The old white box stands sentinel, resolute and resilient, in the middle of our front paddock. Older, perhaps, than colonisation, this tree has borne steady witness, weathering – and outliving – each seasonal challenge. We were present for a lightning strike, several years ago, blasting off a limb, and some resolve.

Still, she stands.  

​In the first words offered to us by the Psalmist, we hear

Happy are those who do not follow the advice of the wicked,
or take the path that sinners tread, or sit in the seat of scoffers;
but their delight is in the law of the Lord,
and on his law they meditate day and night.
They are like trees planted by streams of water,
which yield their fruit in its season, and their leaves do not wither.
In all that they do, they prosper.

A podcast asked the question this week, what sort of tree would you imagine yourself to be?

Sit for a moment, and ponder. What tree do you imagine yourself to be? Consider your leaves and twigs and boughs, your roots and bark, your canopy. What feeds you? Where are the streams which nourish you?

At the Frank Archibald Memorial Lecture this week, Stan Grant noted that the steady diet for our community includes UberEats and Married At First Sight. The distance and the anti-hospitality of an anonymous food carrier, and the bastardisation of relationship and covenant. Nourishment, indeed.

The psalmist talks of “scoffers”, a term barely used these days. Perhaps they are those who mocked Christ at the cross; more normally, they are those whose words are designed to chip and chasten, with cynicism in their commentary and muttered criticism for things they can’t tolerate or imagine.

We meet them in ourselves when tired or discouraged. We meet them in others, and it is most disabling when we are beginning to hope, or act, again. Their voices whisper in our churches and communities, thinking themselves clever. However, at their best, all they can offer is hindrance.

Think of what water feeds your soul, quenches your thirst, refreshes you. What story of Jesus, what experience of others, what song you sing, which poem or performance, lifts you to life and hope?

Which experience of Jesus might you be courageous enough to believe will give life to others, and would you offer it? Imagine that, in tendering your story of hope and life, others will prosper in their turn, growing into the life created for them in Christ.

Jesus went on with his disciples to the villages of Caesarea Philippi;
and on the way he asked his disciples, “Who do people say that I am?” [Mark’s Gospel 8.27]

In a world immersed in words, it becomes more and more difficult to discern and offer the words which are hopeful, creative, life-giving. Advertising, podcasts and the misnamed “reality TV”, media of all forms, shout at us incessantly or sit on our shoulders and chatter in our ears like monkeys.

Opinions are everywhere, and quantity seems in inverse proportion to quality. Undaunted by this, offering – and amplifying – a bizarre opinion is the most likely way to garner attention and, following hot on attention’s heels are those who accept, believe and adhere.

Who do people say me to be?

Amidst all the noise, can we attend to what people are saying? One of the interesting tests of many modern church movements is how little they mention the person and work of Jesus Christ, and how much more is spoken about you, and me. The next line is either our abject failure, or the five alliterative steps to self-actualisation.

A number of faith traditions enlist Paul to their particular frame of thinking, neglecting the reality that Paul’s central point of reference is never himself, or us, but “Jesus Christ, and him crucified.”

Who do people say me to be?

The temptation is to believe ourselves sufficiently nourished by miracles, or wisdom, or seeing a person healed. The wonder of a crowd being satisfied by a handful of bread is something we would tell our children and grandchildren, but is it enough when we can’t pay the bills tomorrow, or our home is unsafe tonight?

When Peter names Jesus as Messiah, he imagines a story far away from suffering and struggle. His rebuke of Jesus’ words of rejection and death arises from fear and discomfort, and the consequence for him of following such a one.

Who do you say me to be?

The only way that tangible words of hope can be offered to broken lives is when the one who speak knows what suffering is, the lash of injustice and the hammer blows of rejection. When Jesus names who he is, we are immediately aware of our identities, as those who follow him.

We are named as those who know that suffering and injustice are real, but they are not the final words spoken. We know that violence happens, but death is not the end of the story.

We name Jesus as Immanuel, God with us. This is not a nickname for a manger-born infant, but the identity of one with us in every stanza of our lives.

Crucified, and risen. This is who we say Jesus to be. Jesus, the purpose and fulfilment of God in creation and history. Life is the complete word spoken, heard in silence and wonder at the first and final moments.

Who do you say me to be?

She begged him to cast the demon out of her daughter.He said to her, “Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”But she answered him, “Sir, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.” [Mark’s Gospel 7.26-28]

What happens when Jesus says something which we think he should not have said? How do you feel when Jesus says something which, from anyone else, would create a response of condemnation or criticism, at the very least?

A common response is that we try to ameliorate what Jesus has said, or we make excuses for him, by claiming he meant something different, or the translation misses the nuance of the words, or he didn’t call her a dog, it was more like a puppy.

We are so caught up in the moment, we don’t see Jesus as the human being God has so clearly intended him to be.

Exhausted, driven, with little chance to rest and facing criticism from the Jewish leadership and many in the community, Jesus seeks refuge in a Gentile town where he hopes he is not known. He slips into a home, and looks for a space to stop, perhaps seeking a moment’s sanctuary. Not a chance.

This mother of a desperately ill daughter, unnamed but identified, falls at Jesus’ feet and begs him for help. Could there be a more significant contrast with the confrontation of the Pharisees and lawyers from whom Jesus has just taken refuge?

However, Jesus dismisses her with a word and a cruel name. For half a breath, we don’t know what to think. And yet, this mother behaves as mothers have behaved throughout history, doing anything to save her child. She answers back, challenging and correcting Jesus.

We hold our breath for another heartbeat. And Jesus is recalled to the breadth and depth of his ministry; not just to the people of Israel, but to all who hunger and thirst for justice and mercy.

In the Old Testament, we hear Abraham, Moses and the Psalmist call God to remember mercy, to remember justice, to remember God’s people. Just like the patriarchs and prophets, this Gentile woman, this foreign mother, calls Jesus to discover and to remember that the hope of life inherent in Jesus is for everyone.

Just as God has cause to remember at the call of his people, so does Jesus. A young girl is given life and the gospel story expands before our eyes from the nation of Israel to a deaf man, to four thousand hungry Gentiles and thus, to us – and all creation. 

For if any are hearers of the word and not doers,
they are like those who look at themselves in a mirror; for they look at themselves
and, on going away, immediately forget what they were like.

– James 1.23-24

How easy (and convenient) to have “predictive text” as we read and listen to the Scriptures.  We have a glimpse of what we think is coming, or someone reads the title of the section before the text itself and really, we almost don’t need to listen too hard.

The Letter of James has endured much in this regard. “Faith without works is dead” becomes the simplistic mission statement, thus justifying all the responsibilities, jobs and rosters. Finally, we corral the story of Mary and Martha in order to take sides – are you Mary, or are you Martha? Thus, we summarise this profound epistle before the kettle has boiled (expecting Martha to pour the tea).

Might I encourage you to stop for a second and observe that James’ letter is not an advertisement for the protestant work ethic, but rather an encouragement to be both hearers and doers of the word.

This is neither about indolence and apathy, nor about busy-ness and activity; it is about allowing our lives and selves to be shaped by the word. James’ original text does not have the distinction of a capital for “Word” (the original text was entirely in capitals), so we are entitled to ask to which “word” are we paying attention?

The New Testament had not yet been compiled when James was writing, so we can assume there were narratives, letters, even testimonies about Jesus, to which the communities of faith had access. These reports of Jesus’ life, death and resurrection were compelling and transforming, but I would suggest that there is more that James intends.

In the verse just before this, James talks of “the implanted word that has the power to save your souls.” Might this be more than narratives, reports and testimonies? This is the Word proclaimed at the majestic commencement of John’s Gospel; “In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God.”

If this Word, known to us and among us as Jesus, is implanted in us, what might identify our community as “doers of the Word”? Perhaps how we speak and act and serve and forgive? Perhaps how we bridle our tongues from cynicism and gossip, and release them to bless and honour those around us? How might our lives reflect the presence of Jesus?

Our significant mistake will be to assume we have this in hand. As we pray this week, let us pray for the Word to be embedded, implanted in our lives and our Congregation, that we might be known as “doers of the Word” for our community around us.

“Lord, to whom can we go? You have the words of eternal life.”

It’s when we make that one decision that everything begins to change. Many of us belong to groups passively, just testing the water, unsure of whether we belong. This is as true of a walking group, or regular Thursday coffee, or settling into a community of faith.

We come along, check if it’s safe and whether we feel we can belong. Belonging may take time. At some point, we decide to stay, or not; to belong, or not; to commit.

In the gospels, the safety and obscurity of the crowd is where we often find ourselves; listening to what Jesus has to say, being fed with thousands of others, chasing him around the lake, expecting a miracle, or a show.

Then Jesus asks more of us. It might feel like too much. We watch him invite himself to lunch with that tax bloke. We see him eating meals with those disreputables. He makes extraordinary claims for himself. He asks us to follow him, risking everything – career, family, income, reputation, life.

When this happens, we find we can no longer just settle obscurely into the crowd.     

A suggestion. We’d like it we could buy the hoodie and the stubby holder, and not need to change how we vote, and how we spend our money, and how we live, and how we speak to others (especially the ones we find difficult to like). Just a suggestion.

In the letter to the Colossians, the author writes, “If anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation: everything old has passed away; see, everything has become new!”

We can’t just buy some merchandise. We are asked to follow, to die and live.

It is only when we test ourselves against the words of Jesus that we discern whether there is real life there, or just a meme. Shall we risk loving – and forgiving – our neighbour, even our enemy?  Shall we risk being forgiven, in our turn?

When we trust that Jesus is more than a persona, more than ethics and morals, we discover there is life for us. And everything changes.

Therefore be imitators of God, as beloved children, and live in love,
as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us … [Ephesians 5.1-2]

There appears to be a significant political investment in fear these days. Certain politicians warn of dark times and an even darker future, unless we place our trust in them.

Apocalyptic visions of the “wrong people” in our communities abound, defined (depending on circumstance) by skin colour, or gender identity, or those experiencing persecution and seeking refuge and hope. The world-weary among us will say it has always been thus, that the more things change, the more they stay the same.

I’m not convinced. The plethora of media resources ensures our being constantly saturated; whether we listen, or follow, or subscribe, or read, or watch. The church, of course, is not immune; when suspicion, or fear, are the currency minted – and liberally spent – by some politicians and media, we often find ourselves unwitting investors.

Sermons warn of the frightening world outside, or the danger of different faith stories and biblical interpretation, or the risk of mixing with those who think differently. Thus, the church circles our wagons and looks inward, so that we know everyone and try to feel safe. Which is precisely not how we are called to live out the call of the crucified, risen Christ.

Paul challenges us to live fully – hopefully, carefully, gracefully, thankfully.

It is too easy to accuse, to blame, to refuse, to persecute, so that we feel the illusion of a manufactured safety. That is not the gospel.

The witness of our faith is to live as people of hope, not scratching out our existence in fear, or hiddenness. When the community mistrusts difference, how do we embrace our neighbour? When politicians demand that we punish those seeking refuge, how do we offer sanctuary in our homes and communities?

How do we live in the light of Jesus, and thus offer that light to others, with the gentle care which remembers how it was first offered to us?

Blessings for the week ahead of us.

She put me in my place and I deserved every word. We had been rummaging around a topic in a small group, about being hungry and poor, so we had quickly and conveniently moved the focus of our conversation to “spiritual things”, to avoid it brushing too close.

I had begun to wax lyrical about the benefits of spiritual poverty, biblical quotes on the tip of my tongue. She stopped me, mid-theological-stride. “Have any of you ever been really hungry? Being poor is not romantic, it’s not exciting. If you’ve ever been poor, or hungry, you’ll know that.”

Awkward Christian silence.

I have learnt some things along the way, and one in particular is that sometimes (frequently) there will be the need for me to apologise. So I did. We paused, and restarted the conversation, not focusing on the newly discovered prophet in our group, but trying to shape our time with a new discipline of relevance and compassion.

One of the best ways to avoid the words of Jesus having any real effect (or affect) is to shift each bible reflection solely to the spiritual plane. We can make sinfulness simply about the relationship between God and me, not the person next to me. We can make discipleship about getting to eternity, not life here – and now. We can spiritualise bread and hunger and justice so easily that they become almost intangible and avoid our community altogether.

When John tells us Jesus’ words, “I am the bread of life”, he has just fed several thousand people with a snack box, and saved a boatload of friends in a storm. After a series of conversations, John tells us that Jesus saves a woman from being stoned to death, and stopped a cluster of rock-carrying clergy.

What Jesus says matters.

Not only because it’s wise, but essentially because it applies, here. And now. If we trust Jesus for each step, our behaviour and our allegiances change. Jesus is where real  nourishment is found, and not just for one meal, but for always.

Lord, we have again picked up a weapon and fired it.
We repent from our own political violence.

We have again decided to kill our fellow citizens; our partisan T-shirts are covered in blood.
We repent from our own political violence.

Lord, we weep for the broken bodies, the broken minds — for all those broken by our bullets.
We repent from our own political violence. 

Shed light, O Lord, to expose any and all plans of violence; drive such wicked works from our body politic.
We repent from our own political violence. 

May political opponents humble themselves, Lord.
May they serve their country with truth and grace, not insults or lies.

Teach us again to reason together, Lord, though our sins be as scarlet.
We repent from our own political violence.

Disarm us, O Lord — our minds, lips, hearts, and hands — that we may more perfectly love you.
We repent from our own political violence.

Lord, let us be the repairers of the breach in our political life; let us be messengers of hope.
We repent from our own political violence. 

Do not turn your face from us, Lord, but teach us your ways of peace. Amen.

[This prayer was written after former President Donald Trump was shot speaking at a rally in Butler County, Penn., in which two people were killed and one was seriously injured.]

Rose Marie Berger, author of Bending the Arch: Poems, is a senior editor of Sojourners magazine.

One of the signal gifts Jürgen Moltmann brought to the Church is a prophetic voice woven seamlessly with a theological voice.

The journey of his life through the Second World War and its consequences, his ministry, the tragedy of his son’s death, the extraordinary theological voice of his wife Elisabeth, all informed a theologian who strove never to speak in the abstract, but with a profound understanding of, and engagement with, people’s lives, most especially any who suffer.

This gift Moltmann offered is rarely comfortable; the implications of a God who suffers, who loves so passionately, whose Spirit stirs so relentlessly, whose ongoing engagement so consistently compels our response, is not something with which we can ever be complacent.

The event of God in Jesus Christ, crucified and risen, was not a moment bookmarked in history, but the event around which all history is shaped – and restored. The Church finds all the good news it needs to proclaim in this alone.     

Moltmann’s seminal text The Crucified God was a “conversion” point for me in my formation for ordained ministry. My copy fell open at this quote, which informs so much of my preaching at Easter and, indeed, at the funeral of a loved friend just this week.

“The message of the new righteousness which eschatological faith brings in to the world says that in fact the executioners will not finally triumph over their victims. It also says that in the end the victims will not triumph over their executioners. The one will triumph who first died for the victims and then also for the executioners, and in doing so revealed a new righteousness which breaks through the vicious circles of hate and vengeance and which from the lost victims and executioners creates a new [humankind] with a new humanity.”                [The Crucified God, p.178]

May Jürgen Moltmann rest in peace and rise again in glory.

For centuries, an order of Japanese monks
chose one of the elders to deliver prayers
to the island of an important Bodhisattva. They set
the elect adrift in a shrine shaped like a coffin
with a month of salted fish, rice crackers & water
while brothers on shore kept watch for signs of panic.

In many cases, the sacrifice tried to row home
but the others turned him, shoved him back
into the sea. A mirror of human existence:
each of us sent to beg forgiveness from whichever
gods we recognize while death patiently paces
the sky. As darkness swallows the world, imagine
the cry of gulls, glimpses of a distant horizon,
the slow groan of the casket atop the waves

Copyright © 2023 by SM Stubbs. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on November 13, 2023, by the Academy of American Poets.