Tag Archives: Priest

Another World is on its way…

Daniel 7:9-10,13-14        Psalm 93                 Revelation 1:4b-8           John 18:33-37

One of the most beautiful things I ever heard is from the Prize-Winning Author, Arundhati Roy, who wrote ‘another world is not only possible; she is on her way. On a quiet day, I can hear her breathing’. Isn’t that stunning?

Back in 2017, I accidentally landed up being part of an American cohort of preachers – I say accidentally, because I’m not American – and we were given funding to develop a project that preached resistance, through word and song. Preaching resistance, with gospel passages like this was a simple task and one of our group wrote a chant from that beautiful quote. You can see the words on page 6 in your service book and I’m going to step out of my comfort zone and teach it to you.

It goes like this:

Another world, another world is not just possible it’s on its way

And we sing that twice. Let’s try:

Another world, another world is not just possible it’s on its way

And then it goes…

And I can hear it breathing, and I can feel it coming

It’s not just possible, it’s on its way.

Let’s try that…

All week I have been singing it because it encapsulates what happens in these verses from John’s gospel.

A beaten and bloodied Jesus is before Pilate and is asked ‘what have you done?’.

And Jesus doesn’t answer the question.  Not specifically.  But he could.  He’s got a whole resume of things he’s done.  What have I done? I’ve healed the sick and raised the dead.  I have eaten with outcasts.  I have spent time with the hated and kissed the untouchables.  I have spoken against lies and falsehood and injustice.  And I have inspired others to do the same – fishermen, tax collectors, women – they’re springing up all over and are feeding the hungry and claiming I am the messiah.

But he doesn’t say any of that.

What have you done, Pilate says. And Jesus answers, “My kingdom is not from this world… My kingdom is not from here.”

Jesus reigns over a kingdom that is unrecognisable to Pilate.  His kingdom is not like the kingdom of Caesar or Pilate or Herod; a kingdom operating on violence and oppression.  It was, and is, entirely other.

What have you done Jesus? 

What had he done? 

He had turned the whole kingly order of things upside down.  He had not lived as a king and he was not ruling as a king, and his crown was about to be one of thorns and his throne was about to be a cross of wood.  What have you done Jesus?  This is not kingly.  Are you really the king?

And Jesus never confirms whether he is or isn’t. But his actions say more than words ever can. He’s creating a new world, and it’s not just possible; it’s on its way. And it is unstoppable. It has been coming since the dawn of time, and it is still on its way.

In this generation, people are looking for help and looking for a way out, and for freedom and liberation, and they might glance at the church and wonder if maybe it could be true.  What has Jesus done?  Could he be our King?  Do we need a King or a kingdom different to what we’ve got?  We need something other, something trustworthy and true.

What have you done?

And what are you doing?

Can I join in? Is there space for me?

For those of us who are trying to follow Christ as King, and align ourselves with the values of his rule and reign, we might dare to believe the Kingdom of God is not just possible – she’s on her way. And on a quiet day, we might hear her breathing.

Another world, another world is not just possible, it’s on its way…

What have you done, Pilate asks?

And now Jesus asks us the same question…

What have you done? Are you co-creators in my building of this other world?

And that really got me thinking because if we can hear it breathing, and feel it coming, what might it sound and feel like? And if we are going to choose to create those things along with our Divine Creator, what might they look like.

This ‘other world’ that is on its way is good and just and equitable. And every time we pray ‘your kingdom come, your will be done on earth as in heaven’ we are committing and recommitting to be a part of the construction team; to be kingdom builders to create this other world that’s not just possible, it’s on its way.

What have we done, what are we doing, to point to the Kingdom of Christ here, in Beaconsfield?  A kingdom of peace and non-violence; a kingdom of life and light and love and freedom; a kingdom of good news, where the hungry are fed and the homeless are housed, where the naked are clothed and the lonely have friends; where prisons and hospitals are empty, and the environment is clean and green. 

Every time we contribute to something of light, we starve out a piece of darkness. Every time we light a candle of hope or gentleness or kindness in a situation, an element of darkness is snuffed out. And we can choose to create. We can choose to construct and build. And we can choose not to.

Another world is possible. The reign of Christ really is unstoppable. She’s on her way but she doesn’t come with drones and weaponry and she doesn’t kill or destroy. She builds up and rebuilds and blossoms and brings life. And this new world is so compelling, and it requires our input. And we can choose to be divine builders, because there is space and work for us all.

Pilate asks Jesus, ‘what have you done’?

Jesus asks us, ‘what have you done? What will you do? Will you be part of the building of this other world?’

So we have a choice to make – we can stay as we are, feet firmly rooted in this time and place, or we can summon our courage, listen for the new world, hear her breathing and join in. it’s not just possible, it’s on its way…

Another world…

Clean heart – dirty hands

Deuteronomy 4:1-2,6-9            Psalm 15      James 1:17-27       Mark 7:1-8,14-23

One of the things I remember when I arrived at the monastery where I trained for ordination, was being handed a weighty manual of rules for college living. Page after page explained the times to be in church and the times to be in our rooms; when to speak and when to stay silent; when to walk and when to be seated. It taught us what to wear for offices or lessons, and how to clear the tables at the end of mealtimes; ‘swiftly and with dignity’. And while it was pages and pages thick, it could have been summed up really concisely; love God, care for your fellow ordinands and tutors, and follow the traditions of those who have been here longer.

In today’s gospel reading we find a similar kind of discussion. The pharisees and some of the scribes are surprised to find that Jesus’ disciples aren’t keeping the purity rules of Judaism. They’re not washing their hands, they aren’t following the traditions of their elders, they aren’t scrubbing the produce they bought from the market, and they aren’t scouring the pots and pans.

Jesus tells them God does not care for human traditions. He replaces the rule book by saying, ‘there is nothing outside a person that by going in can defile, but the things that come out are what defile’. God does not care for clean hands, washed vegetables and scrubbed cooking utensils. God cares about the human heart. Jesus goes on to say, ‘it is from within, from the human heart, that evil intentions come: [and then lists them]. All these evil things come from within, and they defile a person.’

You see, it’s not that God doesn’t care about purity. God really does. But the purity God is concerned with is purity of the heart, and that is much bigger, much deeper.

Let me say that again; God cares about the state of our hearts.  Or, as St James says, in the epistle we just heard, ‘Religion that is pure and undefiled before God is this: to care for orphans and widows in their distress, and to keep oneself unstained by the world’. Keep your hearts clean, and don’t be afraid to get your hands dirty in meeting the needs of the world.

God is concerned with the state of our hearts, because from our hearts can come evil and wickedness or love and worship and care for those in need. Actually, the truth is much more nuanced. It is more likely that all these things come from our hearts at one time or another – we need to pay attention to wheedling out that which is not from God and cultivating that which is Godly, pure and worthwhile. Clean hearts, dirty hands.

The work required on our own hearts is lifelong and requires commitment and attention. What in me is good? Let’s do more of that, be more of that.

What in me is not good, what is defiled? Let me get that out, give it to God, repent, turn around and make purposeful steps away from it. That takes time and effort. It doesn’t happen by accident, and it is important. Don’t worry about your hands or food or containers – the germs and goodness from all that will end up in the sewer anyway – worry about your heart. Focus on your heart. Give me your heart, let’s work together on that, says God.

And maybe that sounds terrifying to you – certainly uncomfortable, maybe a bit invasive, vulnerable-making? Washing hands, food and pans is one thing but washing my heart – allowing God to wash clean my heart – what will God find there? What have I hidden there even from myself?! What will be exposed? How loveable am I if the whole of my heart is known? Keeping purity laws is much easier but now you’re saying God wants to purify my heart?

……………………………

As I was thinking about this passage this week I got an email from the Australian musician, writer and actor, Nick Cave. He sends out sporadic emails to his mailing list called the Red Hand Files. People write in with questions and he chooses one or two to answer each time. They vary from things like ‘do you ever worry about being on the wrong side of history’ to ‘what is joy and where is it?’ and anything in between. Nothing is off limits, he says, and his responses are often insightful, poignant, witty, wise.

This week he answered a question from a British Poet who wrote a poem with the same title as Cave’s latest album. As he shared the poem I found that it spoke, somehow, to this passage. It is called Sometimes a Wild God. You can read it in full online but here is an excerpt…

Sometimes a Wild God.

Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.
He is awkward and does not know the ways
Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
His voice makes vinegar from wine.

When the wild god arrives at the door,
You will probably fear him.
He reminds you of something dark
That you might have dreamt,
Or the secret you do not wish to be shared.

He will not ring the doorbell;
Instead he scrapes with his fingers
Leaving blood on the paintwork,

Though primroses grow
In circles round his feet.

You do not want to let him in

You are very busy.
It is late, or early, and besides…
You cannot look at him straight
Because he makes you want to cry.

Your dog barks;
The wild god smiles.
He holds out his hand and
The dog licks his wounds,
Then leads him inside.

The wild god stands in your kitchen.
Ivy is taking over your sideboard;
Mistletoe has moved into the lampshades
And wrens have begun to sing
an old song in the mouth of your kettle.

‘I haven’t much,’ you say
And give him the worst of your food.

[It goes on, but it ends like this…]

Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.
He is awkward and does not know the ways
Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
His voice makes vinegar from wine
And brings the dead to life.

We worship a wild God and that wild God is way more concerned with the state of our heart than our hands. May we make our hearts clean and not be afraid to get our hands dirty. Amen.

The ‘to whom can we go’ moment…

Joshua 24:1-2a,14-18     Psalm 34:15-22     Ephesians 6:10-20    John 6:56-69

This morning’s gospel passage is beautiful, vulnerable, tender and challenging.

It is so delicate I hardly dare speak about it.

For several weeks we have heard Jesus speaking of himself as the bread of life. He encouraged his early disciples, and us, to feast on him; eat his flesh and drink his blood…and some of those listening didn’t like it and now they speak out: ‘this teaching is difficult; who can accept it?’ and many of his disciples turned back and no longer went about with him.  Then Jesus turns to his closest friends and asks them ‘do you also wish to go away?’  And Peter speaks this phrase that breaks me, every time. 

He says ‘Lord, to whom can we go?  You have the words of eternal life.  We have come to believe and know that you are the Holy One of God’.

I came to faith aged 4. I asked Jesus to come and live in my heart and I meant it. I heard bible stories and prayed and sung the songs and told my friends I was a Christian, even when they called me a Bible Basher. And then the bright lights of university turned my head, and alcohol and late nights made church entirely unappealing. Uni life turned into married life and that was tough and lonely and when married life turned into divorced life, my tiptoeing back into church was brought to an abrupt end, when I was told to leave.

By some miracle, in 2001, I found myself at a Christian festival, surrounded by bible stories and music and Christians – all the things I had relegated to the ‘too hard’ or ‘too boring’ baskets. And right there I heard this call from God that was so compelling, so all-consuming that I had to say yes. And that day, in April 2001, despite the faith and lack of it that had come before, on that day, I knew I was saying yes to Jesus, forever.

That day became my ‘Lord to whom can we go’ day – because I had believed and had come to know that Jesus is the Holy One of God. And from that day, it didn’t matter how tough it got, how much I liked or didn’t like what God was asking of me, it didn’t matter. Because I now knew it. And I knew there was nothing I could do about it – there was nobody else to whom I could go.

And in this passage, we hear Peter’s moment – yes this is hard teaching, yes this might even get us killed (and it did), but to whom else can we go, because you have the words of eternal life. We have believed it and now we know it is true. 

And I wonder if those words resonate with you.

I wonder if you have had your ‘to whom can we go’ moment too?

Maybe you remember that date and time, or those years where it happened gradually. And maybe you can confidently say, this is it; it’s me and Jesus forever, I can’t ever turn back.

I asked the residents of one of my care homes this week. Margaret said she chose to follow the Lord, aged 13, and never looked back. Then she thought about it and told the group about when her brother was killed in a motorbike accident at 18, and when her baby was stillborn a few years later. She said, ‘I was angry with God and decided I wouldn’t pray for 6 months…but I couldn’t do it, because I needed him’. She had believed and had come to know…so where else could she turn? To whom could she go? Her faith, her vulnerability is stunning. But equally as beautiful was Betty, there beside her, because she was honest about not being as sure.

Perhaps you aren’t sure either – coming to church and being part of this vibrant and supportive community is great. I’ll even go on the reading roster and make morning tea if you want, but do I really have to follow all the teachings of Jesus, because some of them are really hard. And you’re right; following Jesus is sometimes super hard.  And it’s costly; in time, money and talents.  And sometimes it doesn’t make us very popular.

This week has marked the anniversary of the Abolition of the International Slave Trade and the birthday of William Wilberforce.  He was an incredible man, who did amazing work for the liberation of slaves, and he did it in the name of Jesus. He did it because he had believed and come to know that Christ is the Holy One of God. 

One of the remarkable quotes attributed to him says ‘you may choose to look the other way, but you can never again say that you did not know’.  When we know that a new slave is bought and sold somewhere in this world, every 30 seconds, we can’t unknow it; we can choose to look away, do nothing, but we can’t delete the knowledge from our hearts and minds.

And it is as true for the following of Jesus, as it is for the crime of slavery.  When we really know, then we can make the choice to look away – we can turn back and no longer go about with Him, but we can’t unknow that Jesus is the Holy One of God. Those disciples that left that day had to face the fact that Jesus is God, but following Him is too hard.

And how about us?  Have you met the living Christ? Have you heard his teachings and know them to be true? Have you held him in your hands in the living bread of the mass? Do you recognise this tender determination of Peter, can you count the cost and say with him ‘to whom can we go… we believe and know Jesus is the holy one of God’. If you are in this journey for life, tell him again as you meet him at this altar, a few minutes from now.

And if you aren’t sure, come and receive the nourishment of the living bread that came down from heaven. Come and take food for the journey because it is sometimes tough, sometimes tiring, and we need the true food and true drink to be able to keep following. 

So let me end with this deep question from Jesus, asked afresh to us here and now, and then lets ponder our own answer: friends, do you also wish to go away?

Amen.

A Gospel Sandwich

Genesis 3:8-15                  Psalm 130                          2 Cor 4:13-5:1                   Mark 3:20-35

What is your favourite sandwich filling? It’s a big question.

Before I went vegan mine was turkey with stuffing, cranberry sauce, maybe a pig in blanket, splash of gravy – the full Christmas dinner, in a sandwich. Where am I going with this, you might wonder. Well, if all else fails in the next ten minutes you can at least bliss out on your favourite sandwich filling.

But I got to thinking about this, this week, because so many of the commentators on this morning’s gospel reading describe it as a ‘typical Markan sandwich’; apparently something that this gospel writer is well known for… Mark’s sandwiches are less fun than my Christmas dinner bun, but probably far more nutritious.

So I wonder if you might look at the gospel text again, have it in front of you. It begins midway through a sentence with, ‘And the crowd came together again, so that they could not even eat’ and continues, ‘When his family heard it, they went out to restrain him, for people were saying, “He has gone out of his mind.”’

The bread of Mark’s sandwich is the mention of the crowd, and particularly Jesus’ family among them – Jesus’ family come, in a direct translation, to ‘arrest him’ or ‘take him away by force’ because people are saying he is crazy.  

Then we have the scribes and their talk of beelzebul and demons and questions of satan casting out satan and Jesus’ parable of the strong man’s house being plundered – this is the filling of the sandwich.

And then we return to the bread – the talk of the crowd again, with Jesus’ family among them when his mother and brothers send for him and call him and Jesus replies ‘”Who are my mother and my brothers?” And looking at those who sat around him, he said, “Here are my mother and my brothers! Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother.”’

  • Bread – crowd and family
  • Filling – satan and beelzebul and demons and plundering and sin
  • Bread – crowd and family

This is not my favourite sandwich and, honestly, it takes some chewing, but the commentators tell me that the Markan Sandwich allows us to engage with the text and understand it more fully. So how might that be?

Well, I wonder if it points to something else one of the commentators wrote, in her book called Embodying Mark, where the author writes that this passage is ‘like most passages in the gospels’ the whole story of salvation in a nutshell.  

That stopped me in my tracks. It feels like the sort of statement that might be true but that certainly needs applying to other passages to check. She says most stories in the gospels tell the entire overarching message of love, grace and salvation and contribute to the bigger picture…but can stand alone. That’s so interesting to me, and sounds feasible and something worth returning to when we read the stories of Jesus.

It’s like my original sandwich – it is the full Christmas dinner but it’s part of a bigger Christmas dinner. Yes? Anyway, let’s apply her theory to this passage and see if it works.

This centre of this text is about Jesus’ victory over all that is dark or evil – his subversion of the strong man, by the One who is stronger and the freedom this brings. The filling in the proverbial sandwich is the reason for the incarnation – light over darkness, goodness over evil, freedom over captivity – and this is framed within the context of people – humanity, community, particularly family.

Jesus came to be a part of humanity, to live as human, among humans, specifically within a family, and to extend that warm welcome, that unconditional welcome of being part of his family to all people – these are my mothers and my brothers – this isn’t at the exclusion of Mary and Joses and his other brothers but at the inclusion of everyone else. You’re all my family – all are welcome – there is no longer those who are counted as ‘in’ and those who are ‘out’ – now all are included. That sounds like gospel to me!

So, the sandwich analogy that was

  • Bread – crowd and family
  • Filling – beelzebul, satan, demons and sin
  • Bread – crowd and family

Now, in a more detailed way, reads…

  • Bread – there was this crowd of people, family, all the world – humanity – and Christ was born into it to make things different, to bring about change.
  • Filling – humanity was under the banner of darkness and evil but the arrival of the Light of the World meant that all that was dark got tied up, restrained, controlled and banished so that…
  • Bread – the crowd – humanity – can be free to be a part of the family of God, with that unconditional welcome.

And so, when we try to locate ourselves within this Markan Sandwich, as we take our place within this gospel narrative, perhaps we are the crowd – the top slice of bread – who are recipients of this gracious eternal invitation. Maybe we are sitting around Jesus, pressing in to touch him, straining to hear what he is saying, wondering if it might just apply to us, to me, and hearing that offer and realising that our deepest need is already being met. Maybe we are taking our place as siblings of Christ, maybe even his mother. Perhaps the invitation of this passage is that we and all humanity no longer need to watch from the doorway but can enter right in – just as we are – as full members of the family of God, fully caught up in God’s mystery and love.

This passage really is the gospel in a nutshell, isn’t it.

Because of the incarnation, darkness is tied up, defeated, light has triumphed and God’s family is an extended and open invitation to all.

This week I had a meeting with our fabulous new tenants from Cana Communities. They describe themselves as a ‘messy family that welcomes those with least options’. That sounds like gospel too. Or as we might say here, in our own attempt to live out the gospel, ‘St Paul’s where everyone is welcome’. God give us the grace for that to always be true. Amen.

The Lord is my Shepherd

Acts 4:5-12             Psalm 23      1 John 3:16-24      John 10:11-18

Every month I visit the local elderly care homes to take communion services. Every month there are women and men in the late stages of dementia who no longer know their own children but can sing the 23rd Psalm, without missing a beat.

Last week, my family received the devastating news that a close family friend had gone to work, like any other day, but collapsed and died before the ambulance could reach her. She was not yet 50 and left behind 3 children. The day before she died, she posted an image of these words from the 23rd Psalm on her social media.

Yesterday I received a call from a daughter whose father is very sick and isn’t expected to recover. When I sat beside his bed I began reciting the words I have read at bedsides in the final hours of life, many times before. As I said ‘the Lord is my shepherd’ his eyes open wide and he rushed to say ‘I shall not want’ and he beamed at me and said, ‘I have always been looked after’ as he pointed upwards.

Why do these words run so deep? Why do they stay so long in the heart and mind. What is it they provide that we – the world – must so deeply need? And why does Jesus echo them so clearly in this morning’s gospel reading?

Let’s reflect on what these words promise…

The lord is my shepherd, I shall not want:

that speaks of relationship, intimacy, and provision

He makes me lie down in green pastures and leads me beside still waters…:

that is rest and refreshment

He guides me in the paths of righteousness, for his name’s sake:

that is guidance and purpose

Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil, for you are with me; Your rod and staff they comfort me:

that is a promise of safety, protection, companionship, comfort

You spread a table before me in the presence of those who trouble me:

abundance, a sign that God is our supporter

You have anointed my head with oil and my cup shall be full:

provision, and certain safety

Surely goodness and loving mercy will follow me all the days of my life:

this speaks of blessing

And I will dwell in the house of the Lord, forever:

and we get all this, for ever, as pure gift. Grace.  

And I’ve been wondering why this is so deeply known. Is it because it sums up all that God promises to us and for us and because that fills the deepest need in each of us?

Yes, it is comforting. It gives us hope. But this sermon has been so difficult to pin down because these readings have come this week, when things have felt tough…

This week, in this country, a priest at a church named The Good Shepherd was stabbed whilst preaching to his people and we wonder what would have happened if we didn’t have such tough gun laws.

This week, where I travelled to the high court with Ned, fearful he would be returned to detention. We listened to the most influential legal minds in Australia talk about policies and laws with no reference to the people they affected, nor the impact their decisions would have on them. I heard people justify indefinite detention, like it was a good idea for all concerned; like it wasn’t stealing whole eras of life and like ‘third country options’ were an actual possibility – like people need to be found a place that is safe from Australian policies – that is safer than here – and that that was the solution to our bulging detention centres. I heard arguments that said AZC20 can stay out of detention – but another 200 people must remain in. And statements justifying those hideous places as ‘detention, but not punitive’.

This week, it would have been the perfect time to have a holy shepherd providing a physical block – an actual barrier – between the vulnerability and evil of one human against another, rather than feeling like the wolves are drawing near.

And I know and love these promises from Psalm 23 and John 10. And I have relied on them time after time, and will do again, but the words that ring truest in this week are these from the epistle…

‘How does God’s love abide in anyone who has the world’s goods and sees a brother and sister in need and yet refuses help? Little children, let us love, not in word or speech but in truth and action.’

Someone has the world’s good…sees a brother and sister in need…and refuses help.

Let us love not in word but action.

When we read that against those deep-seated promises of the Shepherd, we might hear the challenge that there are times we need to be that physical presence – the one that lays down ones own life to bring the comfort, protection, safety, hope and blessing that others are crying out for.

The world needs the promise of the Good Shepherd.

Sometimes that comes in singing and reciting those precious ancient words that spring from the heart and emerge from the lips of the dying. And sometimes those promises need to grow skin and legs and become action.

We have heard and known the promises of our Good Shepherd. We have walked beside the still waters and through the valley of the shadow of death and been anointed and comforted and fed, and known that every step is accompanied by goodness and mercy.  We know it to be true. And we are also living in a world where life doesn’t always show it to be true.

And when we come up against that, it is our job to shepherd, just as we have been shepherded – to remain even when the wolves are drawing near – to count the cost and help anyway – to lay down our lives and to love, not in words or speech but in truth and action. We can’t rely on ancient hymns, or even scripture alone to teach these truths we have given our lives over to. Sometimes we need to be the story as well as tell it.

May we – who have the world’s goods, see a brother or sister in need – never refuse help. And may we love, not in word or speech but in truth and action. Amen.

Peace be with you…

Acts 4:32-37             Psalm 133               1 John 1:1–2:2           John 20:19-31

I don’t know about you, but I feel like Thomas has had a bit of a resurgence in the last few years. In my childhood years, and even into adulthood, Thomas was always known by that moniker Doubting Thomas, and he was always used as an example of how not to behave. Do not doubt but believe, was the message. Until recently. And recently I have noticed this rising tide of people defending Thomas, even sticking up for him. Even just last week, someone said to me, ‘Thomas made the first profound acclamation – My Lord and My God – the biggest claim in all the gospels’. Its only taken 2000+ years, but Thomas’ reputation seems to finally be shaking off its tarnish. So, it wasn’t Thomas who grabbed my attention in this morning’s reading. Instead, I am struck by Jesus’ arrival and the kind of greeting he gives to his disciples…

This morning, we meet them, huddled in the upper room, for fear of the Jews, and I suspect that having denied, betrayed, and abandoned Jesus the disciples were really wallowing in their shortcomings.  It wouldn’t be a stretch to think they were passing around blame for the death of Jesus, trying to make the other’s faults greater than their own; like, ‘if Judas hadn’t betrayed him, it would’ve been ok’ and ‘Peter, if you hadn’t denied him first, I was going to say I knew him’. They all screwed up.  There would be enough blame to go around.

And then, even while they’re locked away, it is here, amid doubt, fear, heartbreak, and blame, that Jesus came and stood among them.  Jesus: no respecter of locked doors, or self-pity, or hiding, comes and stands among them. It is here he appears to his disciples and says, ‘Peace be with you’.  Peace.  They’ve denied and betrayed and deserted and made fatal mistakes in their following of him…and Jesus’ first words to them are, Peace be with you.

His final word, if they had been there to hear it, was ‘finished’. That was it, the end of how things had been, how they once were. It Is Finished. And now is the dawning of the new world; all that was is gone and the new beginning is one of peace. Absolute, all consuming, fear swamping, peace.

And as I thought about this earlier on this week, I reflected once more on how much we need that same greeting, same promise, same hope, right now, at least as much as those first disciples did. Maybe more.

Yesterday, I scanned the front page of the BBC news website where I read:

  • Ukraine has carried out a drone attack against targets in southern Russia and claims to have destroyed six Russian planes at an airbase in the Rostov region.Eight more aircraft were badly damaged, while 20 service personnel could have been killed.
  • 7 Aid workers have been killed in Gaza, adding to the at least 33,000 Palestinians in this current conflict. And those who remain are being purposefully starved
  • New York and Taiwan have both been hit by earthquakes in the past week
  • A French student has been murdered by his fellow classmates,
  • And the world’s biggest iceberg – nearly 4000sqkm – is drifting to who knows where…

Closer to home, I have a friend who was unable to deal with life any longer and chose death instead, along with loved ones waiting for test results or surgery, and you can insert your own scenarios here too, and the list goes on. And the only thing that might make any of this better is that elusive peace.

So is it any wonder that, when Christ conquered death, when life became everlasting and darkness lost all power to the source of light, is it any wonder that his first words were PEACE. Peace be with you. It’s going to be ok. That is the promise.

Peace in place of war

Peace not conflict

Peace among world leaders and countries

Peace between classmates

Peace as universal language and currency

Peace for our planet as it struggles to breathe without choking

And peace for our friends and relatives and ourselves, as we wait for that diagnosis, or treatment or relief.

Peace be with you, Jesus said. Peace be with you.

Peace is often portrayed as a gentle breeze, lapping waves, or a silent bird drifting by but is not peace – that is calm. Peace is other, it is countercultural, it says fear doesn’t get to win, despair doesn’t get to win, doubt, blame, anxiety, war, violence, discrimination, or darkness – none of these get to win. Peace trumps them all.

Peace is a gift – a fruit of the spirit – it is given to us and grows in us and is dependent on Jesus – the prince of peace. Peace, apart from that is merely an absence of the things we want to avoid. But we don’t follow a God of absence, we follow a God of deep and real presence. And that presence is peace.

Tonight we gather again to pray for peace; to say ‘we recognise we are in trouble and we don’t know how to make it better but we believe that you do Lord, and we are pleading for it’. We will gather in our own ‘upper room’, as the disciples did, and wait for Jesus to come and rescue us from the mess we have made, universally.

Our waiting is not passive or in vain. It is active waiting, with a faith that we know the One who can make change. We know the one who brings peace, who is peace.

We gather for our friends and relatives and fellow humans in Gaza or Ukraine or in hospitals or prisons, for those who look ahead and can only see a bleak future, and we plead for peace. When we don’t know how to help, gathering and praying to the one who is peace, brings peace, promises peace, is something we can do.

And whenever we share the peace with one another or take the prince of peace into our hands at every mass, may we pause for a moment and commit to pray for peace for the world, that the living Christ may come and stand among us, among them, and say ‘peace be with you’.

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.

What if you fly?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What might you need to leave behind?

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

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

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

Ash Wednesday 2024

Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amen.

Burying the Alleluia

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That year we buried our alleluia, as a prayer for those who have lost their alleluia. And then, on easter Sunday, we dug it up and brought it back into church. Except by then, Aref was here with us, and it became the day of his baptism. I can’t put into words what happened in those 40 days, nor the symbolism and significance of that buried alleluia in Aref’s box but, somehow we were witnesses of something close to resurrection.

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

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

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

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

So let us pray.