Consider your own call, brothers and sisters: not many of you were wise by human standards, not many were powerful, not many were of noble birth.But God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong;God chose what is low and despised in the world, things that are not, to reduce to nothing things that are,so that no one might boast in the presence of God. [Paul’s First Letter to Corinth 1.22-29]

There was a recent post floating around Instagram, essentially stating that if sermons did not address the misuse of power by the state, then we have betrayed our calling as preachers.

I assume that this reflects what has been happening in the United States over these last months and particularly the recent appalling deaths of citizens in Minnesota.

The social fracturing in the United States is disturbing, not least the state-sponsored violence. It may be tempting to imagine (wrongly) that they are the essential story; however, injustice, corruption and government violence fill many pages of history, including the Scriptures.

At this moment there are several nations where criminality and suffering attend daily life. If we mention the suffering of Gaza, we dare not keep silence about Iran’s citizens, or Sudan; if we speak against the depredations of the Russian state in Ukraine, we must similarly address how the Israeli government’s actions are frequently unchallenged. As Australians, our own original sin remains unreconciled, as our First Nations continue to die in custody, while we avert our eyes to where we feel less implicated.

These are only the most recently written stanzas in our human history; the lament is long, indeed.

The gospel task of the preacher, surely, is to remind each of us of how God speaks hope and life into our world. The second task of the preacher is to remind those who listen of our place within God’s intention, as parables of the reign of God.

The snare is to believe that the story starts with us – our strength, or our failure which motivate God. Thus, we name the politics, or the persecution first, and place ourselves at the centre. We see the injustices, whether they are personal, or on a grander scale, and shape God’s story to attend to our own.

The readings for this week call us back to the foundations of who we are. The Prophet Micah asks God, on our behalf, what is our responsibility. Justice, mercy and humility are the measures of our faith. A meme for all the ages.

One of Jesus’ earliest sermons identifies those who are truly blessed – those whose lives are marked by spiritual poverty, meekness, justice, mercy, peace-making and their own persecution – and whose blessing are as completely contradictory to our world today as the lives of those to whom Jesus first spoke these words.

So how shall we preach, in the church catholic, where many preachers abdicate discernment and use ChatGPT to thread the needle?

Paul reminds us of our calling. We preach the madness of Christ crucified, the foolishness of a God who suffers and dies, the scandal of a God who becomes weak.

This is the gospel; for all those who are overlooked, who are nameless, or have been told they have no value. It is for those who believe they are the centre of the story, that money, or power, or violence, guarantee them life – ephemeral or eternal.

The measure of the gospel is the measure of our world and of our lives; Christ crucified.

And risen.

From that time Jesus began to proclaim, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.”  As he walked by the Sea of Galilee, he saw two brothers, Simon, who is called Peter, and Andrew his brother, casting a net into the sea – for they were fishermen.And he said to them, “Follow me, and I will make you fish for people.” Immediately they left their nets and followed him. [Matthew’s Gospel 4.17-20]

One of the most quoted (and misquoted) poems in recent times is Yeats’ The Second Coming. Some would see it as prophetic, with a word for our times, as though it arose untainted by context. However, Yeats published it in 1920, in the ashes of the World War, when everything which was unbroken was changed, changed utterly.

Perhaps the words which are consistently accurate since Yeats’ crafting remain “The best lack all conviction, while the worst/Are full of passionate intensity.”

One of the stains on modern social discourse is the apparent inability of people to admit fault, to stand corrected, and to change our minds. Adamantine certainty and polemic are the weapons we carry into our conversations, with no option but victory.

We assert how the world works and what needs to be addressed.  

Thus, poetry like that of Yeats.

Jesus arrives in Galilee and announces that everything is transformed; the reign of heaven is brushing against us. Change your minds!

What we translate here as “repent” has less to do with bad behaviour than it has to do with understanding everything anew. In the midst of our polarising world, God has appeared in Jesus Christ; nothing is what it was. Change your minds.

What you imagined about God, aloof and omnipotent, is turned on its head. What you have proclaimed about our brokenness as human beings, beyond the reach and embrace of God, is tangibly untrue. When we have insisted that all our efforts must be exercised in seeking God, we discover that God insists on seeking us, in Jesus.

Change your minds.

Change your minds, you preachers, you party politicians, you social media polemicists. Change your minds, you who believe we are destined for despair. Change your minds you who believe only people like us can know the hope and heart of the living God.

When Jesus commands us to repent, to be converted, to feel the brush of God’s reign, what will it mean for how we speak and act about those things on which our minds are made up? What about the way we vote, or speak about others? What about Gaza, and Israel? What about those who are different from us? What about reconciliation with our First Nations?

What if we have been mistaken? What if Jesus is inviting us to new life?

Are we courageous enough to repent, and ask God to lead us, or are we simply content to have our biases burnished and our loyalties confirmed?

Two people leave their lives behind to follow Jesus. They bring their weakness and their prejudice, because repentance takes a lifetime. They bring their hope and their obedience. They bring themselves, and a willingness to repent.

God insists on finding us, and bringing us life. Repent, the reign of God is with you!

The two disciples heard [John] say this, and they followed Jesus. When Jesus turned and saw them following, he said to them, “What are you looking for?” [John’s Gospel 1.37-38]

The poetry and mystery which suffuse the opening of John’s Gospel draw aside the curtains to reveal John the Baptist standing centre stage. John, in turn, bows and steps to one side, as Jesus enters the drama.

John’s hyperbolic introduction appears to be just that, as Jesus’ first words are deceptively simple, yet ask the central question, “What are you looking for?”. When editors elect to highlight the words of Jesus in red, these are the first colour in John’s story.

These are essential elements of any vital conversation; what is it that we value, that we seek, that we believe we need? This question has so much more purpose and hope to it than the abrupt, formulaic model of “witnessing” in which I was originally discipled.

Jesus begins by asking about the other person, by showing interest in them.

In a world which, at the moment, seems particularly “shouty” – with indignation, offence and blinkered opinion – what might happen if we ask the people with whom we are talking (and, hopefully, listening) what matters to them?

What might happen when we ask ourselves the question that Jesus asks us? What are we looking for? If we have the courage to sit with the question and not be content with the hasty answer, what might we discover about ourselves?

The Gospel of John is only beginning. When Jesus asks his essential question of us, he does not leave us there. When these two disciples respond, asking Jesus where he is staying, the next words in red are where Jesus invites them farther up and further in; “Come and see.”

We think of him as safe beneath the steeple,
Or cosy in a crib beside the font,
But he is with a million displaced people
On the long road of weariness and want.
For even as we sing our final carol
His family is up and on that road,
Fleeing the wrath of someone else’s quarrel,
Glancing behind and shouldering their load.

Whilst Herod rages still from his dark tower
Christ clings to Mary, fingers tightly curled,
The lambs are slaughtered by the men of power,
And death squads spread their curse across the world.
But every Herod dies, and comes alone
To stand before the Lamb upon the throne.

Take all your hope and longing;
cover it in blood, urine, faeces, straw.

Cut the chord to your dreams
with a field knife or clenched jaw.
Here lays the King of the Jews.
Crowned between thighs,
Held in arms of exhaustion.

Bathed with tears, sweat
and the soft tones
of a mother
singing songs
of deliverance
between breaths
as the King of Glory
feeds folded at her breast.

What newborn would you not
bend a knee for?
What labouring mother
would not make room for life?

Here’s how God
chose to be with His beloved;
in a state of utter surrender
and dependence;
making His way into the world
through a uterus. Trading a heavenly crown
for one of mucus. Later, finding
woven thorns pushed in its place as,
once again, God surrenders
to the fulness of humanity’s mess –
reconciling it all
to Himself;
counting no soul’s sin
against them.

from Winters Never Last: Poetry Chapel vol 2. 2021.

Before Jesus
was his mother.

Before supper
in the upper room,
breakfast in the barn.

Before the Passover Feast,
a feeding trough.
And here, the altar
of Earth, fair linens
of hay and seed.

Before his cry,
her cry.
Before his sweat
of blood,
her bleeding
and tears.
Before his offering,
hers.

Before the breaking
of bread and death,
the breaking of her
body in birth.

Before the offering
of the cup,
the offering of her
breast.
Before his blood,
her blood.

And by her body and blood
alone, his body and blood
and whole human being.

The wise ones knelt
to hear the woman’s word
in wonder.

Holding up her sacred child,
her spark of God in the form of a babe,
she said:

“Receive and let
your hearts be healed
and your lives be filled
with love, for
This is my body,
This is my blood.”

From Accidental Wisdom by Alla Renée Bozarth,
Praying for Earth, Prayers from the Heart, Universe 2004.

Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way. When his mother Mary had been engaged to Joseph, but before they lived together, she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit. Her husband Joseph, being a righteous man and unwilling to expose her to public disgrace, planned to dismiss her quietly. But just when he had resolved to do this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, “Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will bear a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.” All this took place to fulfill what had been spoken by the Lord through the prophet:
“Look, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son,
and they shall name him Emmanuel,”
which means, “God is with us.” When Joseph awoke from sleep, he did as the angel of the Lord commanded him; he took her as his wife, but had no marital relations with her until she had borne a son; and he named him Jesus.    [Matthew’s Gospel 1.18-25]

Not a word is spoken by him. He waits, in the shadows. In his dreams, an angel challenges him to find courage to stand with Mary. He remains, faithfully, with her, enduring the questions and snide comments, which will remain.

Joseph’s story begins, shrouded in hesitation. The lineage Matthew offers us has characters hinting at splintered lives and relationships, and some names which have been grafted into the Jewish family tree.

In contrast, Luke’s Gospel offers us two women, courageous and prophetic, embodying hope. Angels are everywhere, in light and triumph, while Mary’s proclamation is unequalled in all the gospel.

Matthew’s offering may well be the one we need in this week. Not only Joseph’s story is shadowed, but possibilities of harm hover all around. The social cost – and risk – borne by these two people, elected by God; the darkness at the centre of which Herod sits, frightened by the possibility of a rival; the new family’s flight into refuge, narrowly avoiding Herod’s mass infanticide.

Those winsome carols about Emmanuel have never been more accurate, despite themselves.

We have been appalled at two terrorists’ attacks on a peaceful Jewish community gathering. Matthew’s story about Jesus’ birth attends to our fears and grief more acutely than tinsel and nostalgia.

The gospel story does not ignore the reality around Jesus, or around us. Jesus is not born despite our world’s woundedness, but because of it. Jesus is delivered under the heel of empire, in a community infected by the corruption of puppet rulers and those enthralled to them.

Jesus and his family are not strangers to violence of the kind we have witnessed in recent days. As we seek to navigate our community’s grief and fear, we name our hope that God is, indeed, with us, and all who suffer.

Our call is not only to assert that hope. We need to articulate it in the face of both calculated and reflexive racism, of political point-scoring, of those taking advantage of suffering and grief and anger.

Hope discovered in Christ is not about a sunny disposition, but a belief that forgiveness, healing and restoration are possible, that God attends to our lives and our world, by becoming like us – fully human, not limited by faith, or politics, or race, or gender. God has acted to save – all of us.

Emmanuel, God is with us. As we find our way to a manger and a tiny child within, we offer a story, with gentle hands and open, obedient hearts; our story is that God is with us, in every circumstance. This is how we will navigate tragedies, like Bondi, like Gaza, like ongoing Aboriginal deaths in custody.

God has moved to be with us, like us, in love. It is here that we begin, again.

In hope.

When John heard in prison what the Messiah was doing, he sent word by his disciples and said to him, “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?” Jesus answered them, “Go and tell John what you hear and see: the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them. And blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me.” [Matthew’s Gospel 11.2-6]

On occasions, I have little rituals for how I do things, whether it’s preparing for worship, or starting the mower, or when I am driving my car. I like things in place, and those I love will tell you this is of no inconvenience to them whatsoever, neither is there impatience on my behalf, when the system is disrupted.

Sometimes, people make suggestions how I might alter (improve) these idiosyncratic things. Traditionally, I nod benignly and carry on; in my better moments I address my discomfort, and consider change.

We have prescribed rituals in the life of the church, however, it is frequently the unwritten rules which guide our behaviours as communities of faith. As we journey through Advent and approach Christmas, the cultural rituals – helpful and otherwise – become more pronounced.

There are things we need for “a proper Christmas”, whether it’s the menu, or people we invite, or songs we sing, or stories we tell, or topics which are forbidden at the table. There’s also a sense of how it supposed to feel around this time of year: “It won’t feel like Christmas until the tree is up”.

It’s ironic that a story of profound disruption – teenage pregnancy, demands of empire, risky birth, death threats – we ensure is swaddled in culture and lying in tradition.

What is so scandalous about what Jesus brings? When John sends his disciples to question Jesus, doubts have crept in; being imprisoned can’t have helped. John had an image of what the Messiah was going to bring. It appears that Jesus doesn’t fit.

Consider all the expectations we have of Jesus – and his Church. The indicators of success in the church community are so often seen as numbers in worship, or the amount of money given, or the size of our ministry team. It’s about us.

John is seeking revolution, articulated by a prophet who will lead the march against corruption, injustice and perhaps even empire. From his cell he hears nothing. Is it all wasted?

Our worst moments of fear are that we have wasted our time. That it has all been for nought. All the measurements to which we are accustomed seem to remain unmoved.

Then we hear Jesus’ scandalous answers, matching his ministry.

Those who are on the margins, the outcast and the poor, those disabled physically and socially – those who are deemed to be not worth counting – have the good news offered to them, as healing and life.

People are gathered into meaningful community and are restored. The scandal is that those who are marked as worthless are the focus of Jesus’ ministry; a metric of offense, indeed.

This is not what John expected, even intended. So often, neither do we.  We had a mission plan: to invite the people like us, who will increase the offerings and populate the pews, and then we will be alright.

Then Jesus leads us to those who have no names and fractured faith, asking us to welcome them, feed them, clothe them, sit with them and, perhaps, advocate for them at some point. And we become them, and they become us.

Change is difficult, especially when it’s culturally embedded. We are easily offended when Jesus doesn’t behave the way in which we expect, then has the temerity to ask us to follow.  

At the heart of Christmas is the assertion that God has come for us – all of us. The scandal of this assertion is that God has become like us – every one of us.

“From the fig tree learn its lesson: as soon as its branch becomes tender and puts forth its leaves, you know that summer is near.So also, when you see all these things, you know that he is near, at the very gates.”  [Matthew’s Gospel 24.32-33]

All around us, the season has turned towards harvest.  Our family makes our home on Gomeroi country in the north west of the state, and it has been a fine season leading up to harvest, with crops looking promising and feed in the paddocks. It hasn’t been so good in other regions, but there is heightened sense of hope for many in our community.

Driving at night, there is the alien glow of lights as headers move through the darkness, racing the season and the hints of storm and rain. The farming community has been preparing for weeks and months; servicing headers, organising contractors, ordering fuel, watching the crops, watching the weather. Waiting.

Advent is this unsettling season, preparing for something which has already happened and asserting something which hasn’t yet occurred. Advent: the season of now and not yet.

Waiting isn’t passive. It isn’t sitting outside the supermarket, while your partner grabs the groceries. Jesus tells us to take note of the times around us, and to be ready, to wait – with purpose.

It can be a difficult season, waiting. There are constant signs of brokenness, as the world seems bent on self-destruction. Yeats writes “things fall apart, the centre cannot hold”, and his words sound prescient, yet it was written over a century ago, in the ashes of the First World War. Jesus himself spoke under the tyranny of empire.

The truth is that tyrants have always been rising, that presidents and dictators and monarchs have always invaded and enslaved and destroyed, while others have enabled and appeased.

We cannot wait for the storm to pass; we are here, whatever the weather. Our calling is to live out the promise which has given us life, in which our hope is placed.

Whatever the return of Christ entails, whatever it means, it is not ours to know, to control, or to decide. It is not for us to mark our calendars, but to wait with the intent Jesus asks of us. Pessimism disables us, seeing no path forward, so we wait in despair, for an end. Optimism can be equally disabling, as we wait passively for a better season, a better leader, denying the reality of the world in which we are living.

The hope found in Jesus enables our waiting. This is the season in which we are called to live – and to act. Our readiness acknowledges what God in Christ has already done; this informs our forgiveness, our humility and our repentance. It equally informs how we live for those around us, active for justice and hope in their lives even more than our own.

In Advent we name that God in Christ has appeared and assert that Christ will come again. We live and act in hope, because God’s promise in Christ has been realised and we believe that God in Christ will do so again.

So we will wait, and feed those who are hungry and stand against those who act in harm, or injustice.

We will wait, and seek and offer forgiveness, because that is the essence of the life offered in Jesus. We will wait, and weep with those who weep, and embody the hope which shapes our worship and our witness.

We will wait, together, because sometimes our courage fails us, and we need others around us and the Spirit of God to hold us, and to help us to remember and look forward.

We will wait, in the hope of Jesus Christ.

Then I myself will gather the remnant of my flock out of all the lands where I have driven them, and I will bring them back to their fold, and they shall be fruitful and multiply. I will raise up shepherds over them who will shepherd them, and they shall not fear any longer, or be dismayed, nor shall any be missing, says the Lord. [The Prophet Jeremiah 23.3-4]

As if the lessons from history aren’t enough. As if the depredations of monarchs and dictators from the last century, alone, haven’t taught us to be wary. As a cautionary tale, last century was redundant, with lessons before us since Rachel was weeping for her children.  

Even now, we vote them in, these narcissistic populists of all shapes and predilection, or permit these diminished princes who behave as they please, to others’ destruction.

The Old Testament – and other – prophets warned their communities and their words resonate, yet still we tick the ballot box and bow the knee.

On this last Sunday of the Church year, this Sunday when we proclaim the Reign of Christ, the bells of alarm toll more loudly than ever.

There will be songs to sing of the risen Christ’s majesty and wonder, and they need to be sung. We assert the Reign of the crucified, risen One to the glory of God, and for our hope in this life.

And yet this tapestry has more than simply threads of gold.

On this Sunday, the Gospel readings speak of one who was marked as criminal, executed between two thieves. Our faith directs us away from the self-interest of political hacks and those entitled by bloodline towards a monarch who is most clearly identified by nails and a garland of thorns.

We are astonished, if we pay attention. Our lives are transformed if we step into the story.

The gilded life has no currency here. There is no resonance with the one who is known by their birthing in a feed trough and cradling on a cross. The God of Christmas and Easter is not found in the excess of the well-appointed, but in the lives we humans lead, lives of wonder and grief, of struggle and friendship, of ordinariness.

To identify a monarch by their brokenness, or their frailty, seems impossible, and yet that is both where we find Jesus and, so frequently, where we find ourselves. What is more, that is where we need Jesus to be, for those who have no recourse, and who believe there is no hope.

Jesus is born and dies outside the ambit of a just authority, and yet we place our hope in Jesus precisely for that reason. Christ’s resurrection asserts that all the rules are turned upside down, and are now located in the mercy and love of God.

Jeremiah reminds us that “nor shall any be missing” from the merciful embrace of God. And a crucified criminal finds not just understanding, but life, beside Jesus in their last moments; “today you will be with me in Paradise.”

Could any other gift be more precious?