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Pentecost 20
23/10/2022

Joel 2:23-27
Psalm 65
Luke 18:9-14

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In a sentence:
Humility overcomes hard righteousness to bring
reconciliation for all

The obvious lesson from our Gospel reading this morning is, Don’t be the Pharisee: “for all who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted.” This presumes, of course, that we all want to be exalted, at least a little bit!

This reading works even for those not really sold on the whole God thing. We value humility and have little time for self-righteous posturing. Not taking ourselves too seriously is appreciated by others, and so is a helpful rule of engagement as we move through daily life. Here endeth the lesson, then – at least the obvious, moral lesson – and a good one to learn.

But let us look to see what might be less obvious here. While the two figures in Jesus’ little story are poles apart in terms of moral judgement, they have in common that each stands at his pole alone. I don’t know whether this is intentional in the original telling of the story, but I’m going to make quite a bit of it in what follows! The Pharisee is a self-made man. It is “standing by himself” that he declares his judgement on himself and the other. He needs no other, because this is the meaning of self-righteousness: righteousness by virtue of what I am or have done, perhaps against great odds, with reference only to the truth I perceive and not to others and their truths. The unexpected and usually unobserved effect of self-righteousness is that such a person ultimately stands alone in the world they have created, which does not require and so finally does not admit others. The heaven of the self-righteous has a population of just one. My presumption to be able to perceive the unrighteousness of all others excludes them. Judging and rejecting others has no end and, finally, I am alone.

The experience of the tax collector is the aloneness of being rejected. We don’t know why he considers himself unworthy before God but we can take him at his word that he is, for whatever reason, morally (or otherwise) unworthy. If the Pharisee is a self-made man, this tax collector is a self-unmade one. This is the moral reading of their different experiences.

But the important point is not the difference of their moral achievements but the similarity of the effect of those achievements: both men stand alone. Both have isolated themselves. This sameness makes possible a new perception of their difference. No longer is this difference in taheir moral performance; it is in their perception of their being alone. For the Pharisee, aloneness is a virtue to be celebrated, for which he even thanks God. Or, more precisely, the Pharisee doesn’t see the aloneness but only his isolating righteousness. The Pharisee doesn’t know his condition. And so he also mistakes the condition of the tax collector. The Pharisee sees the other’s sin but not the other’s aloneness. The Pharisee, then, doesn’t see how he and the tax collector are the same.

While the Pharisee celebrates his righteousness and the alone‑ing it brings, for the tax collector, aloneness is a devastating affliction he desperately wants to escape. Recognising his problem, he seeks relief by the only means available – the appeal for mercy. And so the one whom the Pharisee’s moral, alienating righteousness holds in contempt now finds true, reconciling righteousness.

Hoping that this much has made sense, now for something less sensible. All this makes possible what is, on most grounds, an untenable assertion but one we must nonetheless make. If the tax collector is alienated by hard righteousness and is restored to life by God before the one who rejected him, then the tax collector is Jesus himself. It was the righteousness of the Pharisees, priests and scribes which cast Jesus out – which “alone‑d him” – in crucifixion. Easter Saturday becomes the prayer for mercy – a strangely unvoiced prayer of the dead – and the resurrection becomes God’s healing insistence on life not only for himself but for those who rejected him in Jesus. The tax collector’s prayer is not for himself only.

Notice how far we are here from the mere morality of arrogance and humility as personal attributes we might or might not possess and which we eulogise or lament in others. Humility is now nothing like a meek mildness but the opposite of the hard righteousness which divides and alienates us from each other and even from ourselves. Humility becomes the possibility of connection, reconciliation, and so of the creation of something which wasn’t there before. The truly humble do not slip quietly into the background. The truly humble are the means by which the world is made whole again. The tax collector’s prayer is not for himself only.

This is, perhaps, an appealing exaltation of the humble. But there is some bad news here. Such justification as the tax collector received that day in the Temple didn’t change much. Things will be the same tomorrow as they are today. The Pharisee isn’t likely to have changed, nor most of the rest of us who are like him to varying degrees. Ours is a world of harsh alienating righteousness, increasingly pressing towards cynical contempt and contemptuous cynicism. This is not the rejection of righteousness but a relentless demand for it – a demand in and all around us.

In the face of this, prayer for reconciliation, and work toward it, are a struggle, something of which we see in the demeanour of the tax collector and in the crucifixion. There is nothing easy about a sinner’s prayer for mercy. Humility which is merely a mood or way of negotiating difficult circumstances cannot survive the “cost” of mercy. The humility which creates is difficult work. Without the conviction that things can be made out of nothing – the conviction that God will raise the dead – humility is something better seen in other people, a convenient pathology which makes our lives easier (if not theirs).

The humility of the tax collector, however – the humility of Jesus himself – recognises poverty and trusts that God can do something about it. Death and nothingness – the ultimate humiliations – are not barriers to life. And the humility which seeks mercy from God also seeks mercy in the world. To be humble in this way is not to be weak but to desire the smashing of the cold fetters of hard righteousness. This is not easy in a world like this one, in which the alienating righteousness of the Pharisee in Jesus’ story is part of what drives our society and its politics.

Cynicism and contempt are the fruit of an excluding righteousness, the application of some moral or political code against which the enemy measures up only very poorly. This contempt, however, is not a moral flaw in those who look about with contempt but a misreading of justice and righteousness, usually on all sides. Against this, Jesus summons us to what he calls elsewhere the righteousness which exceeds that of the Pharisee (Matthew 5.20). The righteousness of the Pharisee leads to a myriad of heavens with population one, from which we can hurl contemptuous abuse at others in their lonely heavens. But the righteousness of God is towards a single heaven bursting at the seams with Pharisees and tax collectors, Russian presidents (and American ones), rapacious colonists and displaced indigenes, billionaire entrepreneurs and gullible consumers, cynical politicians, sarcastic shock jocks, smug baby boomers, sanctimonious gossips and even Uniting Church ministers.  There they – we – all shall be, in a heaven pressed down and flowing over for the wantonness of unrighteous grace, of unrighteous mercy, of unrighteous forgiveness and of unrighteous reconciliation. With graced abandon, the unjust justice of God exceeds that weaponised righteousness with which we cut and divide so deeply.

Let us, then, not cheapen humility by mistaking it for niceness, and the call to humility as a nudge in the direction of not taking ourselves too seriously. Humility, at least that of Jesus the tax collector, testifies to God’s refusal of any final alienation and so to the power of God to reconcile.

Blessed are the humble – blessed are the peace-makers. They will be called the children of God because, like God’s first Son, their way of mercy and reconciliation grants a glimpse of what heaven looks like.

Humble yourselves, then, that God might exalt the whole world.

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Pentecost 19
16/10/2022

Jeremiah 31:27-34
Psalm 121
Luke 18:1-8

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In a sentence:
Prayer requires a vision for peace for the whole

Conventional wisdom has it that when the going gets tough…there’s always Netflix. Of course, that’s not quite how the saying goes, but could it speak a truth about our infatuation with binge-watching inexhaustible streaming services? While storytelling and story consumption are deeply embedded within us, this is not enough to account for the explosion of streaming subscriptions and our consumption rate of films and TV series. No small part of this must be the escape the screen offers. There is much from which we want to escape, of which the headlines and TV news reports are sufficient evidence, whatever else might be happening in our personal lives. But video streaming is scarcely the only means of escape. Grey nomads across the county are getting away from it all in droves, extending indefinitely the escape the rest of us hang out for in this land of the long weekend. Gamers disappear into parallel universes for hours or days on end. We can escape into exercise and the body beautiful, or self-consoling overeating, or radical political and religious causes which provide meaning and refuge within the chaos. Or we can simply avoid the daily news for the stress it induces and not venture out too much.

The point here is not to criticise the much-needed holiday, the relaxing weekend immersed in a favourite TV series or setting different priorities from those of our parents’ generation – whichever generation that was! The point is to express the suspicion that, perhaps for most in the modern world, life is lived in the mode of distraction from life. If this is true, it is because of a perceived inadequacy of the story we are presently living, or even the unliveability of that story. A few brave souls – or perhaps deluded ones – don’t experience themselves in this contradicted way. But many of us have become more adept at losing ourselves in stories rather than featuring in them.

My interest this morning is not Netflix or purveyors of other streaming services and means of comforting distraction. Rather, I’m interested in prayer as it features in today’s Gospel reading. What we think prayer might be is controlled by our response to the story we think we are living, because prayer has to do with changing our stories. If video streaming or early retirement or upgrading a spouse or drinking ourselves into oblivion is about leaving behind our present uncomfortable story, then this will affect our sense for prayer. In particular, if escape is our mode of coping, we’ve already decided that prayer cannot help us with our uncomfortable existence. Those escape artists who still pray do so as escapees. The escape is a disconnection from the whole, so that the escapee’s prayer is now not about the whole but about the individual. My inner, personal spirituality and communion with God become my escape. I’m spiritual-but-not-religious because religion is worldly, and the world is what I’m leaving behind. Prayer turns inward because that is the only place I find myself to be safe. Prayer beyond this is pointless for those who have lost hope that there is a story of the world other than that of grim newsfeeds with their wars and rumours of wars, and in which “everyone is angry about everything all the time”. At best, prayer might help my inner story by re-storying me apart from the wider world. Such prayer is now not for the world with its roar of cascading, contradictory stories but against that world.

At the end of today’s reading, Jesus asks, “…when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?”. That is, at the final setting right of all things, will there be anyone left who is praying for that setting right? Clearly, there may still be prayer, in the sense of those inward-looking prayers in the hearts of the escapees. But the faith and its praying sought by Jesus is not this. It is the faith suggested by the widow’s persistence in his parable. If her constant harassing of the lazy judge is what prayer is to be like, such prayer bears no marks of escapism. She lives her uncomfortable story as she seeks to see it changed. Her effort is not towards escape but transformation. As one of the tough, she gets going in action which models the kind of prayer which wants to change the world’s story. This kind of prayer – and action – denies the world’s brokenness from within that world. It is, then, prayer not against the world, justifying my flight, but prayer for it, necessitating my staying. This prayer does not abandon ship but can only be prayed from onboard.

This is the very ministry of Jesus. He is pushed out of the world onto the cross by us in a kind of reverse escapism; the world-as-a-whole can’t flee but it can fling just the one Jesus away. Yet, true to his deeply world-centred existence, Jesus will not be suppressed or escaped. And so he prays even from that cross – literally from on‑board, both within the world and cast out of it: “Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what to do”; they don’t know how to pray. Such prayer seeks community even out of alienating rejection. Prayer like this expresses a vision of the reconciliation of the whole world. This world so deeply divided by cynicism, contempt and fear needs a faith which will do this work of prayer – a work that can only be done from within the brokenness and not from outside.

And so this is the kind of prayer, work and life to which we are called. This is the taking up of our own cross after Jesus, with prayer that leans into the world and not away from it. It prays for the coming of God’s peaceable kingdom; that earth become heaven; for bread, grace and safety. Outside the world which is not yet its true self, but within it and sharing in its brokenness, we pray and work for the forgiveness, reconciliation and wholeness which will make all things – even us – new.

In such prayer and the active struggle for life it expressed, let us be unceasing.

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Pentecost 18
9/10/2022

Jeremiah 29:1, 4-7
Psalm 66
Luke 17:11-19

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In a sentence:
Life begins with thanksgiving

“Say ‘ta’ ” is one of the first things we teach our children: it’s nice to say thank you. And it is! As a polite social noise, saying thank you paves the way for easy exchange, even when the gratitude might not be particularly deep.

Saying thanks is central to our Gospel text this morning. But what does the thanksgiving “do”? The structure of the story might be read to suggest that the thanksgiving is the basis of the healing: “you are made well because you have given thanks”. This is not unlike what our children learn: saying “ta” increases the likelihood of getting more stuff! Yet this doesn’t match the story. Had the grateful Samaritan not returned to Jesus, Jesus might have said of all ten who cried out for healing, “Your faith made you well”, for all were healed simply at the asking. So gratitude doesn’t get us stuff, at least so far as God is concerned. But what, then, is the purpose of thanksgiving? To get deeper into this, we need to look a little into the problem of gift-giving.

Over the last few months, a number of us have been reading and discussing a book by Miroslav Volf on giving and forgiving (Free of Charge). We have seen how difficult it is to give a gift. It is easy, of course, to present someone with something, but this is rarely true gift-giving. Perhaps we give because it’s expected of us (it’s her birthday, and that’s what you do), or because someone has given us something and we feel obligated to return the favour (thereby fulfilling local righteousness). Perhaps we give to ingratiate ourselves and to receive some favour in return now or later, or perhaps we’re just clearing out our cupboards, and “giving” away our junk is a useful twofer. Real or perceived, these mixed motivations make it hard to know that our gift is truly free of compulsion and self-interest – in totality about the recipient and not about the giver herself. Our gifts tend to have value to us, the givers, and we look to see this value realised. Strangely, but probably correctly, Volf goes so far as to speculate that the only way a giver could be confident that her gift is truly free of ulterior motives is if she intends to forget having given it, and so to have no further expectation from it precisely because it is forgotten. The true gift is forgotten by the giver.

This invites a strange thought: if the gracious God gives perfectly – freely and without self-interest – we could say that God “forgets” having given. The word “forget” means – literally and concretely – to “un-grasp” something, to let it go. Forgetting releases the thing said or done. This means that, having healed the ten in the story, the gift cannot be manipulated against the recipients because God has no further interest here, which is the meaning of “forgetting”. This forgetting is not a divine “senior moment”. To say that God forgets is to say a positive thing negatively: unlike like our own gift-giving, what God gives is a true gift. We might note here that the Bible has long maintained that, in forgiving, God forgets our sin [e.g. Isaiah 43.25, Jeremiah 31.34 and Hebrews 8.12]. If we believe that God forgets the sin, we must believe that God forgets the forgiving.

This is more than just a little odd, in at least two ways. First, what could it mean that God forgets and, second, what now is thanksgiving?

First, then, how can the all-knowing God forget? In fact, the notion of an all-knowing God is itself a negative idea and no better than the notion of a forgetful God. To say that God knows all things is simply to say that God’s knowing is not like ours; if our knowledge is limited, we then say that God’s knows everything. God’s ways are not our ways. And so, if it’s the case that we prefer not to forget having given gifts because the giving might still benefit us, we are free to say that God’s giving is so different from ours that God does forget. Of course, this is a rhetorical trick, but all speech about the gods is rhetorical trickery. We are just more familiar with some Godtalk and so imagine it to be more sensible than novel trickery like a God who must forget if we are to be both healed and free. God appears as much between the words as in them. If we speak a truth about God, any strangeness in what we say has to do with what we are also denying. “God forgets” means that God’s giving is unlike our giving. And so we affirm that God forgets the gift.

What then of the second question, about thanksgiving? What could thanksgiving be if God forgets having given, and so seems to release us from the responsibility of saying “ta”? The answer is as strange as the suggestion that God might have forgotten in the first place. We give thanks in order to remind God that he has given. To give thanks is to name God as Giver, and in this naming we bring God as giver to God’s own mind, and to our own. This thanksgiving is not polite noise; it goes to the heart of our relationship to God as a relationship of giving and receiving. God forgets the gift but we must not, because it is our re‑minding God and ourselves that the creature-creator relationship is renewed.

When Jesus commends the Samaritan’s faith, then, he speaks not of the wish which cries out just in case Jesus might be able to do something to help. And faith is certainly not our ability to distort our minds to accommodate creeds which don’t yet make sense to us. Our passage suggests, rather, that our minds are already distorted – or, at least, nine minds out of ten are. “Your faith has made you well” is not about the total remission of the illness but the entry into remembrancing the gift of life as a gift. Faith sees the gift.

This is worth saying because of how rare it is. In today’s reading, the frequency is one in ten. Last week’s Gospel reading (from Sunday 26C) was even more pessimistic. After discussing how we know the truth about ourselves and God, the text concluded, “If they do not listen to Moses and the prophets, neither will they be convinced even if someone rises from the dead” (Luke 16.19-31). This is a radical scepticism about the power of a miracle to change human hearts: despite the miracle, we will still get the gift wrong. Transferring this to today’s text, the scepticism becomes, “neither will they be convinced if I cure ten sufferers of their debilitating illness.” Convinced of what? Convinced not of God’s power to heal but that this God is the one and only source of all life. Life is knowing where life is to be found. The shock of the story is that while ten survive, only one lives.

The urging in our reading today is not towards believing in healing miracles but towards believing that we could live a “eucharistic” existence, to borrow from the Greek for thankfulness. This is to experience life as grace‑d givenness. It is to become that miracle which is the creature who finds life again at its source in God, even in the midst of the chaos around us. For if, indeed, we live in a world in which nine out of ten forget to say thanks for the gift of life, it is surely a chaotic world.

Let us, then, give thanks with no mere “saying ta” but in such a way as to re‑mind ourselves by re‑minding God, for our old minds will not get us to where we need to go.

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Pentecost 17
2/10/2022

1 Timothy 6:6-10
Psalm 91
Luke 16:19-31

Sermon preached by Rev. Bruce Barber

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“If they do not listen to Moses and the prophets, neither will they be convinced even if someone rises from the dead” (Luke 16: 31)

All texts are tricky, even those that appear to be quite straightforward. Why do I say that? Because what they are about is always a solution to a problem that is inevitably concealed from us. By contrast, those who first received these texts, whether gospel or letter, were invariably aware of the issues at stake. Two thousand years later, we are not. We are hamstrung. We need to find out – what is the problem for which this text is a solution? What is the question which this text is wanting to answer? Biblical scholars for the last couple of hundred years have been able to identify these questions, which, if we let them in, should make any reading of the Bible much more interesting for everyone. It is an increasing frustration that those who put themselves outside the Church as well as many inside, are, for a variety of reasons, completely unaware of how much we now know about how these ancient texts must be heard. Otherwise, it is all too easy to quote texts out of context. Today is a case in point.

To illustrate the significance of these background matters, let me try to paint a few broad brushstrokes to help us with this text. With regard to the four gospels, Mark and John act as chronological bookends, by date Mark first, and John last. In different ways, their endeavour may be understood as being an explanation of why and how Jesus is different from John the Baptist. Then enclosed within these two bookends we have the gospels of Matthew and Luke, each writing for one of the two sorts of people who became the first Christians. These two were either Jews or Greeks. Matthew is writing for Jews who had become Christian, helping them to understand the difference between their former and now new faith. This is why for Matthew the genealogy of Jesus has to start with Abraham. Luke, on the other hand, is writing a universal history for enculturated Greeks who had become Christian, which is why he has to begin his genealogy with Adam, only to underscore in the text today why Moses is crucial. The fact is that what was mother’s milk for Jews, their Jewish scriptures, was a complete mystery to the Greeks. So, Luke has to get them first to understand, and then to take seriously what for them was an alien culture.

Which brings us finally to our text today. Luke writes to Gentiles, those who were not Jews:

“If you (Greeks) do not listen to Moses and the prophets, neither will you be convinced if someone should rise from the dead.”

The Greeks knew all about dying and rising gods, ignorant though they were of Moses and the prophets. What’s more, the Greeks were pre-occupied with how they were to get across the river Styx. That is to say, for them, earthly life is simply a prelude to what lay beyond death.  Hence, the fact that, in our text, the rich man is “buried” is noteworthy. He had come to a radical end, but was about to start a new adventure. Jews on the other hand were not so interested. For them, death is a fact of life, “going” or “being gathered to one’s fathers” and “being with Abraham” is enough. So, then, we are told that Lazarus does not need a burial, simply that “he died”.

We have to be careful not to read prejudicial assumptions into this parable. The truth is that the rich man is no blatant scoundrel. He just lives according to the then contemporary conviction – even some modern ones – considering wealth and poverty to be the gift of God. And Lazarus – nothing is said about his goodness. Indeed, if the seven deadly sins are any yard-stick, he is no saint, since the text tells us of his envy of the rich man. And for goodness sake, why not? He wants only to gather the crumbs that fell from the groaning table. Lazarus is simply one who has no human help. Certainly, he appears to be an immobile cripple – the text tells us that someone “laid” him on the road. Then we learn of the presence of dogs. Generally speaking, we like dogs, but at the time of our text they were considered unclean. So, the dogs licking Lazarus sores was no act of compassion, but simply emphasises to the first hearers how wretched is his condition. Yet, despite all this, he is given a name. He is Lazarus. He is not just any anonymous “man” like the one falling among thieves also lying on the road between Jerusalem and Jericho, seen, but avoided, by the priest and Levite.

What then is the point of it all? It is this. The terrible thing is not the wealth of the rich man, but the innocence, indeed stupidity, with which he lives his life of ease, avoiding contact with what is right before his eyes – unlike the priest and Levite in the earlier parable, he does not even look at Lazarus. We feel this callous indifference. Dives will not be the first, and certainly not the last, to turn away from presenting misery. Which gives us warrant to encounter Lazarus not merely as a solitary individual, but increasingly as a political victim of communal national and international inequality.

Two things are crucial in understanding our reading. First, the description of Lazarus’ good fortune is not to be heard as some sort of morality tale about the reversal of fortune after death. Rather, the point of the parable is to condemn the wrong done to all called Lazarus on the earth. To this end, second, the conversation between Dives, the rich man, and Abraham is the central concern. Dives asks Abraham to send Lazarus to warn his still-living, presumably equally wealthy five brothers, of their dire condition. The first hearers – the Greeks for whom Luke writes his text – would readily have seen themselves in the figure of the five brothers. And are we not also such Greeks? In which case, all of us are being told: you don’t need any warning. You already have it:

“If you do not listen to Moses and the prophets, neither will you be convinced if someone should rise from the dead.”

With these five brothers, we have that same word of scripture – and that is sufficient. We all have Moses and the prophets. Those who are unmoved by that message will not, we are told, be convinced by a miracle, even by something like a resurrection.

But then imagine this – what if our text is offering us something quite new, so breaching that apparently final absolute chasm between Dives and Lazarus?  What if – if, and when, we truly hear Moses and the prophets, we find that we ourselves are actually rising from the dead?

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Pentecost 16
25/9/2022

2 Timothy 1:1-14
Psalm 137
Luke 17:5-10

Sermon preached by Matt Julius

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God, may my words be loving and true; and may those who listen discern what is not.
Amen.

Sometimes the world shakes … our world shakes. It is, of course, different for each of us. Tragedy, loss, and disappointment always find new ways to manifest — in large and small ways.

On the 11th of March 2021 an email was sent to the pool of candidates for ordained ministry in our Synod informing them that I had resigned as one of those candidates. It was a decision I in no way regret, and yet it has led me to reconfigure my understanding of myself, and my faith, and my place in the Church. It was only in a recent conversation with a mentor that I realised how deep the work of reconfiguring my faith still has to go. With the discussion of faith and loss in our readings for today it is difficult for me to disentangle my own life and experience from these texts.

All encounters with texts, particularly those of scripture, draw us into the life of the text, and the text into our lives. Through the assumptions we bring to, our mood and state of mind, the ways the text makes us feel — or not feel — the new ideas they generate in us, the context in which they are read: we encounter ourselves in encountering the texts of scripture. And when we hear these words in a time of worship or prayer we hope, above all, that through this encounter we do not simply find ourselves, but find God.

The question posed by our Psalm is, in one sense, the perennial question posed by our encounters with scripture: how can we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land? Because we are always, in one sense, in a foreign land. We are never situated in the place where these texts were first heard.

Indeed, we scarcely know where these texts originally spoke from or to. Our Psalm speaks of the experience of the exile by Babylon — likely the clearest reference to exile in the Psalter. But the challenge of the Psalm is not to imagine ourselves among the artisans, landowners, and elites who were taken away into exile in the 6th century BCE. The challenge is to us today: how can we sing the Lord’s song in this new land?

Here, for those of us whose whakapapa — that is, heritage and history — is not rooted in this land what we hear in our Psalm is not a simple echo of ourselves, but a stark reminder of our distance from the Psalmist. We are not in exile. Indeed, we are the beneficiaries of a legacy of dispossession in this land. How then do we remain faithful to the question of the Psalmist: to sing the Lord’s song in this land?

The lesson here is what it means to remain faithful to the call of scripture. We remain faithful not by reconstructing the often-lost histories of ancient texts, as if our lives should be seen as a simple echo of lost days. Or as if the past could ever be a simple rubric applied directly to the present. Rather, we remain faithful by facing up to the kinds of questions, the kinds of challenges, that the writers of Scripture faced.

What we receive in these texts is that call: to open ourselves in honesty, naming the uncomfortable parts of our life with God, allowing ourselves to feel the frustration and disappointment that we do indeed feel. The call of scripture is, I want to suggest, to be honest before God; and not the imposition of a holy veneer, where everything is neatly filed away. The Psalmist — though not in the exact version we used today — even expresses the desire for violent vengeance against the children of their captors.

And so it is that through our honesty before God we remain faithful to God.

This is the word of grace we receive from Second Timothy. — a text we must read on face value, given the significant contest over where and from whom this text actually comes. Second Timothy reminds us that the faith and power of God is not something we must strive for, but something we receive. And we receive the gift of faith more fully when we are more fully open to receive it: more fully honest to receive it.

Faith is a gift, a spark, to be rekindled. A fire which we have received from those who love us. And, ultimately, from the one who loves us above and beyond all: God; in the fullness of life which pulsates through the world.

It is telling that Second Timothy does not settle with abstractions here. The text gets down into the dirt: naming the ones from whom faith has been received. This too is our task: honesty before God must mean giving an honest account of those from whom we have received our faith. Faith binds us together, it is something that lives in others, and then in us, like a subterranean root system feeding a network of new shoots. Like germinating life that falls from old growth and reseeds every generation.

I have to name the simple faith of my mother, the generous service of my father, my wife’s prophetic voice, my brother’s resilient heart, my many teachers — Craig not the least of them.

I confess in my current period of reconfiguration I have felt caught in these various shadows. Not quite clear how I can “make good” on what I have received from those who love me.

And yet, and yet … in traversing the distance and closeness of my relationship to scripture I am beginning to find again my closeness to God.

All of the past has conspired to gather us here. And yes we are each but a single thread in the tapestry of faith. Perhaps only able to conjure an honest word of anger, or disappointment, or loss. But there is love gathered at your back, pressing you onward. here are names of saints who have blessed you — and it is your task that their names not be lost.

Be honest before God, because God loves you. Be open to receive, because you will receive Sun and not shadow. Be patient in the sufferings of life, because the work of reconfiguration is hard and rewarding — I hope.

Hear then this good news:

Jesus has already invited you to a seat at the table. You are already included in the love that has rung throughout the world since before all ages. You are already part of the tapestry of faith which bears the burdens of others. You are already redeemed and restored. You are already the recipient of a gift: Jesus Christ who abolished death and brought life and light.

Be of good heart and do not despair. There are questions to be faced, challenges to undertake, and God to be found.

Truly.

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Pentecost 15
18/9/2022

Psalm 79
Luke 16:1-16

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In a sentence:
Even death and deepest loss are not outside the reach of God

Last week a couple of Jesus’ parables led us to reflections on being lost and found. We’ll take this a little further today, and notice that in being lost, we are not simply lost; we lose something – our bearings, in particular. We suddenly realise that the landmarks which signalled where we were are now gone, and we no longer have the clues we need to get home. Our next steps now lack confidence because we have to guess which way to move, and that can just make things worse.

At the centre of today’s reading is the crushing grief Jeremiah feels at what is happening to his “poor people”: the cry of his poor people, the hurt of his poor people, the health of his poor people, the slain of his poor people. Whereas elsewhere we hear much accusation and threat from Jeremiah, now we hear his sadness, sickness and suffering over the realisation of his preaching: the fall of Jerusalem. There is no consolation here, no premature word of hope or comfort. Whatever hope or comfort might yet be heard, the present pain is pain. In place of the prayer he has been warned not to pray for this people (7.16; 11.14; 14.11) is his grief, for he cannot but weep. And even this grief is yet incomplete; the only prayer he does intimate is for more tears: “O that my head were a spring of water” that I might cry a fountain of tears.

Most of us don’t know grief like this. We might suspect that it is felt in cities across Ukraine and in 15,000(?) lounge rooms in Russia. We are learning how colonised, dispossessed and enslaved peoples have known something of such loss, and we know something of it when we lose one we’ve loved. Less dramatically but still painfully, the experience of the church in our society today has some relationship to what Jeremiah describes, and probably even more so here at MtE. Our departure from what has been so deeply valued in this place will hurt, and all the more so in the broader context of the church’s fortunes in societies like ours. In this experience of disorientation – of even being lost – we cast around to discover how it happened. We retrace our steps, hoping to pick up the track again at the point where we strayed. If we find a way back, we plan and regulate to ensure it doesn’t happen again.

Surprisingly, this is not what Jeremiah does. He knows why the people have been lost: God has done this. With the other classical prophets, Jeremiah sees the disasters visited upon God’s people as God’s own judgement, exercised in the form of the marauding Assyrians and Babylonians. To our modern sensibilities in and out of the church, this a horrific assertion. It horrifies us partly because we are deeply impressed with the thought that God is love, which doesn’t look like love. And it horrifies us because it is dangerous to read history like this. We are tempted to imagine that what good happens to us is God’s blessing and what bad happens to others is God’s curse – that we and they “deserved” what we got. For this reason, the later apocalyptic prophets read the sufferings of history differently, now more in terms of an absence of God’s justice than its destructive presence.

But Jeremiah and the older prophets are not being primitive in their proclamation. Seeing God’s hand in the catastrophe allows that God is not dead or powerless – that the God of Israel is not subject to the god(s) of Assyria or Babylon. The God of Israel still oversees history, even as everything falls apart. It is with this careful bracketing – the thought that surely only God could stand so devastatingly against God’s people – that the prophets see God as the cause of Israel’s disaster.

Few prophets today – at least among us – dare to attribute the ongoing losses of the church in our society to God’s own action. We think this does God a favour. We take responsibility for the decline and get busy backtracking to see where we lost the way; we develop visions and strategies. Without the courage of the prophets, however, we unintentionally cut ourselves off from God. Now church decline is either all our fault – which is too hard to bear – or God is weak or dead, which becomes harder to deny. And so we have no sense of what might come next and whether it will be bearable, or whether God will even be there for us. Everything now becomes our responsibility – that we are lost, and how we might get un-lost again. Any thought of justification by grace – or being found by grace – goes out the window. The result is endless meetings to discuss what the church should be doing and, after all that, still the possibility of fear and loathing when finally we decide.

For Jeremiah, the God who destroys is the God who can rebuild. This doesn’t justify the loss or justify God. Justifying a loss involves invoking a calculus in which we must be deprived. This is the strange consolation we sometimes hear (or speak) in response to bereavement: that God “wanted” our loved ones to die, for our sake or theirs, as if death were a divine strategy. Rather, allowing what is lost to have been lost in and through God turns that loss into a call for response – a response in and to God, a response to the call to live. If Jeremiah is sure that God’s hand is at play in the disaster unfolding in Jerusalem, it is because he is confident that this is not the end; God will continue with the people even through the tragedy. There is nothing they can do for themselves but wait – wait on the God who will surely gather them back again.

Jeremiah’s flooding tears, then, are tears without fear. His is a “free” grief which feels the pain of loss but holds no fear for the future. If we fear for the future, grief can turn to anger, despair or nostalgia. Anger has its place, if it is without violence. Despair is a living death and scarcely an option for anyone who thinks anything has meaning, much less for those who utter the word “God” with any seriousness. The real temptation is nostalgia – the happy face of despair. Nostalgia imagines that it is enough for life to know where God once was. Once God loved us, but not now. Once we could point to the power of God in the masses of people, but not now. If we are believers, our nostalgia traps God in yesterday, before the tears came.

Against this, Christian discipleship is tears-without-fear. We look for not a little joy along the way, of course! But where there is sadness and loss – and there will surely be this – our tears are without fear. Even real and deep sadness need not be not despair. The Jewish-Christian vision is not tragic, and so our hopes far exceed nostalgia’s ghosts of Gods-past.

Jeremiah’s God gives, and takes away, and gives. We must live within this, for not to live here would be finally to despair in the face of death and loss. But there is the second giving – an intensifying of original gift – a forgiving which heals for life. And so we can live within sadness and loss – towards, through and out of it.

Blessed are the meek who learn this, Jesus says, though they have lost many things.

The Lord gives, and takes away, and gives again: blessed be the name of the Lord.

And blessed are those meek who find God’s life within this, for they shall inherit all things.

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Pentecost 14
11/9/2022

1 Timothy 1:12-17
Psalm 51
Luke 15:1-10

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In a sentence:
We are not defined by sin but by the love of the God who seeks us in all circumstances

One of the side-effects of the waning of God in the public imagination in these latter days is that we have seen a corresponding reduction in the number of sinners: less God, less sin!

Of course, there is still plenty of wrong-doing going on, including all the big-ticket items: disrespect, murder, adultery, theft, lying and coveting abound. Yet little of this is now commonly recognised as sin, except by the few who still know why those particular transgressions might be the “big-ticket items”. We still lament all of this, of course, except perhaps for the coveting, which is the engine of our modern economies. But, for the most part, these are all once-were-sins. Whatever the root problem in the world today is, it is not “sin”. This is because we have lost the idea of God around which the popular notion of sin was constructed. Because the God who commands and against whom we can sin is no longer a shared experience, neither can we have in common that we are sinners in any sensible way. The accusation “sinner” was once powerful. “He welcomes tax collectors and sinners”, declare Jesus’ accusers in today’s Gospel reading; that meant something to Jesus and his accusers. These days the notion of sin is thought to be at least unhelpful inside the churches and is ridiculed outside of them.

Yet, if we are not sinners, do we not still experience ourselves as “lost”? We are disoriented by a senseless war in Ukraine, sabre-rattling in the South China Sea, climate change threatening to roast most things, and the unreconciled claims for justice out of colonial history, to say nothing of those threats and problems which have been with us much longer. Besides what we can see, COVID-19 has further undermined our sense of security by revealing how vulnerable we are to things we don’t even imagine might be over the horizon. And there is a prevailing sense that “everyone is so angry about everything all of the time”.^[1] As much as we might like church to be a place of escape from all this, that doesn’t much work either. If it were just a bad dream, we might expect to wake up at some stage, but we’ve no reason to imagine anything other than that this is as good as it is going to get. Where are we as a society, as a church, as individual hearts and souls?

What I’ve described is not the lostness we see in Jesus’ parables about the sheep and the coin. What is lost now is not one sheep or coin but the whole flock and purse. The parable implies a holy huddle – 99 sheep, nine coins – waiting safe while the lost one is finally restored. The 99 and the nine left to huddle are, in the story, the righteous who know where they are. Read this way, the parables are stories of the ins and the outs – a moralistic account of how we relate to God. Here, Jesus allows that “sinner” implies the possibility of un-sinners, the “un-lost”. But, whatever Jesus allows in the rhetorical moment, the text is not finally about a moral purity from which a few have strayed. Jesus seems to be defending his interest in the “tax collectors and sinners” but his accusers are themselves are also part of his interest. There is, then, an irony at play here, which is more obvious in the parable which follows today’s reading – the story of the unrighteous “prodigal son” whose self-righteous brother shows himself to be no less mistaken about the father’s love. Both these sons are lost, the one outside and the other inside, the clearly lost and the apparently un-lost.

This lostness in and out of the fold resonates with our experience today of a shared disorientation, and indicates that our attention should not be on the one lost sheep or coin but on the shepherd and the woman who seek the lost treasure. It is these who bind together the lost and those who think they are un-lost. To move from the parables to the broader gospel, the cross and the resurrection of Jesus are the key to interpreting our sense of being lost, or not. The cross captures those who are outcast – as the crucified Jesus is himself – and those who think they are “in-cast”, who think themselves among the safe 99. The cross is a leveller – capturing the ins and the outs, the pious and the impious, the religious and the secular. The cross becomes the one thing we have in common: that all are outside, whether we know it or not – that we are all lost. Faith in the cross is not merely faith that somehow God saves us in the death of Jesus if, by this, we mean God connects us back to the nine and the 99 who didn’t need saving. Faith in the cross sees the lost one and the unlost nine and 99 in a single vision.

There are, then, no 99 safe and the one lost – or, as it might seem in the churches today, one safe and 99 lost! “Sinner” doesn’t define us; it certainly doesn’t distinguish us from one another. The accusation “sinner” isn’t heard on Jesus’ lips but on the lips of those who accuse him and others. Jesus speaks instead of “hypocrites”, meaning those who refuse to see themselves as God sees them – as lost and found. Rather than accuse, Jesus stands for the one – the shepherd, the woman in her home – who sees and holds them all together.

And so there is no “safe”, un-lost community over against the lost, no sinners over against the righteous. We gather today, in this way, not as a holy huddle or a faithful remnant. We gather not to escape but to hear again that God finds us anywhere we might be, in or out.

If I ascend to heaven, you are there [writes the psalmist]; if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there.

If I take the wings of the morning and settle at the farthest limits of the sea, even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me fast.

If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me, and the light around me become night,” even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is as bright as the day, for darkness is as light to you.

Psalm 139.8-12

A God such as this cannot know us as lost but only as found, cannot know us as sinners but as those destined for redemption.

We gather today as those lost in a lost world, to be reminded that we are sought, and to become seekers ourselves.

We gather as those dying, to be reminded of the promise of life, and to become signs of that promise.

We gather to keep hope alive – for our own sake, and so that we might become signs of hope for the world.

So, if God has found you, become yourself a seeker, a sign of promise, and a beacon of hope within a world which knows itself only as lost.

[1] https://www.smh.com.au/national/why-is-everyone-so-angry-about-everything-all-of-the-time-20220902-p5betf.html

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Pentecost 13
4/9/2022

Philemon 1-25
Psalm 139
Luke 14:25-33

Sermon preached by Rev. Dr Peter Blackwood

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What we have discovered after so many years of making long term plans is that we do certainly achieve many of our goals, but things happen over which we have no control and many of our plans go overboard in mid-stream.

I am told the new way to plan is called Scenario Planning. What will we do if this happens, or what will we do if that happens. In 2001 the Shell Oil Coy had done its planning like this. They were the only major oil company that had asked, ‘what happens if there is a war in the middle east?’ Shell was the only company that had an action plan to deal with the Gulf War.

Scenario planning requires looking ahead and asking, ‘what are we going to do if this happens or if that happens? What will the consequences be, and what will our response be?’

I think Jesus must have been into a kind of scenario planning routine. His mission was going pretty well. The Gospel writers tell us that lots of people came to hear him on his lecture tours. Sometimes he had to do outdoor gigs because his house groups got out of hand – one time some people broke up the roof to let their sick friend in for healing (rotten queue jumpers).

Jesus had lots of admirers. Jesus had done a bit of scenario thinking about what might happen if these admirers became followers. What will the consequences be for them if my unpopularity with authorities gets me killed? So we have this interesting situation where Jesus is saying to his admirers, ‘come and follow me, but make sure you have done your own scenario planning.’

You have come out today to admire what I have to say, and it is life changing stuff and you feel the urge to respond to the alter call and give your life in my service, but I am not going to be hear tomorrow. When you follow me tomorrow we are going to be 15km along the road, and two days after that we will be 30km away and who knows when we will be coming back this way.

If you follow me do you know where you will sleep tonight, or if there will be food tomorrow. And another thing, what will your family think about what you are about to do? Will they understand? You know they probably won’t. You know they had hoped you would keep the family fishing boat going. Can you live with their disappointment in you? Can you bear to hear them calling after you, ‘We thought you loved us, how can you hate your own family so much as to follow that Jesus of Nazareth?’ Have you worked out the cost of switching from admiring to following?

‘Shame’ must have been a very powerful force in the society of Jesus. We have met it a few times in recent weeks – the shame of being sent to a lower place at the table, the shame of not giving hospitality when the disciples went on their mission in the villages and town, the shame of not giving a loaf of bread to a neighbour even when he asked in the middle of the night. Here it is again. Consider the shame if you have to return home because you can’t hack the pace of following Jesus. You don’t start building a tower until you know you can pay for it. You don’t declare war unless you have worked out how you are going to win it.

You don’t follow Jesus into some kind of dream world. It is a real world – the most real of all worlds. Jesus summed it all up in terms of taking up your cross. Take up your cross and follow me. The Jesuit priest Daniel Berrigan was led away to an American federal prison for his resistance to the war in Vietnam. As he went he smiled at reporters covering the event and said, ‘If you follow Jesus, you’d better look good on wood.’ That’s the kind of scenario planning Jesus suggests. If following him turns really bad, do you look good on wood?

That is how Jesus saw it for his day. How does following Jesus look today? Can we get away with admiring Jesus and still look as if we are following? I don’t know what cross you have dragged into this church today, or what cross you left in the car park because it might look too ugly for this fine space. I don’t know what it has cost you to be a follower, what it has cost your family, what resentment you have born over the decisions you have taken because you are a follower and not just an admirer. I don’t know what crosses there are, but I know they are there.

The Christian’s cross is raised by the contrasts between values. The pain of that contrast, the point that sees us hit the wood, is when our value is in such contrast that we feel separated from those we want to be close to. Jesus so much wanted Jerusalem to see things his way, through his spectacles of faith. He wanted to gather them all under his wings like a mother hen. It was that difference that saw him killed. That was the literal cross. As we try to view life through Jesus coloured glasses the contrast with those we want to love and who we want to love us defines the point of pain, the prick of the nails.

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Pentecost 12
28/8/2022

Philippians 2:1-11
Psalm 131
Luke 14:7-11

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In a sentence:
The humble heart does not desire to go anywhere, but to create

The item at the top of the news feeds over the last couple of weeks has been former Prime Minister Morrison’s having been sworn in – secretly – as co-minister of numerous government portfolios. It’s not entirely clear why this has been deemed so important. It was, apparently, done legally, if never previously done. Apart from the welcome political leverage it has given the new Prime Minister, the principal reason we are still hearing about it is perhaps simply – as many have said – that it was a bizarre thing for Morrison to have done. Why he did it has been a matter for speculation in the absence of any good explanation from him, and the less charitable of that speculation has included the charge of a less than humble grasp for power and control.

When citizens are asked to assess their politicians, the word “humble” is not often heard, even if those close to our leaders would speak of them as persons in that way. Humility is a tough sell in a modern democracy. When Jesus said, “…all those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted”, he was not offering campaign advice to election hopefuls, particularly those running in marginal seats. We might want our leaders to be gentle and humble of heart, but this is not why we elect them.

What is Jesus saying, then? It sounds like he offers guidelines about how not to make a fool of yourself at a formal gathering by not making a higher claim for yourself than others might think is your right. In fact, he seems to imply, deliberately make a lower claim than you could, so that you might be called higher up by the host.

Of course, the lesson that it is better to be exalted than humiliated is clear enough to us, as is the common sense recognition that if you place yourself at the bottom of the table, there is nowhere to go but up. And we also generally resonate with the concept of humility, especially in contrast with pride. Very rarely do we congratulate somebody for their pride or arrogance, but we often celebrate the humble life.

But there is a problem if we hear Jesus’ teaching to link humility and exaltation such that the way to the top involves an intentional lingering around the bottom. This would be a doublemindedness; humility is now a ruse towards elevation in this life or the reward which comes at the end of life (assuming that that is where God pays out, if not already).

So knotted can this become that we will be unsure of even our own motives. We might think that the humble person is more respected than the arrogant one, which is to be interested not in humility but in the respect it would bring. We might think that humility makes us less noticeable than we might otherwise be, which is to be interested not in humility but in keeping out of the limelight. We might think that humility in possessions or attitude is better for our blood pressure, which is to be interested not in humility but in the length and quality of our life. In each case, humility is but a means to an end, and the end can even be the exact opposite of being humble means.

A clue to unravelling this tangle of God’s call and our motivation in answering it is found less in what Jesus says in this teaching than in what the church has said about Jesus himself. We’ve also heard this morning Paul’s account of the humility of Jesus:

^{Philippians 2.5} Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus,
⁶ who, though he was in the form of God,
did not regard equality with God
as something to be exploited,
⁷ but emptied himself,
taking the form of a slave,
being born in human likeness.
And being found in human form,
⁸ he humbled himself
and became obedient to the point of death—
even death on a cross.
⁹ Therefore God also highly exalted him
and gave him the name
that is above every name,
¹⁰ so that at the name of Jesus
every knee should bend,
in heaven and on earth and under the earth,
¹¹ and every tongue should confess
that Jesus Christ is Lord,
to the glory of God the Father. (NRSV)

The humility-reward scheme is still here, but it now has a clearer structure. The exaltation which follows the self-humbling of Jesus is not the end in Jesus’ sight from the beginning; the only goal for Jesus is the obedience and service itself. This is what it means to be “in the form of God”. Nothing else is glimpsed or sought. Humility is not a strategy. To have in us – as Paul proposes – the mind of Jesus, is not to know that our humility will end in exaltation but simply to know ourselves subject to the call from a faithful God: live and love, the essence of humility.

This is very easily said. And it is very easily corrupted by our adding other little bits in a way that can only be said to be self-justifying. And so true humility is rare thing – true attention to God in the need of our human neighbours, for the neighbours’ sake and not for our own. When humility happens, the effect is not that we are rewarded for our actions but a kind of renewal of the world. The exaltation which flows from the humble man or woman is an achievement previously thought impossible in and for others. The humble create what was not there before. Humility, then, is not about upward – or downward – mobility which benefits or diminishes the humble. Humility is an outwardness; this turning-out is the possibility of a renewal of the world from wherever we happen to be. The doubleminded – those who feign humility to some other end – make nothing new but are merely manipulators who move stuff around for their own benefit.

We all, Prime Ministers included, know well enough how to manipulate systems – how to look like we’re doing one thing when we’re really doing something else. We are so good at it that it’s scarcely possible for us anymore to know what truly motivates our actions. This might also apply to Prime Ministers.

But any possible lack of humility in others matters less here and now than what there might be in us of a doubleminded humility. “Am I humble enough?” is not a question about the state of my heart but about the effect of my actions: is the world today a better place – renewed – for what I have said and done? Is my spouse or child or neighbour or colleague more than they would have been, had I not been there?

Take your place at the table, Jesus says. And whether that’s where you stay, or you’re called up higher, grow into humility with hands that do not grasp but which are open to give and create.

In this way become, in your place, a surprise: the creation of something new, and open up some cracks in the old world of grasping and manipulation.

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Pentecost 11
21/8/2022

Jeremiah 1.4-10
Hebrews 12.18-29

Sermon preached by Matt Julius

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God, may my words be loving and true; and may those who listen discern what is unloving and untrue in my words. Amen.

The world ends every day.

It ends when a harried surgeon walks alone to a teary-eyed family telling them their mother didn’t make it.

It ends when a once hope-filled couple silently packs away the crib and nursery for a new life that never came home.

It ends when a phone call severs the last chance of reconciliation with an abusive father, who slipped away during the night.

It ends when abuse passes on to another child, and the trauma will have to wait one more generation to be cleared away.

The world ends every day.

Every day the world is shaken at its very core.

Over and over and over and over and over and over and over …

And our human fragility is left wandering the world as if in the wilderness. Is this the freedom from God?

Hebrews is a difficult text. I don’t really have the foggiest idea what’s going on. But part of what’s going on, clearly, is a contrast being made between the ancient story of Israel: the Jewish people freed from captivity in Egypt, and yet left wandering in the desert — and the story of Jesus Christ: who frees us from our captivity to the forces of sin and death, and yet here we find ourselves in worlds that end over, and over, and over again.

Part of what makes Hebrews such a difficult text is the seeming incompatibility between these two stories: the story of Israel, and the story of Christ.

Throughout Hebrews Jesus is spoken of as the great high priest of Heaven; and yet, if we follow the strictures of the Jewish Torah (the law) Jesus does not properly fit into the line of priests. After all, Jesus literally was not a priest, and was not from the line of priests, or even the priestly tribe.

Similarly, if we follow the story of the system of ritual sacrifice established by God in the wilderness of wandering, the sacrifice of Christ does not make sense. There is no call for human blood, nor a single sacrifice that disrupts the daily cycle of the cult in tabernacle or temple.

So it is, as is often the case, that we find ourselves at the centre of the encounter of two worlds. Today in our reading Hebrews welcomes us into the heavenly Jerusalem, into an angelical festal gathering. And yet, at the very same time, we are put on guard lest our refusal of this welcome home turn into the final shaking of the world, the final end that leads to consuming fire.

Hebrews leads us to sit in this tension. (I almost wonder if the baffling nature of this text is intentional: forcing us to really sit in the mood it evokes.)

We are in a world of sin and repeated death, which we must face up to. In this present world we remain enslaved to the constant cycle of world ending tragedy, death all around, our own failures and the failures of others … and so we are like the Israelites wandering in the wilderness, setting up altars wherever we rest for a while: constantly making amends, and beginning again, and trying in our fumbling, fragile ways to restore ourselves and our broken worlds. Over, and over, and over again.

And yet, and yet says Hebrews: “Jesus, the mediator of a new covenant … speaks a better word than the blood of Abel.” (Heb. 12.24)

We must be on guard here against readings of this text that see us replacing the promises of God to the Jewish people: simply setting aside the old ways of Torah for something new. We cannot do this, because we hear the better word of Jesus precisely and because we too learn from journeys in the wilderness. We hear the better word of Jesus only because we come lately and join the journey of God’s promise and people.

And this is the better word …

The word that is better than the blood of Abel, the crying out of the tragic death of humanity
The word that is better than all the injustice that goes unanswered in the world
The word that is better than land stained with suffering, and robbed of life
The word that is better than shaken foundations, and worlds that end daily

This is the better word:

God has answered our echoing prayer, we have called out to God from the cycle of tragedy:

“Hosanna, Save us, we pray, you beyond all!”

And God has answered this call, entering into a world that is strange and ill-fitting of the divine. God has become the human one among us, feeling the loss of betrayal, suffering the persecutions of the powerful, beaten and bruised, murdered and pierced. The whole story of humanity is gathered in this human one, this Son of Man who comes on the clouds as if from Heaven itself: this one has come and gathered in all humanity and put God where the people die.

The cycle of our human frailty that separates us from God is broken by this one, by Jesus who speaks the word that is better than the blood of Abel crying from the land. This cycle is not broken because the world has no more tragedy; and we cannot accept the welcome into God’s presence without acknowledging that the foundations of worlds continue to shake. The promise of Christ’s presence breaks the cycle of our abandonment in the wilderness, because the living God has now entered fully into our journey.

The fullness of God has reached out and grasped
The fullness of God embraces us with love
The fullness of God has called us holy, and is making us holy

You are holy and loved by God
You are holy and loved by God

In the midst of all failure, all tragedy, all injustice:

You are holy and loved by God.

We have not come to a reconciled world that can be touched, we are not led by a pillar of blazing fire through our wilderness, and the tempest and the trumpet and the voice of God do not regularly sound aloud in our Assemblies …

And yet we are holy and loved by God, called to the deeper, invisible world which can no longer shake. Though the world ends over and repeatedly, we live for the world in which justice and mercy kiss.

The world in which the cry of the blood from the land — the cry of First Peoples — no longer has to call out, because justice is done.
The world in which all who were told their love made them unholy are told that they are holy and beloved.
The world in which the land sustains life, and the life of the land is sustained.
The world in which the pioneer and perfecter of peace causes all war to cease.

We live for the world beyond tragedy … the world through tragedy. The world without end. For this is the journey with God. Amen.