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Baptism of Jesus
7/1/2024

Acts 19:1-7
Mark 1:4-12

Sermon preached by Rev. Rob Gotch

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It’s a challenge for those living in 21^st century Australia to grasp the impact of Mark’s Gospel upon its original audience. It’s been suggested that Mark’s original audience was a Christian community in Rome during the middle decades of the first century of the common era. One of the most prominent events in that period was a Jewish rebellion against the Roman occupation of Jerusalem, with Rome responding by destroying the Jewish Temple in 70CE. This historical setting is the context in which Mark writes an innovative piece of literature, probably sent as a letter, to clarify the significance of a man who’d been crucified a few decades before. In his opening words, Mark recalls how this man, Jesus, had travelled from Nazareth to be baptized in the river Jordan. Mark describes is thus: ‘And just as Jesus was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him. And a voice came from heaven, You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.’

Any Jews in Mark’s original audience would be astounded by this, surely recalling the pleading words of the prophet in Isaiah 64: ‘O that you would tear open the heavens and come down.’ Mark declares that Isaiah’s plea has been answered in the most extraordinary way, not as God arrives at the head of a heavenly army to vanquish the foes of his people, but rather as Jesus is baptized by John and driven into the wilderness by the Holy Spirit. Mark stresses the sense in which the baptism of Jesus is a commissioning for his vocation of self-giving love and service. This is what baptism means for Jesus, and it sets the pattern for those who follow him.

The church declares Holy Communion and Baptism to be sacraments, because they proclaim the grace and truth of Jesus Christ, in the power of the Holy Spirit. The Uniting Church Basis of Union says this about the sacraments: ‘The Uniting Church acknowledges that Christ has commanded his Church to proclaim the Gospel both in words and in the two visible acts of Baptism and the Lord’s Supper. Christ himself acts in and through everything that the Church does in obedience to his commandment: it is Christ who by the gift of the Spirit confers the forgiveness, the fellowship, the new life and the freedom which the proclamation and actions promise; and it is Christ who awakens, purifies and advances in people the faith and hope in which alone such benefits can be accepted.’ (BoU, para 6)

And the Basis of Union provides the following commentary about baptism: ‘The Uniting Church acknowledges that Christ incorporates people into his body by Baptism. In this way he enables them to participate in his own baptism, which was accomplished once on behalf of all in his death and burial, and which was made available to all when, risen and ascended, he poured out the Holy Spirit at Pentecost. Baptism into Christ’s body initiates people into Christ’s life and mission in the world, so that they are united in one fellowship of love, service, suffering and joy, in one family of the Father of all in heaven and earth, and in the power of the one Spirit.’ (BoU, para 7)

Note the description of who is active in baptism: it is Christ who incorporates people into his body, enabling them through the gift of the Holy Spirit to participate in his death and resurrection. And note the purpose of baptism: it initiates people into Christ’s life and mission in the world, so that they are united in one fellowship of love, service, suffering and joy, in one family of the Father of all in heaven and earth, and in the power of the one Spirit. This is why the Ephesian disciples, mentioned in Acts 19, are baptised in the name of the Lord Jesus and receive the gift of the Holy Spirit. They’d received the baptism of John as a sign of their desire to turn to God, but they’d not yet been commissioned for the ministry of Jesus Christ. They’d not yet been identified with Christ by being buried with him and raised with him.

In the same way, baptism commissions us to love and serve God through the power of the same Spirit. Martin Luther, the 16th century church reformer, once said that there’s no greater comfort than baptism. In the midst of his own experience of affliction and anxiety, he comforted himself by repeating, ‘I am baptized! I am baptized!’, a mantra that affirmed his belonging to God through Jesus Christ. Note that Luther does not say, I was baptised, but I am baptised. Baptism is not merely something that happened to us in the past, often when we were so young that we can’t even remember it. Baptism is a present reality in the here and now that is saturated with divine presence and power.

Our formation as disciples of Jesus Christ is no genetic certainty or accident of birth, but rather depends on the practice of a particular identity that both signifies and conveys the favour of God. Consider how our relationships form identity. When we make an introduction, it’s common to say, this is my spouse, or this is my child, or this is my friend. It’s interesting that the structure of these words implies possession or ownership. Linguistically, to say that a person is my spouse, or my child, or my friend does seem to suggest that I own them, because the word ‘my’ is derived from the word ‘mine’, which implies possession. But, of course, that’s not what is intended. What I mean when I call a person my spouse, or my child, or my friend is that I share with each of them a particular relationship. My spouse and I share in the intimacy of marriage, my child and I share in a familial relationship, and my friend and I share in mutual affection and interests. In each relationship, there’s a sense of reciprocity – I am my spouse’s husband, my child’s father, and my friend’s friend. I belong to them, just as they belong to me, and this mutual belonging both creates and affirms our identity.

We share more with Mark’s original audience than we might imagine, for we too seek to belong to Christ crucified and risen. In our world, imperial power takes various forms: Presidents of some nations are elected for life, and others secure tenure by silencing or eliminating opposition;

• Naked military aggression is dressed up in nationalist propaganda to defend against fictitious foes;
• Innocent, defenceless, non-combatants are killed by those who claim that existential threats justify collateral damage;
• Populist governments appeal to the basest of human instincts and fears, propping of their power on the back of empty promises to wreak havoc on justice and peace;
• Wealthy individuals and corporations determined to minimize and evade fair and responsible taxation;
• Our fragile planet’s resources plundered and its species depleted.

In the midst of unaccountable power that threatens human flourishing, we can read Mark’s Gospel just as his original audience did – as those who hold to a strange hope in a man who travelled from Nazareth to be baptized in the river Jordan and immersed into the mission of God’s love. Jesus invites us to belong to him and to derive from him a baptismal identity that speaks to us of God’s favour: ‘You are my beloved child. With you, I am well pleased.’ To the God of all grace, who has called us to eternal glory in Christ, be the dominion forever and ever. Amen.

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Christmas 1
31/12/2023

Ecclesiastes 3:1-13
Psalm 8
Revelation 21:1-6a

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There is a time for every matter under heaven – a time to be born and a time to die; a time to plant, to pluck up, to kill, to heal, to seek, to lose, a time to love, and a time to hate. These things – and many others – fill our time. The old philosopher who wrote Ecclesiastes got this right at least to the extent that he sought simply to describe the kinds of things which go on in the world.

But there is more at stake in our time than a simple inventory of what happens, as if that would give “permission” for all we do and experience. Our lives are not merely a matter of washes over us. We are agents in history – we decide and act. It is we who build and plant, kill and heal. But Ecclesiastes describes what we do, and gives us no direction as to precisely what time it now is. Is this the time for killing or for healing? Perhaps the answer seems obvious – to us here, at least. But a different answer is equally obvious to others in different times and places, whose sense for the time fills our news reports daily with accounts of actions taken according to different seasons and calendars.

While Ecclesiastes’ philosopher can tell us what we do, he cannot tell us what to do. For this, we appeal directly to God: God, show us the way. It’s not usually as explicit as this, nor even clearly religious. But every invasion and persecution, every bomb and expulsion, as much as every act of grace and mercy, appeals to the necessity, the timeliness, the divine (or ultimate) requirement that now we kill or heal, keep silent or speak, weep or laugh. We seek assurance or assure others that our actions are just and, so, that they are timely: now is the time for this to happen.

Our lives, then, are not merely subject to the many things happening around us. These events, and our responses to them, are claims and counterclaims to justice and rightness. Our enemies believe that they are right in their enmity, as we think we’re right in opposing them. If there were a God, God would see things their (and our) way.

How then do we tell what time it is? What can reconcile our conflicting discernments of the times? How do we know what to do?

A hint of an answer is given in today’s reading from Revelation. The city of Jerusalem – a work of human hands – descends now from heaven as a new city. It is crucial, however, that it is recognisable as the old city with its deep history of conflicting time-tellings, its persecutions and injustices and misjudgements. It is indeed healed, but the recognisability is crucial because it means all that history of Jerusalem’s errors of judgement about the time do not finally determine how things end.

It’s almost as if God does not bother to tell the time, but rather simply presumes that now is his own time: the time in which all things are claimed for God’s purposes and not for any of our conflicting intentions and cross-purposed calendars. We mark just this each week when we gather around the table and declare that our failure to receive the kingdom of God has become God’s means of calling us again to become that kingdom, as the body of Jesus broken by us is said to be broken for us. Jesus was broken because he seemed to us untimely, out of season, but the Eucharist is God’s own telling of the time: your times, your healing and killings, mournings and laughter, made my own.

What does this mean for us, on the cusp of another new year, according to our calendar time? It means that we are free to read the times as best we can, to argue about them, to persuade, to invite, to act, to warn and to correct as best we can. It means that we are free to risk telling the time and to act according to what the season seems to require, to test what it means here and now to act justly, to love mercy and to walk humbly. It means that where, in the old year, we might have gotten the times wrong, the new year begins with grace and forgiveness.

We look forward to the year to come not with confidence that we know now what to do, what time it is, but in the hope that we will find it again to be God’s own time, in which our time is continually made new

Lift up your hearts then, and give your thanks and praise to the God who comes to be the time of our lives.

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Christmas Day
25/12/2023

Titus 3:4-7
Luke 2:1-7

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Distracted
What we pay attention to matters so much in economic terms today that commentators speak of our now inhabiting an “attention economy”. We experience this in all its social, commercial and political dimensions through the notifications on our phones, the clamouring of influencers, and increasingly in-your-face advertising.

With this competition for our attention comes the corresponding experience of distraction. When something vibrates or “tings” nearby, we are distracted from whatever we are doing. If the distraction is well-designed, the interruption grips our attention. This is how we might be sucked into a vortex of binge-watching something into the wee hours, or have a study session cut into confetti-sized bits by group chatter, or find ourselves with a hefty fine because1 we’ve tried to answer a text while driving. So pervasive is this experience that some have suggested that indistractability is the most impressive superpower of the present age.

But what does it say about us that we are so distractable? Distraction works as a commercial and political method because there are “buttons” in us which can be pushed by noises or flashing lights which will cause us to look up from whatever we are doing. These buttons are being pushed, of course, because our responses translate into dollars or votes for the button pushers.

Incomplete
But my immediate interest is that we respond, because our response tells us something about the tension between the real, tangible value of what we might already be doing and our sense of the possible value of what the distraction promises. What’s common to these kinds of distractions is the positive possibility of an “addition” to ourselves, and the corresponding negative experience of incompleteness.

This is perhaps most obvious when counting the number of online friends, followers, views, votes, shares, or re-tweets: more is more, and more matters because it is “less incomplete”. But it’s much the same with other distractions: the distraction of the latest version of our now superseded thing or of the novel “experience” we might have the money to buy. The possibility of the new thing distracts us because we imagine we are not yet complete. Where I am now, what I am doing now, what I am – these don’t seem to be enough. I am not yet enough; there must be more, and it’s not here but perhaps it’s there – in the next notification, in a different life partner, a new job, or when I finally retire

Christmas and completeness
So, what has all this got to do with Christmas? Christmas is about completeness in the midst of, and in the very form of, incompleteness.

“…And [Mary] gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger…”

Luke’s Christmas narrative is filled with signs of incompleteness. It speaks of the displacement of the holy family by the will of empire, of their marginalisation despite Mary’s condition, and of the humiliation of being laid in a manger. There is not a lot of fullness in the circumstances of the birth of Jesus.

But born, wrapped securely, and laid down safely, the child is complete. Of course – as with most children – there are many things he will do and say, many things he will enjoy and suffer. But none of that will exceed the completeness he is in himself: he is already all he needs to be. The Christmas story is about a completeness in the midst of poverty and powerlessness – a wholeness despite want and need, the utter absence of the need for distraction.

We don’t believe this, of course, which is why Christmas is often the opposite for us: a season of not enough, a season of incompleteness. And so we can be driven to distraction by the Christmas imperative to provide for the accumulation of more: more stuff for people who don’t really need it, more money to pay for the stuff, more work to earn the money to pay for the stuff, and so on. This kind of incompleteness is not merely a condition but a process, a way of life.

By contrast, there is a completeness in the Christ child to which nothing needs to be added. Yet this is not sentimental gooeyness at the image of a newborn. And neither is it a nostalgic harking back to a lost era when things were simpler. These are both themselves distractions. Sentimentality distracts us from the whole truth by telling only what might be appealing, and so sees only the cradle and not the cross. Nostalgia distracts by denying a fundamental truth of history – that though our circumstances may change significantly, we ourselves do not. And so, nostalgia imagines that the story from the cradle to the cross is not really our story.

But that first Christmas was the beginning of a story of wholeness in full awareness of our deprivation, a vision of completeness despite absence. We could moralise this by saying that Jesus remained true despite his lowly beginning, the opposition to his ministry and the final injustice of his crucifixion. This is worth saying, but it also reduces Jesus to a mere hero. The problem is that we don’t need heroes to do it for us; we need to be able ourselves to live complete lives in the midst of incompleteness. We need to be able to live lives which are not constantly haunted by the suspicion that there’s a better life, a better option, just behind the next glittering, ringing, distracting thing. Because there really isn’t.

Being enough
If Jesus does remain true from the cradle to the crucifixion, it is not by mere moral courage. It is by the conviction that he is complete wherever he is, whatever he is doing, whatever is happening to him. That is, Jesus knows his life to be a point at which God reigns in the world. It is this presence of God in what he does and experiences which is Jesus’ completeness. And this is despite appearances. God reigns in the child in the manger, in the sweaty teacher on the dusty streets, in the argumentative troublemaker and in the despised figure on the cross.

To get Christmas right is not to reduce it to a small part of our incomplete lives but to see it as being about everything in one thing: the whole of God and ourselves in just one small child and what he was to become, and perhaps also in us.

The reign of God – the gift of God’s self to the world, to our very selves – is not a distraction from what we are doing. It is the revaluation of what we are. You are not the sum of everything you have done, if this means there would be more of you if you did more, experienced more, viewed more, or sampled more. With the God of the cradle and the cross, you are enough before you begin doing or experiencing anything.

We lose this somewhere along the way, strangely becoming less as we do and own and experience more. The child in the manger will one day propose that unless we become again as children, we cannot be whole, cannot know God’s kingdom, cannot know that time and space in which whatever belongs to us, we belong to God (Matthew 18.2-5).

Indistractability is about this gift of completeness – trusting that even though there are many things we can do and we can add to ourselves, it is enough that we have been born, and swaddled, and laid in the manger of the world.

Because with this God, You. Are. Enough, however incomplete you think you are, however tempting it is to want to be more.

Rest, then, under the loving gaze of God, as did Jesus once under Mary’s eyes of love, and know yourselves to be complete.

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Advent 3
17/12/2023

John 1:6-8, 23, 26b-28
Psalm 126
Luke 1:39-55

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In the season of Advent, our Scripture readings do strange things with time. We are called to remember something which is yet to occur while, at the same time, called to prepare for the arrival of one who, common sense would say, has been and gone. The same kind of time-twisting is heard today in Mary’s song of praise:

⁵¹ [God] has shown strength with his arm;
he has scattered the proud…⁵² He has brought down the powerful …
[he has] lifted up the lowly;
⁵³ he has filled the hungry with good things,
and sent the rich away empty.

Whatever we might think about where we are in the midst of these powerful and lowly, hungry and rich, the claim is unambiguous: God has worked with power to change the order of things in the world. Yet, this doesn’t ring true. From time to time, we might see the lowly lifted up and the haughty brought down but, for the most part, things don’t seem to be going the way Mary’s song would imply on a plain reading; the assertion that God “has” done such things is not convincing.

But the issue is not only that we don’t see this kind of change in the time between Mary’s song and now. The thing about her song is that nothing could have happened yet – at the very time she sings – if she is singing the gospel – singing what God has done in Jesus. Jesus is not yet born, but she still sings,

[God] has shown strength …; he has scattered … He has brought down… [he has] lifted up… he has filled… and sent away…

It is odd that Mary should speak in this way.

The key to understanding this strange speech is to see that there is no “history” here, in the ordinary sense. So far as Christian confession is concerned, there is little interest in the order or timing of revelation but only in what is revealed. And what is revealed about God’s work for the poor and the hungry? The only sense in which faith can say unequivocally that God has shown strength to lift up and fill the weak and poor is in relation to the resurrection of the crucified Jesus. He is the powerless and lowly one filled and lifted by God.

But consider what this now means! Mary does not sing the praises of the God who has lifted her up, as some readings of this text run. Or, at least, this is a secondary sense of her song. Rather, Mary praises the God who raised her son, the crucified Jesus of Nazareth. And here we see the Bible’s strange sense of God in time: Mary praises God for having done something that has not yet happened at this moment in the story.

This is bad history by most standards, but is in fact good biblical theology. Not unreasonably, we typically read history from start to finish, as if it were simply the unfolding of events from beginning to end. The very way in which we read a book – including the Bible! – reinforces this. Yet the Scriptures read, or tell, from end to beginning. The “end” is some experience of God, a salvation of some sort: an exodus, a healing, a restoration or a resurrection. This new thing is of such proportion that the beginning cannot be merely the first thing which happened on the way toward the present experience. The beginning is what must have been the case for us to have experienced the salvation we have.

And so, when it comes to what Mary sings, the important thing is not that she did say this – for it would make very little sense if she did. Instead, for Luke himself, bursting to speak of the work of God in Jesus, there would have been nothing else Mary could have said: the prelude must anticipate the climactic finale. If, in view of the resurrection, we imagine that Mary might have sung a song of praise to God at the news of her pregnancy, it would have to have been a prophetic song, because of what was going to come of her child. The song would point to the end which is Luke’s real purpose in telling the story: God’s work in Jesus. Why does Mary sing? Because of what God has done. And what has God done? God has raised the crucified Jesus from death. All of this then, and most strangely, makes the singing Mary the New Testament’s first believer in the resurrection.

Once again, we acknowledge that this makes no sense: it hasn’t happened yet, when Mary sings. But all belief in the power of God is like this: all confidence in the power of God is the bringing into the present some promised but unrealised future as if it had already happened. All belief is a living out of what God has done before it has been done, a living towards what we expect God to do.

Faith is a lived-out vision of the future. Faith says, That is how things will be in the end, so this is how I will be now: live with others now, speak of God now. The real question in faith, then, is simply the vision: how will all of this end? What will we say God has done in our story when it comes to being able to tell it in as finally completed?

To see what is at stake in this way is to see also that faith is not merely a “religious” question. Any life – whether it knows God, is still seeking God or is altogether indifferent to God – is the backward projection of some expected future, some time of completion, some sense of what it is all about. Every conscious action (and most of our unconscious ones) speaks of our sense of where we are headed, of what will finally be declared about the proper order of things. When Mary sings that God has done this, she declares her place in the world and the world’s place in God, despite every contradictory appearance. My soul magnifies the Lord, Mary sings, because God “has” magnified Jesus and will magnify me.

And, to the extent that she not only says this but lives it, she begins to appear, a glimmer of God’s intention for her. And God begins also to become clearer, a glimmer of Mary’s own future.

This is Advent faith: no mere wish that things were different, but a life lived differently because we have caught a fleeting glimpse of the possibility of a new order in which is set right all we know is wrong within us.

Let us live, then, as if what will finally matter has already happened and we are its reflection: an image of the God who is justice, mercy and peace.

Advent 2B
10/12/2023

Isaiah 40.1-11

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AUDIO ONLY: HERE

Advent 1B
3/12/2023

Isaiah 64.1-9

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AUDIO ONLY: HERE

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Reign of Christ
26/11/2023

Psalm 95
Matthew 25:31-46

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It is easy to turn love into a means to an end – a means to getting what we want, a means of keeping the peace, a means of impressing God. The love of the gospel, however, is pointless.

Today’s semi-parable of the coming of the Son of Man in judgement is familiar to most of us. Through this story, we have learned to see the need of Jesus himself in the needs of the hungry, the thirsty, the naked, the sick, those imprisoned. This lesson comes at the climax of Jesus’ teaching in Matthew’s gospel, which makes the point all the more point‑y. Let us hear the call to love again today.

I want, however, to draw attention to something about the parable which is less obvious simply because the moral lesson is so obvious: those who are commended for doing good did that good in ignorance that the needy they served were, in some sense, “Jesus”. In this, the blessèd “sheep” of the parable are different from us because we have heard the parable. This creates for us a motivation alien to the blessèd ones in the story.

This can distort our sense for what we are called to do and to be. Most simply, the problem is this: to love others because they are, in a sense, Jesus, is not to love them because they are themselves worthy of love; it is to love something other than what we think they manifestly are. In this way, we try to perfume the stink of needy humanity – of each other in our various needs, of the overwhelming need of the poor, the angry, the sick, the ruthless. While the “lovers” of the parable love and serve those in need simply because they are in need, our knowledge of the parable tempts us to “add” something to those we are to love. We are tempted to read the parable as wanting to make others more lovable. Why help the needy? Because it is really Jesus we serve, and surely we want to serve him, if not these bothersome or contemptible people themselves.

The problem is that to make something “more loveable” is to turn it into a means to an end. It is to turn it more into what I need. So far as our reading of the parable is concerned, the “end” here might be our own salvation: seeing Jesus in others makes us more likely to serve them in their need, putting us in a better light before God.

But people are not means to ends. People are, properly, an end in themselves. We might risk saying that this is the basis of divine law, and that violations of the law are instances of people – or God – being made a means to an end. What are idolatry, blasphemy, murder, adultery and theft other than strategies to get to something other than God or the violated person? What is indiscriminate shooting or bombing of an enemy but a means to an end beyond those killed? What is political misinformation or pornography but a means to an end other than those misled or abused?

This kind of relating to God and to others is certainly a live option for us. But we are to deal with each other without manipulation, for this is how God deals with us, first of all in the person of Jesus. The life of Jesus himself was no means to an end. If he was truly human, his purpose was none other than to live a life of love, for that is our purpose, however badly we might sometimes manage it. Atonement theories which propose that the life of Jesus was strategic, that he “had” to die for a reason different from the rest of us, diminish the freedom of God and diminish Jesus’ own humanity. They reduce God’s freedom by imagining God’s hands to be tied by some economy of salvation, such that God “has to” do something to achieve salvation. And such theories diminish Jesus’ humanity by turning his life into a means to an end other than his own self – his own liveliness, his own enjoyment of God and neighbour. Jesus here is a coin God spends not for Jesus’ sake but for ours.

In the same way, to love God is not a means to an end. Again, we look to Jesus here. Jesus does not love God so that he might live a charmed life, in order to secure life after death, or for another other end we might imagine God might facilitate. Living in God, living for those around us, is the end – the purpose – of it all. This is what we are for, this is enough.

We could, then, overstate the matter – although only slightly – by  saying that love has no “point”, no purpose, other than the life together of the lovers. As we read it now, the difference between the sheep and the goats in the parable is the difference between the beloved as an end in herself and the beloved as a means to an end which finally leaves her behind.

And this brings us to the end – the dead end – of all love which has is aimed at anything other than the beloved. Love which is manipulative, which does not love the person him- or herself, finally renders us alone. Here we would surpass the beloved, stepping on or over or through him to something else, some vision of what we should be or have. But this would be lonely life. In this we would leave the one who thought herself loved behind. And God is not there, either; for God loves persons, not other ends achieved through persons. This is the eternal punishment of the parable: life alone.

As archaic as the language is, the church speaks of Jesus as king not because this is a quality which resides in Jesus for himself, but because his is an active reign which does what it commands: loves without ends, that our love might be without end. We gather around a table at which is served symbols we call “body” and “blood” because they are the signs of a life manipulated, a life turned into a means to some end, and so discarded and left behind. To what end does God say that these signs can heal? To no end but us ourselves. Love makes us here, again, and that is all. God’s desire for us draws us together, love opening up the possibility of love. There is no further purpose than being made in love, and then beginning to love, and seeing what happens next.

Being, then, drawn together in this way, let us love without ends, without purpose, without ulterior motive, be this in the case of the fellowship of the community gathered here today, the work of Hotham Mission, your love for your parents or children or spouse or neighbours or colleagues or some unhappy soul sitting out his day on the footpath.

In this way we not only love Jesus as the parable proposes, but love like Jesus does.

What else does the world need now but love, such love?

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Pentecost 25
19/11/2023

Zephaniah 1:7-16
1 Thessalonians 5:1-11
Matthew 25:14-30

Sermon preached by Rev. Dr Peter Blackwood

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How are we to do God’s will when God’s voice is so tiny. Elijah found this to be true. He expected to hear God in storms and earthquakes and cataclysmic events – stuff accompanied by big noises. Afterall, if God is so big it follows that God has a big voice. Not so, says Elijah. God speaks in sheer silence. No wonder I can’t hear what God is saying. That, at least, is the complaint implicit in the one talent servant who buried what was entrusted to him and returned it to the master on his return. He complained that he knew what kind of man his master was and what he would expect and out of fear he kept the talent safe, buried in the ground.

This calls for a little bible study. There are a few things to say about the parable that could be helpful. There is another version of the story in Luke. Luke’s version has quite a different feel but in this version one notable difference from the one in Matthew is that the master gives instruction as to what the servants are to do with the money. He said, ‘Do business with these until I come back.’ (Luke 19:13) The third servant wrapped the money in a cloth to return it but the master admonished him for not even putting it in the bank where he could have earned some interest.

The Matthew version of the story is the third in a series of parables that follow a theme. They are about waiting. There is the unfaithful slave who is behaving badly when the master returns. There are the foolish virgins who had run out of lamp oil when the bridegroom arrived. Then comes the absent master who returns to assess the management of his property entrusted to three servants.

Parables can be tricky. Sometimes we can see them as metaphors that depict what God is like. It seems reasonable to let the good Samaritan remind us of Jesus. It seems reasonable to do the same with parable of the lost sheep. Indeed, in iconography, the shepherd who finds the lost sheep is usually depicted as Jesus.

There is a temptation to make these connections in all Jesus parables but if we did that we would be considering divine attributes that belong better with inhabitants of Mount Olympus. The masters and the bridegroom in the three waiting parables are unreasonable and vengeful, not the loving and gracious God we have come to expect.

How interesting that Jesus told stories with main characters who shape the outcome of events in these parables who have values and personalities devoid of what we might expect to be divine attributes. How interesting that gospel writers reported these stories and expected their readers to derive lessons in them for being more faithful in their following Jesus. How perplexing that so many of these stories with characters who have just mist the point rather than being outrageously bad, who look like they have been treated unfairly, how come they are the ones that end up gnashing their teeth.

Remember, Matthew is the one who reports Jesus’ words, “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.  For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” (Matthew 11:28-30)

Some chapters later Matthew tells of someone who asked, “Teacher, what good deed must I do to have eternal life?” (Matthew 19:16) The two of the waiting parables in chapter 25 look like part of the answer to this except that the actual doing part is not spelled out, much to the misfortune of the foolish virgins and the servant entrusted with one talent.

Now, we who have sat under the scriptures and sound preaching all our lives Sunday by Sunday are fully aware that the juxtaposition vis a vis us and eternal life is not dependant on our doing but on what God has already done through Christ. The baptised are in Christ living in a sure and certain hope of eternal life.

What we must do is not our path to eternal life. Christ has already trod that path. Whatever we might do is in response to the gift of life. There is doing to be done. There is the leading of God to be heard and obeyed. Problem, the voice of God is very tiny. But, thanks be to God, the returning master who admonished the one talent servant for treating what had been given him as if it were dead by burying it gives a clue as to how to get round the apparent silence of God.

Indeed he taught him with his own words. As he flicked mud from the exhumed talent offered him by the lazy servant he said, “You knew, did you, that I reap where I did not sow, and gather where I did not scatter?” (Matthew 25:26) There it is. The absent master did not need to leave spoken instruction because those who had lived with him knew him and his expectations. Knowing the master informs the doing of obedient servants.

Matthew and his church knew the lazy servant’s dilemma. Jesus was no longer with them in the flesh as he been before his death. He was not with them to teach and instruct and provide a living example of doing that befits eternal life. They were living in the waiting time of the absent Lord.

Followers of Jesus are entrusted with bearing witness to what God has done and is doing in Christ. Bearing that witness, doing what is expected calls for listening to a master who is present in the Spirit, but that kind of presence looks a lot like absence. So how can the faithful followers know what to do? Part of the answer is revealed in the parable of the talents. Those who know the master know what is expected. Knowing Jesus makes God audible. Knowing Jesus makes sense of the sheer silence of the voice of God.

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Pentecost 24
12/11/2023

Joshua 24:1-3a, 14-25

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Only a god like the God of the crucified Christ can resolve the tension many of us experience as beneficiaries of a violent colonial history.

Only a god like the God of the crucified Christ can make a gospel Yes out of the violent No of history’s tragedies, including colonialism.

This is because the violence of colonisation is the violence of the crucifixion. And if the substance of salvation can wear the form of the cross, the healing yet to come can wear the vestments of colonial history.

The burden of my sermon today is how this might be so…

The colonising God
Consider the terrifying words of Joshua to the Israelites: “…the Lord drove out before us all the peoples, the Amorites who lived in the land.”

Did God do this? Did the “God of love” command and enable the violent displacement of the Amorites (among others) in favour of the Israelites? The moral answer required by modern sensibility is a resounding No, God did not.

But it’s not that easy, if the Scriptures matter for our sense of God.

It’s not that easy because the “gift” of this land in fulfilment of the promise to Abraham is central to the Old Testament’s confession of the faithfulness of God. From Abraham through the Exodus to the occupation, in the prophets and then in the Exile, and again in the post-exilic Restoration, possession of this land is a central measure of God – a proof of God’s faithfulness. And, of course, in the New Testament, St Paul makes not a little(!!!) of Abraham’s trust in the promise of God with respect to descendants and the deliverance of Canaan.

This matters to us here and now, of course, because as for the Israelites so for us: our land, too, is bloody. And so we find ourselves seemingly in need of these texts because they sign God’s faithfulness, while also being fully aware of the moral problem: everything non-indigenous Australians have is had at enormous cost to the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Island peoples. While we wonder about the possibility of doing theology “on” stolen land, the scriptural text theologises the stealing: God did this.

Death as method
We can make the problem more concrete by asking, Does God kill for God’s own purposes? Is death a method for God, a means to divine ends?

This opens the question up to include now the crucifixion of Jesus – the colonisation of a single body. The cross is the quintessential scriptural moment at which human and divine violence coincide. The human violence is obvious: a man is killed. The divine violence appears as an overlay on that death, with talk of ransom and sacrificial exchange hinting that God purposed Jesus to die.

But do God’s purposes require killing? Did God kill the Amorites for the sake of the Israelites or kill Jesus for everyone’s sake? No, God did not, although we can’t say this merely because we imagine that ours is a God of love. “Love” versus “not‑love” at this point simply moralises the problem, and this can’t make sense of the way the Bible circumscribes love with the language of divine violence. St John tells us that divine love is God sending “his Son to be the atoning sacrifice for our sins” (1 John 4:10). We can’t happily lean on the scriptural authority of John’s “God is love”, without accounting for his interweaving of love with death.

Death and the free God
We must indeed say that God doesn’t kill or demand killing – of Amorites, Jesus or indigenous peoples. But this isn’t merely because God is love; God doesn’t kill because God doesn’t need to. Killing is method – a means to an end. We have means and methods: if this sacrifice, then that benefit – and we have found that blood can be a very effective lubricant. Because God also has purposes, it is almost irresistible to conclude that God must need means. Thus, God drives out the Amorites in order to fulfil the promise, and kills Jesus in order to save us. In this way, death now appears as a means to God’s ends.

But this over-reads the scriptural text and under-reads Christian confession. God does will and does purpose, but needs no means by which to achieve that will. More specifically, God has no need that we do a particular thing for God’s will to be fulfilled, certainly not that we kill. This is the importance of the doctrine of creation out of nothing. Creation out of nothing is about the freedom of God, such that nothing has to be in place “in order that” God can do God’s thing. God’s power to create out of nothing is the meaning of grace and the possibility of the resurrection of the dead. God is unconstrained by prior conditions. God does not kill because God doesn’t need anything to die for his purposes to be realised.

Why, then, do the Scriptures cast God as one who kills to save or to punish?

Death is not a method for God, but it is for us. We fight our way into places not ours, or fight our way out of places in which we are trapped. This is Palestine and Ukraine and our own colonial history right up to this moment, and countless other instances besides. This is the normal – even the natural – way of the political animal.

And by simply not having drowned under our history of violence, we survivors today find ourselves afloat upon a sea of blood: the blood of soldiers who died in wars we didn’t fight, of indigenes in colonisations we can’t undo, the lives of slaves on whose back we have built our lives, and so on. The human being is many things, but it is this also.

The question is whether God can work with this, whether the nothingness of human brokenness is the kind of nothingness out of which God creates.

– – – – – – –      Selah     – – – – – – –

The sinful form of forgiveness: the “happy sin”
An answer is found if we turn to the marvel – and the moral shock – of Christian confession, with its understanding of the dynamics of forgiveness.

The cross, of course, is central to this dynamic. In particular, it matters that the cross is intrinsic to a particular experience of forgiveness. An extrinsic account of forgiveness holds that the cross doesn’t need to know what sin I have committed. I might be an adulterer, a murderer or a thief, but in any case the cross is invoked as a catch-all means of reconciliation to God. An intrinsic account of forgiveness is one in which the cross is part of the sin I have committed. This means that, in its first moment, the cross saves only those who, 2000 years ago, rejected the presence of God’s kingdom in Jesus. The crucial(!) point here is that the sign of God’s blessing is cross-shaped because the crucifixion of God’s kingdom is the sin to be overcome. Put more simply, forgiveness cannot – ever – forget. Forgiveness cannot forget because to forget the sin would be to forget that I have been forgiven. And I would lose myself as a new creation.

It is this which leads us into the moral jolt of forgiveness and reconciliation: any deep experience of forgiveness looks back on the particular sin as the “cause” for the present blessing: I know the blessing of reconciliation now “because” I sinned. And so, in fear and trembling, the church has sometimes spoken of the felix culpa – the happy, lucky, blessed fault. So unlikely, so unanticipated, so impossible is the vision of God had in this experience of reconciliation, that it becomes possible to imagine that God’s hand must have been in the very fault itself – possible to see God’s hand in our sin, so that we might see God and ourselves more clearly.

This is slightly overstated, but only slightly. None of this works at the level of morality, of course, which is why Paul rejects the conclusion that we should abound in sin in order that grace might abound (Romans 6:2). The idea of a blessed fault only works on a reading of the cross as sinful human violence which God has made a blessing. It’s God’s hand, and not ours, which makes this reading possible. Just as the Psalms are our words to God made into God’s Word to us, so also is the cross a pious act against a blasphemer made into a healing revelation of our own blasphemy. In the Eucharist, the body broken “for us” is only so because it is the body broken by us. How could we have known that there is a God who works like this without the cross? Surely, the Scriptures conclude, God must have destined the Son to die for us; surely God “did” the cross.

This is the strange, and disquieting, but evangelical logic of the Scriptures, by which the light does not merely contradict the darkness but comprehends it, making the darkness its own. Our darkness is never darkness in God’s sight (Psalm 130:12).

Canaan as the cross
The Scripture’s theologising of the bloody acquisition of Canaan can’t be reconciled morally, but it can be heard through this dynamic of sin-shaped forgiveness. The sin is the violent dispossession, but the blessing is the experience – or cultural memory – of having been slaves and, impossibly, freed from slavery and, impossibly, finding our way to and settling into a new homeland. So unlikely is this to have happened that it must have been God who did it – from the Plagues, to the drowned Egyptian charioteers, to surviving the desert, to settling in green pastures beside still waters. How could it not be that the Lord drove out the Amorites before us?

But God is no killer on this reading, even if perhaps the scriptural writers probably believed she was. This reading requires, rather, that the blessing comes in spite of human violence even if in the shape of that violence. And this is dependent principally upon a reading of the cross as a sin-shaped means of grace.

God and our history, beyond morality
Now, if we find some truth in all that, what does it tell us about our own contemporary experience of colonisation – and I mean here particularly, the experience of those who have benefited from the dispossession? Is it possible that we might come to an experience of forgiveness and reconciliation which must wonder whether God’s hand was in the violent processes of the colonisation of this land, in a way comparable to what I’ve proposed for the taking of Canaan?

This is a ghastly question at a moral level, and the moral answer is No, and rightly so: God did not kill by the colonist’s hands; what happened to create modern Australia has no moral justification. Yet it did happen; death is a method for us. And we are stuck – colonisers and colonised alike. It can’t be undone because there is no proper recompense for blood in strictly moral terms. Blood stains deeply, and it can’t be washed out.

But the gospel is that the God we are dealing with here is not a moral agent in the world, and doesn’t deal with us according to our moral achievement or failure. God’s interaction with our history is not a moral matter but a matter of the nature and possibility of forgiveness, of the willingness to remember and the requirement not to forget, and of discovering ourselves as worthy of judgement but blessed nonetheless.

Whatever might be the conflicting hopes and fears of the broader Australian community, the colonially complicit church hopes in a God who will reconcile in such a way that it will seem that things had to happen as they did, horribly wrong as they were.

The church can hope this only because the violence of colonisation is the violence of the crucifixion of Jesus – our colonisation of his body.

The church can hope this only because if the substance of salvation can wear the form of our crucifixion of the Lord of glory, so it can also wear the tragedy of colonial history.

This is the gospel for the coloniser who cannot undo the colonisation.

– – – – – – –      Selah     – – – – – – –

What is missing in all that I’ve said this morning, of course, is the perspective of the Canaanite, of the crucified, of the colonised; the perspective of the Israeli woman enjoying a weekend music festival and of the Palestinian boy whose hospital collapses on top of him. I have addressed primarily the condition of the violent and their beneficiaries – those of us who have blood on our hands. Nonetheless, the victims of violence can also be addressed through the dynamic of the cross because the victim and the victimiser are two different types of nothingness, out of which God can create. It’s just that that would be another too-long, too dense sermon.

None of what I’ve said justifies violence or injustice. None of this lightens the moral demand for redress. The gospel is not a political program. My concern here is confession – confession of sin and confession of faith as to what we can expect from God. As interested as we must be in we should now do, I’m speaking here about what God will do.

If there is horror in what I’ve said, it must be not only in the possibility that colonialism might be destined to be found a blessing, but perhaps more profoundly in relation to the place of the cross itself in our account of God. A God who has a “use” for a crucifixion must surely be a terrifying God, and yet we confess just this God to be marvellous, and because of the crucifixion. God is marvellous because nothing should come back from a crucifixion, much less the crucified himself, showing us the marks cold steal leaves in flesh but speaking words of peace.

And can anything come back from colonisation or a lost referendum, or from murder or rape, or from suicide or bereavement or a terminal diagnosis? That is, can anything good come back from such brokenness and loss?

In terms of our moral measures of the world, it is an indeed an impossible thing we confess: history – all that we have done and has been done to us – is to be made the province of God, the form of God’s grace‑d presence to us, re-creation out of nothing.

– – – – – – –      Selah     – – – – – – –

Can it be?
As I struggled to bring all this to some sort of conclusion, the words of a perhaps-too-familiar hymn came to mind, which I had never quite felt in the terms I’ve outlined this morning:

…can it be that I should gain
An int’rest in the Savior’s blood?
Died He for me (!?!), who caused His pain?
For me (!?!), who Him to death pursued?

It’s a rollicking good song to sing but perhaps this verse at least is better whispered than belted out, for it indicates the shocking proposal of the gospel: that my victim will become my salvation.

Can it be that the crucified God will make a gospel Yes out of the violent No of history’s tragedies?

Whatever else the church might say in our wrestling with our history and with every other tragedy besides, we must – in fear and trembling – say that if we confess the crucified Jesus to be Lord, then we confess also that God can draw the reconciliation of all things out of the nothingness of human sin and violence.

Whatever moral good we must yet do to acknowledge the sins of the past and mitigate their continuing effect, these works will not justify us and we delude ourselves if we think we can make it good. Blood stains deeply, and can’t be washed out.

But we are a people of the gospel. To take an image from the Seer of Revelation, we confess that with the God of the crucified Christ, Blood. Washes. White.

Can any other God do this?

“…put away then the other gods that are among you,” Joshua said to the people, “and incline your hearts to the Lord.”

 

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Prayer of response

We bless you, great God,
for you have created and sustained us
and all things
for your own name’s sake,
that we might glorify and enjoy you forever.

And yet we confess that, in thought, word and deed,
we fail to bring you glory.

Forgive us when, wittingly or not,

our lives are lived at the cost of others,
and we refuse to know the need for forgiveness…

Forgive us when, mindful of our failures,

we imagine that we can make good
with this or that gesture,
and we refuse to know the cost of forgiveness…

Forgive us then, when we withhold forgiveness,

and lack generosity and mercy;
or refuse the consequences of being forgiven
and lack justice and sacrifice…

Gracious God,

you bring your people home from despair
and gave them a future of freedom and plenty.
Do not let us rest easy with injustice,

or wallow in our inability to heal ourselves,

but bring us home to justice, sharing, and compassion,
in the realm you promise all the world
This we ask in Jesus the Christ,

who became sin and salvation for us. Amen.

 

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Three related sermons:

Salvation’s sinful form (John 3:14)

https://marktheevangelist.unitingchurch.org.au/15-march-salvations-sinful-form/

The God of COVID-19 (Isaiah 53:10)

https://marktheevangelist.unitingchurch.org.au/5-april-the-god-of-covid-19/

God is a resurrecting avenger (Revelation 16)

https://marktheevangelist.unitingchurch.org.au/3-july-god-is-a-resurrecting-avenger/

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Pentecost 23
5/11/2023

Joshua 3:7-17
Psalm 107
Matthew 23:1-12

Sermon preached by Rev. Rob Gotch

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The opening chapters of the book of Joshua tell how the Israelites are finally about to cross the river Jordan and enter into the land of God’s promise.  For 40 years they’ve wandered in the wilderness, and during this time many of the people who came out of Egypt died in the desert.  Like Moses, they never crossed over Canaan’s side.  We can only guess how they might have felt, stumbling and falling on the way, hope surrendering to despair, as they realize they’re not going to make it.  And yet, if it wasn’t for those who died along the way, there would not have been a pilgrim people to make the journey, and the destination would have been irrelevant.  As the Israelites tread the verge of Jordan, the Lord says to Joshua: ‘This day I’ll begin to exalt you in the sight of all Israel, so that they may know that I’ll be with you as I was with Moses.’  It’s no coincidence that what follows recalls the crossing of the Red Sea four decades before.  While the priests bearing the ark of the covenant, the sign of God’s presence, stand in the Jordan River, the Israelites are able to cross over into the Promised Land without even wetting their feet.  The message for the Israelites is clear – as the baton of leadership is passed from Moses to Joshua, the Lord is indeed among them just as surely as when they fled Egypt.

The leadership of God’s people has always been contentious, and the Hebrew Scriptures record the various ways in which it was exercised in different eras, from patriarchs to judges to kings to prophets; from priests appointed according to the Law to self-appointed leaders in popular lay movements.  Leadership in Jesus’ day was no less contentious, as we note in his numerous conversations with the Pharisees, the scribes, the Herodians and the Sadducees.  Jesus’ frequent criticism of these leaders seems to be at odds with a comment he makes in his Sermon on the Mount in Matthew chapter 5.  After blessing the poor, the grieving, the meek, the hungry, the merciful, the pure in heart and the peacemakers, Jesus declares: ‘Unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and the Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.’  What seemed like an impossible goal for his audience is now clarified in today’s gospel passage, as Jesus says: ‘Do whatever the scribes and Pharisees teach you and follow it; but do not do as they do, for they do not practise what they teach.’  In other words, the scribes and Pharisees are not nearly as righteous as they imagine.

But this begs the question – to what righteousness may God’s people aspire?  Jesus then says: ‘The greatest among you will be your servant.  All who exalt themselves will be humbled and all who humble themselves will be exalted.’  Many years ago, a colleague suggested that the purpose of the gospel is ‘to subvert the dominant paradigm’, and Jesus blessing the poor and critiquing authority certainly seems to achieve this.  Yet, as attractive as this comment is, it’s important to understand why it’s not adequate.  The gospel of Jesus Christ isn’t an ancient version of Marxist economic theory; it is rather the story of God’s determination to reconcile and renew a broken world.  This provides the proper theological context for Jesus’ references to greatness and servanthood, to humility and exaltation.  The good news is that Jesus is talking about himself, and his own vocation as a Messiah who will humble himself on a cross in apparent resignation and defeat.  I say apparent act of resignation and defeat, because God vindicated the humility of Jesus and exalted him as Lord.

The flesh and blood of Jesus, crucified and raised, becomes – through the power of the Holy Spirit – the living body of Christ’s church, a servant community that embodies the grace of God.  We are the body of his humility, breathed into life by his Spirit, to give glory to God.  This is our vocation, purpose, and identity as church.

It’s now several months since this congregation shifted from North Melbourne into this facility.  This transition seems to have gone well, largely due to congregational goodwill, as well as careful leadership, consultation, planning and preparation.  Perhaps you feel a sense of satisfaction at this achievement.  You’ve not spent 40 years in the wilderness, but this transition does mark the end of a long journey which is now concluded.  And yet we should be cautious about any end that is not, as the Basis of Union, paragraph 3, declares, God’s end in view for the whole creation: ‘God in Christ has given to all people in the Church the Holy Spirit as a pledge and foretaste of that coming reconciliation and renewal which is the end in view for the whole creation.’

In light of contemporary political and social challenges, it can be hard to picture this coming reconciliation and renewal.  The outcome of the recent Voice referendum obscures how progress towards healing and justice for Australia’s First Nations peoples may now be achieved.  And fresh violence in the Middle East pours salt into an old wound in the heart of a region that, ironically, is historically acclaimed as holy ground.  Equally ironic is that technologies and capacities designed and intended for human flourishing and peace appear instead to resource us even more deeply towards division and violence.  The myth of human progress, so attractive during the second half of the 20th century, now seems largely forgotten or at least discredited.  How can we imagine the vision of God’s end in view for all of creation?

Only by remembering and trusting that it is God’s vision.  Like the Israelites treading the verge of Jordan, so too do we anticipate a future founded not upon human courage and design, but rather upon the call and promise of God.  Just as the first generation of Israelites departing Egypt never enter the promised land, so too does the gospel of Christ crucified and risen call us to invest in a promise that is always beyond human possession and control.  For us, the Jordan is not a place, but a person.  Jesus is our Jordan, the verge and the fullness of God’s promise to a pilgrim people.  He is the verge and the fullness we tread:  as we gather in humble adoration of the one who is great on our behalf; as we learn the peace of the gospel and practise it in the life of discipleship; as we exercise the grace of God in our relationships, especially those that are strained; as we live simply and walk lightly, distancing ourselves from the death and despair of colonialist, nationalist, and materialist aspirations.

Let us tread the verge of Jordan, with all humility, patience, and grace, seeking in faith the one who makes our anxious fears subside.  Let us trust our Lord to breathe his Spirit into his body, to meet us here and now in Word and Sacrament, our hope and our heaven.  Faithful is God who has called us and who will not fail us.  And now to the holy, blessed and glorious Trinity, three persons and one God, be all glory and praise, dominion and power, now and forever.  Amen.