For if any are hearers of the word and not doers,
they are like those who look at themselves in a mirror; for they look at themselves
and, on going away, immediately forget what they were like.

– James 1.23-24

How easy (and convenient) to have “predictive text” as we read and listen to the Scriptures.  We have a glimpse of what we think is coming, or someone reads the title of the section before the text itself and really, we almost don’t need to listen too hard.

The Letter of James has endured much in this regard. “Faith without works is dead” becomes the simplistic mission statement, thus justifying all the responsibilities, jobs and rosters. Finally, we corral the story of Mary and Martha in order to take sides – are you Mary, or are you Martha? Thus, we summarise this profound epistle before the kettle has boiled (expecting Martha to pour the tea).

Might I encourage you to stop for a second and observe that James’ letter is not an advertisement for the protestant work ethic, but rather an encouragement to be both hearers and doers of the word.

This is neither about indolence and apathy, nor about busy-ness and activity; it is about allowing our lives and selves to be shaped by the word. James’ original text does not have the distinction of a capital for “Word” (the original text was entirely in capitals), so we are entitled to ask to which “word” are we paying attention?

The New Testament had not yet been compiled when James was writing, so we can assume there were narratives, letters, even testimonies about Jesus, to which the communities of faith had access. These reports of Jesus’ life, death and resurrection were compelling and transforming, but I would suggest that there is more that James intends.

In the verse just before this, James talks of “the implanted word that has the power to save your souls.” Might this be more than narratives, reports and testimonies? This is the Word proclaimed at the majestic commencement of John’s Gospel; “In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God.”

If this Word, known to us and among us as Jesus, is implanted in us, what might identify our community as “doers of the Word”? Perhaps how we speak and act and serve and forgive? Perhaps how we bridle our tongues from cynicism and gossip, and release them to bless and honour those around us? How might our lives reflect the presence of Jesus?

Our significant mistake will be to assume we have this in hand. As we pray this week, let us pray for the Word to be embedded, implanted in our lives and our Congregation, that we might be known as “doers of the Word” for our community around us.

“Lord, to whom can we go? You have the words of eternal life.”

It’s when we make that one decision that everything begins to change. Many of us belong to groups passively, just testing the water, unsure of whether we belong. This is as true of a walking group, or regular Thursday coffee, or settling into a community of faith.

We come along, check if it’s safe and whether we feel we can belong. Belonging may take time. At some point, we decide to stay, or not; to belong, or not; to commit.

In the gospels, the safety and obscurity of the crowd is where we often find ourselves; listening to what Jesus has to say, being fed with thousands of others, chasing him around the lake, expecting a miracle, or a show.

Then Jesus asks more of us. It might feel like too much. We watch him invite himself to lunch with that tax bloke. We see him eating meals with those disreputables. He makes extraordinary claims for himself. He asks us to follow him, risking everything – career, family, income, reputation, life.

When this happens, we find we can no longer just settle obscurely into the crowd.     

A suggestion. We’d like it we could buy the hoodie and the stubby holder, and not need to change how we vote, and how we spend our money, and how we live, and how we speak to others (especially the ones we find difficult to like). Just a suggestion.

In the letter to the Colossians, the author writes, “If anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation: everything old has passed away; see, everything has become new!”

We can’t just buy some merchandise. We are asked to follow, to die and live.

It is only when we test ourselves against the words of Jesus that we discern whether there is real life there, or just a meme. Shall we risk loving – and forgiving – our neighbour, even our enemy?  Shall we risk being forgiven, in our turn?

When we trust that Jesus is more than a persona, more than ethics and morals, we discover there is life for us. And everything changes.

Therefore be imitators of God, as beloved children, and live in love,
as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us … [Ephesians 5.1-2]

There appears to be a significant political investment in fear these days. Certain politicians warn of dark times and an even darker future, unless we place our trust in them.

Apocalyptic visions of the “wrong people” in our communities abound, defined (depending on circumstance) by skin colour, or gender identity, or those experiencing persecution and seeking refuge and hope. The world-weary among us will say it has always been thus, that the more things change, the more they stay the same.

I’m not convinced. The plethora of media resources ensures our being constantly saturated; whether we listen, or follow, or subscribe, or read, or watch. The church, of course, is not immune; when suspicion, or fear, are the currency minted – and liberally spent – by some politicians and media, we often find ourselves unwitting investors.

Sermons warn of the frightening world outside, or the danger of different faith stories and biblical interpretation, or the risk of mixing with those who think differently. Thus, the church circles our wagons and looks inward, so that we know everyone and try to feel safe. Which is precisely not how we are called to live out the call of the crucified, risen Christ.

Paul challenges us to live fully – hopefully, carefully, gracefully, thankfully.

It is too easy to accuse, to blame, to refuse, to persecute, so that we feel the illusion of a manufactured safety. That is not the gospel.

The witness of our faith is to live as people of hope, not scratching out our existence in fear, or hiddenness. When the community mistrusts difference, how do we embrace our neighbour? When politicians demand that we punish those seeking refuge, how do we offer sanctuary in our homes and communities?

How do we live in the light of Jesus, and thus offer that light to others, with the gentle care which remembers how it was first offered to us?

Blessings for the week ahead of us.

She put me in my place and I deserved every word. We had been rummaging around a topic in a small group, about being hungry and poor, so we had quickly and conveniently moved the focus of our conversation to “spiritual things”, to avoid it brushing too close.

I had begun to wax lyrical about the benefits of spiritual poverty, biblical quotes on the tip of my tongue. She stopped me, mid-theological-stride. “Have any of you ever been really hungry? Being poor is not romantic, it’s not exciting. If you’ve ever been poor, or hungry, you’ll know that.”

Awkward Christian silence.

I have learnt some things along the way, and one in particular is that sometimes (frequently) there will be the need for me to apologise. So I did. We paused, and restarted the conversation, not focusing on the newly discovered prophet in our group, but trying to shape our time with a new discipline of relevance and compassion.

One of the best ways to avoid the words of Jesus having any real effect (or affect) is to shift each bible reflection solely to the spiritual plane. We can make sinfulness simply about the relationship between God and me, not the person next to me. We can make discipleship about getting to eternity, not life here – and now. We can spiritualise bread and hunger and justice so easily that they become almost intangible and avoid our community altogether.

When John tells us Jesus’ words, “I am the bread of life”, he has just fed several thousand people with a snack box, and saved a boatload of friends in a storm. After a series of conversations, John tells us that Jesus saves a woman from being stoned to death, and stopped a cluster of rock-carrying clergy.

What Jesus says matters.

Not only because it’s wise, but essentially because it applies, here. And now. If we trust Jesus for each step, our behaviour and our allegiances change. Jesus is where real  nourishment is found, and not just for one meal, but for always.