Sermon for Sunday 3 May

John 10:1-10

Most years, I conduct the memorial service for International Workers Memorial Day. In Perth, the memorial takes place at Solidarity Park, across the road from State Parliament. Some of you will remember the ‘Third Wave’ protests in 1997 when that site was occupied for six months in protest at pending legislation. Today, it holds a memorial to workers who have gone to work and not come home. This year, just a few of us gathered at the memorial and the ceremony was livestreamed. It was just as meaningful, but quite different to the usual experience.

I particularly missed seeing comrades from the CFMEU in attendance. Those guys really know how to make an entrance! They form up out the front of Parliament House with their flags and march together to Solidarity Park en masse. It’s impressive and a bit terrifying, because people who work in construction, forestry, mining and energy are pretty tough from all that physical work. Of course, the workers themselves are all big softies once you get to know them – men and women who care deeply about one another and stand up for safety and against injustice. Because of that passion, and a talent for salty language, they are often in conflict with business owners and corporations, and sometimes get called ‘thugs’. Their biggest enemy? The Master Builders Association. Whenever there’s an industrial issue, you can guarantee that the CFMEU and the MBA will be on opposing sides.

So I was surprised on Friday when I saw that these two organisations, who are traditional enemies, joined together to call for a $10 billion investment in social and affordable housing as part of a stimulus package to recover from COVID19. It makes perfect sense. Construction workers need jobs, construction companies need income, people need affordable places to live, and social housing doesn’t make money, but in the long run it doesn’t cost money either. It’s a win-win strategy for government and industry – so the stakeholders have got together to develop a grassroots, collaborative solution to propose to governments.

It may seem like the most logical thing in the world, but it isn’t always widely understood that having secure accommodation is the prerequisite for nearly every other thing that makes for a fulfilling life. Secure accommodation makes it more possible to access education, makes it easier to get a job, makes it easier to access health care and keep good mental health. It helps families stay together and helps reduce domestic and family violence. As we are seeing during this pandemic, secure accommodation also lowers infection risk and enables people to self-isolate when they are sick (with any kind of illness). Having a steady place to live that costs less than 30% of your income improves lives, whethers it’s social housing provided by a charity, affordable housing supported by government investment, low-interest loans or tax incentives for owner-occupiers. It just works.

Now, I’m bleating on about housing policy and may be wondering why. Here’s why.

When we imagine sheep and shepherds, we tend to imagine vast green pastures on rolling hills with fluffy white sheep gambolling along merrily going baa. But when you visit the Holy Land, you don’t find anything like that. There are still Bedouin people today who herd sheep, and the sheep look tough and have dark wool. They are muscly and sure-footed from climbing over the rocks and hills and desert spots. You don’t have a huge flock, because there’s not enough grass and plants. Lamb is tasty and mutton isn’t, so you only keep enough adult sheep to give birth to more sheep and provide some wool. A shepherd in, say, Bethlehem might have a couple of dozen sheep and after a day out wandering, would bring them home. They might live in a split level home made of mud or timber, or, particularly around Bethlehem, they might use a cave as part of the home, with some annex bits built on. The livestock would be brought into the home to keep them safe, and in winter to keep the family warm. There would be a door or a gate, or perhaps a pile of stones, to secure the entry way so the sheep can’t get out and thieves can’t get in.

Even sheep need a home in order to thrive.

In John chapter 10 which we read today, the Jesus of John’s gospel is warning about thieves and bandits who don’t enter the central area of the house (unhelpfully translated as ‘sheepfold’), but climb in by another way. It also mentions a doorkeeper, who was probably a junior family member who had the warm but smelly task of sleeping near the doorway. The sheep are very much part of the household – they are not just possessions, but family members. They know the shepherd’s voice.

The domestic scene continues with Jesus delivering one of his famous I Am statements, to declare that he is the door (or the gate, but I prefer door). Whoever enters by Jesus will be ‘saved’ or kept safe, and those will be able to go in and out and find pasture. The thief is only interested in death and destruction, but Jesus brings abundant life.

Now, there is rich spiritual and theological fodder in imagining Jesus as a metaphorical door to salvation. Through Christ, we can know fullness of life and closeness to God. I’ll leave you to do the wondering about that.

But today I would like to emphasise that Jesus has identified himself as a household item, a piece of construction, a part of a house – a part of a home. The door is the way into all the good stuff that homes can offer – safety and warmth and togetherness, a sense of security and reassurance. Whether home is a cave in Asia Minor or a prefab 3x2 on a new estate, or a tent in a refugee camp or a tiny city apartment – the door to the home is a threshold which shapes us. People who have homes have dignity and hope.

Jesus is, certainly, the door to coming Kingdom of God, which we believe is the true home for everyone. But Jesus is also the door to justice in the present, where we cherish the inherent value of each person by ensuring that each one of us has a place to call home.

As we are, by and large, confined to our homes for a while longer, may we recommit to a faith which cherishes the home as sacred space, and which believes that all people should have a home, because a safe, secure, hospitable home is a foretaste of the Kingdom of God.

Christ is Risen. Alleluia! Alleluia!

Sermon for Sunday 26 April

Luke 24:13-35

The 1662 Book of Common Prayer, which remains the gold standard of Anglican worship, imagines a scenario before the celebration of Holy Communion or The Lord’s Supper, in which all those who intend to receive communion will let the parish priest know at least one day prior. This is partly practical, so that there can be enough bread and wine prepared. But it also has a pastoral element. The prologue for the Order for the Administration of the Lord’s Supper goes on to say that once the list of communicants is prepared

‘if any of those be an open and notorious evil liver, or have don any wrong to his Neighbours in word or Deed, so that the congregation is thereby offended: ye Curate having knowledge thereof, shall call him and advertise him, that in any wise he presume not to come to the Lords Table, until he have openly declared himselfe to have truly repented, and amended his former naughty life’

At this time in England, the celebration of Holy Communion was relatively rare. It might have happened in the average parish church once a month, or perhaps only on feast days, or perhaps only at Christmas and Easter. One can imagine a fair bit of repenting and amendment of naughty lives happening prior to those relatively rare occasions, though I’m not sure I’d want to be the vicar beavering around town letting open and notorious livers know that they can’t have communion!

In the Presbyterian Church of Scotland and the USA until the early nineteenth century, there was a practice called ‘Communion Tokens’. Before the (relatively rare) celebration of Holy Communion, members of the congregation would attend catechism class, or be visited by the elders (or both) to ensure that they were spiritually and morally ready to receive communion. Those who were in readiness were given a little lead token that they could present at the service to signify their readiness.

Even in the Roman Catholic tradition today, it is still expected that communicants go to auricular confession with a priest before receiving the sacrament. Although there is provision in certain circumstances for a ‘general confession’ said by the congregation, as we Anglicans do, the norm remains that sacramental confession is a necessary part of the preparation. This is why a fair number of Roman Catholics don’t receive communion at mass, even when they’re in attendance. They’re just not ready.

By contrast, the so-called ‘liturgical movement’ in Anglicanism and other traditions has seen the Eucharist restored to its place as the primary form of Sunday worship. Although there is provision for sacramental confession in Anglicanism, it is relatively rare. And although I could technically refuse communion to those ‘betwixt whom [I] perceiveth malice’, I’ve never actually done it.

During this time of home isolation during the pandemic, I’ve deliberately not been offering live streams or videos of Holy Communion, even though it would be relatively easy to do. There are half a dozen options to remotely view a Eucharist on our parish website if you would find that edifying, but I’ve deliberately eschewed that practice. While we may grieve our inability to celebrate the Eucharist together at this time, I think this might be also be a good time to reflect on a couple of things.

Firstly, to receive communion is not a right, it is a blessing. Blessings flow from God, and we believe that a particular blessing flows from the body and blood of Christ, as it enters into us and transforms us. But the Eucharist is not the only way that God blesses and not the only way that we can be in Christ and he in us. A period of time away from Holy Communion, a kind of ‘fast’ can open us up to see the presence of Christ in other ways and in other places.

Secondly, to be a Eucharistic community is not just to be a community that has lots of masses. The Eucharist is the visible expression of our Eucharistic identity, but the truly Eucharistic community is one that feasts, that feeds, that celebrates all that is good while acknowledging its own weaknesses and frailties. The truly Eucharistic community is united in prayer and fellowship at all times, not just when the formal liturgy is taking place.

So during this time of isolation, we can look for the presence of Christ wherever we find ourselves, and we can be a Eucharistic community even when we are not able to be in the same room to receive the sacrament.

The story of the Road to Emmaus which we read today in Luke’s gospel is a story, I think, which expresses the discovery in the Early Church that even though Jesus was not with them in an immediate physical sense, he was with them in the breaking of the bread, in the breaking open of the scriptures, and walking alongside them in the journey of faith.

This story, which only appears in Luke’s gospel, takes place on Sunday evening after the women have discovered the empty tomb. The blokes don’t believe them, but Peter runs to the tomb eventually and sees the linen cloths and is amazed. Then the story cuts immediately to this walk to Emmaus. There are ‘two of them’ on the road, and Jesus joins them, though they don’t recognise him until he takes bread, blesses and breaks it. One of ‘them’ is called Cleopas, and the other one is unnamed. Depictions of this story tend to show Jesus with two men walking, but there is nothing in the text to indicate that the both of ‘them’ are men. In fact, John’s gospel mentions Mary the wife of Cleopas as present at the tomb, so it would make sense for Cleopas and Mary to be the ones walking from one town to the next in the evening, and for this Mary to be the one who women who proclaimed Jesus’ resurrection.

This unfolding discovery amongst the early Followers of the Way – that Jesus become known to them in the breaking of the bread – may have seemed absurd at first. There were instances of early believers being accused of cannibalism because rumours abounded about them consuming a dead person’s body. But this might also be a lesson for us – that the presence of Christ can be found in the most unusual of circumstances, and no thing is too crazy for God to use as a form of revelation. Perhaps we discover Jesus in the breaking of the bread at the Eucharist, so that we can also be ready to discover Jesus in so many other aspects of our lives and communities.

Christ is Risen Alleluia, Alleluia
He is risen indeed, Alleluia, Alleluia

Mustard Seed e-news 26 April

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Sermon for the Second Sunday of Easter

John 20:19-31

It was evening on the first day of the week and the doors were locked for fear of ‘the Jews’.

Just over a week ago on Good Friday we listened to the passion reading in which ‘the Jews’ featured prominently. Pilate went out to ‘the Jews’ and told them, ‘I find no case against [Jesus]. But you have a custom that I release someone for you at the Passover. Do you want me to release for you the King of the Jews?’ They shouted in reply, ‘Not this man, but Barabbas!’

Later, Pilate said to ‘the Jews’, ‘Here is your King!’ They cried out, ‘Away with him! Away with him! Crucify him!’

In Greek, the word is Ioudaios and literally it means the people of Judea, but from other Greek texts of the first and second centuries, we see that Ioudaios is used to refer to the particular ethno-religious group from Judea, particularly once they spread around the Empire and brought with them their religious practices, synagogues. language and culture. From Yehudi in Hebrew to Ioudaios into Greek and Judaios into Latin, which is how we get the odd word ‘Jew’ in English.

The author of John’s gospel talks about ‘the Jews’ a lot, and so does the author of Luke and Acts. The two or more authors we refer to as John and Luke generally use the term ‘The Jews’ in a negative sense, to describe enemies or opposers of Jesus. But at the same time, they emphasise Jesus’ and his disciples’ identities as Jews, their understanding of the Hebrew scriptures, their fidelity to the covenant and their commitment to the wellbeing of their people.

The historical Jesus did not demonise or categorise ‘the Jews’ as something distinct from himself and his group of supporters. That would have made absolutely no sense. Jesus, like many rabbis and ordinary Jewish people, critiqued and challenged the temple practices, and wrestled with torah, arguing actively about its true meaning. But he didn’t set himself up in opposition to Judaism. The early phases of Christianity were a movement within Judaism. It would seem that the Followers of The Way would meet in synagogues, discuss the Hebrew scriptures in the light of the person of Jesus, and perhaps enjoy agape meals or love feasts, as well as caring for the poor and widows.

But later in the first century, probably after the destruction of the temple in 70CE, Christians became less and less welcome in the synagogues. They would instead meet in homes or other places, and this ultimately led to the practice of Christian-specific gathering places, with Christian-specific furniture and decorations.

John’s gospel, which we read today, comes from the period when Followers of the Way were becoming less welcome in synagogues and were starting to hive off into their own club (so to speak). The resentment and negativity directed towards ‘The Jews’ reflects the reality of the time that John’s gospel was written, rather than the reality of the time of Jesus.

But this conflict, this irritation and frustration with the synagogue community a long way from Jerusalem left language in the gospel texts which became like weapons concealed in a beautiful room. It all looks lovely on the surface, but when tensions arise, one only has to reach behind the sideboard for a machete to start a fight. So, constantly throughout the history of Europe and Asia Minor, when a scapegoat was required, the small dispersed Jewish community were conveniently blamed. You don’t me to repeat the slurs directed against Jews through the ages, but we do need to recognise that the weaponisation of the gospel texts was a favoured way of rationalising cruelty, marginalisation and, too often, murder. Embedded in this richly spiritual story about doubt and faith and forgiveness is a text of terror, ready to be shamefully exploited against fellow human beings.

Words have power. Words frame the situation in which we find ourselves. That’s why I don’t say ‘social distancing’ I say ‘physical distancing’. I want to be socially close, but physically separate. Words are important.

In New Zealand, the irrepressible Jacinda reminds everyone to ‘stay in your bubble’. It’s a fantastic bit of framing, because it recognises that home and family and essential mean different things to different people – so the bubble metaphor helps create a positive shared language system.

Meanwhile, some other voices in politics and the media talk about the China virus, which is a frame that invites targeted blame and suspicion. Fearful people take this frame and lash out at anyone with an Asian appearance, or construct complex conspiracy theories to feel some sort of control or power over the situation.

When we recognise the context that gives rise to particular words and phrases – like we did with this use of ‘the Jews’ in John’s gospel – and we recognise that words can be misused and deployed aggressively, even to justify mass murder, then we must choose our words very carefully indeed.

We don’t just imitate the language of our parents, media commentators, friends or political overlords. Because only a heart that is already sickened with the contagion of fear, would hear ‘for fear of The Jews’ and take that to mean that the local Jewish population should be expelled in a pogrom.

The heart that is open, hears the voice of the risen Christ say ‘Peace be with you’.

May your heart and my heart be open to hear God’s voice of peace, and to speak holy words of peace to a fearful, anxious world. May our words break the cycle of violence and initiate new relationships founded on compassion, no matter how small our bubble might be right now.

Christ is Risen. Alleluia! Alleluia!

Sermon for the Service of the Light

Stay Home and Plot the Revolution

It would be easy to feel bereft this Easter. At this time, the choir would usually be finishing their rehearsal and the new fire would be prepared. Dozens of candles would be at the ready and the celebratory food and booze would be laid out. The church would be brimming with flowers and the brand new paschal candle with a new image for the year would be waiting to be lit. But the organ will not thunder this evening, and we will not share in the blessed sacrament together this Easter.

Instead we are sheltering in our homes, around the light of a single candle, welcoming the light into our midst as we do every Easter. But, if you’re anything like me, this Easter is tinged with fear and anxiety.

And we’re right to feel uncertain and afraid. This virus is killing hundreds of thousands of people. It is dangerous, and we are doing what we must do to stop its spread. While we shelter, the economic infrastructure is crumbling, and all the weaknesses of our global society are being exposed in sharp relief. Let us not imagine that this virus is the great leveller. It is the poor who will die quickest and in greatest number, and the poor who will be the last to receive a vaccine when it comes. And while leaders of government, industry and civil society, both here and around the world are being praised for decisive and bold leadership, let us not imagine that suddenly we are all equal and that the good of the many has suddenly become the priority of the few. We are already seeing calls to let a few people die for the good of the economy, already seeing the rumblings of concern from those who have always been suspicious of the welfare state and its safety nets, and we are already seeing concerning signs around the world of the misuse of police and government power in ways that do not advance anyone’s health, but do affirm centralised control and compliance.

So I believe that during this lockdown, if we are to be Easter people, we must stay home and plot the revolution.

Now, when I say revolution, please don’t mistake this for the violent seizure of the means of production that Marx advocated, nor an escalation of the culture wars so beloved of Christian dominionists. The revolution we need right now is the revolution that happened at the resurrection, when the one who had been executed by corrupt powermongers refused to stay dead, and instead exposed their cruel scapegoating and began to destroy its power. As Easter people, with ‘Alleluia’ on our lips, it is to this work that we are now called, during this in-between time. We must be alert to the victimisation of those on the edges, the exploitation of power and the escalation of violence.

It is happening in our communities, even now. It is happening in our homes, even as we hide from the virus. Victimisation, exploitation and violence cannot be resolved merely by old rivals banding together in common cause. We need a new way.

In the resurrected Jesus, those of us who persist with hope that the world will be made whole see the prototype of what our lives can be and will be. In the new creation, the power of Caesar and Herod, the betrayal and denial of Judas and Peter, and the howls of the angry mob will lose their efficacy and the tender, generous care of the women at the tomb will usher in a new age.

This pandemic will not change the world, I don’t think. But it is already exposing the stark reality of the world as it truly is right now. This is a moment, then, for us to pray and plot, from the comfort of our own homes. Christ’s revolution of nonviolent love and infinite compassion has been unleashed on the world, so how, then will we live as Easter people in this in-between time? How will we plot the revolution?

Christ is Risen! Alleluia! Alleluia!

Sermon, Lent 5A

John 11:1-45

We find ourselves in an historical moment where everything we say and do is about bodies, and about death. It’s also making us think about big questions, big structural issues, and the shape of the big narrative in which we find ourselves. So this story from the gospel of John has a particular resonance today. It may be uncomfortable, but the scriptures compel us today to talk about life after death.

There are lots of stories about life after death.

There’s the one that goes ‘Somewhere out there is a lovely man called God who is kind and caring. God lives in a wonderful place called heaven and, when people die, they go there to live with him. Grandpa is there, and our cat Flopsy and Auntie Flo and that girl from school who died in the car accident. Pol Pot wasn’t allowed in, neither was Stalin. Nor were any serial killers or wife beaters or people who kick dogs. They all go to a horrible place called hell’

Then there’s the one that goes ‘Everyone is a sinner, even you and me. Sinners go to hell. But if you want to escape hell, you need to believe that Jesus died so that your sins could be forgiven. If you just accept it and really truly believe it, when you die your soul will go floating up to heaven and you can be God for ever. All the Hindus, Muslims and Atheists will go to hell, but hey, they had their chance’

Or this one: ‘God loves everyone and wants everyone to go to heaven. It doesn’t matter what you believe, or how you behave, when you die you’ll go to heaven and God will fix you up. Religious beliefs are nice, though, they help you lead a decent life, give you a sense of wellbeing and the hymns are nice. Everyone goes to heaven, nice people go to church’

Obviously, I’m presenting caricatures – but in my experience beliefs like this are widespread. I suppose this is to be expected amongst those who’ve not been formed in a Christian faith tradition. But, in fact, these narratives about life after death are extremely common even amongst people who are committed participants in a church.

So, what do Christians believe about an afterlife? I’m talking about orthodox, standard, basic Christian teaching, nothing crazy or novel – what do Christians believe about the afterlife?

Firstly, it has to be said the Christian faith does not believe in an afterlife at all – at least not in the sense that it is generally used. Typically, when the phrase ‘afterlife’ is used, it’s used in the sense of the happy hunting grounds, or the Elysian fields – some place where the soul of a dead person (whatever that is) goes to hang around doing who knows what for ever. So no, if that’s what an afterlife is, Christians don’t believe in it.

So this begs the question, what, do Christians believe that when you die that’s it? Your body rots away and all that’s left are memories? Well no, we don’t believe that either – though the way some Christians behave around death you might think we did.

Orthodox Christian teaching is that all people die and that, one day, there will be a general resurrection of the dead when Jesus Christ returns in glory. There will be a reckoning, a calling to account for all people in which our beliefs and actions will be judged. On that day, there will be a new heaven and a new earth, and the reign of Christ will begin – a reign of peace and justice, in which there is no more pain or despair and in which God is at one with the New Creation.

Which brings us to the stench.

In the story of Lazarus which we heard today, Jesus was some distance away. He explains to his disciples that his friend Lazarus is asleep, and that he is going to wake him. The disciples are confused, until Jesus explains that Lazarus is dead. The disciples don’t want to go to Judea, but resign themselves to the idea that they might be killed alongside Jesus. Upon arrival, Jesus meets with Martha. He tells her that he is the Resurrection and the Life, and that those who believe in him even if they die will live, and if they live and believe in him will never die. Martha declares that Jesus is God’s anointed one. Mary arrives and weeps. Jesus weeps as well and asks where they have laid Lazarus. He commands that the stone be rolled away, but Mary protests, because there is a stench.

The parallels with Jesus’ own death and burial are as powerful as they are deliberate. Weeping women, burial in a tomb instead of a pit, lying dead in the tomb for three days, the disciples’ fear of persecution – even the question ‘Where have you laid him?’ prefigures a similar question from the women at Jesus’ tomb. But what of the stench?

When a body dies, various things happen – lividity, rigor mortis, pallor, decomposition. While a dead body can be beautiful and peaceful, without refrigeration the smell quickly becomes unbearable. Lazarus in the story was dead. Really, truly dead. His body was mouldering in the grave.

Jesus did not resuscitate him, Jesus resurrected him. He gained a new body, restored to wholeness, he became a new kind of being.

This act of Jesus is a sign which points to the coming Reign of God, when those who have died are resurrected with a new body and, not only that, the whole of creation is redeemed and restored.

So, of course, we can just sit back and wait for Jesus to return, right? Don’t worry, be happy and hang out for that new body. And try to be nice and believe the right things so that we’re not judged too harshly. Right? Surely that’s logical?

Yet we are the ones who are called out, to stand as witnesses to the resurrection of Christ and his return. God has called us not to simply sit around and silently wait – indeed, how could we when we are privy to that open secret that the Reign of God has been inaugurated and will one day be fulfilled. So how do we live in this in-between time?

Firstly, we pray as if the Reign of God was already here. As if the veil between God and Creation had been completely destroyed and the will of God, my will, and the will of all humanity are one. God is not some far-distant deity to be appeased, but an immediate reality in whom we dwell.

Secondly, we speak as if the Reign of God might arrive tomorrow. I don’t mean in the sense of those fridge magnets ‘Jesus is Coming! And boy, is he mad!’ Rather, when we speak of God and God’s Reign, we speak good news about a future free from fear and hate, in which sin has no more power, and we let others in on the open secret – because its good news for all people, and for the whole universe.

Finally, and this is the hard one, we work as if the Reign of God might never arrive. If we know that one day the hungry will eat and the thirsty will drink, and that the last shall be first, and we wait eagerly for that day – then we can no longer live comfortably in a world at odds with the values of the Reign of God. If we know that one day lies will be exposed and hate will be overcome by love – we can no longer tolerate a world in which hate and lies have dominance. We are fools in this endeavour – because we know we cannot change the world, yet we continue to try.

Things are going to get worse over the next few months. Much worse. Not because we are isolated in our homes – that’s the easy part. The cold reality is that the social structures and systems which have seemed impregnable are already falling apart. The assumptions that have shaped our common life are crumbling before our eyes. And it will be, as always, the poor who suffer most.

So perhaps this is how we live during this time of global pandemic. Praying as if the Reign of God is already here, speaking as if the Reign of God might arrive tomorrow, and working as if the Reign of God might never arrive. This will requires discipline, sacrifice and creativity and it would be impossible if we did not already believe in resurrection – Christ’s and our own.

I am the Resurrection and the Life, says Jesus. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.

The Lord be with you

Mustard Seed e-news 1 and 8 March

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Mustard Seed e-news Sunday 2 January

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