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A Sermon for Good Friday

Good Friday 2023 – John 19: 14 ff

I don’t like boxes much. Especially when they contain theology.

As a child, the Good Friday box contained an angry God who needed to be placated, and that could only ever be done through the death of his Son. The box contained adult words like sacrifice and blood and atonement and substitute. And I knew I was bad and could only be good because of whatever it was that was in that box.

As a young adult, the box held a vengeful wrathful God that I was uncomfortable with. I found him a bit embarrassing – all this talk about there needing to be a death so the debts could be paid – it got in the way of Good News, and wasn’t appealing, so I sealed the box more tightly and tried to ignore it; instead looked ahead to Easter Sunday, not wanting to spend any time looking at the contents of this day, at all.

As an older adult, who left the church in shame and confusion, I tentatively lifted the lid on those boxes, and many others that I had gathered along the way. All kinds of things tumbled out of them – words and phrases and feelings and pain. And I realised I understood way less than I ever thought I had. My lack of understanding became my guilty secret. It was authentic, at least, but it couldn’t be enough. Could it?

As a student of theology and then an ordained person, I began meeting others; those who wrote about what they believed and preached it and those who were daring to lift lids on boxes and didn’t seem ashamed of what had been buried there.

And then I met disciples and other Jesus followers; those who had shouted crucify, to avoid answers to questions like ‘weren’t you with this man?’. I saw those who had given kisses of betrayal and said, ‘this is the one’.

And those disciples are great company on this day, as we hear again those taunts – crucify him – and as we hear the mockery of ‘the king of the Jews’. As we hear the soldiers casting lots for the blood-soaked tunic, and the sobs of the weeping of the women. We can sit with those confused, distraught would-be followers as they see Jesus thirst, and know somehow that it is a thirst for righteousness and a new kingdom, not for sour wine on some pock-marked sponge on a filthy stick.

And as we hear our saviour say ‘it is finished’, as we watch God die, we don’t know much, if anything, but may we know beyond all knowing that whatever is in those bloody boxes is not even a fraction of what happened there that day. May we know that whatever it is we have been told and constructed is nothing compared to what actually went on in flesh and blood, and in the heavens above and the earth below; that as those words ‘it is finished’ came out in spit that mixed with air, and in blood that seeped into soil, so something significant happened.

Something significant happened. And we can never grasp it and never understand it. But for the love of God we will keep on trying.

Because that cross, in its bloodied, brutal, glory, is surrounded by boxes.

Open Boxes, without any lids, with questions and uncertainty tumbling out.

Boxes with lids nailed down, with theology and surety firmly held inside.

And the base of that cross goes down into the ground, way further than we know

And the top of the cross reaches taller and higher

And the cross beam stretches wider and broader than we can ever imagine

And as that cross goes deeper and wider and taller and broader, so must we keep digging deeper and reaching higher and stretching wider in our encounter with the crucified lord. Not rushing ahead to Sunday, but spending time here – as uncomfortable as it is, as painful as it might feel, as uncertain and tentative as it feels – we need to wait here, surrounded by these boxes of questions and theories.

And as we wait, something is already beginning to happen. Something is already changing in the highest heavens and the deepest depths.

May we wait. May we never stop waiting.

In our waiting may we wonder. May we dig deeper and reach higher and stretch wider. May we burn the boxes of our theories and understanding and may we simply wait here, at the foot of the cross, in the presence of our crucified Lord, not knowing what is happening, but trusting that even Friday can be Good. Amen.

What is your life’s purpose?

Ezekiel 37:1-14 Psalm 130 Romans 8:6-11 John 11

Many years ago, I was sat eating Sunday dinner with my priest friend and she was musing over the roast potatoes; ‘Every person must have one thing they are prepared to stand up in court for, go to prison for, even die for’, she said. ‘And if we all knew what that one thing was, and did it, the world would be a different place’. She was wondering in the abstract, because she didn’t know what her life’s purpose was, but those words have stuck with me and I often go back to them.

There must be one thing you are prepared to stand up in court for, go to prison for, even to die for.

I was reminded of that, again, on Friday, on the feast day of St Oscar Romero.

Oscar Romero was the archbishop of San Salvador – a quiet, contemplative man who stood up for the rights of the poor and marginalised during the civil war. Romero spoke out against the kidnapping, torture and murder of his people. His commitment to stand up for others ultimately led to his own assassination, while he was saying mass.

For Romero, it was not possible for love to be theoretical. It was not possible for it to be silent or weak. For Romero, love involved resistance and sacrifice, speaking out. His love of the poor, his active care for the oppressed was wahat he was prepared to stand up in court for, go to prison for, even die for. For Romero, loving the poor was his life’s purpose and it cost him his whole life.

And in this morning’s gospel, we see Jesus and his love for his friend Lazarus.

Lazarus was ill so his sisters sent a message to Jesus asking him to come. Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus, but he didn’t rush to them. He stayed two days longer in the place where he was. After this he said to the disciples ‘let us go to Judea again’. The disciples know that they have recently fled from there because the Jews were about to stone Jesus. Clearly, they aren’t keen on returning any time soon, but Jesus loves his friend, and he loves his sisters and he is prepared to risk death to go and see them.

As is often the case, there is some confusion and a good deal of misunderstanding but, this time, it is Thomas who gets it. And Thomas says to his fellow disciples, ‘let us also go, that we may die with him’. Thomas understands. He knows his Lord. He knows that Jesus’ love triumphs over all things – even over the fear of death.

So, they go and they find Lazarus is dead, and has been in the tomb for 4 days already. Jewish tradition believed the soul stayed around the body for three days after death, but Lazarus is past that – he is dead in body and in soul. And that is when Jesus shows up. Only once his friend is well and truly dead.

And he stands at the place of death, right at the mouth of that tomb, and he commands Lazarus to come out. He speaks directly to death, stares it right in the eye and says ‘I am the resurrection and the Life and you are done here’ and he tells death to be gone…and Lazarus comes out. He comes out, shrouded in the trappings of death and Jesus sets him free from that too; ‘unbind him and let him go’ he says, and many of the Jews who were there believed in him.

That is an awesome story. Lazarus was dead and now he is alive. He was bound but now he is free. The crowd were mourning but now they are celebrating. Jesus has done it all – he has brought life where there was death, and light where there was darkness. Everything is changed, reversed, resurrected.

But remember Thomas’ words in verse 16; ‘let us also go, that we may die with him’.

Everything is changed. The scene at the cave tomb is incredible – the professional mourners are beginning to leave, the funeral food is now catering for a party, the sisters are embracing their brother and pulling the cloth wrappings from him and death has been sent away empty-handed. All aspects of life are there. But in this action, Jesus has just signed his own death warrant. He has literally just put the final nail into his own hands. The next verse says, ‘some went to the pharisees and told them what Jesus had done…and from that day on they plotted to kill Jesus’.

Jesus knew, that by going to Judea to raise Lazarus from the death, his own death was being hastened. But he also knew his life’s purpose. He knew what he was prepared to stand up in court for, go to prison for, even die for. He knew his purpose was – his purpose is – love.

Love that tells death it doesn’t get the final word.

Love that brings life where there was once only death.

Love that unbinds others and sets them free.

Love that brings light to the darkness of the tomb.

And when we – when humanity is faced with that kind of love we are so exposed, so unravelled, so uncertain, we try to kill it.

Prior to love and life like that, the only certainty was that we are born and we die. But this love, the love of Christ, challenges even that certainty. Death is no longer certain. Love and life now wins.

Thomas had a glimpse of that, and was prepared to go with his Lord, even if it cost him his life. Jesus knew his life’s purpose and was prepared to go to the tomb of his friend to reverse death and fulfil it, even though he knew it would ultimately cost him his life.

Oscar Romero knew his purpose too and held true to it, even to the point of death.

How about us? What about you? What are we prepared to stand up in court for, go to prison for, even die for? Amen.

The healing of a man born blind: a guided meditation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His work is our work.

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

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

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

If only we are brave enough to be it!

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

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

Some things are hard to understand…

Genesis 12:1-4 Psalm 121 Romans 4:1-4, 13-17 John 3:1-17

Some things are really hard to understand, aren’t they?…like, I was never any good at physics. And I have no idea how to fold a fitted sheet. People cleverer than me might be able to answer my questions about those things, but it’s still hard for me to understand. And in this morning’s gospel reading, Nicodemus found things hard to understand too…

‘Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God because no one can do the signs you do unless they have been in the presence of God’, he says. And then Jesus says, ‘no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above’. Which doesn’t really help. And Nicodemus says, ‘you what? How can anyone be born after having grown old?!’. It’s really hard for him to understand. And Jesus’ answer doesn’t make it much clearer… ‘no one can enter the kingdom of God without being born of water and Spirit…you must be born from above’.

Some things are hard to understand.

But every now and then, something, or someone comes along, and they say or do something that makes things easier to understand. They give you a tip or explanation that makes sense, or at least makes it easier to remember.

By the time I was 12, I knew I would never be a physician. I liked the Bunsen burners in chemistry and I was fascinated by the human body in biology but physics and I were never going to get on. And so, in the early morning hours on the day of my physics test, I found myself crying over my revision. I just didn’t understand. I snuck into my mum’s bed and had a good worry about it. She looked at my schoolbook and began to teach me physics. Before breakfast. And I remember her tips. We were doing electronics and she said ‘when you wire a plug the bRown wire goes to the right – because it has an R in it – and the bLue wire goes to the left. Hey presto. I could do physics – enough to scrape through that test anyway. Sometimes we need a visual aid or some way of remembering.

And Nicodemus didn’t have one, not in this passage anyway (he got it in the end because he was right there at the crucifixion – but not in this passage). But for us, today, we have a very clear visual aid, a perfect way of remembering and understanding what Jesus is talking about. And that is shown to us, right here, in the tiny, perfect person of little baby Navy Rain.

You see, last July, Navy was born. She was born of the flesh – I expect Hayley can particularly vouch for that. But today, 8 months later, this little person will be born all over again (don’t worry Hayley, you don’t have to go through it again!). Today baby Navy will be born of the Spirit – she will be born from above. Nicodemus had it wrong – he thought that being born a second time must’ve meant returning to the mother’s womb – but that’s not it at all. This morning, Navy will be born for the second time, in and through the waters of baptism. She is our reminder, our lesson, our perfect visual aid of what Jesus was talking about.

And for all of us who have been baptised, we have each been born twice too – once of the flesh and then of the spirit. And, as I always say, we only baptise once because once is enough, enough for a whole lifetime – enough for a new lifetime. But because we worship a God of absolute abundance, God is always waiting to pour out more love, more life, more grace on each of God’s children. So, yes, one rebirth is enough, but also, we have the invitation and offer of rebirth in every single moment of every single day.

Every time we come together, we can be reborn, refreshed and renewed by the Spirit.

Every time we make our confession and receive God’s forgiveness we are reborn, made clean, refreshed and renewed by the Spirit.

Every time we come to this altar rail and receive the body and blood of Christ in our holy meal, we are made new, reborn, given new life, more life, from above.

Stuart and Hayley gave life to baby Navy. Hayley literally birthed her. And it doesn’t get more fleshy than that. And that was a gift. A true, amazing and wonderful gift. A gift from God, and Navy’s family and friends have brought her to church today to thank God for that gift. But God just keeps on giving gifts, because God is like that! Today’s gift for Navy is new life, through Baptism. And as it is for her, so it is for us. We are offered that gift of life – every single one of us, all are welcome, nobody is left out. And whether we were baptised a hundred years ago, or whether we haven’t made it to those waters yet, we each have the same invitation from God that Navy, in her own 8 month kind of way, is saying yes to.

And the invitation never runs out. We are always and eternally invited, in God’s act of great love, to new life and renewed hope. We are always invited to see the Kingdom of God and be the Kingdom of God and live in it and build it for those around us.

A few moments from now, we will see Baby Navy splash her way into her second birth – we will witness her new birth-day (I expect Hayley is particularly glad we weren’t all at her first one!). May this precious moment be a constant reminder to us – something that helps us understand – the holy invitation to be born of the flesh and of the spirit. And in and through it may we see the kingdom of God. Amen.

Return to me with all your heart: a sermon for Ash Wednesday

Joel 2:1-2, 12-17 Psalm 51 2 Cor 5:20-6:10 Matt 6:1-6, 16-21

Return to me with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning.

Return to the Lord.

Today we begin our journey into lent, knowing it takes through the wilderness, among the hosannas of the ride into Jerusalem, and to the passion and pain of the cross. We know what lies ahead, but there are 40 days in which to get there. How will we use this time?

Return to me with all your heart, God says, with fasting, weeping and mourning. Return to the Lord.

So my questions this Lent, are:

Where is your heart currently?
Where do you need to go, to retrieve the pieces of your heart that are not with God?
How will you search for those pieces to bring them back?
And how will you hand them over to God?

Return to me with all your heart, God says. All of it.

What will help, this lent, for you to discover where you have left your heart? If you aren’t sure where all the pieces of your heart are, check the end of this gospel passage – where your treasure is, there your heart will be also. Check where your treasure lies, and there you will find your heart.

So before you give up chocolate or wine or social media this Lent, consider ‘how will my lack of these things help my heart return to God’? Will not doing these things make me love God more??’ And if it will, then it is the perfect Lenten discipline. The perfect way of fasting. If it wont bring your heart back to God then you might reconsider…

A while ago, I gave up drinking – it was stealing too much from me and not giving me any of the things it promised. Giving it up was a good thing – it has great benefits. I sleep better, my anxiety is reduced, my heart rate is improved, my mind is clearer, I have more time and more money available, I’ve even dropped a few kilos. All these things are good. But God is not so intent on good, as much as holy. Giving up drinking is good, but what I do with that extra time and clearer mind and increased money and energy – what I do with that has the potential to become holy. Especially if I use it to bring my wandering heart back to God.

And, truthfully, if I want to reclaim the distracted and straying parts of my heart, and return them to God, that is not found in the absence of wine; it is found in what I do in its place. Reclaiming my heart for God happens when I choose to spend more time with the God I’ve chosen to follow all my life, and who I gave my whole heart to back in the beginning.

Giving up something is ok, but only if, in its place, something holy begins. And Lent is a gift of time and space to do that; to try one new thing that will return your heart more fully to God.

In the church we begin Lent with receiving the sign of the cross on our foreheads, in Ash.

This is an ancient tradition, where ash is a symbol of mourning; where we mourn for all the ways we have failed God and failed one another; a moment to turn from all our failings and purposefully face the direction of the cross: literally realign ourself with the cross – it is right there, on our heads, right in front of us, and we are immediately placed right behind it, back where we belong.

On Ash Wednesday, we commit all over again to walk the way of Christ, together, as we try to return to God, with all of our heart, drawn by God’s grace and mercy and steadfast love.

Return to me with all your heart God says. Not because God is possessive and angry. Not because God doesn’t want us to love other people and other things.

Return to me with ALL your heart God says, because that is the best and safest place for our hearts to be. It is an invitation of love, on God’s part – as always. Because when our hearts are fully with God we can love outrageously and fiercely and boldly. When our hearts are fully with God our friends and neighbours and community will benefit most fully.

Returning to God, with all our hearts takes work and commitment. It takes dedication and doesn’t happen accidentally, but it is the absolute best thing for us, and for those around us. It will transform our lives and our church and our community. It will change the world.

Return to me with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping and with mourning.

Return to the Lord your God, for God is gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love, and relents from punishing.

So, my questions for this Lent, again, are:

Where is your heart currently?
Where do you need to go, to retrieve the pieces of your heart that are not with God?
How will you search for those pieces to bring them back?
And how will you hand them over to God?

Return to me with all your heart, God says. All of it.

May this signing, with ash and oil, mark a significant moment in your returning. Amen.

Planting the Alleluia

Exodus 24:12-18 Psalm 2 2 Peter 1: 16-21 Matt 17: 1-9

Sometimes it is easy to become complacent about our bible readings – we have these readings every year – we know the story of Transfiguration – there’s Jesus, a mountain, Peter, James and John and a bright light and we know the rest. Sometimes it seems easier to be more enamoured by transfiguration when it is in Professor McGonagalls class at Hogwarts than when it is in our church. But Jesus’ disciples fell to the ground at the sight of the transfiguration. When was the last time I was ever that overwhelmed by the glory of God? Was I ever?

Several years ago, I first heard about this ancient practice, dating back to the 10^th century, that can help us to do recapture something of the enormity of these readings – or at least be able to approach them afresh. it is a practice I introduced in my last parish back in 2020 and we did it here last year. It is the practice of burying or locking the alleluia. Do you remember? Let me recap with the words I first read about it. They said this…

‘…nine weeks before Easter, the custom of ceasing to sing ‘Alleluia’ at mass [begins]; a practice referred to in medieval England as ‘locking the Alleluia’. The word was symbolically [and literally] locked away, to be unlocked again amid the celebration of Easter – then the word was released from its captivity, just as Christ would break out of the tomb and human beings would be liberated from captivity to sin.’

I love symbolism in worship, and I love ritual, so I was eager to reintroduce it.

In 2020 I got every child in our local primary school to make their own alleluia on a piece of paper and bring it to church – 350 alleluias in total. And during the Sunday service each member of the congregation made one. They all went into a box and were ‘buried’ underneath the high altar, ready to be spectacularly released on Easter Sunday. Then COVID hit and those symbolic songs of praise were left there, unsung for the next 6 months and they were never resurrected in the way it was intended. And the symbolism of not being able to celebrate the resurrection but rather it being recycled into something else felt very 2020.

Then, last year, we buried the alleluia here.

At the time, we were visiting three friends who were incarcerated at the prison at Perth airport, for seeking asylum here; Ned, Javad and our dear Aref. I had visited them a few weeks before and Aref had given me a Tupperware container with his name on. Do you remember it? In that container, we placed our alleluia letters.

And, with Aref’s box in front of us, we thought about our brothers in detention, and what life was like for them, and how glory couldn’t be further from their experiences. Our readings tell us about standing in glory, with the Divine. But how do we stand, what do we say to our fellow siblings, when we and they are far from that experience.

Well, what we did, as in every lent, is to stop saying the church’s great word of praise and we buried it, as a prayer for those who have lost their alleluia. And then, on easter Sunday, we dug it up and brought it back into church. Except something had changed, something very significant had changed. Two of our friends had been released – Aref was right here when we dug up his now-holy lunch box – in fact, it became the day of his baptism. I can’t put into words what happened in those 40 days, nor the symbolism and significance of that buried alleluia in that box with his name on but, somehow, together, we were witnesses of something close to resurrection.

So it is with some kind of trepidation that we bury the alleluia again this year. Because, what if we aren’t actually burying it at all. What if we are actually PLANTING it? Burying something, digging a hole and putting it into the ground, is very similar to planting, isn’t it? But burying is about marking death and planting is the absolute opposite – planting is about looking for, and waiting for, life.

At the end of the service today we will take our word – alleluia – and we will place it into this tub and we will put it into the ground where we wont see it again until our dawn service on Easter Sunday. But I wonder what we want to see grow here – what and who do we want to see spring into life, or show the first buds of some new creation? What will we place, symbolically, into this tub that God might feed and nurture and break open and transform to add to God’s glory; the glory witnessed on the mountain by Moses and Jesus and Peter and James and John and Elijah.

And as it is buried – as it is planted – so we will no longer use the word Alleluia in our worship. There will be a gap where it once was. May we really notice it is gone. May our liturgy and worship take on a sombre tone, a more serious meaning. And each time we notice its absence – in that silence, may that be our prayer for those who are currently unable to murmur that word of praise; may it be our prayer for the trafficked, the asylum seeker, the traumatised family fleeing war, the homeless, the lonely, the addicted, may it be our prayer for the deepest saddest parts of ourselves. And may it be a cry to the Divine Gardener – the one we will meet in that garden on easter Sunday – may it be a cry for an outpouring of watering and tending and caring for the shoots that may grow from this planting. And may it all be for the glory of the one who creates and recreates. Amen.

Get some sleep!

DEUT 10: 12-22. PSALM 119: 1-8 1 COR 3: 1-9. MATT 5: 21-37

One of the lovely things about my morning routine is our daily dog walk. Each morning, Maggie and I walk with Maureen and MillyMae. Maureen is an amazing storyteller, and she regales me with tales from her life, and from her work as a nanny. This week, one of those stories came back to me as I’ve been reading these pretty unpalatable readings…

One of the children Maureen nannies is a little 5-year-old named Otis. He is sharp and inquisitive and very bright. One day, Maureen and Otis were on the train, heading to the city, travelling in a busy carriage, full of commuters.

Into this mass of people, Otis pipes up, ‘Maureen…do you know one thing I really HATE?’

‘What’s that?’ Maureen replies. (Several people in the carriage also wonder what this little person REALLY HATES and begin to tune in). ‘SLEEP’ he says, ‘AND, do you know my mother makes me do it every single night???’

I’ve been thinking about that gorgeous exchange this week; about Otis and his mummy and their inevitable battle each bedtime. Go to sleep! I hate sleep! It’s good for you! I hate it! I’ve been thinking about encouraging those we love to do the things that are best for them and how unpopular that might seem but how important it is.

And I’ve battled with Jesus’ words in the gospel reading because if I was to truly follow them, I’d be standing before you, eye-less and hand-less and bound for prison or the gates of hell. I would. And the only reassuring thing about that is I would probably be alongside most of you here, wouldn’t I?! wouldn’t I???

But yesterday, something shifted in my mind and heart, and I began to read that list of unattainably high standards alongside the reading from Deuteronomy; those beautiful verses that said ‘what does the Lord your God require of you? Only to keep the commandments of the Lord your God for your own well-being’ and I thought, Wow. God is loving me! God is commanding me for my own wellbeing, not because God is a killjoy and wants to steal my fun!

I want what’s best for you, says God. But since those days of Deuteronomy, humanity had several centuries to muck things up further, and get themselves into all manner of trouble, so Jesus raises the bar higher…

You have heard it said, ‘you shall not murder’, but now I say ‘don’t even be angry with your brother and sister’. You have heard it said, ‘do not commit adultery’ but now I say, ‘don’t even look with lust because you’ve already committed adultery in your heart’.

Jesus is loving his followers; he is deeply caring for his people – don’t do those things because they’re not good for you and I want you to experience the best life has for you. Don’t only avoid the big things, avoid the things that lead to it. Not because Jesus wants to steal our fun. Not because he has insanely high standards for us and is waiting for us to fail so he can send us to hell. None of that, but simply because he LOVES us. He utterly adores us. Every single one of us. And he wants the best for us.

He knows what happens to those who murder – he knows the shame and the guilt and the anger and the hatred and the secrecy and all the other things that will chew us up and spit us out. He knows we don’t need to be sent to hell because we will be living there already. And he doesn’t want that for his people, so he says don’t even get angry. Don’t go down that path. I know where it leads.

And he knows what happens to marriages and relationships where adultery sneaks in. He knows of the shame and secrecy and resentment and the damage it causes to hearts and minds and self-esteem and self-worth. He knows that and he doesn’t want that for his people. He is saying these things for our own wellbeing, as those verses in Deuteronomy say.

And these gospel verses are part of the sermon on the mount; they come soon after those glorious ‘blessed are’ verses that I wept through a couple of weeks ago. And that struck me yesterday too. Jesus is saying don’t do these things because they’re really not good for you and I love you and I don’t want to see you hurt and damaged. I don’t want to see you weeping on your bathroom floor at 3am, weighed down by whatever it is you have done – and I don’t want you to do things that will make you believe you are separated from my love.

I don’t want you to do that. But. If you do. When you do. Know this:

Blessed are you. Blessed are you anyway.

Blessed is the murderer and the angry one and the adulterer and the lustful. Blessed is he who sins with his eyes and she who sins with her hands. Blessed is the divorced and blessed is the one they left. Blessed are you. I’m still here, Jesus says, and nothing will ever separate you from my love. It’s not what I want for you, but it is not the end. It is never the end.

I read these words from Jesus as judgement. I read them as pass or fail. And I didn’t come out well. And The Church, and Christians have used these words to condemn and judge others. They have used them to abuse people who are tentatively taking their first steps towards faith in God. These words have been used to keep people out of church and to keep people oppressed and to push them further onto the fringes of society. And, friends, THAT is the sin here. Because these words are intended for love:

My darling friends, Jesus is saying, my precious followers, I want life for you in all abundance. I want all that is best for you. when you slip up you are still loved and still welcome and still held and still whole, but I want more than that for you so I am giving you these guidelines so that you might choose life.

Whenever Jesus speaks, his message is love.

Every time God speaks, it is to reiterate the point that we are loved and accepted and welcome and forgiven. Every time. Always.

So, just as Otis’ longsuffering mama will probably have to keep having the nightly ‘go to sleep’ battle, so too will God keep on encouraging us to make wise choices, for our own wellbeing. May we see it as encouragement not judgement. May we share it as encouragement not judgement. And when our heavenly parent suggests it, may we go to sleep!

Amen.

Candlemas

Malachi 3: 1-5 Psalm 24 Hebrew 2:14-18 Luke 2:22-40

I’ve told you before about when God invited me to Australia to create holy chaos, but I don’t think I’ve told you about what came next. I heard this invitation – you can come to Australia if you want – and I said yes…so the job hunt began. I went onto the diocesan website for Perth and found the bit where it listed the vacancies. Let me tell you, there are lots of them, or there were when I was looking. And I clicked on each one and began to read. Some were immediately discarded because they had heavily coded messages that indicated they wanted a men or someone who was conservative or an evangelical minister, and that clearly wouldn’t have been a match, but even so, a short-list began to emerge. And then I’d message Craig – things like, what about Kwinana, where’s that? How about Bassendean? And Craig would – literally every single time – say no. I’m not moving there – it’s too posh or too far or too whatever and he was pretty determined to stay in Alkimos, so I’d go back to the drawing board.

And then one day – actually while the time difference meant Craig was sleeping – I saw the advert for this little place called St Paul’s, in Beaconsfield. And I clicked on the link, and it took me to the church website and I read the first sentence on the home page and knew, in less than 3 seconds, I was home. It said something like, ‘come and join us as we search for the Divine together’.

The fact God was not being described as He, and I was being invited on a journey – with others – to figure out what this crazy life as a God-chaser might look like was enough. It was everything. And I messaged Craig and distinctly remember it said something like ‘I’ve found the place. I don’t know where you’re going but I’m moving to Beaconsfield’. And that one sentence – come and join with us as we seek the Divine – was the key.

And I’ve been thinking about that this week, as we approached today – Candlemas – when we remember the presentation of the baby Christ in the temple, and the epiphany to faithful Anna and devoted Simeon, and as we heard those wonderful words from the prophecy of Malachi – because all of it is all about seeking the Divine, together.

So hear again, the words of the prophet Malachi, echoing down through the ages: The Lord whom you seek will suddenly come to his temple…

This prophecy speaks of who Anna and Simeon, and the whole Jewish nation, were waiting for: a death-defying, devil-slaying, high priest, in the service of God. And it foreshadows this day, when the Holy Spirit propelled them to the temple, inspired their vision, and revealed the Lord, in their very midst.

And they found a baby. Just an 8-day old baby.

Was this really what had been promised for more than 500 years? Was this the hope of the world? The one who would judge and redeem and purify and refine? The one who would set the oppressed free, defend the widow and the orphan, and care for the alien? Could this little person really turn the whole world upside-down? It seems hard to believe, doesn’t it? Could this baby be the Divine?

But Malachi’s prophecy continues, this one who suddenly comes to his temple ‘…is like a refiners fire…he will sit as a refiner and purifier of silver and will purify and refine like gold and silver’.

And this bit blows my mind, every time, because do you know how a silversmith refines and purifies their metal? They sit, for long periods of time, holding their metal in very intense heat and they hold it there until the dross burns off. They hold it until it is free from impurity. And they only know it is pure when they can see their reflection perfectly in it. When the face of the one who is creating it can be fully seen.

Malachi’s prophecy promises the Lord is coming and will refine and purify like gold and silver. And on that day, in the temple, prayerful Anna, and spirit-inspired Simeon, recognised the image of God in the face of the baby Christ. And they took the child and saw the future salvation of God, God’s very self, reflected in that pure unadulterated face of Christ. And they believed.

And that is what we remember today – that the image of the creator was revealed in the face of that tiny baby who was brought to the temple. But what this place – this temple – has shown me is that the image of the creator is revealed in one another as we journey together to discover more of the Divine. It’s like this place is another of God’s refining fires – where we are each held to the light, held in the fire, until God can see God’s face in each of us – until our own reflection is the image of God. That’s the journey of this place.

That might sometimes feel like a big ask – being held in the fire doesn’t sound comfortable and trying to reflect the image of the divine sounds like something I fail to do every single day. But, friends, we are baptised children of God and everything that needs to be done happened right there in those waters. In the waters of our baptism, we were cleansed and purified and made holy – in those waters we were made to fully reflect the face of the Divine – and we were given a holy calling, symbolised by the gift of the lit flame: shine as a light in the world, to the glory of God, we were told.

And today, Candlemas, is the festival of light; it is a day to celebrate this light. And, as Rumi says, we are stars wrapped in bodies, thoughts and feelings and the light we seek is right here. We cannot fail to reflect something of the Divine because it is in our very DNA, it is the foundation of who we are; our life’s work is simply to allow it to shine more brightly, more clearly, that others might see and, like Anna and Simeon, believe.

So, on this festival day, where we think of light and fire and our call to shine and reflect the image of the Divine, even as we are seeking after them, let’s have a visible reminder of this.

Candles – light one from paschal candle – pass along – light one another’s with ‘let the image of the divine shine through you’

Amen.

Blessed are you…

Micah 6: 1-8 Psalm 15 1 Corinthians 1:18-31 Matthew 5: 1-12

On 13^th April, 2001, sat in a huge circus tent, I heard these words from Matthew’s gospel. I was broken and sad. My marriage had recently fallen apart; I had lost my home, all but a bag full of my belongings, and had been told I was no longer welcome in my church. My faith in marriage, and humanity, and God was pretty much nil, and I was finding my solace in the arms and beds of inappropriate people. I felt disgusting and cheap and full of shame. How I had found myself surrounded by 5000 Christians – who I thought were the worst and most judgemental people of all – was nothing short of a miracle, but there I was. And the preacher read these words…

When Jesus saw the crowds, he went up the mountain.

He went on to say the crowds couldn’t help but follow Jesus – they were the outcasts and the sinners – they were the prostitutes and tax collectors and the poor and the sick. They were the ones nobody else wanted to be associated with and they couldn’t help but be drawn to Jesus AND, not only that; He was pleased to see them.

And in that tent, I felt like one of them. My church had told me I had to leave. I was disrespecting my body, through food and drink and sex, and I was cloaked in shame. And this man was telling me Jesus was pleased to see me…and, somewhere inside me, I knew he was right. And, like those people on that mountainside, I couldn’t help but follow him either.

And so began my second journey of faith, my following of Christ as an adult, with all my shit; hopelessly and helplessly in love with God, knowing I could never turn back now, not even if I wanted to.

Knowing Jesus to be the one who attracts the outcasts and those the world hates; knowing they are drawn to him and he is pleased to see him, pleased to see ME, has been the foundation of my faith and my call to ordination and my life as a priest and sold out Jesus-lover.

That sense was enough in itself, but here’s the thing – this crowd of people; outsiders and unwelcome everywhere else – when they follow Jesus, he is not only pleased to see them, he blesses them. Isn’t that just so Jesus?! These people, on the very edge of society, they’re the ones who get the blessing:

Blessed are the poor, blessed are those who mourn, blessed are the meek and the hungry and the thirsty, blessed are the peacemakers and the persecuted and the pure. And blessed are the hated. Yours is the kingdom of heaven.

Several years ago, I read a wonderful sermon on this passage, given by one of my favourite preachers – Nadia Bolz-weber. (if you don’t know her, you should!). She said…

‘Maybe the Sermon on the Mount is all about Jesus’ lavish blessing of the people around him on that hillside, who his world—like ours—didn’t have much time for… Maybe Jesus was simply blessing the ones around him that day who didn’t otherwise receive blessing… I mean, come on, doesn’t that just sound like something Jesus would do? Extravagantly throwing around blessings as though they grew on trees?’

And then she goes on to write her own version of this passage, for the people around her that day. And she throws out blessings of her own, things like…

‘Blessed are the agnostics. Blessed are they who doubt.

Blessed are they who have buried their loved ones, for whom tears could fill an ocean. Blessed are they who have loved enough to know what loss feels like.

Blessed are those who no one else notices. The laundry guys at the hospital. The sex workers and the night-shift street sweepers.

Blessed are foster kids and special-ed kids and every other kid who just wants to feel safe and loved.

Blessed are the burned-out social workers and the overworked teachers and the pro bono case takers.’

And so she goes on…

And I wonder what blessings Jesus would throw out here today. Maybe it would be something like this…

‘Blessed are you, wherever you are on your faith journey; the atheist, agnostic, quaker, lapsed catholic, evangelical, seeker, conservative, liberal, Jesus-lover, God-doubter. I am pleased to see you…

Blessed are the phds and doctors, the MAs, BAs, OAs and those who trained at the university of life. Your mind is beautiful.

Blessed are the faithful, who have been here for decades, and keep on showing up,

Blessed are you who are grumpy and judgey and bored and wish you were somewhere else – none of that stops the kingdom of God being open for you

Blessed are those who don’t know when they will next eat. And blessed are you who will feed them.

Blessed are those who have children, don’t want children, can’t have children, and those who are children – you are made in the image of God.

And blessed are you, even while you are addicted to alcohol and drugs. You are blessed by God – yours is the kingdom. And you are welcome here. God sees you and loves you and is the light in the darkness you face.

Blessed are those who care about the plight of the widow and the orphan and the homeless and hungry and blessed are those who haven’t even thought about those who are worse off, for weeks, or ever.

Blessed are the refugees and asylum seekers; you who arrived by boat or land or air. Blessed are you who were welcomed in and those who are still locked up at the borders – the kingdom of God is yours, you are welcome and you don’t need a freaking visa. Citizenship is yours.

Blessed are you, even though you are sat there saying ‘but she can’t mean me because I’m…’ whatever. Yes, even you. Blessed are you.

And blessed are you as you sit in your secrecy, fearful of being found out. God sees you and knows you and hates your shame and says ‘blessed are you – I love you – you are enough’

Blessed are those the world loves, and those the world hates, for yours is the kingdom of heaven.

The kingdom of heaven sounds alright, doesn’t it? This place where everyone is welcome and blessed and accepted. But for people like me, who sat in that tent feeling like the world’s outcast, we need to do more. We need to be more.

We need to become the answer to the prayer that we pray every time we meet. We need to be the Kingdom here and now; your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth, we pray. May we become that, so we don’t need to wait until we get to heaven, Amen.

Come and See!

Isaiah 49:1-7 Psalm 40:1-11 1 Corinthians 1:1-9 John 1:29-42

Last week I told you about the epiphany I had, some years ago, about epiphany. Well, this week, the epiphanies continued….so I’m having epiphanies about the epiphany I had about epiphany. Are you keeping up?!

Two weeks ago, we had the epiphany of the wise men, as they encountered the baby Jesus and discovered him to be the Christ, the hope of the nations.

Last week we had the epiphany, I suppose, of John the Baptist and all who witnessed Jesus’ baptism, at the waters of the Jordan river, as Jesus was baptised; the heavens were torn open, God’s spirit descended like a dove and rested on him and that voice was heard proclaiming, ‘this is my son, the beloved, with whom I am well pleased’ and all who were there discovered this carpenter man was, indeed, God, the Christ, the Son of the Almighty.

Today we are still in epiphany season and we have a continuation of last week; it’s the day after, and John sees Jesus and says ‘here is the lamb of God’…this is the one I was telling you about – and, he says, ‘I saw the spirit descending from heaven like a dove, and it remained on him…this is the Son of God’. It’s like a precis of the plot. Those of you who missed last week, or yesterday in John’s case, this is what happened – I baptised him, the spirit came, this is God. He’s the one.

And what is the epiphany here? Well, John reveals and confirms that Jesus is God, but we had that epiphany last week.

He tells those gathered that he is the Lamb of God, and commentary writers and greater minds than mine can’t agree what that means, and they tie themselves up in all kinds of theological wranglings. Anyway, in whatever way he says it, and whatever it means to those with him that day, it results in two disciples hearing…and responding by following Jesus. Maybe John’s words are the epiphany. Maybe it’s the revelation that Jesus is the Lamb of God, the epiphany to me in these verses is this…

Every epiphany, every revelation, every discovery given to us, by God, through Jesus, is an invitation. A divine invitation, for all people, and we get to choose how we respond. Every epiphany – every unveiling or revealing of something amazing is an invitation, from God to us. Epiphany is invitation. It is always an invitation.

In the epiphany to the wise men, they were invited to stop their searching, kneel, and worship. All they had been looking for, maybe for generations, had been found. You don’t need to look any further! It is here, he is here, in this baby. Their invitation was to stop, bow down and worship.

In the epiphany of Christ’s baptism, where those gathered got to see the Spirit of God descending and hear the voice of God speaking, the epiphany was that this person is the messiah, the christ, the Son of God. But the invitation was to become one of God’s children; to know that same voice was speaking over them too; ‘you are my child too – you are beloved and with you I am so pleased’ – a divine invitation to join the family of Christ – and last week Kaius and Nathan and baby Gabriel said yes to that invitation, as many of us have before them. And many more will after them, too.

Epiphany is invitation. It’s not just a divine unveiling – a showing of something good – it is always an invitation to become part of the revelation.

And in today’s verses the invitation is explicit and clear.

‘What are you looking for?’ Jesus says…and then he says, ‘come and see’. Come and see! And they came and saw, and they remained with him, and then they went and told others ‘we have found the messiah’. They were invited to see where Jesus was staying and whatever it was they saw there revealed this incredible epiphany that Jesus is the Messiah, the saviour they have been waiting for…and they went and told others.

Epiphany is not just an event in history. It is a series of events, of happenings, that course through time and continue happening and revealing themselves, and every single one is a holy invitation. Every single one says ‘come and see’.

In the journey of the Magi, God was leading them on, saying ‘come and see’.

At the baptism of Christ, God was drawing people to that water’s edge, saying ‘come and see’.

When John’s disciples saw Jesus walking along, God, in Christ, said ‘come and see’.

And right here and now, that same God is saying to us, ‘come and see’. Come and see what I have in store for you. Come and see how much you are loved. Come and see how life can be when we journey together. Come and see.

And this holy invitation is for us individually, and it is also for us, collectively, as a church, as The Church, as God’s people who come together in this place.

What are you looking for, people of St Pauls?, Jesus asks.

What are you looking for, for the people of Beaconsfield, and for one another?

Come and see what I have for you. Come and see how and where I live. Come and see that I am the messiah. Come and see. And then go and tell others that you have met the Christ, that you know the Messiah and life can be different.

Come and see and then let others know that they can come and see too.

May God give us grace to see each epiphany as an invitation.

May we have the courage to say yes to every divine offer.

May we come and see and go and tell.

And may it all be for the glory of God. Amen.