Always be ready to make your defence to anyone who demands from you an accounting for the hope that is in you; yet do it with gentleness and reverence. [I Peter 3.15-16]

The Easter hope is not only one which announces the wonder of Jesus’ death and resurrection, it is a hope which proclaims an entirely new creation. Death is no longer the last word; we have value measured in God’s act to save all of us.

This is the hope which empowered the community to which Peter writes; as slaves and persecuted people, justice was often far from them. Who will harm them, asks Peter rhetorically, if they do what is good? He knows the answer, as we do. Unjust masters. A crippled system of governance.

Only a hope which transcends their lives sustained their lives, as it does at this moment for persecuted people in China, the Middle East and South America, as it has for Jesus’ disciples throughout history.

How do we bear witness to this hope, in our own community, with gentleness and reverence? It’s easy to have scripted answers, or formulae. However, to give an account of why we hope, of what sustains us, is neither learnt by rote nor borrowed entirely from another.

We build relationships which create time to talk and listen, to care and to give a full account of why Jesus’ death and rising give us hope for this life and for the one which awaits us. We are gentle because we care for those with whom we speak; their worth is declared in the same breath as ours.

Our story is bound entirely – and wonderfully – in the action of God in Jesus; Jesus’ resurrection declares that injustice, vengeance, illness and death are not the final words, whatever our life is like now.

Our hope is life, and healing and justice, because of Jesus Christ.

And how shall we tell that story, but with the hope and joy with which it is given to us?

 

 

 

As always, in the wake, or backwash, of a federal government budget, media pundits ask the question, ‘Who are the winners and losers?’

The measure of this is almost entirely monetary, as the budget also purports to be. The recipients – our community – are carved up into segments, called “stakeholders” or “interest groups”, and we contrast our relative fortunes. It has long been the process to present stakeholders as competitors for the budget bounty – pensioners, or self-funded retirees; big, or smaller business; middle, lower, or higher income families – often preventing our community from speaking with a comprehensive voice.

I was asked recently how I felt about the “success” of another Christian faith tradition, and whether that was a cause for concern for the Uniting Church. I felt concerned to think that this person implied I believe that the Uniting Church – any church – is in a competitive market place.

There is always the temptation to structure our faith communities in the way our wider culture understands itself. We live and work in the world around us, where language like profit and loss, market share and key performance indicators abound. We know that computer algorithms infest our internet usage, and that advertisers troll every click of our mouse.

The temptation, however, needs to be resisted. We are not in competition with other disciples. The desire to market the gospel will lead to a sickly, astringent imitation of the hope we have. It will lead to failure and despair. We are in community with other faith traditions, who are seeking to live out the Gospel of Jesus Christ, and our discipleship is under his hand.

The desire to be parochial is a consistent temptation; I rejoice in being a member of the Uniting Church, but not exclusively. “I am the way, the truth and the life” are words that lie at the crux of following Jesus, and so many of us have designated ourselves as the crossing guards, or the highway patrol on this journey. What if we leave much of that to Jesus?

What if Jesus declared that to his disciples as an offer of graciousness, and not one of rigid control? What if the accommodation of God which awaits us has room enough for all? Imagine if the Father’s house to which Jesus refers is like C.S Lewis’ completed Narnia, which becomes larger the further you go!

It seems that the original recipients of Peter’s first letter to the early church might well have believed themselves to be in a church with boundaries, or internal fencing. Many of them seem to know what it means to be excluded, because of race, or background, or social status. Once again, the New Testament reminds us that we are one household, one community. The strength, or frailty, or sin of other disciples are our strengths and frailties – and sin.

The risen, crucified Jesus calls and confirms us; Jesus is our measure and in Jesus we find our identity. We are chosen because of Jesus, not because of us:

Once you were not a people, but now you are God’s people.

Hermeneutic; (Anc. Gk) noun, def. “that explains, interprets, illustrates or elucidates”

There’s a new beer advertisement on YouTube.

It’s not like the clunky one featuring two slightly awkward politicians, which was sponsored by another brewer in association with the Bible Society, and which went south at a rate of knots.

It’s one of those ads which is about a great deal more than the product; it’s clever, smooth and addresses one of the great challenges – even crises – in our community at the moment. Oh, and there’s beer. At the end.

First hint: move past your beer and/or your advertising prejudice and check it out at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8wYXw4K0A3g

Next hint: watch the video until the end; don’t let the apparent topics become a roadblock.

When you’ve watched the video, have a think about the context in which you talk about your faith, or in which you might talk about your faith, if you felt able to do so. Ring any bells?

I wonder how easily we converse with those who think differently from us, or if we even have regular relationships with those people? Modern jargon talks about “tribes”, which is where people find social identity. The difficulty is when we can only relate to those who look, vote and think the same as we do (and cordially agree, as Wesley sardonically reminds us).

This is not about politics; it’s about everything. It’s about being human and living in the world. The Brexit vote, the Trump election, even the Australian electoral swings towards minor parties, are not so much about political sympathies, as with how people are feeling about the world – cultural change, social change, (lack of) hope for the future and loss of identity.

If the church is only speaking to the church, if Jesus’ disciples are only speaking – and occasionally arguing – with other disciples, how will we know how to listen to those who are not?

When I was learning to share my faith, there was no preparation in how to listen, only how to present, to talk. The training I had was only about “proclamation”, using the tool kit (simplistic tract) I was given, and nothing about attending to the person next to me. It was hit and run.

People are frightened, or negative, or agnostic, or joyous, for good reason. Do we care enough to ask? When we share tasks, or a meal, with someone, we commence from common ground. If I only see you as a potential disciple, or as an opponent, rather than as a human being loved and valued by God – and me – then I’m wasting my time and yours.

Watch the ad. Take some time to think. Chat with a friend after worship. Then chat with your barber, or the person on the other side of the counter – not about Jesus, but about them.

And where do you reckon the Spirit of God will be?

I was thinking, as I typed the title, that I may have legal correspondence from Tip Top about poaching their idea. It rises (bakery pun) from a series of conversations following Easter this year, both within and without worship.

Rather than an orderly event, in which the disciples noted the Easter happenings step by step, the resurrection accounts bear all the marks of chaos. We’ve noted the stones being rolled away and then after the rolling; women and men running to and from the empty tomb, various accounts of angels (men? messengers?) appearing in the tomb and nearby.

And then the risen crucified One.

Fear, disbelief, belief and wonder mark all the stories. In Mark’s original account it seems the Gospel ended with the words

So [the women] went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.

The accounts read like the various reports from witnesses after a major event. People who were there first, then later, offer various, layered renditions. Interpretation grows as more people hear – and experience – the event. People remember bits and pieces of what Jesus said before he died and some find the whole thing impossible “But these words seemed to them an idle tale, and they did not believe them.” (Luke 24.11).

There are even (understandable) rumours that someone has stolen the body, and many fingers are pointed at the authorities.

As I mentioned on Easter morning, the creation story has God making order out of chaos, and now, in this new creation, God is making chaos out of order.

So, is it surprising that two bewildered disciples are trying to make some sense of things and fail to recognise (the resurrected) Jesus as they wander along their strugglesome journey?

In Luke’s Gospel, despite all the events, this is the first appearance of the risen Jesus. However, it’s not the rebuke from Jesus which sharpens their vision, or the textual and hermenuetical analysis as they walk. It seems that their eyes are still “clouded” and they remain unaware. Until.

Is it the blessing of the bread, or is it the breaking? The answer is, yes. Is it the reminder of what Jesus has done before he died, or the movement of the Spirit now? Yes.

The bread is broken; they see and begin to understand. They take the road back to town to let everyone know, but it takes a few more appearances before everyone seems to be on board.

Why? Because resurrection is hard to accept, to believe.

Whenever we try to explain resurrection, to sort it out, we are doing precisely what we cannot do – make rational sense of God breaking the laws of death and life.

Resurrection is God’s new creation. Life is stronger than death. We meet the risen Jesus in forgiveness and reconciliation, we meet the risen Christ is moments of grace and wonder beyond describing. We meet Jesus, crucified and raised, in the broken bread, where we proclaim the mystery of our faith:

Christ has died. Christ has risen. Christ will come again.

 

Have you forgotten yet? …
For the world’s events have rumbled on since those gagged days,
Like traffic checked while at the crossing of city-ways:
And the haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts that flow
Like clouds in the lit heaven of life; and you’re a man reprieved to go,
Taking your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare.
But the past is just the same – and War’s a bloody game …
Have you forgotten yet? …
Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you’ll never forget.

Do you remember the dark months you held the sector at Mametz –
The nights you watched and wired and dug and piled sandbags on parapets?
Do you remember the rats; and the stench
of corpses rotting in front of the front-line trench –
And dawn coming, dirty-white, and chill with a hopeless rain?
Do you ever stop and ask, “Is it all going to happen again?”

Do you remember the hour of din before the attack –
And the anger, the blind compassion that seized and shook you
As you peered at the doomed and haggard faces of your men?
Do you remember the stretcher-cases lurching back
With dying eyes and lolling heads – those ashen-grey
Masks of the lads who once were keen and kind and gay?
Have you forgotten yet? …
Look up, and swear by the green of the spring that you’ll never forge-

Siegfried Sassoon 1886-1967

It’s the question every parent has asked their children (some more than once!) and which generations of teachers have asked their generations of students. It’s the hottest topic in politics at the moment, with opinion ranging from the absurd to the neurotic.

It’s the question asked at the darkest moment of Jesus’ life, which many would say is the darkest moment of history. Shackled, and facing his imminent death, Jesus is interrogated by the Roman governor, who asks him, “What is the truth?”

Enlightenment and courage elude Pilate and, through fear and expedience, he sentences Jesus to a flogging, then a criminal’s death, flanked by criminals. This is the truth of power when it is challenged, the truth of every empire throughout history. Monarchs do not like the dissenting voice, and have always sought to extinguish it, by corruption or extinction. The truth which empire claims is that might is right.

And yet, across the world for the last two millennia, followers of Jesus have claimed a different truth, in which they place all their hope.

The story empire tells is that the strong don’t waste their time on the weak, that the first don’t care about the last. The empire’s narrative is rigidly controlled: the mighty don’t sacrifice themselves for those at the bottom of the heap, they are the collateral damage in every system.

Except for one.

On Friday we declare that God gave everything – all God had, including life – for all of creation, all of history, all of us. We all know the brokenness of our world. The gassing of innocents in Syria, the fracturing of relationships amongst people we love and a system which values us by how much we earn, all point to a world in need.

When we believe no one is listening and that no one cares, Jesus dies as a victim, to proclaim that God cares, each and every time someone suffers. God does more than care; when we are in our darkest moment, Jesus’ sacrifice declares that God stands with us.

The story which empire spins is that dead is dead.

The story fashioned by God in love and hope is that love is more than death. Easter is not only the cross, it is the empty grave and Jesus’ community finding new hope when they encounter the Christ, amazingly alive.

The truth which every follower of Jesus, every faith community and every church will celebrate this weekend, is that forgiveness is greater than punishment, that justice is stronger than revenge, that love overpowers hate. Death is not the last word; in Jesus Christ, the first and last word is life.

There are pieces of music, like Ravel’s Bolero, which start quietly, sparingly, and build, over what seems an interminable time to the climax, a crescendo of triumph and orchestral power.

Theatre, too, where all the threads are laid separately before the audience, and slowly woven together until the tapestry – of beauty, or disaster – is revealed.

If you read Matthew’s Gospel as a story, from beginning to end, there is a sense of inevitability about this coming week. From the danger shadowing Jesus’ birth and his family’s rush to the safety of Egypt, there is always the impending final confrontation. Since early in Jesus’ ministry, there have been plans to discredit and destroy, and he has not been ignorant of the forces arrayed against him.

So he takes them head on. From an itinerant ministry, moving amongst Jewish towns and Gentile villages, Matthew always seems to place Jerusalem just out of Jesus’ line of sight, even though it has been on his mind for some time. Until now.

From a ministry of encounter with those in need, and those seeking wisdom, Jesus initiates the beginning of the end. It seems a donkey has been arranged, for an arrival during preparations for the Passover festival.

This is street theatre. This is Jesus’ plan to draw attention to himself and to the reign of God. This is Jesus embracing his role as Messiah and declaring it to the crowd, and to the temple, and to the empire that watches in disdain, if it watches at all.

Discipleship is worshiping together, and caring for those around us. It is engaging in our community by serving people in need. It is prayer, singly, or together, as we name with God our concerns for our world. It is generosity and sacrifice which clothes the naked and feeds the hungry and visits the imprisoned. It is meals shared where people are made truly welcome.

And discipleship is confronting the powers which say “there is no forgiveness, no healing, no justice, without our permission”, by offering life and hope when the empire views us with disdain, if it even bothers to look.

Discipleship is turning over the empire’s tables, located deliberately in the temple. It is declaring a new empire where the least and the last are foremost and first, and where loving God and neighbour summarises everything we are asked to do and be.

Is it any wonder this week ends with the cross? To appropriate Chesterton’s poem, this “tattered outlaw” began with his death inevitable and declares an empire where sacrifice is victory, and death is defeated.

One word of advice; do not run ahead. Stay with Jesus, as he convenes his entry to Jerusalem. Wait with him in miracle and disturbance. Watch with him as shadows darken. Risk with him as all appears to end. Grieve in his silence.

Stand with him as God declares all things new.

Let’s try a change of pace … let’s talk marketing and business. As your eyes glaze, and your finger poises to click to the next page, may I beg your indulgence, just for a moment?

There’s a term I have heard a few times, which I ran through Wikipedia as I was writing this. It’s “creative disruption”, and the gurus describe it as “… a phrase that has been used in the marketing world … to describe the desired break in existing patterns of behaviour of the target audience in response to a highly creative message.”

This is, of course, about advertising, about selling stuff. I want to apply it, briefly, to Jesus’ ministry in John’s Gospel; specifically to the five great narratives which traverse the gospel itself. A Pharisee, Nicodemus, meets Jesus in the dark; a Samaritan woman greets Jesus at midday; a blind man moves from darkness to light; a dead man, Lazarus, moves from death’s darkness to life; and Pilate meets Jesus in history’s darkest hour.

At each event, Jesus disrupts everything we know. People can’t be re-born; outcasts can’t be welcomed; blind people can’t see; dead people don’t come alive; the truth is shaped by Caesar’s hands, and not by an itinerant preacher.

Perhaps the last is most relevant at this moment. We know how the world works; it is shaped by those who have power and money and voice, not by those who have none.

Pilate asks the prisoner Jesus, “What is truth?”

As we watch the machinations of the American empire and the divorce and probable decline of its European and British cousins, we know that truth is ordered by those who have tweets in their hands and obsequious media at their feet. Scientific and historic knowledge are held to ridicule by those who have little, or none, and statements recorded yesterday are denied today. What – where – is truth?

Here we stand, with the itinerant one, numbered with outcasts and criminals. And because we stand here, we assert a truth which disrupts everything – creation and history alike. Death, and blindness, and darkness, and despair are never beyond the healing resolve of God. Our hope in this life, and in the one which awaits us, is that God’s love disrupts it all and creates a truth for which we hunger and thirst.

This creation urges us to live forgiveness, to embody justice, to welcome the stranger and to confront the powerful. It is not true that death is the last word; the truth is found in Jesus Christ, whose word and love returned life to Lazarus.

As long as hatred stifles truth
and freedom is betrayed by fear,
we stand with Christ; give us no peace
till his peace reigns in triumph here.

Is it at all surprising to you that a miracle which takes almost three verses of Jesus’ time takes up more than forty verses of consequence in John’s Gospel?

This wonderful, extraordinary event is cluttered with the kind of theology which likes to preen with its own self-importance, but produces little of anything worth admiring.

Occasionally when I am sitting beside someone in their hospital bed, either prior to an operation, or following one, a member of the medical staff may arrive, and begin to talk with others as if the person in the bed is not there.

I have even had conversation directed at me, and not towards the person waiting – usually with apprehension – beside me. The patient has become abstract.

The disciples in the gospel story sound like they are considering this disabled person as a theological curiosity, and not as an opportunity to offer mercy, or grace. Jesus attends with both, and within an earthy, miraculous moment, the man sees for the first time.

All over, it seems, in a matter of minutes.

The poet, Peter Steele, makes the attempt to describe the transformation, as the man opens his eyes entirely for the first time,

to find the day
Open around him, the people strange and tall,
The musing healer up against the wall.

Because this is the heart of the story; not the miracle, but the response.

The newly un-blind man, his parents, his neighbours, the wider community, the clergy are all wrapped into this wonder and not one of them, apart from newly-seeing bloke, says anything positive. Not even a broken Hallelujah.

Instead, there is doubt, confusion, anger, judgement, denial, generally poor theology, and worse, bad humanity.

The miracle is lost because almost everyone else is.

A man who has gained everything has, by the end of the story, been shut out of the community. As the story closes, he sees even more clearly, and worships Jesus, an act which evades everyone else.

Where do we find ourselves in this story? I am not convinced that John’s community records it only for the miracle. It’s possible that the man became a founding member of John’s community, which is why it so important, but there’s more.

The fear of the parents and the hostility of the Pharisees is as much a part of the story as the mud and spittle and miracle. Is this part of the story echoing us? Is the doubt of the Jews something we know?

Or is the man’s new life one we have also grasped with both our hands, seeing more clearly every day?

And the best theology in the story? When the man formerly known as blind says, “All I know is, a few minutes ago I was blind, and now I can see. If this man were not from God, he could do nothing.”

Here’s mud in your eye!

The hands about his brow and jaw, the smear
Of dirt and spittle pasted on his eyes
Came to him in the darkness: also, fear
That after all the failures, no surprise

Could visit him, no magus usher in
The blessed light of which his mother spoke
As if it had the potency to win
A world that should without it go to smoke.

Obedient, he fumbled to the pool,
Heart in his mouth, and washed the stuff away,
Kneeling in shelter. And began to mewl,
Big-boned as he was, to find the day

Open around him, the people strange and tall,
The musing healer up against the wall.

The Gossip & The Wine