explained. She is one to be encountered, experienced, from the inside out, and to know and be known by.

It is by the Holy Spirit that our gifts of bread and wine become for us the body and blood of Jesus Christ at every mass.

It is the Holy Spirit of Pentecost who descends on you at every blessing and absolution and dismissal.

She baptises and confirms and ordains and consecrates.

It is by the Holy Spirit that new people wander into our church and stay.

It is the draw of the Holy Spirit that brought you to church this morning, even if you think it’s just what you do on a Sunday morning.

God chose a day and date and time in history to do something significant – the event we heard in our Acts reading. But it wasn’t the first time – She was brooding over the waters even before God said ‘let there be light’ – Pentecost wasn’t her first outing and it is certainly not her last. Pentecost is breaking out here, there, and all over the place and is utterly unstoppable. 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 just as my friend Ronnie was asking for more birdcages to house his budgies in prisons, so our Lord is asking for more hearts to house God’s Spirit, to take love and light, holy mischief, and freedom, to the darkest places of this world.

BUT, the significant difference between the prison story and the Pentecost story, is that Ronnie hoped his birds would stay in their cages whereas God hopes our caged hearts might just burst open and let the Spirit out!

Every day, but perhaps more notably on a day like today, God asks for places where God’s spirit might live, and for people through whom God’s work might be done. And today God is asking us.

I am excited by whatever it is God might have in store for our church and community in this next chapter. I believe it when the gospel reading says we will do even greater things than our Lord. And I also know we can’t do it alone, but only through the fire and breath of the Spirit.

So, right now, in a tangible and active way, you are invited to commit, once again, to join with the Spirit in whatever it is she wants to do here next. To say yes to this next holy invitation, and be refilled by that same spirit of creation, incarnation, resurrection and Pentecost. And John and I will symbolise that by anointing you with the oil of God’s spirit, on your foreheads and your hands – if you want to. And we don’t need to know what we are saying yes to, just that we are saying yes. And we are here for it. So john will come and join me and if you would like to be prayed for and anointed, please come and join us at this altar rail too.

Let us pray:

Pour out your spirit upon us Great God, as we say yes, again, to your holy invitation. Amen.