Readings, Luke 21:25-36 and 1 Thes 3:9-13
Image, Gordon Coutts, Waiting (1895)
 
Jesus’ rather striking words in today’s gospel reading arise in response to a question. Having made the alarming remark that the Temple shall be thrown down, he is asked, Teacher, when will this be, and what will be the sign that this is about to take place?
 
Jesus’ response has given rise to all manner of speculation about the ‘signs of the times,’ at least in part, because there does seem to be some movement in the focus of the speech. For the most part it explicitly concerns what will come to pass within the generation of those present. The destruction of the Temple at the hands of Roman Imperial violence in 70CE had likely already occurred by the composition of Luke’s gospel and so would be fresh in the minds of Christian communities reading it. For them, the destruction of the Temple further services the understanding Jesus’ own body as the Temple (now ascended and impervious to the whims of imperial violence). Take heart, they might say in the face of persecution, we can be scattered but no distance can ever arise between us and our temple.
 
At the same time, there are sections of Jesus’ response that elude the historical referent. That is to say, Jesus also seems to be speaking of something to come. For the destruction of the Temple happened without Nation rising against nation, without great earthquakes, famines and plagues; without dreadful portents and great signs from heaven. The Temple was sacked, the people scattered, and yet where were signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars? Why did all this happen, and yet the people did not see the Son of Man coming in a cloud with power and great glory? These loose threads, this excess, lead Christians to take a ‘both and’ approach to the passage. Yes, in the first instance, Jesus responds to the question of the Temple, the “little apocalypse” which will happen before this generation passes away. But that also, in the second instance, Jesus refers to the end of all things, to the great and glorious Day of the Lord, when the judgment and restoration of all things will take place.

Of course, the gesture to the broader apocalypse creates its own set questions – many of which concern signs and portents, and fuel the desire to categorise the stages of history and eschatology. Many a sign, graph, or table has been devoted to the question asked of Jesus: when will this be? Speculation of this kind are complicated in the contemporary context, where there is often an unhelpful conflation of the modern nation state of Israel and the covenantal people of Israel (who exist within and beyond the modern state with a range of feelings and theologies toward it). Contemporary conflict in this region should not be read solely through the lens of precursors or fulfilment of biblical imagery, nor understood only in relation to Christian eschatology. Doing so reduces the promised end to a problem to be solved and in so doing frustrates our compassion and calling as Christians. For the end is not a bingo card to be stamped, but a horizon of hope that shapes the way we live today.

The question of the end concerned the church in Thessalonica. They were so sure the end was coming in their life time, that they were growing concerned about what was going to happen to those who died before Christ’s return? Paul assures them they do not need to fear. For the Lord himself, with a cry of command, with the archangel’s call and with the sound of God’s trumpet, will descend from heaven, and the dead in Christ will rise first. Then we who are alive, who are left, will be caught up in the clouds together with them to meet the Lord in the air; and so we will be with the Lord for ever.
 
And yet, despite attending to the end, the main thrust of Paul’s letter to the church concerns their activity and witness in the present. In the passage we heard, Paul prays that the Lord shall increase their love for one another, that they will be strengthened in holiness until the coming of our Lord Jesus with all his saints. Later, when Paul writes concerning the times and the seasons, he does not dwell on how one might know when or how, but urges them simply to keep alert and awake. Put on the breastplate of faith and love, writes Paul, and for a helmet the hope of salvation. For God has destined us not for wrath but for obtaining salvation through our Lord Jesus Christ. Having been thus destined, Paul teaches: encourage one another, be at peace among yourselves, and seek to do good to all.
 
Advent is season where we learn once more to hasten and wait for the coming of Christ. As such, Advent readings contain numerous injunctions to keep alert, keep watch, to stay awake and be ready. But what does this look like? For my kids, waiting for someone to arrive means standing at the window with binoculars asking if ever passing car belongs to their friend. Back when I worked in uni chaplaincy, hosting events with no idea if anyone would arrive, waiting consisted of pacing back and forth, looking for a glimpse of recognition (or better yet enthusiasm) from any student who came by! But this eye-straining, patience-testing, anxiety-inducing alert waiting, is not what defines an Advent people.
 
It is not that we forget about the return of Christ or promised end (both vital in an age where hope is so often put to the test), but that we redefine what it means to hasten and wait. It is not stocking up on red twine to string together clues. No, the way we wait is to increase in love and prayer for one another and our world. We stay alert for the coming of Christ in glory by staying alert for the coming of Christ in the least of these. We ready ourselves for the coming of the kingdom in its fullness by seeking first the kingdom on earth. We keep awake to the yearned for restoration of all things by tending to God’s creation in our daily life. We yearn for the day when we shall see God face to face by seeking God’s face in worship, prayer, scripture, and a life of mercy. We wait, in short, by seeking to live as if we are no longer waiting.
 
Jesus’ response in Luke weaves the little apocalypses of this age with the great unveiling of the age to come. Paul’s letter to Thessalonica weaves confidence in what is to come with exhortations for what is needed today. What is to come and what is occurring are related, though this relation is not limited to that of sign and fulfilment. Rather both fall within the concern of Christ (and thus of Christians). After all, Christ’s response is not limited to prediction. He laments that the Temple’s desolation will lead to pain, scattering, and violence visited upon the vulnerable. And as Christ was concerned for that wanton act of imperial violence visited upon his generation, so we should be in ours. For this kind of violence and subjugation has no place in the age to come when swords are beaten into ploughshares. And as Paul was concerned for the grief befalling those who bury their loved ones, so we should be too. For the sting of death has no place in the age to come when every tear shall be wiped from our eyes. To be an Advent people is to view the end not as a problem to predict, but a promise to empower. Alert and awake, we do what little we can to respond to the little apocalypses that befall the world’s vulnerable today, what little we can to increase in love and good deeds for one another and to all. In doing so we prepare ourselves to receive both the Christ child born into oppression and humility, and Christ the King who comes on the clouds with great power and glory at the end of the age. These are signs of life, signs of hope, and to these we cling.

Readings, John 18: 33-37 and Revelation 1: 4b-8
Image, Station I: Pilate condemns Jesus to death, Bruce Onobrakpeya (1969)
 
In Shakespeare’s Measure for Measure, the Duke of Vienna walks through the city disguised as a Friar, witnessing the many abuses of power being visited upon the city by his second-in-command Angelo. He remarks:
My business in this state
Made me a looker-on here in Vienna,
Where I have seen corruption boil and bubble
Till it o’errun the stew.
In the play’s final act, the Duke drops his disguise and confronts and condemns Angelo.
 
In his vision, John declared that when Christ returns on the clouds, every eye will see him,
even those who pierced him. Christ, in heavenly glory, rule of the kings of earth, will be recognisable to those who punished him as a criminal, who knew him only as the ironic king adorned with a crown of thorns… what are we to make of that?
 
Much of our scriptures and liturgy stress the continuity and consistency of God. The recognisability and trustworthiness of God’s character, the unchanged and unchanging quality of divine nature. As that reading from Revelation ended, ‘I am the Alpha and the Omega’, says the Lord God, who is and who was and who is to come, the Almighty. Who is God? Well, whoever God is, it is always the same, yesterday, today, tomorrow. As we say in the communion liturgy, Christ has died, Christ has risen, Christ has come again. Who is Christ? Well, whoever Christ is, is the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow.
 
Whatever we say about Christ in glory, cannot be inconsistent with Christ in humility. Whatever we say about Christ in eternity, cannot be in contradiction to Christ incarnate. This is particularly important when we come to Christ the King Sunday when it is so easy to start speaking of Jesus in a ways anathema to the Galilean peasant we know from the Gospels. Without careful attention to how we speak, the Christ coming in glory starts to sound like a cold and rigid medieval monarch leading a crusade, imposing his power and authority with undeniable force. And this, we quickly realise, feels at odds with the one who said true greatness is found in service, true love in laying down one’s life. At odds with he who stood before Pilate – facing impending torture and execution – and invited those around to listen to his voice as it testified to the truth, stood before Pilate and said that his followers had no need to take up the sword, because his kingdom is not like those of the world.
 
This is all to say, that yes, we await the day when Christ comes again in glory, but that what we will see is not a categorical break from what those who walked with Jesus two thousand years ago saw. To speak of Christ’s rule and reign, of Christ as king, is a kind of speech that must pass a quality test of sorts… does it still sound like Jesus of Nazareth?
 
Does it sound like the one who stopped in his tracks when the bleeding woman touched the hem of his cloak? Does it sound like the one who looked on the crowds with compassion and ensured they were fed? Does it sound like the one who wept at Lazarus’ tomb? Does it sound like the one who told his disciple to sheave his sword and healed the wounded soldier? Does it sound like the one who called his followers friends? Does it sound like the one who proclaimed the kingdom of God where last are first, debts forgiven, and the forgotten found? Does it sound like the one who from the cross asked God to forgive his tormentors, his friend to tend to his mother, and promised paradise to the thief by his side?
 
Even when resurrected, it is clear that as much as some things have changed (Jesus is more or less unbound from the rule of physics, able to move through walls or disappear entirely), more has remained the same: Jesus still bears the wounds of the world, still attends to the grief of his friends, still gathers those scattered and forlorn, still offers food to the hungry.
 
So it is with the ascension. Jesus, no longer bound bodily on earth, sits at the right hand of God. Yet, he remains consistent in his nature: Jesus sends the Spirit to be our counsellor and to secure our adoption into the household of God. He gives himself in bread and wine, and when we pray in his name he advocates as our High Priest (familiar with our struggles).
 
He is who was, is, and is to come; He who died, is risen, and will come again. The manner of his presence may change, but his nature does not. This is what it means to confess that those who pierced him on the cross shall recognise him on the clouds. As the one who testified to and was identified as the truth, there is no falsity within him, no duplicity, no late in the play surprises that reveal he was not who he seemed to be. The one born of Mary and suffered under Pontius Pilate is recognisable as the firstborn of the dead, and the ruler of the kings of the earth.
 
And yet, in one of those delightfully mystical paradoxes so common to our faith, there is also an unrecognisable quality to Christ the King. For when Jesus teaches of that final day when he shall come in glory, placing sheep and goats on his right and left, Christ (like the Duke) will be revealed to have been walking among us still, walking among us unrecognised as the least of these. And to deepen the mystery of it all, Christ has gone unrecognised by both the wicked who did not feed the hungry and visit the prisoner, and by the righteous who welcomed the stranger and clothed the naked. This is the paradox of this age, the time between Christ’s resurrection and return. For when Christ comes on the clouds in glory he shall be recognised by all, but until then Christ comes to us here and is recognised by no one.
 
This parable of Jesus’ cannot teach us to recognise Christ, but it can teach us what it means to recognise that Christ is King. For we recognise the reign of Christ when we give the hungry something to eat, the thirsty something to drink, when we welcome the stranger and cloth the naked, when we visit the sick and imprisoned.
 
We do not wish to be found, like those in Vienna, suddenly surprised that the Duke walked among us in these days. Exposed for our lack of care and compassion, surprised that the modest apparel disguised his glory. Instead, let us encourage one another that to live within the reign of Christ is to recognise our king in the least of these. To recognise Christ in those who call on us to provide the kind of care we recognise and trust as Christ’s.
 
The world seeks to teach us how to recognise prisoners, strangers, and the needy. So many kingdoms of the world have sought to establish their identity and bounds by teaching their subjects to recognise the least in ways marked by denigration, dismissal, and derision. So many earthly kings have sought to establish their virtue by conditioning subjects to recognise the supposed threat of the least of these. Angelo sought to establish his rule through a strict set of sexual mores and the punishment of those deemed deviant. The tragic aim of so many worldly kingdoms is to seek to cast the marginalised and oppressed, not only as so much lower than a God, but lower still than a man. However, to follow Christ as king is to learn a new kind of recognition. To be a subject of this kingdom is to bestow proper value and worth, proper welcome and care on those too often “misrecognised.” To confess Christ as King is to treat the least as bearing his visage and moving to stand in solidarity in the work for justice and dignity. It is the treatment of the least that proves true recognition of the King and the true authority of his kingdom over and against the kingdoms of the world which would have us recognise the least as anything other than a child of God.
 
Christ is our king, and we can recognise him through his humble service and magnificent love. And Christ is our king, who goes among us as the unrecognised, awaiting us to serve and love in his very example. Let us go forth then, to serve and stand with those who bear the presence of Christ, in the way of Christ, for the glory of Christ. 

Readings, Psalm 127 and Mark 12:38-44
Image, Bed 2, Nemesio Antunez, 1980
 
Macbeth (well, William Shakespeare’s Macbeth) is overwhelmed by worry. Having killed Duncan he fears that his machinations could be exposed by Banquo, and laments to his wife,
Ere we will eat our meal in fear, and sleep
 In the affliction of these terrible dreams
 That shake us nightly. Better be with the dead,
 Whom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace,
 Than on the torture of the mind to lie
In restless ecstasy. Duncan is in his grave.
 After life’s fitful fever he sleeps well.
 
Later in the play, having now also done in Banquo, Lady Macbeth suffers her own perturbation, made manifest in restless nights, walking hither and thither, active though asleep, hoping to expunge the stain of blood from her hands.
 
This, the play suggests awaits those who build their house on betrayal. There is no rest for the wicked, whose own minds and bodies turn against them in violent agitation. Sleep provides no respite, bed no balm, for here especially they suffer the affliction of their conscious, the futility of their temporary gains, the peril at their gates. Better to be dead, Macbeth notes, at least then you get some sleep.
 
Unless the Lord builds the house, notes the psalmist, those who build it labour in vain. Unless the Lord guards the city, the guard keeps watch in vain. It is in vain that you rise up early and go late to rest, eating the bread of anxious toil, for God gives sleep to his beloved.
 
Like last week we are drawing on a psalm (and some Shakespeare) to enter deeper into the paradox, mystery, and hope of the confession of Christ the King. Where last week the psalm contrasted the trustworthiness of Divine rule compared to mortal princes, this week sets human labour and energy against the foundation of God. Where, last week, the confession of Christ’s kingship worked as a check against placing all hope in finite, earthly power structures, today it checks against believing that the church can be built and preserved by our efforts. No matter how early we rise, how late we work, how diligently we watch, or how arduously we labour, it is in vain unless it is the Lord who builds, guards, acts. Fundamental to the confession of Christ the King, is Christ the cornerstone and foundation of the church.
 
The Uniting Church’s Basis of Union, the founding document of our church by which three denominations became one movement made this point explicitly. Rather than appealing to what the individual churches might contribute… The Uniting Church acknowledges that the Church is able to live and endure through the changes of history only because its Lord comes, addresses, and deals with people in and through the news of his completed work. Though we are charged to live as witnesses, it is Christ who reaches out to command people's attention and awaken faith; [Christ who] calls people into the fellowship of his sufferings… Christ who, in his own strange way… constitutes, rules and renews them as his Church.
 
Or, in the words of Ephesians, Christ is the cornerstone of the household of God: In him the whole structure is joined together and grows into a holy temple in the Lord; in whom you also are built together spiritually into a dwelling-place for God. Unless Christ builds the church, we labour in vain.
 
Now, such a lesson could be stressed as a warning – a bulwark against going our own way, leaning too much on human labour, managerialism, or fads. A warning against deferring too much authority to earthly leaders in the church, a reminder that none should be thought above reproach or accountability because they are supposed to be essential to a church’s survival. It reminds us that Christ awakens faith, Christ feeds the church, Christ renews the body on the way to a promised end, and therefore we cannot neglect Christ in prayer, proclamation, and praise should we wish to be the church.
 
But such a lesson can also be read as a consolation, a balm, a hope. As the psalmist sings: God gives rest to the beloved. With Christ as the head and foundation of the church, the one who preserves and renews the church as cornerstone and high priest, we are freed from anxious toil. We can remove the burden of the church’s future from our shoulders. We no longer need to rise early and go late to rest, fitfully tossing and turning through the night our mind awash with all the things we have to do tomorrow. As co-labourers, as disciples, as those Christ calls friends, we give up the bread of anxious toil and eat the bread of life! We celebrate our liberation from the responsibility which belongs rightly to Christ; since what we need Christ to do, is not something we can pull off.
 
To confess Christ’s sovereign headship over the church is to make possible real rest. Our labour is not foundational, it is a joyful response to what Christ has, is and will do in, through, and beyond the church. When our labour is co-labour with Christ, our labour is not in vain.
 
It is this very confession that makes it possible to celebrate the widow’s offering. Because if the church was built and guarded with human hands, what difference really could that widow’s offering make. Let’s be serious, it’s a pittance. Much more pivotal are those loud and showy offerings of the rich. Truly, if the church is built alone by Christians, then we ought to overlook whatever hypocritic, self-serving, motivations they might have for giving. However, if the church lives and endures through the changes of history only because of Christ, then we can rightly celebrate the widow’s offering. Not because her mite will make the difference, but because her witness does. In drawing attention to her giving humbly out of her poverty, Christ awakens our attention and faith.
 
The widow’s offering reminds us that our labour is not in vain when it is meek and mild, when it is small and fragile, when it is humble and insufficient. Our labour is in vain when we believe it mighty, when it parades as the answer, when it takes the responsibility to guard and build. The widow’s offering can never be confused with anything but co-labouring, as anything but an offering which depends upon divine intervention. This is why it is celebrated in the gospel, and through this we learn how to celebrate these kinds of offerings in our church today.
 
For if Christ were not the head of the church, if the church does not endure through history only because of his word and presence, then it would be difficult to celebrate the little acts of generosity, kindness, faithfulness, mercy, and justice that sprinkle about the life of the church today. Because if the value and impact of these acts of prayer, fellowship, and witness were left to the cold calculations of material impact, as if the only thing standing between the church and the gates of hell were our own input, all we would see was how much they came up short, how much more still needed to be done. On our own, our efforts of faithful living might seem like trying to right a sinking ship by scooping out water with a teaspoon. What hope of a good night’s sleep is found in such an understanding of the church?
 
But this is not how we understand the church. We understand the church as a household of God built on the cornerstone of Christ, as a body with Christ as its head, as a people with Christ as their High Priest. And when we understand it this way, then when we lay the smallest stone, twitch the smallest muscle fibre, or offer the quietest prayer, all these small things are not measured on their own. They are part of the cosmic and eternal labour of God. And as such they become witnesses to Christ’s own activity which offers rest to the mind tormented by restless ecstasy with the promise that our labour (celebrated or unnoticed) is not in vain, for we do not labour alone.

Readings, Psalm 146 and James 2:1-7
 Image, Ethiopian Double Tryptic, artist unknown (C19th)
 
Brutus (well, at least William Shakespeare’s Brutus) stands before a Roman crowd, seeking to assuage their concerns and make his case for why it was necessary to slay Caesar.
Romans, countrymen, and lovers, hear me for my
cause, and be silent that you may hear. Believe me
for mine honour, and have respect to mine honour
that you may believe. Censure me in your wisdom,
and awake your senses that you may the better
judge. If there be any in this assembly, any dear
friend of Caesar’s, to him I say that Brutus’ love
to Caesar was no less than his. If then that friend
demand why Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my
answer: not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved
Rome more. Had you rather Caesar were living, and
die all slaves, than that Caesar were dead, to live all
freemen? As Caesar loved me, I weep for him. As he
was fortunate, I rejoice at it. As he was valiant, I
honour him. But, as he was ambitious, I slew him.
There is tears for his love, joy for his fortune, honour
for his valour, and death for his ambition.
 
Brutus had placed all his trust in Caesar, but Caesar could no longer be trusted, his ambition could no longer go unchecked. The great tragedy is that for all of Brutus’ nobility and reason, he too loses the trust of Rome, and his plans for the republic thwarted. Despite his rival Antony declaring him the noblest Roman of them all, Brutus (along with those who followed him) see the towering sprout of their vision shrivel into dust with his death.
 
The psalmist sings, Do not put your trust in princes, in mortals, in whom there is no help. When their breath departs, they return to the earth; on that very day their plans perish. Scepticism and caution toward human authority is a theme which runs like a river through the Bible. It is not that there aren’t noble human leaders, or voices in scripture heralding the importance of obedience to human authority, but a strong voice remains which warns that any allegiance to a mortal ruler is bound to end in ruin. Whether that ruin comes through corruption, failure or betrayal, or whether, simply, with the natural end of life, no one is immune: Do not put your trust in princes, in mortals, in whom there is no help.   
 
We’re coming toward the end of the liturgical year, which culminates with Christ the King Sunday. And as we approach, we’ll explore some psalms which draw us into the mystery, paradox, and hope of Christ’s sovereignty. Today’s psalm establishes perhaps the cornerstone of the confession of Christ’s kingship, that while earthly princes and power structures might be expedient and necessary, none can be trusted in the way Christ can. None warrant our allegiance in the way God does. All are relative and contingent, compared to the eternal and universal sovereignty of our God.
 
Now this distinction is important for a few reasons. First, as already hinted at, it recognises that human leaders have all-too-human limitations. To uncritically and unreservedly pitch our tent in their camp will not only lead to disappointment but can all too easily lead to ruin.
 
James warns his congregation against the favouritism they are showing to the prosperous and the powerful, the kind of blind allegiance they give over to the ruling classes (who James reminds them are their oppressors!). To go all in on the princes of this earth (whether they are adorned with crowns and followed by soldiers, or adorned with honour and followed by sycophants) and give to them the best of this and the first of that, not only places them on the thrones belonging only to God, but leads us to dismiss and denigrate those whom God is known to be for.
 
[The Lord] executes justice for the oppressed;
   [The Lord] gives food to the hungry.
The Lord sets the prisoners free;
   the Lord opens the eyes of the blind.
The Lord lifts up those who are bowed down;
   the Lord loves the righteous.
The Lord watches over the strangers;
   God upholds the orphan and the widow…
 
As a direct counter to human princes, the psalmist details this as the character of our God. This is who we are commended to trust and praise. For unlike mortal princes and power structures (which the long sweep of human history alerts us are quick to kowtow to the preferences of those with money), God is not swayed by human riches, but takes the side of the downtrodden and forgotten.
 
Christ is our king, God is our sovereign, because – in having no need of human offerings or help – God cannot be swayed by the corrupting influences of power and prestige. Instead, God is free to take up the causes of the lowly without having to watch poll numbers and election cycles. But our allegiance to this God is earnt by more than a kind of affection for the poor; as if it were enough that God paid heed to the kingdom’s margins from an insulated throne room. No, we praise and trust our God because Christ gave up divine glory to take the form of a servant; lowly born among the oppressed and bowed down. We praise and trust because Christ demonstrated true greatness comes through service and true love is shown in laying down one’s life for one’s friends. It is not only God’s preference for but presence with the poor and oppressed that frees us to trust fully in Christ the King.
 
But this freedom to trust comes from something else as well. For unlike Brutus, we do not need to worry over what Christ would do with too much power. We know already that he has already been given all authority over heaven and earth and this he uses to intercede for us in mercy until the day he comes to turn the swords into ploughshares and wipe all tears from our eyes. Because we can trust Christ to be uncorruptible, trust God to always be the One who watches over the stranger, orphan, and widow, we do not have to spend our days with one suspicious eye trained upon our king. Unlike Brutus we do not have to fret and sweat through the night wondering whether we must take up the sword for the sake of the republic. Nor do we need to spend our days fundraising for the next election or worrying over whether this whole “feed the hungry and free the prisoners” thing will win votes. Instead, we are freed to be simple, grateful, and passionate subjects of God, devoting our days to seeking God’s kingdom.
 
Now such a pursuit may (indeed likely should) lead us into the all-too-human political arena. The confession of Divine sovereignty does not equate to quietism in human politics. For following Christ and seeking God’s Kingdom will lead us into relationships, alliances, and coalitions. Our work in domestic violence, or recent forays into addressing gambling harm, is motivated and spurred on by God's love of justice, by the gospel proclamation of the inherent dignity and of all God's creation, by the confession that Christ has come that we might have life in abundance, and from that place we forger partnerships and work alongside any number of community orgs and council initiatives.  It is in the act of seeking first the Kingdom of God that we  take up pen and write our elected reps, campaign for causes of justice, support movements for dignity, and critique war-mongering and global hypocrisy. The work may look the same as many others in our community,  but  when we do so as a response to our gleeful and grateful trust in God’s sovereignty, we do this work in a different posture. We do so, that is, viewing these mortal princes and power structures as expedient tools, and temporary, imperfect resources. None demand or deserve our ultimate trust or allegiance, none require our uncritical defence or deference, none hold our ultimate hope or promise. Instead, we find our happiness and trust in God and provisional usefulness in whatever the world might offer us as we seek to live in a way that reflects God’s political vision.  
[The Lord] executes justice for the oppressed;
   [The Lord] gives food to the hungry.
The Lord sets the prisoners free;
   the Lord opens the eyes of the blind.
The Lord lifts up those who are bowed down;
   the Lord loves the righteous.
The Lord watches over the strangers;
   he upholds the orphan and the widow…

May we, who are subject's of this Living Lord, seek to do likewise.

Reading Job 42
 Image, A detail from The Other Room (late 1930s), Vanessa Bell.
 
What does it mean to come out from the depths? To live beyond crisis? What is it to find oneself in a new chapter after life-defining loss or suffering? How does one live, always with, but now, somehow, somewhat, after rupture?
 
In the two weeks before our combined service we explored the book of Job as a poetic response to crisis, a fable on humans responses to suffering and evil beyond comprehension and control. Here, we reach the end of the book, which follows the dramatic appearance of God in the whirlwind, and moves us out of the immediacy of Job’s suffering and grievances, toward restoration and new beginning. With this, the question shift. No longer is it how we live before God and with one another when sitting in dust and ashes, but what does it mean to live when the dust is washed, clothes are mended, and table’s once more set for a feast?
 
The dramatic reversal at the end of Job often cops some flak. The kind of peaches and cream reversal of Job’s fortunes where all that was lost is replaced seems to run into an issue when it comes to his children. Because it is not that his children are resurrected, he simply has new ones to replace those lost. Once again, I stress the story of Job is a fable, and so, like the little disclaimer at the end of a movie’s credits, I can assure you that no real, living children were harmed in the making of this story. And yet, even if the broader (theological) point is taken, that God has remained faithful to Job, and that the one with the power to take, also gives, we might still feel the ending comes up short, particularly compared to the philosophical sophistication of the earlier chapters. Kind of like the unsatisfactory feeling we get when a good, suspenseful story is revealed to all be a dream. What’s the point of all of this, if, at the end, nothing has changed?
 
But perhaps, when we read closely, we discover that more has changed than first appears. Perhaps the question is less how is Job’s life is returned to him, but in what manner does Job return to his life?
 
The first thing he has to deal with is his friends. Those who showed up to sat with him silently in the dust, before they all started to speak… speech, we here learn from God “was not right.” Their varying efforts to account for Job’s suffering by insisting on his wickedness or God’s majesty now stand condemned. To atone for such folly they must bring an offering to Job and ask him to intercede on their behalf.
 
There is an interesting parallel here. We might remember that at the beginning of our story, Job would wake early on the days his children were to feast together to offer sacrifices in the off-chance that they might have unknowingly cursed God in their hearts. Now, instead, Job offers his prayers for those who insisted time and again that he had cursed God in his heart. 
 
How do we live with those who have walked with us in our grief, who have sought to offer words of comfort and consolation, those who showed us great patience and care, or perhaps failed to do so, those who never really understood what we were going through, what pain we were feeling, what we really wanted or needed in this season of grief. Sometimes these moments of high intensity forge unbreakable bonds, other times they open uncrossable gulfs. As we pick up the pieces of our lives we might find the very people closest to us become either the only ones who understand, or a difficult reminder of what we endured. Just last night I read this line in Sally Rooney’s Intermezzo, “Sometimes you need people to be perfect and they can’t be and you hate them forever for not being even though even though it isn’t their fault and it’s not your either. You just needed something they didn’t have in them to give you.” (p. 369)
 
God hands the fates of these friends over to Job. But despite the fact his friends failed him in his hour of need, he will not fail them in theirs. There is something of a transformation here in the character of Job. Where Job has argued and defended himself against his friends, his encounter with the whirlwind of God and his admission that he too spoke of what he did not understand, allow him a power and grace to extend forgiveness and intercession for his friends. In a manner that might remind us of Jesus’ intercession on the cross, Job prays for forgiveness for his friends for they did not know what they were doing. They too crumbled under the pressure of suffering too bewildering to comprehend, they too had their worlds ruptured, and they too should not be abandoned or condemned. Job might have been found blameless, but that doesn’t mean those bearing blame should be forgotten.
 
A disclaimer: Job’s actions might be exemplary, but they are not prescriptive. This is not a sermon about how you must respond to those who walked with you in times of grief (especially if they did so poorly). Such complex relations cannot be approached with a one-size-fits-all blanket. Nonetheless, we might be stirred by Job. He captures a vital truth of our faith: Christ did not cut from the vine those who denied and dispersed, but established a movement in his name of those who pray both that we might be forgiven our sins, as we forgive those who sin against us. 
 
With his friends sorted, Job’s fortunes are restored. Not only property and livestock but seven sons and three daughters (the same number as before). What is important to notice is that, unlike last time (and in an uncharacteristic fashion) his new daughters are named: Jemimah, Keziah, Keren-happuch. Details such as these should not be ignored. Biblical authors aren’t like Mark Twain, padding the pages because they are paid by the word. But what’s more than simply being named, Ellen Davis has noted that these are unusually sensuous names: “Dove,” “Spice-girl,” “Horn of Eyeshadow.” These names, with the detail that Job gave them inheritances and lived to see his children’s children, swirl together to present Job now as exuberant in affection, determined to enjoy the fullness of his days.
 
This feels like a marked change. Before, while his children would go to each other’s houses feasting, Job would rise early, alone, to pray for them. Now, he is with them, delighting in their lives and the pleasures of feasting together. The blessings he has received are not to be protectively worried over, but celebrated with others. Once more we are led to a deep truth of our faith, where the kingdom of God is likened so often to a banquet. The earth is the Lord’s and the earth is good, and it is a faithful celebration of our God to delight and take pleasure in what lies before us in the company of others. We are called to be a joyful people, which is in no way incompatible with being a people who mourn, rage, and struggle. The book of Job, again, doesn’t prescribe, but offers a way of living after the ravages of suffering and cataclysm, which is to celebrate new life, to give thanks for birdsong and spice, to delight in the beautiful, and linger in the company of the beloved.
 
The book of Job is about human responses when faced with suffering beyond our comprehension and control. And through these three sermons we have seen a range of responses: rage, confrontation, righteous anger, speechless grief, misguided philosophising. Now, on the other side of it all, we see another kind of response. Which is that, when possible, we do not let suffering and woe obliterate the fullness of our days. Job is transformed by the whirlwind in such a way as he is able to lay aside his grievance with God, his animosity with his friends, and take new delight in his life. He who once cursed the day he was born now celebrates all that has since been birthed. None of this happened quickly or easily. Job sat and stewed, raged with his friends and called God to account until, in a moment where eternity broke in before him, he allowed something new and surprising to occur both within and about him. And to this he brought the hard-won knowledge gained by suffering: grace to forgive and freedom to delight.
 
None of this can be simply applied one-to-one to our lives and suffering. For the losses we have known are not parables or poems; but all too literal. And the reversals of fortune we might know are unlikely to be as mathematically satisfactory as Job’s. Too many in the world have never had (let alone had twice) the kind of material and familial blessing Job enjoys, nor his world-transforming encounter with the Living God. And yet, as those who have heard the gospel message, who proclaim the new creation won through Christ’s death and resurrection, we are nonetheless a people who confess that somehow, in some way and at some point, new life breaks through, new tables are set, new delights emerge, new relations form, if not in this life, then at that kingdom banquet. In the meantime, we return to that opening question: what does it look like to come out from the depths and live beyond crisis? Job gives us something of a picture, and where possible we are encouraged to take heed of his example of grace, delight, and freedom, which allows the obliterating pain of one season not to be the sole author of our lives. It also encourages us to look to those suffering around us today. We might not be able to enact the kind of miraculous, poetic reversal that belongs to God, but we might yet be able to pull up a chair, weep with those who weep, rejoice with those who rejoice, rage with those who rage and answer the problem of suffering with lives of love.

Reading, Job 38:1-11, 34-41, 40:1-9 
Image, John Ross, The morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy. (1960)

 
Last week, Job, stricken by calamity, demands God answer his complaint. This week, God answers Job out of the whirlwind. In between the story of Job is broken into a series of speeches. Job’s friends make cases for why misery has befallen Job. Most work along a logic that since the wicked always receive just punishment at the hand of God, Job must actually be wicked. To which Job counters with two points: 1) defending his blamelessness, and 2) reminding them that by and large the wicked receive no punishment, no justice in this life: They spend their days in prosperity and in peace they go down to Sheol. They say to God, ‘Leave us alone! We do not desire to know your ways.’ So, Job contends not only am I not wicked, but even if I were that would not be enough to establish that this is why I suffer, since it doesn’t seem like God has much interest in bringing justice upon the wicked.
 
Time and again Job’s friends offer accounts for what has happened (accounts, we shall come to see, will be condemned by God as false speech) and time and again Job rebuffs their words and demands God answers him directly. Again, this is a testament to that fierce, determined faith Job exemplifies (which we discussed last week) one which is unwavering in its belief in God’s sovereign power and in his own right to demand God front up.
 
And so, eventually, God appears. This is the first time we have seen God in the narrative since the two early wagers with Satan, and the first time that Job has beheld God since all this began. It is important to remind ourselves that the story of Job is not history or journalism, but a poem, a fable, a parable. A story constructed in order to address the reality of human suffering, of the incomprehensibility of evil and woe. So how does God’s answer from the whirlwind do that?
 
One of my favourite contemporary novelists, Garth Greenwell, opens his new book, Small Rain, this way: They asked me to describe the pain but the pain defied description, on a scale from one to ten it demanded a different scale.
This is kind of like what God introduces into the story, a different scale. Instead of arriving to tell Job, look, here’s what happened… all the angels and I were hanging out, and then Satan came in, and well, one thing led to another... Or, coming and saying, look, Job, your friends are right, you sinned in your heart on April 16, 4062, and thus everything that has befallen you has been justified… Or, coming to say, look Job, I know you’re upset, but this is the reason bad things happen to good people… instead, God appears in a whirlwind and says,
Gird up your loins like a man, I will question you, and you shall declare to me.
 
Talk about a different scale? Job has been asking God to give account and God shows up and says, I’m the one asking the questions here: Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth? Tell me, if you have understanding. Not the most pastoral approach, indeed, rather accusatory. It is almost like if your new fridge was faulty and you called to get it returned and when you said, listen, everything at the back is freezing, the person on the helpline said, I’m sorry, were you there when I invented ice?!?
 
This moment was brought vividly to life in Terrance Malick’s film, Tree of Life. Early in the film a mother learns of the death of her son, and she utters, in desperate grief, Lord, did you know… where were you… what are we to you… answer me… and at this request the film goes back to the beginning of all things. In a near fifteen minute sequence it works its way slowly through the creation of the cosmos, the first creatures to populate the seas, the emergence and collapse of dinosaurs, only then it returns to the family. What this says is the only way to approach the questions born of this personal loss is to tell the whole story of creation. We are but part of this story, the story of all things which unfolded at the hand of God. Where were you, the mother asks, to which God responds, everywhere.
 
Many have deemed this is an unsatisfactory response. That God’s assertion of an eternal knowledge which trumps all temporal concerns is insufficient in the face of immediate, personal, unjust suffering. Job, it appears, does not find it wanting. He remarks at the end of God’s address, I have uttered what I did not understand, things too wonderful for me which I did not know… Therefore I recant and reconsider concerning dust and ashes. Job is sufficiently awed, his grievances transformed and any right to further speech given up.
 
But even if we don’t share Job’s position (nor his eventual reversal of fortune), we might still consider the whirlwind. Because maybe there is no satisfactory response to the problem of incomprehensible suffering to be found anywhere else? Perhaps the point is to change the scale, and thus change the perspective. Because whether or not we have or may grasp a reason, suffering occurs, catastrophes happen, loss and grief are inevitable. As we say in the funeral prayers:
Give us grace in the face of the mystery of life.
Give us the wisdom that says:
‘Even if our questions were answered,
even if we did know why,
the pain would be no less,
the loneliness would remain,
and our hearts would still be aching’.
 
And so perhaps, this swirling reminder of the majesty of God’s eternal presence, power, and provision give comfort. The gap between us and God, the finite and infinite, the created and Creator offers a new scale. The speech of God offers us a reality where there is something over, under, and around all of history’s inscrutable, scattered moments. But not just a random something, for when we take the testimony of the whole of Scripture, then we see that the something (or better someone) over, under, and around all the things that we can and cannot see and comprehend is the God who is love. The one who heard the morning stars sing is also the one who hears the cries of the oppressed and acts with a mighty hand. The one who knows when the mountain goat gives birth is the one who found the slave girl Hagar and her child in the wilderness and helped her survive. The one who numbers the clouds is the one who stood between the accused woman and those bearing stones and numbering sins. The one who can draw the Leviathan out of deepest ocean is the one who descended unto death in order to triumph over the grave and lead us to newness of life.
 
Not a flap of a wing nor a blink of an eye has occurred without God. And while this does not diminish the pain of loss, the grief of suffering, or our rage against evil, it does offer us something. A different scale, another way of thinking about the pain of the world. So much that might feel without reason, might appear without logic, might defy comprehension, might instead occur within the world and history God creates, sustains, and redeems. These moments are thus not, ultimately, without meaning, not ultimately random, not ultimately finished… each takes place within a bigger meaning, a bigger story, one which has always and will ever continue to unfold within the sphere of God’s interest and love.
 
This, as I have said from the start, does not solve everything (perhaps, for some, it solves nothing). But the story of Job is not set out, I believe, to do that. The whirlwind offers a picture of reality in which God is present. It offers a way of living where history’s many moments of violence and catastrophe are not the final, unaccountable word, but remain open to the redemptive and restorative activity of God. This doesn’t mean we must accept all things as they are – we, like Job, can bring our charges before God, and we must act upon the earth to seek justice, peace, and restoration. But the whirlwind offers us a foundation on which our faith and activity might rest: that while much lies beyond us, nothing lies beyond God, and in this there is hope, because God is love, and love never ends: it makes all things new.

Reading, Job 1 and 2.
Image, Job, Antonio de Pereda
 
“There was once a man in the land of Uz whose name was Job.” So begins one of the more immense, provocative, and mysterious stories in Scripture. Job provides the Bible’s most detailed study on the question of suffering and evil. A question we will not satisfactorily solve in one (or even a handful) of sermons. Nonetheless, where might this story take us?
 
Well, in the first instance, it takes us to the land of fables. There was once a man in the land... This is the Hebrew Bible equivalent of “Once Upon a Time.” Indeed, it is the very phrase that the prophet Nathaniel employs in his fable or parable of the man who steals a lamb told to condemn King David.
 
This helps our reading (and perhaps our sanity). We do not have to reckon with this picture of God making wagers with Satan as a literal representation of what God is like, nor as a picture of what’s going on in the heavenly realms. Similarly, we don’t have to worry about the literal lives of these children of Job crushed to death. The elements of the story are not a journalistic account of happenings, they exist to provoke and illustrate, leading the reader to consider the deeper questions and crises of human existence.
 
This last point is important. The book of Job (especially in its early chapters) is far less interested with the character of God than with how humans respond to suffering beyond our comprehension and control. To say it another way, the scene with God and Satan is not there to furnace our doctrine of God, rather it poetically intensifies one of the book’s main theses: woe to the one presuming to know the mystery of God, or link external suffering to state of another’s heart. With this established, what can we learn from Job?
 
First, despite his prosperity, Job seems to live under a cloud of potential calamity due to the unbeknownst sin of others. We read that on the days his children were to feast he would rise early to offer burnt offerings just in case his children had cursed God in their hearts. While this detail may be there to heighten the exaggerated virtuousness of Job it also suggests a life defined by the insecurity of blessing. Of course, ironically, none of this actually helps. For it is not any human cursing that brings ruin, it is Job’s very blamelessness and uprightness that provokes God’s boasting and the Adversary’s challenge. Job’s unimpeachable record, far from preserving him and his children, becomes the cause of all that goes wrong.
 
But perhaps it is his acceptance of the provisionally of all good things, that allows Job to make his famous confessions when confronted with news of devastation. Messenger after messenger, hot on the heels of each other, lay increasingly exaggerated reports of ill-fortune at Job’s feet. Upon hearing this, Job says, Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked I shall return there. The Lord has given and the Lord has taken may the Lord’s name be blessed. Even with the rug pulled so swiftly out from under him, Job does not curse God, but recognises the freedom of his sovereign who brings sunshine and rain upon us all.
 
But again, ironically, his faithfulness is the cause of calamity. For when God draws attention to Job remaining unmoored, the Adversary heightens the wager, insisting Job will succumb if his body becomes the site of pain. Yet even covered with sores Job refuses to curse God. His wife, perhaps out of pity for his sufferings, grief for her own loss, or resignation that blessing or cursing, innocence or guilt, make no difference, appeals he let go, but Job retorts: Shall we receive the good at the hand of God, and not receive the bad?     
 
Job remains unwavering in his vision of the world as being under the sovereign power of God, while remaining in the dark as to why any of this is happening. God gives and so God must be allowed to take, such is the freedom of the Creator and the plight of the creation. And yet, we would do a disservice to Job if we took this as a sign that he is not determined to hold God to account. When Job’s friends insist on defending the validity of God’s justice and insist upon the secret sin Job must have committed to deserve this treatment, Job defends his faithfulness and cries aloud: Here is my signature! Let the Almighty answer me!
 
Job, while accepting the right of God to give and take, rejects his friends “account” of the situation, and insists that God front up and give testimony. There is a kind of ferocious determination in Job’s response. Through grief and gritted teeth, he will not allow calamity to prevail over his faith in God, while at the very same time, will not allow God to slip by without giving account. God is free to do this, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.
 
The author Zvi Kolitz wrote a story about a fictional Jewish resistance fighter in the Warsaw Ghetto. The fighter, writes a testimony in 1943, speaking directly to God:
Here, then, are my last words to You, my angry God: None of this will avail You in the least! You have done everything to make me lose my faith in You, to make me cease to believe in You. But I die exactly as I have lived, an unshakable believer in You… Sh’ma Yisroel! Hear, Israel! The Lord is our God, the Lord is one. Into your hands I commend my soul.*
 
Such is the ground Job stands upon. Nothing will prevail over his belief in God, and nothing will stop him charging God with the ills that have befallen him. The world is God’s so God needs to account for what has happened in the world. Job will not abandon the foundation of his faith, nor his very righteousness, rather these are what drives his charge: Oh, that I knew where to find him, that I might come even to his dwelling! I would lay my case before him, and fill my mouth with arguments.
 
I think of those immortal words of comfort Jesus offers his disciples: In my father’s house there are many dwelling places… I go and prepare a place for you. Read in conversation with Job, we see that there is more than one mood with which to enter the household of God. And one of them, very legitimately, is to come before the Most High with a litany of griefs and injustices. Those who have known senseless suffering, who have seen cataclysm and misery ruin lives, who have tasted the bitterness of grief, these are not things we must quietly bear for the sake of our deep faith in God or God’s reputation on the earth. No, we see with Job (no less than with Christ upon the cross) that it is from the deep well of our faith that we may lay the most emphatic charges at the feet of God and demand an answer to a question as profound as Job’s: why did you bring me forth from the womb?
 
The question of suffering is posed to all of us. The reality of evil and senselessness of loss cannot be skirted even for the upright and blameless. These early chapters of Job rest on such a premise, insisting that though we will know calamity, its causes often lie beyond our vision. What shall we do in this moment? How do we respond when everything falls apart? Job gives us one way with this strange dichotomy of blessing and charge, of confession and accusation. Job models what it might look like to hold on believing almost to spite the reasons for unbelief; to remain among the faithful in order to enter the dwelling of God and have it out face to face. I think there is good news here, that faith can look like this (it doesn’t have to, but it can). There’s good news in realising that this too is a Christian response to calamity and woe. We do not curse God when we challenge God. We do not abandon our faith when we rage against what has befallen us or our world. Paradoxically, as those called daily to take up our cross, is it not a fitting posture to pin ourselves to the wood to join voice with the world’s saviour crying, My God, my God, why have you forsaken me! Because perhaps, for more than just Job, this is the only way through to Sunday.

*Zvi Kolitz, Yosl Rakover Talks to God, translated Carol Janeway, 1999. 24-25.

Reading, John 11:17-40
Image, Resurrection of Lazarus, 12th century.  St. Katherine's Monastery, Sinai
 
When I was first studying the gospels at college, much was made of the scene where Jesus asks his disciples, who do you say that I am? And Peter’s answer: You are the Messiah, is the first great Christological confession made by one of Jesus’ followers. Jesus is rightly identified, his significance emphatically observed. In Matthew’s account, Jesus even remarks that the profundity of Peter’s response was only possible because the Father revealed it to him. The scene is the great payoff of the first half of the gospel. Jesus’ wonders have brought the reader to the question: who is this man? And Peter gives them the answer.
 
This scene, however, essential as it is to Matthew, Mark, and Luke, is not in John. To be sure Peter makes an essential confession in John 6 when – after the difficulty of Jesus’ words turn many away – Peter responds to Jesus’ question do you also wish to go away? With, Lord, to whom can we go? You have the words of eternal life. We have come to believe and know that you are the Holy One of God. Despite this, today’s scene with Martha feels a more proper equivalent of the scene where one of Jesus’ followers reveals him as the Messiah.
 
But before proceeding with that scene, let us consider another appearance of Martha’s. Last week’s sermon on Mary of Bethany included Martha’s scolding of her sister. And while we noted Jesus’ defence of Mary’s choice of the better part, what we did not observe, which must be attended now, is how Martha addresses Jesus. For even if her request was misguided, her recognition of who was before her was just as accurate as Mary’s.
 
Lord, do you not care… begins Martha’s petition. And that “Lord” is important. For since so very few so grasp the identity of Jesus during his lifetime, very few use this term of address. Alongside Martha we find, Elizabeth, John the Baptist, Peter, a leper, a Centurion, James and John. And just because Martha errs in her request, doesn’t diminish the significance of her right naming of Christ (indeed, James and John name Jesus Lord, as part of their request he rain down fire on a village that didn’t receive them).
 
Martha’s ability to recognise and rightly name Jesus is carried into the story we heard in John’s gospel. In grief (and grief is overwhelmingly the emotion that shrouds this whole scene) she comes before Jesus and says, Lord, if you had been here my brother would not have died. Again we note her use of the term Lord, and with it a recognition of Jesus’ power to heal. But, as she continues, she reveals further understanding of Jesus’ unique relation to God. But even now I know that God will give whatever you ask him. Martha recognises Jesus’ intimacy with the Father, from whom he was sent.
 
What is important to realise is the way these this qualification follows quickly on the heels of Martha’s lament. If in one breath she confronts Jesus with her grievance, with the next she affirms his capacity to give them a new future. This stands in contrast with her sister, who comes to Jesus with the same lament, Lord if you had been here my brother would not have died, but then falls silent. It is not that her lack of speech brings condemnation on her, by contrast Jesus is moved by her weeping to his own, however, it is because Martha’s speech continues, that space is opened for a richer dialogue between her and Jesus.
 
Jesus responds, Your brother will rise again. Martha, displaying her faith, affirms what she believes Jesus is saying, I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day. But at this point, Jesus clarifies his meaning, and reveals to Martha more of who he is, and has come to do: I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?
 
Do you believe this is but another shade of who do you say that I am or do you also wish to go away. Fundamentally each ask: from what you have seen and heard, what are you willing to confess. And Martha confesses, Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world. Like Peter she makes the profound confession, and recognises the significance of Jesus beyond anything heretofore confessed. Just as in the other gospels this moment proves a turning point, a hinge on which the narrative shifts its attention toward Christ’s entry in Jerusalem and the cross which awaits him.
 
There’s a terrific line in the Stephen Sondheim musical, Merrily We Roll Along. The show’s protagonists, having just performed a song at a party, are asked by their host to sing it again. One seeks to decline, while the other insists that they sing, saying “Charlie they loved it, they thought we were great.” “You want to know what true greatness is?” Charlie retorts, “knowing when to get off!”
 
Pessimistic as it might sound, usually the longer things go on the more chances there are for missteps. The exuberant glory Peter experiences through the commendation of his Christological confession is short lived. For when Jesus teaches that what it means for him to be the Messiah is to be handed over to suffer and die, Peter rebukes Jesus. For this act, Peter (who moments ago apparently received direct revelation from God) is identified by Jesus as Satan, tempting Jesus from the path of God. Peter has to leave that scene thinking to himself (as we all have at one time or another) why didn’t I just stop talking!
 
The scene with Martha also continues on long enough for her to misspeak. Despite her confession that Jesus is the Messiah, and her hearing Jesus say your brother shall live, when Jesus asks the crowds to remove the stone from Lazarus’ tomb, Martha interjects: Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead four days. Like Peter not comprehending that Christ’s Messiahship will lead to his death, Martha does not grasp that since Jesus is the resurrection and the life, her brother will rise today. Understanding that Jesus is the Messiah doesn’t necessitate comprehending all that this implies.
 
What do we learn then, from Martha? The first is we can get it wrong. Like Martha, each Christian is able to speak one sentence filled with wise and profound reflections on the nature and significance of God, and then speak a second which completely misses the mark. We are all of us theologians (in that we think and reflect on God and the world in relation to God) and all of us are prone to misspeaking (often in a way common to Peter and Martha, by downplaying or dismissing the surprising and mysterious character of our God).
 
The second lesson is better, which is that the first lesson doesn’t matter all that much. Whether it is Peter trying to get in the way of Christ’s mission, Martha doubting the power of Jesus’ resurrection life, or Mary stopping short of asking Christ for anything, none of this changes who God is and what God is up to. Jesus’ response to Mary’s silence and Martha’s confusion is the same – he raises Lazarus from his tomb.
 
We do not have to get our speech right about God in order for God to move toward us in love and call us into the work of creation, restoration, and reconciliation. For God’s nature is love, and God’s call is undeterred by human folly. We give thanks that no human blunder can overcome the purposes of God. We can overstay our welcome, singing way too many songs and it won’t change God’s affection for us, nor our calling to follow in Christ’s stead.
 
Which means that learning to recognise and reflect on the nature of Christ, to enter into dialogue with Christ and seek to speak rightly of God is not a means toward an end. It is not that getting the right words in the right order unlocks God's affection or action. No, it is an end in itself. For theology, the sublime thought on God, is its own joy, comfort, and delight. To reflect on how to shape our lives as God’s ambassadors of reconciliation is its own way of entering deeper into the mystery of God. To learn how to proclaim, in our own idiom, Christ as Lord is to luxuriate in the wellspring of life. Martha demonstrates that even when we don’t get it perfect, recognising the significance of Christ, opens up wonders of dialogue and devotion that draw us nearer the resurrection and the life.

Readings, Luke 10: 38-42 and John 12:1-8
 
In 1973 the National Gallery of Australia purchased Jackson Pollock’s Blue Poles, for A$1.3 million dollars. At the time, this was the highest price paid for any American work of art, and the most spent by an Australian gallery on a single work. As you can see from the headline above, it wasn’t a universally celebrated purchase. Conservatives decried this as an out-of-touch extravagance – a small fortune for some drips and drops. While some progressives grumbled that the new gallery should prioritise purchases from Australian artists.
 
Over time, however, the purchase proved popular. It is the most viewed piece in the gallery, and is now valued at something like $500million. Interestingly, in 2016, when its worth was appraised at a mere $350M, Victorian Liberal Senator James Paterson suggested selling it to pay down the national debt. A call widely decried even by members of his own party, reflecting the paintings contemporary status as a national treasure. However, even if this shift in opinion were not the case, the controversy points to the tension that can emerge when efficiency is played against aesthetics, when an experience of beauty is asked to justify itself in economic categories. 
 
Twice a devotional act of Mary of Bethany is challenged by someone invoking the language of practicality and economy. Her decision to sit at Jesus’ feet, awash in his wisdom, is challenged by her sister Martha who insists that her presence would be more impactful in service and hospitality. Then, Mary’s decision to lavish Jesus’ feet with perfume is challenged by Judas, who insists that her present would be more impactful as charity to the poor.
 
Putting aside Judas’ intentions, which were not entirely philanthropic, what is interesting about these tensions is that they are not black and white, not clear cut good and bad. For the scene with Martha follows the parable of the Good Samaritan which contrasts the apathy of religious leaders, with the hospitality and care of the Samaritan. Martha is performing the very act of welcome that the disciples and Jesus rely upon in their mission. She is a forerunner to the diaconal ministry established in the book of Acts. In short, she is doing what has already and will continue to be celebrated as the proper posture of a follower of Jesus.
 
Similarly, across the teachings of Jesus his urging of the wealthy to give what they have to the poor are legion, the commendation of the widow’s offering is prominent, and the way into the kingdom of heaven for the rich is poetically narrow. So, the instinct to redistribute to the poor what is undoubtably a luxury is hardly unchristian. It is the very attitude which will mark the idyllic picture of the early church where all things are held in common.
 
And yet, in both scenes, Jesus defends Mary. Her acts of devotion are applauded for displaying proper understanding of what is before her; that is, a proper vision of Jesus. To Martha, Jesus commends Mary’s capacity to see the one amidst the many, the better among the good. To Judas, Jesus commends Mary’s capacity to see the end amidst the middle, to cling close while time remains. Mary of Bethany is exemplary in these scenes not because devotion is always preferrable to service, nor is lavish ritual always privileged over charity. All of these are Christian virtues. No, Mary is exemplary for her ability to see what is required; an ability all the more precious given the ire (then, as now) that can be poured out on those who choose the less efficient, measurable, or immediate of these Christian virtues.
 
For today, perhaps more than any other era in the church (or, to modify that a little… more than any recent era in the western church) the decision to pour resources on either quiet or lavish devotion will quickly draw detractors. The decision to sit and listen, ponder and wonder, reflect and consider without being able to demonstrate the utility and purpose of such an act is already suspect and often diagnosed as naval gazing or speculative distraction… how much more so when there are meals to prepare and guests to welcome? So too the direction of resources to lavish and extravagant ritual and worship is already quickly met with cries of decadence and irresponsibility… how much more so when there are the hungry to be fed and the unhoused to be sheltered?
 
And yet as so profoundly put in the opening question of the Westminster Catechism, which asks (in the unfortunately gendered language of the time):
What is the chief end of man?
Man’s chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy him forever.
Quiet and lavish acts of devotion, such as those displayed by Mary, are indispensable means by which we glorify and enjoy God. They are indispensable from the life of the believer; indeed, they are indispensable from life. Even and especially in times such as these we need to empower and celebrate the quiet and the beautiful, the abundant and the meditative, the superfluous and the pretty. We shall not live by bread alone, but roses too.
 
Mary’s anointing of Jesus is an act of wanton abandon. She pours out an entire bottle of this most expensive perfume such that the fragrance fills the house. And as intense as this would have been, fragrances (even those as elaborate as this) fade. Over time the more mundane scents of the daily household would return, and no trace of this moment would be left. Hardly and effective or efficient act, entirely unable to be preserved or replicated. And yet we know that there is a profound link between the olfactory and memory. And so the act lives on, repeating itself through sense and memory. Indeed, in Mark’s version of this story, the virtue of the lavishness of this act of devotion is explicitly entrusted to the memory of the church, as Jesus decrees: wherever the good news is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in remembrance of her.
 
And so today we remember Mary of Bethany, and learn from her example to see when the time is right for acts of quiet and lavish devotion even when there are legitimate needs at our door. In doing so we give thanks for Christians across the life of the church who have similarly turned their attention, time, and passions to bequeathing to the church beautiful, lavish, and superfluous things: music, gardens, art, fabrics, and rituals. And, at the same time, we lament that too often the inequalities in society and the church have prohibited so many from being able to glorify and enjoy God in quiet and abundant ways. We lament most acutely that so many of the beautiful and sublime gifts the church inherits were built with so much stolen labour, with so many stolen resources, and on so much stolen land.   
 
And yet we do nothing to redress this past if our response to such irreparable history is to give over completely to the vision of economic efficiency and pragmatic programming. What is needed instead is to order our lives together so that that chief end of humanity might be pursued by all. To say it another way, we learn to make room for ourselves and each other to see when it is time to simply sit at Christ’s feet in quiet adulation, or when it is time to pour out our gifts on Christ’s feet in lavish appreciation. There will always be more chances to serve and welcome weary travellers, to generously give to those in need. But if we clamp down and criticise every act of devotion that cannot quickly demonstrate its utility and impact, then we not only stifle the ways we might – in the present – glorify and enjoy God, but we rob the church to come of those wonderful gifts that might appear irresponsible, just drips and drops, but come to be received in the church’s memory as fragrances filling our rooms as signposts of the joy and wonder that come when we sit in the presence of Christ.

Readings, Song of Songs 8:5-7, 13 and Mark 16: 9-14
Image, Graham Sutherland, Noli me tangere, 1961. St. Mary Magdalene Chapel, Chichester Cathedral, England.


If you read enough fiction you’ll likely come across a book with a nested narrative, or nested narrator. That is, the story in the book is narrated by someone found within the book. Sometimes these are called matryoshka books, after the dolls, where further and further layers of narration are revealed. Frankenstein for instance, features the narration of Walton, who records the narration of Victor Frankenstein, who recounts the narration of his creation, who narrates his secret observance of a family. Recently, filmmaker Wes Anderson adapted Roald Dahl’s The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar, which begins with one character finding and then reading an essay written by a man who learnt to see through cards.
 
Layers upon layers, these books fold in on themselves, obscuring the authorial voice with which we began. It is an old device, used for many effects, not least of which is to undermine the trust of the reader, to remind us that this tale might just happen to be tall. And while a story like this elicits certain pleasures in questioning the veracity of the details which slips through the sands of multiple voices, it is another thing entirely to hear a story directly from one of your friends, a fellow disciple of Christ and say “nah, I’m not going to believe that.”
 
Mary Magdalene is a disciple of some significance in the latent Jesus movement. In the Gospel of Luke, she is consistently listed first among those named women followers and funders of Jesus’ ministry; signalling her leadership within the group. Her significance is heightened through the Passion narrative, where she (with some of the other women) remains near Jesus through his crucifixion and burial.
 
And then we reach the scene of the resurrection. In all the gospels Jesus appears first to Mary and the women. In Luke it is to a small group (with Mary Magdalene named first), in Matthew it is just two (Mary Magdalene and the other Mary), in Mark the young man proclaims Christ’s resurrection to Mary Magdalene, the other Mary and Salome, with an additional scene (which we heard) with Jesus speaking directly to Mary Magdalene. And in John it is Mary alone who sees the empty tomb and has the first encounter with the resurrected Christ, that beautiful, tender scene we read on Easter Sunday where she takes him for the gardener until he speaks her name.
 
And each of these encounters is accompanied with the commission to proclaim his resurrection to the other disciples, huddled away in fear. For this reason, Mary Magdalene has been decorated in the church as the “apostle to the apostles,” the one entrusted with the first easter message, the first Christian to proclaim Christ as the crucified and risen one. Like that figure in the Song of Songs, she is coming up from the wilderness, leaning on her beloved. See, she comes, with Christ set as a seal on her heart, on her arm. See, she comes to them with love is strong as death, passion fierce as the grave. See, she who dwelt in the garden, Christ’s companions are listening for her voice…
 
And yet, like the narrator nested four-deep in a fantastical novel of tall tales, she is heard, but not believed. In Luke, the disciples treat the words as an “idle tale,” while in this longer ending of Mark, Jesus upbraids his disciples for their lack of faith and stubbornness, because they did not believe those who saw him after he was risen.
 
It is a rather satisfying passage really. A little vindication of Mary’s authority and testimony, coupled with a scolding of those far too quick to dismiss her for telling them exactly what Jesus had told them would happen. Unfortunately, for Mary, what happened to her by the church to come was arguably far less kind and received no such direct rebuke.
 
Mary was quickly conflated with other unnamed women in the gospels (such as the sinful woman of the city who anoints Jesus, or the woman caught in adultery). This created a tradition whereby her demons are associated with prostitution and sexual sin. This image weaves its way into popular culture, where – whether in Jesus Christ Superstar or The Da Vinci Code – Mary’s significance is reduced to her erotic attachment to Christ. Sloppy as such scholarship is, its arguable her example was most debased not through any direct attack on her character, but in the systematic ostracising of women from the preaching and leadership of the church. What could be a more dismaying example of her denigration than the church’s efficient action to make the first woman apostle the last, ensuring that after one woman proclaimed this first easter Sunday message the rest should fall silent?
 
What might we learn then, from this second Mary in our series? Well, first, that like those nested narratives, the story of Jesus is – from the beginning – entrusted to human witnesses. His victory is entrusted to narrators of the gospel (apostles and disciples) who are not confined to any one group. From the beginning those called to proclaim the good news and lead the church are drawn from ranks spanning the categories of gender, class, age, and ethnicity. The story of the gospel is no more suited to one language, accent, or timbre, no better belonging to men than women, the free than the slave, the educated than the non, the one who believed because they saw than those who later heard. All who have encountered the risen Lord, are in turn sent to proclaim this good news.
 
And yet, at the same time, we cannot dictate the reception of our proclamation, nor what memory we leave. This does not excuse us from proclaim good news of great joy. We are each of us sent, simply to witness to the resurrection, and the reception of such witness is out of our control and so out of our concern – we simply trust that our calling is true, and Christ is risen. In this way, as is evoked in the refrain “let me hear it” from the Song of Songs, the primary audience of our proclamation is Christ himself: proclamation is doxological.    
 
We also learn, perhaps less from Mary as exemplar, as those around her as cautionary tales, not to clog our ears to the proclamation of good news by those we consider less fit to bear and deliver it. We must be on guard against prejudice, privilege, and preference which clouds our judgment and misguides our gut. This, I think, is of especial importance when we, like the disciples, are “mourning and weeping.” It is that much more difficult to hear the word of resurrection when we are struggling with the fact that something has died. So much harder to embrace the promise of new life when we are mourning that something which buried will not return as it once was. Words of new life, sightings of resurrection, glad tidings of great joy are proclaimed around the church, but if we are so consumed by narratives of death and decline, we find them too easy to disbelieve. Perhaps, sadly, we choose to disbelieve the word of resurrection because that would require us to admit something has indeed died, and that what comes in its place appears in a form at first unrecognisable.   
 
Mary Magdalene, like Mary the mother of Jesus last week, sets an example of discipleship. She followed Jesus through his life, remained with him at his death and burial, and returned to his tomb. And though she came to prepare a body for death and decomposition, she recognised the new life of the resurrection and reoriented her comprehension of the world, taking hold of her commission and rushing forth to proclaim the risen Christ to those in need of good news. She may not have been believed, and her memory might have been maligned, but in the end such shall fade away. For the disciple’s worth is found not in the esteem of the world, or even the church. Rather it is found in Christ, who meets us in the gardens of our mourning and weeping, our loss and woe, with love stronger than death, passion fiercer as the grave and commissions us to narrate him to the world:
O you who dwell in the gardens,
My companions are listening for your voice;
Let me hear it