Image, Joan Mitchell, Cypress, 1980

In one of the great segments of The Twilight Zone a scholarly man finds himself post-apocalyptic scene, seemingly the last man left alive. It all seems fairly dire, until he stumbles upon a library... of course, it is the Twilight Zone, so things don't necessarily go as planned. You can watch the ending here.
 
We have a lot of stories where we long for a place, some utopia, and then, when we arrive there is a cruel and ironic twist. The vision of the future, the idealised time to come, the mythical place of the character’s dream looks great from afar, built up by imagination and yearning but by the end of the story we discover that what has been eagerly awaited cannot live up to expectations, plagued by some flaw inherent to its nature. Readied as we are by such stories and their twists, the words of the psalm, One thing I asked of the Lord, that will I seek after: to live in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, might be accompanied by a sense of foreboding. Like, yes, you wish that now, but have you really thought such things through? Will there not yet be a rug pulled out from under your dreams?
 
We are progressing through the season of Lent, the forty days of preparation for Calvary. We ready ourselves through piety, prayer, and proclamation to feel the upheaval, the drama, tragedy and victory of the cross and the empty tomb. Our readings today serve such an end.
 
The Psalm captures the Lenten yearning for refuge and salvation. The psalm teaches our heart to Come and seek God’s face. For at heart, this is what Lenten habits of fasting and forgoing, or of focused intensifying of spiritual practices are aimed toward: teaching our hearts to seek the one thing, to strip away the distractions and find the one thing to ask of the Living God, to discover or rediscover the one place in which we shall find true rest, refuge, and delight.
 
Pressed in on all sides the Psalmist looks toward the refuge of God’s presence. World-weary and wrung dry the Psalmist yearns to come in from the cold and exist in the warmth of God’s beauty – represented on earth for them in the Temple. Their desire, born of faith and struggle is to spend their days where eternity and time intersect, where divine presence dwells on earth. To press in with the assembly to seek God’s face, learn God’s ways, and see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.
 
Speaking of a place where time and eternity intersect and the divine presence dwells on earth, let’s talk about the gospel reading. Evil doers assail Jesus, seeking to devour his flesh, and he is warned by some Pharisees to flee for safety. This is a good reminder that the relationship between Jesus and the Pharisees is not simply one of protagonist and antagonist. While there is (at times heated) disagreement between the parties, it is clear Jesus spends a great deal of time amidst the Pharisees. And here, we see that far from betraying Jesus into the hands of Herod, the Pharisees burst in with warnings… warnings which serve to ready us again for Easter.
 
For where the psalm readies us by giving voice to yearning, the gospel readies us by setting the stage of the conflict narrative that will drive us to the cross. For having been warned, Jesus offers perhaps his most explicit critique of Herod and the worldly powers assailing him: Go and tell that fox for me… The following proclamation of Jesus’ messianic mission, his prophetic cause, his foreshadowing of his death and victory is all placed here in direct confrontation and defiance of Herod, which is a confrontation and defiance of the imperial rule of his day.
 
In calling Herod a fox, Jesus is also able to define the nature of this conflict. Because, in the same speech that Jesus refers to Herod as a fox, he describes himself as a Mother Hen. Flee, Jesus is warned, a fox approaches, no, Jesus says, my desire is to gather the children of Jerusalem like a mother hen her chicks. Compared to the wily, destructive, and violent fox, Jesus is the nurturing, protective, and unassuming hen. The contest between Jesus and the forces out to subdue him is not likened by Jesus to two waring armies, but a fox and a mother hen. Jesus’ desire is not glorious battle, but to gather and shelter. To make of himself, a place where we will find our refuge, a place we can seek to live all the days of our lives, a place to behold the beauty of the Lord. Here, his very body – which at this moment is assailed and threatened by evil forces – is held out to the world as a place of refuge and hope. Jesus speaks to those around him: ready yourself, the hour approaches, and remember when the work is finished, who it was that dwelt among you.
 
We seek something which will not disappoint, sweet waters with no bitter aftertaste. For he who has been tried did not fail. He who was buried did not stay buried. Lent readies us for a crescendo, the climax of the contest. Lent readies us for an ending, the death of Christ on the cross. And Lent also readies us for a new beginning in the Easter dawn. And when we arrive at each of these sites, we shall not be disappointed. We shall not feel the pinch of poetic irony. We shall not grow weary of their fields and flowers. For this is the site at which eternity and time intersect, where the divine presence dwells on earth, where the kingdom of God draws near, on earth as it is in heaven. Pressed on all sides, world-weary and wrung dry we can come again and again to the story and find the very presence of Christ, his very body opened toward us offering shelter and refuge from all sorts of foxes. Be strong and take heart, for here we behold the beauty of the Lord.
 
And yet, while Lent readies us for an ending, teaching our hearts to seek the one good thing, it also teaches us to seek this ending in the middle. Lent teaches us, that is, to see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. In walking these forty days with Christ we learn to value power which nurtures, shelters, and gathers, and wonder how we as Christ’s body might act the hen. In gathering together in prayer, piety, and proclamation we learn how to lift our heads to make sounds of joy, and wonder how we as Christ’s body might battle back the forces that compel our neighbours to keep their heads low. In moving out into the world to bless the living with love and good deeds, we learn to seek God’s face in the least of these and wonder how as the body of Christ we might behold the Lord’s beauty in places the world consigns as ugly.
 
Wait for the Lord! The Psalmist proclaims. This isn’t a waiting until there is finally time enough, when all the diversions are wiped away and the ecosystem aligns with the fruition of our desires. We are waiting for one who was and is and is to come, waiting for one who is present with us, and who has already gone ahead to make for us a room to spend all the days of our lives. This is an active, engaged, creative, and communal waiting where we live within the belief that we shall see (and indeed might become) the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. So be strong and let your heart take courage. Live as those gathered and sent by a hen amongst foxes, until the great and glorious day when you say, Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.

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

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

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

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, Psalm 1 and Acts 1:15-26
Image, Nicholas Pope, "The Apostles Speaking in Tongues, Lit By Their Own Lamps,” 2014. Terracotta, metal, wick, paraffin, and flame. Salisbury Cathedral installation.

In the Uniting Church, we have a fairly elaborate process for calling a minister. Written profiles, a Synod committee, a JNC with presbytery representatives and members of the congregation; and here we read we could have just been rolling dice to decide all this time.
 
We’ve stumbled into a little bit of a mini-theme these past three weeks, how to make a Christian decision… how to discern what we, as a disciple, are meant to do when confronted with the unforeseen. It is not unsurprising as these readings follow that interesting time of the early church, stepping out in faith without the immediate presence of Jesus.
 
You might have sought guidance and wisdom from God when making a difficult decision. One time, facing a complex decision, having exhausted the more reasonable paths of discernment, I decided I needed a sign, and so I tried to engineer one. Waiting to cross the road, I decided that I would count the red cars that drove by, if there were more than four, I would go one way, less I’d go the other. Probably not what God had in mind when sending the Spirit to be our wonderful counsellor, but perhaps you’ve tried something similar?
 
Because sometimes we use chance not to reveal the right outcome, but to reveal what we want in our heart of hearts. To use an innocuous example, say you are trying to decide if you want Thai or Italian for dinner. "It's fine," you say, "either is good" - so you decide to flip a coin to choose. But this is the moment (coin cascading back down to earth), that you realise, oh no, I really want Thai, gosh I hope this lands on tails! The coin flip reveals we already know what we want, we just need to be faced with the possibility of the alternative to admit our desire. Perhaps some apostles felt this as the lots were cast. Perhaps their true preference for Justus or Matthias was revealed to them as they waited to see where the lots fell.
 
What is striking though, is that this is not a small decision. The disciples are seeking to replace one of the twelve apostles. And they need to do this because one of the original twelve betrayed Jesus, betrayed them all – a betrayal so pulsating with wickedness that the betrayer simply fell headlong into his ill-bought field guts bursting forth. So, you know, it is not that there aren’t consequences for allowing the wrong disciple into the twelve. Despite the provisions they put in place in terms of someone who accompanied Jesus the whole time, that is no guarantee against potential betrayal, for Judas fit those provisions too. With the stakes so high, how, we wonder, might they have justified such a practice as casting lots?
 
Well, in the first instance, there is simply a difference in culture. Lots were viewed as an appropriate way for the will of God to guide human decisions, indeed they circumvent the frailty of human wisdom. You might remember for instance, that Zechariah, the father of John the Baptist was elected to go into the sanctuary whereupon he received his miraculous visitation from the angel after the casting of lots which was the custom of the priesthood.    
 
But I think there is something we can learn from the confidence displayed by the apostles in their casting of lots. It is not to emulate my car trick, nor to develop some new practice of chance as divinely ordained to reveal the hidden will of God. No, I would say that what this story highlights for those of us wondering how to make decisions when discernment and prayer has not settled the matter, is to free ourselves of the fear that one wrong decision will somehow derail God’s plans. That one wrong decision will render for nought all that God is doing through our community. That one misstep will foreclose God’s future in our life. The disciples, having done all they can to discern, trust that Jesus will abide with whoever is initiated into the twelve. If Judas could not derail the plans of God, then neither could Matthias, Justus, or anything else that malevolently seeks to frustrate the kingdom of God. Jesus lives and reigns, and if we abide in love, we abide in Christ. The disciples can make their decision however they choose, because if they do so in love, they do so in Christ.
 
The psalmist sings, God watches over the way of the righteous, and happy are they who delight in the law and meditate on its precepts. Such a psalm can appear threatening at first, for who wants to be among the wicked; like chaff driven away by the wind? But the psalm is not out to create the impression that any of us are one decision away from our innards spilling out onto the field we purchased with blood money. Rather, those who abide in love and seek the truth in humble earnestness are watched over. The good news is that those who seek to make their decisions while abiding in Christ’s love and seeking the movement of the Spirit are freed from the fear that each fork in the road has only one correct decision.
 
Indeed, so great is God’s faithfulness that had Judas not foreclosed his own end, he might not have needed replacing. Consider Jesus’ treatment of Peter; who denies Christ in his hour of need. Even this terrible decision does not foreclose the future Christ had laid before him. Interestingly, Matthew conveys the death of Judas differently from Acts. There, Judas, realises the innocence of Christ and hangs himself. The field is named the field of blood, not because it is where Judas met his ghastly end, but because it was bought with the silver he sought to return. Perhaps the only way to make a truly terrible choice from which even Christ cannot work to restore us to grace and community, is if we give up on the possibility of Christ’s forgiveness. For would not the resurrected Christ, who gathered Peter who denied, Thomas who doubted, and the disciples who fled, not also gather the one who betrayed? Would there not have been forgiveness even for this poorest of choices? And do not we have hope, that Christ who went down unto death, proclaimed good news to the spirits in prison, and harrowed the halls of hell, might not have found a way to gather Judas to him still? Such is the basis of our freedom and boldness, because if there is the possibility of hope and mending for the betrayer, how much more so for us?
 
The lesson is thus: If we love Christ, delight in the scriptures, discern with community, and stay open to grace we can make choices free from fear. Because whether we go left, right, up, down, or round and round, God is with us, and wherever the path leads, God is its end. God is with us before, at, and after each fork in the road, enveloping us in steadfast kindness and calling us to the work of an apostle, a witness to the good news of Christ's abiding love.