lent – Holy Adventures

A guided meditation on John 12

Isaiah 43:16–21 Ps 126 Philippians 3:3–14 John 12:1–8

This is the last of our guided meditations for lent. Next week we return to the familiarity of Palm Sunday and then Holy Week, so for one last time, I invite you to close your eyes. Breathe deeply. Pause and do all you can to still your noisy mind and restless heart.

We enter the house in Bethany; the air is thick with voices, the warm hum of companionship, with the smell of food prepared for a funeral that never happened.

You see Lazarus reclining at the table.

Days ago, he was dead. Wrapped in linen. Sealed in a tomb. His body had begun to decay, and the stench of death hung around. But there he is – alive – eating and drinking. Jesus is here, too, surrounded by those he loves, the weight of what’s to come presses in on him. But for now, for this moment, he is safe. All is a bit strange, but strangely well. And then the mood shifts…

Mary comes in. Do you see her? Sense her? Moving with purpose, carrying an alabaster jar. Her fingers clutch the cool clay, her shoulders move with deep, measured breaths. She walks to Jesus and kneels. Then, without hesitation, she breaks the jar open. The crack of pottery as it splinters against stone silences the room. And then — The smell. Rich, deep, overwhelming.

The scent of pure nard rises, filling every corner, clinging to skin, seeping into cloth.

It overpowers the scent of the meal, the warm sweat of the gathered men, the lingering memory of death.

It is the smell of extravagance, of reckless love, of something poured out completely, with nothing held back.

Mary’s hands move over Jesus’ feet. She pours the perfume freely, anointing him, touching him. And then, in an act as intimate as it is shocking, she loosens her hair, lets it fall freely, and wipes his feet. Her hair darkens; heavy with the oil, fragrant with devotion. The act is servant-like yet regal, humble and anointing. She sees what others do not. She knows who he is. She knows what is coming.

This is the foreshadowing of another night, days away, when Jesus himself will kneel over feet too. Mary, in her love, takes the posture of a servant, just as Jesus will take the posture of a servant-king. But there is more. This is the anointing of one who is to die.

Smell the perfume again. Let it settle into your own skin, into your own memory. This is the scent of preparation, the smell of life pressed against death.

The house is full of expensive perfume. It’s excessive and extravagant, and Judas’ anger cuts through it; “Why was this perfume not sold for 300 denarii and the money given to the poor?” he snarls.

Three hundred denarii—300 silver pieces—a year’s salary— incidentally, ten times more than Judas will receive in the coming days for handing Jesus over to death.

Pause. How do you feel as you hear his words? Does part of you agree? The wastefulness, the impracticality—does it unsettle you? Or does it rile you. do you also understand something Mary seems to know instinctively?

Jesus defends her. “Leave her alone.”

Mary has anointed him, not as a triumphant king, but as one who will die. The scent of this moment will cling to him, will follow him to the upper room, to Gethsemane, to the trial, to the cross. As he prays in agony in the garden, will the fragrance seep from his pores? As he is stripped and beaten, as whips tear into his flesh, as he stumbles under the weight of the cross, will the scent of Mary’s love rise from his body? And as he hangs on the cross, gasping for breath, will this perfume mingle with the smell of blood and sweat and death?

And there is another mystery in that room: the breaking of the jar, the pouring out of the oil— a sacramental moment. What does it foreshadow?

Bread will soon be broken. Wine will soon be poured out.

“This is my body. This is my blood.”

The scent of Mary’s perfume lingers on. Even here in the present. Let it settle into your soul. Let it remind you that true love costs everything. Love breaks open; pours out; gives everything. The fragrance remains. Love is unending. The scent of death is overcome. The cross awaits. Let us go there with Him.

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.”

A guided meditation on the temptation of Christ

Deuteronomy 26:1–11 Psalm 91:1–2,9–16 Romans 10:4–13 Luke 4:1–15

During the next 40 days we will hear some very familiar passages from scripture. Many of them accompany us each year and, if you have been in church all your life they will be very familiar to you. To awaken our senses to them, and encounter them in a different way, we are going to use this time to inhabit these gospel texts in guided meditations, recognising that scripture is to be explored, lived in and through, seen from the inside out and not simply studied.

Sit back, close your eyes, and breathe deeply. Inhale, filling your lungs and stomach completely, and exhale slowly. Allow yourself to settle into a quiet place of stillness. Let your mind become open and receptive, as we begin this new journey together, with Jesus, straight from the waters of baptism, out into the wilderness.

You are Jesus.
Imagine the wilderness around you.

The earth is dry, cracked beneath your feet.

Your body is weak after forty days of fasting. Hunger gnaws at you.

The tempter approaches. “If you are the Son of God, turn these stones into bread.” You feel the deep yearning for relief, but you know better. You are here for a purpose.

You stand firm, recalling the assurance of your ancestors from Deuteronomy: “we cried to the Lord. He heard our voice and saw our affliction, toil, and oppression.”

This is your God. You know you must stand firm.
Pause.
Cry out to God, certain you are always heard, known and loved.

In that strength, respond to the tempter; “One doesn’t live on bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of God.”

You know God’s Word sustains you more than physical food.

Reject the temptation to fill your emptiness with anything other than Truth.

Reflect:
What areas of emptiness are you trying to fill with temporary fixes?
What is God calling you to trust Him with, instead of controlling it yourself?

In your mind and heart, hand it to God…

You are the Tempter.
Feel the coldness of the moment.

You see Jesus, worn and vulnerable, yet resolute.

You offer Him a challenge; “If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down from here. For it is written: ‘He will command His angels to guard you…’”

You seek to manipulate, twist Scriptures to your own advantage, make God prove Himself. But Jesus stands firm and responds: “It is said, ‘Do not put the Lord your God to the test.’” His trust in God is unshakable.

Pause and reflect:
Where have you been demanding signs, testing God to prove His faithfulness?
What would it be like to trust completely?
Can you rest in the promise from the psalmist that “those who dwell in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty”?

You are the World.
You present an image—power, success, control, all within reach.

You offer Jesus kingdoms, glory, and fame. “All this can be yours, if you worship me.”

The allure of quick success, without sacrifice, is right there. You ask for loyalty, for Jesus to turn away from His mission and allegiance to God. But Jesus rejects you firmly: “Away from me, Satan! For it is written, ‘Worship the Lord your God, and serve Him only.’” (Luke 4:8)

Feel the pull of that temptation.
The world offers power, and glory in exchange for your soul.

Where is the world asking for your devotion in exchange for momentary satisfaction?

Pause:
What does it look like to reject the world’s promises of power, wealth, or comfort?

How can you choose to worship God alone and serve Him faithfully?

You are the Wilderness.
Sense the barren landscape beneath and before you, the dry wind in your face.

You are not a place of comfort but a place of transformation. It’s here that Jesus faces the rawest parts of Himself—His hunger, temptations, humanity. Yet it’s here, in the wilderness, that He grows in preparation for His mission.

Pause:
What is your wilderness?
What difficult or barren places are you facing?

Remember, the wilderness is not a place of defeat—it’s a place where strength is forged, growth happens, and God meets you in your deepest needs.

Take a moment to reflect on each of these aspects—

You are Jesus,

You are the Tempter,

You are the World,

You are the Wilderness.

Where do you see yourself most clearly?

Which elicits the biggest response in you?

What is God inviting you to do, to become, to trust?

Take a deep breath in, and exhale slowly.

Let the wisdom of the wilderness sink in.

When you’re ready, gently open your eyes.

Carry with you the clarity to face the temptations, the power to resist, and the trust to walk through your own wilderness with God. Amen.

Ash Wednesday 2025

Isaiah 58:1-12 Psalm 51:1-17 2 Cor 5:20b-6:10 Matt 6:1-6,16-21

So much that is beautiful has been written about Ash Wednesday and I am grateful for the wisdom and riches from the prophet Isaiah, the psalmist, Rachel Held-Evans, Jan Richardson, Nadia Bolz-Weber, Anna Woofenden and Sara Miles who have written the words I am about to share. So, for the next few minutes, I invite you to close down your eyes, allow these words to seep into your soul, like oily ash, and remember you are dust.

[RHE]

We are made of stardust, the scientists say—the iron in our blood, the calcium in our bones, and the chlorine in our skin forged in the furnaces of ancient stars whose explosions scattered the elements across the galaxy. From the ashes grew new stars, and around one of them, a …cluster of dust coalesced to form the earth, and life emerged from the detritus of eight billion-year-old deaths.

[And then…] Once a year, on a Wednesday, we mix ashes with oil. We confess… We tell the truth. Then we smear the ashes on our foreheads and acknowledge the single reality upon which every … believer and atheist, scientist and mystic can agree: “Remember you are dust and to dust you will return.” It’s the only thing we know for sure: we will die.

Remember you are dust…

Is not this the fast I choose: to loose the bonds of injustice and let the oppressed go free…? Is it not to share your bread with the hungry, and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked, to cover them, and not to hide yourself from your own kin? Then your light shall break forth like the dawn, and your healing shall spring up quickly;… Then you shall call, and the Lord …will say, Here I am

Remember you are dust …

[NBW:]

If our lives were a long piece of fabric with our baptism on one end and our funeral on another, … then Ash Wednesday is a time when that fabric is pinched in the middle and the ends are held up so that our baptism in the past and our funeral in the future meet. The water and words from our baptism plus the earth and words from our funerals have come from the past and future to meet us in the present. And in that meeting we are reminded of the promises of God: That we are God’s, that there is no sin, no darkness, and no grave that God will not come to find us in and love us back to life. The ashes we receive on our foreheads are a reminder that we are dust. But they are also a reminder that we are loved and forgiven by the One who made us.”

Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return…

Have mercy on me, O God, according to your steadfast love; …
Create in me a clean heart, O God,
and put a new and right spirit within me.
The sacrifice acceptable to God is a broken spirit;
a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.

Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return …

[Sara Miles]

[On Ash Wednesday, the Church] asks you to face the truth about yourself—that you are mortal, broken, and in need of love. It offers the reality of human failure, but also the grace that meets us there. The ashes mark us as dust, but also as beloved dust—dust that God has touched and loved, and will one day raise up. The cross we receive on our foreheads is not only a reminder of our mortality, but also a mark of belonging to a God who doesn’t leave us in the ashes.”

Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return, turn away from sin…

[Anna]

Each time I pressed the slightly oily ash onto someone’s forehead, I felt—even if just for that moment—a dissolving of the things that separated us from each other.

Ash Wednesday is the connecting thread that takes us from the hopeful waiting of Advent to the new birth of Christmas, walks us through Epiphany and into the depths of Lent, then goes with us all the way to the death on the cross, and finally, to the new life of resurrection.

Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return, turn away from sin…

[Blessing the Dust For Ash Wednesday, by Jan Richardson]

All those days

you felt like dust,

like dirt,

as if all you had to do

was turn your face

toward the wind

and be scattered

to the four corners

or swept away

by the smallest breath

as insubstantial—

did you not know

what the Holy One

can do with dust?

This is the day

we freely say

we are scorched.

This is the hour

we are marked

by what has made it

through the burning.

This is the moment

we ask for the blessing

that lives within

the ancient ashes,

that makes its home

inside the soil of

this sacred earth.

So let us be marked

not for sorrow.

And let us be marked

not for shame.

Let us be marked

not for false humility

or for thinking

we are less

than we are

but for claiming

what God can do

within the dust,

within the dirt,

within the stuff

of which the world

is made

and the stars that blaze

in our bones

and the galaxies that spiral

inside the smudge

we bear.

Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return, turn away from sin and be faithful to Christ, Amen.

We wish to see Jesus

Jeremiah 31:31-34 Psalm 119:9-16 Hebrews 5:5-14 John 12:20-33

I have a question for you: Why do you come to church? (You might be sat there wondering the same thing!) But genuinely, why do you come to church?

Our community is pretty fabulous, the coffee is fresh, there is often champagne, the choir always sounds great, sometimes even the preaching is ok. But what is it that draws you back, week after week? Or what brought you back after that long spell you had away from church? I’ve been thinking about it, and I have to believe that, as with the Greeks in this morning’s gospel passage, the bottom line about why we each come, is that we want to see Jesus.

You see, there are nicer people, better coffee, colder champagne, greater music and yes even better sermons, elsewhere, but the reason we come here – I might even dare to say, whether we realise it or not – is because something inside us is captivated, drawn, intrigued enough by the notion of God that we come along because we want to see more, maybe even touch, hold or taste more. Like those first century seekers, we want to see Jesus.

On Tuesday night I went to a different church for a meeting. I didn’t realise I was going because I wanted to see Jesus. I thought I was going because it was in my diary. But there I met this woman called Asuntha. Asuntha Charles is the National Director of World Vision in Afghanistan.

Born in a village in southern India, Asuntha was the last daughter in a family of six. There was no reason for her to go to school and every reason for her to be married. But Asuntha was born to a feisty mama who, whenever Asuntha asked ‘can i…’, replied with ‘let her have a go’.

Asuntha completed school and university and became a social worker, always seeking out women and children in the world’s poorest corners. More recently her work has taken her to Afghanistan. When Taliban rule began, humanitarian agencies were encouraged to pull out, but this tiny, brave, single woman refused to leave. She showed us photos of 5 year old girls she had rescued from the marriage they were being sold into, with men nearing retirement age. And she told us that she will work with girl children in that broken place until one of them becomes president.

I thought I was going to a meeting. I was. And in it, I saw Jesus.

Sir, we wish to see Jesus. Well, go and hear Asuntha. Go and see what people do in my name, he says.

The next day I went to share holy communion in an elderly care facility and I read them this bible passage and I told them how I had seen Jesus the night before, in the words and face of Asuntha. And then Janet spoke.

Four months ago she was given three months to live. But Janet knits. And she has a deal with her Lord that so long as there is wool, she will keep knitting. When the wool runs out, she will go home, she says. She is midway through her recent cancer treatment and feels rotten but wool keeps appearing in her room and she often has no idea how it got there. So, she addressed the group, saying, ‘I knit. I knit beanies and mittens and socks for prem babies. And sometimes, when I knit, a little teddy pops out and I give that to the babies too. And I do that as a reminder that Jesus loves them’. And she was not in the least surprised when I said I could see Jesus in her. She can see him too.

Sir, we wish to see Jesus.

Well, he is appearing in knitted bears and beanie hats in prem baby wards of Perth’s hospitals. You will see him there.

And we come here with that same request – we wish to see Jesus.

And we might glimpse him in the scripture, or hear him in the melody of the hymns, we may hold him in our hands; eat and drink him in the mass, and at the end of the service I will send you on your way with these words; ‘May you see the face of Christ in everyone you meet, and may everyone you meet see the face of Christ in you’.

Sir, we wish to see Jesus – he is right here – around you and within.

Or, to use St Patrick’s words, whose feast day we remember today;

Christ is with you, Christ before you, Christ behind you, Christ in you,

Christ beneath you, Christ above you, Christ on your right, Christ on your left,

Christ when you lie down, Christ when you sit down, Christ when you arise,

Christ in the heart of every one who thinks of you,

Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of you,

Christ in every eye that sees you, Christ in every ear that hears you.

You wish to see Jesus?

He is right here.

Let us pray:

God. We wish to see Jesus. Show us where we might find him.

Open our eyes, unclog our ears to hear him, make us attuned to where Jesus shows up. Show us Jesus in the changing of the seasons; in the warmth of the sun and the cool of the clouds.

Share Jesus with us in waves on the beach that are made of the same water that lapped on the shore when he roasted fish with his disciples after the first Easter.

Show us Jesus in those we look up to and respect.

Show us Jesus in those who serve others, in those who bring new life into this world, and in those who care for us after death.

God, show us Jesus in the places and people we don’t want to see Jesus in.

Remind us that they share a spark of the eternal life of Christ, even if we might not see it, even if they might not see it.

Show us Jesus in a world that doesn’t look like the one Jesus proclaimed and show us Jesus calling us to make that world a reality.

God, we wish to see Jesus.

We want our eyes and ears and hearts to be open. God, refresh us with Jesus.

Amen.

What if you fly?

Genesis 17:1-7,15-16 Psalm 22:24-32 Romans 4:13-25 Mark 8:31-38

It’s rare to remember the full contents of a sermon, isn’t it? I can probably remember around 4 great sermons in my life – the one that brought me back to faith in 2001, the time I heard this hot guy preach in 2005 – that was a real blinder – so much so, I went on to marry him! And there have been a couple of others, but they are few and far between. But it just so happens one of my all-time favourites was a sermon I heard on this morning’s gospel passage while I was sat in the Los Angeles sunshine, in an outdoor church, in a parking lot, that had been turned into a garden. A Garden Church. And it was 2017. My dear friend Revd Asher only spoke for 5 minutes, and he blew this gospel apart.

Asher is transgender and was born in a female body. He spoke about his teenage self, walking into a doctor’s surgery during his transition journey. The doctor invited that teenager to bring a few items that characterised them. In that box were photos of Mary – the name Asher was given at birth – they recalled the time she was bridesmaid, there were notes and trinkets and other things she held dear. And the doctor asked Mary if she was prepared to close that box and die, in order that Asher might live.

And Asher had a really important decision to make; Asher said, ‘I had to decide, was I prepared to give up what I believed to be life and do something really bold in order to gain what truly is life’. Asher, or Mary, was being invited to die in order to truly experience what is life. And in this morning’s gospel passage we are invited to do just that too.

If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves, take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.

In this invitation, I picture Jesus standing on the edge of a huge mountain, gazing over the precipice. So here we are, Jesus says: if you want to follow me, you need to let go of all this…let go of what you believe to be life, do something really bold, and then you will truly gain what is life.

Erin Hanson, a young Australian poet, captures something similar to this in her beautiful words where she writes, ‘There is freedom waiting for you, on the breezes of the sky. And you ask, “What if I fall?” Oh, but my darling, “What if you fly?’

Every single day, we get this invitation from Jesus Christ; there is freedom waiting, and it looks a bit different than you might expect because it involves being prepared to leave everything behind, even yourself, take up your cross and follow me, Jesus says. And yes, you might fall, but oh my darling, what if you fly – yes you will lose your life, but my darling, you will gain it. You will save it.

What an invitation – to give up the ordinary for something extraordinary. What an offer – and it’s definitely an offer, not a demand. If you want to become my followers. If you want to. You get to choose. And you can choose to say no. God won’t love you any less but oh my darling, then you might never fly. You might never gain that extraordinary life.

And what a day to be reminded of this because today we are celebrating baby June’s baptism. I once read a fabulous book about baptism where it memorably said ‘baptism is the sacrament in which we die’. That’s not something we often say, because it’s not that palatable for the parents, or their friends and family. But symbolically, in the waters of baptism we say yes to that glorious invitation from Jesus and that means saying no to doing things are own way. We are saying we will take the hand of Christ, step off from this ordinary life and believe we will fly. We are committing, each of us who are baptised, and teeny baby June today – we are committing to live our life Christ’s way, not ours – or rather, to deny ourselves and follow him. And because June is only 4 months old, her parents and Godparents will say yes to that eternal invitation on her behalf, and we will promise to help them to fulfil it, until she is able to stand before God and a Bishop and make those promises for herself.

In our invitation from Jesus, there is always something we will need to leave behind. Asher had to leave behind Mary. He had to do something bold to lose what he had believed to be life, in order to gain what truly has turned out to be life; a life laid down in worship and service of Christ’s church as the priest of God that Asher now is.

And just as Christ invited Asher to live his own extraordinary life, so Christ is inviting us, so Christ is inviting you.

What might you need to leave behind?

What do you need to let go of so you can take hold of new life with both hands?

Today Jesus is inviting baby June to the waters of baptism and every day he is inviting us to step out, leap off, from our ordinary existence into something completely extraordinary.

What if you fall? Oh my darling, but what if you fly. Amen.

Lent One – 2024

Genesis 9:8-17 Psalm 25:1-10 1 Peter 3:18-22 Mark 1:9-15

We hear the story of Jesus in the Wilderness on the first Sunday of Lent, every year, so it may sound familiar. Satan tempts Jesus in every way and yet he doesn’t succumb. And often the teaching is that Jesus has gone there before us and because he managed to not give in, and we should try to do the same. In Mark’s account, the whole scene takes only two verses.

‘The Spirit immediately drove him out into the wilderness. ¹³He was in the wilderness forty days, tempted by Satan; and he was with the wild beasts; and the angels waited on him.’

Mark speaks fast. He talks really quickly and very dynamically.

Everything happens suddenly, or immediately. His whole gospel is at breakneck speed but – even so – forty days in fewer than forty words is still some going. And we hear it every year, but because of Mark’s brevity, we might more easily notice the events either side of the wilderness story.

So. [hand actions] Jesus comes from Nazareth…

Goes down into the water…

Comes up out of the water…

The spirit comes down from the heavens…

And then Jesus is driven into the wilderness.

That’s a lot of movement. A lot of going down and coming up. And if we read those movement words in the original language we discover that the spirit descends in the exact same word as how the temple curtain was torn from top to bottom at the moment of the crucifixion – like, at the moment of Christ’s baptism, the veil between heaven and earth became separated, just as it did at the moment of his death.

And the spirit drove Jesus into the wilderness in the same way, with the same word, as Jesus drove out demons, AND in the same word as would be used to describe violent sickness – the Spirit vomited Jesus out into the wilderness; that same spirit that unzipped the divide between heaven and earth in her descent then convulsed Jesus into the wilderness. The same that spirit descended to proclaim God’s love and parenthood drove Jesus from that place of identity and holiness right into the firing line of the wild beasts.

Surely there must have been a purpose for that deliberate act. It wasn’t just a suggestion made to the dripping wet Messiah – it was a propulsion. And I guess that makes sense; there would be very few of us who would choose to wander into the wilderness, or into any other difficult or brutal situation. Maybe there was a purpose?

When I say ‘purpose’, please don’t hear me saying that God causes or chooses suffering for God’s children. I am not saying that. I don’t believe God allows suffering, just so we learn something, and certainly not as punishment. Let me make that clear. But I can believe that our God is one who accompanies and who redeems – that no situation is wasted – that nothing is so bad that God cannot bring good out of it – and that, despite how alone we might feel in the moment, God is always alongside us, and is always for us. If you hear nothing else today, please hear that.

So… Perhaps there was a purpose for Christ’s journey into the wilderness, because when we return to the passage, we discover what came next, or what the wilderness prepared Jesus for. He is spewed into the wilderness, where he spends 40 days and nights, and then he re-emerges with this message – it is the first thing Mark’s Jesus says and it is this: the time is fulfilled – the Kingdom of God has come near, repent and believe.

And where did he discover this? In the wilderness.

And that sounded like the most Jesus-thing I had ever heard.

In the darkest place, where there is nothing but brokenness and danger – that is where the Kingdom of God comes first. Of course it is! Isn’t it always that God shows up where we least expect it? Isn’t it always in the darkest place where the light shines brightest? Of course, God’s Kingdom came near in the desert place of the wilderness, where Satan was prowling and the wild beasts were sniffing about. Of course it did. Of course it does!

When Jesus went into the wilderness, the veil between heaven and earth was the thinnest – the Spirit had torn it open in Her descent at his baptism. Heaven was closest, clearest, and the spirit sent him to the most barren place, to take his light there first. And only once Jesus had kicked a chasm into the darkness of the wilderness did he come to tell the others – now the kingdom of God is here. Now we can begin.

So, if you are wandering in the wilderness, even if you are just skirting around the edge, knowing it is near, hear this; you are not alone, you are not abandoned, you are in the place where the Kingdom of God will break in first, and you will be there to see it.

That is what the newly baptised, wilderness wanderer teaches us. And then our second reading reminded us of what the crucified Jesus did first; ‘he went and made a proclamation to the spirits in prison’, it said. When the curtain was torn in two the next time, on the cross, at Jesus’ death, he went first to the spirits in prison – or rather, he went to the depths of hell and said ‘it is over’, light wins. Love wins. The kingdom of God has come near. Jesus always goes to the darkest place first. And if that is where you find yourself today, Jesus is on his way. The kingdom of God is coming near.

And for those of us who aren’t in the wilderness right now, we would do well, this lent, to make it our purpose to go to the darkest place we can find and take the light of Christ there. But don’t be surprised to find it there already, ahead of us, because it is always in the place of death and decay that our Lord is to be found first. And it is there, in the bringing of light and hope, that the Kingdom of God comes near.

Repent and believe. Amen.

Ash Wednesday 2024

Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21

I met someone in the grounds yesterday, who was looking for a venue for a contemplative event he is planning. Quite incidentally, as we chatted, he mentioned, in an off-hand kind of way, ‘relationships are everything. At the end of the day, relationships are all we have’, he said. And the greatest gift we have in our faith journey is those people who walk it alongside us, regardless of how long they stay. One such gift is my dear friend Anna, an episcopal priest in the states. Earlier this week she sent me her sermon for today – something we do, often. Parts of it made me catch my breath, because I found it so beautiful and, with her permission, I am sharing some of her thoughts this evening.

Every year, on Ash Wednesday, churches gather around the world and hear the same scripture from the Gospel of Matthew, where Jesus starts with this warning: “Beware of practicing your piety before others in order to be seen by them; for then you have no reward from your Father in heaven.” And then it says, don’t sound trumpets and don’t stand and pray on street corners. In fact, the gospel writer goes on to say, “whenever you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray in secret.”

So, it is a strange juxtaposition on the day, kind of the only day really, where we collectively mark ourselves with the symbol of Christianity, the cross, and then go out onto the rest of our days literally marked as a religious person.

Often, I just ignore this complication in the passage and move onto the ashes, and the dust we come from, and the dust we will return to. But for some reason this year I heard it anew and I heard gospel, good news, in this reading from Matthew. And it made sense to me in a new way, why we would read this passage right before smearing ashes on our forehead in this most visible way.

Let’s go back to that passage for a moment again.

Jesus said, “Beware of practicing your piety before others in order to be seen by them; for then you have no reward from your Father in heaven…. And do not sound a trumpet before you, so that your alms may be done in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.

Rewards, rewards, rewards…. And suddenly it struck me. This isn’t about public displays of religion or not, this is about what we think we need to do to make God happy.

Jesus is setting us straight and reminding us that God is a God who loves us because of who we are, not because of what we have. God is a god who wants to be in relationship with us, in communication with us, not one who requires we pray in a way that proves our piety. God is not a god who only loves us when we do things a certain way, think, act, believe, within a particular box. God doesn’t need us to prove our worth, either spiritually or to one another. And God certainly isn’t a god who holds the values of consumerism, capitalism, consumption and power.

Jesus goes on to urge us not to store up our treasures on earth, because that’s not what’s important. Instead, store up our treasures in heaven, put our attention to a heavenly, loving way of being, because where our treasure is, our heart will be also.

So on this Ash Wednesday, we come together to remember that we are dust and from dust we come and to dust we shall return. We can hear the good news in that.

Our lovability, our worth, does not come from the religious acts we participate in or from the earthly things we amass.

Our worth is not based on the grades we get or how much money we earn.

Our worth is not grounded in how we appear to others or how many likes you get on social media.

Our worth is not even dependent on how many good things we do or how we recycle.

Our worth, our belovedness, comes from the very fact that we were created out of the dust, the soil, the very particles of earth, and that our loving God is holding us in and amongst all these things of life and will hold us throughout eternity, even after our bodies go back to the dust, to the earth from which we came.

Maybe it is no mistake that Christians press ash, and dust, and dirt, into our foreheads as we enter Lent. We long for this symbol of death, and mortality, endings and crumbling… because we know that within it, there is something so deep and comforting. As we acknowledge that the endings are the stuff of which the new beginnings are made, we see that our dust is what makes soil for growth.

The God that created us is the same God that is blowing into our dust, like God did of primordial Adam, creating us anew. That God is the same God who is holding the breadth of the cycles and assuring us that even what is crumbling is being cared for, and that love is being infused at every stage.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, dirt to dirt, remember that you are dust and to dust you will return.

Seeing those ashes on each other’s foreheads reminds us how we’re all in it together, in this messy, dirty, beautiful, interconnected web of life. And it’s as if in that moment, the dust dissolves that which separates us, as if the ash burns through the illusion that we are anything but fellow humanity, and part of creation. In that moment, we’re all in it together, mortal, human, non-human; creation, created, creator; lover and beloved; dust, dirt, heart, and spirit; all mixed together on this sacred day.

Amen.

Burying the Alleluia

2 Kings 2:1-12 Psalm 50:1-6 2 Corinthians 4:3-12 Mark 9:2-9

Have you noticed how many alleluias we have said and sung already today? And how much glory there is in our bible readings…

There was a chariot of fire, a bodily ascension, a whirlwind, glory shining, tempests whirling, booming voices from heaven. And then Jesus, standing face to face with the long dead patriarchs of the church. Knowing and touching and being entirely consumed by the glory of God. It’s quite something, isn’t it.

But life isn’t always like that, is it? For most of us, life is probably never like that. If we are honest, life as a follower of Jesus is much plainer, much more normal, sometimes much more painful and lonely than these readings express today. And for some people, even in our church and in our town, it is never like that. And the church year recognises that and provides ways to remind us to think and pray and lament and celebrate, with our brothers and sisters worldwide.

So today we are on the Sunday before Lent – our Lenten observances begin this Wednesday when we recall our own humanity, in sorrowfulness and repentance, and are marked with the sign of the cross in Ash.

But today, before then, we take part in this ancient practice where we bury, or lock, the Alleluia. It dates way back, to before the 10^th Century and is a practice where we symbolically bury, or plant, or hide the word ‘alleluia’ in the ground – and stop singing or saying it in our worship – as a conscious prayer and in the hope of it returning with the dawn of Easter day.

We first did this together 2 years ago and it was intensely significant. Do you remember, we buried the alleluia in Aref’s lunchbox that he had been given in detention. And, we used that as a reminder of our brothers in detention, and what life was like for them, and how glory couldn’t be further from their experiences.

That year we buried our alleluia, 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 by then, Aref was here with us, and 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 Aref’s box but, somehow we were witnesses of something close to resurrection.

So last year, it was with some trepidation that we buried, or planted the alleluia. What would God do with it? And I feel the same today, because the world is in a different place to where it was 2 years ago. And we are not the same people who sat here last year, or even last week. Time moves on, situations change, life deals us new things – some better, some worse.

So, our burying of the alleluia, our prayer for what might grow or blossom, our hopes for this lent are different. What will we bury? What will we pray for each time we notice the alleluia is missing from our praise? What people and places and situations will we carry with us this lent?

We bury our alleluia as a lovely reminder of a 10^th century tradition. But it is so much more than that. It is in solidarity with those who cannot lift their heads to proclaim alleluia, those for whom Alleluia is the furthest word from their lips because of their own situation. These are our friends, our brothers and sisters, our family members, this is us. And by acknowledging that praise is sometimes impossible, or paralysing is, in itself, a simple but powerful prayer for those who are suffering.

At the end of your pew you will see paper and pens. Would you pass those along so that everyone has one. And then we will take a few moments to hold that paper and to consider for whom and for what situation we are ceasing our alleluia this lent. You might want to write a list or some names or you might want to simply sum it all up by writing alleluia on your piece of paper. And then we will collect them and place them in this box and bury them as our prayer and in hope that new life might grow and that we might even witness it when easter dawns.

So let us pray.