Australia – Page 2 – Holy Adventures

Glory in the Dark…

John 13:31–35 | Acts 11:1–18 | Revelation 21:1–6

In our bible readings just now, we heard almost 1000 words – 983 to be exact. Words full of commands and intrigue and challenge and hope. And yet, all week, I found myself thinking about 12 words that didn’t even feature in our readings. Those 12 words come immediately before our Gospel verses from John and say this:

‘…after receiving the bread he [Judas] immediately went out. And it was night’.

And then we come to our Gospel reading, which says ‘When he had gone out, Jesus said, “Now the Son of Man has been glorified…’ That little exchange has followed me around all week – he went out. It was night. Now the son of man is glorified.

Before we dive into the moment Judas leaves, we need to understand something about the Gospel of John. It is full of symbols — and the recurring one is light and darkness. “The light shines in the darkness,” he writes, “and the darkness did not overcome it.”

In John’s world, light is the presence of God, of life. And darkness is the realm of confusion… betrayal… absence. So when John tells us Judas went out “and it was night,” it’s not a time stamp. It’s a theological statement. Judas steps into the dark — not just outside the room, but into confusion, spiritual darkness, into the very absence of God (if that were possible).

Hold onto that because that’s where we begin this morning:

“When he had gone out, Jesus said, ‘Now the Son of Man has been glorified, and God has been glorified in him.’”

“When he had gone out…”

Judas. The betrayer. The one who sat at the table… received the bread… and then stepped into the night — only then — does Jesus say: “Now the Son of Man is glorified.”

How can glory arise at this moment of ultimate betrayal?

Because in John’s Gospel, the path to the cross is not a detour — it’s the destination.

Judas’ act doesn’t interrupt Jesus’ mission. It initiates the final, holy stretch of it.

And Jesus walks into it — with courage, and love. He is glorified because he demonstrates a love that chooses mercy over revenge. A love that continues to give itself, even while being rejected.

Judas walks out, into the darkness — and Jesus walks into it. Into the darkness. Into death itself. This is glory; because Jesus refuses to abandon love, even when it costs everything.

And what if, “Now the Son of Man is glorified,” isn’t only about the accelerated route to the cross — but also about redeeming even the darkest acts? What if Judas’s actions — as devastating as they were, for Jesus and Judas too — becomes part of the story of salvation?

And if that’s true… then maybe our own darkest acts and our own experiences of an absence of God can be transformed to Glory too.

In this, Jesus redefines Glory completely. It is not the absence of pain. It is not shining lights and trumpets. It’s love refusing to give up — right in the middle of pain. It’s choosing to love, trust and serve, and keep bloody going — even as the story takes its worst turn.

Glory is not found in winning — but in being faithful. Even when you’re betrayed. Even when you make mistakes.

Jesus is glorified not because of Judas’ act, but because in response to it, he answers with love. He walks into the night carrying nothing but truth and mercy. And glory is apparent there. In the darkness.

We don’t have to wait until resurrection morning to see God’s Glory.

It is found in the foot washing.
It is found in the bread broken for the one who will leave.
Glory is found in love that stays, and speaks, and serves.

That is the glory of God: love that does not flinch, even when darkness enters the room.

And Glory in the darkness keeps happening.

We saw it there in our first reading, too. The early church is facing its own upheaval.

Peter stands before a sceptical crowd. He’s explaining why he ate with Gentiles… why he welcomed outsiders in. And Peter tells them about his vision. And he says: “Who was I that I could hinder God?” This paradigm shift moves the church from restriction to radical welcome. From insider control… to divine surprise. The Spirit has already gone ahead — falling on those ‘The Church’ thought were beyond the reach of grace. And Peter has the humility — and the courage — to say yes. It’s a moment of glory. Not because it was smooth and shiny but because love became real in new, boundary-breaking ways.

Glory says Judas’ acts can be made beautiful

Glory says barriers will come down, all will be welcomed, even those we hate

And then we turn to Revelation 21 — And hear the voice that holds all this together:

“See — I am making all things new.”

That’s what happened in that upper room. That’s what’s happening in Peter’s vision. That’s what’s happening in your own confusion and sorrow.

God is making, will make, all things new — even in the night.

Because this is what God does:

Not bypass the pain. But transform it.

Not abandon the world. But move into it.

Not erase the betrayer. But redeem the broken story.

So if you’re in a moment that feels like night — You’re not alone.

When Judas walks out — Jesus walks in.

When the church clings to hard borders — the Spirit blows them wide open.

When the world groans for hope — God says: “See — I am making all things new.”

So… let’s stand for a moment in the dark. In our own darkness, or alongside those who find themselves there and let’s believe that even in the darkness, even in our biggest mistakes, God can and will bring Glory. And that Glory shines brightest in the dark. We just keep going, and wait to hear Jesus say: Now. Now the Son of Man is glorified. I am making all things new. Amen.

Breakfast is Ready…

Acts 9:1–20 Ps 30 Revelation 5:.6–14 John 21:.1–19

Today is Domestic Violence Awareness Sunday.

It’s interesting that it falls during the season of Resurrection— when we are leaning into the hope we have in Jesus. So what might these scriptures say to those living with or recovering from domestic abuse? What might they say to those who perpetrate it? And what might the Holy Spirit want us to hear this morning?

A short time has passed since the first Easter, and the disciples are in a real spin.

They’ve walked with Jesus. They’ve witnessed healing. Fed multitudes. Had their feet washed. They fled Gethsemane. And they failed him. They watched him die. And just when grief and guilt had swallowed them whole— Jesus returned. Not once, but again and again. “Peace be with you,” he said. “Breathe in the Spirit.”

But today, we find Peter saying: “I’m going fishing.” And the others go too.

We often miss the despair in those words.

“I’m going fishing” isn’t recreational. It’s resignation.

It’s Peter saying, “I don’t know who I am anymore. I give up. I just want things to go back to how they were.” When grief or trauma knocks us down, we reach for what’s familiar, for survival. Even if it’s not what gives life.

They fish all night. And catch nothing. But—yet again—Jesus appears and everything changes. The net overflows. A fire is already burning. There’s fish, and bread, and grace already waiting. They have breakfast with the Risen One— awkward, intimate.

And then… Jesus turns to Peter and says: “Simon, son of John.”

He takes him back to the beginning— to the name before the bravado. To the one he called. “Do you love me?” Three times. And three times, Peter—wounded by the memory—answers: “Yes.” And each time, Jesus replies: “Feed my sheep.”

This is not just Peter’s restoration. It’s his recommissioning.

“Follow me,” Jesus says again. Just like at the start. But now Peter knows the cost. And still—he’s invited. Still—he’s sent. This is another resurrection story. Peter’s. And what was possible then, is promised for now.

In this country, one woman dies every week from domestic and family violence.

One in four women, and one in eight men, experience abuse from a partner.

First Nations people are 33 times more likely to be harmed.

And our children are not spared.

It is those who can no longer walk into church because they were told: “Pray more.” “Marriage is for life.” “God hates divorce more than violence.” It is those with deep wounds who haven’t told a soul. And it is people who cause harm.

And it is not just “somewhere out there.” It is people in the pews. People leading worship, because research shows experiences of domestic abuse are statistically as likely in Anglican Churches in Australia, if not more likely than wider society.

To survivors: we see you. We are you. You deserve safety. You deserve healing.

The risen Christ does not abandon you. And nor do we.

Now let me say something clearly, and without apology:

If you are someone who harms your partner or children— this Gospel is for you too.

Jesus says to Peter: “Do you love me? Feed my sheep.”

That love is protection, not power. It is honour, not control. It is repentance— deep, painful, necessary change. Resurrection starts here. You are not beyond grace. None of us are. But grace is not soft. She is fierce. She calls us to account. She burns away excuses. Reveals truth. And waits to rebuild us into someone new. She still brings resurrection.

Resurrection is not a metaphor. It is God’s unflinching commitment to life when death and despair think they have the last word. The risen Christ does not say to Peter, “Forget it happened.” He says, “Bring your pain. Bring your shame. Let’s start again.”

Not by erasing the past— but by transforming it. Resurrection means the body of Jesus is still wounded… yet fully alive. It means love is stronger than death. Even the slow deaths people suffer behind closed doors.

So what does resurrection look like, in a world where family violence still persists?

It looks like churches becoming places of safety. A refuge that says, clearly and without hesitation: “We believe you. We support you. You are not alone.”

It looks like learning what to do: How to listen. When to act. It means realising Jesus’ call to “tend my sheep” includes those whose homes are warzones. It means checking our liturgies and language— because Scripture is sometimes weaponised. And we are called to speak differently. It means showing up. Staying present. Having compassionate courage. And it means being a space where all are safe, valued, and free.

As those who have chosen to follow Christ, we are resurrection people. That call is real. And it is costly. It is the call to tend bruised sheep, protect the lambs, follow Jesus to the shoreline and into the awkward spaces, and say: “Breakfast is ready. You are loved. There is a place for you here.” This call is confronting. It asks something of us. It means putting down the nets of indifference. Letting go of the safety of silence.

It means walking with survivors. Listening as they speak. And staying when it’s uncomfortable. It means action over feelings. “Feed my sheep” is a commission to justice. To care. To protection. It’s a call to every community that dares to bear Christ’s name.

The resurrection becomes a second calling. A deeper one. The first time, we followed without knowing. The second time, we follow with full knowledge of the risk, the discomfort, the cost— and the hope. Because resurrection hope is not naive.

It says: Even when you’ve given up. Even when you’ve denied Love and gone back to your old life—there is still a place for you. Hope comes to find you. A fire burns on the beach. Bread is being broken. The call is still being spoken: “Follow me.”

Resurrection is not for the clean and pristine. It is for the ones who fled. Who failed. The ones who are dead. And the ones who’ve endured more than anyone should, who’ve hidden bruises, silenced cries, and carry scars.

Christ says: “Do you love me? Feed my sheep. Tend my lambs. Follow me.”

So hear the invitation again. And follow with eyes wide open— knowing what it costs and knowing what it’s worth. Hope is here. Breakfast is ready. Feed my sheep.

Amen.

Guided Meditation for Lent II

Genesis 15:1–12,17–18 Psalm 27 Philippians 3:17–4:1 Luke 13:31-35

The second Sunday in Lent. Our second guided meditation.

Let’s pause and be still. Close your eyes.

God is spirit. Spirit is breath.

Breathe in deeply. Breathe in God.

Breathe out all that is not God.

Hear these words from Luke’s gospel, again…

Some Pharisees came and said to Jesus, ‘Get away from here, for Herod wants to kill you.’ And Jesus said, ‘Go and tell that fox for me, “Listen, I am casting out demons and performing cures today and tomorrow, and on the third day I finish my work.

Imagine yourself in that crowd,

You hear the Pharisees warn Jesus about Herod’s threats.

You can feel the tension, the urgency in their voices.

But Jesus is not afraid. He responds with certainty; speaking of three days —a pattern that echoes the mystery of our faith.

The first two days are filled with struggle, healing, and confronting evil.

But the third day is different. On the third day I finish my work, he says.

The day of fulfilment. The day of resurrection.

Where do you feel stuck in the first two days?

Where do you see suffering, struggle, even death?

Even in the darkest days, resurrection is coming.

Breathe in deeply, breathe in Christ’s courage to fill you.

Breathe out fear into God’s hands.

Now, listen, as He turns toward Jerusalem.

His tone changes. No longer resolute…full of sorrow:

“Jerusalem, Jerusalem. How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!”

Picture Jesus looking out over the city.

His arms are open, His voice breaking with grief.

He longs to gather His people, to shelter them, to bring peace.

But they are not willing. His heart aches.

Jerusalem Jerusalem.

We can’t hear those words without imagining the same Christ looking over the Holy Land today—upon Gaza, Israel, upon all who suffer in this broken and bloodstained land.

Listen to those words; the same sorrow fills His voice:

“How often have I desired to gather your children together… and you were not willing!”

Feel the weight of His lament. The innocent who suffer. The homes reduced to rubble. The children crying out in fear. The hatred that divides. The greed for land and power. The foxes are in the hen house.

What do you feel?

Can you feel anything?

Hold these emotions – and lack of them – before God.

Do not rush to explain. It is what it is. Let it be.

Notice the presence of Jesus.

Breathe in deeply, breathe in Christ’s lament and allow it to fill you.

Breathe out grief and anxiety and anger.

Jesus’ lament is not only for Jerusalem, or even the war-torn lands of today.

It is for all of us.

For every place where love is rejected.

For every time we refuse His shelter, choosing instead *whatever it might be*.

The Christ still longs to gather; still stands with open arms; still loves relentlessly.

In your mind, heart and soul will you pause. Stop. Allow yourself to be gathered?

What would it be like to enfolded in the care of the protective, divine mama hen? Winged feathers stretched taut, a shield and barrier between all that could harm, and her chicks, ready, alert, prepared to do anything for them.

What would it mean for the world to be willing?

For the world to turn from the cycle of violence and step toward peace?

Can you hold this torn, broken, divided world and church and people before Jesus?

Breathe in deeply, Breathe in peace.

Breathe out conflict and greed into the wounded hands of the Prince of Peace.

Take a deep breath. Hold Gaza, Israel, and all suffering places in your heart.

Imagine Jesus; arms open, longing to gather His children.

You were not willing, he says.

Imagine a world willing. A church willing. Imagine yourself willing.

Are you?

“Jesus Christ. Gather Your children under Your wings, melt our hearts and show us how to be willing. May we see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. And when all seems lost, remind us of the third day—the day of resurrection, when all things are gathered up and transformed in to life. Amen.”

The Jesus Manifesto

Nehemiah 8:1-3,5-6,8-10 Psalm 19 1 Cor 12:12-31 Luke 4:14-21

In today’s world it seems impossible there would be anyone who might’ve escaped the news of the inauguration of the 47^th president of the USA this week. News feeds, TV, radio shows, social media and conversations over the dinner table have been full of it so it seems remiss to not make mention of it this morning, particularly with this gospel reading, where we hear something like Jesus’ own inaugural speech. And some people might find the mix of politics and religion unpalatable, but this week we have heard the prophetic voice of Bishop Mariann Budde who set an example of the importance of speaking Truth to power, and inspired many of us to commit to speaking up.

So our gospel passage takes us to the synagogue in Galilee where Jesus stands up to read, and the scroll of the prophet Isaiah was handed to him and he read the following words:

The spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free and to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favour.

And then he sat down and said, today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing. Today, we are on the edge of this all coming true. Today is the start of a new era.

Good news to the poor. Release to the captives. Healing for the blind

Freedom for the oppressed. The favour of the Lord.

That’s quite a manifesto. It echoes the words of his mama Mary, when she sang out the Magnificat at his conception. Justice and healing and wholeness, freedom, hope and favour; those are the characteristics of the Kingdom Jesus is building, the one he is inviting everyone to become a part of.

Trump spoke of a new era too; one where power is restored to the most powerful and money is king. And while Jesus speaks of profound change in the spiritual realms, the president promises nationalistic change, political change, economic change – and that change doesn’t favour the poor.

He mentions them, and the imprisoned too. But whereas Jesus speaks of good news and release, of freedom and favour, this week’s news was filled with blame and retribution, a locking up of the world’s most vulnerable and a release of those with privilege.

The focus of these two inaugural speeches are diametrically opposed.

Jesus speaks of empowering the poor, the prisoners, the blind, and the oppressed; to lift up those on the margins of society. The Spirit of the Lord is on him to bring healing and justice to those who have been excluded. Whereas Trump’s rhetoric focuses on restoring power through dominance and strength, especially through economic growth and military power. He favours the everyday guy and encourages him or her (no other pronouns, of course) to be suspicious of people of colour or those newly arrived; to further marginalise the marginalised. His reign is through fearmongering and exclusion whereas Jesus preaches love and absolute inclusion.

Jesus speaks of the dawning of a new era, the start of something new, the fulfilment of what has been long promised. Always moving closer to the completeness of the Kingdom of God. Trump looks backwards – looking to recover that which is lost and doing so by force.

And the most direct opposite; Jesus’ message is about turning upside down the hierarchies of power, so the poor are lifted up, the homeless are housed, the blind can see, the rich are sent away empty. The other is about giving power to the most powerful. Not the way of the gospel at all.

Jesus speaks of the anointing of the Spirit – the Spirit of the Lord is upon me. A direct contrast to the worldly power, found in money and status and with a gun in hand. And Jesus speaks on the small stage of the synagogue, rather than the world’s stage.

Everything about these two inaugural addresses is opposite.

Humility versus power

Inclusion versus exclusion

Release versus imprisonment

Freedom versus fear

Love versus hate

And we stand in a world where we have a choice to make about whether we will align ourselves with the policies of the world, or the policies of the kingdom of God. And as those who call ourselves followers of Jesus we have signed up for his manifesto and not for that of the world, and that is a challenge. It’s not the simple or easy way. In a few verses time we hear how some of Jesus’ listeners hated his message so much they wanted to kill him. This isn’t the path of least resistance and saying we will choose to walk in the ways of light and truth each time is not a forgone conclusion.

We, as citizens of the 21^st century in the richest parts of world have power; the odds are stacked in our favour and in order for Jesus’ manifesto to be fulfilled today, we must give so that others might have.

Good news to the poor is money in the hand, medical bills paid, food on tables, decent wages, debt cancelled.

Release to the captives is an overhaul of our judicial system and penal reform. It is fair immigration policies and an end to detention. It is well-resourced mental health care and treatment for addiction.

Letting the oppressed go free is the dismantling of systems that oppress and creating support systems to manage freedom safely.

Proclaiming the year of the Lord’s favour is an end to guilt-based abusive spirituality, a radical acceptance for all, a gospel of love not judgment.

This is what the Spirit of the Lord is anointing us to do and when we are the ones, as a nation, as a wealthy people, who are getting in the way of this being fulfilled, it is our job to get out of the way, to make change and advocate for those who are most in need, like Bishop Budde did in her address to Trump. In addressing him I think she addressed us all and I will close with a line or two from her…

“Let me make one final plea… I ask you to have mercy… [and] May God grant us the strength and courage to honour the dignity of every human being, to speak the truth to one another in love and walk humbly with each other and our God for the good of all people. Good of all people in this nation and the world. Amen”

Water into wine…

Isaiah 62:1-5 Psalm 36:5-10 1 Corinthians 12:1-11 John 2:1-11

When a stranger first spots my collar, there is a range of familiar responses. I’m amazed how often I am asked if *this* is real, or if I am on my way to a fancy dress party (if there is a fancy dress party at lunchtime on some random Wednesday and I’m invited, I will go full Mother Superior and won’t just turn up in a dog collar). I also get asked ‘are you religious then?’, and the old ‘I didn’t know women could be priests’, and somewhere in the top ten of things I’m asked is whether I can turn water into wine. Honestly. So, this gospel passage feels more familiar than many.

I love this story. I love the imagery it stirs up; the wedding, Jesus, his mama and disciples, the wine, water jars, and then the first of Jesus’ great signs; the overflowing abundant outpouring of the very best wine, not for any lasting purpose, but simply for pure joy. I love that Jesus’ first sign reveals his glory in this way.

And I love that Jesus didn’t change water into wine because he was a lover of wine, but because he is a lover of people; He cared about the bride and groom; he cared about how they would feel if they became *that* couple – the poor ones – the embarrassed ones – the ones who couldn’t provide for others.

And what demonstrates the abundance of the God we follow more than this; Jesus doesn’t just make a few bottles, until they can buy some more. He makes 180 gallons of wine – around 900 bottles – enough and some to share – enough for this party, and the next – enough to remember forever that lavish gift from the carpenter Jesus (could this be the God-man?).

And here’s what I love the most, the most Jesusy thing about it all.

We’re on day 3 of a 5 day wedding festival; everyone is drinking; Jesus could’ve served something mediocre, but he serves up the equivalent of the best champagne in the land. And that is what God is like – abundant, extravagant, always outdoing us with grace and blessings. We come grovelling, daring to hope for a tiny sip of vaguely fermented grape juice and Jesus pours out bottles of champagne. Always waiting to give us more than we can ever ask or imagine.

Jesus’ actions changed a wedding. It turned stone jars of water into bottles of the finest wine. And it speaks of so much more; an audacious claim from our Lord, that, by doing whatever Jesus tells us, we can be transformed too. Just as Jesus can change water into wine, so He can change us from our broken humanity, into people of holiness, wholeness and beauty. And just as Jesus can change us, so He and we, together, can change the world.

And on this Aboriginal Sunday, we might dare to believe we could partner with Jesus to heal the wounds of history, to rebuild the land and relationships that greed and domination and fear has damaged and destroyed; that the water of this land might be changed to the abundance of the best wine, because that is the whisper of the promise we hear from Christ in this passage.

And that is the real miracle: not that Jesus changed water into wine, but that Jesus can change us, our past, present and future, from broken to whole, from fearful to bold, from hurt to healed, from alone to belonging, and that this happens simply by doing whatever he tells you; handing it all over to Jesus and allowing Him to abundantly do whatever He chooses.

This message of water and wine brings me, every time, back to the altar and the mass. As the priest lays up the table for our meal you might hear us mumble private prayers to God. As the chalice is filled with wine and then dashed with water, so I pray, ‘through the mystery of this water and wine, may we share in the divinity of Christ who humbled himself to share in our humanity’.

May we share in the divinity, just as, or because, Christ shared in our humanity.

Water; the symbol of humanity.

Wine; the symbol of divinity, Godliness.

So in the bringing of the water jars to Jesus we discover we can bring all our humanness – our best and worst bits – and trust Jesus to take them and change them into pure holiness. And all of that is contained at every mass, in the mystery of the chalice.

Within the water and wine, we meet a God, in Christ, who longs to be in relationship with us; who longs to give good things to all people, with nobody excluded. We meet a Christ who takes something and makes abundantly more. And in the outpouring of the chalice we get to encounter Him again and again, every single time.

In this story we see a God who can and will transform the ordinary into something that is the very best, and we hear a God inviting us to be transformed too. And as we approach this altar, we partake in this story too – we become like the water jars; we who are human, place ourselves in God’s hands and, in consuming the Christ, we become more of who we are created to be. We exchange our humanity for divinity and, in turn, become more fully human.

In a way it is crazy; it’s hard to comprehend, which is why we take and eat and drink and do this physical act, because simply trying to figure it out in our minds alone is impossible. But the message is clear really; do whatever he tells you and, in doing so, you will be changed, and changed to change the world.

So, today, as we eat and drink, may we remember that; may we respond to that; and, may we say an enormous yes to these abundant gifts from God – that God’s glory might be further revealed, and that many more may believe in God. Amen.

The Baptism of Christ…on tour!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Can you picture that moment?

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

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

Herod, breathing out murderous threats.

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

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

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

An epiphany

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

And so are we.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Remember your baptism and be thankful.

Amen.

A sermon for Christmas Eve, midnight…

Christmas Eve Midnight Homily

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Advent II – Year C

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Lord is coming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The time has come.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A voice crying in the wilderness.

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

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

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

It is the risky land of encounter.

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

To question what we know.

To encounter what we fear.

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

Amen.

Advent 1 – Hope

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amen.

Another World is on its way…

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

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

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

It goes like this:

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

And we sing that twice. Let’s try:

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

And then it goes…

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

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

Let’s try that…

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

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

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

But he doesn’t say any of that.

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

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

What have you done Jesus?

What had he done?

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

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

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

What have you done?

And what are you doing?

Can I join in? Is there space for me?

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

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

What have you done, Pilate asks?

And now Jesus asks us the same question…

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pilate asks Jesus, ‘what have you done’?

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

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

Another world…