Locating Hope

We know how this season works, whether we are people of faith, or not.

Despite the clumsy marketing of some supermarkets immediately after Christmas, hot cross buns and chocolate eggs usually appear in late February, so we know that Easter is near.

Despite the irony of buns and chocolate, the Christian church has traditionally marked the weeks before Easter with the challenges of discipline and occasionally abstinence, preparing for the event which is the coherent crux of belief in Jesus Christ.

Many of us – people of faith, some faith and none – have danced this dance before, with worship attendance significantly larger than usual over the Easter weekend. For those of us who honour faithfulness and sacrifice, Anzac Day follows on, sometimes within days.

Easter is about community, acknowledging with thankfulness a priceless sacrifice, the solidarity of Jesus with the brokenness of every human being, and the affirmation that love is stronger than death.

But this year, the dance is entirely different, and many may feel that we will dance alone.

We know, despite their depredations, how to manage natural disasters when they come. The chaos of the fire season, ravaging the drought-scorched landscape, drew us even closer as community. We carried people in our arms and our prayers, gathered on beaches, in surf clubs, and lounge rooms – together. Our fear was lessened because our shoulders bumped old and new friends as we faced the crisis.

This season we wait, in our individual spaces, zooming and texting and tweeting, quarantined from a virus and each other, wondering how to share communion, or play two-up, with no one standing, or laughing, or weeping, or singing, next to us.

This year, sanctuaries across the planet which are usually replete with music and colour and celebration will sit silent over the Easter weekend. In this season of disorder, our community will try to find its steps.

Churches and families have already begun to adapt, with a plethora of choice in worship and theology sweeping across the net, matched only by the marketing of businesses as chaos confronts the world they know. As in everything, some are acts of creativity and faithfulness; some, of course, are not.

However, a zoomed event is not the same as shaking the hand of a friend, or leaning on their shoulder. Sharing a meal, blessing a marriage, weeping at a graveside, blowing out birthday candles are inherent to the weave of all our lives.

People in our community are wary of their quarantine, as mental health concerns become more tangible. For some, home is not the sanctuary everyone deserves; violence and abuse can be appalling visitors when uncertainty and fear meet loneliness and isolation.

How will we care? How will our compassion be realised for those around us? Incidental conversations need now to be more deliberate, as we attend to those who might not call our attention to their need – small, or not so small.

Easter is more than what happened in Jerusalem two millennia ago. It is more than a story of empire and sacrifice, betrayal and suffering. It declares far more than a promise of life wrested from the silent injustice of death.

Easter is hope. This is not the trivialised “hope” for a parking space, or that it rains tomorrow. This is the hope which looks at what Jesus proclaimed in his life, in his death, and when he was raised again to life.

How Jesus invites (calls!) us to live – loving our neighbour, our enemies, even ourselves – is made tangible in his suffering and death at the hands of his neighbours and those who feared and hated him.

Jesus is the one who understands the fear of suffering, the grief of isolation, the pain of unjust violence. Jesus is the one who seeks forgiveness for those who harm him.  

Hope resides here.

Those who follow Jesus Christ place their hope in all our suffering being met on the cross with Jesus; when Jesus was raised to life, death was no longer the most powerful word.

Love is.

So, this Easter, we will care for each other, sing our songs, eat our chocolate eggs and call the spinner in by zoom.

We will declare our hope that this story of separation is not our complete story, and will end. We will assert our need for community and justice and life.

We will dance, now and in the days to come.

Faith in a Time of Covid19

Dear Sisters and Brothers in Christ,

A friend and colleague reminded me today of this wonderful Easter verse,

When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” [John 20.19]

As we talk in our families, congregations and communities about isolation and quarantine, as we consider the fear and uncertainty which infiltrates so much of our world, the risen Christ steps in amongst us.

Leaders of all our presbyteries and our Synod met this morning, to consider how we can best serve our Church and our God, at this perplexing time. Pragmatic issues of safety and finance were undergirded and challenged by the need to care for people across our Church and community, and to continue our worship, witness and service to the living God.

In this season leading to Easter, I remind you that we are disciples of the risen, crucified Lord, who speaks to our lives now. The Basis of Union states “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.”

We face challenging, difficult times. Our community is uncertain, afraid. We will need to learn how to worship and gather in new ways in the weeks and months ahead. We will discover new ways of being in community, like Zoom and Skype; we may rediscover ways of contact that we may have laid aside, like phone calls and snail mail.

Jesus is with us, allaying our fear and leading us in hope.

Jesus’ presence brings peace when everything is in turmoil, and we are unsure of what is next. Jesus’ death and resurrection assert the promise of God is greater than our circumstances, and offers hope for today and tomorrow.

In the days ahead the greetings of peace we will share affirm our faith in our God, and is the witness we bear in the world around us.

I am praying for you, our congregations and our presbyteries as we navigate these days under the song of the Holy Spirit.

Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, “Receive the Holy Spirit.”

Grace and peace for these days.

The Fear of Being Forgotten

Jesus, remember me, when you come into your kingdom.

In late January, when the South Coast bushfires were still threatening communities and lives, Rev. Stephen Robinson and I visited people and congregations from Bateman’s Bay through to Eden. Apart from the trauma, and the ongoing fear of what might happen, there was the shared concern that at some point, quite soon, the media would place their interest somewhere else, and the South Coast disaster be relegated to “other news”.

That was already the case for the north coast, as the horrific fires in the Richmond Valley, and those surrounding Port Macquarie and Taree were superseded by the south coast’s crisis. Those still crippled by drought west of the mountains could only watch as their ongoing disaster rated barely a mention. Remember us …

Where the media turns its lens, the eye of the nation follows, and those responsible for our government. For a few, with the recent – wonderful – rainfall, the drought and the fires are almost a memory. The courage and the fear and the loss and the need to act for the future will become yesterday’s story. We will be crowded out by contagion, or impeachment, or the bumbling machinations of politics, or recent royal antics. Remember us…

One of the tasks of those who follow Jesus is to remember those whom we are encouraged to forget, and those we are discouraged to remember. The prophets called the community and its leaders to justice in the temple and the marketplace; justice for those too easily ignored or forgotten.

The ministry of Jesus was constantly welcoming and restoring those who were misremembered by culture, or illness, or class, or age. People who had to find their way to Jesus – through crowds, through roofs, through hypocrisy or prejudice, or politics, or religion – had been relegated to those not worth worrying about.

Being found by Jesus, they found life.

The central place of Easter is the core of our faith in Jesus Christ. The cross was for those cast aside, abstracted to the rubbish tip. The confrontation of Jesus’ death is not only that he died, but the manner of his death: outcast with criminals, those deemed by empire as best forgotten.

In the same breath, it is here that we realise none of us is forgotten by God. If Jesus is placed with the outcast, with those society seeks to punish and ignore, then is anywhere beyond the embrace of God?

Crucified between two criminals, whose names are forgotten to all but the living God, Jesus is with us. When we believe ourselves to be of no value, the cross proclaims otherwise, because Jesus Christ is most truly God precisely where all seems lost.

A young mother, Hannah, and her three children, Aaliyah, Laianah and Trey, were murdered in the days before I wrote this. My faith in the crucified Christ asserts that God not only weeps at their deaths, but was with them at that worst of all moments.

My faith in the risen Christ asserts that the mercy of God holds them now. They are never forgotten to God – none of us is.

As friends, family, and those entirely unknown to us are isolating themselves from this pandemic and each other, every one’s life is treasured by the one who holds us all.

Easter proclaims a mystery in which we place our hope and our lives – that the God of all creation and all of history remembers us, and is with us, most especially in those moments which are darkest of all.

The risen Christ declares that the one who was deemed forgotten, murdered on a Calvary cross, was remembered by the love of God and raised to life.

So, in our hope we will call attention to those who suffer, we will sing for justice in the marketplace, we will act for those deemed unworthy. We will remind our leaders and our communities of those whose names and circumstances are too easily forgotten, and we will bear witness to the God who is with us, who loves us, and remembers us – for ever.  

Then he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” Jesus replied, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.” [Luke 23-42-43]

Remembering Forward

There has been wonderful rain sweeping across our paddocks this afternoon, with an expectation – and a confident forecast – of a goodly amount to come over the next few days. If the expectation is realised, there will be a collective sigh of relief as rain tanks fill, and paddocks begin (it’s only a beginning) to recover.

Then, while stock prices rise as quickly as our spirits, people will begin to forget. Politicians and media prognosticators will turn their attention to newer news, and the travails of the last five months – bushfires which have ravaged our country from the Richmond Valley to Eden and the Blue Mountains, through East Gippsland, Kangaroo Island, the Adelaide Hills and the Stirling Ranges – will be moved down the page.

If the fires are extinguished today, and they will not be, there are lives and properties to restore, there are all manners of recovery to consider. There is grief. People are grappling with chaos, which will not cease when the fires do. And the drought has not relinquished its taloned grasp.

Our discipleship has the responsibility of remembering.

When we break bread and lift the cup, we remember. When disciples doubt their faith, or their hope, or Jesus, they are told to remember what they heard, what they saw, what brought them to faith in that first moment of mercy and obedience.

The Old Testament prophets reminded the community leaders of people they too easily forgot. They advocated for the poor, and the lost, and those deemed unworthy of a name, a place, or a future. They also reminded God’s people who we are called to be; to remember the widowed and the orphan, to remember the stranger.

People regularly ask me what the Church’s role is around the bushfires, and the drought. I speak of chaplains in evacuation centres, of church members in fire crews, of congregations offering food and shelter and a shoulder when it’s needed. But when the flames have lessened, when our vision isn’t shrouded by smoke, we have more to offer.

As our communities begin to begin in their recovery, we have to help remember.

So we remind each other – and the world around us – about those who aren’t able to return to their homes, or towns, or jobs, and ask what justice, or hope we might offer. We will advocate to leaders, and Centrelink, and even insurance companies, for those whose voices are hoarse from asking, or weeping.

We remember why we are disciples, and articulate our hope in Christ, through our worship and our witness and our service. We share hospitality, remembering community. Do you remember why you moved here, why you love this community?

More than that, we remember forward, to what God will do. The One who died and was raised to life will bring life to this place, healing to these lives. Our hope rests in what God has achieved through Jesus Christ; which is where we always begin.

We remember forward to a world restored.

A Pastoral Letter from the Moderator in the Midst of the Bushfires

Dear Friends across our Synod,

We are watching, compelled by the apocalyptic images of these fires which fill our screens, fires we had once believed were impossible. After the horrors of the last few weeks, we had hoped that Christmas brought a change, but the reality is otherwise.

The fires we had seen in the north and west of our state and in South Australia, are now rampaging south into the Illawarra and Shoalhaven, and throughout the Mallee in Victoria.

I have been talking with Rev. Dr Stephen Robinson, who coordinates Disaster Response for the whole Uniting Church. We have Chaplains at each Evacuation Centre, the numbers of which are growing, as people flee their holidays and their homes to comparative safety.

At this moment, I am calling all of us, particularly those who are safe, to pray for everyone in the path of these fires, and whose lives and property are at risk of harm:

  • people from all walks of life, who fear for themselves, their homes, and those they love
  • communities facing harm, unsure of how to act, but trusting in each other despite their fear
  • those who fight the fires, with expertise, or desperation, or both  
  • animals of all description, caught in the paths of this blaze, uncomprehending in their fear and flight
  • the creation, bearing the costs of drought and a changing climate
  • those who staff evacuation centres, and who are offering food and shelter, clothing and reassurance, games for children and conversation for those who need it – a presence of gentleness despite the trauma
  • communities of faith, bearing witness in word and action to a God who loves and saves, and knows each person by name

I know that many people and congregations are already praying. Many have acted to support those for whom we pray in a range of ways. Please keep praying – for hope, for shelter, for safety, for rain.

These are difficult days, and there are more difficult days to come.

Christmas asserts that we shall know Jesus’ name as Emmanuel, God with us. Jesus is our hope that God is with us in every circumstance, and never more than when all else appears at risk.

I commend you all to prayer, in the promise of Jesus Christ,
Simon.

With Us. God.

The most engaging stories draw us in.

In the telling, we find ourselves no longer listening on the sidelines, or holding the book in our hands, but standing within the tale itself. The fear, the excitement, the confusion, entice us so that, without notice, the story becomes our own.

We know that the story of a child at risk catches our eyes and hinders our heartbeat, because it is one of the deepest fears we have as a human being. A child at risk of harm.

The Christmas story holds incredible risk, but we can miss it amidst the wonder and celebration.

In Luke’s Gospel, a young, unmarried, perplexed woman becomes pregnant; an angel comforts Mary, but in Matthew’s gospel, we hear the uncertainty, even fear, of her fiancé. An angel reassures Joseph in a dream, but the shadow of social risk, accusation and blame have already fallen across the story of God.

The gospels are clear: God has chosen this path. Our reaction is equally clear: God is at risk in the world. Consider the possible cost to Mary and Joseph and her parents, while understanding what people will think (and say) about her, all of them, as the story unfolds.

A long journey, an unstable birthing room, and all the hazard of giving birth with only each other in the vicinity. Angels announce Jesus’ birth to a mob of stock workers, and the sign of God breaking to the world is proclaimed – a baby, wrapped, and lying in a feed trough.

The shadow and danger in Matthew’s story are cast into sharp relief by an effulgent star, disconcerting the local monarch and enticing foreign astronomers. But the shadows do not entirely depart, as the infant Jesus’ family flees into the night, and the refuge of Egypt. When dictators are threatened, people die. Even children.

Let me remind you: God has chosen this path; this is no accident.

The shadows and risk seek to impede Jesus throughout the gospels; they find their completion, then defeat, decades later with a cross and empty tomb.

We find ourselves caught up in this message, because it hints at something of our own. God, deciding to be born, just like us. God deciding that the most common event in human history, childbirth, would be the mark of God’s engaging in our world.

And like the best of stories, whether told by Milne, or Dostoevsky, or Rowling, we ask ourselves what we would have done, what we might do. The gospel never simply allows us to be spectators, but having invited us in, asks us the question.

What risks, what challenges might we take as a reflection of God’s risk for all creation?

In a world constrained by compliance, control and calculations of risk, we consider what it means to love our neighbour, to love our enemy, and even to love ourselves.

We place ourselves squarely in the midst of our community, seeking to serve them at our own cost, because that is discipleship.

We will be offering Christmas meals to those who are hungry for food and friendship in towns and suburbs across Australia. We will have compiled hampers and gathered gifts, so that people’s celebrations have an added dimension of hope.

We risk ourselves in debates about human worth, about addiction and marriage, about refugees and human life, seeking to live out the message of a God who gives life, offers forgiveness and embodies hope.

We place ourselves at the forefront of disasters, offering support where hope seems fragile, or even lost.

When human beings are measured as political pawns in offshore camps, or as collateral in war, or as throwaway lines in the speeches of political leaders, we assert that even those who hate us have value in the eyes of God.

We speak – and act – for our earth, even as it cries out in suffering.

It is not always popular; we are always imperfect; we learn from God and each other as we go, as disciples on the way.

We do all this because God has risked life with – and for – us.

A baby, born.
God, for us, for creation.
Wonder, beyond wonder.
Peril.
And life.

And this is the God of history, of creation, revealed in Jesus Christ.

Emmanuel, God with Us.

Water in a Dry Place

In the northern hemisphere, it is growing darker, as winter gains its hold. In the traditional church, people are lighting candles against the growing darkness, one each week until Christmas comes, and the shortest day of the year turns towards the coming light.

And so, we have Advent, a season to mark the coming Christ, a light that darkness cannot comprehend, or extinguish.

It’s beautiful.

Here we are, parked in the other side of the world, barricading ourselves against the heat, as dust and ash fill the skies. There’s a total fire ban, and we are lighting candles? Our season is growing brighter, not darker. How shall we mark the Advent journey in our rigorous brown land?

Our European sisters and brothers light candles against the dark; we will pour water against the dust and fire.

A nameless woman found her way through the crowd to Jesus and discovered healing by the touch of his robe.

A woman, similarly unnamed, drops her last two copper coins in the offering bowl, despite the reality that she was worthy to receive an offering, in her poverty. A woman, equally anonymous, defies the deprecations of some disciples to anoint Jesus with costly perfume in the days before his death.

And Mary accepts God’s challenge, to bear and birth the Christ Child, despite risk and circumstance.

These women we remember; they acted prophetically, to proclaim hope against despair, light against darkness.

Thus, we pour water in a drought, to mark our hope in the One who comes. One of the oldest affirmations we make is, “Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again.” We assert our hope because of what God has done.

We pour water because, despite the changing seasons, Jesus is Lord. We pour water because the struggle of the drought and the violence of the fires do not describe our faith.

We fill the font, asserting that Christmas is the hallmark of God’s promise – that Christ will return and restore our beleaguered creation.

Advent is a season of waiting. For many, it is grief which wounds us, or illness, or broken relationships, or injustice. Tinsellated trees and reindeer have few words to say about these. But God in the world, hope despite everything? God entrusting us with God’s Son? God, for us, for creation, in love and forgiveness and hope?

This is why we pour the water. This.

Prayer for Those Involved in the Bushfires

God of life and death,
our prayers today are where our hearts and minds
have been during these last days
and where they have been drawn so early in this season;
with those communities and individuals
whose lives have been damaged
in differing ways by the bushfires.

We pray for all those who have been affected;
for the families and friends of those who have been killed.
We pray for those who are missing,
for their safety, for the fears of those who love them;
bring each one safely home, we pray.  

We pray for those who have been injured and survived:
for physical and emotional trauma;
for the fear and helplessness experienced;
for the anger and frustration at the injustice
of unavoidable disaster.

We pray for those who have lost their home and property
or are facing such loss:
for those who have been forced to leave
their memories and belongings;
for the fear & disorientation of all involved;
Heal them from their nightmare memories.

We are aware of those who have lost stock,
or are watching their stock suffer
sometimes with inevitable consequences;
we are conscious of those
who are struggling to find feed and water
for the stock under their care.

We pray for all involved in fighting the fire:
for our Rural Fire Service and their leadership
and all those we know and those we do not know;
we pray for courage in a place of fear;
for new strength in the face of exhaustion;
for people who have travelled distances
in order to resource those who experience fatigue.

We pray for all who offer support and care at this time:
for the various agencies, churches and community groups;
for disaster response chaplains;
for government services as they are activated;
for friends and neighbours, known and unknown;
for providing a shoulder upon which to lean, or weep;
we give thanks, too,
for the generosity of many, in small and large ways,
towards those who are struggling.

We are mindful of the days, weeks and months ahead,
for many dangerous days yet to come,
for seasons of recovery and rebuilding,
of homes, farms, lives and communities;
we pray for strength, courage, patience and hope
as grieving continues,
as frustrations rise
and inevitable changes occur.

We pray, too, knowing that we are entering a harsher climate,
less predictable and more volatile;
as we care for each other, help us to care for your creation,
to be worthy stewards and advocates
of all which you have made.

Keep us faithful and alert
in our praying and our action;
in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.

Moving Your Feet

In recent months, as I visit congregations and communities, I’m asked questions about the drought and what we can do to help.

We can pray and lament, as we should, for the rural families, individuals and communities in crisis across the country.

Lake Keepit, 2019

I have mentioned before that there is an African saying, When you pray, move your feet.

So, what else can we do? People in rural communities often feel ignored, or forgotten, by governments and metropolitan communities, especially in long term crises like this drought.

If you really want to help, hop in a car with some friends and drive to a (preferably small, or medium sized) rural town for a couple of days. Stay in a motel or caravan park; buy your meals in the bakery, and the café, and the pub.

Fill up your tank there, or in a town nearby. Go to the films; buy some Christmas presents.

If you’re there on a weekend, go to the local church – it doesn’t matter what brand – and put some cash in the plate.

In the bakery, and the church, and the shop, have a chat with the locals and ask them how the week has been. If you’re inclined, tell them you pray for them every day, and that you’re here because your prayers are both spoken and enacted.

One congregation recently said that this doesn’t sound too difficult. It’s not. It’s mission. It’s service.

It tells people they are not forgotten.

It’s a hint of the hand of God.   

Out of the Mouths of Babes

Our discipleship to Jesus Christ calls us to engage with the climate crisis, because we begin where we have always begun – with the God of all creation and all of history.

God’s Word and breath and love shaped the universe, our earth and everything within it, placing humanity at its heart. From that first moment, we have been inextricably bound with the world around us. Our care and responsibility for the creation, the dominion which reflects the gracious likeness of God, remind all of us that from the beginning we have been woven together in the loving act of tending the handiwork of God.

When the woman and man disobey God’s intention and are removed from the garden, their relationship with God is wounded and so is the creation,
“cursed is the ground because of you;
in toil you shall eat of it all the days of your life…”
[Genesis 3.17-19]

Our relationship with all that God has made remains, but struggle is now inherent to all we do. Our responsibility to care for the earth has never been removed, and in our fallible, faithful lives, we seek to do what we can.

It is our relationship with God’s creation which is vital to this whole conversation. There is the naïve argument that we should care first for our sisters and brothers – loving God, and our neighbour as ourselves – which misses the reality that caring for the world around us is doing precisely that.

Our neighbours in the Pacific are watching their islands sink beneath the ocean, and their crops being inundated with seawater. Many of us are living in the catastrophe of the latest drought, crippling farmers and rural communities, who are trying to adapt to this new “climate normal”, where rainfall is erratic and drastically different, while the ground is warmer, diminishing any rainfall’s effect.

We know that a rising overall temperature in our climate condemns us, our children and grandchildren to an even more damaged world, with all the implications of climate refugees and changed communities, with more demanded from an earth that will find it harder and harder to produce.

What of the developing world, where climate change already wreaks havoc, and where subsistence farming is integral to existence?

So, what does loving our God, and our neighbour, look like? What do the voices of Micah and Amos, of Jeremiah and Isaiah call us to do and say? When there was injustice for the weakest in their communities, the prophets called the monarchs and the leaders of the community to attention. Look at the first chapter of Isaiah, where God rejects their worship, because those in need are not being cared for.

We cannot claim to care for the widowed and the orphan, to seek justice for those in need, and then ignore the world in which they live. When we speak of our God who saves, can we be silent about the homes and lives of those to whom we offer the gospel?

Jesus always attended to the lives of those around him. People who were healed were often restored to life in their families and communities; they proclaimed their new sight, new ability, new life to any who would listen.

When Jeremiah is called to be God’s prophet, he responds, “…Ah, Lord God! Truly I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy.” [Jeremiah 1.4-10]

As so often in our discipleship, God has greater imagination (and greater faith in us!) than we have.

We are Jesus’ disciples, and have responded to the call of our neighbours, to the prophetic call of our children, as we amplify their voice to the governments and leaders of the world in which we live.

As our children call us to attention, to the challenge before us of climate change, can we believe that God has chosen the young to challenge us? Can we believe that the God who used a young woman to be the mother of Christ can use school children? Can we accept that the God who used a carpenter’s son to save the world, can also use young people to remind us of our responsibility for the earth and all within it?

But the Lord said to me, “Do not say, ‘I am only a boy’;
for you shall go to all to whom I send you,
and you shall speak whatever I command you.
Do not be afraid of them,
for I am with you to deliver you, says the Lord.”

Pray for our children, for the witness of every disciple of Jesus, as we live our lives with and for him.