Tag Archives: love

Turning Tables

Exodus 20:1-17        Psalm 19     1 Corinthians 1:18-25         John 2:13-22

At community breakfast yesterday I was treated to some of the more colourful stories from the life of St Paul’s. Like the time someone came right up to the altar, rummaged in the offertory plate, and helped himself to a few fifties and twenties before running off with them. Or the time someone put their hand up towards the end of a service and confessed, before God and the congregation, that they had taken and drank every last drop of the communion wine.

And that made me wonder, how the people in the temple recounted the story of Jesus’ actions that we just heard.

The Passover of the Jews was near, and Jesus went into the temple and found people selling cattle, sheep, and doves, and the moneychangers seated at their tables. He made a whip of cords and drove all of them out of the temple, including the animals. He poured out the coins of the moneychangers and overturned their tables. And then he told them, “Take these things out of here! Stop making my Father’s house a marketplace!”

It would’ve been one of the more memorable days at the temple. Surely it would’ve been talked about for generations! Just like those stories from the past years of this place.

So, on three different occasions this week, different people told me about the man who stole from the offertory plate. And in each retelling, the speaker knew that if that man had only asked for money here, it would’ve been given to him. That this is a place of giving, of provision, a place where those in need can come for help.

And what I heard in the tale of the person who took and drank the communion wine is that this is a place where we can ‘fess up to things we have done wrong. It is a place we can come as we are and say ‘yeah, I messed up’ and we will still be accepted, and find forgiveness. And it’s also a place where everyone is welcome to eat and drink our holy meal – all are welcome. You don’t need to sneak in and steal it, just come hungry and thirsty and hold your hands out and it is yours. And there’s nothing you can do to be more worthy and nothing will prevent you from being able to receive.

So when the temple goers and the disciples left the temple that day and recounted the story, what would they have said?

First, Jesus was really cross. Take these things out of here, as he cracked his newly made whip. And he overturned the tables and scattered the money everywhere. Stop turning my father’s house into a marketplace.  But the thing is, the temple system ran on a marketplace sort of principle. You had to have money changers so worshippers could change regular cash into temple coins. And you had to have animals for sale so people could buy what they needed for their sacrifices. That was how it worked. So this outburst, this anger, ran way deeper. He wasn’t just clearing out the traders – he was clearing out the whole temple system. He wasn’t just overturning the seller’s tables – he was overturning the way things had been done for generations. He was flipping systems.  He was changing everything forever.

In that act, Jesus is saying there is no longer those who are in and those who are out. There is no longer those who can afford to worship and those who are too poor. There is no longer a case where the rich and/or corrupt govern this place. It is not based on a financial interaction, nor on animal sacrifices. This is a new era. This is my father’s house – it is his home – he decides who comes in, and all are welcome here.

I don’t want your money. I don’t want you to buy me a sacrifice. I don’t want spilt blood. I simply want you – all of you – body, mind, soul, spirit, all you have and all you are, all you own and all you lack. I want it all.

And as it was then, so it is now.

There are no rules, no systems, in place that can or will stop anyone from coming to Christ – except for those that we might put in the way. And every time we block or stop others from coming into God’s presence, Jesus is right there ready to knock that over and turn it upside down and clear it out. And that is as true in this place as it is in the temple of our hearts.

You see, we come together in this place, in this temple, and Christ constantly waits to welcome us, and Christ constantly waits to challenge us to remove any blockages we have here.

But we are also walking, talking, living, breathing temples of God’s spirit. And I wonder what God might be eagerly waiting to clear out from within us too.

What blocks, what systems, what beliefs, what restrictions do I have in my own heart that prevent true worship from being able to take place there? What hurt, what self-doubt, what utter independence or pain am I storing up in my heart that needs clearing, yes even with a whip of cords.

Jesus walked right into that temple in Jerusalem and did the clearing, uninvited. I hope he will walk right in here too and clear anything that offends him or blocks out others. This is God’s place, God’s house, and God doesn’t need an invitation to be here.

But when it comes to the temple of our heart, Christ won’t barge in. He waits for an invitation. We can choose to hold onto and perpetuate those systems that keep God out. We can set for ourselves rules and regulations that we must reach, and then fail to reach. And Christ is always waiting to dismantle them.

So, in the stillness and the silence will we whisper our invitation for him to come in and clear out, that our worship may be pure, unblocked, expansive, inclusive, and wholehearted, because that is the worship that is acceptable in God’s sight. Amen.

Gaza Ceasefire Rally – Feb 2024

I was asked to speak at the Gaza Ceasefire Rally, in Fremantle last Saturday. I knew I wanted to stand up for peace, I knew I wanted to call out the actions that damage and destroy humanity, but I really battled with what to say, how to say it, how brave to be, and my nerves were really alert. Really alert! I wrote 4 full, different, scripts. But this is what I stood and shared. I hope it landed as a call for peace, as an end to violence, as a cry for a ceasefire and as care for humanity – especially those who are most marginalised and oppressed. I hope that is what was communicated, because that is my heart…

I’m Revd. Gemma – I’m an Anglican priest – and I am unashamedly in love with a Palestinian Jew who, 2000+ years ago, lived a radical message of love and peace for all people. ‘Love your enemies’, he said. And always, always, he focussed first and foremost on the marginalised, oppressed, displaced, and forgotten. And he went and stood overlooking Jerusalem, in the West Bank, and he wept – actually, the scriptures say he sobbed uncontrollably. And I think he is still doing that, especially now, especially today.

Since the events of 7th October there have been memes circulating on social media saying things like, ‘if you ever wondered what you would do in the face of human slavery, apartheid or the holocaust, you are doing it now’…and we are doing this now, to say ‘we don’t know what to do, but this is not ok’. To say a resounding no to genocide and the taking and holding of hostages, whatever their race or nationality. We are here to protest a world where humans can block or withhold life’s basic provisions; to stand up for those who need aid or shelter or water and to say it is not acceptable to force a whole community of people into the ‘safety’ of Rafah, just to chorale them there and turn on them. And we are here to decry the actions of Hamas.

Friends, there are no words. Standing and watching and weeping, sobbing uncontrollably, is a valid and understandable response. And showing up to do so together, in solidarity with those who are opposed to genocide and in favour of peace and justice, in solidarity with those whose lives depend on a ceasefire, who need aid and food and water, who need to be released from hostage situations, who need somewhere to live and a place to call home. That is valid and that is why people of all faiths, and none, can come together and hope – together – for that.

If you want to do more, you can walk the distance from Gaza City to Rafah – 36km – charting that distance on your body, here with those who walk and run and flee for safety in the holy land. If you want to walk part or all those steps, check out the Gaza Ceasefire Pilgrimage website. The walk is happening in 85 cities across the world. Here, it is 2 weeks today – 24th February – and is from Hillary’s to Bathers Beach. You can sign up online – Gaza ceasefire pilgrimage.

Friends, we don’t know what to do, we struggle to find the words to speak, but by showing up, together, for peace, we are doing all we can so that when history looks back and asks us, ‘what did you do?’ we can say we didn’t look the other way but we nailed our colours to the mast as people of peace and as activists towards a just and gentle future.  May our actions be significant, compassionate, liberating and healing for all people and may we be people of peace.

The trouble with radical inclusion…

ISAIAH 25: 1-9       PSALM 23       PHIL 4:1-9      MATT 22:1-14

On Thursday this week I sat in the amphitheatre, feeling the weight of the things of this week – the referendum, the events in Israel/Palestine, and I was mulling over this difficult parable for today. As I sat there, the dark coloured circle on the ground caught my eye. Have you noticed it? It goes around the edge of the lower section, circling around the cauldron, and it is made of hundreds of tiny stones. Many of you will know this much better than me but I remembered being told that when the east end building project was completed, those black stones were all lose and they were there to represent all the people who would gather in this place, who would come from all over, together, to worship. What an incredible analogy. And then it became clear that this was too tempting a thing – some people were picking up stones and throwing them and damage was being caused and they were becoming trip hazards…so the black stones representing the people gathering to build this worshipping community were securely concreted into place.

Forgive me for any inaccuracies of my retelling of this piece of history, but it reminded me somehow of this morning’s wedding banquet with its questionable guest list, and the risks associated with it.

It’s a remarkably awful story, by all accounts.  In it we meet this king who is so keen to fill the hall for his son’s wedding banquet that he sends his slaves to tempt the guests with descriptions of luxury food. They don’t want to come; instead, they turn on those who invited them and the slaves are killed.  The king is enraged and redoubles his efforts, killing those who killed the slaves and burning the whole place to the ground. And then a new invitation is issued, and suddenly everyone is invited – the good and the bad – as many as it takes to fill the hall in the place where half the population has just been murdered.

And I find myself wondering what the atmosphere would be like, with smoke and the smell of death heavy in the air. I imagine myself there. And I look to my left and see someone I like. And I look to my right, and I see someone who I really don’t want to be beside. But everyone is invited – the good and the bad – all the little black stones, gathered, all in the circle.

And that’s the thing. In the King’s banquet we don’t get to choose who comes. It is all by the King’s invitation. And we don’t get to tidy it up by concreting those stones into place. We don’t get to decide that having everyone – all the stones – is too messy or too dangerous and we don’t get to say when enough is enough. Because the King – or the more perfect version – God, keeps on issuing the invitation, over and over again. And that gets messy and dangerous and uncomfortable but it is also beautiful, because it is steeped in grace and mercy and unconditional abundant welcome and there is no concrete in sight.

And today, following yesterday’s news, it means people who believed with all their hearts that yes was the right outcome are as invited and as welcome to sit at the table as those who believed that no was the best outcome for this country and its people at this time. And we sit at the table together, and we approach this table together. Even though it is painful and hurts.

And considering this past week’s news it means that the victims and perpetrators of war are all invited to sit and eat together because the invitation to the banqueting table, in the Kingdom of Heaven, is an invitation to all.

And if there is still a list of who is in and those who are out then it is not God’s table. If everyone truly is invited then this is much more difficult, much harder work, much less palatable.  

True inclusion is messy stuff and I don’t know what to do because concreting it neatly into place, or closing the doors and saying we’re done here is easier and it feels preferable. But trusting in the grace of God that allows even me to approach this table of mercy means having to extend that same grace and mercy to people don’t agree with and don’t want to be there. And that’s the truth.

Everyone is welcome is great, until it means we approach the true banqueting table alongside those who, like this morning’s story, have murdered our friends and neighbours.

I want to be genuinely delighted that all are welcome – even after having seriously considered and weighed what that truly means. That is where we need to be travelling as a bunch of Jesus followers. And it is costly and big and a life’s work, but it is full of the grace that each of us are utterly dependent upon. Imagine if we could truly model that here. May it be so.

I’m going to end with a poem by Jan Richardson, called, AND THE TABLE WILL BE WIDE

And the table will be wide.

And the welcome will be wide.

And the arms will open wide to gather us in.

And our hearts will open wide to receive.

And we will come as children who trust there is enough.

And we will come unhindered and free.

And our aching will be met with bread.

And our sorrow will be met with wine.

And we will open our hands to the feast without shame.

And we will turn toward each other without fear.

And we will give up our appetite for despair.

And we will taste and know of delight.

And we will become bread for a hungering world.

And we will become drink for those who thirst.

And the blessed will become the blessing.

And everywhere will be the feast.

The Gospel according to Belinda Carlisle

Acts 7: 55-60      Ps 31:1-5, 17-18       1 Peter 2:11-25             John 14: 1-14

Every Monday morning I read the bible readings for the following Sunday so they can be percolating in my brain as the week goes on. Sometimes they trip me up, like those pesky disciples on that flippin’ road to Emmaus a couple of weeks ago. Other times they catch me unawares and unexpectedly, and occasionally they feel like something of a security blanket. The familiar words from John’s gospel, we heard just now, have fallen into that last category.

Yesterday I was in the Supreme Court Gardens in the city, in the rain, with Mareena Purslowe Funeral Directors, speaking at their memorial event for Mother’s Day. And I echoed these words for those that gathered there… In my father’s house – in heaven – Jesus says – there are many rooms…and I am going there to get them ready, and then I will come back and take you there so that where I am, there you may be also.

And because of this – I reassured them – even in our deepest sadness, we can have hope…because we can dare to believe that the place where they have gone is perfect – that our loved ones are free from pain and sadness and confusion. And one day we will be together again.

On Thursday I was at the funeral of a beloved friend and colleague, Belinda, who had died of cancer, aged just 51. Although she hadn’t chosen these particular words for her service we inevitably reflected on her sure and certain place in heaven. She knew, and we know, that Jesus had gone to prepare a place for her and that, from that hospital bed, in her final moments, he came and took her to himself so that where He was, so Belinda would be also.

I know these words so well. I use them over and over at funerals, every single time. They are one of the few bible passages I can quote off by heart; they are so firmly in my head and soul.

So it was interesting that, whilst sitting in the doctors waiting room on Wednesday afternoon, I was visited – via the sound system there – by the 20th century prophet, Belinda Carlisle; that American singer from the 1980s who taught us the very important lesson that, in fact, Heaven is a place on Earth.

They say in heaven, love comes first – she sang – we’ll make heaven a place on earth. Ooh, Heaven is a place on earth

And so it is that I’m looking at these familiar words from John’s gospel from both sides. Yes, we do believe that in our Father’s house there are many rooms – many dwelling places – and we believe that we will be taken there when we die and that we will be with our God, forever, and that the place we are going to is full of light and life and all good things. And, in heaven, love comes first.

But why should we wait? Why would we spend all this life, all these 9 or more decades, just marking time, taking up space, idly waiting for the day when everything will be better – waiting for the day we die – where we will be surrounded by perfection or holiness or extravagant beauty, or whatever other words we want to prescribe to it? Why would we wait when we could be living that life now?!

You know the way to the place where I am going – Jesus says. It is me, he says. I am the way. You know how to get there!

Friends, Jesus was speaking to his disciples before he died. Before he had defeated death and cleared the way to this new world where death no longer has the last word. But we are resurrection people! The time of waiting is over. The work has been done. We can live in the fullness of these promises right now.

And don’t we always pray ‘thy kingdom come on earth as it is in heaven’?

Do we believe that is possible?

What does God’s Kingdom look like on earth?

And what are we doing to become the answer to that prayer?

As well as food for the hungry and shelter for the homeless…

As well as clothing for the naked and company for the lonely…

Perhaps it is also a church, doing her bit to love this planet and to live lightly on it.

Perhaps it is a place that throws open its doors and says come and eat here – you are welcome – all are welcome.

Heaven on earth looks like freedom for the slave and safe refuge for those experiencing violence in their own homes, and then keeping on working until it becomes a place where slavery is abolished, and relationships are flourishing.

Heaven on earth has open borders and access to education for all.

And at this table, and in this collar, all are invited, and nobody is excluded, regardless of academic achievement or how they identify or who they love.

Yes, Jesus is going to prepare a place for us. But isn’t it always true that we should be emulating what Jesus teaches? Doesn’t it then follow that we should be preparing a place for others – for our children and grandchildren, for the outcast and the stranger and the asylum seeker and those who are in any kind of need. And that place should be here on earth, rather than a pie-in-the-sky promise for when they die.

Love comes first, Belinda Carlisle sang. We’ll make heaven a place on earth.

That 1980s hit was gimmicky, with an annoyingly catchy tune, terrible hair, and dreadful eye makeup. But she was onto something.

Jesus’ final challenge in this morning’s gospel passage was for his disciples to ask for anything in his name, and his heavenly parent would give it to them, with the corresponding promise that we would do even greater things than he had done. So are we prepared to ask for heaven to be built on earth? And then do the even greater thing of being the ones that help to build it. Amen.

A Sermon for Good Friday

Good Friday 2023 – John 19: 14 ff

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the top of the cross reaches taller and higher

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

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

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

May we wait. May we never stop waiting.

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

What is your life’s purpose?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love that brings life where there was once only death.

Love that unbinds others and sets them free.

Love that brings light to the darkness of the tomb.

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

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

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

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

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

The Beautiful (but crippled) Bride of Christ

A few weeks ago, Sylvia led us to pray for the forthcoming Lambeth Conference and she prayed beautifully for unity and against division. After the service a few of you commented on this prayer, and the conference.  One of you asked if there was a risk of a split in the Anglican communion. I think I replied slightly more confidently than I felt, when I reassured you ‘I’m sure it will be fine’. On Friday, during parish office hours, Bethan greeted a woman who came to ask if there really is a schism in the Australian Anglican Church and she replied as optimistically as possible. But, the truth is, this has been a sad week for the Anglican Church. It is a sad week for the Christian Church and I can’t not speak about it.

We prayed for unity – we often pray for unity – but it is sadly true that, this week, the news is of disunity.  You may not have heard about the church in the news this week, so let me first read excerpts from the statement from the Primate of the Anglican Church of Australia – The most Reverend Geoffrey Smith.

He writes, ‘I note the formal launch this week of a company named the Diocese of the Southern Cross. This company, while established by some members of the Anglican Church of Australia…has no formal or informal relationship or connection with the Anglican Church of Australia. As such it will operate independently…as, effectively, a new denomination…’

In short, and for want of a better word, there has been something of a split.

This ‘split’ is largely concerned with the hot topics that we embrace and celebrate here, and recognise God’s love for – the ordination of women, those who are divorced, our friends and selves who are LGBTQIA+ – the people and situations and relationships that add colour and life and light and texture. The people and situations and relationships that some people seek to find scripture to condemn.

So, can I first say, without any doubt, this church is safe and welcoming and loving and kind AND FAITHFULLY SEEKS TO FOLLOW JESUS. And no exclusion has – nor will have – any place here. Ever.

It is not holy and it is not right and it leads to the damage of others and that is not part of our call as baptised people who are trying to follow Jesus.

The second thing is, there will always be people with whom we don’t agree.

Primate Geoffrey Smith goes on to say, ‘It is always easier to gather with those we agree with. But in a tragically divided world God’s call, and therefore the church’s role, includes showing how to live together with difference. Not merely showing tolerance but receiving the other as a gift from God.’

That is an enormous challenge. Especially when it hurts people we love. Especially when it hurts us. I would like to call out the divide as disgusting, but I will not, because the people on “the other side” – if there ever is one – are also my brothers and my sisters, my colleagues – and they demand and deserve the same level of grace that we helplessly rely upon every single day. God’s church is bruised and battered, but She is not broken.

And that brings me to this morning’s gospel reading.

Jesus was teaching in the synagogue and there appeared a woman who had been crippled for 18 years. She was bent over and was quite unable to stand up straight.

And all I can think is ‘isn’t that woman a great image of the Bride of Christ’?

Isn’t that crippled, broken, bent over, woman just exactly like the Bride of Christ right now? Is she the Church?!

And when Jesus saw her, he called her over and said, ‘woman you are set free’ and immediately she stood up straight and began praising God.

The thing is, throughout history, the Church has tried to ‘do what is right’. She has tried to be ‘faithful to scripture’. And time and time again she has hurt and damaged and alienated others. Time and again she has chosen doctrine over love, and law over grace. And here we are again, bent double, unable to look up, unable to see God’s glory, broken and hurting a little bit more. Breaking and hurting others, over and over again.

And there are leaders now, just exactly like those synagogue leaders in this passage, who are condemning and criticising; ‘there are six days on which work should be done’ – because that is what the scriptures had said. They were being faithful to scripture too. And to them Jesus said, ‘you hypocrites’…and his opponents were put to shame.

The difficulty is, friends, I believe what I believe because I think it’s right.

I really dare to believe that God did call this divorced woman to be a priest in God’s church. I genuinely do believe that every child is made in God’s own image – regardless of anything; gender, race, upbringing, religion, sexual identity, and orientation. I do. I strongly believe that we do, here at St Pauls. AND I think it is faithful to scripture.

But it is hard to argue ‘across the divide’ because our ‘opponents’ – to quote this gospel passage – believe they are right too. And, as our own Archbishop Kay, and Archbishop Justin wrote this week, ‘everyone reads, studies and receives the same bible with utmost seriousness [and] to suggest otherwise of others is simply untrue’ (which means that a simple ‘I’m right and you’re wrong’ debate is not going to bring the solutions we seek).

As ever, all we can do is turn to Christ. What does he do in the face of brokenness and pain? What does he do whenever he finds exclusion and isolation? What does he do when he meets the crippled woman? He brings freedom, healing and wholeness.

So, as the crippled woman was set free from her afflictions, simply by meeting the Christ, we must do all we can to be the Christ in this debate, in this time and this day so that the bent over but beautiful woman that is the Bride of Christ might also be set free and then may we all rejoice at the wonderful things God is doing and may God’s name be glorified. Amen.

Deeds, not words…

Things are really hotting up here election-wise aren’t they? A day rarely passes without a leaflet in the mailbox, a billboard scooting past on a trucks, or a knock at the door. There was a national prayer vigil on Wednesday, and have you received your very useful fridge magnet from a certain counsellor?

Growing up in a household with a trade unionist grandad and a militant mum, I was taught the importance of voting in every election from a very young age and I heard about the works of the Suffragette movement way before I could pronounce it.

In the UK, women peacefully campaigned for an equal right to vote for more than 5 decades, with no success, but in 1903 a group of feisty activists adopted a slogan that became their motto – deeds not words. They tried every which way of communicating through words – to no avail – so they began direct action. Some of the reports of what they did sound bad – arson, window smashing, criminal damage – and others sound hilarious – the arrest warrant for a woman found in the house of commons ‘in male attire, with a riding whip in her coat pocket’ was among my favourites. What they learned was that deeds were what changed things, not words. And it worked and, after many heroic deeds and some bloodshed, even death, women got the vote

This was super controversial at the turn of the last century but I’m not sure why because Jesus was already onto it 2000 years earlier…

‘How long will you keep us in suspense?’ the Jews asked Jesus…  ‘If you are the messiah, tell us plainly’.  They want to know the truth, and they want Jesus to tell them.  They want a simple yes or no answer. Are you the messiah Jesus; yes, or no?  and Jesus replies by saying, ‘I’ve told you and you don’t believe’.  He says the works he does is all the proof they need – the works I do in my father’s name testify to me. 

It’s like he’s saying, I can tell you if you want, but its way better to see. This isn’t about being told the answers and accepting it blindly. This is about way more than that. It’s about deeds not words … it’s like he’s saying, ‘I’ve told you and I can tell you again if you want, but it makes no difference if you don’t see my actions, believe and follow me. I can tell you, but you must connect the dots and let it impact you. Let it change you’.

Jesus’ deeds show beyond all reasonable doubt who he is. These people had seen him heal the sick, raise the dead, give sight to the blind, cast out demons, feed the hungry…they’ve seen all these things, and still, they’re not quite sure.  Are you the one we are waiting for, or should we wait longer?  Should we expect another? Tell us!

They’d been told, over and over!

But the gap between the brain and the heart is the biggest of all.

At some point we need that eureka moment where we go ‘ohhhh’. At some point we have to almost give in and say, ‘I’ve seen enough to think it might be proof’ and, as much as my brain is able to grasp it, I choose to believe.

And I think, as it was with those first disciples and those Jewish leaders, so it ever will be. The world is always waiting, always questioning, always wondering. What is true? What is real? And I wonder what the world, what our community, sees and hears from us, about us, in this place that offers any kind of answer to that question.

This week our Just Manna committee met together, and we heard about a woman who had lost custody of her child because they had become homeless. Within 36 hours we had managed to find her somewhere to stay and she was reunited with her baby and her immediate response was a text that said, ‘thanks so much for your help and prayers…I can’t explain how complete I feel’. We could have just prayed for her, but it was our deeds, that made the difference.

At the same meeting we agreed practical help for our dear friends released from detention and we asked ourselves ‘how can we support these guys more?’  and we thought maybe it’s housing or financial support or a bike to get around. Like, yeah, we can say we are here for you, and we love you, but what does that look like in deeds not words?

And I feel like this is what Jesus is talking about in this morning’s gospel passage; deeds, not words. The importance of doing transformational things that lead to relationship and belonging. We can say ‘I love you’ and that’s really nice but it means nothing unless we show that love in deeds not words.

For the mummy and her baby, this week, she saw the provision of a home and knew she was no longer alone, but this group of strangers have reached out and helped her, made her feel complete (to use her phrase), not only because that is the right thing to do when someone is in need but because we follow the one who is Love and told us to love likewise.

The Jewish leaders said ‘tell us plainly’ but Jesus’ response was – and still is – don’t just hear what I say but see what I do – deeds not words. And I feel like the world, even now, is asking that same question and is watching and waiting; watching to see if our deeds match our words.

I feel like our community is also asking ‘tell us plainly, is this real?’ Is God real? You speak a good game but show me what it means, show me what difference it makes.

So, we need to ask ourselves, what have we seen and known of Christ?

And what will we do so that others might know Him too? Amen.

The Great Unknowing

A sermon for Good Friday*

*I first preached a variation of this sermon in 2017, on my first Good Friday as a priest. My training priest was so furious with me – that I had told people that I don’t know why Jesus had to die – that I didn’t preach on Good Friday again, until 2022. Now I think that sharing our doubts and questioning, even as priests, especially as priests, is essential. So here it is again; revised, revisited and still unsure whether Jesus really HAD to die, or if it was a sure consequence of real living…

I remember the exact moment when all I knew and believed about what happened on the cross came tumbling down around me.

It was 2011, and a Tuesday, around 7:30am.  I was sat on my sofa, drinking coffee, reading the bible passages for that day.  I had all my theology and knowledge, safely and neatly stacked in metaphorical boxes around me, lids firmly fixed down.  I remember so clearly that as I sat and read one of the accounts of the crucifixion, I felt this creeping sense of unease wash over me, and something inside my mind or heart dared to ask this question that I’ve asked countless times since: Did Jesus have to die? ‘Why did Jesus have to die?’ 

And I realised I no longer knew the answer. 

I knew it was safely stored somewhere in one of these proverbial theology boxes that I’d carefully been packing since Sunday School, but I couldn’t locate it.  And I knew it was important – I mean, I had to know why Jesus had to die if I wanted to be one of His followers, right?  So I put down my coffee, and quickly got dressed.  I didn’t have to be in work until 9am, there was still time to figure this out and get things straight before then.  I drove to my church and burst through the door and straight into my priest and blurted out ‘I no longer know why Jesus had to die?’ and she looked a bit stunned by this early morning theological conundrum, and she ermed and ahhed a bit, and then she looked at me and said what, in hindsight became the most beautiful answer. She said, ‘I don’t know the answer to that’…

And so, my quest continued…

At that time, I worked at the cathedral and was surrounded by priests all day, so I went to ask them.  I dashed to work, armed with my burning question; desperate to have it sorted, as quickly as possible.

I got to my desk and was facing precious Martin; a wonderful, kind priest, who was very posh.  And I said to Martin ‘why did Jesus have to die?’ and, without missing a heartbeat, he said ‘Gemma; Jesus died for the propitiation of our sins’ and then he paused and said ‘…yep, I’m happy with that’, but I wasn’t.  I tried on this theory for myself and I couldn’t make it fit.  And I didn’t know what propitiation meant. 

And then in bounded Keith – big, brash, loud, Baptist minister Keith. And I asked Keith, ‘why did Jesus have to die?’  and he said ‘so God could look at you.’ 

What?!

‘Yes’, he said ‘before Jesus died, God couldn’t bear to look at you because you were so full of sin and God can’t look upon sin’.  And I remembered this explanation from before; this was one I’d clung onto for years, and I tried it on again, and the weight of it did something bad to my heart and soul and I knew I couldn’t carry this explanation around any longer.  I knew God loved me, loved all humanity, every last one of us, through all time and eternity, and I couldn’t reconcile that love with God not being able to look at God’s people, unless Jesus died. 

So I pressed on with my big question.

And I pressed on.

And I still press on. 

And I will press on, always.

And, if that even is a question then, still, I don’t know why Jesus had to die.  In fact, I don’t believe he had to; not to fulfil a great celestial plan, anyway.  But Jesus showed – still shows – such a radical way of living, such a purity of life, heart and mind that death was… inevitable.

I know Jesus turned everything upside down with His outrageous, indiscriminating, love; and when humankind comes face to face with that love, it does something to our very core and sears into our soul and it’s so rare, so ‘raw’ that it’s terrifying, and our fear causes us to kill it.  To kill love.  I know that.

And I also know that even though Jesus told his closest friends, over and over, what was going to happen to him, still they didn’t understand either.  They didn’t know why Jesus had to die.   Not only did they not understand, they ran away and betrayed Him, and denied they’d even known him.  They didn’t understand what was happening. 

On that first Good Friday night, they weren’t sat around in the upper room waiting for what had been promised to them, full of hope, nodding knowingly.  They were hiding; huddled there, this night, terrified, distraught, guilt-stricken, with images of their best friend; bloodied and beaten and broken.  They could still hear the cries of the crowd – crucify him.  And they could hear their own voices – I don’t even know the man.  Life was gone.  Hope was gone.  Jesus was dead.  That’s what they knew.  So if that’s all we know too, that is enough…

Today we do well to kneel at this cross, where our friend Jesus is beaten and broken.  And we kneel undone, as we see our sin and hear our own failings ringing in our ears.  All we have known is in tatters around us because we haven’t always followed the examples of our Jesus.  But we also know, in ways we can never comprehend, that His crucifixion is part of something bigger than our understanding. 

We do not fully know what happened on the cross, or in the darkness of that tomb, none of us do – and the truth is we cannot, because this is the work of God Almighty, an unfathomable act of grace and mystery, where death equals life. And that is enough. That is even good.

So, we kneel here today, clinging to our faith and to our humanity, and onto to any shred of knowledge we may ever had – albeit tentatively – and, as we do, we hold fast to all we know of the extravagant, unending, indestructible love of God. We kneel with those disciples who knew nothing, but still dared to be together, even if it was in hiding.

And we watch, and we weep, and we wait…  And it is good. Amen.

We *must* rejoice…

Prayer

If you read your newsletter this week, you will already know today is Laetare Sunday – the Sunday in Lent where we lift our Lentern observances and peep out from under them to spot Easter, right there, on the horizon! For one week only the colour lifts from the deep dark purple to a slightly lighter brighter ‘rose’ and the psalm for the day reminds us to rejoice! It’s also the day in the UK, where we celebrate Mothering Sunday – the day hijacked by hallmark and turned into a commercial affair for the chocolate and flowers industry (unless you’re living in my house this weekend, sorry mum…).

I know that you lot don’t mark Mother’s Day until May but forgive me for sharing a bit of Mothering Sunday history, because it fits so snugly into this morning’s gospel reading that I can’t resist it.

The original Mother’s Day was not about our Mums at all. The first Mothering Sunday was about the church.  Exactly 9 months before Christmas, girls working in domestic service were allowed to return home for a rare weekend off, their last one before Christmas and they were instructed to ‘go a’mothering’ – to go home to their mum – not the one who gave birth to them, but the one who spiritually birthed and nurtured them in the faith of Christ. Mothering Sunday was about going home to the Mother Church. It was about going home.

And this morning we meet our well-known brother – the one we call the Prodigal – on his own journey from and to home. We know the story, don’t we? He asks his dad for his inheritance early and goes off to a distant country to squander all he has in dissolute living. He spends all he has and then gets hungry. And ‘when he came to himself’ he decides the best cure for his hunger is a huge slice of humble pie and he turns around and goes home.

He dares to hope his father will greet him with compassion. He recites his well-prepared speech and doesn’t even get halfway through before he is cloaked in the finest robe, lavished with the finest jewels, the fatted calf meets a sticky end, and they begin to celebrate. The welcome home party rages…and there is that one notable absence – our other brother – the elder one. 

He’s out in the field and he hears music and dancing and then he hears the news that makes his blood run cold; his brother has come home – and all his resentment and anger and bitterness rushes to his cheeks and clenches his fists and seals his feet securely to the floor. His dad comes to him – like he went to prodigal – and tries to envelop him with that same compassion, but elder brother’s resentment says no. He’s at the house, but there’s no way he’s going home.

And the dad says the most compelling and costly line in the whole story; son, we had to celebrate and rejoice. We had to. It’s the only response.

And today we remember our own home – the father’s house – Mother Church. And in these old familiar words, this homecoming, we find ourselves.

And countless preachers have asked their people, ‘where are you in this story’? are you far off and needing to come home? Are you languishing there, hungry among the pigs? Are you taking the first tentative steps homeward? Or are you that elder brother; angry and resentful for all you’ve given, with such seemingly limited return? Are you standing, arms folded, feet glued to that outer field, refusing to come in and welcome home the prodigal?

But I am drawn to the father’s compelling and costly line – we have to celebrate and rejoice. Because it is true, and it is also a lot.

Friends, we are going through a time here where we’re experiencing growth! Each week we have people come and join us for the first time, or the first time in a long time, and our welcome and greeting makes all the difference.

And Jesus knows humanity from of old – he knows there will be prodigals who will come stumbling in, stinking. Suffering from whatever the equivalent is of dissolute living and sitting with pigs. He knows they will come in rehearsing their reasons and excuses for being away so long as they beg for a place at this table.

And he knows there will be those who run to greet them, arms wide, robes hoiked up, compassion flowing, ready to envelop and cloak them, adorn them with jewels – even though we know they might just as quickly be sold to afford the next drug fix. Jesus knows you.

And he also knows there will be those who have served diligently and have cleaned this place and – to be honest – would prefer it not to be messed up. He knows there are those of us whose feet will be glued to the floor and hands firmly stuffed into pockets and, even if we try, it feels too much to even take one step to embrace the new, or re-embrace the old, especially if they have hurt us, or threaten to do so in the future. Jesus knows us too.

And yet, that costly and compelling line is for each of us – us prodigals, us elders, even us fatted calves – we have to celebrate and rejoice. We have to. Because this is the way our church grows. This is the way the kingdom grows. This is the way our mother church births and nourishes us into life and into the future. Generation after generation.

This week I’ve read one blog post over and over – thanks to Gabby for sharing it on the facebook page – and I want to end with some of the words, by Debie Thomas, who says this…

“We have to celebrate and rejoice.”  …Did you know you have to celebrate?  Did you know that joy is a must in your father’s house?  That partying is a duty?

Your father stands in the doorway, waiting for you.  Waiting for you to stop being lost.  Waiting for you to come home.  Did you know your choices are so powerful?  You get to write this ending.  You get to write this ending.

It’s getting cold outside.  The sun is setting, and the party beckons.  What will you do, as the music grows sweeter?  What will we choose, you and I?

What will we choose? Amen.