 Reading, Matthew 14:22-33
The moment that puzzles me most in this reading is Peter’s response to hearing Jesus identify himself as the figure approaching them across the water. Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water. The more I think about it the stranger it feels that Peter chooses this command unprompted. To recap, the disciples are out on the boat near dawn, the winds are against them and they have spent hours being battered by the waves. A figure approaches them in the darkness, seemingly walking on the water… understandably they are terrified of this approaching ghost, perhaps come to bring them down to a watery grave. Hearing their fear the figure responds, Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid. Now what adds to my puzzlement, or exacerbates the strangeness of what Peter says next, is that it is unclear how sure the disciples are that it is Jesus. Perhaps in the crashing of waves and whooshing of wind it is hard to discern for certain the source of this voice? Perhaps the phantom is posing as a trusted voice so that they drop their guard? Perhaps it is Jesus and so their fears of immanent ghost attack are replaced by concern for what this storm will do to Jesus or their boat? The thing is, I’m not sure which of these scenarios best explains Peter’s request: Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.
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 Readings, Genesis 32:22-31 and Matthew 14:13-21
Image, Laura James, 5000 Fed (1999) There’s a kind of story I’m sure most of us a partial towards. It’s when you have experienced something go off without a hitch, only to find out later that a string of near disasters were only narrowly averted. It’s the invisibility of these hurdles that makes their belated revelation all the more thrilling. The revelation that the cake was nearly dropped en route to the table, that the actor was nowhere to be found moments before their cue, that the star athlete won gold with all kinds of hidden injuries, or, the soloist prepared for entirely the wrong concerto and only realised the moment the orchestra sounded the first chords. We then played this video of Maria Joao Piers having prepared for the wrong concerto: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=300t2DS3VdQ It is often lauded as a sign of true grace under pressure when someone is still able to execute after everything has gone wrong without giving away that anything had gone wrong. Both of today’s readings share something of this quality. Both are famous scenes, where the central character performs something miraculous, which is made more incredible when we realise the wider context of pressure and hurdles they are facing. That is to say, the acts of the miraculous feeding and the wrestling with the angel are impressive enough on their own, but are even more so when we understand all that Jesus and Jacob are experiencing, before, beneath, and beyond these scenes.  Readings, Psalm 104 and Song of Songs 2:8-15
Image, To the Sea of Tranquillity, John Petrie We’ve come to the end of our poems and psalm series, an opportunity for us to consider how we live lives of meaning, value, and hope. We have considered the question of humanity with Psalm 8 and Shakespeare, and affirmed that at a foundational level the human is the one who God is mindful of, who God has made and loved. We have considered the necessity of lament with Psalm 6 and James Schuyler, and affirmed that a life of hope comes through the communal sharing of woes, wounds, and burdens. We have explored the call to rejoice with Psalm 34 and James Merrill, and affirmed the role of the psalms to open our lives to marvels within and beyond our experience. We probed the command not to worry with Psalm 131 and Emily Dickinson, and affirmed that the slow, appreciative consideration of creation going about its course in unhurried simplicity allows us to breath in the rhythm of God’s tender provision and become a community able to hold what we have in common. We looked frankly at the great chasm of wealth inequality with Psalm 10 and Evelyn Araleun, and affirmed not only the necessity of having our sense of worth and value continually reshaped by the vision of God’s kingdom but also the workings of God beyond our own efforts to see and seek out oft-unpunished the wicked. And now, at the end of our series, we have Psalm 104, and a poem by contemporary poet Derrick Austin, to help us consider what reminds us of the closeness of God, and affirm our many varied ways of being reminded.  Readings, Psalm 10 and Luke 16:19-31
Image, Vitaly Polyakov, After storming the Winter Palace Out of a kind of morbid curiosity which is surely not benefitting me at all, I am prone to read the comments on news stories on social media. Now everyone rightly says don’t read the comments, and that’s even truer at this stage of the internet, with what we know about the proliferation of bots and paid commenters. Nonetheless I go to the comments because sometimes, and here’s where the morbidness comes in, I’m fascinated by the vitriolic ways people can respond to almost anything. And if there’s one thing that earns the ire of a particular kind of internet commenter it is a story about wealth inequality. Particularly a story about someone (or group of people) struggling with poverty or inequality etc. You can read the most heart-breaking story about someone who has lost everything through terrible luck, unpredictable tragedy, or the nefarious scheming of bad actors and you will still find comment after comment blaming the victim or the society that enables their victimhood. And so, I can only imagine, stripped of its biblical pedigree, the comments on a news post that begins: There was a rich man who was dressed in purple and fine linen and who feasted sumptuously every day. And at his gate lay a poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores, who longed to satisfy his hunger with what fell from the rich man’s table; even the dogs would come and lick his sores. This would only earn similar vitriol as our contemporary stories: similar blaming of Lazarus for getting himself in this situation, similar commending of oneself that you would never let it get that bad, and similar defence of the Rich Man as someone who has likely earned his stature and security through hard work, and doesn’t owe a layabout like Lazarus anything, let alone a dreaded handout. Jesus however, in keeping with the general tenor of the biblical witness, displays no such blame for the poor man, nor defence for the rich. Against the tendency of society to associate poverty with a lack of morals, ethics, intelligence, or effort, and to attach to the wealthy a presumption of virtue, wisdom, and aptitude, Jesus narrates the poor man in eternal comfort while the rich languishes in Hades. There is not a word about character, belief, or the choices which led one to be in purple finery and the other sores… but the simple fact of unaddressed economic inequality is enough to generate the great chasm which can no longer be crossed. Jesus doesn’t play with the excuses of the rich or the blaming of the poor, he is immune to the click-clacking of the comment section trying to condemn Lazarus under the banner of personal responsibility. Jesus, steeped in the psalms, knows: God will not forget the oppressed and nor the rich and wicked, who in their pride falsely believe God does not see and will not seek them out.  Readings, Psalm 34 and Romans 6:1-11
Image, Cressida Campbell, Flannel Flowers (2013) Imagine with me, for a moment, that you’re on holiday in a new town. As you mosey about something strange catches your eye. A giant billboard celebrating shiny white teeth. Having seen this first sign, you can’t stop noticing all around the town other similar signs, posters, ads, and murals. Each of them a variation on a theme: healthy teeth, beautiful smiles, minty toothpaste, gentle brushing – kids and adults of all genders beaming bright white teeth and enthusiastically gripping or displaying a dazzling array of toothpastes and brushes. Having now become fixated with the sheer amount of these signs, their uncountable multitude spread in every nook and cranny across the town, you actually meet your first local. Naturally, only one thought occupies your mind: I’ve got to get a look at this person’s teeth. Now, here’s the question for all of us: what is the state of this person’s teeth? Because our first guess might be, well, clearly a town that so vigorously promotes healthy oral hygiene will be filled with people with pearly whites. But if that was the case, we might wonder, what’s the need for all these vigilant reminders? On second thought we might ask: do all these reminders, all these celebrations of toothbrushing actually reflect the fact that this whole town has, for generations, neglected their teeth? Is this whole town adverse to brushing, ignorant of gum health, and circular-motion brushing? Are these signs not a reflection of town values, but a desperate attempt to change the people’s habits? The psalms contain a lot of calls to praise, and more than a few appeals to rejoice. It was hard to get some exact figures, but I found one source which noted that the English word praise occurs 248 times in the King James Bible, and about 155 of those times across the book of Psalms. Rejoice (in its varying forms) occurs about 260 times across scripture. And so, the question might be posed: are all these references there because Christians are such joyful and grateful people, consistently rejoicing and praising God… or are they there because we perhaps ought to be… but are struggling to internalise the message?  Readings, Psalm 6 and Matthew 9:18-26
Image, The Old Guitarist, Pablo Picasso, 1903 The psalms have ordered, guided, and resourced Jewish and Christian worship for millennia. And there are many types of psalms. Psalms of thanksgiving, psalms of praise, royal psalms, wisdom or teaching psalms, imprecatory psalms, and psalms of lament. Given this, the question is often posed: does and if not why doesn’t TiS, or a similar modern worship hymnbook or song list of contemporary Christian songs contain such range? While we can find reasons for not-replicating some kinds of psalms, it is hard to explain the absence of lament. For we have not run short of sorrows, the tears have yet to be dried from our eyes, why should we have given up so readily, collective lament through music? There are between 60-65 psalms of lament, both individual and collective. Which makes it the largest category, covering over a third of the collection. And it’s not even like it takes a while for the psalter to warm up, there are two laments in the first ten psalms – one of which, Psalm 6 – we heard today. And I love this psalm, in particular, because of how grounded the lament feels. There's that passage in the middle, I am weary with my moaning; every night I flood my bed with tears; I drench my couch with my weeping. Which feel like lines you'd still hear on the radio today. There's nothing peculiarly biblical about that feeling, about flooding your bed with tears, that belongs to us all. But I want to focus first on this section: Be gracious to me, O Lord, for I am languishing; O Lord, heal me, for my bones are shaking with terror. My soul also is struck with terror, while you, O Lord—how long? Throwing oneself at the feet of God with this mix of woes, plea, and accusation is characteristic of the lament.. Plea: O Lord be gracious to me… Woes: my bones are shaking my soul is struck… Accusation: O Lord – how long? -- I particularly love the way that "how long" just bursts in, as if the psalmist were planning a longer, ore eloquent line, but the well burst and all they could do was blurt out their plea.  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.”  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, 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.  Reading, Luke 15:1-10
Image, The Parable of the Lost Coin, Domenico Fetti (1589–1624) During our kid’s talk about baptism, we explored various imagery which helps communicate the reality of baptism. Our becoming part of the body of Christ, our being buried in Christ so that we can rise with him also, our light secured and enlivened in the fire of Christ’s light, our name being added to the great cloud of witnesses. The reading today carries two similar, potent images. The lost sheep and the lost coin, found and returned, the cause of much celebration. Much comfort and hope has been gleaned from these most famous of stories. For in them, we see the attention, tenderness and determination of our God. This is a God not of averages but individuals. This is a God not content with rounding errors but who counts, knows, and delights in every hair on our head. The God who numbered the stars in the sky is as attentive to the human as the shepherd charged with the care of 100 sheep, as attentive to us in our billions as a woman to her 10 coins. These stories display the attention, tenderness, and determination of our God who knows when there is one who needs to be gathered, who knows where the lost will be found, and who celebrates their homecoming. In theological speak, there is a term called the economy of salvation. The economy of salvation is used to describe the way in which God manages, or stewards, the salvation of the world. As an example, you might say, the economy of salvation is revealed in God’s decision to send the Son in love, or that the Spirit’s role in the economy of salvation is to awaken faith and understanding in the individual to the completed work of Christ. Baptism, even, can be part of the economy of salvation – not because it changes our status before God, but because as sacrament it points to the saving work of Christ and its effect in our common life. What we see, in parables such as those read today, is how different the economics of the economy of salvation are, from the economics of the world. By welcoming outsiders, the estranged and marginalised, Jesus risked not only his reputation, but the possible reception of his message. It was this welcome that brought about the grumbling that led to today’s parables. And the parables themselves attest to the deliberate attention paid to the few, the lost, the one amidst the many. None of these choices map onto the secure and prudent practices of worldly economics, all-to-ready to account for the odd lost coin or sheep, knowing that it is rarely worth the effort to retrieve. And yet, time and again, Jesus teaches us that the kingdom of God is made known through an inversion of worldly values and expectations. Consider, for instance, the parable of the landowner who hires workers for his field at various points across the day. At the end of the day, the he gathers all the workers and pays each a day’s wage. Those who were there at the beginning grumbled at this wage parity. To which the landowner responds, Am I not allowed to do what I choose with what belongs to me? Or are you envious because I am generous?” So the last will be first, and the first will be last.’ Or consider, for instance, the parable of the banquet, when those who received the first invitation to dine do not come, and so the host sends servants to the streets to gather all they can find, both good and bad; so the wedding hall was filled with guests. The point is never order or longevity, deserving or protocol. For the joy is in the gathering up – is the bringing in of those outside, forgotten, and lost. It is in the inversion of the old order of things and replacing it with something sublime – the celebration over one found, the last being first, the hall filled with the good and bad. And the risk, as it was in for those grumbling at the beginning of today’s reading, as it will be for the older brother in the parable that follows the two we heard, as it is for those who went first to the fields, or turned down the invitation to feast, is to miss out on the celebration. Is to miss out on what is been made new in God’s attention, tenderness, and determination. To allow the economics and values of the world to rob us of the joy at something so strange and sublime as the attention, tenderness, and determination of God to fill God’s household with merriment, meaning, and fellowship. Because if we miss this celebration, if we grumble through what God is doing because it does not look like the logical or the prudent, if we scoff at the welcome of those so seldom welcomed, then we will miss what it is we are called to do. For as those who have received the grace of God and called to bear the fruit of the Spirit, we are called to live in response to God’s attention, tenderness and determination – to model it in our own life, to seek it in our community. For as the church we are called by God to organise ourselves after the economics of the economy of salvation. This week you may have seen the story of Carlo Acutis, in the news for becoming the first millennial saint. Often what is first highlighted about Carlos’ life was his use of the internet to catalogue miracles and witness to the good news of the gospel (work he began at 11 years old). But what is also highlighted was that, between 11 and 15, Carlos was also known to go about Milan, giving out sleeping bags to the homeless, giving money from his allowance to the poor. When Carlos died, tragically from a rare cancer at age 15, his funeral was unexpectantly packed with a crowd of the poor and homeless from across Milan. His Priest remarked, “It became apparent that Carlo had befriended so many of these people.” What a witness to a life modelled on the attention, tenderness, and determination of God. One devoting gifts, passions, and time to the kind of upside-down economics of the kingdom of God which celebrates in the great gathering of the unexpected a testament to the nature of our God, who refuses to allow a one to be lost or forgotten. May our own days, our own community, be marked by such attention, tenderness, and determination. |
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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