Readings, John 2:1-12 and John 19:25b-30
Image, Benny Andrews, Portrait of Black Madonna (1987)

These are first and last great signs of Jesus’ glory in the Gospel of John, and his mother Mary is interwoven in both. Indeed, we might say not only interwoven, but – as is the case with the first – integral to its beginning, and – in the case of the latter – foundational to what will follow. But let’s go back further to find a starting point.
 
Mary is Jesus’ first teacher. Like many a parent, she teaches the child those basic things of life, the elemental building blocks of being a person. And like parents who live religious lives, she would have also taught Jesus things basic to the life of faith, wrapping the rhythms of their daily life around God’s stories, festivals, and rituals. She would have imparted and impressed those basic building blocks of being part of the people of God.
 
And yet, she was also a parent with a specific commission. She was called by God to bear the saviour of her people, to carry Emmanuel in her body and lead him into life. And she was entrusted to instruct Jesus in this commission, teach him what she had been taught, make his what she proclaimed in song while he grew in her womb. It is she who would have imparted those words of the shepherds she treasured in her heart, those words of Simeon that brought blessing and dread, those words of Gabriel which reoriented her life.
 
Who better than she, then, to prompt Jesus to act – to bring about the hour at which his ministry began, the hour at which his glory shall begin to be revealed. Who better than she, to issue the imperative by which followers of Jesus shall live: Do whatever he tells you.
 
Mary is thus not only a paradigmatic disciple – one who receives with vigour the command of God and allows it to reshape the direction of her life. But she exemplifies the task of Christian teaching and instruction; especially of the young. She takes up eagerly the task laid before her to instruct her child in the wisdom of God, and the task and commission laid before him. And she takes this on with such enthusiasm and authority that she can take the prerogative to come before the world’s redeemer and say, it is time to begin.
 
From this beginning, until the bitter end, she remains by Jesus’ side. We read in that upon the cross he looks down and uses a few of his remaining words to say to his mother, Woman, here is your son, and to the disciple he loved, here is your mother. And while we can be moved by this as an act of filial devotion, to remain there lessens the lesson on offer.
 
Jesus, in both these stories refers to his mother as woman, signalling not the unimportance of her relation to him and specific role in God’s plan, but pointing through to the most important role one can play: that of a disciple. Who are my mother and brothers, Jesus famously asks of the crowds, Those who hear the word of God and do it… and while this is sometimes read as a rebuke to those who would pay particular attention to Mary, we are better led to recognise that who among the gospels characters more perfectly performs the word of God than Mary the mother of Jesus?
 
Such a lesson is repeated elsewhere, where a woman shouts to Jesus, Blessed is the womb that bore you and the breasts that nursed you, to which Jesus responds, Blessed rather are those who hear the word and obey it. Again, the lesson is not to find here a dismissal of Mary in the shaping of our faith, but to direct the eye at where that significance is found.* It is not, as if, Mary’s womb is blessed in abstraction, that the breasts which nursed Jesus are holy simply for that act. No, Mary is to be celebrated and emulated, chiefly because of those traits which we might replicate. It is not her womb that we aspire, but the example she sets as one who heard the word and obeyed. Who said to the angel, I am a servant of the Lord, and took the risk of bearing the world’s scorn, in order to bear God. Blessed is she who heard the word and obeyed, who taught the saviour of the world, and accompanied him as sign by sign he revealed his glory.
 
Which leads us back to the foot of the cross, and those last words of Jesus. Here Mary, while remaining Jesus’ first family is also first in his new family, created by the Word to be his body, the church, a further sign of his glory. She receives a Spirit of adoption from the one she birthed. A mother given to a friend, the beloved to a mother and in this they become family to each other – not by blood but by the Word, bound only by commission and obedience. It is in this same way that we are given to one another as family in baptism – siblings of Christ, and kin to one another.
 
Mary, unlike so many of the disciples, does not depart from Jesus, even when there is so much risk and grief. It is this discipleship which is recognised, the same discipleship she displayed when the angel came, practiced when she taught Jesus, and exercised when she told him to make new wine. It is this discipleship that makes her favoured, blessed, and worthy of calling into the new family of Christ. For it is this kind of discipleship by which the church shall extend into all the world preaching the spirit of adoption.
 
Her discipleship, which we call blessed, is at least part (if not the significant part) of what we take from the life and witness of the first Mary in this series. And if we are to attempt to emulate her example, we must draw on the same strength on which she drew. She, like we, become disciples in the knowledge of God’s presence and promise to look on us as favoured, lift up the lowly and fill the hungry with good things. The strength to stay by Christ’s side through the glory and the bloodshed is built on the trust in the great things God has done. The humility and grace to become a family established at the foot of a cross is fed by finding in the simple things a holiness most profound. In Christ we have received a spirit of adoption, made children of God, and when we consider what it means to live in light of this great joy and responsibility, we take as an example Jesus’ mother; who heard the word of God, bore him in her womb, led him by the hand, and followed him all the days of her life.

​--
*My thanks to Dr Ali Robinson for this insight.

Readings, 1 Kings 2:10-12, 3:3-15 and Psalm 111
Image, Alfonse Borysewicz, Pomegranate, 2010–11. 70 x 50”, Oil & Wax on Linen

Perhaps it is the stories I was raised on, perhaps it is playing Dungeons and Dragons, but when I hear a story where a God asks a man, Ask what I should give you, my first impulse is, ‘be careful what you wish for.’ How many stories has our culture inherited of trickster deities offering a blank check, only for the wish to backfire in surprising, though legally buttoned up ways? King Midas wishes that everything he touches turns to gold, this comes true, but of course, everything means everything, even his beloved daughter. Jafar wishes to be an all-powerful genie, without realising this means being bound to a lamp. Scrooge wishes to be left alone, and is shown a future where he dies forgotten and unloved. Dear Dorian Gray wishes that he would have eternal youth, while all effects of aging are visited upon his portrait, a fate he later discovers leads to internal corruption and torment.
 
Solomon avoids a fate such as this. The story attests that his request of God for an understanding mind to govern God’s people… pleased the Lord. So pleased is God that Solomon is not only granted wisdom surpassing any who have come before or will rise up after, but also the more typical wishes people might ask of God: riches and honour.
 
Now, we might read this as a testament to the character of Solomon. He evidences his virtue in knowing the humble, service-focused thing to ask. This is often the way in stories, where the only one who can pull the sword from the stone, or wield the immensely powerful magical item, is the one who is pure of heart and free of selfish desire. Only those who would not ask for power and riches gain it, for in not wishing they demonstrate their worthiness. Aladdin proves himself worthy of the princess by using his final wish to free the Genie instead of asking to become a prince. Solomon demonstrates his character as one worthy to rule through service, as prepared to shepherd God’s people by desiring only what will assist him in his task. Solomon thus stands as an exemplary witness for us to emulate, a paragon of wisdom, who asks of God for nothing more than the capacity to serve those to whom he is responsible. May all our prayer lives be likewise, asking to become a blessing.
 
However, deeper still, this reading is a testament to God. To the God of our Psalm. To our God who is not two-sided, malicious, devious, or disinterested. For the God who asks, what should I give you, is the Righteous One, whose works are full of honour and majesty. The one who comes to Solomon with open hands, is the one whose hands are just, and precepts are trustworthy. Solomon can ask with confidence because the God who comes to him is the one who creates, redeems, and sustains all things with love and faithfulness. More important than the one who prays, is the one we pray too, who listens with tender patience, and yearns for us to ask for what is wise so that our knocking can be answered. The question is, then, how to learn to be wise… Thankfully, it is not too difficult.
 
Solomon, we learn from the psalm, is able to make the noble request, because he knows who God is. The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom. This is one of those poetic, though archaic phrases, that can ruffle our collar. Is it fear of God’s judgment, God’s distance and severity that allows us to rightly posture ourselves? Put otherwise, do we need a certain level of fear of God in order to follow what God says; like the child who puts away their toys for no other reason than they fear the raised voice and lowered spoon? This, friends, is not the case, this is not the fear that leads to wisdom. To fear the Lord is to learn and revere the great things God has done. To fear the Lord is to stand before the truth of God’s benevolence and righteousness in thankful humility. We fear the Lord not by cowering but celebrating who God is for us. We might as well say, knowledge of God is the beginning of wisdom, reverence of God, delight in God, trust in God. Solomon was ready to pray for wisdom, because he had already begun down her path when he studied with delight the great works of God. This is the beginning of wisdom; his prayer is only its consolidation.
 
For us, our practice of collective worship, coupled with our being sent to love and serve the Lord with and amongst our neighbours, is the beginning of wisdom. In this movement of going and gathering we hear and proclaim the great things God has done. Here we give thanks for the redemption God has sent, remember the promise of the covenant, and learn to trust the faithfulness of God’s character. And in our movement to the world, we learn what we need from God in order to best serve our neighbours. In praise and service, we learn more of who God is, and stride further down the path of wisdom. To state it most simply, to ponder and delight in Christ is the path of wisdom, and this delight is found both in our gathering as Christ’s body in worship, and our going as Christ’s body in service.
 
This is not a new connection. Early Christian communities intimately identified Christ with the Wisdom of God. As we read in Proverbs, the Wisdom of God was present at creation with God, before the beginning of the earth, when God established the heavens, and the sea was assigned its limit. Whoever finds Wisdom, the Proverb teaches, finds life. Such language resembles closely the beginning of John and the role of the Word. The path of Wisdom, is the path of the Word. To seek God’s Wisdom is to seek Christ, to be wise, is to be Christlike.
 
So give thanks, for our life with God is not one of navigating linguistic landmines, but is the delight that comes when we reflect on the character and action of God, and allow these thoughts to well up inside us and flow through us in our love and service of the world. This is the fear of the Lord, this is the beginning of wisdom, this is the path of life, Praise the Lord!

Readings, Psalm 130 and John 6: 35, 41-51
Image, Twilight in the Wilderness, Frederic Edwin Church (1860)

Let us consider the wilderness generation, those who received the manna from heaven and followed God for forty years. A generation passing away beneath the pillar of smoke by day, and fire by night. In one reading, this is a tragedy. Those who saw the sea part and sung the songs of deliverance on freedom’s shore, who saw the holy mountain and heard the covenantal promise, nonetheless display such distrust and division that they would never see the promised land. Sin destines them to wander until each member of that generation is buried in the dust. Only when the new census is taken, and not one name recorded at the mountain of God remains, shall the nation reach the promised land. Clearly a tragedy.
 
However, there’s another reading.* Despite their failings, and the judgment brought upon them by their mistakes, God, in steadfast love, gifts this generation an unparalleled privilege. For this generation pass their years receiving their daily bread from God. Each day the manna and the quail from heaven – never enough to store, but always enough to eat. Forty years as pilgrim people, freed from tomorrow’s worries: life in the benevolence of God. With the future all but closed off, they waded in the waters of God’s presence until their rest. What other generation has lived in such times as these, fed from the hand of God, falling to sleep beneath the stars of God’s creation and the fire of God’s presence? They may perish before seeing the promised land, but they lived within the nurturing sphere of God’s grace, a devotional walk, uninterrupted by the demands and distractions of daily life. In this reading the wilderness generation prefigure what John refers to as eternal life, that life lived fully attuned to the presence and promise of God, that life which begins now and reaches perfection in the age to come, that life of abundance which Jesus came to gift to all.
 
I am the bread of life, Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty. Jesus, proclaims himself this very present provision of God. His body descended from heaven to give eternal life, feeding a pilgrim people (as the Basis says) on the way to a promised end. The Christian yearns for a life like the wilderness generation, enveloped by God’s steadfast love and provision. For the church lives in the time-in-between, an Advent people proclaiming Christ’s resurrection while hastening and waiting for Christ’s return. We are those wait for the Lord, more than those who watch for morning. Of course, this future is out of our reach, belonging to God alone, arriving at an appointed time of which not even the angels are privy. Therefore, like that wilderness generation, we live in the perpetual now of God’s grace.
 
This is, in part, why Jesus teaches us not to store up treasures on earth, where moth and rust consume. Do not worry about your life, he teaches, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. The Christian is the one who considers the lilies of the field and in so doing learns to eat the bread of life which strengthens us to strive first for the kingdom of God and God’s righteousness.
 
Now I do not wish to imply that this kind of life is reached with ease. The wilderness generation did not achieve this state of perpetual intimacy with God’s daily provision out of their piety. Their life was gifted to them after their many errors. So too, we do not achieve sparrow like bliss through gritted teeth, we do not simply decide to stop worrying. These are gifts given out of God’s steadfast love, Christ’s abundant grace, and the Spirit’s freedom.
 
And yet, even though this kind of life cannot be gained by effort, we are called not only to wait, but to hasten. That is to say, while we cannot recreate the conditions by which we might learn to be like the lily, we seek to order the rhythm of our lives together to taste the living bread and seek first the kingdom of God. A rhythm, we might learn (in part at least) from today’s psalm… which begins in the depths. 
 
Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord.
   Lord, hear my voice!
As so many prayers, we cry out when we find ourselves in the depths. Whether the grind of daily life, or those heightened moments of calamity, we begin when we are honest about our situation. Rather than plaster on an image of shiny happy people, we turn to God when we see where we are, acknowledge what has befallen us, and cry out. 
 
If you, O Lord, should mark iniquities,
   Lord, who could stand?
Honesty begets honesty. If we can tell the truth about the depths of woe in our world, we can then tell the truth about our own depths. We can allow ourselves the introspection of Saint Paul, who spoke truly of the human condition when he wrote, I can will what is right, but I cannot do it. This honesty leads to the recognition that our hope is not ground in our possibility of perfection, but in God, in whom there is the forgiveness of sins and the possibility of renewal. 
 
I wait for the Lord, my soul waits,
   and in his word I hope;
my soul waits for the Lord
   more than those who watch for the morning,
   more than those who watch for the morning.
We recognise the time in which we live: Christ has died, Christ has risen, Christ will come again. We place our hope in the Word as our soul waits for the Lord to come again in glory and wipe all tears from our eyes, beat the swords into ploughshares, and bring about the consummation of the age when God shall be all in all. 
 
For with the Lord there is steadfast love,
   and with the Living God is great power to redeem.
Though we despair, though we sin and fall short of the glory of God, though we wait with anticipation for the day when only love remains, we do so with joyful confidence because out of God’s great love for the world, Jesus was sent not to condemn but reconcile all things to God. In this we know and trust, God’s great power to redeem. 
 
What is notable, is that even at the end of this psalm, even here with the promise of redemption, the psalmist remains in the time of anticipation, even, perhaps, in the depths. Like the generation living beneath the fire of God, they are, after all, still in the wilderness. Like the church today, we remain, after all, in the present age of sin and shame. All this occurs here – there is no account of a reversal of fortunes and little on earth that could be confused with heaven. And yet, in faith and hope we hasten and wait for the horizon where God shall come like the dawn, and a new morning shall break.
 
We do not have to reach the promised land of longed-for inward perfection in order to come and taste the bread of life. We do not need to drag ourselves out of the depths of our own making nor those of the world’s ills in order to experience the eternal life offered in Christ’s own body. We do not need to live with the lightness of the sparrow in order to consider the lilies. A doctor goes to the sick, bread is given to the hungry, and Christ comes to the weary. As our High Priest, familiar with our travails, Christ gives his body to us in our depths – for there is no depth he has not descended – so that we shall not hunger or thirst while we wait for morning. Instead, we are fed by Christ and clothed in God’s righteousness, in order that we may share what we have received with those fellow-travellers crying out from the depths, yet to see the manna in the wilderness illuminated by the fire by night.

* I owe this reading to Avivah Gottlieb Zornberg's Bewilderments: Reflections on the Book of Numbers ​(Schoken Books, 2015)

Readings, 2 Samuel 11:26–12:13a and Ephesians 4:1-16
Image, Nathan's parable of the ewe lamb (1965-1968), Oskar Kokoschka

We pick up, in Samuel, where we left off last week. There attended to David’s abuse of Bathsheba and assassination of Uriah; actions predicated on the assumption that David was able to act not only with impunity, but without discovery. And yet, as the Johnny Cash song tells, You can run on for a long time, But sooner or later God will cut you down
 
The thing David had done displeased the Lord, and the Lord sent Nathan to David. Nathan, perhaps considering the most effective tactic of confrontation, weaves a fable and David walks into its moral trap. You are the man! Nathan declares when David’s outrage reaches its boiling point over a stolen lamb. It is satisfying to see David condemn himself for the evil he has performed, and yet, it is not enough that David’s conscious should be pricked, or that he buckle under the weight of guilt. For the harms done cannot be undone; and surely blood calls out for blood.
 
Thus sayeth the Lord: the sword shall never depart from your house, for you have despised me, and have taken the wife of Uriah to be your wife… I will raise up trouble against you from within your own house; and I will take your wives before your eyes, and give them to your neighbour, and he shall lie with your wives in the sight of this very sun. For you did it secretly; but I will do this thing before all Israel, and before the sun.
 
Last week I drew the comparison between the unbridled villainy of the actions of King David and those of Shakespeare’s Richard III. Here, keeping with literary allusions, the punishment allotted by God rivals the poetic, ironic twists of a Greek Tragedy. For the very crimes David thought he hid, shall be reversed upon him in the light of day – and all shall see the displeasure of the Lord poured forth upon the king.
 
David, struck by fear and guilt, exclaims in confession: I have sinned against the Lord! This is where the lectionary ends the reading. Punctuating the story with David’s admission of guilt, and desperate plea that the judgment of the Lord might be lifted off his house. If we end the reading here, accompanied as it is with the psalm of confession attributed to David, a certain selection of avenues for proclamation and the lessons open before us. Consolation in the nature of God who does not excuse the sins of kings, commendation of the prophet speaking truth to power, remembering the importance of confession and hope of restoration.
 
But while this is where the lectionary cuts off, this is hardly where the story ends. For if we read on beyond David’s cry of confession, Nathan responds: Now the Lord has put away your sin, you shall not die. Nevertheless, because by this deed you have utterly scorned the Lord, the child that is born to you shall die.” David’s own life is spared, his humiliation and downfall averted, and yet, the Lord was scorned, and so the child born of David’s transgression will perish. The child becomes ill by the hand of the Lord. David fasts and weeps, pleads and prays, but the Lord hath spoken, and the child dies.
 
Then David rose from the ground, washed, anointed himself, and changed his clothes. He went into the house of the Lord, and worshiped; he then went to his own house; and when he asked, they set food before him and he ate. Then his servants said to him, “What is this thing that you have done? You fasted and wept for the child while it was alive; but when the child died, you rose and ate food.” He said, “While the child was still alive, I fasted and wept; for I said, ‘Who knows? The Lord may be gracious to me, and the child may live.’ But now he is dead; why should I fast? Can I bring him back again? I shall go to him, but he will not return to me.” Then David consoled his wife Bathsheba, and went to her, and lay with her; and she bore a son, and he named him Solomon. The Lord loved him.
 
Here, is where the story ends. And how, we might wonder, does this change the way the word is proclaimed, and the lessons we learn?
 
In this telling, the story centres something of a council, where, God’s prophet meets with God’s king to deliver God’s judgment. The punishment is adjusted upon David’s contrition, and is accepted by David as lamentable, but justified. And yet, who is not in this council? For the child might be born of David’s sin but he came from Bathsheba’s womb. The reading pays no attention to her feeling. Is she even aware the sudden illness which strikes life from her child has come from God to punish the crime committed against her and her husband? Nor is there any consideration of the child himself, as one knitted together by God in his mother’s innermost parts. Indeed, the narrator seems to present the death of the child and the subsequent birth of Solomon as a resolution; a fresh, clean, new beginning. The child born of sin is dispensed (and with it any residue of David’s transgression), which paves the way for a child who the Lord might love. In this story all things orbit David and God; their actions and feelings the only ones considered both in the crime and its punishment. As David himself makes clear, he has sinned against God alone.
 
We are left, again, with a pretty dire image of King David (but that’s not too troubling, since we reached the same last week). More troubling is this image of God who took the child because God had been scorned by David’s deed. If last week, the story of David provided a chance to lament and learn from the ways the church has longed for kings and excused and legitimatised the abuses of its all-too-worldly leaders, then this week we might also learn from and lament the times our church and society has modelled its image of crime and punishment in such retributive binaries. When we have believed blood cries out for blood, prioritising punishment of the individual over the health of the community. The story as we read it, affords us a chance to learn from and lament the times in which violence against women has been “addressed” by men coming together to punish the defilement of their honour, rather than considering what justice would mean for the victim-survivor.
 
These are not insignificant lessons, for they reflect the stress of the Ephesians reading where unity of the body of Christ is known through a democratic appreciation of the whole. For the church is not marked and defined by the privileged few, but there is one body and one Spirit, just as you were called to the one hope of your calling, one Lord, one faith, one baptism, one God and Father of all, who is above all and through all and in all. Each have been given a gift, which, while differing in detail does not differ in value. All gifts belong to Christ and each is given to equip the saints for the work of ministry, for building up the body of Christ. We cannot function and flourish as the body of Christ while those whose voice (so often written out of our scriptures and traditions) remains silenced in the church.
 
This is part of why the Uniting Church holds that all people, regardless of gender, sexuality, culture, or language are fit to be ordained, preside over the table, proclaim the word, and sit on its councils. For baptism is the all-inclusive sacrament by which we are initiated into the church in the name of Christ. The church is the whole people of God, who are brought through the waters of new life in Christ, sustained on the way by Christ’s body and blood. The body is formed by no less than this whole people, joined and knitted together by every ligament with which it is equipped. And when each part is working properly, promotes the body’s growth in building itself up in love. It is for this reason we practice consensus decision making as the church, and for this reason we seek to be governed by non-hierarchical councils. These steps represent the yearning to lead a life worthy of the calling to which you have been called, with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love, making every effort to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace.
 
And, finally, as the people of God considering the full story from Samuel and the reading we heard from Ephesians, we are reminded again that the Uniting Church lays upon all its members (not just those who preach) the serious duty of reading Scripture. Readings like ours today ask for such seriousness. Part of what it means to read scripture seriously is the requirement to consider images of God set one against another. To reflect on the differing (sometimes divergent) imagery, language, and teaching in the Bible. To locate them amidst their cultural worldview and, considering our own, search out and prize those images which herald good news. Now this is not simply an Old Testament vs New Testament dichotomy. All parts of scripture can proclaim the truth in love, and all are capable of reflecting cultural captivity and human limitation. Here, today, the serious duty of reading scripture asks us to consider which image of God best reflects what we love when we love our God. Is it the one who takes the innocent child of a father’s sin, or the one who takes captive captivity itself? It is not that there aren’t truths of God and the world found in both, as we have seen already. But we might confess that one proves a firmer foundation for the church’s doctrine, one more richly teaches the truth in love, one better helps us grow up in every way into Christ. It is through this serious reading that we are drawn, not only nearer our God to thee, but to those in our communities whose place in the story, whose value in the body, has been diminished, denigrated, forgotten, or forsaken. For it is here that our efforts to maintain the unity of the Spirit and bond of peace most reflect the one who descended even into the low parts of the earth so that all shall know the freedom and gifts of God.

Readings, 2 Sam 11:1-15, Ephesians 3:14-21
Image, Girl Sitting Alone in the ‘Sea Grill,’ a Bar and Restaurant (1943/1989) Esther Bubley

In this story, King David rivals Shakespeare’s Richard III for unbridled villainy. And like so many stories of depraved abuses of power, it strikes an ominous note from the beginning. In the spring of the year, the time when kings go out to battle… David remained at Jerusalem. This is not unintended irony, something is amiss. Remember, when a youth, David volunteered to face Goliath alone. Now when kings go out to battle, David stays home. Not only is he avoiding responsibility, it hints, narratively, at the potential for trouble. For if all of Israel have been sent out to war, who remains in the city to oppose the whims of the King? The picture the narrator paints is one of King David, a man alone, in a city of women.
 
And David spies one such woman, Bathsheba, benignly attending to the banality of bathing. It is notable that the reason David is able to play the voyeur is because he lingers in the king’s house – raised above the rest – and from this perch he is able to look down. Spying something he likes, and sensing no possible opposition, refusal, or discovery, David sends for Bathsheba and (as the text euphemistically states) lies with her. I stress euphemistically here, because like the heading assigned to this reading in many Bibles (“David commits adultery with Bathsheba”), this language elides the abuse, obfuscates the unequal power dynamic, and seeks to make neat the ugliness of this scene familiar to far too many who have been called into the office or home of a superior and realised that there is no way to say no without risking their safety, security, or livelihood.
 
Tragically for Bathsheba, the violence does not end on this day. For Bathsheba falls pregnant, and suddenly David discovers that his act is perhaps somewhat more discoverable than he believed. Should Uriah return after a season of war, he will discover Bathsheba pregnant and all eyes will fall upon the one man in town with power and opportunity.
 
David devises a plan. He calls Uriah home from the front, urging him, go down to your house and wash your feet. Which, speaking of euphemisms, is a common one for sexual intimacy. However, to David’s shame, Uriah refuses. While David has no problem sleeping in a palace, Uriah will not rest under his roof while his comrades spend their nights in tents. David tries again, this time plying Uriah with wine in the hope that alcohol might shake his commitment to abstinence. Yet even drunk, Uriah has more integrity than the king. With no other cards to play, David betrays Uriah to his death, ordering him to be abandoned on the frontlines, to die far from the bed he refused, the wife he loved, and the city he served. Condemned by his king to die in a moment of confusion wondering why everyone drew back while he walked on. When news of his death reaches Bathsheba she makes lamentations, after which, David brings her once more to his house – making her his wife, and the unborn child his own.
 
Our domestic violence work has exposed us to too many heart wrenching stories not to find here parallels of male entitlement, coercion, and abuse. The Me Too movement has exposed too many stories to not find parallels in a man weaponizing power to gain gratification without paying heed of the consent or discomfort of the object of his desire. It is far too late in the day to try and soften the edges of this story, to euphemistically distract from its monstrosity, to rush to excuse, forgive, or forget. For to follow such a path does little to honour the past, and less to protect the future.
 
It is no accident that David’s actions recollect the warning issued to Israel when they demanded a king. A king, God forewarned, will take your sons to be his soldiers, your daughters to be his perfumers and cooks, and you shall be his slaves. And in that day you will cry out because of your king. The people were not put off, demanding a king so that we may be like other nations, and because (ironically enough) a king shall go out before us and fight our battles.  
 
I bring up this warning not to imply anyone in the story deserved their treatment, or that David should receive a pass since this is just what kings do. Israel’s desire to be like other nations represents a failure in their calling to be a people set apart to be a witness to the other nations. Far from longing to be a simulacrum of worldly nations, Israel’s call was to witness to what is possible when a people order their lives as subjects to the God of freedom. In just the same way, when the church longs for kings, we too fail to live up to our calling to be a community created and sustained by grace. When we seek to secure our identity and survival in individuals and systems of human power, we invariably lose our way as a people who follow a crucified messiah. When we long for a power that conforms to the way power is distributed and demonstrated in the world, then the vulnerable and marginalised in our community will invariable bear the harm that such power tends to yield. For the impulse to bestow sovereign authority and protect the reputation of leaders, clergy, or past pillars of the community lies beneath so much of the reprehensible abuse scandals that have caused irreparable harm to individuals, communities, and the church itself.
 
And so we ask, how do we avoid such an impulse? Avoid creating environments where all-too-worldly power might be given divine blessing to act without fear of opposition, refusal, or discovery? It is not as simple as willing. Israel asked for a king because they suffered under corruption from within and threats from without, they asked that they might secure their survival and flourishing in the land God promised. So too the church has longed for, empowered, and excused abuses of power because it has looked and quivered at its precarious place in the world as a pilgrim people, whose very life depends on the arrival of Christ and his sustaining grace. All this to say, if we’re going to resist the appeal of worldly power, it will not happen by accident, we must act to be rooted and grounded in love.
 
For it is only with deep roots in love, firmly grounded in the Spirit’s power, that we become secure enough in our calling as the church to resist the lure of worldly power. Too much harm has been hushed away because we feared the church was not strong enough to survive the scandal. But if we devote ourselves to the collective work of tending to roots and grounding ourselves in love, we might be able to trust that telling the truth about David, let alone the truth about those who have come after, will not bring us down but set us free.
 
The truth sets us free to place our trust and identity not in the corrupting power of mortals, but the generous life-giving power of God. This is why we gather and go. To tend to the roots and clear the ground we pray, we approach to the table of grace, we build up each other in love and good deeds, we visit each other and place our calls, we serve food and talk over morning tea, we set flowers and sing praises, we listen to scripture and hear the word proclaimed, and we go forth in grace to love and serve the world, to learn from others and form coalitions for the common good. And we do this (and much more) again and again and again because this is how roots grow deep. To ground ourselves in Christ’s love as the sole power which secures our identity and shapes our life cannot simply be decided (for the lure of worldly power is just too strong). It must instead be determinatively pursued together through spiritual practices, fellowship, and the work of justice, listening, and truth-telling. It is by this that our inner being will be strengthened with power through the Spirit, by this that Christ may dwell in our hearts through faith, by this we are filled with the fullness of God, and by this that we are rooted and grounded in love. 

Readings, 2 Samuel 7:1-14a and Mark 6:30-34, 53-56 
Image, Christ in the Wilderness – the Hen, Stanley Spencer (1938)

We begin with a question: When someone – in a state of stress or exhaustion – exclaims something surprising, is that a moment of unguarded truth or do we note the external factors and assign it as ‘out of character’? If, at the end of one of those weeks, I am walking through the house and trip on an errant toy left in the middle of the kitchen, and I reactively exclaim “how can anyone live with such slobs!” Is this a moment revealing my true feelings long hidden away? Or is this simply stress searching desperately for one point of blame and doesn’t reflect my actual feelings? Perhaps as pain temporarily blocks conscious considerations unconscious truth slips through, it may be out of character, it may surprise even me, but does it nonetheless reveal unguarded truth?
 
There’s clearly no uniform answer. Sometimes it is one, sometimes the other, and likely we discern this based on our relationship and experience with the person. It may be that we realise, that while this isn’t an accurate expression of their beliefs, it names a simmering frustration which should have been articulated earlier. In such cases the flashpoint provides an opportunity, through apology and honesty, to address unspoken issues.
 
Jesus is regularly tired in the gospels. He routinely seeks places to rest either alone or with his disciples. And yet, time and again he is hounded by the crowds, let down by his friends, challenged by opponents, and pressed to move on. And sometimes Jesus grows frustrated. Sometimes Jesus chastises his disciples, bemoans the crowds, and upbraids his opponents. I take some comfort in this… it really does emphasise that Jesus was fully human. That Jesus really experienced the full gamut of what it is to pitch a tent in the midst of the human experience. It is Jesus’ exasperation and exhaustion as much as anything that proves the great line from Hebrews:
For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who in every respect has been tested as we are, yet without sin.
 
In the same breath, I take comfort in what emphasises Jesus as fully divine. That even when his rest is cut short by crowds following him from place to place, Jesus looks on them and has compassion for them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd. This comfort is only amplified in the final verse of our gospel reading:
And wherever he went, into villages or cities or farms, they laid the sick in the market-places, and begged him that they might touch even the fringe of his cloak; and all who touched it were healed.
 
Such is the power of Jesus’ divine nature. Whatever he might be feeling in these moments, whatever day he might be facing, whatever toll might be paid by his mortal flesh and finite patience, his nature is such that even the fringe of his cloak can be make us well. Like the haemorrhaging woman, reaching for his cloak in the crowd, Jesus’ lifeforce and divine power bursts forth without decision. He does not need to know who has approached for their approach to be rewarded. Jesus, as fully God, simply is compassion and healing, simply is consolation and joy, simply is the light and life of the world, simply is love. Even moving into his presence moves us into the presence of love, light, life, joy, consolation, healing and compassion. There is no hidden nature, no truer feelings repressed beneath the surface, no ulterior motives lurking out of sight. Jesus is life, Jesus is freedom, Jesus is salvation, and this is revealed not only in the compassion displayed for the needy crowds at the end of a long day (for this could just be the proof of saintliness, of an exemplary display of human compassion). No, the nature of Jesus as hope and healing for a weary world is revealed in the restoration and salvation that occurs simply through his presence as Emmanuel (God with us). It is this divine nature which flows through Christ to the world without even needing him to turn his gaze, that proves the following verse of that Hebrews passage:
Let us therefore approach the throne of grace with boldness, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.
 
We get pretty adept, as humans, of knowing when to approach others to ask a favour. And the more we know a person the better we are at reading the signs of their mood and sensing the tactical moment to approach. We may even cultivate these moments: quietly moving in the background to remove points of stress, biding time from one request to another, or striking when the iron is hot off our own benevolent favour granting.
 
This may be a necessity of human relations, but this is not the relationship of the flock to the shepherd. This is not how it is for the Christian and their High Priest. Because though the human Jesus - bound by the limits of appetite and sleep - grew weary and frustrated, the risen Christ is the ascended one. And if the weary Jesus saw the crowds and was moved by compassion, how much more may we trust the loving response of the one who has now been given all authority over heaven and earth? If Christ, who as Incarnate had no place to lay his head and yet proved time and again to be rich in love, how much more will the one who sits on the throne of heaven pour forth compassion and tenderness for those who approach his presence? If the fringe of his cloak could heal, how much more restoration might be known through the unbound presence of the cosmic Christ?
 
This is the good news: since we know that even when tested and tried Jesus could not give up on those who reached out for help, how much more might we trust in the ascended and unencumbered Christ who is by nature simply the full force of compassion, faithfulness, peace, and love. There is nothing contradictory to be revealed, however many toys we leave out. Christ simply is the Good Shepherd who lays down his life for his sheep, calls us by name, and leads us into life.

Image, The Seven Corporal Works of Mercy, Pieter Brueghel the Younger (1559)​
Readings Psalm 24 and Ephesians 1:3-14
 
I think there is a sweet spot when it comes to a social gathering or group trip, which is to be included, but not responsible. I want to come and enjoy the activities but far be it from me to plan, chase up, handle logistic or funds. I want to be there, but I don’t want to be responsible for everyone who is there. Be a groomsman, not a best man. And I can justify such an attitude because this is what we learn from this most beautiful reading in Ephesians. When it comes to our salvation, our life in God, we are included, but not responsible.
 
For God chose us in Christ, before the foundations of the world. In God’s perfect freedom, before any need or appeal, God elected to be with and for us. In perfect love God determined to send Christ into the world, so that we might be found holy and blameless. God took the responsibility for our state, and destined us for adoption through Jesus Christ. This was no concession, nor was it performed conditionally. It was done according to the good pleasure of God’s will for no other reason that we might praise the glorious grace bestowed upon us in Christ. In short, God has chosen to adopt us, before we could do anything to warrant or require such a grace – we are included, not responsible.
 
Now, for those who may have spent some time in church before, what we are discussing here is the doctrine of election – a squirrely doctrine which has confounded and befuddled many a Christian, has lain underneath many a controversy, and often been deplorably employed to violent ends. Let’s explore a little.
 
Christians start thinking about election because of passages like this in Ephesians, which speak of God choosing or electing people (or in the case of Israel, a whole nation) either for a purpose or redemption. They also begin to consider election as an extension of thinking about grace and sin – we (as sinners) cannot will ourselves to faith, and thus receive it as a gift from God’s grace… however, not everyone has faith and if that is not due to effort is it because God has not chosen them? Here you start getting into the issue of logically needing to confess that an all loving, all powerful God only chooses some, only gives saving faith to some, while others God predestines to eternal damnation. All of a sudden God doesn’t sound quite so loving, and the good news of the gospel becomes bad news for the masses. And it is not that the awkwardness was lost on those developing these theologies; both Augustine and Calvin cautioned against teaching predestination in excess as it could dishearten and confuse. And to their credit, both had pastoral concerns in mind; the doctrine was meant to be an assurance to the faithful that their salvation lay in the hands of God, not their own efforts, and both instructed the faithful against trying to speculate over who was and was not chosen, but to treat everyone as a sibling.
 
However, by and large, this did not happen. And a system by which some are determined chosen by God and others not, can not only make one an arrogant neighbour, but can all too easily be laid atop other systems of human hierarchies and divisions. Indeed, the wretched sin of colonialism often ran on a narrative where the chosen people came to a new promised land and were thus justified (if not obligated) to dispossess the reprobate indigenous and seek to deprive them of their culture, language, and religion (deemed to be deficient compared to the language, culture, and religion of the elect through which God has determined to move).
 
Does all this theological malpractice forever problematise the intended comfort of the teaching that we have been chosen since the foundations of the world? Can we continue to consider ourselves the adopted and elected without raising ourselves aloft from others?
 
There are two moves that reconfigure the notion of chosenness and election. The first is to move away from the individual. We cast aside the notion that God treats humanity like petals of a flower, “I love thee, I love thee not.” Instead, the decision God makes before the foundation of the world is a decision for all of humanity. God decrees to elect Jesus Christ, and in the election of Christ all humanity is reconciled to God. “In freedom and love as defined in and through Christ, God has chosen to be the God of human beings.”[1] God has chosen to be with and for us, bestowing a spirit of adoption so that none should fall back. This move maintains the reality of sin while honouring the sufficiency of Christ’s grace and the perfection of God’s love (as Paul would have it, just as Adam’s trespass led to condemnation for all, so Christ’s act of righteousness leads to justification and life for all).
 
There are not the elect and unelect, chosen and the not, there is simply Jesus Christ – the stone the builders rejected but God chose, in whom all receive the spirit of adoption. As fully God, Jesus elects, and as fully human Jesus is elected, and this act belongs to us all. To draw on the language of our psalm today, Jesus is the one who not only was with God when the world was founded on the seas, but he is the one - who with clean hands and pure heart - ascends to the mountain of the Lord to receive the blessing from God which is then shared with each and all; for such is the King of Glory. 
 
The second move is to refocus what election teaches us. It is not, in the first instance, about individual salvation. It is about the task and calling of the church. For just as Jesus was predestined, or elected to be our head, this is so we can be his body.[2] God’s election is a promise that amid the “ruins of nations… the church of God will remain.” This is the word we speak over those commissioned into ministry: the God who called you will not fail you. Election is the promise that before all things God determined to be with and for a people. This with and for, leads to a with and for – which ties election to church’s mission. As those not responsible for our salvation, we are instead included in the work of God in the world. “Being elected means being elected for service to God and others.”[3] Election is not set apart from, but set apart for. Set apart and set alight to stand with the world in its struggles. It does not make us “into the ‘privileged ones’ over against those who are ‘rejected’; instead God’s gracious election sends us out not only to serve God but to serve our fellow human beings and God’s good creation as well.”[4]
 
Most acutely, we are called to stand with and serve those who the world treats as rejected, as lesser, as condemned. We are called to recognise that those our political and economic systems cast off are the beloved God has chosen to be for and with. These too are chosen in Christ since the foundations of the world. Worldly injustice and prejudice are affronts to the divine choice to love. If the church has any special standing in the world, it is only because – by the gift of faith – we have heard this proclamation. The church is that corner of God’s world who recognise that God has chosen to be the God of humankind, that God has chosen to graciously bestow upon the human what rightly belongs to Christ, that God has chosen to love us with an inseparable love. The church confesses this truth and then acts accordingly – living lives of service, pursuing justice and mercy for the world. We lay aside responsibility for salvation, the responsibility of determining in and out. Instead, we give thanks for the joy and meaning found in being included (elected) to pursue God’s work until in the fullness of time, when all things in heaven and on earth are gathered lovingly unto God.


[1] Margit Ernst-Habib, “Chosen By Grace: Reconsidering the Doctrine of Predestination,” 87. As R. Jenson writes, “the one sole object of eternal election is Jesus with his people.” Systematic Theology Vol 2., 175.

[2] Paraphrasing Augustine.

[3] Ernst-Habib, 88.

[4] Ernst-Habib, 90.

Readings, 2 Cor 12:2-10 and Mark 6:1-13
Image, St. John the Baptist Preaching, c. 1665, by Mattia Preti
 
This snippet of Paul’s letter to the Corinthians has two sections which have given rise to endless speculation. The first is his enigmatic reference to people caught up to the third heaven and paradise (whether in the body or not, Paul has no clue). The second is Paul’s reference to the thorn in the flesh, which plagues him despite his repeated prayers for relief. The first has given way to all kinds of theories, many specious and irresponsible, about the layers and levels of heaven, its secret wisdom and proofs. The second, numerous proposals as to what exactly tormented Paul – illicit desire, physical disability, spiritual torment?
 
Unfortunately, what this speculation misses, is Paul’s own efforts to draw attention away from these details. Paul is determined to deflect attention toward a more important and fruitful truth from which we all can glean comfort and wisdom: that Christ’s grace is sufficient, that even in our weakness we are strong.
 
Before arriving at what we heard, Paul has been defending his apostleship against those who have come to Corinth and sought to undermine him. They turned Paul’s own humility and simplicity of speech into a mark against him, and sought to diminish his commitment to the cause of the gospel. In his place they promoted themselves as “super apostles” (Paul’s term), eloquent in speech and elaborate in boasting. For this reason, Paul finds it necessary to cite some of his bona fides. He too is a Hebrew, Israelite, a descendent of Abraham. For the sake of the gospel, he has been imprisoned and flogged, lashed and beaten, shipwrecked and sleepless, cold and hungry. But like the thorn in his side, Paul does not use this suffering to justify his teaching or apostleship. He does not appeal to this as a basis of the virtue of his words or the righteousness of his authority. Instead, If I must boast, I will boast of the things that show my weakness… so that the power of Christ may dwell in me.
 
This goes the same for Paul’s proximity to those who have experienced wondrous marvels, which Paul mentions, but does not elaborate. Paul could boast on behalf of such a one, but I refrain from it, so that no one may think better of me than what is seen in me and heard from me. Paul does not want to appeal to his own sufferings nor the stories of miraculous elation. He continually redirects the attention to Christ’s sufficient grace. If we see human weakness let us see through it to Christ’s sustaining strength. If we hear tell of the remarkable, let us give thanks to the crucified one who lives in the power of God.
 
For such is the task of the apostle: to point to Christ. Such is the mission of the church: to gesture towards and participate in what God has accomplished in Christ. This is the ground on which we stand, the gospel by which we live, the hope in which we are assured. Such a proclamation and promise does not need to be adorned and accessorised by superfluous stories of supernatural snatchings up to heaven, does it need to be accented by an emphasis on our ability to wade through thornbushes. Does not need to be proceeded by an enforced initiation into a foreign culture. We proclaim Christ crucified, live as witnesses to his resurrection, and participate in Christ’s acts of mercy and justice. The Christian is one who points beyond themselves to a grace sufficient for the world redeemed. The table of grace reminds us of this: bread and wine, body and blood, broken and poured out for us and for the world. It is by this we are fed and sustained, from this we are sent, and for this we labour. If this leads to suffering or exaltation, it is not for our own glory and legitimising, but serves as an opportunity for the power of Christ to dwell in us.  
 
For this is how apostles are sent out by Christ; two by two, with no bread, no bag, no money in their belts. Sent out to rely on the kindness of strangers and the authority of Christ. It is from a place of weakness and welcome that begins the ministry of reconciliation, the word of repentance, and the overcoming of the forces of Sin and Death. The good news is not spread through the eloquence and status of super-apostles, God is not glorified in the speculative stories of what belongs to God alone, the kingdom is not rightly heralded by those who arrive with the presumption of self-sufficiency, who can give and take, but never receive and grow. The gospel goes forth and God is glorified in the quiet, unassuming witness of those who do not hide their weakness but allow it to reveal the strength of Christ. It is in the vulnerability of those who set out relying on the welcome and care of others. It is in the everyday efforts of the many members of the one body living to repeat Christ’s ministry. For it is he alone who sends us out in our weakness so that through him we (and the world) might know real strength.    

Reading, Mark 5:21-43
​Image, Bohumil Kubišta, The resurrection of Lazarus, 1911 to 1912. Oil on canvas
 
There’s a story in the book of Samuel. King David, having retrieved the Ark of the Covenant, leads a parade and all the house of Israel were dancing before the Lord with all their might, with songs and lyres and harps and tambourines and castanets and cymbals. In the midst of this revelry, the oxen pulling the ark of the covenant, slips. The ark begins to slide, and a man named Uzzah reaches out to hold it in place. However, so holy is the ark of the covenant, pulsating with divine presence, that for all his good intentions Uzzah is struck dead on the spot. David is filled with fear, and while continuing his dancing before the Lord, determines not to let the ark rest under his care in his own city.
 
I recount this story because it sheds light on the fear and trembling experienced by the haemorrhaging woman after she reaches out to lay a hand on the garment of Christ. We’ve talked before about the varying socio-religious categories that helped order the life of Israel. Pure/Impure – Holy/Profane. The categories function on several levels, one of which is not unlike our own rules that delineate what is and isn’t allowed to share the same space (can’t put a toilet in a kitchen, can’t sit a living animal at the restaurant table where a dead animal is being served). But they also function to safeguard God’s holy presence and protect God’s people from the consequences of wrongly approaching God. For, (as is the case of Uzzah) while God is infinitely loving and merciful, God is a powerful and holy force.
 
By the metrics of these categories, the haemorrhaging woman is considered impure, so too is the corpse of the child. To say impure, of course, is not to say sinful (however sadly those two are sometime conflated). It is not a moral failing (people moved between pure and impure at various points in their life), but the system does require separation of the impure from the pure, at least until they have been judged clean.
 
Two things are thus at risk when the impure comes into close proximity with the pure – the impure is destroyed (as is the case of Uzzah) or the pure is defiled and rendered impure. The woman in our story fears these outcomes. She has rightly recognised Jesus as holy, as possessing power enough to heal and restore her to the fullness of life in community. And yet, in recognising this, she is hesitant to touch him. When his power bursts forth from him (interestingly we note that, like the Ark of the Covenant, so potent is the force of life itself bubbling within him that this happens without his choosing) she hides, and when he demands to know the one who touched him, she approaches with fear and trembling. What if her offense is so great that like Uzzah she will simply be struck dead for infringing upon the site of God’s holiness dwelling on earth, or what if in touching the hem of his cloak she will have somehow corrupted the whole of his person through her contagious impurity?
 
Neither occurs. Instead of being struck down she is commended for her faith and courage to risk it all in trust that this man wants her to be well. The story teaches that Jesus has come not to scorn the system, but uproot the causes of impurity in this world, to beat back the forces of death which seek to smother the gift of life. Instead of him being corrupted his power is undiminished, his holiness uninterrupted. Indeed, immediately following this Jesus shows his power to overcome an even more extreme case of impurity, a more extreme affront on life, for Jesus comes into contact with a corpse, and brings her to life. 
 
All four Gospels contain accounts of Jesus interacting with corpses. In this story in Mark, the girl has only been dead a short while, and Jesus, in calling her back to life takes her by the hand. However, in other gospel stories, such as that of Lazarus, the person has been dead longer, and Jesus is able to overcome the force of death at a distance. Those first communities reading the gospels inhabited a world that almost universally perceived corpses as conveying impurity not only through contact but also through proximity. These stories testify that Jesus’ holy power not only equals but surpasses the contagious, defiling power of death. Jesus is continually brought into contact with the forces of death and impurity, and continually overcomes them; the heart of the confession then, is that Jesus is a source of holiness more powerful than death itself.
 
With Jesus, God has sent something new into the world. It is in him that the fullness of God’s holy power was pleased to dwell, but so too the fullness of God’s love and mercy. Jesus has come then, not only to overcome the power of death, but to do so in a way that the impure can approach without being destroyed, can touch without his body being corrupted.
 
This confession crescendos at Easter. The forces of death stake a claim directly upon Jesus’ body on the cross and in the tomb. They reach out a hand and grab hold of his very person, but even here Jesus’ holiness triumphs, even here the life of the world cannot be snuffed out, but swallows up death itself. If the hem of Jesus’ garments can make the woman well, his wounded body is the site that brings us all out from under the force of death.
 
And so we are baptised into Christ’s death, so that nothing can separate us from God’s loving presence. In baptism we celebrate that Christ takes us by the hand and gently instructs us to rise. Such is his holy power that when we reach out to grab the hem of his garment, or he reaches out to take our hand, we are not destroyed, death is. O death, where is your sting! Paul writes; O grave, where your victory? Jesus has come and dwelt among us, in him the fullness of God was pleased to dwell – as such he is the site of God’s perfect holiness, a force more powerfully, vibrantly contagious than any force of death or impurity. For this reason, we need not fear approaching his presence, nor tremble at the majestic mystery of his lifeforce. Rather we take the leap of faith and cling to the hem of his garment, knowing that he shall take our hand, commend our audacity, and lead us into life.

Readings, 1 Samuel 17:32-49 and Mark 4:35-41
Image, Edgar Degas, David and Goliath (1863)

We heard two of the big hits from any kid’s Bible today. Indeed, recently my year two SRE class completed 11 weeks on the gospel story. As I was recapping the module with the class, one story stuck out again and again in their memory as a favourite: Jesus stills the storm. This isn’t all that surprising, as Jesus’ ability to control the storm is perhaps the closest we see Jesus fit the mode of a typical superhero.
 
And then we have David and Goliath, and again it is unsurprising that kids are excited to read about the small felling the great. The story’s details befit a classic action romp – a menacing giant, armour too large to be worn, the simplicity of the slingshot, pro-wrestler-esq banter, and the swift victory of the underdog.
 
But the appeal of such stories is found not only in their exciting and memorable details. It is also testament to the simple, though profound message at their heart. God delivers us through storms and strife.
 
While David begins his appeal to Saul by recounting his skill with a sling, he nevertheless makes clear that his deliverance from past snares and his confidence in a present victory, rests solely in the Lord of Hosts. For God does not save with the sword and the spear, but the Holy Name before which all falls silent. It is because God is with David that David defeats Goliath. God is the deliverer of Israel. David’s sling is no more responsible for the defeat of the Philistines than Moses’ staff for the deliverance out of Egypt. It is the presence of God, with and for us, that provides the assurance of deliverance amidst worldly strife.
 
So too with Jesus on that boat. Winds howl and waves crash, and Jesus sleeps. Do you not care that we are perishing? This is a prayer as honest as any psalm, a petition as raw as any crossing mortal lips, a plea as primordial as Christ’s own cry of desolation. For there is no despair deeper than the fear of God-abandonment in the midst of crisis. The fear that our creator, redeemer, and sustainer feels disinterested in our plight and distant from our prayers. For how could the one who called the disciples from their boats allow them to sink in his own? Now, we know that the faithful answer is, “he won’t.” Jesus would simply not allow those who have taken refuge in him to sink, but in the heart of the storm, no confession of faith is entirely without suspicion.
 
Having completed our little module on the gospel story, my SRE class are now exploring the big promises of God. The main themes so far are, God makes promises, and God keeps those promises. Some kids, in their delightful way, have started to question the premise. What if God promises something that God can’t keep? What if God promises to give me a new car but doesn’t? I attempt to explain, God would not make a promise that God didn’t intend to keep. God keeps every promise made, but doesn’t promise to do everything (as much as we’d like that new car). Nevertheless, there are many reasons to question even the stated promises, to doubt their assuredness, hedge our bets, and cover the alternatives.
 
So even if the disciples had the faith to step from their boats into Christ’s, agreed to leave their life to live within Christ’s, this is no immunity to the fear of storms. After all, we learn at a young age that there are no monsters under the bed, but that doesn’t mean any of us feel particularly comfortable sleeping with one arm hanging off the bed.
 
One might suggest that this is the natural by-product of David’s astute confession, The Lord does not save with the sword and the spear. The means of God’s deliverance are subtler than we might design. God perennially chooses humble, surprising, even foolish things to demonstrate God’s power and fidelity. The sling of a youth to fell an army, the baby in a basket to free the slaves, the child born of Mary to save the world, parables to announce the kingdom, the cross to conquer death, a little bread and wine to sustain the church. Even in the storm, Jesus simply speaks it into stillness. The very story of God’s mighty acts is preserved in testimony and community, kept afloat by through the praise and proclamation of fallible humans and the uncontainable movement of the Spirit.
 
Perhaps our fears would be better conquered by the undeniable vision of God swinging a sword and deafening the sounds of the earth with a heavenly voice. But in conquering our fears such approach would first conquer our freedom, and any chance to be anything more than a stone subdued in place. We are instead called into becoming, called into a life of faith, a life devoted to the joyful exploration of the disciple’s question, who then is this?
 
This question leads us back to the beginning, back to the unremitting allure of these stories. Yes, it is their narrative charm, yes, it is their extraordinary details, but yes, it is also because these stories say something fundamentally profound about our God. They are stories which draw us toward the ground of the question, who then is this. Who then is this that stills the storm, who then is this that saves the boy from the paw of the lion, who then is this that saves not by the sword or the spear… it is our God, our strength and refuge. It is our God who cares about us, who is present with us and for us. Our God whose Anointed One called us from the boats of our old life and promises the meaning and joy of his own voyage. Even in the moments where the winds of trial and the waves of strife crash in, even when the worldly armour does not fit, even when our cries seem to fall on sleeping ears, our God is the one who will not let us perish, who forgets not the cry of the afflicted, but stands and speaks the word of peace and invites us into a life of faith.