 Reading, Psalm 23 and John 10:1-18
Image, Good Shepherd Sculpture, 280-290CE Today’s gospel reading is out of sequence. Since Easter we’ve been enjoying the post-resurrection accounts of Jesus gathering up his wayward disciples, but now we jump back to well before his death. Why is that the case? Why have we been taken here? I think we can approach it like a flashback at the end of a movie. One of those brilliant moments, when at the crescendo of the film, with the camera swirling and the music welling, we revisit an earlier, seemingly small moment in the plot, which is suddenly imbued with vibrant significance. All of a sudden a passing comment, an innocuous act takes on a new and greater meaning. The moment is plucked out from its sequence, and shown again, now in new light and clarity, demonstrated to relate palpably and personally to this moment in our protagonist’s life. Such is the nature of a well-executed flashback, and such is the power of today’s reading in this season of the church. We’re going to attempt then, to enter such a scene, to feel such a flashback, to encounter anew this teaching of Jesus in the light of the resurrection… Picture, the scene: early morning, green fields, a woman approaches rocky tombs. Her feet were drenched from the dew. She had trod this path three times already this morning; once walking solemnly, twice running bewildered. Now, as she inhaled the morning air, its crisp freshness felt coarse in her throat and lungs. Bending to look in the tomb, reeling with exhaustion, she grabbed her knees for balance. She wept long and loud, sweat and tears ran down her face, drops painted the dirt below. “Woman, why are you weeping?” came a voice from a stranger in the tomb. Her mind filled with all manner of horrors – Had the tomb been ransacked for valuables? Had Roman soldiers come by night, still giddy from the rush of power, to further violate the body of their victim? In desperation she exclaimed, ‘They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him!’ At that moment, still not having comprehended these figures occupying her Lord’s resting place, she heard footsteps and turned. She saw a gardener, sun rising behind his right shoulder. “Woman, why are you weeping?” she heard him say. Perhaps he had said it the first time too? Maybe the tomb was empty after all… “Who are you looking for?” For a split second she had a glimmer of hope, perhaps Jesus’ body just had been laid elsewhere, she asks the gardener if he moved her Lord, if so she will tend to the body. It is such a small request, surely if this man has any heart he will grant her this mercy. “Mary.”
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 Readings, Psalm 116 and Luke 24:13-35
Image, Maximino Cerezo Barredo (Spanish, 1932–), In the Breaking of Bread, 2001. I have four mini-sermons this morning, each of which will end with a question and a little time for silent reflection and collective sharing, about what this reading from the Gospel might mean for the Kirk. First, and carrying on from the message on Easter Sunday: the resurrection still on the move. I spoke on Easter that each of the resurrection appearances point to movement, Jesus is often already on the move ahead of the disciples, calling them to come find him. Here, we have another scene of resurrection appearance which is also on the move. What’s helpful to note is that this is not a departure but a continuation of the manner of Jesus’ ministry. For while we have records of Jesus’ preaching in synagogues, or his conversations in homes, the bulk of his teaching is on the go. Along the road, by lakeside, on hilltop and plain, Jesus expounded the kingdom of God, interpreted the Law, told parables, and proclaimed good news. And such movement was not incidental but ancillary to the message, as Jesus continually draws what is around him into his parables and lessons. And so it is with the life of the disciple of Jesus. While it is true that we gather, spending time in church services learning and worshipping, the vast bulk of our Christian life takes place on the road, on the move. And indeed our own acts of worship, evangelism, mercy, and justice, are, like Jesus’ often responding to the world around us – those things we see in our context that inspire us to thanks, lead us to wonder, draw us into action, sharpen our understanding. Like the scene on the way to and from Emmaus, our life with Jesus is marked by movement, by becoming, by living the way, on the way. The question then, for us as the Kirk, is how (and what) are we learning as we go? What are the practices and people that draw us near to Jesus as we go hither and thither?  Reading, John 20:1-18
Image, Kateryna Kuziv (Ukrainian, 1993–), Mary Magdalene Stood Crying, 2021. First, a poem, from one of the great post-WWII Jewish poets, Anthony Hecht: It out-Herod’s Herod. Pray you, avoid it. Tonight my children hunch Toward their Western, and are glad As, with a Sunday punch, The Good casts out the Bad. And in their fairy tales The warty giant and witch Get sealed in doorless jails And the match-girl strikes it rich. I’ve made myself a drink. The giant and witch are set To bust out of the clink When my children have gone to bed. - All frequencies are loud With signals of despair; In flash and morse they crowd The rondure of the air. For the wicked have grown strong, Their numbers mock at death, Their cow brings forth its young, Their bull engendereth. Their very fund of strength, Satan, bestrides the globe; He stalks its breadth and length And finds out even Job. - Yet by quite other laws My children make their case; Half God, half Santa Claus, But with my voice and face, A hero comes to save The poorman, beggarman, thief, And make the world behave And put an end to grief. And that their sleep be sound I say this childermas Who could not, at one time, Have saved them from the gas. Hecht knew well the horrors of his century. He fought in WWII, was present at the liberation of Flossenbürg concentration camp, and was charged with interviewing its prisoners. He was well acquainted with the 20th century as Leonard Bernstein described it: a century of death. And yet, despite the gap in time, works such as Hecht’s resonate with us still, because judging from these last 26 years, the C21st seems so determined to share that mantle. This might appear a peculiar place to begin the Easter Sunday message. And yet, the Day of Resurrection, as the gospel passage makes clear, begins in darkness: Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb. Mary begins her day in the grip of death and grief, the shadow of loss and mortality, of finitude and failure.  Readings, Exodus 17:1-7 and John 4:5-42
Image, Still from Lynn Hershman Leeson’s Women, Art, Revolution (2010) What stood out to you in the reading, what struck you from the conversation with Jesus and the woman, or Jesus and his disciples, or the scene with the townsfolk afterwards? Any feelings? Any phrases that jump out. Discussion Two things struck me this time. The first, which is linked with the reading from Exodus we read together earlier in the service is the graciousness by which God shares the living water. To explain, let me just draw a little from the epistle that was assigned to this week’s reading in the lectionary, which we didn’t read today (I couldn’t ask any more from Kay!). But God proves his love for us in that while we still were sinners Christ died for us… For if while we were enemies, we were reconciled to God through the death of his Son, much more surely, having been reconciled, will we be saved by his life. In this passage from Romans 5, Paul stresses the freedom of God, who out of abundant grace and steadfast love, acts to reconcile and redeem humanity while we were far off, while we were in a state of estrangement and enmity. It is not because we moved near to God that we have received the Spirit of adoption, but because God moved to us, found us, enfolded us, saved us – out of God’s generous, free desire to be with and for the creature. And this we see, in both of today’s readings is consistent with God’s character.  Readings, Psalm 15, Micah 6:1-8, and Matthew 5:1-12
Image, William DeMorgan, The Good Samaritan (1860s) Here’s the sermon in brief: the Christian life, is a life of creativity. For when we come to respond to the graciousness of God, what are we to do: Will the Lord be pleased with thousands of rams, with tens of thousands of rivers of oil? Shall I give my firstborn for my transgression, the fruit of my body for the sin of my soul?’ That is to ask: is there a patterned response, a predictable, repeatable response to the goodness of God which can be tallied and measured with simple, empirical methods? Copied and pasted from one Christian to the next, to the next, to the next? God has told you, O mortal, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God? Which is to say, no, no such patterned, predictable, and repeatable response ready to be tallied. The life we must live in response to the gospel is one that takes creativity, change, interpretation, improvisation, reflection, and growth. For to do justice here and now, is different than there and then. Loving kindness and walking humbly, these are, like any act of love and humility acts which need to be distinct and personal if they are to be authentic.  Readings, Isaiah 7:10-16 and Matthew 1:18-25
Image, Elizabeth Catlett, Mother and Child, 1956. Matthew commences his gospel with a very intentional genealogy leading up to the birth of Jesus. Mirroring the kind found in Genesis, he tracks fourteen generations from Abraham to David, David to the Exile, Exile to the Messiah. It is, for the most part, a patrilineal line concerning fathers causing sons to be born, which is why it naturally comes to a close on Joseph. However, at this moment, something less natural happens. Listen to this little run up and see when you hear the pattern break: Zadok the father of Achim, and Achim the father of Eliud, and Eliud the father of Eleazar, and Eleazar the father of Matthan, and Matthan the father of Jacob, and Jacob the father of Joseph the husband of Mary, of whom Jesus was born, who is called the Messiah. There’s a common form of journalistic laziness or malpractice which will list couples where one (predominately the man) will be named, while the other (regardless of their own achievement) will be referred to simply as “and wife.” Strangely enough, it is the reverse that occurs here in Matthew’s account. When we get to Joseph the pattern of father to son breaks, for Joseph is the husband of Mary. Because it is of Mary, not of Joseph, that Jesus was born. As we heard: Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way. When his mother Mary had been engaged to Joseph, but before they lived together, she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit. But this insistent detail of whom Jesus was born, raises some perplexing questions. Because, while the genealogy Matthew provides seems to be intended to link Jesus to the line of David, and from David all the way back to Abraham, this ending wipes that lineage away. By insisting that Joseph makes no biological contribution, that he does not father the one to be called Jesus, Jesus is not the next link in the chain stretching back 42 generations. Jesus, indeed, Matthew’s account stresses, has no father’s father. Born instead, of Mary, who does not know Joseph, but was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit.  Readings Isaiah 11: 1-10 and Matthew 3:1-12
Image, Joseph Stella, Tree, Cactus, Moon, ca. 1928. In those days John the Baptist appeared in the wilderness of Judea. The wilderness held important religious significance for John’s people. It was in the wilderness they wandered the forty years between the Exodus from Egypt and the Conquest of the Promised Land. The wilderness where the people grumbled and disobeyed, where the first generation who crossed out of Egypt were buried. At the same time, the wilderness was where the people were fed from God’s hand, led by God’s visible presence and for this reason the wilderness takes on ongoing symbolic power both as the place of nation’s trial and woe, of exile and loss, of God’s judgment and wrath, and as an inner place of trial, fallowness, and encounter. So, what does it mean then, for John to appear in the wilderness? What does it mean for the people of Jerusalem and Judea to go out to him? Because if anything the wilderness is the antipathy to Jerusalem and Judea – the antithesis of these holy places.  Readings, Colossians 1:11-20 and Luke 1:68-79
Image, Matthias Grünewald, The Crucifixion (part of Isenheim Altarpiece), 1512-1516 There’s a famous painting on an altar in Isenheim. It’s a crucifixion scene painted by Matthias Grünewald, which anachronistically places John the Baptist at the foot of the cross pointing to Christ. The painting was a favourite of C20th Swiss theologian, Karl Barth, in part because the role of Christian as witness – the Christian as the one who points to Christ – was pivotal to his work. Those words in the painting over John’s gesture, record that immortal and vital motto not only of John, but of the Christian witness: He must increase, but I must decrease. The role of John the Baptist, the painting (and Barth) implies, is thus not a one-off. John was distinct in that he was called by God to prepare the way before the first advent of Jesus. But all of us are now called to this office, to prepare the way of the arrival of Christ in hearts and minds through pointing to Christ’s completed work on the cross and his awaited advent when he comes again in glory. John the Baptist, as the one who points to Christ, thus prefigures the Christian witness – John is, who we are to be.  Readings, Exodus 17:8-13 and Isaiah 65:17-25
Image, John Everett Millais, Victory, O Lord! (detail), 1871 The story we heard from Exodus follows shortly after the miraculous crossing of the Red Sea. The people, recently freed, are beginning what they hope will be a short pilgrimage through the wilderness on the way to the mountain of God and then the promised land. Cracks, though, are already showing. Despite having witnessed the plagues in Egypt, and the parting and crashing of the sea, the people have begun to grumble: Is the Lord among us or not? Thankfully for them, the Lord is among them, and the Lord provides. Bread and quails have fallen from heaven, water has been struck from a rock. The people are being fed from the hand of God; their daily necessities provided by the one who has promised to be theirs. Then Amalek came and fought with Israel. To ensure that beleaguered and belittled Israel might survive, Moses stands atop the hill with the staff of God in hand – the very staff by which he bested Pharaoh, the staff which touched the sea and made it part, touched the rock and drew water. The staff given to Moses as a sign that God is with him and the people, about to reach out with a mighty hand to free them. This Moses shall hold aloft, so that once again God will act to secure the fledgling nation. But here the story takes a fascinating turn. Because essential to this story of God’s extraordinary power, is the very ordinariness of human weakness. Mixed in with the seemingly supernatural ability of this gesture is the question of human limit. We simply cannot keep our hands above our head all day. Moses’ aged body will not allow it… it doesn’t matter how profound the moment, the human body is a vulnerable one. Moses’ hands grew weary; so they took a stone and put it under him, and he sat on it. Aaron and Hur held up his hands, one on one side, and the other on the other side; so his hands were steady until the sun set. I love this image, the failing Moses, exhausted and aching, propped up by a rock, arms held in place by those in his trust. It’s one of those beautifully paradoxical Bible stories. One of those stories which defy the heroic, the epic, and instead casts a picture of vulnerability, limit, weakness, and care. Because there’s a more glorious way to tell this story. Where Moses, the intrepid, singular hero, stands alone aloft the mountain, and, with steely grit and rippling muscles seals the fate of the war. Channelling the very strength of his God, he triumphs with maybe just a few dramatic beads of sweat crossing his handsome brow. Instead, we have another addition to the strange and uncharacterizable picture of Moses, of biblical heroism, and of godly leadership. For Moses, we know already from Exodus is a paradoxical figure – the baby saved from death who grew up in a palace, but also the murderer who was forced into decades of hiding. The man called forth by the blazing bush, but also the one whose doubt in his own speaking abilities was so entrenched that God had to relent and let him take Aaron to do the talking. The one who stood arms aloft and parted the Red Sea to bring his people to freedom, is now here requiring his own arms to be held in place to secure their safety. In the very next chapter this will continue. Moses’ father-in-law comes to visit and watches how Moses is stuck all day solving every petty squabble and has to tell Moses to teach the people to solve their own problems, and appoint judges to share the burden: What you are doing is not good. You will surely wear yourself out, both you and these people with you. For the task is too heavy for you; you cannot do it alone. The Torah proclaims Moses as a prophet without rival: Never since, the closing words of Deuteronomy ring out, has there arisen a prophet in Israel like Moses, whom the Lord knew face to face. He was unequalled for all the signs and wonders that the Lord sent him to perform. But what today’s story teaches us, alongside all those nifty paradoxes, is that even a man such as Moses has limits, limits which require not only the goodness of God, but the care of community. Moses’ health, his thriving, his survival resembles our own in its contingency. Moses is great, and he is vulnerable and dependent. This is a vital message on a day such as today where we are thinking about men’s health and care, and in the coming weeks as we enter the 16 Days Against Gender Based Violence. The crisis of gender-based violence, the so-called epidemic of male loneliness, the increasing and concerning radicalisation of young men, the lack of dialogue about men’s health physical and mental, so much of this stems from rigid gendered expectations and stereotypes. Stems, that is, from expectations of what it means to be a man, to be masculine. Expectations that are rigid, restrictive, and ultimately destructive (not only for the self, but for others). Sadly, these kind of rigid expectations and aspirations take root in the church as well; where a kind of godly masculinity is espoused, touting the supremacy of men as leaders who are strong and controlled (and perhaps controlling). And yet, as with Moses, time and again the Bible defies a kind of heroic masculinity that is self-sufficient, strong, and stoic, invulnerable and individualist. In its place is the valorisation of service, the requiring of humility, the glorifying of weakness, the celebration of compassion, the commending of vulnerability, and the recognition of our reliance not only on God, but others. To be human, and in particular to be human within the church is to be given to others in mutual dependence and care, to be both giver and receiver of grace and gifts, to be a helpmeet to one another and the earth. And we needn’t solely glean this lesson from the figure of Moses, or other human leaders in Scripture. Because we find the same example in Christ, the exemplar of the human. Limit and vulnerability mark the life of Jesus. Jesus is entrusted to the care of others. Jesus’ body grows weary, and others will come along (whether it be to anoint his head or carry his cross) to care for and sustain him. Indeed, one of the great, dismaying failures that Jesus experiences is when he is facing an approaching battle and asks his friends to stay awake and pray with him, but – unlike Aaron and Hur – they fail, and sleep through his agony. Jesus’ heroics, such as they are, also fit more in the mode of Moses’. His wonders are hardly herculean, but are acts of healing, feeding, compassion, stillness and peace. For God’s vision of flourishing, of future shalom and abundance – as we heard in today’s reading from Isaiah – is communal. In the new creation, far from being enforced, the so-called natural divisions and boundaries fade away, as wolf and lamb feed together. The picture of heavenly glory and peaceful new creation is not one where we become more self-sufficient, but more harmoniously intertwined with one another, creation, and God. The reminder then, whenever we start to think about health and flourishing, is to remember that in the Christian picture of the world, we are never called to be self-sufficient, never asked for individual heroics, never taught to hide or shun vulnerability. We are never asked to go it alone. We are made a body with one another, called to fold one another to our hearts, and hold each other up – weep with those who weep, rejoice with those who rejoice. Even when Moses possessed the staff of God, this incredible symbol of divine power - this is shown to be too heavy to hold on his own. Here on the battle field, as with the broader governing of Israel, his task will only be accomplished if it is shared. His greatness is contingent on hearing the words of wisdom: you cannot do it alone. Like Moses, all of us have God, an ever-present help in times of trouble, but we need to also have each other, particularly if we are to live into the vision of God’s flourishing kingdom where we shall know full and fruitful lives in community before God.  Readings, Lamentations 3:19-25 and 2 Timothy 1:1-14
Image, Study for 'Painting with white border’ (1913) Vasily Kandinsky Since 2022, this Sunday has been designated in the Uniting Church calendar, “UCA Older Persons Sunday.” A Sunday allowing us to reflect “on what it means to be a faith community of people who are continually ageing.” As the rationale notes, “We are all together in this ageing transition process; we are all slightly older than we were at breakfast time this morning. Some of us are experiencing faster ageing transitions than others, which can be uncomfortable, disorienting and hard to accept. This has implications in our church community for education, planning and pastoral care. As the people of Jesus Christ, we need to consider and prepare as a church community for the life-long transition called ageing.” The Assembly provides possible readings for this service, instead of what is provided in the lectionary. However, I didn’t feel we needed those today, as this section of the Second Letter of Timothy celebrates well already, “what it means to be a faith community of people who are continually ageing.” Recalling your tears, the letter writer declares of Timothy, I long to see you so that I may be filled with joy. I am reminded of your sincere faith, a faith that lived first in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice and now, I am sure, lives in you. Faith here is a living thing, shared amongst and across the generations, weaving together the people of God as the body of Christ. Paul, reminded of Timothy’s sincere faith (as well as his palpable emotion) longs to see him again to be filled with joy. But in remembering Timothy’s faith, he also brings to mind those the faith lived in first – Timothy’s grandmother Lois and mother Eunice. This living faith moves through this constellation of people and so even when they are apart, or even when they are gone, it breathes and beats in new bodies. Back when we were preparing to host Campfire at the Kirk the team came here for a meeting, which happened to overlap with a women’s fellowship meeting. It was great because it allowed the two groups to meet and talk. And I got to see folks like Mary, Gwen, and others sharing about the Sunday School/kids ministry of the Kirk and how the rooms were used, and how many kids were here, and where they used to take them when there was spill over, all while we were talking about how to use these rooms for a whole different group of kids, a whole different program, a whole new generation. What a witness to the living faith being shared across and amongst the generations, weaving together the people of God, making two distinct programs one shared ministry. The same faith, the same heart for kids, the same joy, beating in new bodies, all of it a reminder of the goodness of the Lord. The goodness of the Lord which, through the Spirit and the saints preserves the church across time. Even when programs cease or shift, even if ministries move or merge, even if churches close or consolidate, the faith, our faith, is a living faith; not bound or diminished by any of these changes, but carried on in hearts and minds taking new forms and new voice rekindling the gifts of God. It is our trust and hope in the power of the Spirit and the livingness of faith that equips the church community for the lifelong transition called aging. However, while we celebrate the faithfulness of God, whose steadfast love never ends and whose mercies never cease, we also recognise with the stated rationale of today, that aging can be hard and disorienting. Sometimes it feels like it happens all at once, sometimes it feels like time ravages some more than others. Sometimes, in the words of Philip Roth, “old age isn’t a battle; old age is a massacre.” And this reality, this feeling, this hurt, is not something to run away from or hide. Denial and sugar-coating only isolates those already struggling. For this reason, the act of lament takes on vital importance. The words we heard read from Lamentations 3 are filled with hope, but it is a hope that comes amidst and through honest lament. Because before we reached today’s words, this is what we find: I have become the laughing-stock of all my people, the object of their taunt-songs all day long. He has filled me with bitterness, he has glutted me with wormwood… my soul is bereft of peace; I have forgotten what happiness is; so I say, ‘Gone is my glory, and all that I had hoped for from the Lord.’ This kind of lament should not be confined to our scriptures alone, but allowed to find voice in our individual and collective piety and prayer. We need to be able to lament the pain (physical and spiritual), the harm (emotional and social), the injustice and indignity that afflicts the aging. There are ample causes for lament –royal commissions have exposed the systemic and profound abuse and neglect that has occurred in aged care facilities, research has detailed the increasing amount of elder abuse perpetrated by families, and we would have here today a profundity of stories of quiet dismissals, subtle denigrations, and decreased visibility. The bitterness, pain, and fear this evokes needs to be given voice in the community and before God in order to form the community into one which is able to bear one another’s burdens, share one another’s tears, and stand together in the struggle for justice and dignity. It is honest lament which allows for the truthful proclamation of hope in the community of struggle (as opposed to the cheap optimism of shiny happy people). Because it is only after those verses of lament that the reading reaches this moment: But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases, his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. The call to hope and faith, the call to wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord, can only be made with integrity if we have allowed each other to give voice to lament, and if we have proven ourselves a people of refuge and dignity for all members. At this point the word of hope, the promise of Christ, the immortality of the gospel can be broached as a testament to the living faith which cannot be crushed, not even by death (let alone the little deaths of societal disregard or bodily limit). But the reason for this movement is not based only in the structure of Lamentations. Christ himself did not live his life in one mood (he wept and raged as much as he rejoiced and gave thanks). And so the church as the body of Christ must not live in one mood. To be a faith community of those continually aging involves both the thanksgiving for the sincere faith we see living from one generation to the next, and the lament for the pain and heartbreak that befalls our elders (particularly that which is inflicted through social neglect or injustice). Without hope we have despair, but without lament, we have ignorance, and the church as the body of Christ, an aging faith community, can give into neither of these temptations. In the end, like Lois, Eunice, Timothy, and Paul, we must guard the calling of Christ for each other. Guard the good treasure of faith entrusted to [us]. For this was given in Christ before the ages began. And just as it cannot be denied to the young for their youth and supposed inexperience, it must not be denied or presumed diluted because of age and supposed diminishment. As a body made up of many (indispensable) members, we make room for the truth and look at one another as sites of sincere, living faith. A faith which is ever moving and growing, which, through the power of the Holy Spirit beats and breathes in our bodies. This faith (which is first and always Christ’s faith) shares in the immortality of the gospel and thus will continue to live in the community of the faithful, until the fulfilment of time, when Christ who abolished death, appears again, bringing the restoration of all things on his heels. |
SermonsPlease enjoy a collection of sermons preached by Rev Liam at the Kirk. If you have questions about them, or attending a service reach out using the Contact Page. Categories
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