Maundy Thursday - A thought experiment

Tonight, we stand on the threshold of the darkest hours of our Lord’s earthly life. The shadows lengthen, betrayal lurks, and the air crackles with a tension. We are here to remember, to reflect, and yes, perhaps to squirm a little in our comfortable pews. Let us gather our thoughts this Maundy Thursday. A peculiar name, isn’t it? “Maundy.”

The word “Maundy” itself, you see, derives from the Latin word “mandatum,” meaning “commandment.” Specifically, the commandment Jesus gave to his disciples at that last, fateful supper: “A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another.” (John 13:34).

Now, let’s be honest. “Love one another” sounds lovely, doesn’t it? Warm, fuzzy, like a freshly laundered fleece. But Jesus wasn’t suggesting a gentle hug and a shared cup of tea. He had just done something utterly scandalous, something that would have made the social hierarchy of the time choke on its unleavened bread. He, the teacher, the Lord, had knelt down and washed the grubby, travel-stained feet of his disciples. Including Judas’s. Think about that for a moment. The man who was about to plunge the dagger of betrayal into his heart had his feet tenderly cleansed by the very hands he would soon deliver to his executioners.

This, my friends, is the essence of the “mandatum.” It’s not just a suggestion; it’s a command, an instruction manual for how we are to live as followers of Christ. It’s not about lofty pronouncements from pulpits (though I am rather enjoying this bit, I must confess). It’s about getting down and dirty, about serving, about humbling ourselves before one another, even – especially – those we find difficult, those whose feet are particularly… fragrant.

Tonight’s service often centres on the sharing of bread and wine, the Eucharist, the Lord’s Supper. And rightly so. It is a powerful and profound act of remembrance, a tangible connection to that last meal, a sharing in the body and blood of our Saviour. But let us not forget the prelude to that sacred meal, the act that Jesus himself highlighted as the example to follow: the washing of feet.

Imagine, if you will, a Christian Church where the primary act of worship wasn’t the reverent receiving of a wafer and a sip of wine, but the humble, often awkward, act of washing each other’s feet.

Picture Sunday mornings. Instead of the hushed reverence as we queue for communion, we’d be lining up with towels and basins. The air would be thick with the scent of soap and perhaps the faint aroma of sweaty trainers… well, let’s not dwell on that. Pastors wouldn’t be polishing their sermons quite so diligently; they’d be scrubbing heels. The collection plate might be replaced by one of those foot spas.

Think of the theological implications! Our understanding of humility would be radically redefined. We couldn’t just *talk* about being servants; we’d have to *be* servants, literally. Church politics would likely be less about who gets the best committee chair and more about who’s willing to tackle Mrs Miggin’s notoriously pungent big toe.

Our outreach programmes would take on a whole new dimension too. Perhaps we’d have mobile foot-washing stations. Evangelism might involve a gentle exfoliation and a word of encouragement. Mission trips would require industrial quantities of foot cream.

Of course, there would be challenges. The shy amongst us would break out in a cold sweat at the thought of exposing their neglected extremities. The germaphobes would require hazmat suits. And let’s not even contemplate the logistical nightmare of an entire congregational foot-washing session. The health and safety regulations alone would be very challenging.

But consider the profound impact on our relationships. How could we hold onto grudges, how could we foster division, when we had just knelt before one another, intimately caring for a part of the body we often neglect and hide? The act of washing feet forces a vulnerability, a stripping away of pretences. It’s hard to feel superior to someone whose calloused soles you’ve just gently massaged.

This evening, as we reflect on the Last Supper, let us not just focus on the bread and the wine. Let us also remember the basin of water and the towel. Let us remember the command, the “mandatum,” to love one another as Christ loved us – a love that is not afraid to get its hands (and knees) dirty.

Perhaps we won’t all be rushing out to wash each other’s feet in the aisles after the service (though the thought is rather… invigorating). But let the spirit of that act permeate our lives. Let us seek out opportunities to serve, to humble ourselves, to show love in tangible, practical ways, even when it’s uncomfortable, even when it’s a bit smelly.

For in the washing of feet, we find not just an act of service, but a powerful symbol of the love that binds us together, the love that Christ commanded us to share. And that, my friends, is a command worth heeding, one grubby foot at a time. Amen.

In the light of progressive Christianity, is there any hope of Heaven?

 Okay. Let's talk about the big one: Eternal Life. Specifically, through the lens of progressive Christianity. The title asks: "In the light of progressive Christian teaching, can we have any hope of eternal life?"

Now, let's be honest. For generations, "eternal life" often meant one thing: pearly gates, streets paved with gold (sounds terribly impractical, frankly – imagine the glare!), fluffy clouds, maybe reuniting with Great Aunt Mildred (which, depending on your Great Aunt Mildred, might be more of a threat than a promise), and possibly endless harp practice. It was a destination, a reward, a place you went after shuffling off this mortal coil, hopefully having ticked the right boxes.

Progressive Christianity, bless its questioning heart, tends to look at this traditional picture and... well, cough politely. We see the fingerprints of ancient cosmology, cultural assumptions, and maybe a touch of wishful thinking (or crowd control). We grapple with a God who seems infinitely more interested in justice, mercy, and love here and now than in managing celestial real estate.  And we are open to what both other religions and scientific observation might have to teach us.

So, does ditching the literalist, gated-community afterlife mean we ditch hope altogether? Do we just shrug, say "ashes to ashes," and focus solely on composting? I’d argue: Absolutely not! But our understanding of eternal life gets a radical makeover. It becomes less about duration and more about quality and connection.

Think about it. Jesus didn't spend much time sketching architectural plans for heaven. His central message wasn't "Be good so you can get into the sky-mansion later." It was "The Kingdom of God is at hand." It's here. It's now. It's in the act of feeding the hungry, welcoming the stranger, challenging oppression, forgiving debts, loving extravagantly – even loving your enemies (still working on that one, if I'm honest).

This "Kingdom" living, this immersion in God's way of love and justice – that has an eternal quality to it. When we participate in acts of selfless love, profound compassion, or courageous justice, we are tapping into something timeless, something divine, something that resonates with the very Ground of Being. That feels pretty eternal to me. It's experiencing the life of the ages, in the midst of time.

So, one progressive hope for eternal life is this: Living a life so infused with divine love and purpose that its significance echoes beyond our physical lifespan. We live on in the love we've shared, the justice we've fought for, the ripples of kindness we've set in motion. Our "eternal life" is woven into the fabric of the ongoing story of God's work in the world. Less harp solos, more positive legacy.

Now, what about the big event? The linchpin of traditional hope? The Resurrection. Ah, yes. The empty tomb. The cornerstone of faith for many.

Progressive Christians don't necessarily throw the Resurrection out, but we certainly look at it with different eyes. We notice, for instance, that the four Gospel accounts – supposedly eyewitness or close-to-eyewitness reports – are, shall we say, charmingly inconsistent on the details. Let's do a quick sketch analysis: 

·           Who went to the tomb? Was it Mary Magdalene alone (John)? Mary Magdalene and "the other Mary" (Matthew)? Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome (Mark)? Or "the women who had come with him from Galilee," including Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and "the others with them" (Luke)? Quite a crowd fluctuation there.

·           What did they see? One angel (Matthew, Mark – sitting inside the tomb in Mark, outside in Matthew)? Two men in dazzling apparel (Luke)? Or just... no Jesus, and then later Jesus himself appearing (John)? Did the stone get rolled away (Matthew), or was it already rolled away (Mark, Luke, John)?

·           What were the instructions? Go tell the disciples to meet him in Galilee (Matthew, Mark)? Or... remember what he told you in Galilee, and then the disciples didn't believe the women anyway (Luke)? Or... Mary just encounters Jesus, thinks he's the gardener, and is told not to cling to him (John)?

·           Where did Jesus first appear to the wider group? In Galilee on a mountain (Matthew)? Or behind locked doors in Jerusalem that very evening (Luke, John)?

Now, a fundamentalist might tie themselves in knots trying to harmonize these accounts into one coherent story – like a crime scene investigation – “C.S.I.: The Jerusalem episode”. A skeptic might just say, "See? It's all made up!"

But a progressive perspective might say: Hold on. What if these discrepancies aren't a sign of fabrication, but a sign of something else? What if they show multiple individuals and communities grappling with an experience so profound, so reality-shattering, that it defied simple, uniform description? What if the core message – that Jesus's presence, power, and message were experienced as overwhelmingly alive and vindicated by God after his brutal execution – is the point, not the precise choreography at the tomb?

The "Resurrection" for many progressives becomes less about a resuscitated corpse wandering around Galilee (though, you know, stranger things...) and more about the transformative experience of the disciples. These weren't people reporting a straightforward event; these were people whose lives were utterly turned upside down. From hiding in fear, they burst out with world-changing courage. They experienced Christ as present, empowering them, validating his message of love and the Kingdom. That experience was the Resurrection event for them, described in the symbolic language available to them.

So, can we hope for our own resurrection? Maybe not in the sense of bodily resuscitation. But hope for what?  

·           Hope for Transformation: Hope that, like the disciples, we can be transformed by the living spirit of Christ, moving from fear to courage, from apathy to action.

·           Hope for Continuation: Hope that the love and energy that constitute "us" are not simply extinguished, but are somehow gathered back into the Source of all Being, the God from whom we came. Maybe "eternal life" is less about individual consciousness persisting forever in a recognisable form, and more about rejoining the great Dance, the eternal energy of Love itself. It's a mystery, and perhaps that's okay.

·           Hope in the Enduring Presence: Hope that the Divine presence experienced by the disciples is still accessible to us now, guiding, comforting, and challenging us.

Progressive Christianity doesn't offer neat, tidy answers shrink-wrapped for easy consumption. It invites us into the questions, into the mystery. It shifts the focus from escaping this world to transforming it, inspired by Jesus. It reframes "eternal life" from an endless future duration to a quality of living steeped in divine love now, leaving a legacy that endures. And it sees the Resurrection less as a historical puzzle to be solved, and more as a powerful testament to the enduring, transformative experience of Christ's presence.

So, can we have hope? Yes. A profound hope. Not necessarily for pearly gates or escaping the cycle, but hope in the enduring power of Love, hope in the meaning we create, hope in our connection to the Divine Mystery that holds us all, before, during, and after our brief, beautiful time on this earth. It’s a hope grounded not in escaping life, but in living it fully, deeply, and justly, participating in the "eternal" quality of God's kingdom, here and now. And frankly, that sounds a lot more interesting than harp lessons.

(Images created with ImageFX from Google Labs)

 

Never Mind the Palms, Where’s the Peace? A sermon for Palm Sunday

Never Mind the Palms, Where’s the Peace? (Luke 19:28-40)

Well, here we are again. Palm Sunday. Normally, you would be spared a sermon from me on this day, because, over the last 10 years, it has been our custom (along with many traditional churches) to read the Passion narrative, during the sermon slot.  But this year, I wanted to try something different.  You see, it occurred to me that in the 10 years we have celebrated Palm Sunday together, we have not once stopped to think about what it may mean.  And, most especially, what Luke’s account of the Entry into Jerusalem might mean.

This is the day when we witness the annual miracle of dried vegetation being folded into shapes vaguely resembling crosses. Palms were an ancient symbol of monarchy and power.  In much the same way that today’s crowds will hang bunting, and wave little Union Flags when the King passes by, ancient peoples waved palm branches. 

But today, my friends, we are in the Year of Luke in our lectionary cycle. And I want to suggest that if we only read Luke’s account of this day, we might need to seriously rethink our Palm Sunday routines.  We might discover Luke paints a picture far stranger, more challenging, and ultimately, more profoundly relevant than the generic, flag-waving parade we often settle for.

We tend to create a sort of ‘Greatest Hits’ version of Bible stories in our heads. Palm Sunday? Ah yes, Jesus rides into Jerusalem on a donkey, happy crowds wave palm branches, everyone shouts ‘Hosanna!’. Simple enough. Except… when you actually sit down and read Luke’s account… something’s missing. Actually, two rather significant things are missing or noticeably altered.

First – and brace yourselves, all who cherish those palm crosses – according to Luke, there are no palms!  Not a single frond is mentioned. Matthew has them. Mark mentions leafy branches. John is very specific about palm branches from date trees. But Luke? Nothing. Zilch. Nada.

Why? Why does meticulous Luke omit the very symbol that gives this Sunday its name? Did the Jerusalem council ban palm trees for health and safety reasons that year? Unlikely. Scholars like Clare Amos, whose thoughtful article informed this sermon, suggest Luke has a specific agenda. Luke, it seems, wants none of the conventional association with nationalism and monarchy.  His king is arriving, make no mistake, but not that kind of king. Not the conquering hero many longed for. Luke deliberately sidesteps the nationalist symbol. So, maybe next year, instead of palm crosses, we attempt cloak origami? Could be interesting.

But the second, and perhaps even more startling difference, is what the crowd shouts. In Matthew, Mark, and John, the cry is clear: "Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest!" And ‘Hosanna’ is absolutely crucial. It’s not just first-century liturgical filler. It literally means "Save us, now!".  It's a plea for deliverance – the kind of salvation many expected the Messiah to bring: political liberation, national restoration, freedom from Roman boots.

Now look closely at Luke. What do his disciples shout? Verse 38: "Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord! Peace in heaven and glory in the highest!"

Hold on… what? Peace… in heaven?  Not ‘Hosanna!’ Not even, significantly, the angels’ song at Jesus’ birth which proclaimed "Peace on earth, goodwill among people". No, suddenly, the peace is relocated upstairs, to heaven.

What on earth – or indeed, in heaven – are we to make of that?  It sounds… well, a bit weak, doesn't it? A bit disconnected from the simmering political tension, the real suffering under occupation. "Peace in heaven!" Thanks for that. Very useful down here.

But maybe, just maybe, Luke is doing something incredibly clever, deeply subversive. By replacing the desperate cry of "Save us now!" with "Peace in heaven," Luke fundamentally reframes who this king is and what kind of peace he brings.

This king, Luke insists, brings a peace that has its origin and its foundation in heaven, in God's ultimate reality. It’s a peace operating by different rules. It’s the peace Jesus himself will speak of: "Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives." (John 14:27).

And crucially, just a few verses later in Luke’s narrative (verses 41-44), Jesus weeps – weeps! – over Jerusalem. Why? Precisely because it did not recognise "the things that make for peace" in that very moment of his arrival. The city was looking for Hosannas, for earthly salvation, for a political strongman, and it completely missed the arrival of heaven's peace. They wanted peace on their terms, not God's. And the result, Jesus laments, will be devastation.

So, what does this Lukan Palm Sunday, stripped of its familiar palms and its expected Hosannas, say to us, here in Havant, in 2025? Well, it challenges us profoundly.

First, it demands we ask: What kind of king are we truly looking for? Are we still secretly hoping for a Messiah who fits our political mould? One who will simply make us comfortable, secure our interests, vanquish our enemies, and deliver ‘salvation’ tailored to our desires?  

Second, What kind of peace are we praying, and working, for? Is it just the absence of conflict in our own lives, a quiet life? Is it a peace maintained by economic walls or military might? Or are we seeking that deeper, harder "peace from heaven" – a peace rooted in God's justice, demanding reconciliation, requiring forgiveness, lived out in alignment with God's will, even when it’s unpopular or costly? Can we recognise, as Jerusalem tragically failed to do, the "things that make for peace" in our own complex time – tackling poverty, pursuing racial justice, welcoming the refugee, caring for our wounded planet, speaking truth to power – even if it doesn't look like a victory parade?

Third, Are we missing the point of the procession? We rightly enjoy the communal celebration of Palm Sunday. But Luke reminds us it’s not just a street party. It’s the arrival of a king whose reign leads inexorably to the Cross – in much the same way as our palms are woven into crosses. The cloaks spread enthusiastically on the road will soon be replaced by the soldiers gambling callously for Jesus’ seamless robe. The shouts of praise will curdle into cries of "Crucify him!" Luke’s Palm Sunday isn’t simple triumph; it’s triumph shot through with impending tragedy, precisely because the peace being offered is about to be brutally rejected. Are we guilty of celebrating the entry while conveniently ignoring the profound cost of the peace Jesus actually embodies and offers?

Luke’s Palm Sunday isn't meant to be entirely comfortable. It deliberately pulls the rug out from under our easy assumptions. It presents us with a king and a kingdom that don't quite fit our neat categories, challenging us.  So when Jesus rides into our lives, our town, our world today, what are we shouting? Are we demanding ‘Hosanna! Save us!’ on our own terms? Or are we ready, truly ready, heart and soul, to welcome the challenging, transformative, world-altering reality of ‘Peace from Heaven’?

May we, unlike that beloved, tragic city, recognise the things that make for peace, in this our day. Amen

That Land Promise Has Expired: Jesus, Abraham, and What God Requires Now

Texts:  Genesis 17.3-9 and John 8.51-end

We’ve got some hefty texts to consider, today.   Genesis 17 and John 8. Texts about promises, identity, and how we live, echoing right into the troubles of our own time.

In Genesis, Abram hits the deck before God, who makes a stunning promise: nations, kings, and land. Yes, that land in Canaan, promised as an "everlasting possession." Everlasting.  That’s a heck of a long time.  We've all heard these verses used, haven't we? We’ve heard them pulled out to justify claims on that specific patch of earth, right up to the tragic conflicts we see today between the patches of the land called Israel and Pallestine. "God gave it to us, forever!" the argument goes.  

But hold your horses. Verse 9 adds a crucial condition: "As for you, you shall keep my covenant..." This wasn't a no-strings-attached giveaway. It was conditional. Keep the covenant – love God, love neighbour, live justly – then the land promise holds. Think of it like getting the keys to a company car – abuse the rules, you lose the privilege.

So, how did Abraham’s descendants do? Let's be brief: the rest of the Hebrew Bible shows a rather patchy record. Bless their hearts, it wasn't exactly a stellar record, was it? Golden calves, dodgy kings ignoring prophets, worshipping other gods, injustice... the covenant was broken, repeatedly. If the promise depended on faithfulness (and faithfulness was frequently absent) what happens to the "everlasting" part? It suggests the promise, at least concerning that specific land, might be forfeit. Waving Genesis 17 today as an unbreakable divine deed ignores the crucial small print about obedience. It certainly challenges using it to justify violence or dispossession now.

Now, fast forward many centuries to John 8. Jesus is sparring with the religious leaders again. Honestly, sometimes reading John’s gospel is like watching a boxing match!  He declares, "Very truly, I tell you, whoever keeps my word will never see death." The leaders are outraged. “Woah!  Back up the donkey there. Abraham died! The prophets died! Who do you think you are?" They accuse him of having a demon – their usual response to baffling claims.

Jesus doesn't back down. In fact, he doubles down.  He says Abraham saw his day and rejoiced, and then delivers the knockout punch: "Very truly, I tell you, before Abraham was, I AM."  Boom!

I AM. Not just 'I existed before'. He uses God's own name from the burning bush, YHWH. He's claiming equality with God.  John's Gospel is making one of his more startling assertions: Jesus (according to John) is the God who made that covenant with Abraham. No wonder they reached for stones – it was ultimate blasphemy to them!  It would be like me walking into Canterbury and claiming to be Jesus.

Do you see the connection? The Genesis promise was conditional on keeping God's covenant – the Old Testament as we call it.  But humanity struggled. Then Jesus, the great "I AM," arrives and offers a new promise, a New Testament - not of land, but of eternal life itself. And the condition? "Whoever keeps my word."

This new way, centred on keeping his word, echoes the conditionality of the old covenant.  But focuses it now onto Jesus’ word. But what is his word?   We can boil it down to the The Great Commandment:  essentially love God, love neighbour – which means love enemy, welcome the stranger, seek justice, forgive endlessly, live humbly. 

This brings us to a crucial point, one that often gets lost in some corners of Christianity. We sometimes get terribly tangled up in doctrines about Jesus, particularly intricate theories about how his death saves us – the substitutionary atonement idea, that God needed a blood sacrifice and Jesus was it. Now, the cross is central, undeniably powerful, mysterious. But listen to Jesus himself in John's Gospel! He doesn't say, "Whoever believes the correct theory about my death will never see death." He says, "Whoever keeps my word."

This should give us pause about focusing only on belief in Jesus's death as the ticket to heaven. Keeping Jesus’ word – is about discipleship. It’s about action. It’s about letting his teachings permeate our lives and change how we behave.   As the troublesome but ever-practical letter of Jesus’ earthly brother James reminds us, "Faith without works is dead." Lifeless. A car without an engine. 

You see, Jesus seems far more concerned with whether we live his teachings than merely signing off on a doctrinal statement. Keeping his word isn't about perfection; it's about the direction of our lives, the active striving to embody his love, forgiveness, and justice. You can say you believe Jesus is Lord until you’re blue in the face, but if you’re not actually doing the stuff he said – loving, forgiving, seeking justice, caring for the poor, welcoming the stranger – then according to Jesus himself, and his brother James, your faith isn't firing on all cylinders. To continue the car metaphor, it’s like owning a Ferrari but never taking it out of the garage. It looks nice, but what’s the point?

So, the journey is from a conditional land promise, arguably broken, to the arrival of the Promiser Himself, the great I AM. He offers not territory, but life eternal. The condition remains faithfulness, but now defined as actively keeping his word – living out his commands of love and justice.

So, my friends, the challenge for us today is to embrace the radical, life-altering promise offered by the one who is before all things. It’s about getting our hands dirty with the messy, demanding, beautiful work of keeping his word – loving God, loving our neighbours (all of them, no exceptions!), and finding in that active, living faith, the promise of life that truly never ends. Amen.

Cuthbert: A Radical Call to Reclaim Lost Sheep

A sermon for the feast day of Cuthbert, Bishop of Lindisfarne, Missionary, d.687 (20 March)

Texts: 2 Corinthians 6.1–10 and Matthew 18.12–14

By any modern standards, Cuthbert is a very odd fellow indeed.  Picture him, the monk, the bishop, the hermit, alone on his windswept Inner Farne, puffins alone for companions, the wild North Sea a constant, rhythmic prayer. He remembers the sheep he tended as a boy, the visions that called him from the hills of his youth, the long, arduous journeys that led him to Lindisfarne, and then, finally, to this solitary refuge. He remembers the faces of those he served, his silent communion with the creatures of the shore.  He reflects on the unwavering call of a God that echoed in the crashing waves and the cries of the gulls. He is Saint Cuthbert, a soul forged in the crucible of wind and wave, a life etched in the stark beauty of the northern landscape, a testament to the power of a simple, radical faith.

We gather today, on this feast day of one of the greatest of Britain’s saints, not to merely recall a figure from a distant age, but to ignite within ourselves the spark of his radical spirit. We stand here, on the cusp of spring, a time of renewal, and we consider the life of a man who embodied that very renewal, a man whose life speaks to us with a startling clarity.  We’ll think about Cuthbert together, but through the lens of the readings we’ve just heard – through Paul's urgent plea to the Corinthians (2 Corinthians 6:1-10) and Jesus’ parable of the lost sheep. (Matthew 18:12-14.)

First Paul, who implores his readers, including us, “not to receive God’s grace in vain.” He lays bare the trials of ministry: affliction, hardships, calamities, beatings, imprisonments, riots, labours, sleepless nights, hunger.  And yet, amidst this litany of suffering, he proclaims the paradoxical reality of the Christian life: we are “sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; poor, yet making many rich; having nothing, and yet possessing everything.”

Cuthbert: the shepherd boy, like King David, who became a monk, a bishop, a hermit. He knew hardship. He knew the biting winds of the North Sea, the isolation of Inner Farne, the weight of leadership. Yet, in that very isolation, in that very simplicity, he found a profound connection with the divine. He knew the joy of communion with God in the wild, the solace of the sea birds, the quiet strength of the earth. And he made many rich in their hearts by the depth of his connection to the Divine, hard-won, on the stark North sea coast.

In this age of rampant consumerism and ecological devastation, we have so much to learn from Cuthbert’s reverence for creation. He understood the natural world as a sacred space, a testament to God’s boundless love, and not merely a resource to be exploited.  He lived a life of radical simplicity, a life that challenged the prevailing norms of his time, just as it challenges ours.

By complete contrast, we are bombarded with messages that tell us we are not enough, that we need more, that happiness lies in material possessions. But Cuthbert, like Paul, understood that true wealth lies not in what we possess, but in what we give. He gave his life to God, to his community, to the very land he walked upon.

Then let’s turn to Jesus’ parable of the lost sheep. He tells us that if a shepherd has a hundred sheep and one goes astray, he will leave the ninety-nine and go in search of the lost one. That is the radical, unrelenting love of God. A love that leaves the comfortable flock to seek out the marginalized, the forgotten, the broken.

Cuthbert, in his own way, embodied this relentless pursuit of the lost. He was a pastor who cared deeply for his flock, who sought out the spiritual well-being of every soul under his care. He was a leader who understood that true leadership is about service, not power.

Today, we are surrounded by lost sheep. We see them in the faces of the homeless, the refugees, the victims of injustice. We see them in the eyes of those who have been marginalized and excluded by the very institutions that claim to represent God.

The church, at times, has been guilty of neglecting these lost sheep. We have become too comfortable within our walls, too concerned with maintaining our own power and privilege. Too concerned about our internal battles for our traditions and for our particular ideas about God.  We have forgotten the radical call of Jesus to go out into the world and seek the lost.

Cuthbert’s life is a challenge to us. It is a call to reclaim the lost sheep, to stand in solidarity with the marginalized, to live lives of radical simplicity and ecological responsibility. It is a call to be, as Paul urges, “sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; poor, yet making many rich; having nothing, and yet possessing everything.”

This is not a call to passive piety. My friends, our faith calls us to more than just attending church.  Cuthbert, Paul and Jesus call us to action.  It is a call to be agents of change, to be beacons of hope in a world that is fast losing that hope.  It is a call to live our faith with courage and conviction, to embrace the paradox of the Christian life, to find joy in sorrow, strength in weakness, and abundance in simplicity.

So, on this feast of St Cuthbert, shall we commit ourselves anew to the radical path of following Jesus? Can we be inspired by his example of love, compassion, and unwavering trust in the Divine?  We are invited to reclaim the lost sheep; not just those outside the church, but those within, who have been wounded by our judgement and neglected by our indifference.   Shall we dare to live lives that reflect the beauty and simplicity of God’s creation.  And may we, like Cuthbert, find our true home in the Divine heart. Amen.

Understanding the Atonement

The campfire stories of our Christian journey, passed down through generations, centre on one pivotal concept: atonement. This uniquely English theological term, "at-one-ment," speaks to a reconciliation, a bridging of the chasm between humanity and God. While other faiths speak of divine forgiveness, only Christianity proclaims that this forgiveness was wrought by God's own agent, Jesus Christ. But what, precisely, transpired on that fateful day? For two millennia, we have grappled with this enigma. Even Jesus, in his earthly ministry, offered glimpses rather than explicit explanations. He spoke of the "necessity" of the Son of Man's suffering, of his body and blood "poured out for many, for the forgiveness of sins." Yet, the precise mechanism – exactly what, on a cosmic scale his death would achieve - remained shrouded in mystery.

The early Christians, seeking understanding, turned to the Hebrew Bible. They found, in the prophecies of Isaiah, the enigmatic figure of the "Servant of God," who "poured out his soul to death, and bore the sin of many." They read that "The LORD has laid on him the iniquity of us all." While Jewish interpretations varied, the early Christians discerned a powerful resonance between this servant and Jesus Christ. The Apostle Paul and other New Testament writers employed four key concepts to articulate this connection: sacrifice, propitiation, reconciliation, and ransom.

First, **sacrifice**. In the Jewish tradition, sacrifice was a ritual of atonement, a means of appeasing divine wrath. From humble offerings to grand oblations, the belief was that a precious offering could stem God's anger. This concept led to the second: **propitiation**. The early thinkers believed that Christ's death was a propitiation, an appeasement of God's wrath. Through his suffering, they asserted, Jesus satisfied divine justice.

Third, **reconciliation**. This propitiating sacrifice, they believed, brought about reconciliation, a restoration of fellowship between humanity and God. This is the very essence of atonement, the "at-one-ment" that unites us with our Creator. As Paul wrote, "God through Christ was reconciling the world to himself." Fourth, **ransom**. To further deepen the meaning of the cross, the early writers introduced the concept of ransom. Enslaved by sin, and thus by Satan, the father of sin, we required a redeemer, a ransom paid to liberate us. As Mark records, Jesus declared that he came "to give his life as a ransom to many."

Yet, these early interpretations were not without their critics. Questions arose, challenging the very foundations upon which these doctrines rested. Was God truly a God of wrath? After all, Jesus himself proclaimed, "God so loved the world..." He revealed a God of love, a Father, Abba, who understands and forgives. Could this loving Father truly harbour wrath? Some argue that love and anger are not mutually exclusive, that a loving parent can indeed experience both.

Another point of contention was the existence of Satan. Is he a literal being, or a metaphor for the pervasive evil in the world? How could an all-powerful God permit a demonic being to torment his children? If Satan is merely a metaphor, then what need for a ransom? These questions challenged the traditional understanding of the cross, prompting theologians to seek new interpretations.

One such interpretation, proposed by Peter Abelard in the 11th century, was the **moral example**. For Abelard, Christ's death was a profound demonstration of God's love, a love so great that he aligned himself with human suffering. This act of love, Abelard argued, elicits a grateful response from humanity, inspiring us to live according to God's will.

In the 16th century, Faustus Socinus offered another perspective: the **supreme example**. Socinus saw Christ's death as a model of perfect obedience, a testament to unwavering trust in God, even in the face of suffering and death. As Peter wrote, "Christ also suffered for you, leaving you an example, that you should follow in his steps."

In the 20th century, Rowan Williams, former Archbishop of Canterbury, introduced the concept of the **myth of redemptive violence**. Williams argued that Jesus' death was the ultimate consequence of his refusal to combat violence with violence. He exposed the fallacy of believing that greater violence can solve the world's problems. Christ is not a hero, in the tradition of Greek gods, or superman.  He doesn’t just use more violence to defeat the world’s violence.  Rather. he absorbed the world's violence, transforming it through love.  He even generates faith and hope in those around him at the moment of his death, such as the thief, the centurion, and in his dying care for his mother. Furthermore, Williams suggested that the cross is a stark illustration of what happens when we remove God from our lives, pushing him to the margins of society – literally outside the City - silencing his voice.

These interpretations, and countless others, offer diverse perspectives on the meaning of the cross. The symbolism of blood, the Day of Atonement, and many other theological concepts add further layers of complexity. But what, then, is the truth?

For me, the answer lies in embracing the totality of these interpretations. "All of the above!" I believe that each perspective holds a kernel of truth, even if that truth is metaphorical. Even if Satan is a metaphor, we still struggle against the forces of evil. If the metaphor of ransom helps us in this struggle, let us use it. If God is love, he is also capable of righteous anger. If the concept of propitiation helps us understand the transition from anger to forgiveness, let us embrace it.

Our task, on the journey of faith, is to continue exploring the depths of this mystery, peeling back the layers of meaning, discovering new insights with each passing Good Friday. The death of Jesus is an inexhaustible source of wonder, a canvas for our imaginations, a testament to the boundless love of God. Let us, then, embrace this mystery, and allow it to transform our lives, shaping us into the image of the one who died for us all.

Enemies of Christ

Texts: Philippians 3.17 – 4.1

Luke 13.31-35

Today’s readings invite us to wrestle with uncomfortable truths. Paul, that relentless apostle, writes to the Philippians, "Join together in following my example…for many live as enemies of the cross of Christ. Their destiny is destruction, their god is their stomach, and their glory is in their shame. Their minds are set on earthly things." And then, in contrast, a clarion call: "But our citizenship is in heaven. And we eagerly await a Saviour from there, the Lord Jesus Christ, who, by the power that enables him to bring everything under his control, will transform our lowly bodies so that they will be like his glorious body."   

Let us not shy away from the starkness of this language. "Enemies of the cross." It echoes, does it not, the chilling threat delivered to Jesus in Luke's gospel, "Get away from here, Herod wants to kill you." Herod, the puppet king, the embodiment of earthly power, fearful of a truth that threatened his fragile grasp on control. Herod, who sought to silence the voice of justice, the voice of love, the voice of God. We see then, the same desire to silence truth and love, in both readings.

But who are these "enemies of Christ" that Paul weeps over? Are they the Herods of our time: the tyrants and dictators? Yes, in part. But Paul's gaze is broader, more penetrating. He speaks of those whose "god is their stomach," (which is a challenge to me, very personally!) whose "glory is in their shame," whose "minds are set on earthly things." He speaks of those who prioritize material gain, power, and prestige over the radical love and self-sacrifice that Jesus embodied.

These "enemies of Christ" are not always those who openly reject Jesus. In fact, they very well might be those who claim to follow him, but whose actions betray their words. They might be those who use the language of faith to justify hatred, division, and exclusion. They might be those who cling to rigid doctrines and condemn those who dare to question, those who refuse to see the image of God in those who are different from them.

Think of the politicians who demonize immigrants, who build walls instead of bridges, who peddle fear and division for political gain. Think of the corporations that exploit workers and destroy the environment in the pursuit of profit. Think of the religious leaders who preach intolerance and condemn those who love differently, who live differently, who believe differently. These, friends, are the Herods and the "enemies of Christ" in our midst. (But let us also remember, that we do also see examples of politicians who champion justice, corporations that prioritize sustainability, and religious leaders who promote inclusivity.)

And how do we respond? Do we meet their hatred with hatred? Do we return their condemnation with condemnation? Paul, echoing the very heart of Jesus, calls us to a different path. He calls us to imitate Christ, to follow his example of love, compassion, and forgiveness. He calls us to remember that our citizenship is not in the kingdoms of this world, but in the kingdom of God, a kingdom where love reigns supreme.

Jesus, facing Herod's threat, wept over Jerusalem, lamenting, "Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you, how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, and you were not willing!" He wept not with anger, but with sorrow, with a deep and abiding love for those who rejected him. He saw their fear, their blindness, their self-destructive path, and his heart broke.   

We too must weep for those who are lost, for those who are blinded by power and greed, for those who are trapped in cycles of hatred and violence. We must weep, but we must also act. We must speak truth to power, challenge injustice, and stand in solidarity with the oppressed. We must be the hands and feet of Christ, extending love and compassion to all, even to those who seek to harm us.

Paul reminds us that we eagerly await a Saviour who will transform our lowly bodies into his glorious body. Notice this, though. It’s easy to read Paul’s words and to assume that he’s talking about a future heaven, in resurrected bodies. That’s the standard way that this verse is understood. But I want to offer a different take on Paul’s words. We can also read these words not as a promise of escape from the world, but a promise of transformation within the world. Some may interpret these verses as solely referring to a future resurrection. However, I believe that Paul's message also speaks to the transformative power of Christ in our present lives.

The life of a Christian is one of sacrifice, just as it was for Jesus. By offering our lowly, yes fat, unhealthy, maybe elderly, even sick bodies to the transforming work of Christ, we are promised that Christ will draw us into his body. We become caught up with others, in the work of Christ. Our individual acts of kindness, our struggles for justice, are not isolated events. They are woven together, creating a tapestry of love that transforms the world. We offer our weakness, and Christ transforms it into strength – by binding our feeble effort with the efforts of all the friends of Christ throughout the world. This, ultimately, is a resurrection promise. It is a promise that love will ultimately triumph over hate, that justice will prevail over injustice, that life will overcome death.

We are called to be agents of that transformation, to be living examples of the love of Christ in a world that desperately needs it. We are called to embody the radical inclusivity of Jesus, to welcome the stranger, to feed the hungry, to heal the sick, to comfort the broken hearted. We are called to be a community of love, a beacon of hope, a testament to the power of the gospel to transform lives and change the world.

So, let’s do it. Let’s follow Paul's exhortation. Let us join together in following the example of Christ, keeping our eyes on those who live as he did. We will not be afraid to challenge the "enemies of Christ" in our world and even in our community, but we will do so with love and compassion. We will remember that even they, like us, are children of God, worthy of redemption. We commit ourselves, however, to live as citizens of heaven, bringing the kingdom of God to earth, one act of love, one act of justice, one act of forgiveness at a time. Let us become the change we wish to see in the world, and in doing so, reflect the glorious image of Christ.

The Golden Rule

Isaiah 55:6-9

Seek the Lord while he may be found;

    call upon him while he is near;

let the wicked forsake their way

    and the unrighteous their thoughts;

let them return to the Lord, that he may have mercy on them,

    and to our God, for he will abundantly pardon.

For my thoughts are not your thoughts,

    nor are your ways my ways, says the Lord.

For as the heavens are higher than the earth,

    so are my ways higher than your ways

    and my thoughts than your thoughts.

Matthew 7:7-12

 “Ask, and it will be given to you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you. For everyone who asks receives, and everyone who searches finds, and for everyone who knocks, the door will be opened. Is there anyone among you who, if your child asked for bread, would give a stone? Or if the child asked for a fish, would give a snake? If you, then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good things to those who ask him!

“In everything do to others as you would have them do to you, for this is the Law and the Prophets.

______________________________________________________________________________

Today, in the middle of Lent, we turn our gaze to the words that have echoed through generations: words that, if we truly listen, can shake the very foundations of our understanding. Isaiah thunders, “Seek the Lord while he may be found; call on him while he is near. For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,” declares the Lord. “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.”

And then, a carpenter’s son, a radical preacher, echoes this sentiment in a way that cuts through the centuries: “Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; the one who seeks finds; and to the one who knocks, the door will be opened.” 

But let us be clear, lest we fall into the trap of a transactional faith, a divine vending machine where we insert prayers and receive material rewards. This is not the promise of a celestial Santa Claus dispensing trinkets and baubles. This is a promise of closeness. A promise of intimacy with the divine, a communion that transcends the fleeting desires of the flesh.

We have been sold a bill of goods, a distorted image of a God who micromanages our lives, who rewards the pious with worldly riches and punishes the “unbelievers” with earthly suffering. This is a cruel caricature, a grotesque distortion of the profound mystery that lies at the heart of existence. For if God’s ways are truly higher than our ways, if God’s thoughts are beyond our comprehension, then to presume we can predict or control the divine is the height of hubris.

And yet, we cling to this illusion, this comforting delusion that we know God’s mind, that we can manipulate the universe with our prayers. We build walls around our faith, excluding those who do not share our particular brand of piety, forgetting that the divine spark ignites in every heart, regardless of creed or dogma.

Jesus, in his wisdom, offers a simple, yet profound, guide: “So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you, for this sums up the Law and the Prophets.” This, my friends, is not a uniquely Christian principle. It is the golden thread that weaves through the tapestry of human wisdom. It echoes in the Hindu concept of ahimsa, non-violence, the Jain principle of anekantavada, respecting multiple viewpoints, the Buddhist emphasis on metta, loving-kindness, the Confucian principle of shu, reciprocity, and the Jewish teaching of “what is hateful to you, do not do to your neighbour.”

This is not a coincidence. This is the inherent truth, the universal language of compassion that transcends the boundaries of religion. It is the recognition that we are all interconnected, that our actions ripple outwards, affecting not only ourselves, but the entire web of existence. To harm another is to harm ourselves. To love another is to love ourselves.

We are not called to build walls, but to build bridges. We are not called to judge, but to understand. We are not called to hoard, but to share. We are not called to demand, but to seek. To seek not material possessions, but the very presence of the divine, the connection to the source of all being.

This seeking, this knocking, this asking, is not a passive endeavour. It requires courage, vulnerability, and a willingness to let go of our preconceived notions. It requires us to confront our own biases, our own prejudices, our own fears. It requires us to look beyond the surface, to see the humanity in every person, regardless of their background, their beliefs, or their circumstances.

For the kingdom of God, the realm of the divine, is not a place we arrive at, but a state of being we cultivate. It is a way of living, a way of interacting with the world, a way of loving. It is a recognition that the sacred resides within us, within each other, and within the very fabric of creation.

Let us, then, abandon our illusions of control and embrace the mystery of the divine. Let us open our hearts to the wisdom that flows through all traditions, all cultures, all beings. Let us live the golden rule, not as a mere platitude, but as a radical act of love, a testament to our shared humanity. Let us seek, not the fleeting comforts of this world, but the eternal embrace of the divine, the boundless love that transcends all understanding. For in that seeking, in that knocking, in that asking, we will find the true treasure, the true fulfilment, the true meaning of life.  Amen

Standing on the precipice of faith

Texts:  Exodus 34 and Luke 9

Friends, siblings in the journey, we stand here, perched on the precipice. Wednesday (or Thursday) comes the ashes, the stark reminder of our mortality, the call to introspection. But before we plunge into the Lenten wilderness, let us wrestle with two visions, two encounters that sear themselves into the very fabric of our faith.

First Exodus 34. Moses descends, face radiant, a reflection of divine glory. The people, they shrink back, terrified. They cannot bear the light. They demand a veil, a buffer, a distance. How familiar is this fear, this desire to shield ourselves from the raw, unfiltered presence of the divine? We build our theological walls, our doctrinal barricades, our sometimes stale religious worship, afraid of the unsettling truth that God’s glory might disrupt our comfortable certainties. We prefer our gods domesticated, predictable, fitting neatly into our pre-conceived boxes. We want a God who affirms our status quo, who blesses our comfortable lives, who reinforces our prejudices. But the light, the sheer, blinding light of God’s love, refuses to be contained. It spills over, it transforms, it demands a response.

Then, Luke 9. The mountaintop, a glimpse of the transfigured Christ. Peter, James, and John, overwhelmed, confused, wanting to build shrines, to freeze this moment of ecstatic revelation. They want to possess it, to control it, to turn it into a religious spectacle. But the voice, the thunderous, undeniable voice, shatters their carefully constructed illusions. “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!” Not build a shrine, not create a ritual, not cling to the past. Listen.

And therein lies the challenge, the radical, unsettling challenge of our faith. To listen. Not to the echo chambers of our own certainties, not to the voices of power and privilege, but to the voice of the one who embodies God’s love, God’s justice, God’s radical inclusivity. To listen to the one who challenges our assumptions, who overturns our tables, who calls us to love our enemies, to care for the marginalized, to dismantle the systems of oppression that perpetuate suffering.

The voice that booms from the cloud, it is a call to action, not passive adoration. It is a demand to engage with the world, to confront injustice, to embody the love that Jesus preached and lived. It is a call to dismantle the veils we construct, the veils of fear, of prejudice, of apathy, that keep us from seeing the face of God in every human being.

Some will say, “But the God of the Old Testament, the God of Moses, that’s a God of wrath, of judgment.” They cling to the old paradigms, the old hierarchies, the old power structures. They want to keep God confined to the pages of ancient texts, to the dusty halls of tradition. But the God revealed in Jesus, the God who speaks from the cloud, is a God of love, a God of liberation, a God who breaks down the walls that divide us.

The voice that commands us to listen is not a voice of authoritarian power, demanding blind obedience. It is a voice of invitation, a voice of love, a voice that calls us to participate in the ongoing work of creation, the ongoing work of redemption. It is a voice that empowers us to be agents of change, to be beacons of hope in a world shrouded in darkness.

This Lent, let us not retreat into self-denial for its own sake. Let us not engage in empty rituals or performative piety. Let us instead use this time to listen deeply, to listen to the still, small voice within, to listen to the cries of the oppressed, to listen to the whispers of the Spirit. Let us strip away the veils that obscure our vision, the veils of privilege, of complacency, of fear. Let us confront the darkness within ourselves and within our world.

The transfiguration, it is not a moment frozen in time. It is a glimpse of what is possible, a glimpse of the kingdom of God breaking through into our reality. It is a reminder that we are all called to be transfigured, to be transformed by the light of God’s love.

And that command, "listen to him," it is not a suggestion. It is a mandate. It is a call to action. It is a call to radical discipleship. It is a call to embody the love of Christ in our words, in our actions, in our very being.

Let us not shrink back from the light. Let us not build shrines to our own comfort. Let us instead embrace the challenge, embrace the transformation, embrace the radical love that calls us to be co-creators of a more just and compassionate world. Let us listen, truly listen, to the one who speaks from the cloud, the one who embodies the very essence of God’s love. And let that listening transform us, transform our communities, transform our world.  Amen.

What is wisdom?

Text:  Mark 9: 38-40

Brothers and sisters, seekers of truth, fellow travellers on this winding path of existence, today’s readings invite us to wrestle with the nature of wisdom, that elusive quarry that has captivated hearts and minds since the dawn of human consciousness. We are told, in the ancient wisdom of Ecclesiasticus, that wisdom exalts her children and cares for those who seek her. She walks with them, she holds them fast, she nourishes them with the bread of understanding and gives them the water of salvation. But what, precisely, is this wisdom? Is it a dusty tome locked away in a forgotten library? Is it a secret handshake reserved for the initiated? Or is it something far more radical, far more accessible, far more… human?

We find ourselves, as always, drawn to the story of Jesus, a man who, if nothing else, understood the profound absurdity of human arrogance. Consider the scene before us, as recounted by Mark. John, one of Jesus’ own disciples, puffed up with a sense of self-righteousness, reports that he has seen someone casting out demons in Jesus’ name, but because the man was not one of their inner circle, he was told to stop. This, my friends, is the very definition of spiritual gatekeeping, the kind of narrow-mindedness that has plagued religious institutions for centuries.

Jesus, with his characteristic blend of exasperation and compassion, cuts through the fog of pious delusion. “Do not stop him,” he declares. “For no one who does a miracle in my name can in the next moment say anything bad about me, for whoever is not against us is for us.” Let that sink in. Whoever is not against us is for us. This is not a call for theological uniformity. This is not a demand for doctrinal purity. This is a radical invitation to embrace the inherent goodness that exists beyond the boundaries of our own limited understanding.

John, like so many of us, fell prey to the seductive illusion that truth is a possession, a commodity to be hoarded and controlled. He confused loyalty to a group with loyalty to the very essence of love and compassion that Jesus embodied. He forgot that the Spirit, the very breath of life, cannot be contained within the walls of any single institution, any single creed, any single ideology.

The pursuit of wisdom, as understood in the Judeo-Christian tradition, and indeed, in many other spiritual paths, is not about accumulating knowledge for its own sake. It is about cultivating a deep and abiding awareness of our interconnectedness, our shared humanity. It is about recognizing the divine spark that flickers within every living being, regardless of their background, their beliefs, or their social status.

Think of the Buddha, sitting beneath the Bodhi tree, seeking enlightenment. Think of the Sufi mystics, whirling in ecstatic communion with the divine. Think of the Indigenous elders, listening to the wisdom of the earth. In each of these traditions, and in countless others, we find a common thread: the recognition that true wisdom is born of humility, of openness, of a willingness to transcend the limitations of our own ego.

Jesus, in his encounter with John, exemplifies this very principle. He refuses to be confined by the expectations of his followers. He challenges their assumptions, he expands their horizons, he reminds them that the work of healing and liberation is not the exclusive domain of any one group.

 We, too, are called to this same radical openness. We are called to recognize the wisdom that exists beyond the boundaries of our own comfort zones. We are called to embrace the inherent goodness that shines through even the most unexpected sources.

So, let us be done with the petty squabbles and the theological hairsplitting that distract us from the real work of building a more just and compassionate world. Let us be done with the arrogance that tells us we have a monopoly on truth. Let us, instead, embrace the spirit of radical inclusivity that Jesus embodied.

Let us recognize that the person who volunteers at a soup kitchen, the activist who fights for social justice, the scientist who seeks to understand the mysteries of the universe, the artist who creates beauty in the face of despair – all of these are engaged in the pursuit of wisdom, all of these are contributing to the healing of our world.

Let us, in the words of Jesus, see that whoever is not against us is for us. Let us, together, build a world where wisdom reigns, where compassion triumphs, and where love is the guiding principle of all our actions. Let us, together, seek and find the wisdom that exalts, that nourishes, that saves. Amen.

Embracing the suffering...

Text:  Mark 8.27-33

Friends, we gather at a pivotal moment in Mark’s Gospel. Jesus, having journeyed with his disciples, sharing meals, teaching, healing, now asks a question that echoes through the ages: “Who do you say that I am?”

Think of the weight of this question. These men, Jesus’ companions, had witnessed his extraordinary acts, heard his radical pronouncements about the kingdom, seen the hope he ignited. They had left everything to follow him.  And now, their leader asks them, point-blank, to define him.

Peter, ever bold, declares, “You are the Christ.” The Messiah. The long-awaited king.  A powerful declaration. But Jesus immediately pivots. He doesn’t bask in the glory. He doesn’t confirm their expectations of an earthly ruler. Instead, he speaks of the Son of Man, and of the suffering that awaits him.

This title, “Son of Man,” is fascinating.  It appears throughout Hebrew scripture, particularly Daniel.  Sometimes it refers simply to a human being, emphasizing mortality.  Other times, it takes on a more exalted meaning, referring to a figure who will come in power to establish God’s kingdom. In Jesus’ time, the meaning was fluid, open to interpretation, carrying both human solidarity and a hint of divine destiny.

When Jesus calls himself the Son of Man, he's not necessarily claiming divine status as we understand it today. He’s not using later theological formulations like “Son of God.”  He’s drawing on scripture to describe his unique role, one that defies easy categorization. He’s saying, “I am one of you, human, yet also something more, something transcendent.”

And what is that “something more”? Not worldly power, not political dominance, not military might. It’s suffering. Jesus predicts his own suffering, rejection, and death. Not as a distant possibility, but as inevitable.  Remarkably, he assigns no theological meaning to this suffering. No explanation of sacrifice for sins, no atonement theory. He simply says it must happen.

Peter recoils. He can’t comprehend a Messiah who suffers. He rebukes Jesus.  But Jesus turns on Peter with startling severity: “Get behind me, Satan! You are not setting your mind on God's things but on human things.”

Harsh words. Why such a strong reaction?  Perhaps because Peter’s objection reveals a fundamental misunderstanding. Peter, like many, wanted a Messiah who conformed to expectations, a Messiah of immediate triumph, avoiding hardship.  But Jesus’ path is different. It leads through suffering, through vulnerability, through the depths of human experience.

What does this mean for us? What does it mean for our understanding of suffering? We live in a world that tries to shield us from pain, that promises ease and convenience. But Jesus reminds us that suffering is inescapable. It’s not to be avoided at all costs, but faced, integrated into our lives.

I’m not suggesting we seek suffering. I’m not saying we glorify pain. But when suffering comes, as it will, we shouldn’t deny it or run from it.  We should look to Jesus’ example. Embrace vulnerability, acknowledge pain, and trust that even in darkness, God is with us.

As many of you know, this week marks ten years since my installation as Rector. It’s been an exciting, transformative decade, for me and for this parish. But also, a decade of suffering.  Together, we navigated the Covid pandemic, many losing loved ones.  Personally, I faced health challenges, including heart problems and surgery, and periods of stress.  Our staff have also experienced stress, meeting the demands of modern society.  We’ve all suffered in different ways, through health, loss, and daily struggles. Yet, looking back through these years, through the suffering, I see the moments that brought us together – in mourning, compassion, service. I see the growth in our community, the building improvements, the generosity of so many. I see the hope of resurrection binding us. The suffering has not defined us, but in many ways, strengthened us.

The remedy for suffering is not avoidance, but finding meaning. Connecting with others, sharing burdens, offering and receiving compassion. Discovering resilience, the strength from brokenness. Recognizing that even in suffering, we are not alone. We are part of a larger story, of pain and joy, loss and redemption, death and resurrection.

Just as Jesus’ suffering wasn’t the end, neither will ours define us. It won't have the final word. It can be a catalyst for growth, a source of wisdom, a pathway to deeper understanding.  It can connect us profoundly to our own humanity, and to others.

So, let us go forth from this service, not fearing suffering, but embracing it. Let us follow Jesus, not on a path of worldly triumph, but on one of compassion, humility, love.  His question rings in our ears: “Who do you say that I am?”.  Let us answer not with empty titles, or theological dogmas, but with lives of service, hearts of compassion, and a willingness to embrace the fullness of human experience, its pain, its mystery, and its boundless hope. Amen.

Shaking the dust from our feet

Text: Mark 6.7-13

Today’s Gospel reading offers us a snapshot from the life of Jesus, as told by Mark.  It's a story of mission, of vulnerability, and of the messy, beautiful, and often challenging work of spreading a message of love and liberation.  We hear how Jesus, surrounded by his growing band of followers, sends them out. Notice, though, that he doesn’t send them as a large, well-equipped force, ready to dominate the powers of the world by force.  Rather, he sends them our two by two, armed with nothing but a staff and the authority to cast out unclean spirits.  Think about that for a moment.  No grand strategy, no vast resources, just the simple act of pairing up and stepping out in faith.

Mark says "He called the twelve and began to send them out two by two, and gave them authority over the unclean spirits."  What, I wonder, are these unclean spirits?  In Jesus's day, they were often understood as malevolent entities, external forces of evil that possessed individuals, causing physical and mental suffering.  But we must ask ourselves: what might these "unclean spirits" represent to us today, in our context, and with our more scientific understanding?  Could they be, perhaps, the internal demons we wrestle with – the self-doubt, the fear, the ingrained prejudices that hold us back from living fully and compassionately?  Could they be the systemic injustices that plague our world – poverty, racism, environmental destruction – the forces that corrupt and diminish the human spirit?  I believe they are all these things, and more.  Consider, for example, the spirit of greed that drives environmental destruction, or the spirit of fear that fuels xenophobia. These, too, are unclean spirits that we must confront.

Jesus gives his disciples the power to cast out these unclean spirits.  This isn't about some magical ritual or some scene from a horror movie in which demons are cast out.  It's about the power of love to overcome fear, the power of hope to conquer despair, the power of community to dismantle oppressive systems.  It's about recognizing the inherent worth and dignity of every human being and working to create a world where everyone can flourish.  This power resides not just in some select few (the qualified exorcists among us, perhaps).  It resides in each and every one of us.  We are all called to be agents of healing, to confront the "unclean spirits" in our own lives and in the world around us.

Mark goes on: "He instructed them to take nothing for their journey except a staff—no bread, no bag, no money in their belts—but to wear sandals and not put on two tunics."  This instruction speaks to a radical simplicity, a reliance on the generosity of others, and a detachment from material possessions.  It's a reminder that our true strength lies not in what we have, but in who we are and the message we carry.  It's a challenge to our consumer-driven culture, which constantly tells us that we need more, that our worth is measured by our possessions.  Jesus's words invite us to consider what truly sustains us, what truly matters.  Is it the accumulation of wealth and power? Or is it the connections we forge, the love we share, the difference we make in the lives of others?

Next, Mark tells us, the disciples are sent out to preach repentance.  Now, in our modern ears, the word "repentance" can sound harsh, judgmental.  But in its original context, it carries a different meaning.  It's not about self-flagellation or wallowing in guilt.  It’s not even about the rather subjugated tones of the confession that this 17th century service offers us, with its repeated cries for mercy on “us miserable offenders”.  Rather, true repentance is about a turning, a reorientation, a shift in perspective.  It's about recognizing the ways in which we fall short of the love and compassion that Jesus embodies, and choosing his path, his Way, instead of our own.  It's about acknowledging our complicity in systems of injustice and committing to work for change.  It's an ongoing process, a lifelong journey of growth and transformation.

And then, finally, Mark brings us to the image of shaking the dust from our feet.  "If any place will not welcome you or listen to you, shake the dust off your feet when you leave, as a testimony against them."  This powerful symbolic act can be easily misinterpreted as an act of anger or judgment.  But I believe it's something far more profound.  It's an act of self-preservation, a way of letting go of negativity and refusing to be dragged down by those who reject the message of love and inclusion.  It's a way of saying, "I have offered you what I have to offer.  I have shared the good news.  And if you choose not to receive it, that is your choice.  I will not let your rejection define me or diminish my commitment to this work." 

Perhaps you know someone, in your life, who refuses to forgive another for the wrong they have done.  They remain trapped by that unforgiveness.  It eats them up, with anger and sleepless nights.  You advise them, you counsel them - that to hold back forgiveness is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.  But they cannot hear you, they will not hear you, even though they love you.  You must persist…it’s your job to try to turn them to the Light.  But you cannot be dragged into their world.  You must not accept their hate and feed it by accepting it.  Ultimately, you have no choice but to shake the dust from your feet, to recognize that you have done all you can, and to release them to their own path.  As the old saying goes:  “There is a Saviour, and you are not him”.

So for us modern evangelists, shaking the dust from our feet might mean something different than the literal action it did in Jesus's time.  Perhaps it means recognizing when our efforts are being met with resistance and knowing when to shift our focus.  Perhaps it means acknowledging that we cannot force anyone to believe what we believe, but we can continue to live out our faith with integrity and compassion, trusting that our actions will speak louder than words.

The disciples went out and preached repentance.  They cast out many demons and anointed many sick people with oil and healed them.  Their mission was not easy.  It was met with both acceptance and rejection.  But they persevered, sustained by their faith and their commitment to the message they carried.  And so too, are we called to go out into the world, not with certainty or arrogance, but with humility and compassion, offering the gifts of love, hope, and healing.  We are called to be the hands and feet of Christ, working to bring about a world where justice prevails, where peace reigns, and where all are welcomed and valued.  Let us go forth, then, from this service, in the spirit of those first disciples, empowered by the love that unites us, ready to face whatever challenges may lie ahead, and committed to sharing the good news with courage and compassion. Amen.