Jesus’s “I am” statements in John’s Gospel often make a connection between him and the Temple.

In Jn 8, Jesus was in the Temple at the harvest-feast of Tabernacles.^{(cf 7.2)} The final ceremony of this feast happened at dawn on the last (8^th) day. It was simple, but powerful. Two priests solemnly processed down the Temple steps to the Eastern Gate, then turned around again to face the Temple; the Holy of Holies, deliberately turning their backs on the rising sun. This showed they weren’t like the pagan sun-worshippers reviled in Ezekiel 8.16f; Jews worshiped the true God! ^{(m Sukkah 5.4)}

What does this have to do with Jesus? At this festival, said ^(8.12) “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life.” He’s claiming to be himself what this temple was for the Jewish people; the dwelling place of God. Jesus demands that his followers shift their gaze away from the Temple, and instead, turn to face him. Today’s I am statement—I am the true vine—also seems to be a temple reference, and also fits this startling category of supplanting the temple with his own body.

The archæological architect, Leen Ritmeyer is a world authority on the Temple of Jesus’ time. He and an Englishman Alec Garrard have designed and built a scale model of the Temple on the basis of Ritmeyer’s research. Inside the facade of its porch are four columns, and wreathed up and over them is a huge vine wrought from gold; the Golden Vine of the Temple. Pilgrims would bring golden leaves and clusters of golden grapes for it to add to the Temple’s splendour. In the Mishnah it says that: “whosoever gave a leaf, or a berry, or a cluster as a freewill-offering … brought it and [the priests] hung it there”. ^{(Middot 3.8)} . This vine, represented Israel. It graced the doorway into the Holy of Holies itself. ^{(See p.4 below)}

When Jesus said I am the true vine, he was declaring that he superseded all this in his own person. By me—by this doorway—you enter the presence of God. I am the way.

Vines have a mind of their own, don’t they. If you watch them grow, you see creation at work before your very eyes. Almost overnight, you see those little tendrils stretch out looking for the next thing to grab onto. What they grab onto sets the direction of growth for the rest of the vine. Plants relate to their environments like that, don’t they. They adapt and belong. So it’s a really interesting picture Jesus gives us of ourselves as the church, a plant image. It allows for almost unlimited variety.

Often when we think of an image of Christian community, we think in terms of Paul’s image of us as a human body; the body of Christ. In that image, Christ is the head and we are the various members.

Today’s gospel image of Christ as the vine and us as the branches is different. I like it. It gives the sense that each of us can both contribute to the well-being of the vine itself and also look after those who need its fruit. I also see the vine growing in the soil as a picture of Jesus connecting us with the source of our being. It’s an organic, reciprocal image of a church community which can grow and spread in order to give pleasure and refreshment and shade and beauty.

I think that in terms of where this parish might flourish, this image of us as a plant is really helpful. The image of the body is also wonderful; don’t get me wrong. But that’s more an image of the proper internal functioning of a local church. It doesn’t imply the connection with the church’s environment like the plant image does. Human bodies are essentially the same the world over, but plants can be utterly different from each other—each specially adapted to its particular environment. And the body image for a church doesn’t relate to our reason for being in the same way that the plant image does, either.

So sticking with plants, I’d like to move to considering another one that may have a bit more to do with our church’s Anglo-Saxon heritage; one called the Major Oak. I’ll explain why in a minute. … ^{(See p.4 below)}

Peter Pillinger is a Methodist from the UK, who is involved in the fresh expressions team in London. That’s a group exploring what they call fresh—or new expressions of being church. The jargon goes that we need a mixed economy church. Different age groups, different cultural groups, different interest groups each like to have their own specialised style of being church. Some like to meet in their homes; some in cafes; some out in nature. The mixed economy church tries to cater to these varieties in taste. So this parish of Stirling is very much a mixed economy parish.

**But in a talk that Peter Pillinger gave in Canberra, he talked not about the mixed economy church but about the mixed ecology church. He said mixed economy says it’s good to have what we have already. But mixed ecology, says that “in every niche of our society, there needs to be a Christian presence which is the right plant to be growing there. It has to shape itself to bring life to the ecological niche that it’s growing in.” And just as every ecological niche on the planet is interlinked, so this expression mixed ecology speaks about the inter-connectedness of the church.

That might sound a bit baffling. But Pillinger explains what he means by telling the story of the Major Oak; an ancient oak tree growing in Sherwood Forest which is over 800 years old. (John was King of England from 6/4/1199 until his death in 1216.)

The Major Oak is held up by beams which support its branches, steel hawsers suspending other branches, and a metal band around the trunk so that it doesn’t fall apart. It’s magnificent, and people reverence this ancient beast.

It’s still producing acorns, and every year, those acorns are gathered up and they’re planted in different countries around the world. And in every place where they are planted, they carry the DNA of the original tree. But the shape of each tree will be different depending on local environmental conditions.”

We need to imagine what Jesus wants us to do when he says we are branches of the vine which must bear fruit. What will our fruit enable? Amen.

“Ours are the eyes through which Christ’s compassion is to look out to the earth” St Theresa of Avila

It’s lovely to hear of the generous donations to Vanuatu’s cyclone appeals.

Archbishop Tutu describes this sort of generosity as compassionate love. ^{New Scientist 29 April 2006 p.48}

Archbishop Tutu says this ‘is about feeling with someone rather than just for them. …Compassion that comes from your intestines. But it’s more than just empathy. It is not just a static thing. You are moved by it. It must impel you to do something to try to change the situation that provoked it.’

I noted the ABC Radio National comment that war memorials are not enough; action is necessary or the memorials are a sham. ‘Our memorials don’t rise up against injustice. We rise up against injustice. We shirk that responsibility when we go to a memorial instead of doing something,’ ^{http://www.abc.net.au/radionational/programs/earshot/the-trouble-with-dark-tourism/6412726}

Active compassion!

Archbishop Tutu describes the way compassion works on us.
He says, ‘You try to put yourself in their shoes, to enter into their situation. … you may not be able to change their situation, but your compassion still goes out to the victim, and you try to stand side by side with them.

This sounds pretty basic. But then Tutu says we feel this compassion because of something in us that reflects the character of God. ‘So it’s in everyone, not just church-goers; because all people are created in the image and likeness of God who is compassionate.’ That’s a big statement: we’re compassionate not because of what we believe, but because of who created us—all of us. But does God really have this active sort of compassion?

In Holy Week and Easter we’ve explored the story of God acting in exactly this way; God looking at the plight of the suffering, oppressed, afflicted humanity, and feeling compassion that wants to change the situation; compassion that leads to action.

But there’s more. God’s change didn’t happen with a mighty arm smashing down oppressors and then raising up victims. Instead, God chose to enter into the situation of the oppressed; to become one of them. And we see a picture of the God who does that in today’s gospel. ‘I am the good shepherd,’ says Jesus, ‘The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.’

What’s the point?

What’s the use of a dead shepherd?

Aren’t the sheep more vulnerable than ever if the shepherd dies? It’s not pointless. We experience suffering as a part of being mortal—it’s a part of who we are. We don’t like suffering, but without it, we aren’t whole people. Suffering is the great leveller—it’s immune to fear or favour. Whether someone hits me on the head or I forget to drink enough on a hot summer’s day, the end result is the same; I go to bed with a headache.

If God sent Jesus as a bodyguard who took away my attacker’s club, it may save me from a headache. But that doesn’t change anything really. The world stays the same and God is still remote. The bodyguard Jesus is immune, and while I’m spared, many other people aren’t. The God of that Jesus is choosey. That God has favourites. That God isn’t the real one.

So, no big Jesus the bouncer. Instead, God came in Jesus as someone who was just as vulnerable to a beating as we are; someone who probably also got dehydration headaches on those long journeys, and when he was out ministering to the crowds. The real Jesus is one of us in our vulnerability; and I’m so grateful that he is. Because then, even the tiniest child has a God who knows what it feels like to be them in their hard times; helpless and blameless when someone or something hurts them. By being the shepherd who is willing to lay down his life for us, Jesus is saying that he has compassion for us—that he is in our situation, feeling what we are feeling—wanting to change it.

He doesn’t want us to face our pain alone.

Our pain is not a weakness; it’s an integral part of who we mortals are. When Jesus says he’s the good shepherd who lays down his life for the sheep, he’s telling us that in our pain, in our fear, in our danger, in our brokenness and incompleteness, he is with us. He is an integral part of who we are too.

So he’s not asking us to break bits off ourselves and throw them away. He’s taking us as we are, and asking to enter our lives and show us how to love ourselves as he loves us. It is in receiving that love, from Jesus, from ourselves, and from each other that we move towards seeing that we are whole and wholly loveable. Then we can change and grow together with the one who knows us most deeply—the one who can transform our weakness into a wellspring of compassion and love just like his. The one who can help us discover that it is in our weakness that we discover compassion, and in our compassion that we discover ourselves as made in the image of the lovely God who is the real one.

Today’s scriptures tell us that Australia’s compassionate response to recent tragedies has something to do with who we really are. We are willing the restoration of a broken people’s wholeness. We are with them in their suffering. We are being Christ for them, and they are being Christ for us. We are diminished by their suffering, but find resurrection with them in their healing.

Christ has no body now on earth but yours, no hands but yours, no feet but yours, yours are the eyes through which Christ’s compassion is to look out to the earth, yours are the feet by which he is to go about doing good and yours are the hands by which he is to bless us now. Amen

St Theresa’s prayer again. And it might interest you to know that she’s the patron saint of those who suffer from headaches. Amen

What we just heard in the Gospel happened on the day Jesus rose from the dead.

It’s the same day the women went to the tomb at dawn and found it empty.

It’s the same day two of Jesus followers, walking to Emmaus, were joined by a stranger they didn’t recognise; a stranger who walked with them, talked deeply with them, but whom they didn’t recognise until he broke bread with them. … Then he vanished.

You’ll remember how they get up immediately and rush back to Jerusalem to find ‘the eleven’ and all the others, who are astounded, because they’ve just heard that the risen Jesus appeared to Peter! “The Lord has risen indeed,” they’re saying.

The two Emmaus travellers then tell everybody about their experience on the road. And it’s while they’re telling their story that Jesus suddenly stands among them and said, “Peace be with you.” … That’s where we just came into the story today.

It’s odd. Everyone’s just been saying how the Lord has risen, but when he does appear, they take him for a ghost—they’re terrified! I wonder if this is what severe shock and grief make you do. Didn’t CS Lewis say that grief felt just like fear. ^{A Grief Observed} But Jesus shows them he’s physically resurrected. Just like at Emmaus where he broke bread, he eats with them.

Another Gospel, John, tells us that the disciples huddle together behind locked doors, afraid that the authorities will come after them. I think Luke’s account also shows us how they struggle with fear—and struggle to take in these strange reports of “Jesus sightings”; wonder what it all means. Then suddenly, Jesus is there in their midst, “opening their minds,” (v.45) and he sets them free from their fear.

We need such transformation today. Today, this text challenges our own fears. What locked doors do we hide behind. Our fear may be very personal; fear of hearing the dreaded word “cancer;” fear of unemployment, the threat of financial insecurity, the fear of loneliness, and loss. But often our fears get played out at a national level. Australians fear being flooded with asylum seekers, terrorist attacks, identity theft, our way of life being destroyed. We need to be set free from these fears.

Underlying our fears is the fear of death, our own or that of someone we love. Our fears hold us captive. It makes it difficult to give witness to the great joy that is ours—that the bonds of death could not hold Jesus. Jesus is alive. Jesus suddenly stands among us and says, “Peace be with you.”

The power of the resurrection is the power to transform us—to take away the power that fear exercises in our lives, and in its place, to plant the seeds of life in all its fulness. ^{A life lived in fear is a life half lived—Strictly Ballroom}

The hope of the resurrection is grounded in the experience of those first followers. Jesus suddenly stands among them and says, “Peace be with you.” Nancy Blakely, a hospice chaplain, sees hope in this passage that closed minds can be opened—set free—a whole new way of life opened up. She says the potential is for a release in a prophetic way. “The word of God calls us to peace rather than security”.

Blakely sees that such a theme becomes problematic in a day and age when we get so driven by personal and national security issues. She asks if the attempts to keep us secure might actually be working against the peace that the world needs? ^{Blakely, N. R. (2008). Pastoral Perspective on Luke 24:36b–48. In D. L. Bartlett & B. B. Taylor (Eds.), Feasting on the Word: Preaching the Revised Common Lectionary: Year B (Vol. 2, p. 426). Louisville, KY; London: Westminster John Knox Press.}

Yes, hiding behind “locked doors” may help us feel more secure. But we are still left with our fears and mistrust. The passage from Luke asks the question of us today, “How are we to be released from those fears in order to be a proper witness?” How can we allow ourselves to be transformed so that we can hand on the peace that Christ’s resurrection offers us?

Jesus didn’t conquer death so people could continue living lives corralled by fear. Jesus rose from the dead and came back to us to give us Peace—peace of the active, creative kind—peace that sets us free to be our most creative, our most generous, our most enabling. Jesus rose from the dead and came back to us to give us Peace; a freedom that sets aside any constraint that might prevent us from passing it on—like we just saw him do today with his paralysed, grief-stricken, confused followers.

They’d given their lives to him, and when he died, they thought they’d lost everything. Jesus rose from the dead and came back to them to give them everything they thought they’d lost and much more: Abundant Life: peace, purpose, passion, hope, love, joy—all the qualities that let you live life to the full and make you want to enable others to do the same. Jesus came back from the dead to give us that kind of peace

Let me finish with a charge from St Teresa of Avila …

Christ has no body now on earth but ours,

no hands but ours, no feet but ours,

ours are the eyes through which Christ’s compassion is to look out to the earth,

ours are the feet by which Christ is to go about doing good

and ours are the hands by which Christ is to bless others now.

Amen

“Doubting Thomas”?

The wonderful thing about this story is that even if John the storyteller is disgusted with Thomas, he can’t stop Jesus simply offering Thomas what he needs for faith. And Thomas’ need is a gift to us. We see his unbelief proved wrong. True scientific method is applied; Thomas expounded a theory of unbelief, then disproved it by a repeatable experiment. The result; unbelief swept aside; bodily resurrection proven by scientific method and Thomas, a sceptic converted by empirical proof.

…the others told [Thomas], “We have seen the Lord.” But he replied, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.” The others use the words Mary Magdalene used to them when she came from the tomb. “I have seen the Lord.” Like Magdalene, it took a tangible experience of their risen Lord before they could proclaim this. All Thomas asked for was the same experience,

And Jesus gave him what he needed. … “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not be in disbelief, but believe.” Thomas’ faith was more important to Jesus than any noble reasons we might want him to have for faith. He doesn’t run him down; he just gives Thomas a sign, and enables him to believe. Jesus had done the same for Magdalene that morning at the tomb. He said her name and broke through her blankness, and she seized hold of him. When he offered Thomas what he needed, it evoked the most powerful and complete confession of Jesus anyone had given in the Gospel: “My Lord and my God!”

Jesus speaks to Thomas, but this story is very much addressed to you and me; “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” That’s us, isn’t it! We are blessed. Jesus reaches out those hands through the Gospel to you and me so that [we] may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing [we] may have life in his name.

These are stories of the transforming moments in the lives of Jesus’ earliest followers. When we read a story and someone touches another, our hand goes out and touches them too, doesn’t it. The gospel today is about a transformation that starts with a physical need being met.

So I actually believe Thomas is an image of hope, not of doubt.

The other two times we meet Thomas in John’s Gospel, we find a loyal realist. We meet him first when Jesus finally turns to that dangerous place, Bethany, where Lazarus is entombed, Thomas… said to his fellow disciples, “Let us also go, that we may die with him.” ^{Jn 11:16} He knows how foolish it is to go back to Judea, but he won’t be left behind.

The next time we meet him is at the last supper. Jesus is saying good-bye to his friends, and he re-assures them: “… if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also. ⁴ And you know the way to the place where I am going.” ⁵ Thomas said to him, “Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?” ^{Jn 16.3-5} Trying to get it straight. But not because of doubt. Thomas needs clarity and he needs to understand. But what he does is done out of loyalty.

Again, to him it all sounds like foolishness, but he won’t be left behind. What drives this determination? I think we find it in the image we started with: Thomas with his finger poised above the nail-wound in Jesus’ hand.

Thomas needs to see to believe—he wants help with his unbelief. In most of life, to see is to believe. In the spiritual life, to believe is to see. ^{C R Wood} So when the opportunity of proof is right under his fingertip, suddenly he doesn’t need to go through with it. And all at once, Thomas answers “My Lord and my God!” This isn’t doubt: it comes from hope fulfilled at last.

Magi Abdul-Masih says that hope is different from optimism. Hope is centred on God, while optimism is just focussed on reality. Hope says that no matter how bad things may get, every moment we are closer to the coming Kingdom of God. Optimism, on the other hand, just denies facts until it can’t any more, then collapses. ^{Marguerite Abdul-Masih, 2002. Despair and Hope. Presented at: Canadian Commission for UNESCO Youth Forum, Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada, 1 Jan 2002.}

Thomas stopped having to rely on empirical evidence; he could recognise the goodness of God in Jesus. Suddenly, his finger above that outstretched hand, he saw his hope poised above the wound. When you know God is so committed to you, you can hope. And that means everything.

When your finger is poised over the depth of God’s commitment and you hope in that, you’re transformed into a champion of that hope. You can tell people with utter integrity that God can be trusted. You can point to the wounded hands that were raised and nailed. You can say that those hands seized betrayal in hope. They and their bearer were raised and honoured by the God to whom they were lifted in hope. And now those hands are our hands: the hands of Christ. Look; your own hands. Amen

St. Thomas the Apostle Malcolm Guite

“We do not know… how can we know the way?”

Courageous master of the awkward question,

You spoke the words the others dared not say

And cut through their evasion and abstraction.

Oh doubting Thomas, father of my faith,

You put your finger on the nub of things

We cannot love some disembodied wraith,

But flesh and blood must be our king of kings.

Your teaching is to touch, embrace, anoint,

Feel after Him and find Him in the flesh.

Because He loved your awkward counter-point

The Word has heard and granted you your wish.

Oh place my hands with yours, help me divine

The wounded God whose wounds are healing mine.

Easter 2015 Mark 16.1-8

… go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee

We know this story well, don’t we. But there are always things in it that make us do a double-take, and for me, the last verse we just heard one of them. The young man in the empty tomb says the women should go [and] tell [Jesus’] disciples and Peter that [Jesus] is going ahead of [them] to Galilee … and Peter!? —Wasn’t he counted as one of Jesus’ disciples any more? Why wouldn’t he be? Let’s look back for a moment and see.

Last Sunday, in the passion story we read together, you’ll remember Jesus and Peter arguing about whether he’d deny Jesus three times. Jesus provoked that argument when he said, ^14.27 “You will all become deserters; … ²⁸ But after I am raised up, I will go before you to Galilee.”

Today, we heard the young man in the tomb tell the three women; ^16.7 … go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; you’ll see him there, just as he told you.”

So today, we’re being deliberately taken back to that particular moment in the story when Jesus said “You will all become deserters”. Remember how Peter rose to the challenge: “Even though all become deserters, I will not.” … “Even though I must die with you, I will not deny you.”

Well we all know the story; Peter did deny knowing Jesus—three times, as predicted. And the third time, he didn’t just say ‘I don’t know Jesus’; he swore an oath that he didn’t know him—almost as though he was divorcing Jesus. Maybe the others knew Peter had done this. Had they written him off?

Whether or not they had, the words of the young man at the tomb this morning tell us that Jesus certainly hadn’t. Jesus was calling Peter back to start again at that point, as if nothing had happened since; a clean slate.

^16.7 … go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you.”

Jesus points straight back to that moment where Peter had been so strong and loyal, back to the time before his denials, and offers him a new start.

It is so delicate; so gentle. Can you imagine Jesus being resurrected and rolling away the stone and everything and still thinking to leave such a kind, healing message for Peter with that young man.

⁷ … go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you.” ⁸ So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.

There’s one other quirky bit to this story. The three women were told to pass on the message, but the gospel ends by telling us that they fled from the tomb,… and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.

If that were the end of the story, Peter wouldn’t have gone on to serve Jesus as he did, and in fact, finally honour those words he blurted out to Jesus, “Even though I must die with you, I will not deny you.” The three women were obviously given a new beginning too. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here, would we? But the message to us is also one we have to note well. In every generation, Jesus makes new beginnings possible.

This delicate, gentle, matter-of-fact offer of a new beginning to Peter points to the absolutely central, unique mark of the Christian faith; forgiveness. Christianity began with God’s most wonderful act of forgiveness; the Cross and the Empty Tomb. The Cross wiped the slate clean, and the Empty Tomb announced that new beginnings were open for business, effective immediately.

We respond to this in the Easter Vigil. We go back to our beginnings with Jesus and re-affirm our baptismal covenant with him. Because, as Peter discovered, we are a people of new beginnings.

We may have broken our baptismal promises a thousand times. We may have publicly renounced Jesus. Yet we believe in new beginnings—new birth; revival, new life—because resurrection doesn’t just tell us it’s possible; resurrection is who we are.

We are the body of Christ, and Christ is risen, Alleluia!

Kids—I want you to imagine yourselves inside an egg, not yet hatched.

Tell me about the world you know. What’s the furthest thing from you? What’s hot; what’s cold?

Now, everybody on this side, start to break your shell open and HATCH. Quickly, tell me—are you in a new world?

What do you see? Do you believe your eyes? Are you frightened?

Let’s ask someone else. What’s a someone else? It’s someone like you, but different—but of course, you didn’t know that. Let’s ask them.

Do you see what they do? …

Back to the first one; Now you’ve heard someone else, and they’ve seen it all too. Is it easier for you to believe what you see now?

Are you hungry? Can you see any food anywhere? There it is; eat up.

Just a moment; look over there; those are eggs that haven’t hatched. Other ones like you will come out soon. What will they need to know when they come out? Can you help them? Can you look after them?

Meditation on the Cross

A friend of ours created a Stations of the Cross meditation recently which took the traditional scenes from Jesus’ passion and death and put them together with materials from the recent news. The Station that struck me particularly was about the parents of Peter Greste, the Australian journalist recently gaoled in Egypt. Early in his imprisonment, his parents wrote a letter to the Egyptian president offering to be gaoled in his place as a proof of their utter belief in their son. ^{http://amyfeldtmann.com/2014/12/29/timeline-of-freeajstaff/ has a copy of their letter.}

For me, their offer is a window into what has happened for us because of that first Good Friday. Today, we’ve gathered to remember that on the Cross, Jesus has done for you and me what Peter Greste’s parents offered to do for their child; to take our sentence on himself.

Sermon

In Jesus, God has come to rescue us from our own predicament by taking our place; taking our sentence on himself. And like Peter Greste’s parents, Jesus’ reason for doing this is utter love for us; complete commitment to us.

Peter Greste got trapped in a cycle of justifying his actions—normal everyday actions in the day-to-day life of a journalist. But there he was, trapped, and justifying himself to some invisible, untouchable power. His arguments seemed alright, but no-one seemed to hear them. And his accusers never presented him with a tangible case to answer.

His experience with that justice system is very like us when we’re trying to satisfy invisible authorities that we’re okay; waiting on the results of an exam or a job interview; the results of a medical test. While we anxiously wait for the outcome, we speculate on what the decision-makers will think of us; we plead our case with any friend willing to put up with our worries.

But like Peter Greste was, we’re powerless to influence the outcome. We’re in a vacuum; disconnected—separated from the impersonal powers-that-be whom we have to satisfy. And we experience that separation as something like an invisible prison. And it cuts us off from everyone else around us because none of them seems to be in the same predicament.

People experience this as a type of gaol; a confining space that we can’t escape by our own strength or ingenuity. It might be the consumerist roundabout; it may be the online life we get caught in; it may be the consequence of a failed relationship; a toxic work situation; it may be the effect of chronic ill-health or our age. Whatever the gaol may be, we’re cut off from everyone else because none of them seems to be in the same predicament.

Strangely enough, this is something like a working definition of sin—being cut off from the source of our well-being, and seemingly cut off from everyone around us. This is what life can be like when we’re not consciously aware that God loves us unconditionally; when no-one’s told us that we don’t have to justify our own existence, because God has justified us already—and out of utter love for us. God justifying us? That’s where the Cross comes in.

The one who justifies another takes their side, and sees that all is well with them. God takes the lost cause of humanity and makes it his own in Jesus Christ. ^(Barth)

In more simple language, a perfect stranger called Jesus saw the bullet flying towards us, stepped in the way, and took it in the chest. And the question that leaves us with today is, how do we respond to him?

This Holy Week, we’re spending time with this story of God’s deep love for us. The most important thing to realize is that God loves you and me like any loving parent loves their child. And a loving parent will do anything to save their child from harm; a loving parent will go to prison to protect their child; a loving parent will die to save their child.

In Jesus, God died to save you and me. It’s happened.

Abp Desmond Tutu sums it up.

God has this deep, deep solidarity with us.

God became a human being, a baby.

God was hungry. God was tired.

God suffered and died.

God is there

with us.

Amen

הוֹשִׁ֘יעָ֥ה נָּ֑א Hosanna!—Save us; grant us victory: Palm Sunday 2015

For the Liturgy of the Palms: Mark 11.1-11, Ps 118.1-2

Passion Sunday Readings: Isa 50.4-9a, Ps 31.9-18, Phil 2.5-11, Mark 14.1—15.27

In Papunya there’s a very special donkey. Its body is a big metal drum and it has steel tubing legs that go down to a platform with wheels for it to roll on. I think its neck is a car spring, and it’s got a metal head with ears. This donkey lives all year outside Papunya church, usually lying on its side near the bell tower. But I hope and trust that this morning, the donkey of Papunya church will be having its moment of glory.

I wonder who will be riding it—being Jesus. I wonder which Hosanna song Pastor Graham will get everyone to sing; what sort of branches they’ll be waving—mulga? And I wonder how many people it will take to help that donkey and its rider across the red sand on its journey into the church. It’ll be such a wild, wonderful time for everyone there.

I remember as a small child how very special Palm Sunday was. I can’t think of a bigger day in the church during my childhood. It was gloriously, delightfully, noisily out of control. And when I first saw Papunya Church’s donkey, it flooded back to me—how we used to celebrate this day.

I imagine it was like the first Palm Sunday for the crowd when Jesus rode down the Mount of Olives towards Jerusalem; all those wildly hopeful people with no idea of Good Friday or Easter. They were living in the hope and joy of the moment, just like I used to, those many Palm Sundays ago. I was too young to make the sad connection with the coming tragedy. And in my church, we didn’t go inside and read the Passion Gospel like we have today. So there was no nasty shock of being suddenly dragged down from the glorious hope of triumph one moment to the utter tragedy of the Cross the next. Palm Sunday stood alone.

But things are different now. In the past half hour, we’ve all experienced the tragic fall from ecstasy to agony that Jesus and his loved ones will endure over the coming week. And the way we’ve just read it, we’ve owned we are all participants in this tragedy. We, the very people who outside just cried Hosanna—save us, we pray; grant us victory!—here inside, we’re still part of the crowd; but now the cry has turned to harsh judgement; Crucify him!

This is bewildering—and it has to be. We are the Palm Sunday crowd that cries out to be saved—cries out to be led to victory over whatever enslaves us—cries out to the best looking hope at the time. But we’re also a crowd which turns against any leader who looks like they’re falling from favour; in fact, a crowd capable of crucifying such a fallen leader.

Would it have been different if we were the custodians of the Jerusalem temple? What would we have done in their place, watching from atop the walls as the slow, jubilant procession came down the Mount of Olives and crossed the Kidron Valley into our sphere of influence; into our power? Probably the same as they did.

But surely we’re not like them—or are we? During Lent, we’ve realized we’re not as pure as we might imagine.

If we let Holy Week do its work in us, we’ll know we can’t carry our burdens alone; we’ll come face to face with our deepest needs. And in the middle of that realisation, we’ll find Jesus responding to us with compassionate love—calling us to keep walking with him, no matter where he leads. Bishop Tim would say, we’ll be challenged personally, but not individually. We’re in this together; and most of all with Jesus. To imagine Holy Week is just about individual soul-searching is to miss the point that it’s about relationship; how we love and are loved by God and how we love our neighbour as our self. That’s personal, but it’s not individual; we are not islands; we belong.

So Holy Week confronts us with failings and challenges we may never have known about. But it also enables us to meet them, reminding us that we’ve been entrusted with priceless gifts. If we receive these gifts, we walk with Jesus. These gifts; what are they? On Maundy Thursday, we’ll receive three of them:

• the gift of Holy Communion which shows we are bound forever in love to Jesus and to each other,
• the gift of Servant Leadership … each of us shows the love of Jesus in the humble act of washing our neighbours’ feet and having our neighbours wash our feet,
• and the gift of the New Commandment—Love one another as I have loved you—the gift which shows how we’re called to belong to everyone by living as Jesus did.

And on Good Friday, we remember we’ve received the most precious gift of all: the life of Jesus Christ, offered in sheer love, to make possible the salvation—the redemption—the rescue—the liberation—the divine embrace—the belonging—of you, of me, and of the whole creation.

Let’s prepare to receive these gifts which God has offered to make us whole together. Amen

Lent 5, 22.3.15 Bridgewater

Jeremiah 31:³³ But this is the covenant that I will make with the house of Israel after those days, says the Lord: I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts; and I will be their God, and they shall be my people

I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts.

There are very few things that everybody learns by heart any more. We each learn the songs that we like best; sing along with them when we hear them. And the advertising industry does its best to make us memorise little bits and pieces; implanting memories to sway our decision when that moment of choice arrives. But everyone remembers different things.

It’s quite different in more traditional societies. We went to a wedding in Bethlehem, and then afterwards to the reception. Two things struck me about that reception. First, there were lots of children. And second, when the DJ played songs, everybody danced, from toddlers to grannies; and they all sang along with the songs. I was stunned. How could they all have these songs in common. Song united everyone; it was lovely and joyful.

I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts.

During the service today, we’ll be reciting words together that people have said or sung for centuries all over the world, and in pretty nearly every language; much we know by heart. We should try not to look at the screen. And at communion, we’ll remember Jesus’s words when he first gave his disciples the bread and the wine, and we’ll say the Lord’s Prayer together. The words we know by heart are things that unite all Christians with each other; it’s strong and lovely and joyful.

These words bind us together, and we hand them on to our children; we help them to write these words on their hearts.

I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts.

Why do we hand out on these timeworn words and customs to our children? What difference do we hope it’ll make to them? They can’t understand those words now, and I’d have to say that a lot of us adults—me included—struggle with their meaning even into old age. What’s the point? Are we just indoctrinating them, or are we giving them something more? I believe we are giving them something very precious. And I’ve come across something that says it beautifully.

Jacob Needleman is a professor of philosophy at San Francisco State University. A few years ago, he gave a talk about the great unanswerable questions of life; the questions that come from a deep place within us: Who am I? Does God exist? Is there a soul, and is it immortal? What can we know? What ought we do? What is good and evil?

He talked of the great body of ideas and teachings built up over thousands of years to help people as they try to answer these questions.

“The great stories and images of the world don’t usually reveal their meaning to us right away. These great stories, these fairy tales, these Biblical images, these myths, these great works of art—sometimes they’re not there to convince the brain, … but they…go down in the direction of the heart. And later on, as the years pass, and suddenly life does something to you, some shock, some disappointment, some triumph, some extraordinary thing, and suddenly, ‘Ah! That’s what the story meant, that’s what the story was telling me!’ So try to let these stories come into you and slowly radiate their meaning.” He tells the story of a conversation between a pupil and a wise old Rebbe.

“… the pupil asks the wise Rebbe about a passage in the Bible, in the Book of Deuteronomy, which is part of the Torah, the heart of the Old Testament. There is a sentence there that says to ‘Lay these words upon your heart.’ The words, which sum up the fundamental belief of the Hebraic tradition, are these: ‘Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God is one Lord; And you shall love the Lord thy God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your might.’ ^{(Deut 6: 4-6)}

And the pupil asks the Rebbe, ‘Why does it tell us to lay these words upon our heart? Why doesn’t it tell us to put them in our heart?’ And the Rebbe answers, ‘It’s because as we are, our hearts are closed, and the words can’t get in. So we just put them on top of the heart. And there they stay. There they stay until some day, when the heart breaks, they fall in.’”

I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts.

‘The great wisdom: study it in all its forms,’ says Needleman, ‘and some day when your heart breaks, either in great sorrow or in uncontainable joy, it will fall in, and you’ll understand another level of [your humanity].”

I think at moments like that, we’ll feel God’s timeless, boundless love. We’ll feel it just when we need it; when we can finally comprehend it; when it can do the work it was send to do in us.

I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts. Amen