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.

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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.