god – Page 2 – Holy Adventures

Trinity Sunday 2025

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

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

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

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

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

What we meet in the Trinity — is love.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s how we pray, and live, and love.

It’s why we believe community matters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Healing Gaza…

John 5:1-9

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

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

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

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

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

If only they could get to the truck.

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

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

And then Jesus walks by and does three things.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Guided Meditation on Isaiah 55

Isaiah 55:1–9 Psalm 63:1–9 1 Corinthians 10:1–13 Luke 13:1-9

“Come, all you who are thirsty, come to the waters…”

Let’s take a moment to settle. Close your eyes gently, breathe deeply.

God is Spirit, Spirit is breath.

Breathe in the fullness of God. Breathe out all that is not of God.

Now, imagine you are standing in a vast, dry land.

The air is warm, the ground hot and cracked beneath your feet.

You feel a deep thirst—not just for water, but for more.

A longing for peace, for purpose, for renewal.

Your body and soul echo the words of Psalm 63:

“O God, you are my God, earnestly I seek you;

my soul thirsts for you, my flesh faints for you,

as in a dry and weary land where there is no water.”

Stay with that vision. Feel your thirst. Feel that longing inside you for more.

More goodness, more refreshment, more of God.

And then, you hear a voice. A gentle yet powerful call:

“Come, all you who are thirsty, come to the waters;

and you who have no money, come, buy and eat!”

You look ahead and see a flowing river—pure, clear, and endless.

The water shimmers in the sunlight, inviting you closer. You are transfixed. This isn’t usual water, hydrogen and oxygen, this is the living water of God’s love, freely given, abundant beyond measure.

You feel an irresistible invitation to move nearer. A compulsion to drink.

You take a moment to decide but your thirst spurs you on and you kneel, and bow; face close to the water.

Feel its coolness as you cup your hands; lift the water to your lips. As you drink, life returns to you —refreshing, restoring, healing. You are revived and you didn’t even know you were dead.

“Why spend money on what is not bread, and your labour on what does not satisfy?”

What are you striving for? What fills your time, energy, and thoughts?

Are they things that truly satisfy your soul?

God’s voice calls again:

“Listen to me, and eat what is good, and you will delight in the richest of fare.”

As you sit by the waters, God offers you a feast—not just of food, but of grace, wisdom, and love. A table prepared with everything your soul truly needs.

What is God offering to you today? What nourishment do you long for?

“Seek the Lord while he may be found; call on him while he is near.”

Feel the closeness of God. Present, not distant.

Call on God. What is it you need?

And now, in the distance, you see a fig tree.

Its branches are bare, its leaves withered. It has struggled for years, unable to bear fruit. A gardener still kneels beside it, tending it, gently working the soil.

Hear the words from Luke’s Gospel:

“Leave it alone for one more year, and I’ll dig around it and fertilize it. If it bears fruit next year, fine! If not, then cut it down.” (Luke 13:8-9)

The gardener does not give up. He tends the tree, nourishes it with care. And now, you see the same life-giving water flowing from where you kneel, toward the roots of the fig tree. The dry earth drinks it in, and slowly, you notice signs of life—tiny buds, hints of green.

It is the water of grace and mercy. The water that revives all that is barren and lifeless.

The words of Psalm 63 return to you:

“My soul will be satisfied …

with joyful lips [I] will praise you.

For you have been my help,

and in the shadow of your wings, I sing for joy.”

The same God who invites you to drink, who nourishes your soul, is at work in your life, restoring what is weary, reviving what is fruitless.

“For my thoughts are not your thoughts,

neither are your ways my ways,” declares the Lord.

Let these words settle in your heart.

my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways

God’s ways are higher, God’s plans greater, God’s love deeper than you can imagine. And there is never a time where God abandons and cuts down.

The Living Water is always running after you and the invitation to come and drink is everlasting.

“Come, all you who are thirsty, come to the waters…”

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.”

Miraculous Catch of Fish

Isaiah 6:1-8 Psalm 138 1 Corinthians 15:1-11 Luke 5:1-11

Many years ago, when I was just beginning to wonder if the priesthood might be the path I was being invited to walk, I remember feeling such awe and enormity – the tiniest glimpse into those words from that fabulous Isaiah reading – that the Holy, Holy, Holy One, might be calling me, and did I dare say, ‘here am I, send me’. And I remember talking to a friend who was at the start of his vocations process and when I voiced this sense of awe he said to me, ‘getting ordained just seems to make sense of my experiences this far’.

Make sense?!

I’d never even considered that sense would come into this in any way. Sense was for logic and reason and didn’t enter into the realms of eternity. Mine was a much more thresholds shaking… burning coals sort of encounter. None of it made sense.

So, it is interesting to me that both of us got ordained. It is interesting to me that God called the little girl who started to dance, aged two, to a church with dancing each week. And it is interesting to me to see these two passages alongside each other – this reading from Isaiah and the story from Luke. It makes it possible that sometimes God works in the ordinary – in the realm of things that just make sense – and other times is so other, so extraordinary, it is almost ludicrous.

Luke’s account, of Jesus calling the first disciples in this way, is unique. Mark and Matthew both speak about Jesus walking along the waterside and calling those fishermen to ‘follow me’, but only Luke includes this miraculous catch of fish. And when we hear a story of Simon and an abundance of fish and a declaration of ‘Lord’ and his fear of being a sinful man, we might also recall John’s post resurrection account of the barbecue breakfast, yes? These transformational, redemptive, fishing stories bookend Christ’s earthly ministry; beginning and ending at the work site, the place that had formed Simon since a child, and his family before him. It kind of makes sense to call a fisherman while he was fishing.

Jesus sees two boats. The fishermen are deflated, exhausted, they fished all night and caught nothing so they give up. Jesus borrows their boat, gets Simon to row out a little way and teaches the crowd from there. I wonder what he said. Whatever it was, it isn’t the thing of note, and it is only when he has finished preaching that our story really begins.

It is not in the ordinary act of teaching and preaching, but in the extraordinary act of fishing in silent still waters. Even though it made no sense to do so, Simon says ‘if you say so, I will’. And they caught so many fish their nets were beginning to break and their friends came to help and then their boats began to sink, so swamped were they with fish, and then, then Simon Peter sees and falls to the ground and says ‘go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man’. Right there, in the ordinary work of fishing, something extraordinary happens and it changes things.

It changes Simon (yet to become Peter). He sees the extraordinary and feels unworthy. Right there, in the middle of that which is most familiar to him, most ordinary, comes something inexplicable, unexpected. He had the most boring of nights, not even so much as a nibble, and then is swamped. No wonder he is filled with fear – he has seen something against the usual order of things. He knows these waters, he knows fishing and this carpenter – the one who is supposed to know about the wood of his boat, not the fish of the water – he has really done something.

As in our Isaiah reading, Simon has heard the voice of the Lord asking him to go and he has responded, he has gone, he has fished, and the response is overwhelming.

Then Jesus said to Simon, ‘do not be afraid; from now on you will be catching people’.

Yesterday I read that the Greek word for catching, used here, is zogron; it is rare in the New Testament and has a very specific meaning – it means to catch alive. The fish Simon and his friends have caught will soon be dead, but Jesus is inviting them to catch people alive – and more than that, to catch people so that they might live, and really live, fully and forever. What an invitation – catch fish that will surely die or catch people who will truly live. Even though they just landed the catch of their lives, is there any wonder they immediately leave everything and follow Him?

The fisherfolk Jesus met at the water’s edge were boringly ordinary. There was nothing outstanding about them. They were doing what they did every night and day and the Christ met them there, walked right into their mundane life and invited them to change direction, take their existing skills and experience and apply it to things with deeper, greater, world changing significance.

Simon knows he is really nothing much. What on earth can he contribute? But Jesus calls him, as he is, tells him not to be afraid and to come now. And we see that all the way through the pages of scripture – God is always calling the ill-equipped and unprepared; Moses, Gideon, Jeremiah, King David, Mary, our own St Paul. And it doesn’t stop there. Down through history, ever since, we have seen the same – Joan of Arc, Mother Teresa, Martin Luther King Jr, Oscar Romero, Ghandi, Schindler, the list is endless. And it includes me and it includes you.

God doesn’t wait for God’s people to be ready, for it to make sense, and yet there are times we are ready, there are times it does make sense. Simon was ready with his boat and his nets. He might not yet be the greatest public speaker or healer or the bravest or whatever it is, but it made sense that fishermen might now fish for people.

So, whether we are ready and prepared, whether the call makes sense or is nonsense, when God calls, when God asks ‘whom shall I send?’, and when we meet the Christ, and hear the call to follow we have the same choice as those at the water’s edge with broken boats. Will we choose to leave our fear, preconceptions, reasoning, excuses behind? Will we add our voice to those in the pages of scripture and those echoing through the ages and say yes? Again. Over and over? Will we leave everything and follow.

Here I am, send me. Amen.

See the light – be the light

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

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

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

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

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

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

So I wonder, where have you seen the light?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If only we’re brave enough to be it.

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

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

Where might you be brave enough to be the light?

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

Amen.

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.

Surrender all?!

1 Samuel 2:18-20, 26 Psalm 148 Colossians 3:12-17 Luke 2:41-52

I’ve been doing a bit of a crash course in motherhood this past month. I am learning that, while there will inevitably be something you forget when you leave the house, you must make sure it isn’t a spare nappy, or the child. I almost always have no idea what I am doing but the little human who has moved into our home and hearts no longer terrifies me 100% of the time and when she raises her peanut butter encrusted hands up for me to give her a cuddle something happens inside me that I can’t explain. So, imagine my delight that this morning’s readings look at parenting too.

In our Gospel reading from Luke, we find twelve-year-old Jesus in the temple, astonishing the teachers with His wisdom. His parents are frantic, having searched for Him for three days. THREE DAYS? Imagine?! And when they finally find Him, (imagine that mix of relief, anger, blame, more relief) Jesus responds with, “Did you not know I must be in my Father’s house?” Mary and Joseph must have had all kinds of feelings at that point! The wonder of hindsight shows us Jesus beginning to embrace His true identity, as his divine mission begins to unfold. And then He returns with His parents to Nazareth, continuing to grow in wisdom and favour with God and people.

Our gospel story connects to another story of surrender: the account of Hannah and Samuel from the Old Testament. Hannah, in her desperation for a child, makes a deal with God that if she is granted a son, she will dedicate him to the Lord. When Samuel is born, she fulfils her promise, leaving him in the temple with the priest Eli. She only gets to see him once a year, and her only parenting task is to take him the robe she lovingly makes each year. It’s heartbreaking, isn’t it?? Give me a child God, I beg you; and if you do, I will give him straight back to you, for your service. Wow. What an incredible act of surrender. Hannah didn’t just offer Samuel back to God; she gave up her vision of motherhood to trust God’s plan for her son.

Both stories—Hannah’s and Mary’s—are about surrender. Maybe every parenting story is. For Hannah, it was the surrender of her deep longing for a child and her dream of raising him herself. For Mary, it was the surrender of her son to a divine purpose she couldn’t truly understand. Both women had to let go of their own plans and accept God’s vision, which was greater than anything they could have imagined.

And today we stand on the threshold of another new year. Christmas is being cleared away, to make room for New Year’s resolutions, visioning boards and all that talk of becoming our best selves. New Year’s resolutions often centre on taking control—setting goals, making plans, striving for self-improvement. But we are invited to consider a different approach. Not so much, what can I do for me, but what can I do or be or surrender to God. Today’s readings invite us to choose a surrendering of control. What do we need to release to God? What are we holding too tightly, out of fear or need for certainty? What is God inviting us to entrust to His care?

Surrender doesn’t mean we stop planning or dreaming. It means offering those dreams with open hands, trusting that God’s purposes for us are always greater than our own. Surrender means releasing the illusion of control and allowing God’s story to unfold in ways we may not expect.

Surrender is clear as we explore both Hannah and Mary’s story. It is clear each time we hear the call of Christ to follow Him.

This theme of surrender and parenting and discipleship is beautifully captured in the words of Meister Eckhart, the 13^th century friar, mystic and theologian, who said, “We are all meant to be mothers of God, for God is always needing to be born.”

Eckhart reminds us that just as Mary gave her body to God for the birth of Jesus, we are also called to make space for God to be born in us—through our actions, our relationships, our choices, and our faith. In a sense, we are all invited to be mothers of God, to be open and receptive to the divine presence within us, and to trust that God is continually birthing something new in the world through us.

Isn’t that beautiful? We are all called – male, female, human, parents, non-parents, adult or child – we are all called to give ourselves fully to God so that, through us, God might bring Jesus to this world; this world that needs him so much.

So we have this amazing invitation to surrender: to make room for God to act in our lives, to step aside and allow His plans to unfold, even when we don’t fully understand what it will look like. In surrendering, we don’t lose ourselves; rather, we discover our truest selves, the ones God always intended us to be. Just as Mary said “yes” to God’s calling, we, too, are invited to say “yes” to the new birth that is being brought into our lives and the world.

So as we enter this new year, might we choose to pray for the courage to surrender our tightly held plans and our fears, to make space for God’s greater purposes. May we be willing to let go, trusting that God is always with us and working in us, to bring life, hope, and transformation. And just as Mary and Hannah gave their children to God’s service, may we offer our lives—our time and resources, our hearts and hopes—into God’s hands.

And may we each, become mothers of God, making room for His presence and His love to be born anew in us, that we might share it with the world.

Amen.