light – Holy Adventures

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.

A sermon for Christmas Eve, midnight…

Christmas Eve Midnight Homily

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For God so loves…

Numbers 21:4-9 Psalm 107:1-3,17-22 Ephesians 2:1-10 John 3:14-21

For God so loved the world that he gave his only son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.

Objectively, this verse is the most famous of all Jesus’ quotes. It is probably the most popular bible reference in the world. And a verse that elicits more than 2 million internet searches, month upon month. It is often described as the ‘bible in a nutshell’. It features on signs at sporting events, on the underside of paper cups in a well-known American burger chain. In the Baptist church of my childhood, it was even the code for the burglar alarm – 43:16! And is a passage one is hard pressed to pass over, when it crops up in the gospel reading for the day. Truth be told though; I don’t love it. And spending a week studying it has forced me to consider why.

As I have read commentaries and sermons, so I discovered I’m not alone in this opinion. More than a few other preachers struggle with it too. Some write that they don’t like the ease with which it can be used as an exclusionary way of saying ‘I am in’ and ‘you are out’. And because it isn’t the whole message of God’s love for God’s world. And for too long, it has been used in more conservative contexts to highlight the doctrine of Penal Substitution, which says God gave His son to die on the cross, to take the punishment of the sins of the world; that Jesus died as an atoning sacrifice, so humanity could be reconciled to God.

And, as one commentary writer said, either we believe in a God who forgives, or we don’t. And if we subscribe to a belief in a forgiving God then we can’t also subscribe to penal substitution – because that isn’t forgiveness, that is atonement. If we believe in outrageous grace and unconditional love, we can’t also believe a price needed to be paid.

You see why I have struggled with this verse?! But I think it says three really important things. The first is this:

It says that God looks at the world and loves it, loves us, loves. God loves.

For God loved the world so much that He gave.

God’s heart, God’s opinion of the world is summed up in one word – LOVE. It is God’s love for us – for us all, for all God has created – that means we can be in relationship. Not blood sacrifices, not right thinking or believing or feeling – simply that we are the recipients of God’s love and grace. And that is enough.

As St Paul wrote in our epistle for today, ‘God, who is rich in mercy, out of the great love with which he loved us… made us alive together with Christ – by grace you have been saved …this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God’.

The next thing we can learn is that this gift of love changes everything.

So here is an interesting thing; almost everywhere else in John’s gospel, the word “world” is used negatively — to refer to an entity that is at odds with God, even the enemy of God. So, in Jesus’ farewell discourse we hear that he is not of the world, we are not of the world, the world will hate us, just as it hated Christ…and so it continues. So, it is remarkable in this passage to find Jesus say God loves this God-hating world so much that God is willing to give the most precious gift God has, as God’s most profound act of love for this world. And this gift is so that the world might be changed and saved.

Not from a wrathful God, but from itself. From a place of darkness into a place of light.

And that is the third thing…

God sent God’s son as a transforming gift, from darkness to light.

Jesus came to a world that was hostile, but beloved of God, as a life-giving, love-proclaiming gift, and a source of unquenchable light.

And what did the world do? The world loved darkness.

The world loved darkness because darkness hides our actions, our meanness, our corruption, our wrongdoings. The world loves darkness because we can do what we want and not get caught.

So God, the brightest light of the world, the one who created light, sent a fraction of Godself, wrapped up in the skin of Jesus to bring light – the light of the world. Not to shame the world, not to trick the world into being exposed, but as an outrageous gift of love, to say ‘I see you, and I know you, and I still utterly adore you’. I can see what you are doing, and I love you. Don’t run and hide – you are loved.

And the world hated it.

Not the whole world, of course, but the people and places of power and evil – the systems and structures that needed darkness so their work could thrive and spread. They didn’t want light. They needed darkness to be able to function. So when they encountered The Light, they killed it. They killed the expression of undeserving, unmerited love – the gift of God – the true light.

But God’s love has never been destroyed. God’s light has never been extinguished. And in this generation and in this place, we are it. We are the light bearers of the God who loved the world so much. And that gift – that free gift – needs to be taken to the world’s darkest places and shone on the world’s most corrupt and dark systems, policies, and ruling forces so they are revealed and potentially redeemed in that blaze of light. And we are the hands and feet and voices and actions that carry it.

In our baptism, we were given the charge to ‘shine as a light in the world to the glory of God the father’ and that charge has never been revoked. We don’t need to chase darkness away – indeed, we cannot – we simply need to shine God’s light, that the world may know it is loved, and that we might be reminded that we are too.

So shine as a light in the world to the glory of God the Father.

Or as one of my favourite poets would say:

‘we step out of the shade, aflame and unafraid…

For there is always light,
if only we’re brave enough to see it.
If only we’re brave enough to be it.’

May we see it, may we be it and may the world be changed. Amen.

Rivers of Justice

Amos 5:18-24 Psalm 70 1Thess 4:9-18 Matthew 25:1-13

And so it was, at 4am on Tuesday morning in the recent past, 6 sleepy pilgrims piled into a minibus to make the journey to watch the sunrise over Everest. They quietly climbed the steps in the inky darkness, to reach their vantage point and the air was still and cold as it awaited the dawn. And then, just as the birds began to clear their throats for the first song of the day, one pilgrim – Christabel by name – broadcast through the darkness, ‘I feel like a foolish virgin for not bringing my coat’. And then, lo, within a week of returning from the trip, we have the exact same parable before us, and how is a preacher to reflect on these holy words when all she can hear is the warbling of a cold pilgrim, ringing in her ears?

And, more seriously, how is one to pass over the prophesies of Amos when they are sounding so close to the experiences of our global family, right now. And today is Remembrance Sunday and it feels so hollow a thing that we might cast our minds back to the world wars of the last century when we could more easily, and more painfully, cast our eyes over the world news this morning.

Amos woefully prophesies that the day of the lord ‘be darkness, not light – pitch-dark, without a ray of brightness’. Pitch darkness, like a group of women huddled over snuffed out lamps, wondering how they will bring back any kind of light to be able to find their way to the wedding banquet. Pitch darkness that can only be lit by those who would share their own wealth, with those who are without. Darkness that might only be lighted by the one who is the true light. The light of Christ.

That darkness is what life looks like for so many, so often.

The darkness of despair and depression. The darkness of poverty and hunger.

The darkness as they lie in wait, listening for the next bomb to fall, hoping to hear their baby cry, instead of the deep ugly silence of death.

Amos paints this picture of deep darkness. Then God speaks, cutting through the prophesy to say, ‘I hate, I despise your religious festivals; your assemblies are a stench to me. I will not accept your offerings. I will have no regard for them. Away with the noise of your songs! I will not listen…’

But the message of the parable that goes alongside this prophesy is the bridegroom appears when it is darkest. The Holy One, arrives at midnight and brings light. Those bridesmaids needn’t have gone to find the all-night oil shop – they simply needed to go to the source of Light – the one who spoke into darkness and created light at the dawn of time – they simply needed to arrive empty handed and say, ‘I have nothing and I need you’. And light would have been their gift, their reward for their vulnerability and their honesty.

Amos’ prophesy is clear – God didn’t, doesn’t want religion.

God doesn’t want crowds or big displays or sacrifices or offering or music.

God wants us. The whole of us. And God wants us to take that precious gift of light to the darkest places. To go to those darkest places and kick them until they bleed light. And we are sent with one challenge – one purpose:

To let justice roll on like a river, righteousness like a never-failing stream.

And I have thought about that verse all week. I love it so much. But in this world, where yesterday’s headline says Israel is urged to stop bombing babies in Gaza, where hospitals don’t have enough power, let alone bed-space, staff or resources, to care for those in need, where fires and volcanoes are raging and children are being recruited as soldiers. In this world, on this day, what on earth does justice rolling like a river even look like. And how can we be bringers of it. What can we even pray, let alone do.

So I took a look back to that stunning text from that River Documentary we heard last month and I read these words…

Where rivers wander, life flourishes

For rivers are world makers.

The mystery and beauty of a wild river is beyond our ability to comprehend

And I imagined justice cascading down ravines, rather than water, and bringing life.

The narrator went on to say…

To think like a river means to dream downstream in time

To imagine what will flow far into the future from our actions in the present

To be good ancestors to those who come after us

Downstream of us…

And that is our goal. That is our aim as followers of the Light, as those who are trying to live by the commands of the one who says the final word to darkness; to make the future better and brighter for those downstream. And for this we must pray.

Let justice roll on like a river, righteousness like a never-failing stream.

And we pray until we find a way of being that river of justice, until we find ways to trickle righteousness to places in deepest darkest need. And we pray for light.

So let us pray…

All Saints Day, 2023

Revelation 7: 9-17 Psalm 34 1 John 3:1-3 Matthew 5:1-12

I have a favourite story for All Saints’ Day and as I am writing this in the airport hotel at Kuala Lumpur, on my way back from Nepal, I can’t check if I told you the story last year, or the year before, so please forgive me if you’ve heard it before, and just enjoy it again…

The story goes that there was a little girl, wandering through an English cathedral with her mum and as they walked through the ancient church, so the mum was pointing out each of the saints, memorialised in the stained-glass windows. This is St Peter; this is St Mary and St John and St Francis and so they went on. And then the little girl tugged on her mum’s arm, and she said, ‘I get it! The saints are the ones the light shines through…’ and I think that is probably the best description of a saint I have ever heard. A saint is the one the light shines through.

Crafting a sermon about the ones the light shines through is easy work after a week in Kathmandu with IGWR. In Giving We Receive is a charity that was set up here, some 13+ years ago, to care for some of the poorest children in Nepal; it links sponsors with children, to fund their education and housing and food and to show them that there is definitely still hope in the world, there is still light, and it shines in the darkest places. Many of you are supporters of this amazing work, and I met many of the children you sponsor. Some of you have even been up to see the work, first hand, and can tell your own stories. And I am also aware that we are not the community that we were 13 years ago, and some people may not know about the transformative work that happens in Nepal – and just how many examples there are of living saints being the ones that the light shines through.

So let me tell you about Raja, or Saint Raja as he should now more accurately be known.

Raja is a big man with an enormous heart. He lives on the 3rd floor of a tall house, with his wife and daughter. The two floors below him accommodate 16 children who otherwise would almost certainly be street kids. He oversees another children’s home, a stones throw away, and 9 other tin sheds or single rooms where mothers live with their children and have no way of paying for their food or education. At the moment Raja is uncle to 41 children and he knows their stories and he knows their dreams and he is determined to break the cycle of poverty and change the destiny that the world dealt to them. And with his big voice and his cheeky grin and his high standards and his boundless energy and endless problem-solving abilities, Raja shines light. It bursts out of him. And he goes to the darkest places and shines it right there.

Like the day when he found Rita left in a garbage bin, literally thrown away, aged 2, because she had special needs. Or when he discovered Ajay and his siblings, begging on the roadside to raise funds for their alcoholic parents so they could buy their next drink. Ajay, covered in 60% burns, inflicted by his parents, so they could earn more to “pay for their child’s medical treatment”. Or when he met Sunita, who had been trafficked twice – sold by her brother both times – and left with her two beautiful and clever kids with no way of being able to afford to shelter, feed or educate them. Or when he found three brothers trying to survive in the jungle, the youngest being under 18 months old. Or the boy living in the liquor store to escape his violent and abusive drunk dad, covered in human bite marks and with complex broken bones.

The work we started here, and continue to fund, goes to those dark places and shines brightly. That light says darkness doesn’t get to win. And that light says blessed are the poor in spirit, blessed are those who mourn, blessed are the meek, blessed are the hungry and thirsty and blessed are those who are mistreated and hurt and hated. The kingdom of heaven is yours.

I spotted this light shining through Raja easily and straight away. But as the week went on so I began to realise the most grace-filled, redemptive thing I’ve seen for a long time. You see, Raja went and took light to the darkness and as he left each situation with those precious kids in tow, so a light was lit in them; a tiny flicker at first, but every good deed, every meal, every hug, every day in the community of their new 41-strong family, the light is tended to, the flames are kindled and protected and they grow into true brightness.

The saints are the ones the light shines through. And it shines through every single one of those tiny saints. They have seen light and then, quite by consequence, they have begun shining light. They needed hands and feet and funds to take the light to them but they quickly discovered the light is catching and they are now the hands and feet that take the light to others. Saints are the ones the light shines through and it they are shining brightly in the IGWR houses in Nepal.

Of course, you don’t have to go to Nepal to find those whom the light shines through. We see it here, in the faces of one another, so often. In those who choose kindness and care and put themselves out to help others. Those who feed the hungry, show mercy, pray deeply, mourn fiercely, chase justice, seek peace and pursue it, those who live lightly and love outrageously. Saints are the ones the light shines through and you are here just as clearly as elsewhere.

And this saintly ‘glow’ I’m speaking of isn’t based on one’s good works, although that might make it easier to spot, it is entirely based on the work of the one true light, the light of the world, shining in and through each person beloved of God, shining through everyone.

But what I am left pondering is this…

~ how much does the light shine through me? How much does it shine through any of us?

~ and what might we need to do, or stop doing, to proverbially polish those cathedral windows to let the light shine brighter?

The saints are the ones the light shines through. Or as another one who clearly meets that saintly criteria, the amazing poet Amanda Gorman puts it – there is always light, if only we are brave enough to see it. If only we are brave enough to be it. Amen.

The healing of a man born blind: a guided meditation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His work is our work.

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

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

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

If only we are brave enough to be it!

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

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

Candlemas

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amen.