Tonight, we celebrate God’s coming into this broken world. That’s it. It isn’t a complicated message or, for that matter, a very elaborate proclamation. In the person of Jesus, God took human form and dwelt among us … giving us an insight into the potential of human nature, the possibility of human nobility and the prospect of human holiness. The world was not without point and we were not without a purpose … we could transcend ourselves and experience divinity by embracing the child born in Bethlehem and imitating the life he lived. Jesus would exemplify all that we could become and offered a template for a life pleasing to God that we would also find fulfilling – emptying ourselves of ego and self-interest, we could discover our true selves, determine our calling in life and discern our ultimate goal – union with God our creator. Without the self-revealing of God, we were left with little more than speculation and guesswork about why we are here, how we might organise our interactions, and what we might achieve.
Needless to say, in a secular society which has shamelessly appropriated Christmas without any compulsion to apologise to the church for stealing its holy day in the interests of a holiday, I struggle to understand what it means when everyone at Channel 7 wishes me ‘a very happy Christmas’ or when Coles supermarkets claims to have captured the spirit of Christmas. I’ve no idea what they are talking about or hoping I might experience … because, for the Christian, Christmas is the moment to reflect not only the belief that God is present with us … but the humility with which God came to us and the insight that holiness is found in everyday things.
When, then, differentiates a Christian Christmas? Or are we, the reputed followers of Jesus, like those in our culture who see Christmas as nothing more than a time to party and exchange presents with loved ones – oblivious to the growing obesity crisis that is escalating the prevalence of diabetes and the continuing consumption of the world’s resources by a privileged and protected minority – so that having a merry Christmas is contingent on living in a world that is essentially comfortable and peaceful? But what happens to our merry Christmas if the economy falters, inflation increases and the money runs out or we are confronted by physical pain or face a significant family loss, the weather ruins our homes or livelihoods or evil strikes in the form of extremist violence? Then what? Is it possible to find comfort and peace at Christmas under those circumstances – does our faith make any difference to our outlook? Let me explore this tension with you.
The Bible readings, each in their own way, insist that it is possible to find comfort and joy … that is not fundamentally tied to the events of our life that we cannot influence or to the ebb and flow of world affairs we are powerless to change … as we celebrate Christmas. In our first reading, the prophet Isaiah announces that the people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.
Unexpectedly, he explains, a light has shined on those who are living in the shadow of death. We get the shadow of death part because we have all been confronted with darkness in our lives: accidents, illness, death, hardships, injustices and betrayal. Whatever it is, we’ve all experienced our own form of darkness and, at times, the darkness can overwhelm us and leave us without hope. We wonder whether we can continue; whether there is any point.
Perhaps we don’t really believe Isaiah’s promise of a light shining on our darkness because, from the perspective of an external observer, we don’t act like we have seen it. We either refuse to believe the promise of God to shine light on our darkness or, curiously, we act like those who have pulled down the blinds to keep the light out. In other words, we accept (or are prepared to accept) the so-called ‘realities’ of our lives and our world and say: that is the way it is. We live and we die … and try to overlook the most pressing question: why?
Isaiah proclaims: ‘For a child has been born for us, to us a son is given; authority rests upon his shoulders; and he is named Wonderful Counsellor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace’. These are the kind of titles that despots have applied to themselves throughout recorded history … but Isaiah insists the one who is coming has received them from God. They describe a child who, as an adult, will exercise divine authority to pursue divine intentions; someone who stands over time and against malevolent forces. In essence, to shine light into places of darkness – a metaphor for ignorance, uncertainty, anxiety and fear. The one who is coming, Isaiah announces, is not the possession of a chosen few who can look forward to escaping the evils of this world while the perpetrators of evil remain unchallenged and the victims of their activities persist.
Isaiah speaks of one who will right what is wrong with his world— addressing the causes and sources of hatred, rancour, abuse and intimidation – including its leading individuals and controlling institutions. The one God sends will stand against state sponsored violence, political arrogance, economic oppression and environmental destruction. The One called Mighty God and Prince of Peace will disperse the conditions that make for disharmony and despair. This is why God’s people can rejoice and celebrate – because they stand in solidarity with those the world counts as unimportant. In Isaiah’s prophecy—which are the promises of God—we are given a vision of the very heart of God and God’s vision of the future. This isn’t a God who is indifferent to our suffering and the darkness that oppresses us – a God who thinks we deserve whatever we get. This is a God who longs to end all the terrible wrongs that have corrupted his good world and who is determined to set things right – with our cooperation. If, therefore, we believe in this God and in these promises, we have the basis to experience comfort and peace at Christmas; comfort and peace that is not dependent on the circumstances of life or on world events because we have a hope for the present and expectations for the future.
500 years after Isaiah’s prophecy, a man named Luke, a non-Jewish doctor, was persuaded that Jesus of Nazareth was its fulfilment. He was convinced that in the birth of Jesus, God become human for our sake. He was told that the Lord’s messenger announced to some unremarkable shepherds: ‘I bring you good news of great joy. To you is born this day in Bethlehem a Saviour who is the Messiah, God’s anointed one, the Lord’. The birth of his child heralded the arrival of the promised one who would rescue God’s people and set them free from the darkness that oppressed them. God has returned as promised. This time, however, God’s intervention is not like the rescue of the exiled Israelites from the Egyptians in the Red Sea or as God appeared to the people at Mount Sinai in the desert. This time, God has returned as a vulnerable baby, born of an unmarried young girl of no social standing, with a finance who is without means, far away from their home and families. What is more, this child will be born in a shed.
Luke mentions a ‘manger’ (an animal feeding trough) three times. Why? Here is something we have sentimentalised so thoroughly that I suspect we’ve missed the point. The angels are telling the shepherds to verify their announcement. The unbelievable has just happened, but not as they expected, and they need to know they’ve not been misled. They are invited to engage in what we would call ‘due diligence’. It is unsurprising that the shepherds are sceptical? But they are offered some proof of the legitimacy of what they’ve been told. There are lots of babies wrapped in swaddling clothes but there is only one is lying in a feeding trough for animals. That’s your sign. Check that out. God tends to the smallest details in the midst of ordinary human history to demonstrate the veracity of the announcement to the shepherds. This is how God has chosen to shine divine light in human darkness.
In taking human form, God is telling us we matter. We bear God’s image. Further, creation matters. God is with us. Hear the words and let them resonate. God with us – God with you; God with me. This is not a God who has abandoned us or who is indifferent to the evil that has afflicted us and this world, evil that casts a dark shadow over individuals and institutions. God has come to set us free. But has this message any relevance as we prepare for 2023? Look around, read the news, surf the internet: the world, our world, is in a mess. We don’t seem to have been rescued from anything. Luke and the rest of the biblical writers, along with countless Christians over time and space, would disagree. To be sure, there is much we don’t understand about God’s intentions and I certainly don’t claim to know the mind of God. I will even confess that I find God’s promises sometimes ambiguous and, at other times, incredibly ambitious. But promises rest on the character and conduct of those making them.
Given the state of the world, you might conclude that Jesus is just another absentee landlord and that, in reality, we’ve been left to our own meagre devices to combat evil? In the later chapters of his Gospel and follow up volume, the Acts of the Apostles, Luke explains that Jesus promised to be with his people in the power of the Spirit and called on them to continue his work. His followers are to be for the world, what Jesus was (and is) for them.
As his followers, we are to embody his love and compassion. We are to pray for God’s world and for his kingdom to come on earth as in heaven, precisely because we believe God’s promise to heal and make whole. We are to watch the world and its leaders, and to speak out when we see injustice and tyranny. We are to engage with God’s word and worship regularly to be reminded of God’s presence. We are to be here for each other because we realise that we are all part of God’s family, broken and equally undeserving of God’s love and grace.
Doing these things will open each of us to the Spirit’s presence. And when thathappens, we learn to experience the truth of God’s light shining on our darkness to comfort and console, protect and heal us. None of this makes us personally immune from the evil that afflicts this world. What it does do is give us power to overcome the darkness. This is why we celebrate Christmas. We are not alone. Jesus’ birth is the beginning of the Good News that nothing can prevent God’s promises from being fulfilled, not even the powers of darkness. This is why, and this is how, we can experience comfort and peace each and every Christmas, irrespective of circumstance. It’s because we are people who have the Good News of Jesus Christ, now and for all eternity. For much of the world it’s hidden in plain sight – until we speak and act as Jesus’ voice and hands – and then a little more of the truth is revealed.
I have been thinking a great deal recently about the word success after someone commented that I could retire content after a successful career (or careers). Really? What does that mean? While retirement usually marks the end of paid employment, the work we undertake to provide for our material needs is, of course, only one facet of our lives. So I asked myself the two-part question: what is a successful career but, more fundamentally, what is a successful life … and should we think of ‘success’ as a relevant or useful measure of human living?
This double-barrel question became more urgent after I started reflecting on the today’s reading from St Luke’s Gospel which features two uncomfortable statements from Jesus. The first in verse 17: ‘truly I tell you, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it’ and then in verse 25: ‘it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God’. These are extraordinary statements because they challenge if not chastise the things most celebrated in our society: knowledge and wealth. Those who acquire the first are esteemed; those who have accumulated the latter are envied. In the Gospel story, a man who had, by worldly standards of his day, achieved success is completely undermined by Jesus and walks away deeply unsettled.
So let me begin with the word success. What does success mean to you? It possibly means achievement of a goal, arriving at a destination, defeating your competitors or perhaps exceeding someone’s expectations. So if I asked whether you have lived a ‘successful’ life, what or how would you answer? It is not a question we often ask ourselves or meditate upon … although it is a constant feature of popular culture and everyday conversation: this person was a successful farmer; that person was a successful teacher … in reality, the actual markers of success are rarely articulated or assessed. In contemporary Australia, when we say someone has done well – meaning they have been ‘successful’ – we usually mean they have an abundance of the things of this earth. Money is the most ubiquitous currency of success.
Success magazine, yes, there is such an appalling publication, is completely devoted to financial and business success. But surely it is more than that? Perhaps it’s the question that’s the problem. We don’t usually ask: “what does success mean to the community’ but ‘what does success mean to the individual’? But does success matter at all? Albert Einstein, who was known for wisdom beyond the academic discipline of physics, remarked: ‘try not to become a person of success but rather try to become a person of value’. There is possibly a firm foundation here on which we might build a Christian understanding of how success might be measured.
There are, of course, some false views to dismiss first. We may consider one Christian more successful than the other if she or he seems to be better at keeping the commandments of God. Oh I know we would never admit to that, but we do it – subconsciously if nothing else.
I’m guilty of measuring myself up to other Christians. How did I perform today? At least I don’t sin as much or as seriously as my neighbour? These are things that go through my head, and hopefully I take hold of these thoughts, nail them to the cross, and find better things to muse on, but often I don’t. Often, I don’t realize I’m measuring my success in this way until I’ve been doing it for a while and then realise how judgemental and harmful it is to me.
When I think of success, especially in evaluating ministry, I try to keep one thing in mind: there is nothing we can do—no deed we can perform—that will make God love me any more or less than God does right now … at this very moment. I cannot contribute to either my loveliness or my salvation since it has nothing to do with me and everything to do with Christ who died for me and pleads for mercy on my behalf. That being said, we can measure our selves by asking a few questions:
In sum, am I becoming more Christ-like – which is the goal of the disciple and follower … not unlike the aim of the apprentice to emulate the master?
As Einstein intimated, it’s better to measure our progress in becoming a person of deep and abiding values than our acquisition of power, privilege and possessions. Values and character are important to human living and both are more important than success. In fact, even unbelievers will tell you that character is a requirement for success. True success and ultimate happiness can only stem from good character. That being said, what about organisational positions and financial success? Is it wrong to strive for them? It can be, but only if they are acquired or exercised in a particular way.
In sum, Christianity isn’t about living ‘your best life now’, either fulfilling your professional potential or building up material possessions, to “show people what God did for you. God wants to bless us and this type of blessing sometimes comes with having a full and fruitful life. I’ve invested in my retirement. I have more superannuation than the national average. I like to buy things and maintained a comfortable home. This is not, in and of itself, wrong or misguided. The key point here is to not make this outcome the primary focus of life. I’ve read too many articles about how diligent and focused on your number one goal you must be in order to achieve success. I’m sure if I developed a product from an idea and focused on nothing else for five or ten years, I could make more money than I have in being a wage & salary earner. Many people could and do as the nation’s rich list grows longer. But the book of Proverbs, the collection of Solomon’s wisdom, counsels: ‘Commit your work to the Lord, and your plans will be established’.
Very often, of course, it is not our physical needs that remain unmet. The wealth extracted from the world exceeds the needs of its inhabitants, if shared and distributed more equitably. Jesus addresses this point in St Matthew’s gospel. Because divine provision is generous, he teaches, “Therefore do not be anxious, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ For the Gentiles seek after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them all. But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you’. The values and the character that mark progress towards Christlikeness are apparently more elusive. And in terms of personal resources, the question is more about what you should keep rather than what you should give away – and that requires a different outlook on other people and, indeed, life itself. If we have enough money to feed and clothe our family, we should be giving. It’s arguable that we should be giving … even if we don’t very much. If we have free time, for instance, we should be spending at least some of that time doing the work of Jesus. This is what makes Christians different and what makes success a very different notion for the follower of Jesus.
An example might help: happiness is often idolised as the ultimate goal of human living. Yet, as Christians, we should strive for joy over happiness. Joy in the fact that we are forgiven, loved and achieving victory over greed and self-interest as a consequence of Christ being active in our lives. The same is true of marriage. It isn’t supposed to make you happy, it’s supposed to make you holy. This misunderstanding is why divorce is so common. As soon as someone is unhappy in their marriage, they think something must be wrong. But the truth is, that’s normal, and God never promised we would be happy every minute of every day – nor are we. But we can be joyful … and hopeful … when we take the broader view of our lives and reflect at a deeper level on the world.
Ultimately, the Christian outlook is not preoccupied with measures of success – however nuanced and finessed they may be. The emphasis is on conviction and consistency – what you value and how it shapes your decisions and influences your outlook. In being a disciple of Christ the stress is on faithfulness and fidelity – you tried to follow and strove to do so … and when you stumble and fell – you didn’t stay down, give up or walk away – your resolved to stay the course and last the distance because Jesus pledged to be at the end of the journey to meet and greet you.
Our Bible reading today from Luke 18 offers an important teaching and depicts an awful tragedy. It implores us to seek – actively seek – the wisdom of God through the things we do and say. The wisdom (which is the reward) comes as a by-product of doing selfless things – so, Jesus is promoting a learning-by-doing approach to godliness. But the man who is the focus of the story lacks courage and imagination, he is timid and risk-averse, and is tied too tightly to earthly markers of progress and is too captivated by the illusory promise of material comfort and physical security. He won’t take the plunge into a deeper life; his love for God has a fixed boundary. This story also features in Mark’s gospel and, notably, it has an additional observation. When the man walks away unwilling to divest himself of his power, prestige and possessions, the writer notes: ‘and Jesus loved him’. He did not criticise or chastise him; he did not dismiss or damn him. He did not even chase after him. Simply, he loved him. When we fail, when we refuse what is offered to us, when we reach for cheap solutions rather than accept spiritual comfort, God does not give up on us … there is divine attentiveness to the next opportunity to turn our vulnerabilities into revelations … and so, to draw us nearer to the Christ we say we want to follow … and resemble. Ironically, we more often encounter God in our failures than in our successes – and praise be for that. Surely, that’s good news.
About a decade ago a student said to me, “I just can’t get comfortable in my own skin.” He went on to describe his life. He described comparison and competition with others to be enough – to be as good – to be recognised and respected. He also spoke of expectations that he could never meet. He revealed that loneliness had isolated him in his family, with friends, and even at church. He was essentially describing skin-level life. He was looking all around him, at the people and circumstances of his life but he was either unwilling or unable to look within himself. He wanted what the nine lepers wanted. He wanted new skin, comfortable skin. He wanted the acceptance and approval of others. He wanted the priests of his life – all those people to whom he gave power and authority over himself – to declare him to be clean, to belong.
If today’s gospel statistics are any indication, 90 percent of us live life at skin level. That is, we live on the surface. It is a “what you see is what you get” attitude. We assume (or at least act as though) there is nothing else in life than what can be seen, heard and smelt. At skin level, our view of life is mostly determined by whether life is going our way and whether we get what we want. Life is very much exteriorised. I am not, for a moment, suggesting that skin-level life is relatively easy or pain free. To the contrary, life at that level feels mostly like day-to-day-survival, is rarely peaceful, and leaves us feeling as if something is missing or waiting to go wrong. More than anything else skin-level life seeks to be comfortable: physically, emotionally, spiritually, socially, and financially. There is, of course, nothing wrong with being comfortable until we choose to settle for being comfortable rather than moving to a deeper place, a deeper way of seeing, relating, and living. Asking questions, challenging conventions and probing possibilities. Sometimes the desire or achievement of comfort can insulate us … from the fundamental realities of life and the persistent presence of God. It seems that only about ten percent, one in ten lepers, are willing to move in a new direction, to seek a wholeness that cannot be found in mere comfort.
For most of us, life starts to get uncomfortable when things do not go our way, and we do not get what we want or expect. It is at that moment that we begin seeking relief. We want the pain to stop and the difficult situation to change or go away. Too often we look for quick and easy solutions (perhaps better termed fixes), something that will restore our former comfort; something that will allow us to go back to life … the way it was before. That is the life of a leper. That is life at skin-level. One day you are clean. Life is as expected. You have work, friends, and family. You are part of the faith community. The next day everything changes. The next day you are unclean, and the whole point and purpose of life confronts and confuses. Why did this happen to me? Why is the world like this?
For the ten lepers in today’s gospel, being unclean means no family, no friends except each other, no work, no recreation and no temple worship. They were physically shunned, excluded from community life. They were kept at the farthest edges of society. They had to wear shabby rags for clothes. Their hair was to be a mess and left uncombed so their unclean status was visibly displayed. If anyone came close, the leper was required to cry out “unclean, unclean.” That’s how it is when you were a leper. Unsurprisingly, the lepers want to go back to the way it was before, when they were clean. But now they would settle for comfort. From a distance they cry out, “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us.” We can only imagine what they wanted. Maybe they hoped for a piece of bread, some water, a blanket. Maybe they sought to hear a kind word from a teacher known for compassion. Maybe they simply wanted to be seen and, if only for a moment, feel real, feel alive, feel like a human being. There was nothing comfortable about their lives. At skin-level, each day of life was spent searching for some relief. I know that search and perhaps you do too.
Regardless of our skin condition, we all know what it is like to be a leper. We may not have lived under the same conditions as the lepers of Jesus’ time, but we could each tell a story about a time when we could not get comfortable in our own skin – when we felt out of place or a stranger in our own lives. That feeling is the leprosy of today. Today’s leprosy is not a medical condition or a legal status. It is, rather, a spiritual condition. It is leprosy of the heart and its symptoms have nothing to do with our skin.
Instead they are things like perfectionism and pride, greed and gluttony, sadness and anger, boredom and back biting, the need for control or the quest for approval, fear and judgmentalism, restlessness and excessive busyness, gossip and grudges, prejudice and jealousy, condemnation and indifference, addiction to substances and experiences. Leprosy distorts how we see and relate to God, the world, others, and even ourselves. Leprosy keeps life at a superficial level. These symptoms, what the early church referred to as “passions,” reveal a deep discomfort. As long as we deal with them at the level of skin, seeking cleanness rather than wholeness, we can – I would contend – never truly be made well.
Leprosy even convinces us that the most we can hope for in life is a declaration of cleanness. So we settle for being comfortable rather than being changed. We seek relief rather than wholeness. We desire something from Jesus more than a desire for an encounter with Jesus. That is life at the skin-level. That is where we tend to live. It is where the lepers in today’s gospel have lived. Nine of the ten lepers will settle for a declaration of cleanness. But there is always that one, that one who is able to look below the surface, to see more than new skin. One leper, the Samaritan who was socially marginalised even before he contracted leprosy, looks past the exterior illusions of new skin. He sees a deeper reality and understands that healing is an interior condition. It is about the heart more than the skin. If he wants the healing and wholeness that Jesus offers, he will have to turn around and go in a direction different from the other nine. And he does.
While nine lepers celebrate new skin, one leper celebrates the creator of life and the restorer of skin – to know the one who changed his life and to explore the deeper depths of human living. While nine lepers hear the priests say, “You are clean,” one leper hears the Son of God say, “Get up and go on your way; your faith has made you well.” What gave him the authority to say those words? What kind of power was he able to command? These were the questions the leper no doubt wanted to explore. He wanted to understand, to grow in wisdom and to grasp a little more about his own potential for nobility.
Last weekend I attended the twice delayed 40th reunion of my high school class in Wollongong. It was a terrific evening, albeit late as I drove home afterwards. In addition to comparing waistlines and hairlines, much of the discussion was dominated by what we had done. I seemed to be the odd one in wanting to probe what we had become as graduates of a selective state school which was known for strong academic competition among students. This was probably too intrusive for some but it struck me how superficially we relate to other people, assessing their personal lives on the basis of professional achievements. It was also apparent that I was one of very few non-drinkers and among a small handful of Christians with most people apparently liberated from the religion of their parents. It was, then, a terrific night, but also a terrifying one as I drove back to Tarago and wondered what we had all become.
My reflection on the night continues as I think about today’s gospel observation that ninety percent of us live life skin deep. The Gospel also reminds us (because it is nothing new) that Jesus offers more. He desires more for us than we often desire for ourselves. In fact, we do not ask for too much; we accept too little. What Jesus does for the one … he offers to them all. “Were not ten made clean? But the other nine, where are they? Was none of them found to return and give praise to God except this foreigner?” The take home message is this: it was not a rebuke. It was (and is) an invitation.
One of the personal joys of ministry for me is being able to conduct pastoral services for family members. I have conducted marriage services for both daughters and next week I baptise my fourth grandchild – little Archie Frame Dobos – at the Duntroon chapel. They are happy but also confronting occasions because I realise that whereas once I was the principle love of my daughters’ lives, they now have husbands and children who have a special place in their lives. They are their next of kin … and I’m a little further down the line or less in the centre in special terms. Do they love me less and do they love their husbands and children more? Or is this the wrong question? If so, what is the right question? Is there a hierarchy of love and, if so, how does it function?
Hold these questions as we think about Jesus’ words from today’s gospel. “Do you think that I have come to bring peace to the earth? No, I tell you, but rather division! From now on five in one household will be divided, three against two and two against three; they will be divided: father against son and son against father, mother against daughter and daughter against mother, mother-in-law against her daughter-in-law and daughter-in-law against mother-in-law.”
Do we love God more than we love family or friends? If so, there is a potential division in our families … a division that might make some people feeling diminished and others rejected. Or do we see this division as one of identity? If God is the origin and source of our being and we find our point in purpose in God, do we need to be in right relation with God in order to be the mother, father, sister, brother or friend that we they need and we want to be? In other words, once we know who we are and know that we are the focus of unconditional divine love, can we empty ourselves of every impediment to loving others and being ready to sacrifice everything for them?
Can I suggest that our identity is derived from, or imparted by, our various relationships; biological, natural, social and political. These include our relationships with family and friends, the natural environment, our work, our organisational affiliations, our beliefs, the things we possess. Some of these relationships are tangible and are associated with people, places, objects. We can talk about them in concrete terms and they give us a sense of meaning or a settled location in a community. These relationships provide us with a sense of belonging or they encourage or elicit certain behaviours. These relationships give our lives order and routine, objectives and rewards.
Some relationships are not as tangible but they are no less real; our spiritual commitments, beliefs and attitudes. Our lives are actually a vast network of relationships whether we are conscious of them or not. And regardless of whether we judge them as good or bad, healthy or unhealthy, taken together this complex of relationships makes you and me the persons we are. We are shared by our interactions with other people and with the organisations that people form.
Ultimately, however, only one of these relationships can finally be the most significant and decisive. This one relationship makes us uniquely who we are and not someone else. For example, if I decide that my relationship with my parents is the definitive one, then all my other relationships will be seen and lived out through the relationship I maintain with my parents. I will try to live their lives through mine. Their lives will become the lens through which I see and relate to others, the world, and myself. That one relationship will be decisive for who I am … how I see myself and what I will strive to be. It will become the criterion for determining and incorporating all other relationships that contribute to who I am as a person. For many people, pleasing their parents, attracting their praise and ‘earning’ their love matters most. As a general observation, the one relationship that ultimately determines our identity is the one to whom we will give our existence and probably our life.
Jesus’ relationship with the Father is what ultimately determined his identity and being. He freely chose that one relationship above all others. That did not mean that he rejected all others. Rather … all his other relationships were mediated through his relationship with the Father. Jesus’ choice brought about division with the religious leaders, the world, and all who would chose differently.
This is the choice set before us today. Who or what is the decisive relationship that shapes your identity and gives substance to your being? What relationship matters so much to you that you allow it to shape your life and give you identity? Maybe it is your children, your partner or your work. It could be parents, church, country, politics or God. I’ve met many people who struggled to answer the question … when it appears the principal relationship is the one they have with themselves: how they see themselves, their promotion, advancement, standing or reputation. They want to be someone, so how they relate to the person in the mirror is crucial … especially if they don’t like the person looking back or would rather be someone else – someone who was better looking or more popular. So they do whatever they can to enhance their self-image whether or not it is a distortion or a fantasy.
What is our principal or foundational relationship? It is a choice we make over and over, day after day, as we respond to existing relationships and enter new ones. It is a choice that always brings division as we tend to favour some people and their judgements over the opinions of others.
There is, then, something predictable about the Gospel reading for today … given what Luke has already told us about Jesus. “Do you think that I have come to bring peace to the earth? No, I tell you, but rather division!” This is not the Jesus we are used to contemplating and probably not the Jesus we want. Where is the water-walking, miracle-working, dying-for-me Jesus? What happened to sweet baby Jesus asleep on the hay … no crying he made? This fire bringing, family dividing Jesus makes us uncomfortable and he might even make us cringe.
After all, God knows we already have more than enough division on the planet. We do not need any more. We thought that knowing more about other people would make us more tolerant, understanding and empathetic. It has not. We are divided socially, racially, economically, politically, religiously not only in our own country but throughout the world. The nightly news is an evolving tale of division and the violence that it has provoked. There is division in marriages and families, in the workplace, in our schools. But this is not, however, the division that Jesus brings. The division that we see in news bulletins is not Jesus’ doing. We humans have caused those divisions by our choices of relationships that ultimately determine who we are and how we act. Russians choosing to despise Ukrainians; Sunnis Muslims deciding to hate Shi-ite Muslims; white’s committed to oppressing blacks. We have made bad choices. Getting our life, and our world, turned around means learning “how to interpret the present time” and choosing again.
For the Christian it means choosing God as the primary relationship that finally determines who we are and what we do. If we choose God as that one relationship then it means our parents, children, spouses, or friends do not determine who we are. It means that our jobs, our country, our politics, our possessions do not create our identity. God does. Those relationships do not necessarily have to end or their influence eradicated. Rather, they exist within the context of our underlying/foundational relationship with God. There will be new dynamics, new priorities, and new divisions. To choose God will bring about division – especially if we don’t do what others expect or demand of us. Jesus said it would be this way. The division about which he spoke does not kill, oppress nor separate. The division Jesus offers is about growth. He is directing us towards fullness of life and the acquisition of holiness.
Think for a moment: regardless of our age we are always in the process of growing up. Growing up is difficult and often painful work. Division is the way of life and growth. Look at the miracle of physical life and your body. Watch a child grow up. This, modern science has revealed, is a result of division at the cellular level. Growth and our physical bodies are a result of division. Go into a home where a teenager lives. On the surface you may see conflict between parent and child. At a deeper level it is about division. A young person is discovering his or her life and identity … apart from their parents. It may not be fun but it is absolutely necessary for life, the child’s and the parent’s.
Just as division offers physical and emotional growth, so it offers spiritual growth. Jesus is calling us to grow up … to become all that we can be … pointing to the division that makes that growth possible. For our part we must re-examine our relationships: both the priorities we have given them and the power they exert over us. Very often, we let others impose their priorities on us (and we go along) or we empower things that diminish and destroy and not enrich and enhance.
In the reading today we are being implored to make foundational our relationship with God, to the exclusion of all other people, places, or objects as the one relationship that finally gives us our truest, most authentic and timeless identity. We are known by God and we matter to God … God is reaching out to us and drawing us on … to a future that is beyond our imagination. This is the division that loses nothing and gains everything. This division does not marginalise or reject others. Instead, it offers wholeness and perfection. If I am assured of divine love and know that I exist in the mind of God, I can be your servant, I can offer you all that I have … and I am neither weakened nor watered down in doing so. It is the division that transforms our lives, makes sacred all our other relationships, and, I believe, has the potential to heal the world.
The release of the national census data always attracts media interest and public attention.
How many of us … where do we live … what do we do. A great deal of attention to changes in the religious profile and the statistic that, for the first time in the history of census records, less than half of the population indicated they had some connection with Christianity. Much has been written about this revelation.
The 2010 Australian Christian Book of the Year – Losing My Religion: Unbelief in Australia – dealt extensively with the religion question in the census (which hasn’t changed since the first census) and why it wasn’t a very well-worded question … and why whatever figure it produced needed to be treated with considerable caution.
It does not differentiate between believing, behaving or belonging …
It does not differentiate between unbelief, disbelief and non-belief …
It does not differentiate between theism, pantheism, atheism, agnosticism or anti-theism …
And it does not disclose the opinions and convictions of those who choose not to answer this entirely optional question or who have ‘spiritual views’ but do not consider them a religion.
I have long argued that, in the interests of clarity and candour, there ought to be two questions and the wording be different … because we can’t say much with confidence about this particular census statistic.
In sum, the census question is problematic … because what it is asking and why it matters is largely shaped by what you believe the person posing the question might be wanting to know.
Being in the minority does not concern me as a Christian, any more than voting for a minority political party concerns me. Majority opinion is no guarantee of wisdom, insight, accuracy or truthfulness. Whole populations can be swayed to embrace bad ideas and entire communities can adopt poor policies.
Groupthink and the herd mentality are always a danger, even for thinking, discerning people, especially when self-interest and personal gain are being dangled in front of us. Life asks each of us demanding, difficult and different questions … and my answer might not be your answer … assuming we are being asked the same questions … and I suspect we are not. I don’t drink alcohol and don’t have any problem with booze … but it might be a constant issue for you or someone you love. But I do have an issue with anger – mainly anger with myself and my failings – but this might not be troubling for you or someone close.
The problem is that we respond to cues from other people and, if challenged, we retreat into the crowd or justify our behaviour against a general standard. What do I mean by this? We can be easily influenced by others … hence the rise of Internet influencers. We usually prefer group norms in what we wear and in what we think because there is safety in numbers, hence the popularity of certain brands of footwear and the spread of political correctness. And we defend our behaviour by pointing to others – he or she did the same thing – or I am no worse than other people, so leave me alone.
I did not need the religion statistic in the census data to tell me that professing to be a Christian is increasingly fraught in contemporary Australia. After all, there are Christians who hold beliefs that are weird, uninformed, unscientific, prejudiced and dangerous. And that’s just my view. And there are churches with attitudes to public policy and government decision-making that I find deplorable, if not despicable, because they claim expertise on complex matters of administration to which they are not entitled, and exude an inability to grapple with complicated philosophical issues.
There are many reasons to dismiss so-called Christian principles and to disregard the Christians who promote them. But … and here I speak for myself … I am left with the words and works of Jesus … I am confronted with his claims and questions … and I believe he will not let me go as he invites us (invites, not coerces) to follow him into a broader, deeper and richer experience of being human and points us to the door to eternity. It is an invitation he has laid before Carter which others – his parents and godparents – are taking up on his behalf.
During his earthly ministry, Jesus attracted many, many people by what he said and did. He had authority and authenticity. He was real … and he addressed the fears and the longings of those he encountered and engaged. There were certainly difficult aspects of his teaching … and on three occasions, Jesus was conscious that the demanding questions being asked of his closest disciples were being deflected by an appeal to broader sentiment.
On the first occasion, he said to them: “Who do the people say that I am?” They rattled off the range of opinion they had detected among the crowd. When the options were laid on the table, he looks them all in the face and says: what about you? After a potentially haunting pause, Peter says: “You are the Christ, the promised one, the Son of the Living God”. You, Jesus of Nazareth, you are the embodiment of God in human form. This is a turning point in their journey with Jesus.
On the second occasion, Jesus was telling a large crowd of people that he was food from heaven. He was trying to explain that his self-offering would fulfil their spiritual hunger. The crowd found these metaphors difficult to understanding and started to drift away until only the 12 disciples remained.
In what seems a moment of despair at the lack of spiritual vision from his hearers, he laments: “And what of you, will you too leave me?” And again it is Peter who answers: “Lord, to whom would we go? You have the words of eternal life, and we have believed, and have come to know, that you are the Holy One of God.”
And the third occasion, and unsurprisingly it also involves Peter, is recorded in the Bible reading that Jo brought to us a few moments ago. It occurs after Peter has denied three times that he even knew Jesus and after Jesus has appeared to the disciples following his death by crucifixion. One disciple, Judas, betrayed Jesus and hanged himself. Another, Thomas, doubted his master could overcome death. And Peter abandoned Jesus in his hour of need – and no doubt felt overwhelming despair. Jesus rehabilitates Peter by asking him, on three occasions, not whether he knows him … but whether he loves him.
It is an intensely intimate scene. And then Peter notices that another disciple, John, is following behind and is distracted by his presence. “What about him?” Peter asks. Jesus replies: “Don’t worry about him … my relationship with you is not influenced by whatever I may have said to him or whatever I might have asked him to do”. Jesus is clear: I am asking you to follow me and I am inviting you to fulfil your calling.
Everyone who hears the words of Jesus, both then and now, is invited to consider his identity, reflect on his questions, weigh his claims and respond to his invitation. Forget others and do not be distracted by them: the invitation to follow is individual … as unique as our genetic make up … to follow Jesus, to discover our identity, to find our vocation and to reach our destiny. We will recognise there are converging paths as we follow Jesus but our journey is ours, and no-one else’s because only we can hear God call our name.
This is true for Carter as he grows up in a world of colliding convictions and declining consensus. It is the hope and prayer of Lisa and Matt, and his very earnest big sisters, that he recognises the voice of Jesus, despite the noise of popular culture, and that he sees others striving to live like Jesus … overcoming ego, and selfishness and greed … pursuing faith, hope and love … striving to live in a manner that enriches the world, others and self as a priority … and believing that death is not the end but the beginning of a new mode of existence because the love of God will never let us go. None of this is easy or straightforward. Speaking as a recovering hypocrite, I still have much to learn but I am grateful for the presence and the encouragement of those who seek the same things, and we pledge ourselves to point Carter towards the truth and the life that is offered in Jesus Christ, symbolised in baptism.
As someone who has written and published a few books, including a couple of biographies and a partial autobiography, I am always conscious of giving the reader a reason to turn the page … and to anticipate what is coming. St John does this marvellously in his biography of Jesus. At the end of chapter 19 he leaves his readers in a despairing place. He writes: ‘at the place where Jesus was crucified, there was a garden, and in the garden a new tomb, in which no one had ever been laid. Because it was the Jewish day of Preparation and since the tomb was nearby, they laid Jesus there’.
And then we come to the opening phrase of chapter 20: ‘while it was still dark’. In John’s gospel, darkness symbolises doubt and despondency. It provides a veil that conceals malevolent thoughts and evil deeds. While it was still dark … as the bleakness of the crucifixion continued to prevail … John focuses on Mary of Magdala (a small village on the western shore of Lake Gallilee) … who is one of Jesus’ closest followers (and not a woman of ill-repute). She has formed a close bond with Jesus and was with, or near him, during a number of key moments in His ministry. Imagine her eyes, puffy and bloodshot from the tears she has shed the past two days as Jesus was arrested, humiliated, tortured and executed. Imagine the anguish, grief, and sheer exhaustion from a lack of sleep and the absence of comfort she carried in her body. Her visit was not a happy one; she had embarked on a sombre, silent, solitary visit to the fresh grave of her spiritual guide, the teacher to whom she had devoted her life. Picture Mary approaching the tomb with trepidation, seeking some tiny bit of peace or comfort, drawn there by an unshakeable feeling of love and loyalty.
John goes on: ‘while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came and saw that the stone had been removed from the tomb’. Now imagine the shock, the disbelief. She doesn’t enter the tomb or even peer inside. Her first instinct is to run, as fast as her weary legs can carry her, to find the others and tell them what she has observed. She reaches Peter and John, and they race to the tomb and enter to find the burial cloths lying on the ground, abandoned. No body to be found, just empty space, and perhaps a feeling of tension and perhaps apprehension hanging in the air …
A little later in the chapter (verse 10), John reports: ‘Then the disciples returned to their homes’. Really? Peter and John returned to their homes? They’ve been following a man who told them repeatedly that He would be put to death and rise again, they find His tomb empty as the new day dawns, and they return to their lodging? Their reasoning is difficult to fathom. Perhaps to be fair, we should try to see ourselves in the disciples’ shoes. An open, empty tomb, two days after a shameful public execution?
The sensible assumption, the most likely explanation, would be grave robbers. Grave robbers acting on behalf of the Roman governor or the temple authorities to prevent the tomb becoming a shrine or a place of pilgrimage, or callous people who find amusement in cruelty. Yes, grave robbers would make sense. Just one more indignity, one final humiliation for the troublemaker from Nazareth.
Thank God, then, for Mary Magdalene. Mary doesn’t go home. She lingers by her Lord’s empty tomb, and she weeps. As if she hasn’t cried enough already, she weeps tears of sadness and frustration … and fear and despair. What kind of world is this? You know that expression ‘wearing your heart on your sleeve’? Mary’s entire heart and soul are on display. And through her tears, through her raw grief and deep pain, Mary Magdalene sees something that Peter and John did not see. Maybe they weren’t able to see, that much isn’t disclosed. Could it be that Mary’s willingness to be present, to remain at the scene of the crime, to bear witness to the injustice of it all, makes her uniquely ready? What if her vulnerability and trust and openness are necessary ingredients in this spiritual transformation – this capacity to look and really see?
Mary sees two angels, messengers from God, sitting in the place where she knows her Lord’s body should be. And when she turns around, she sees another person, a man who asks ‘why are you weeping?’. Here is a moment of comic relief to ease the tension in this supremely emotional story — this greatest of all stories, which takes us all through deepest grief to purest joy, has a moment of circumstantial absurdity in verse 15: ‘Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will collect him’. It is a very odd thing to ask because it would be a very odd thing for a gardener to do. And why would he tell her anyway? But it reveals to us that true love never dies, that hope is never foolish, that people never completely leave us. She can’t and won’t let Jesus go.
It is difficult for us to imagine how must it have felt, when Mary, through her tears and grief, heard the voice of her Lord and the mention of her name. He simply says ‘Mary’. This is her moment of awakening, revelation, resurrection. It is only when the risen Christ calls her name that she understands. And it is only when the living Lord calls her name that his resurrection becomes a reality for her. In that brief intimate exchange, in that one word, death is destroyed and fear is obliterated. Heaven meets earth because Jesus utters her name. She is known by God, she matters, the relationship is restored and everything is made new.
The ancient Greek word thura that is usually translated in the English New Testament as the door or opening of a tomb or cave, actually has another meaning. Thura also means ‘an opportunity, a favorable time for accessing new possibilities’. In John’s version of the resurrection, Mary Magdalene isn’t only the first person to find that stone rolled away and see the risen Lord … she is also the first one to know and experience thura: the world’s horizons are infinitely expanded and reality will never be the same. The door has opened, the new day has arrived, and the very heart of God, which had ceased beating, will never be quiet and never be still again. We are encouraged to listen for the heartbeat of God; to discern for the heartbeat of God in the silence and the chaos, the laughter and the tears, in the songs of the birds and the rhythm of the seasons. Can you hear it? Can you feel it?
Mary did. Mary heard God’s voice in the garden on that Easter morning and it was her that God addressed. Mary’s ears and then her eyes, followed by her mind and heart and soul, were transformed on that initially dark morning when she discovers newness of life as the light dawns. It may have been that Peter and the beloved disciple (John) weren’t quite ready; maybe that’s why they returned to their homes without experiencing resurrection. Perhaps Mary was ready for the transformative moment because she alone, through her unending loyalty and undying love for her ‘Rabbouni’, was humble enough, and vulnerable enough, and trusting enough, to see the full glory of the resurrection. Where you are placed determines what you can see. Praise be, she didn’t hoard her gift, she didn’t cling to Jesus; she shared her great joy openly and willingly: ‘I have seen the Lord’, she exclaimed.
Because Mary has seen the Lord, she and her entire world have been redeemed, renewed, transformed. This is not a Middle Eastern or European or white or English message but a universal one. This is why Easter matters; this is why Christians repeat this story and proclaim this message. It is one they don’t own and it is one they cannot sell. It is why Christians offer their Alleluias! It is because the resurrection of Jesus Christ offers us something that cannot be found anywhere else, and it is something we so desperately need. Hope that cannot be crushed, love that conquers all, life that never ends. This is the gift of Easter. Christ’s victory over the powers of death is our victory, too! No evil on this earth, no act of violence or hatred, no grief or sorrow, no weapon or war or wound can take it away. The body of Christ, the heartbeat of God, endures and enlivens, it fills us and all Creation with life everlasting. Now we can live without fear; now we are free from the enslaving powers of sin and the disorientating shadow of death.
What do we take away from this service? The conviction that the door has been opened, the stone rolled away, and the resurrection is here and it is now. Easter life is everywhere around us. Mary heard it, saw it, knew it and experienced it in the moment the risen Lord spoke her name. If we listen, we may hear God calling our names too. Will you respond when you hear God’s voice? Amen.
There are few parts of scripture more intriguing and more compelling than John 18:38 … the words are not even those of Jesus … and it is not an answer but a question: “what is truth?”
That famous question from the Roman Governor of Judea, Pontius Pilate, to a Jewish peasant, Jesus of Nazareth, stares us in the face every year on Good Friday. The fact that it seemingly is left unanswered remains a challenge … to all of us. What, indeed, is truth … of what does it consist? Are there only rival and competing truths – your truth and my truth – but nothing that is universal or eternal? Does the truth matter? Can we ever know that we have found it and are we capable mentally, emotionally and spiritually to cope with its demands?
At his trial (if it can be called that), Jesus doesn’t seem very interested in defining truth. This isn’t the moment for a philosophical debate or an argument about the meaning of words. At any event, he has already addressed this question. In the 14th chapter of St John’s Gospel, when Thomas asks that he might see the Father (meaning God), Jesus says: “I am the way to God: the truth, and the life.” He told his disciples that he came into the world to testify to the truth, and that those who belong to the truth listen to him, but He never gives a philosophical definition of the truth other than to say it embodies light rather than darkness and brings liberation and freedom. Lies are bondage. Know the truth, and it will set you free.
Jesus seems less interested in defining the truth and much more interested in showing us the essence of truth … and what it looks like to live truthfully. He depicts the truth as a living thing (linked to personal honesty and spiritual vision), and to see ourselves as belonging to truth and as bearers of truth. Being human and living in 2022 means, of course, we have multiple truth claims vying for our attention … when they are not being imposed upon us. There is a divide: the truth of the world, the way it is, and the truth of God’s realm — the way God dreams the world to be, the way we believe it can be. Those multiple claims are at the centre of Pilate’s question, ‘What is truth?’ Perhaps he is asking: which truth do you mean? The truth of power, position and pride or some other … that he fears might challenge the privilege and pleasure that marks his own version of the truth.
Jesus doesn’t respond in words to Pilate’s question at that moment. Instead, over the next three days, he reveals the answer with his dying, death, and resurrection. Good Friday reveals a deep truth about the way the world is right now. Not the world that God created and pronounced good … but the world that we have created which is marred by war, terrorism, poverty, malnutrition, addiction and abuse. The world we have made out of fear and greed … out of shame and bitterness … out of our desperate need to boost our self-image or hide our inner wounds. In our desperation and anxiety, we try to make it someone else’s fault; we cast blame and cry out for the blood of someone else, an innocent, someone we don’t know but still dislike, or a politician or media proprietor.
We blame others for destroying the world we inhabit; or conversely, we declare that the suffering are themselves to blame for their own plight. But Good Friday reveals the worst in humankind. Reveals the truth about the hideous things of which men and women are capable when they are afraid or selfish and take the place of God. Good Friday calls for an expression of human shame – that things are not right and we know they are not right, and some response is required of us.
Good Friday also reveals, of course, an even deeper truth about who God is … and how God responds to our predicament. The truth that Jesus shows with his words and works is a profound challenge to the world we have damaged and disfigured. The truth that Jesus shows us is that no matter how benign or beneficial we might think our economic systems and power structures are; they are all fallen … because we are all fallen individually, and together. Our world is infected with injustice – moral, financial, legal and social. Jesus demonstrated with his death the truth about this infectious injustice by becoming a victim of its self-justification and self-righteousness. He shows the almost endless human capacity to find words to excuse injustice and practice cruelty. In every facet of his being, Jesus shows us God’s “NO” to the dominant systems of this world and the malignant forces that undergird them, and God’s “YES” to primacy of love, faith and hope as the foremost forces that will truly define human fulfilment.
These are truths that we can see when we kneel at the foot of the cross, and have eyes to see and ears to hear the revelation that is before us. Pilate is given a chance to see these truths as well. He is the local representative of the dominant system of temporal authority. In this conversation with Jesus he has an opportunity to hear and see and be transformed … and there are elements of the Gospel story that indicate he saw in Jesus something more than a troublemaker. And yet, Pilate can only see the world in terms of earthly rulers and physical force – riches and power – and turns away from the revelation of ultimate and eternal truth who is standing before him. Once the crowd reasserts their commitment to the status quo, loudly affirming that they have no king but Caesar, Pilate finds safety in numbers and it is business as usual. Once Jesus is condemned without evidence of a charge for which He is of course innocent, and is maliciously tortured and mercilessly nailed to a wooden cross … the crowd that was baying for blood, no longer interested in the spectacle, also turns away and go back to their everyday lives. It is bleak, very bleak.
All four Gospel accounts of Good Friday have significant and subtle differences. In John’s version there are no earthquakes, no darkness covering the earth, no temple curtains being torn in two. In John, Jesus simply dies on a cross and is placed in a tomb. The empire doesn’t strike back … so much as it just continues. There is no continuing threat to its authority. People return to their lives of either luxury or labour. The status quo remains the status quo – unabated and unchallenged.
How often do we catch a glimpse of this life-giving, world-altering truth and then resume business as usual? How tempting is it for us to turn away from the things that challenge our existence and chastise our lifestyle? To cover our eyes or ignore this truth because it might be upsetting or oblige a response. The truth is that human beings are capable of horror … and we are constantly at risk of turning away – turning away from the cross of Christ, and turning away from all the crucified people of every generation – and returning to the status quo and the hope of business as usual. It’s so very easy to close our eyes, to change the channel, turn the page, walk away telling ourselves that the reality, the truth, the trauma of the cross doesn’t really have anything to do with us. We are good people – kind, compassionate and caring. “What is truth?” But in hiding from or averting our eyes from that truth, we risk missing an opportunity for transformation that God is always holding out to us to become more Christlike.
The first act in repentance, the first move toward redemption, the first stance of transformation … is simply to not turn away. To not close our eyes to the suffering of others or our own inner anguish … to feel pain over lives cut short or endangered, to feel indignation over the injustice behind tragedy, to feel shame over the way we have blighted this planet, that we have not undone the damage and are not planning to do so because it might involve a personal cost that others might not be prepare to accept – so just in case … we won’t accept the cost either.
The message of Good Friday is that things must be put right in my life and yours; we are not yet at the Easter message which is how they will be put right. But acknowledging, accepting that something is wrong … that’s the invitation being extended to us at this service … to encounter the truth that God’s dream is greater than the world’s nightmare. The truth that God’s “yes” is more profound than the empire’s “no.” It is when we face reality—when we face the truth—when we bear witness to the suffering of Jesus and the suffering of all the crucified people around the world—that is when salvation starts and redemption begins.
It cannot be a coincidence that the first people who see Jesus on Sunday morning are the same ones who refuse to look away from His death on Friday; those who endure the whole bloody execution, who accompany His body to the tomb, and who come again to prepare His lifeless corpse for proper burial; they are the ones who are the first to experience the truth of the resurrection – a young man and a jaded woman. The truth of Jesus’ life. The truth of God’s “yes” and the endless possibilities that it unlocks.
Pilate did not realise he was playing his part perfectly in a dramatic play when he was given the line ‘what is truth?’ The cross reveals the truth. The truth of the pain and suffering that continues to exist in the world, in our nation, in our community and even in our own families, because of the inhuman demands of our unfair systems and unjust structures. Good Friday also reveals the truth that, for those who are willing to join themselves to a community that continues to look on the cross and strives to stand in solidarity with those who are hurting, who are marginalised, who are still being sacrificed – crucified – on the altar of the public interest and the common good, the cross also opens up the way of transformation and salvation. May we be given the strength to never turn away from the cross, and to live more fully into the truth: the way and the life as revealed in Jesus Christ our Lord.
Advent Sunday marks the beginning of a new year in the Christian calendar but not, of course, the Julian calendar which everyone in the world uses. The latter designates January 1 as the beginning of the year – Julian being, of course, Julius Caesar, who introduced his calendar in 45 BC. So, it predates the life of Jesus. There was nothing special about 1 January in ancient Rome other than it marked the date when the new consuls, government officials, took office. Unlike the Julian calendar, the Christian calendar divides the year into themes that ask us to consider all facets of the Christian story.
In many ways, the Christian seasons are themes for reflection which help to create a mood that work to impart a mindset. This reflection, like all reflection, is not rushed. It involves thinking about something at different levels and not coming to a mind all at once, because it invites us to travel into ourselves and ponder the possibility of transformation. Not rushing to judgement before we have heard the arguments, considered the possibilities and challenged our prejudices and preferences. Sometimes people say: the truth hit me. Possibly so. But insight and wisdom are different … they come slowly and sometimes painfully, especially if they involve admissions and confessions about who we have become or what we might have done.
The Christian year begins with Advent and ends with the Feast of Christ the King – the proclamation by the Church that Jesus has authority and dominion over the entire created order but that the nature of his kingship is outside our expectation and beyond our imagination. But the entirety of the Christian message is not thrown onto a plate and served up to us in one sitting. Thank goodness. We would suffer spiritual indigestion.
Over the next four weeks we journey through the season of Advent and its message: watch and wait for God’s coming afresh and anew in this world and in our lives. We are encouraged to reflect on God’s creative power and our spiritual needs before we celebrate the coming of God in human form in the person of Jesus on Christmas Day. Sunday by Sunday throughout Advent the themes of weekly worship are faith, hope, love … those three gifts known to us so well from the 13th chapter of Paul’s first letter to the church at Corinth. In fact, Paul linked them even earlier in his mission as they feature in his first letter to the Thessalonians, written about 17 years after the resurrection, when the expectation of the imminent end of all things was very strong: since we belong to the day, let us be sober, and put on the breastplate of faith and and love, and for a helmet the hope of salvation (1 Thes. 5:8)
Faith, hope and love, Paul says, are the gifts to seek in the time of expectant interim between the comings of Christ, when the guarantees of stability and permanence are gone and all is in question. Let me concentrate today on faith and some of its alleged opposites.
Of course, the word and the experience of faith has not always meant the same thing. In medieval Catholic Europe, the opposite of faith was heresy. Faith was the given, revealed, and authorised version of reality. Faith was creed. It was not questioned or challenged; it was to be accepted and believed. To challenge existing doctrine, to hold divergent views, to look at life differently than the authorities of the day allowed, was to be a heretic, to be a rebel, to be socially disruptive and a saboteur of all that was good and right. You were an enemy of God and best placed at arm’s length from the rest of the Christianity community lest your corrupting influence infect and affect others.
In the 19th century, the opposite of faith was doubt. To doubt, to wonder whether something was accurate, right or true … was to side with science and philosophy, to suggest that knowing and professing the creeds was not that important, that some doctrines might not be true … some teachings might not accord with reality. To doubt was to place human ingenuity above the revealed wisdom of God. And if one element of doctrine were questioned or one aspect of belief were challenged, the whole edifice might come tumbling down. To dare suggest that the world was not made at 9am on Monday 23 October 4004 BC was to risk the integrity of the entire Bible despite the flaws and shortcomings in this method of calculating the world’s age. Doubters flirted with uncertainty and embraced fads that might further dangerous commodities like liberty and freedom.
Over the last thousand years, the strong anchor points of belief and of life have been threatened. There no longer seems a privileged standpoint from which to view truth and reality. All standpoints seem relative, every opinion seems to have its own virtue and its own logic. In ancient times, you did not choose to be religious; you simply were. In modern times, people had to start choosing to be religious. In the post-modern times in which we live, we now know that we choose to be religious – whatever that means. And there exists one of our problems: in choosing to be religious in one way we are afraid about what we might be saying about all the others, including no faith at all – even that they might be a distortion or falsehood.
In the 20th century, the opposite of faith was certainty. In contrast to an earlier mindset that our view of life and living was incomplete or partial because we could not see nor experience anything that was beyond the detection of our senses, there were those who claimed that complete knowledge and absolute truth were within our reach thanks to the scientific method and the power of human reason … and that soon we could give a compelling account of all there is – removing the need for uncertainty about ourselves and our world – and obviating the need for faith. Those who persisted with faith in God were either afraid or unwilling to grasp advances in science – they were people who preferred uncertainty and partial explanations of reality because it allowed them to cling to a God of the gaps – a God that was only as big as the things human beings had yet to explain. Certainty was the opposite of faith. Conversely, there were believers who alleged that certain things in the world were certain – that the existence of God could be proved, providence could be measured and salvation was a concrete concept that was reflected in the twists and turns of human history – visible to those with eyes to see. They preached faith but proffered certainty.
Having faith has meant different things in different epochs of human civilisation. Many people are so sure there is a God and many people are just as sure there is no God … or they live a life which implies that sort of certainty. The atheist mocks the believer; the fundamentalist denounces the atheist. At its worst, no-one listens and everyone is condemned – often with violent ferocity. We Christians ought to be very aware that our understanding of God, heaven and hell is incomplete and that we do not, and cannot ever, know all that there is to know – that we cannot be certain (and must not) about everything although we feel sure about some things.
But what of doubt – should we flee from it, or perhaps embrace it? Doubt is not a bad thing. It is powerful, it keeps us honest and ensures we are sincere. A wise person once said: ‘I am grateful to my atheist friends, they keep me from cheating’. Doubt reminds us that religious faith is not the obvious interpretation of reality. Doubt reminds me that there are other ways of seeing the world – because others see the world differently from us. Doubt destroys our sentimentality and makes us deal with the world as it really is … to let me hear and see the many things which say to others that there is no God. Doubt makes us open to the thoughts of people whose experience of life is different to ours and it can enlarge our sense of being human so that our empathy and sympathy are expanded.
As Christians, we are people of faith … a faith informed by the Bible, by tradition and by reason. We look at reality in the light of those three sources … and we find the essence of truth and meaning in the wonderful birth and the tragic death of Jesus, the Son of God. On this much we stand firm and resolute. These events, we believe, are crucial for any proper understanding of reality and any attempt to discern truth. But such events are radically unsuited to the way of this world. The Jesus story is inherently scandalous, too absurd to be accepted as a key happening by most, let alone all. It is because God’s ways are so different to those of human beings, that our decision to exercise faith … to see the world in the light of the manger and the cross, requires not just some casual nod, not just passing approval, but a profound ‘yes’. It demands a break with the world and its wisdom … to which we give an emphatic ‘no’. It requires a movement of the heart, the soul and the mind … especially in a country like Australia in which the expression of faith is no longer an everyday social custom. To say I believe and I have faith – that I choose to do something about my belief (because faith is belief in action), is harder to do, it costs more and so it means more. As for the Government’s desire to protect religious freedom, I wonder if it misses the point.
More and more, Christians and their belief will appear to be peculiar. I am not at all concerned by this because it will put the question raised by Jesus – “who do you say that I am?” – in the spotlight and require a firm and unambiguous answer. In the season of Advent, we concentrate on the coming of Christ – the wonderful truth that God is with us. Those who have faith, need to be ready for Christ’s coming and to be prepared to meet him. It is also a time in which we invite others, those with open minds and willing spirits, to consider what they believe … why they believe it … what comfort or confusion it brings them … and whether they have doubts that might be the opening to faith and a new reason for living … in companionship with one who said “have faith in God, have faith also in me: I go to prepare a place for you”. Even so, come Lord Jesus. Amen.
During the past 15 months, as a consequence of the pandemic, I have been part of more video conferences than I would have ever imagined … and I am over them. Although I can hear and see people, and often with great clarity, I would rather be in the same room breathing the same air. This is why I am going to Perth tomorrow week to conduct some interviews, because I would rather be speaking with people than looking at them on a screen. This is why I suspect there will always be limits to the digital experience and why old-fashioned ways of communication still have their place in the market. For example, where would authors be without printing presses that produce everything from magazines to books?
And we still want to hear some speak, to experience them preach, because the speaking and the preaching are interactive. You respond to me and I respond to you. Doing a sermon in my shearing shed while looking into my mobile phone does not inspire me to become very animated. In fact, it’s sterile and what you get is a bit stale – partly because it is recorded and then replayed. By way of contrast, when we read the four gospels and their accounts of Jesus preaching, we are struck by their response. No-one was indifferent to him. He drew crowds, not dispersed them. People didn’t have to be dragged along to formal meetings at which they were promised an uplifting message, they followed him and when the moment was right, he addressed them, and most of those who heard felt he was speaking directly to them.
In a world of sound bites, in which attention spans are limited, and most people either listen or ignore what they are hearing within 10 seconds, the speaker must be able to connect very quickly. I understand why this is so – there is so much being said – and I also despair because not everything can be reduced to a sound bite – a 20 second statement of the facts and their importance, or the idea and its relevance. I am confident no-one could accuse Anglicans of pandering to the sound bite. In fact, quite the reverse. Anglicans are known for being long-winded, somewhat wordy and occasionally obscurantist – they use words that most people neither use nor understand.
If you ever visit a Christian bookshop (although all bookshops generally are becoming rare) and seek out something Anglican as a baptism or confirmation gift, you will always find a copy of a prayer book. But you probably need a dictionary as well (or perhaps just a glossary) to explain what words mean … and what the services are trying to convey about what Christians believe and what is distinctive about Anglican faith. There are so many things in the prayer book that are not explained, words the drafters assume the reader would understand, phrases that presumably make sense – despite their odd construction. For someone new, without any exposure to what the Bible is or what the prayer book is intended to convey, the possibility of drawing near to God and having an encounter with Jesus is possibly lost.
I have been thinking about this recently as I work on my book about Special Forces misconduct in Afghanistan. What does the reader already know and what do I need to tell them, to help them understand the arguments I am presenting and the conclusions I am drawing. There is so much jargon and so many euphemisms and acronyms! It is no wonder that so much of what happens in public life is beyond the grasp of so many people; and little surprise that fewer people than ever before have any sense of the Christian message and why it is good news. They might be of a mind to reject it even if they did have it carefully explained … but I wonder how many don’t bother because the packaging is impossible to open, meaning the words don’t make sense or resonate with what they know or think or feel.
It doesn’t surprise me that people come to church but don’t feel the need to return – especially after baptisms. Perhaps it’s because church people love their terminology and appear to want to educate others … so they too can sound like church people. On one level, the desire to educate our friends and neighbours, to expand their horizons beyond the earthly and mundane, to enhance their appreciation of some timeless wisdom, sounds commendable. I suppose it is a form of outreach and connection but it is very different to Luke’s account of Pentecost with tongues of fire and speaking in unknown languages – which was no doubt meaningful and memorable.
When the flames came down on that Pentecost celebration mentioned in the book of Acts, two different things could have happened. The flames and the associated speaking in a new language could have settled on the apostles or just as easily on the Parthians, Medes, Elamites and other people who had gathered in the house. After all, nothing would have prevented God from giving the foreigners a chance to speak Greek. That would have been a vivid reversal of the Tower of Babel story; humans deciding to become like God being thwarted by different languages, God deciding to bestow divinity on human beings by drawing them together with a common language. Very neat.
But no, the divine flame and the Holy Spirit settle on the apostles. For the church to be alive, we are being told that it is the responsibility of the church to speak in the language of the stranger, the language of the visitor coming into the house, rather than for the stranger to be expected to speak in a language that the church expects and knows.
Today I am not focused on whether or not God wants us to use the word ‘stage’ rather than ‘sanctuary’ to describe this elevated platform within St Matthias, although a healthy congregation will make the visitor welcome and be unconcerned that they might not know or follow established customs. What I am talking about, and what the writer of the book of Acts finds important enough to record, is that the church is always being called on to be changed, to find itself made anew, to shape itself around the society in which it is placed.
I am not saying to conform or compromise but to be attentive and alert to the community in which the church is located. There is something holy for the church in finding common ground with people who have nothing to do with the church. There is something holy in showing the un-churched that we understand them and proving to the de-churched that we are willing to be changed for their sake—and for ours.
What happened on the first Pentecost was that the apostles were changed. The insiders learned to speak a new language; that of the outsider. The comfortable thing for the church, the easy thing then and now, is for God to change the outsider to be like us. The hard thing for the church and for the Christian is to be changed. Being mindful that it is Pentecost, we might say that it easier for the outsider to be purified by God’s fire, than for the insider who feels no need for purification … or has lost sight of what it might mean. The easy thing is for someone else to repent. The hard thing is for us to turn around.
It is a human trait that we want everyone to be like us. But one of the consequences of the resurrection is to see old, uncomfortable things in a new light. Seeing health where once there was disease. Seeing love where once there was fear. Seeing peace when the call to arms is so loud. Observing death but overlooking life.
One of the most powerful evangelism tools we have is to change how we view our families and friends, our neighbours and work colleagues, to name a few examples. Do we see Jesus in them? Do we find ourselves resurrected to a new life? Are we willing to learn the language of what it is like to be the bottom 10% of society rather than wherever we are? Are we willing to learn how to speak like someone who has no health insurance, no money for an interstate holiday, and who lives in fear that the loss of one pay cheque will be a disaster? Can we make connections with people who have always, and usually rightfully so, feared the affluence and hubris of Christian churches and their members? The church exists for those who are not yet its members but are they aware of that? What do I express by my actions, what do I exemplify by my deeds? Do I display any signs that the kingdom of God has come nearer?
If we are willing to reflect and to learn, then there is a chance for the church to bind up old wounds and heal them, to show the power of love to overcome animosity, to bring hope that the future for every person does not have to resemble the past. That is resurrection. Can we speak the language of the world in ways that makes the average person, standing on the edge of respectability or security or fear, find meaning and purpose … and even hope and joy? If we do, then it is Pentecost all over again, and this long-preserved biblical story from the book of Acts will once again occur. Amen.
One of the ironies of being human is that parts of our experience our unique – they are specific to us – and parts are universal – they are common to every living person. We are like no-one who has ever lived but we are born like everyone else. The circumstances of our lives are unparalleled and yet all our days converge in death. We oscillate between the holding on to the things that make us who we are, even as we hanker for things that make us like others. Much in Kerry’s life intersects with my own. He was born in Wollongong; I grew up there. His middle name was Ronald; it was my first name before being adopted. We joined the Navy and were once shipmates in the aircraft carrier HMAS Melbourne – me junior and inconsequential, he senior and significant. And we both found a place to call home on the Mayfield Road – about 9kms apart (he in Mayfield and me in upper east Tarago) – and realised there was much common ground between us beyond Wollongong, the Navy and farming.
When I spoke with Kerry for the final time at Clare Holland House not far from here, I spoke about the weather, the state of the pasture and the season ahead. Kerry nodded when I spoke about the prospect of good cattle prices this year … and said, apropos nothing: “I want to go home.” It was a poignant moment. I looked at him and there was nothing I could say in reply. Home. It is a place, like no other, anywhere in the world. For some, it is wherever they lay their hat; for others it can only be one place, a special location, where there is safety and security, reassurance and re-creation, point and purpose – and when that location is where we experience love and kindness from family and friends, it is where we will always long to be. In Kerry’s life, in my life and probably in yours too (if you have worn a uniform), we have lived in many houses but called few of them home.
When Kerry said last week: ‘I want to go home’, it meant so much. On one level, he had in mind the property “Calderwood” on the Mayfield Road. But, on another, he was, of course, thinking about that place where we can be ourselves, where we don’t need to pretend, there are no masks … we are, who we are … we find acceptance and acknowledgement of our worth as a human being, fashioned in the image of God, like no-one else … but like everyone else. For Kerry, the very necessary trip from Mayfield Road to Clare Holland House signalled the end of his journey through this world and heralded the start of another … because we are not physical beings having a spiritual experience but spiritual beings having a physical experience as we navigate the hills and valleys of this world ahead of our return to the God who knows our name and holds us in an eternal embrace.
Conscious that his life was ebbing away, Kerry had time to reflect on what he made of the gift of life presented to him in 1939 – and we pause to reflect on his life as we attempt to come to terms with its depth and breadth. What a moment to be born – the world was about to enter the most cataclysmic event of modern times – the Second World War – when the Australian people and their property were directly threatened for the first and only time in the Commonwealth’s short history. These were dark days and even in Wollongong, the local home guard (which included my grandfather Tom), manned a gun emplacement on Cliff Road in the event of a Japanese attack on shipping at Port Kembla. As a little boy, Kerry must have wondered about the world he entered and which shaped his formative years.
But we know what he made of his very considerable abilities and aptitudes as we have heard from his family and colleagues. He dedicated himself to the profession of medicine and was highly regarded in civilian practice and in the Navy, where his experience and expertise was recognised by his steady promotion through the ranks to Surgeon Captain. When someone like John Parkes speaks highly of someone, and I have known John for 36 years as esteem his judgement, they are truly the recipient of high praise. Kerry made his life a gift to others and we are the beneficiaries of his generosity in so many ways.
Like you, it is difficult to comprehend Kerry’s death because the world without Kerry is incomprehensible, such was his place in my life and yours as well. We are no longer able to see him, hear him or speak with him, and this is so hard to bear. The world is diminished at his death and we are impoverished by his passing. The void that his passing has left in our lives is now starting to take its toll. And while we feel sad at his passing, we are again reminded of the wonderful truth that every human person is indeed unparalleled in human history. There is a reminder every time I look at my hand closely and ponder my fingerprints – you and I are new creations, which makes us special and worthy of respect and regard. But it is a hard truth too because it means that none of us can be simply replaced like a broken part in an appliance. No-one and no-thing can take Kerry’s place in our lives. Although other people live and exist outside of us, they also find their place and live within … touching us and changing us by their strengths and weaknesses, and their triumphs and failures. It is for this reason that we farewell Kerry as a community because we need the support that each one of us can offer another in this most unsettling of times … when we don’t feel at ease, when we don’t feel settled, when we might struggle to feel at home when some things are forever changed.
It is for this reason that we reflect upon the Bible, and the two readings in our service speak to our circumstances with confidence. The Psalm is an ancient reminder that the world is not benign or without evil. But with God’s presence, we can be led out of darkness into light, from fear into abundance. And yet, like sheep, we wander into danger and expose ourselves to malevolence. We are sometimes our own worst enemies – individually and together.
When we come to the New Testament reading from John’s gospel, we are drawn into a world of political intrigue and imperial oppression where self-centredness and physical violence are constant threats. In the hope of experiencing the Kingdom of God, a few people started following an itinerant Jewish teacher and preacher – Jesus of Nazareth.
His closest disciples, and there were 12 of them, followed him for three years. They left their families and their livelihoods in order to be led into a deeper spiritual experience, a deeper communion with God. They had seen and heard things that shattered their prejudice, exposed their complacency and expanded their world. This Jesus had said and done, what only God could say and do. They believed they were in the presence of holiness, godliness and righteousness. And yet, they were worried about the future, about what it would bring – both blessings and hardships – and yet, they could face them with Jesus by their side. To demonstrate his love, he breaks bread with them, he pours out wine for them, and washes their feet. And then he announces that he is leaving them. This is unexpected and unwelcome news. They are stunned and terrified. And then we come to the first six verses in John chapter 14.
Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in me because in Father’s house there are many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you? I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am.
In essence, he says, you will be at home with God for all time – and nothing will disrupt or destroy that union. His followers feared they had no place to call their own … he spoke words of compassion, pointing them to their extended family and their eternal home beyond this world and this life. Could he be believed? Yes, because when he died a few days later, and then returned, resurrected, from the grave … he demonstrated power over life and death and inaugurated the journey to our heavenly home by faith in trust. He invites us to follow him as we hear these words which are also intended for us.
When Kerry said: ‘I want to go home’, he knew by faith and in trust, that he was going home – and that our service today would be a celebration of his homecoming – as he is enveloped in the loving arms of the God to whom we will shortly commend his spirit. Jesus invites you to walk with him too.