John said to him “Teacher, we saw someone casting out demons in your name, and we tried to stop him, because he was not following us.” But Jesus said, “Do not stop him; for no one who does a deed of power in my name will be able soon afterward to speak evil of me. Whoever is not against us is for us. For truly I tell you, whoever gives you a cup of water to drink because you bear the name of Christ will by no means lose the reward. [Mark 9.38-41]

How easily we find reasons to take sides.

We decide who belongs; more often, we decide who does not. We know the journey, from the painful process (for some) of teams being chosen in the playground in primary school, to the social, or political, or religious gauntlet in which we live and are allocated.

I referred last week to Stan Grant’s comment[1] about identity being “a cage in search of a bird” and that has some weight here. We identify a person by their gender, or skin colour, or age, or sexuality and decide their inherent merit, or their capacity to belong to “our” group.

This behaviour is accelerating in our community, as we find ourselves more likely to associate primarily with those who think and vote like us and, more pronounced, offering condemnation to those who do not. We discount their views and express contempt for them as whole; if you vote for that party/person/policy then you have nothing to offer.

Before we reflexively become too defensive, wait a moment and reflect.  

There are echoes for us in this week’s Gospel reading, with the disciples behaving as we often might, by staking our ground and our privilege, and warning others away.

It’s simple, is it not? And it saves time.

And it infests many faith traditions within the whole Church. The strident defence of being evangelical or progressive, of being “bible-based”, builds into finger-pointing and, tragically, fence-building.

Our identity as followers of Jesus will be formed and discovered by the cups of water we offer to the thirsty, not the quality of fence strainer or barbed wire we use.  At this point in the Gospel, Jesus is stepping into the journey towards the cross, for the sake of those who accept him, and those who do not.  

What might that look like, in our Congregation, in our relationships, in our community?

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[1] Frank Archibald Memorial Lecture, 19^th September 2024 

The old white box stands sentinel, resolute and resilient, in the middle of our front paddock. Older, perhaps, than colonisation, this tree has borne steady witness, weathering – and outliving – each seasonal challenge. We were present for a lightning strike, several years ago, blasting off a limb, and some resolve.

Still, she stands.  

​In the first words offered to us by the Psalmist, we hear

Happy are those who do not follow the advice of the wicked,
or take the path that sinners tread, or sit in the seat of scoffers;
but their delight is in the law of the Lord,
and on his law they meditate day and night.
They are like trees planted by streams of water,
which yield their fruit in its season, and their leaves do not wither.
In all that they do, they prosper.

A podcast asked the question this week, what sort of tree would you imagine yourself to be?

Sit for a moment, and ponder. What tree do you imagine yourself to be? Consider your leaves and twigs and boughs, your roots and bark, your canopy. What feeds you? Where are the streams which nourish you?

At the Frank Archibald Memorial Lecture this week, Stan Grant noted that the steady diet for our community includes UberEats and Married At First Sight. The distance and the anti-hospitality of an anonymous food carrier, and the bastardisation of relationship and covenant. Nourishment, indeed.

The psalmist talks of “scoffers”, a term barely used these days. Perhaps they are those who mocked Christ at the cross; more normally, they are those whose words are designed to chip and chasten, with cynicism in their commentary and muttered criticism for things they can’t tolerate or imagine.

We meet them in ourselves when tired or discouraged. We meet them in others, and it is most disabling when we are beginning to hope, or act, again. Their voices whisper in our churches and communities, thinking themselves clever. However, at their best, all they can offer is hindrance.

Think of what water feeds your soul, quenches your thirst, refreshes you. What story of Jesus, what experience of others, what song you sing, which poem or performance, lifts you to life and hope?

Which experience of Jesus might you be courageous enough to believe will give life to others, and would you offer it? Imagine that, in tendering your story of hope and life, others will prosper in their turn, growing into the life created for them in Christ.

Jesus went on with his disciples to the villages of Caesarea Philippi;
and on the way he asked his disciples, “Who do people say that I am?” [Mark’s Gospel 8.27]

In a world immersed in words, it becomes more and more difficult to discern and offer the words which are hopeful, creative, life-giving. Advertising, podcasts and the misnamed “reality TV”, media of all forms, shout at us incessantly or sit on our shoulders and chatter in our ears like monkeys.

Opinions are everywhere, and quantity seems in inverse proportion to quality. Undaunted by this, offering – and amplifying – a bizarre opinion is the most likely way to garner attention and, following hot on attention’s heels are those who accept, believe and adhere.

Who do people say me to be?

Amidst all the noise, can we attend to what people are saying? One of the interesting tests of many modern church movements is how little they mention the person and work of Jesus Christ, and how much more is spoken about you, and me. The next line is either our abject failure, or the five alliterative steps to self-actualisation.

A number of faith traditions enlist Paul to their particular frame of thinking, neglecting the reality that Paul’s central point of reference is never himself, or us, but “Jesus Christ, and him crucified.”

Who do people say me to be?

The temptation is to believe ourselves sufficiently nourished by miracles, or wisdom, or seeing a person healed. The wonder of a crowd being satisfied by a handful of bread is something we would tell our children and grandchildren, but is it enough when we can’t pay the bills tomorrow, or our home is unsafe tonight?

When Peter names Jesus as Messiah, he imagines a story far away from suffering and struggle. His rebuke of Jesus’ words of rejection and death arises from fear and discomfort, and the consequence for him of following such a one.

Who do you say me to be?

The only way that tangible words of hope can be offered to broken lives is when the one who speak knows what suffering is, the lash of injustice and the hammer blows of rejection. When Jesus names who he is, we are immediately aware of our identities, as those who follow him.

We are named as those who know that suffering and injustice are real, but they are not the final words spoken. We know that violence happens, but death is not the end of the story.

We name Jesus as Immanuel, God with us. This is not a nickname for a manger-born infant, but the identity of one with us in every stanza of our lives.

Crucified, and risen. This is who we say Jesus to be. Jesus, the purpose and fulfilment of God in creation and history. Life is the complete word spoken, heard in silence and wonder at the first and final moments.

Who do you say me to be?

She begged him to cast the demon out of her daughter.He said to her, “Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”But she answered him, “Sir, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.” [Mark’s Gospel 7.26-28]

What happens when Jesus says something which we think he should not have said? How do you feel when Jesus says something which, from anyone else, would create a response of condemnation or criticism, at the very least?

A common response is that we try to ameliorate what Jesus has said, or we make excuses for him, by claiming he meant something different, or the translation misses the nuance of the words, or he didn’t call her a dog, it was more like a puppy.

We are so caught up in the moment, we don’t see Jesus as the human being God has so clearly intended him to be.

Exhausted, driven, with little chance to rest and facing criticism from the Jewish leadership and many in the community, Jesus seeks refuge in a Gentile town where he hopes he is not known. He slips into a home, and looks for a space to stop, perhaps seeking a moment’s sanctuary. Not a chance.

This mother of a desperately ill daughter, unnamed but identified, falls at Jesus’ feet and begs him for help. Could there be a more significant contrast with the confrontation of the Pharisees and lawyers from whom Jesus has just taken refuge?

However, Jesus dismisses her with a word and a cruel name. For half a breath, we don’t know what to think. And yet, this mother behaves as mothers have behaved throughout history, doing anything to save her child. She answers back, challenging and correcting Jesus.

We hold our breath for another heartbeat. And Jesus is recalled to the breadth and depth of his ministry; not just to the people of Israel, but to all who hunger and thirst for justice and mercy.

In the Old Testament, we hear Abraham, Moses and the Psalmist call God to remember mercy, to remember justice, to remember God’s people. Just like the patriarchs and prophets, this Gentile woman, this foreign mother, calls Jesus to discover and to remember that the hope of life inherent in Jesus is for everyone.

Just as God has cause to remember at the call of his people, so does Jesus. A young girl is given life and the gospel story expands before our eyes from the nation of Israel to a deaf man, to four thousand hungry Gentiles and thus, to us – and all creation.