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, Universe 2003
and This is My Body~ Praying for Earth, Prayers from the Heart by Alla Renée Bozarth, Universe 2004.
All rights reserved.

And you, child, will be called the prophet of the Most High;
for you will go before the Lord to prepare his ways,
to give knowledge of salvation to his people
by the forgiveness of their sins.
By the tender mercy of our God,
the dawn from on high will break upon us,
to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death,
to guide our feet into the way of peace.” [Luke’s Gospel 1.76-79]

An unruly character breaks early into the story. Roughly hewn and sharply edged, he proclaims a story which unsettles all around and brushes against us like sandpaper.

He has wandered in the scrub for decades, perhaps, waiting until the right moment to come and disrupt the community from which he arose. He’s a minister’s kid, probably with all the baggage that entails, and a full awareness that the words he offers will not provide comfort.

Comfort is not in his job description, neither for himself, nor for those he encounters.

His vocation is to progress like earth-moving machinery through his community, making a path for the one who follows him, knocking down locked gates and clearing out speed bumps.

In this season when we look for cute and cuddlesome, John is the antithesis of these. When we want (demand?) our stories to be tinsellated, this eccentric cousin of Jesus has no tolerance for decoration, demanding instead the substance of repentance and transformation.

John is not the guest speaker for your Christmas function; you don’t invite him to neighbourhood drinks, unless you want an early night.

Notwithstanding all of this, John is the Advent cornerstone, ushering in Jesus, who embodies the reign of God in the world. John seems like a poor marketing choice, an HR nightmare.

And yet, all four gospel writers place him at the forefront of their story, disturbing everyone and offering renewal, because renewal does not come without cost and consequence.

If you come seeking justice, can you live justly? If come seeking forgiveness, can you offer it to others in your turn?

Then, as now, we like our stories undisturbed. Unless, of course, our stories have broken edges, or a fractured mainframe. Unless we come limping, or lost, or fearful of what every day is like. Unless renewal appears like water to a life drowning in sand.

John comes, asserting that story in which we live is not the whole story; that the story can be transformed towards life; that the one following him embodies a life worth everything.  

As we stride and stumble toward Christ’s coming, are we willing to live forgiveness and offer mercy, to articulate the hospitality of God, and carry peace with our every step?

If you are, there is someone you need to encounter.

There is no silence lovelier than the one
That flowers upon a flowering tree at night. 
There is no silence known beneath the sun 
That is so strange to bear, nor half so white. 
If I had all that silence in my heart, 
What yet unfinished heavens I could sing! 
My words lift up and tremble to depart, 
Then die in air, from too much uttering.

It must have been beneath a tree like this 
An angel sought a girl in Galilee, 
While she looked up and pondered how the kiss 
Of God had come with wings and mystery. 
It may be that a single petal fell.
Heavy with sorrow that it could not tell.

Then Jesus told them a parable: “Look at the fig tree and all the trees; as soon as they sprout leaves you can see for yourselves and know that summer is already near. So also, when you see these things taking place, you know that the kingdom of God is near.” [Luke’s Gospel 21.29-31]

I have told the story many times of how our daughters learnt that the arrival of Advent is heralded by the jacarandas in blossom across their community. All their lives our daughters have known that jacarandas are the signs of hope for the harvest, and for the coming of Christ.

Advent, this season of in-between, this “now-and-not-yet”, this time of waiting. This discomfiting hiatus, where we tell the astonishing journey of Mary, Joseph and the coming of Jesus, while watching and waiting for his return. We are caught in this improbable moment, watching “wars and rumours of wars” and their echoes for millennia, while hoping, despite all this brokenness, that Christ will return and bring wholeness where it is beyond our imagining.

These words of Jesus, carried to us by Luke’s community, are not first heard in a pristine worship space, but by those embedded under the boots of empire. These words of hope are neither naïve nor wishful, but engaged with the promise which all Christ’s disciples hold – that the risen, crucified One will return to reconcile and renew the whole creation.

At this moment, our waiting and our expectation cannot be the acts of spectators, but of participants. We engage in the hope of our assertion, to act in justice and mercy, to reconcile with our neighbours and our enemies, as indications of what God’s completion of all things will mean.

We watch because we hope. We hope because of what we already discovered for ourselves in Jesus Christ; forgiveness is real, mercy transforms us, death is not the final word. The resurrection we proclaim is the context for all our actions, all our hope.

Each of us may well stumble in our waiting, so we turn to those on each side of us, in order that we remember and find courage from each other, because we know the days are difficult.

As with every generation, the reality of this promise can appear entirely out of our reach and beyond our imagining, which is why we turn again to the birth of Jesus. This story, that God would act in such an implausible manner, in such a place, holds all the hope for us – God has broken into the world as an infant, completely at God’s own risk. This act confirms in us the hope we need for the world in which we live.

This promise inherent in Christ’s return is to set us free. Christ is returning to the creation; we raise our heads to witness the glory of God.

Lift your faces to receive Christ’s blessing! 

God of all creation,
in this Advent season,
we wait.

We wait, once more,
for the promise of your Son, Jesus Christ.

We wait, and pray,
for the completion of all that you have made,
when all will be restored, made whole.

We wait, each day,
for the justice you have declared,
for the hope you have embodied,
for the healing you offer
for the life you promise.

Gather us today,
we pray,
across all your Church,
that we might declare
the reason for our waiting:
Jesus Christ,
Emmanuel, God with Us.

– S.R. Hansford 2019

Jesus answered, “You say that I am a king. For this I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.” Pilate asked him, “What is truth?” [John’s Gospel 18.37-38]

This week new laws are being introduced to Federal Parliament about the misuse, abuse and proper use of social media for younger people.

This legislation arises from any number of causes, many of which you will have discovered for yourself, or know their harm within your own family, or amongst your friends and those for whom they care. Bullying, abuse and misrepresentation have always been present in the world around us, but suddenly they have become more constant, more present and, seemingly, more pernicious than ever before.

At its reasoned best, arising from real concern, this is an attempt by my generation to offer safe haven to our children and grandchildren. We will see, after the all the political compromise, whether a camel emerges, and whether it has any remaining breath.

I doubt that today’s media and social media influencers and manipulators are worse characters than the propagandists of generations past; the fabrications of politicians in our parliaments are, perhaps, simply less subtle than those who tarnished nations two decades, two centuries, or two millennia ago.

Our deep suspicion, even fear, of artificial intelligence has a rational justification; things are frequently not as they appear. That image, that quote, that video are simply not real. Black might now appear as white.

In a social climate where people believe that fewer and fewer things are able to be “proved”, when suspicion and disbelief are easily ignited, what shall we offer?

If I could just convince you, with further proofs, or a better argument, or a clever turn of phrase. I might be tempted to ridicule your thinking, or point out the weaknesses in your argument, or simply make you feel a fool. Then you’ll change your mind.

In his exchange with Pilate, as he faces his own punishment and death, Jesus talks about truth. He has been mispresented, trolled, and lies about him have been going viral. He is moments away from the cross.

Jesus declares his purpose, to testify to the truth. The word he uses is where our word for “martyr” originates; Jesus bears witness with his own body. His clearest declaration, which has lasted two thousand years, is on the cross – a broken body for a broken world.   

Our task is not to win every argument and ridicule those who can’t agree. We are called to bear witness with our lives, so that the truth of what we say is realised because it is amplified – and verified – by how we live.

Mercy remains a meme until we offer it; compassion and forgiveness and hope are only words until our lives make them tangible. And when we offer bread to the hungry, we may just receive their permission to speak of when our hunger was met by Jesus.

What is truth? It is found in Jesus Christ, crucified and risen.

To address the issue of a truth greatly reduced requires us to be poets that speak against a prose world. The terms of that phrase are readily misunderstood. By prose I refer to a world that is organized in settled formulae, so that even pastoral prayers and love letters sound like memos. By poetry, I do not mean rhyme, rhythm, or meter, but language that moves like Bob Gibson’s fast ball, that jumps at the right moment, that breaks open old worlds with surprise, abrasion, and pace.

Poetic speech is the only proclamation, I submit, that is worthy of the name preaching. Such preaching is not moral instruction or problem solving or doctrinal clarification. It is not good advice, nor is it romantic caressing, nor is it a soothing good humor.

It is, rather, the ready, steady, surprising proposal that the real world in which God invites us to live is not the one made available by the rulers of this age. The preacher has an awesome opportunity to offer an evangelical world: an existence shaped by the news of the gospel. This offer requires special care for words, because the baptized community awaits speech in order to be a faithful people. What a way to think about a poetic occasion that moves powerfully to expose the prose reductions around us as false!

from Poetry in a Prose-Flattened World, by Walter Brueggemann
https://www.preaching.com/articles/poetry-in-a-prose-flattened-world/

As Jesus came out of the temple, one of his disciples said to him, “Look, Teacher, what large stones and what large buildings!” Then Jesus asked him, “Do you see these great buildings? Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down. [Mark’s Gospel 13.1-2]

It is in our current parlance to speak of Builders, Boomers, Gens X & Y & Z. The generations which have shaped our community and culture, and the generations which now attempt to locate themselves within both of those.

I belonged to a youth group in the cusp of the 70s and 80s, as we tried to unshackle the strictures of our parents’ and grandparents’ generations and to shape our own sense of place and faith. We were both successful and not; however, one consequence for me is the sense that whatever we have built is ephemeral. It cannot last, and it should not.

I try to grasp the hope of those who midwifed the life of the Uniting Church, who imagined a church grafted together from three plants, and hoping for more in the generations ahead. When I read the Basis of Union, our founding statement, I don’t discern a desire for establishment of property and permanence, but a conversation enthusiastic about pilgrimage, a movement that “does not have a continuing city but seeks one to come”.

Notwithstanding the prophetic hope of our parents and grandparents as they led these faith traditions into Union, and the confronting gospel words of Jesus, so much of our time and effort has been centred on the establishment and maintenance of a city which we want to last, but which simply can not.

As the structures shift and change, and sometimes crumble, how are we able to face the community in which we live – and for which Christ died?

At the moment, I particularly treasure the fourth paragraph of the Basis,

The Uniting Church acknowledges that 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. Christ who is present when he is preached among people is the Word of God who acquits the guilty, who gives life to the dead and who brings into being what otherwise could not exist.

The story of God in Jesus is sufficient for the days in which we live. We speak in the mercy of God to the place in which we find ourselves, not hankering for the days which have passed.

The buildings will fall, as they must, but the city which is founded in Jesus will not only last, but has hospitality for all. How does our witness, our worship and our service reflect Jesus’ vast and wonderful invitation, and that profound hope?

May God bless us for this pilgrimage!

Jesus sat down opposite the treasury, and watched the crowd putting money into the treasury. Many rich people put in large sums.A poor widow came and put in two small copper coins, which are worth a penny.Then he called his disciples and said to them, “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury.For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.” [Mark’s Gospel 12.41-44]

You can see them out of the corner or your eye. Those things, those people, we usually ignore or miss altogether. Every now and then, they catch our attention, but if we are stubborn enough, we can manage our awareness, so they don’t impinge.

It’s that person, that awkward conversation, that whisper in our heart of … something.

If we are foolish enough to read the gospels with intention, to read and listen and attend, they keep appearing. They usually remain nameless, but occasionally, like Bartimaeus, they get a guernsey. One climbs a tree, she pushes through the crowd, or he cries out, or they are lowered into our lap by those who love them and will risk everything. They cross our path, asking something of us.

On occasion, they catch our eye because they ask nothing. They embarrass, or shame, or astonish us. She anoints Jesus in adoration and blessing. He returns and gives thanks to one who is marked as enemy by culture and tradition.

She puts her last two coins into the offering.

There will be no money for grain, to make flour, then bread. She will not eat tonight. She puts all she has in the treasury bowl, when she should be free, encouraged, to make a withdrawal instead.

She catches Jesus’ eye, and we want to hear his words as a blessing. What if her giving is not submissive, or compliant, but an act of defiance, a radical act to challenge a system which demands her last two cents? What if she is prophetic, not defeated, amplifying Jesus’ indignance with her own action?

This is where Jesus leads us, if we are willing to follow. We discover the mercy and wisdom of people who live their lives in the shadow of our community, and yet the light of God’s Spirit.

If we follow Jesus, and pay attention, we will discern that these people frequently consigned to the corner of our eye are not objects of pity, but people of wonder and character and honour. And strength.

When you read her story, and imagine yourself paying attention to her giving, what will you do next?

So she said, “See, your sister-in-law has gone back to her people and to her gods; return after your sister-in-law.”
But Ruth said, “Do not press me to leave you
or to turn back from following you!
Where you go, I will go;
where you lodge, I will lodge;
your people shall be my people,
and your God my God.
Where you die, I will die –
there will I be buried.
May the Lord do thus and so to me,
and more as well,
if even death parts me from you!” [Ruth 1.15-17]

A handful of years ago I was at conference with a group of young leaders from the breadth of our Uniting Church. They were a fabulous mix from Gen-Z, representing the diversity of our community and our church, keen to get involved and to lead, to push the edges and to discover where their faith might take them.

We travelled through the story of Ruth, Orpah and their mother-in-law Naomi. This famous passage, often read at weddings, was the focus of one conversation. Following tragedy, Naomi has instructed the two young women to leave; Orpah leaves, Ruth stays.

The speaker asked all the young leaders to sit on the left side of the room if they thought Ruth made the right choice, and on the opposite side, if they agreed with Orpah’s decision.

A number of us were astonished to see that the room of over one hundred young leaders was evenly divided. The ones who sided with Orpah were asked why they had made their particular choice. This group, largely of Pasifika and Korean heritage responded that you obey your elders.

This cultural expectation would also have been true of the world in which Naomi, Ruth and Orpah lived, and the first several generations of those who listened to this story.

The young leaders who supported Ruth were largely of Anglo background; I had always been taught that Ruth made the right choice, and suddenly I needed to rethink both my theology and my assumptions when I speak to people.

Is it possible that those who first heard this were shaking their heads with the same exasperation as those who heard Jesus’ parable of the son who pre-emptively asked for his share of his father’s inheritance and wasted it all in a foreign land?

The difference is prophetic. Ruth acts to serve Naomi’s safety, risking herself with the possibility that two women might shape a future, whereas one widow seems destined for penury.

What does it mean to stand against a cultural assumption, to defy what everyone expects? What does it mean to hope against circumstance, and to chose life, acting in that hope and choice?

How do we speak in our church – our community – when we naïvely expect our cultural expectations to be the same as everyone else, and discover that they are not?

When we offer the gospel; when we stand as advocates; when we look for justice; we need to attend to those we seek to serve, and to understand that service is not control, but offered in humility and hope.

Ruth’s covenant decision is profound, and changes history. May we have her wisdom, her courage, and her love.