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.  

Bartimaeus began to shout out and say, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” Many sternly ordered him to be quiet, but he cried out even more loudly, “Son of David, have mercy on me!” Jesus stood still and said, “Call him here.” And they called the blind man, saying to him, “Take heart; get up, he is calling you.” So throwing off his cloak, he sprang up and came to Jesus. [Mark’s Gospel 10.47-50]

An argument can be made that the Harry Potter books are, essentially, not about magic at all. All the palaver from a few groups in our community about witches, wizards and wands – and the banning of books – meant that a handful of people missed the story entirely.

A engaging story of the journey through high school and adolescence was wonderfully about courage and grief, teenage humour and discovery, fear and love and laughter, the making of friends and the hope of a future after significant loss. The magic, for most of the story, was icing on the cake.

A similar argument can be made about Bartimaeus and his encounter with Jesus – that it’s precisely not about fixing the sight of a blind man. An extraordinary series of gospel stories culminates in this man seeing more clearly than anyone else. The irony is that almost no one notices him, ever. The irony, magnified, is that his physical vision is almost entirely impaired.

Mark builds the story carefully, with the disciples walking, stumble by misstep, after Jesus.

A foreign woman, least expected to understand the mission of Jesus because of her gender and being a gentile, redefines his calling through desperation and hope. In the next breath, children are welcomed by Jesus, as he declares their perspective as most appropriate to comprehend God’s reign.

The disciples, and the crowd of which we are a part, are amazed when a rich man rejects Jesus’ invitation and challenge, and again when the Pharisees see their task as stumbling blocks as opposed to stepping stones. How is it possible that the rich and the clergy fail to understand Jesus’ call to discipleship?

Thus we meet Bartimaeus, who sees clearly enough to defy the crowd. The rich man was unable to leave everything behind; Bartimaeus walks away from his livelihood in order to discover life. The Pharisees laid traps for Jesus and Bartimaeus evades them all as he walks from a beggar’s life to discipleship.

Jesus asks James and John the identical question that he asks Bartimaeus. The brothers request glory, greatness and recognition. Bartimaeus asks for mercy.

When we read this story, the culmination of this stanza in Mark’s Gospel, do not miss the meaning by looking only for the illustrations.

When we encounter Jesus, despite all the obstacles we have overcome, what do we need to ask him? And what, in mercy, do you believe Jesus will say?

Then the Lord answered Job out of the whirlwind:
“Who is this that darkens counsel by words without knowledge?
Gird up your loins like a man, I will question you, and you shall declare to me.
“Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?
Tell me, if you have understanding.” [Job 38.1-4]

“Smite me, O mighty smiter!” yells the lead character in the movie, Bruce Almighty, daring God to act, as one misstep after another leads to chaos in his life.

We have similarly laughed at Basil Fawlty raising his clenched fist, heavenwards, as his life enters another spiral, with accusation laid at the feet of the Almighty. Even in the more complex and engaged debate from President Jed Bartlet in West Wing, we hear the most powerful man in the world accuse God of wilful behaviour and arbitrary punishment.

This cartoon from The Far Side echoes the anger, or fear, of Bruce and Basil and Bartlet, as they come to terms with catastrophes of various dimensions. The reason these images work so well is that, deep down, many of us fear that God has that capacity, that character flaw, waiting to push the “smite” button, simply because God can.

When we read the extraordinary tale of Job and his family, we are at risk of equating a story of suffering and injustice, of faithfulness and despair with the imaginary, vindictive deity against whom Basil Fawlty raises his fist.

We are called to advocate for those who suffer; we are commanded to offer our compassion. We are also called to engage with faithful questioning, to wrestle out our discipleship, to engage and contend with God. Our faith, through Christ, compels us to address suffering, to confront injustice and to stand, with open hearts and hands, beseeching our faithful God, and asking why.

Job enquires of God why such punishment has been visited upon him and his family. God’s response to Job describes far more than arbitrary action. It is the reply that says there is more happening than we can know, and that God is, essentially, more than we can imagine, or prescribe.

Our faith, through Christ, compels us to address suffering, to confront injustice and to stand, with open hearts and hands, beseeching our faithful God, and asking why.

God’s answer, for those who know the depths of injustice and suffering, always seems insufficient. It is, however, the wrestle of every human being to understand why wrong things happen across the world and history. As people sit in dust and ashes in Gaza and Lebanon; as the folk in Ukraine watch their history and future destroyed; as politicians play the lottery with economic policy and people’s lives, the appeal of Job to God makes absolute sense to all of us.

Jesus’ life and death and resurrection at the heart of history speaks into the question of suffering and injustice. The proclamation that God is not above and beyond our lives, but with us, articulates something more profound and wonderful than Job hears from his fickle friends, or even from God’s response.

Yes, God is indeed more than we can ask or imagine. God, however, is with us. That assertion calls for our voice and our action as disciples of this God. Our faith, through Christ, compels us to address suffering, to confront injustice and to stand, with open hearts and hands, beseeching our faithful God, and asking why.

Our Armidale Congregation is compiling a number of faith stories, to encourage and help each other remember – and “remember forward” – in our discipleship.

When asked to consider my journey of faith, one of the most difficult steps was not to launch into a formal account, but to sit and remember those stanzas which have brought me, under God’s mercy, to where I am.

I have wandered and walked, danced and stumbled, and waited. My faith has roots in the maternal branch of my family, deep roots of discipleship and integrity, to which I have grafted my experiences.

I found my first home in a large Sydney youth group in the last years of the seventies, having been coerced to join by my parents, and discovering relationships which shaped me in new ways. It was here that I first heard – and answered – a call to faith in Jesus; I began to understand forgiveness and the anticipation of following Christ.

The youth group offered the necessary ingredients of people my age, and slightly older; people with whom to learn and grow, and people to admire. There were weekly bible studies and worship, discipleship and small groups – all of these shaped me into my understanding of how community is essential to discipleship and also gave me deep grounding in scripture and prayer.

The charismatic movement was a lively (and often criticised) movement in the Church, and many of us engaged with enthusiasm. The presence of the Spirit, and the excitement of renewal were pivotal in shaping my sense of discipleship, and the possibilities of what an unconstrained God can – and will – do in the world and the Church. As an extrovert, the renewal of the Church makes my heart race.

It was during these years that I first had a sense of call to more formal ministry, even as I found myself on the margins of the traditional Church. At this time, most of the mainstream Church seemed naively confident that it was well resourced to address the challenges happening around us. Many of us were, and remain, impatient for change.

My formation into ordained ministry at College was rigorous and wonderful, and a revelation. I learned better to listen to those wiser than I am, to colleagues around me, to my heart, and to the Spirit. The depths of theology and scripture echoed my desire for transformation, in myself and the Church, echoes of hope and impatience. These still resonate, ever loudly as I write this.

The irony of serving in traditional ordained ministry, and yearning for transformation is not lost on me. Notwithstanding, I believe I am where I am supposed to be, and am entirely thankful to God.

I rejoice in the stanzas of my discipleship, with more to come. I have remembered to treasure the time before people arrive for worship, praying in the silence, listening. I am most affected by hope; the hope found in the risen, crucified Christ. This hope is essential for me, and addresses our frailties as both disciples and church, and the wounds the world bears so heavily.

In my impatience for transformation, I continue to learn about the action of God, in God’s time. In my hope, placed in Jesus Christ, I wait with expectation and joy.

Kneeling | R.S. Thomas
Moments of great calm,
Kneeling before an altar
Of wood in a stone church
In summer, waiting for the God
To speak; the air a staircase
For silence; the sun’s light
Ringing me, as though I acted
A great role. And the audiences
Still; all that close throng
Of spirits waiting, as I,
For the message.
                        Prompt me God,
But not yet. When I speak,
Though it be you who speak
Through me, something is lost.
The meaning is in the waiting.

– R.S. Thomas, Selected Poems (Bloodaxe Books, 1986)

Jesus said, “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God.” They were greatly astounded and said to one another, “Then who can be saved?” … Jesus said, “But many who are first will be last, and the last will be first.”  [Mark 10.17-31]

We have developed, even cultivated, an elastic capacity when we hear Jesus’ words.

We attend to the astonishing challenges of his teaching, or the stories Jesus tells and, moments later we return, reflexively, to where we were.

We encounter wayward sons and roadside Samaritans, soldiers and Sadducees, forgiveness beyond our counting, and are astonished that blind beggars see more clearly than community leaders. Children become the hallmark of God’s kingdom, for both hospitality and understanding, while those who are hungriest and least likely are desperate for the life Jesus offers, grasping with both hands – and their hearts.

So easily we discover ourselves looking for another inference, or something which won’t disrupt the shape we have made for our lives.  

“Christianity is one beggar telling another beggar where to find food” a missionary suggested.[1] Perhaps our diet is too rich? Are we too well fed?

Many of us read the story of a rich man walking away from Jesus and immediately dismiss the idea that the story has anything to do with money. It’s a metaphor, or something; an illustration about what weighs us down or distracts us.

Don’t worry, I get it. The story unnerves me too.

I want to suggest that, at the core of many of us is the flimsy and undisturbed belief that money is a valid marker of value and achievement. That people who get ahead (or are born ahead) will, deservedly, remain ahead.

Thus, when Jesus trips the disciples by declaring anyone who is wealthy is too encumbered to enter the kingdom of God, we nod our heads wisely for a moment, mentally check our bank balance and decide (thankfully!) that we have less money than Lachlan Murdoch, and we start measuring embroidery needles.

You see, Jesus can’t be inferring this has anything to do with me.

And a blind man leaves his livelihood pushing his way past us, to risk himself with Jesus, discovering sight and life and one to follow into eternity.

What must we do to inherit eternal life?

How hungry are you?

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[1] D.T. Niles

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

How easily we find reasons to take sides.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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