Rev’d Peter Balabanski

For the Liturgy of the Palms: Mt 21.1-11

Passion Sunday Readings: Isa 50.4-9a, Ps 31.9-18, Phil 2.5-11, Mt 27.11-54

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

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

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

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

But things are different now. In the past several minutes, we’ve all had a preview of the tragic fall from ecstasy to agony that Jesus and his loved ones would endure over the coming week. And the way we’ve just read it, joining in to say the most dreadful parts, we’ve owned that we’re all connected with this tragedy. We number among the people who cried Hosanna – save us, we pray; grant us victory! – yet just now, we’re still part of the same crowd; but our cry has turned to Crucify him!

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

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

But surely we’re not like them – or are we? During Lent, maybe we’ve realised we’re not as pure as we might imagine. We all carry baggage.

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

So Holy Week confronts us with our failings and presents us with challenges we may never have known about. But Holy Week also enables us to meet these challenges, reminding us that we’ve been entrusted with priceless gifts for doing so. If we can receive these gifts, we will walk with Jesus. These gifts; what are they?

The first is the one we remember today. Jesus made the crucial decision to enter Jerusalem – to set this week in motion – and he did this for you and me before our people were ever dreamt of. He gave himself into the hands of the hateful jealousy and anger and fear that might consume us; he entered their deadly jaws in our place – with the purpose of freeing us from their power. His gift is freedom – ours for the taking.

On Maundy Thursday, we are entrusted with three more priceless gifts:

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

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

On this day, we turn humbly, helplessly, to receive these gifts together; gifts which God has graciously offered through Jesus to make us whole. Amen

Rev’d Peter Balabanski

Lent 5 A.   Jn 11.1-45

In these strange times, the readings set for today have an unusual poignancy –perhaps a completely new force – for us in the so-called ‘developed’ world. We’re not used to sickness and death being an immediate threat – not to us, and certainly not to absolutely everyone. We’ve never seen our wonderful health systems confronted with anything so overwhelming as this Covid 19 virus, nor so many people reacting out of fear and grief and confusion on anything like this scale.

Most of our younger people have grown up thoroughly insulated from death and mortality. But we’re all being woken up to a reality that’s always been a conscious part of life for most of the world’s people – the majority world – where the smell of decomposition is a normal part of life. There, questions of death and what comes next, questions of spirituality, questions of where God is in the midst of really challenging existences – these questions are quite literally in the air most people breathe there.  And suddenly they’re everyone’s questions here too.

In our ‘developed-world’ lifestyle of materialistic choices and first-world problems, we’ve been largely unconscious of these life and death questions. We’re being woken up. So I wonder if we Christians of the developed world might hear today’s gospel in a new way; this story and the ones we’ll hear on Passion Sunday and then on through Holy Week and Easter. They’re all stories about death and resurrection. What new insights might we, the developed, sophisticated, deodorised people of the 21^st century, learn to hear in this story?

In our vernacular, the story of the raising of Lazarus is usually the province of political and sports commentary – X has made the greatest comeback since Lazarus. There’s much more to this miracle than a comeback.

The power of death is confronted by the Lord of Life. And we are confronted by him too.

Let’s join Martha and Mary. They send Jesus a message. It is a prayer; a deep, simple prayer – ‘Lord, [our brother Lazarus] he whom you love is ill.’ The message doesn’t say what they expect Jesus to do, yet their grief and fear and hope are all palpable. But significantly for us, the first response they receive is the same response most of us feel like we receive when we pray for help; a long, bewildering silence. At least we know Martha and Mary’s prayer has been heard.

It’s painful to follow what ensues because of the delayed response. John’s gospel tells how Jesus demands a discipleship from people which they find very challenging. John’s lesson about discipleship is that it means learning to grow in the way we understand and follow Jesus – living more and more into his love. And that involves us changing and growing, because that’s what life is. And change means saying goodbye to things you’ve grown out of, so that you can put on what fits you now. But new things—think new shoes—take some use before they are comfortable.

So instead of being straightforward and practical, in John’s gospel, Jesus turns every prayer and every question people put to him into the starting point of a new and unnerving journey of change and growth in discipleship.

Today, we are uncharacteristically preoccupied with the frailty of our own physical life. We’re dwelling on the loss of everything that seems normal – possibly even of ourselves. Where is God in this; where is Jesus in this?

Jesus knew what was going on for Lazarus; he told his disciples that Lazarus had died. But he wanted to turn Martha and Mary’s prayer into an opportunity for their growth in discipleship. And he did just that. He took Martha from complaint to confession of him as Messiah – one of the greatest confessions in Scripture. And he took Lazarus from irreversible corruption to new life when he called him by name.

Jesus called Lazarus from his tomb by his name. So Lazarus was still the same person after death as in life; still able to respond to his beloved friend’s call; his friend – who is now revealed as the Lord of life. For me, this means that the people who live in our hearts, but whose remains wait in our memorial gardens and graveyards are only as far from new life as their name is from the lips of our Saviour.

Jesus calls to life one in whom was no life. What does that call mean to us in this time of such confusion and fear?

I attend many funeral services. They all share a common tension with this story. Unless the person who died was a person rich in years, the grief always has an element in it which cries out to Jesus what Martha and Mary confronted him with; ²¹…‘Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died … if Jesus loves us – he couldn’t have meant this … why could this happen?

Into that tumult of feelings, at the beginning of each funeral service, Jesus’s words cry out to us from this very story of the raising of Lazarus: ²⁵…‘I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, ²⁶and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?’ He asks us all to trust, to entrust ourselves, to the One who is Lazarus’ friend; the One who loved Lazarus – the One who is our friend; the One who loves us. In these strange times, and in this once-immune society, let us entrust ourselves to the One who is the resurrection and the Life.  Amen

Rev’d Peter Balabanski

Lent 4 A — Mothering Sunday. 1 Sam 16 1-13, Ps 23, Eph 5 8-14, Jn 9 1-41 

For the third week in a row, we’ve read an extended story from John’s Gospel. Each time, it’s been a story of someone meeting Jesus. And for each of them, it’s been a life-changing encounter: so important that they go and tell others about it. It’s as if we can hear them say, “I’ve met Jesus; he’s changed my life, and no matter what people say, I will share this. Everyone needs a chance to meet Jesus, and I want to help them do just that.”

Two weeks ago, it was a powerful leader of the Jewish religious establishment; a man called Nicodemus. He visited Jesus secretly at midnight ^{(Jn 3.1-17)}. Remember how baffled he was by Jesus? Jesus told Nicodemus that if he wanted to see the kingdom of God, he must be born again—born from above. Nicodemus didn’t get it then, but later on, he was re-born. Later we’d see him abandon his prestige and security and become one of Jesus’ disciples. ^{(Jn 7 & 19)}

Last week, it was a Samaritan woman. She met Jesus at Jacob’s well. This meeting happened at midday. As they talked, she came to see her own life through Jesus’ eyes, and she was utterly transformed by the experience. She left her bucket at the well and hurried off to call everyone in her village to come and meet Jesus too.

Today, it’s the turn of a man blind from birth. We just heard how Jesus gave him his sight. The religious authorities feared Jesus. So they said they’d expel this man from their faith community unless he denounced Jesus as they did. But he refused to be walked over. And later, when he met Jesus again – and this second time, he could see him – he declared his belief in Jesus, and worshipped him.

So three people meet Jesus; three people who go out from that first meeting and tell others about Jesus—three people who try to help others meet Jesus – even when they’re under pressure to reject him.

Nicodemus stuck up for Jesus in the face of his brother Pharisees ^{(Jn 7)}. The Samaritan woman ran back to her village and called everyone to meet Jesus ^{(Jn 4)}. And today, the man born blind willingly chooses the life of an outcast if that’s what it will cost him to follow Jesus.

Each story challenges you and me to do the same – to say, “I’ve met Jesus; he’s changed my life, and no matter what people say, I will share this. Everyone needs a chance to meet Jesus, and I want to help them do just that.” Someone must have done that for you – someone who thought, “I’ve met Jesus; he’s changed my life, and no matter what people say, I will share this with you. Everyone needs a chance to meet Jesus, and I want to help you do just that.”  And they made sure you did meet Jesus, just like they had.

It’s really important that we do this too – that we get out and help people meet Jesus. Because people are shy. People who don’t know Jesus won’t necessarily come here and ask us to introduce them to Jesus.

That’s also got something to do with the things people say and think about the followers of Jesus. We’re variously called God botherers, flat-earthers and fanatics. It’s taken for granted that we want to ram religion down innocent people’s throats; it’s assumed that followers of Jesus want to interfere with other people’s personal relationships, and tell people who they can and can’t love. Apparently we’re obsessed. So why would anyone bother to come here?

But we know Jesus wasn’t moralistic or judgmental like that, and for the most part, neither are his followers. We follow his life-example – his way – not a set of rules. The way he gave us was love. And he taught that way mainly by example.

For the third week in a row now, we’ve gathered here and we’ve seen Jesus meet someone, and he hasn’t judged them or forced scripture down their throats. He’s given them his attention, his time, and his love, and he’s invited them to grow into the best people they could be. Nothing was forced, but it turned their lives around.

We’ve seen his example: John gave us a ringside seat each time – really close – so we could actually feel the tension then the joy as his love prised open the shells of legalism and exclusion they’d lived with all their lives. We saw all this so we could learn to do the same; to give people attention, time, love, and an invitation.

People do live with extraordinary stresses: people carry terrible burdens. We know Jesus sets people free from the tyranny of those burdens. He’s given us his gifts to offer, and his example of how it’s done –as he did for Nicodemus, for the Samaritan woman at the well, and for this man born blind.

Jesus offered them relief from their pain and a chance to start afresh – to be reborn. It’s happened for us. If we know all that, and we know lots of people struggle, will we consider inviting them to meet the real Jesus? The Samaritan woman did it after knowing Jesus for five minutes. The man born blind did it before he even knew what Jesus looked like.

They met Jesus, and they invited other people to get to know him. Can we consider that? Introduce people to him – or put another way, will we bring people’s questions to the one we know has the time and attention and love to give them; bring them to the one who takes them seriously when they are crushed by fear and loneliness; bring them to the one who will spend their whole life with them?

Let’s help these people meet this Jesus – the one we’ve got to know in recent weeks. Let’s help these people meet the real Jesus who has time for people – let’s help these people meet the Jesus who offers unconditional attention, time and love; who told Nicodemus he hadn’t come to judge people. Let’s help people meet this Jesus and let his love do it’s healing, freeing work in their lives.

“I’ve met Jesus; he’s changed my life, and no matter what people say, I will share this. Everyone needs a chance to meet Jesus, and I want to help them do just that.”

Amen

Rev’d Peter Balabanski

Lent 3A. John 4 5-42 

We probably remember two other Samaritans connected with Jesus. There was the Good Samaritan of the parable ^{(Lk 10)}, the only one of the ten Lepers Jesus healed who came back to thank him ^{(Lk 17)} and now there’s this woman. All very positive pictures.

Yet Samaritans were outsiders: Jews and Samaritans didn’t get on at all. Samaritans were very unorthodox Jews. Their Passover was celebrated on Mt Gerizim near Nablus / Shechem – not in Jerusalem. They had a different Bible; only the first five books of the Bible, and even so, their version had about 6,000 differences from the Jewish one. Samaritans were hated outsiders. Yet in the Gospels, these outsiders seem to recognise the truth about Jesus very clearly. So what are the gospel-writers looking to teach us through these portraits? To be tolerant, for sure. But is that all? What’s John trying to tell us through this story?

Today’s Gospel lesson is one that calls up very rich associations. We shouldn’t expect anything less of John’s Gospel. First, we’re told that the encounter happens at Jacob’s well in Samaria. Jacob also had something to do with another well. He met his future wife Rachel by a well in the land of the people of the East ^{Gen 29}. Samaritans are ethnically at least partly from the East. Back when Assyria defeated Israel, they forcibly populated it with settlers drawn from cities in an area we now call Iraq. So it’s no wonder the indigenous and settler populations had an ancient and deep hatred for each other. Samaria was effectively foreign soil for Jesus too.

So today’s gospel presents us with Jesus, a lone Jewish man in a foreign land meeting a lone foreign woman at a well named for Jacob; the woman will also provide water from the well for this Jewish man to drink. Marriage will again be a major topic of conversation. And seasoned listeners will know that the earlier well in Jacob’s story ^{Gen 29} had a large stone covering its mouth; a stone which had to be rolled away to provide the gathered flock with its life-giving water. John evokes that ‘stone rolled away’ image deliberately; John always has lots of irons in the fire.

We’re told it was about noon. Do you remember last Sunday’s encounter between Jesus and his visitor, Nicodemus? It was night time then. Today’s story happens in broad daylight. Jesus isn’t hiding his meeting with an outsider like Nicodemus did. Such a meeting would have caused great scandal among the Jews. ^{(Compare Jn 8.48 where they accuse Jesus of being a Samaritan and having a demon)}. It certainly shocked his disciples!

So one focus of this story is Jesus’s ministry among people considered to be ‘outsiders’ – another Samaritan story about tolerance. Jesus crosses borders in this story. He enters Samaria; he initiates a conversation with an unaccompanied Samaritan woman, and finally, he even accepts two days’ hospitality from the Samaritan village. None of this was thinkable in decent Jewish society.

Jesus asks this woman for water. In today’s Psalm 95, it’s God who provides life-giving water. In today’s story, this ‘heretic’ woman gives water to Jesus. Later, she will take the water of life – the good news of Jesus – to her village. By this stage in the gospel, her only equals as witnesses to Jesus are John the Baptist and Mary.

And another extraordinary thing; Jesus and this woman have a serious theological discussion. She knows her traditions. She’s waiting for the coming Messiah. In the synagogues, men and women sat separately. Here at the well, Jesus and this woman sit and speak together about the things of God. These are enormous changes.

And as a theologian, the Samaritan woman is no slouch. She misunderstands Jesus at first. But pretty well everyone in John’s gospel looks rather amateurish when they first do theology with Jesus. This woman makes much faster progress than most. She starts from a position of scornful sounding doubt –

¹² Are you greater than our ancestor Jacob, who gave us the well, and with his sons and his flocks drank from it?”

Then she progresses to a partial understanding, but still confrontational –

¹⁹ …Sir, I see that you are a prophet. ²⁰ Our ancestors worshipped on this mountain, but you [Jews] say … people must worship … in Jerusalem.

and next she moves on towards the truth –

²⁵ … I know that Messiah is coming (who is called Christ). When he comes, he will proclaim all things to us.

Finally, once Jesus has identified himself, she rushes to her city to share the good news.

²⁸ … the woman left her water jar and went back to the city. She said to the people, ^{29 ‘}Come and see a man who told me everything I have ever done! He cannot be the Messiah, can he?’

The really exciting thing about this story is that the most unexpected person can become the bearer of the greatest news of all – that the divine gift – living water; eternal life – is something an outsider can bear for the world. Scripture always reminds us that we’re all foreigners really. And yet Scripture also tells us that we outsiders can be the means by which people can discover what those Samaritans soon proclaimed: ⁴² ‘we know that this is truly the Saviour of the world.’

The beginning is breaking down barriers – being open to laying aside our preconceptions and our certainties. As middle-of-the-road Anglicans, those preconceptions and certainties tend to be about our faith being a private matter – something we don’t discuss in polite society – and that mission is something that missionaries and missionary agencies do – not little old us. How does that attitude stack up with this story?

At the heart of our Lenten study series this year is the message of every-person mission; everybody joining in with the mission Jesus is doing. That’s a mission agency – ABM – telling us that we are more than involved in mission; we are committed to mission. And any one of us might discover our mission.

Let’s have a few moments of silence for that to sink in, then I’ll lead us in an anonymous prayer.

Five-finger prayer

This prayer can be a model for the children’s prayers. Have them draw around one hand on a sheet of plain paper.Go over what each finger can represent when they pray:

thumb – friends and family

index finger – people who help you learn about God and Jesus

middle finger – leaders in our community and the world

ring finger – people who help persons in need

little finger – ourselves

Have the children write these categories on the fingers. If time, pray together using the five-finger prayer.

O Jesus,
Image of the invisible God, Word made flesh, tired stranger, waiting in the noonday lull at Jacob’s well.

Are we all the woman with her water-jar, bent on the chore of the moment, angry memories in our bones, our thirst for God hidden in the business of the day?

Do you meet us gently too, hardly recognized, quietly leading our thoughts towards the deeper waters, where our souls find rest?

Probing too, uncovering secrets we would rather forget. “Lord, you have probed me, You know when I sit and when I stand, You know my thoughts from afar.”

Is the woman, sure and strong, our reflection: sure but unsure, strong but so weak, seeking but afraid to find our Saviour so close by?    Amen

Author unknown

Rev’d Peter Balabanski

Lent 2A .  John 4 1-17, Gen 12 1-4a, Ps 121, Rm 4 1-17

We’ve heard stories of two people today who risk everything on the basis of an impossible challenge. There’s Abram/Abraham who leaves everything, trusting God, and Nicodemus, who visits Jesus in the night. Nicodemus is our subject today.

Like everyone else in Jerusalem, Nicodemus had seen the signs Jesus performed. He may well have been right there when Jesus cleared the Temple of the money changers and the people selling birds and animals for sacrifice. Fascinated by this man, he visits Jesus. But Nicodemus isn’t game to be publicly associated with Jesus. Imagine Jesus cleansing the Temple today. What he did would have been called a terrorist act these days – or the act of some fanatic from a religious fringe group. Nicodemus visits Jesus, but only secretly, at night.

Nicodemus is just like many people here – educated, committed and faithful, and with a respected position in the community. He has a reputation that he’s taken decades to earn. Who here would visit a revolutionary new spiritual teacher like this in broad daylight? Would you meet with a notorious troublemaker at Cibo’s for coffee after church? You might be noticed! What would they say?

So like we would, Nicodemus visits Jesus under cover of darkness. John’s Gospel makes a lot of the symbolism of light and darkness. In the verses after today’s gospel, Jesus says, ‘the light has come into the world, and people loved darkness rather than light because their deeds were evil. ²⁰For all who do evil hate the light and do not come to the light, so that their deeds may not be exposed. ²¹But those who do what is true come to the light, so that it may be clearly seen that their deeds have been done in God.’ Was Jesus is challenging Nicodemus: reminding him of the way he’d come to see him; not during the day; only by night?

Maybe he meant Nicodemus chose to come in from the darkness; into the light of Jesus. Whichever is right, Nicodemus got much more than he bargained for.

No sooner had he paid his respects to Jesus than he was utterly confounded by that saying about being born from above / born anew / born again. He took it literally. And who wouldn’t if you didn’t have a lifetime of Christian teaching about baptism. Jesus leads him to another understanding of being Nicodemus – about being a person who is not just born not of his mother, but also born of the Spirit. We don’t get to see if Nicodemus understands this.

Whether he and Jesus meet again, we’re not told. But we meet Nicodemus twice more. The first time, he risks his reputation, challenging his fellow Pharisees when they want to haul Jesus before a kangaroo court ^{(ch 7)}. The next time, he joins Joseph of Arimathea burying Jesus’s body. And by doing so abandons his ritual purity ^{(ch 19)} so he won’t be able to participate in the Passover the next day. For a Pharisee to do that would be like one of us on Good Friday deciding not to celebrate Easter.

But by then, Nicodemus had given up as any pretence to secrecy. He’d become so deeply a follower of Jesus that even after the crucifixion – when most other disciples were running away and hiding in fear and doubt, particularly the men – Nicodemus abandoned whatever social standing he had to pay his last respects. The wind – the Spirit – had done just what Jesus said; breathed where she chose. And she chose Nicodemus. Nicodemus was born anew; born again; born from above.

But all that takes us several weeks down the road, doesn’t it. What about now? As we journey down that way? Does Nicodemus’s visit to Jesus in the night have something to say to us? We’re like him in so many ways that I think his story must speak to us.

It’s really tricky for us to have our faith identity and our social identity open to view at the same time. They don’t necessarily match. Where do we get our identity from: our family, our faith community, our nationality, our career, things we have, things we do with friends, our language, where we live, things that we’re passionate about, things we love about people and things we hope people love about us?

It can be quite a mixture, can’t it. And we protect these things; we don’t want them laughed at or called into question. An attack on the things that make us who we are is really threatening.

Sometimes our faith identity and personal identity can contradict each other. Look at how our national identity and the plight of fellow Australians who are Aboriginal are so deeply at odds. Our ABM studies over the years have given us the chance to hear stories from faithful Aboriginal Christians; to read the same scriptures as these sisters and brothers through their eyes. That sort of experience brings us all into the presence of Jesus together – whether we come by night, or if we’re bold enough to come in broad daylight.

But this coming together is the point. Jesus came for us all – for the whole world. Jesus calls all of us. We heard him say it this morning: ¹⁶ ‘God loved the world in this way: he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life. ¹⁷ ‘Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.

No-one is left out of God’s love; God sent Jesus in order that the world might be saved. All of us.

Was it this insight which made Nicodemus choose to risk his identity – his career, his friendships, his social standing – to rethink his people’s whole reason for being?

This son of Abraham made the same choice as his ancient forbear. Like Abram / Abraham, Nicodemus left everything to follow God, even to unthinkable places –wherever the breath of the Spirit might lead him. God’s purpose was the same: that all families of the Earth – the whole world – might receive God’s blessing.

May we be courageous enough disciples to follow these very clear examples! It’s all about God’s Grace; God’s Love, that everyone needs it, and we are the chosen vessels. What will we do with this treasure that has been entrusted to us? Amen

Rev’d Peter Balabanski

Lent 1 a. Gen 2 15-17 & 3 1-7, Ps 32, Rom 5 12-21, Mt 4 1-11

Today we’ve heard two very familiar stories from the scriptures – a pigeon pair – about people tempted to abandon their loyalty to God. The story from Genesis often gets described as the story of “The Fall” – or the story of “Original Sin”. It’s about the first humans being tempted to ignore God’s warning about forbidden knowledge, and then what happens when they give in to that temptation. So it’s about humanity’s loss of innocence; about our expulsion from paradise – becoming strangers to God, and about the origin of death. We might call it the story of becoming strangers.

A Canadian Theologian, William Danaher wrote that in this Genesis story, human flourishing is compromised. It’s a tragedy. Trust is eroded, loyalty is abandoned – people who were faithful people, faithful friends, suddenly become strangers, not only to God, but to each other and even to their own selves as well. When we act on a choice like this, somehow we stop being the people we knew we were only moments earlier.

It’s a terrible spot to get into. Betrayal always leads to destructive silence; a secret loneliness that alone we have no strength to overcome. As the Psalmist says, whilst I held my tongue; my bones wasted away … your hand was heavy on me day and night. Yet we’ve heard today that there is a way back from it. Paul stressed it again and again today. No matter what lie has been told; no matter what a stranger we’ve become to those we love and who love us, and even to our true selves, the free gift of Jesus’s integrity and grace offers us the way back.

The joy of this experience is beyond normal language to tell, but as ever, the Psalmist knows the words; whoever puts their trust in the Lord, mercy embraces them on every side.

The Gospel story of Jesus’ temptation in the Judean wilderness is the pigeon pair to the story from Genesis – a mirror in which much is reversed. Where there was the lush Garden of Eden, now there’s a harsh, dangerous desert. There, two people with all they needed; now Jesus alone and at the brink of survival. And the temptation to ignore God’s words is more sophisticated; now it’s presented as a temptation to hear God’s words falsely; to imagine they’re only about personal gain. The packaging is more sophisticated, but the basic temptation is the same; forget your loyalty; forget your integrity; forget your honesty and go for self-sufficiency, invulnerability and power and glory.

If we go down this path, can we see how it will lead us away from our own humanity? Everything precious to us is shared with our loved ones; it’s received with grateful joy, or suffered in the embrace of compassion. Outside of relationship, none of it has meaning. Knowing this, it’s clear how gross and destructive each of the temptations in the wilderness actually is. Each demands the abandonment of trust, of loyalty, the abandonment of being in relationship – in short, the abandonment of being truly human. And in the wilderness, Jesus withstands them all. We might call this the story of sticking with your friendships. ^{(v/s becoming strangers)}

But for now the wilderness is the image we need to stick with. The desert is lonely and dangerous. Yet it is an essential place for us.

It’s the place we end up when we’ve succumbed to temptations which all derive from the temptations we’ve heard today – and they all lead to isolation. The emotions out in this wilderness are likely to move from bitter sadness through angry self-justification to overpowering self-pity – then back again. We’re tempted to give into those feelings – blame others for what we’ve done; choose to cut ties and go it alone – imagine how sorry they’ll be. It’s a place where we have to choose between becoming a monster, or going back and owning up to the fool we’ve been.

The Spirit led Jesus into that wilderness – and he went.

This is not the only time Jesus went into the place of our weakness; our vulnerability. It’s the story of his life – his birth and his death. And we need to keep most firmly in view what those choices of his were for. If the Genesis story is one about becoming strangers to paradise, Jesus’s desert story is about seeking us in the wilderness. As soon as he’s been baptised and commissioned, he follows the Spirit’s lead straight out to our wildernesses – our desert – opening our eyes, un-stopping our ears, calling us back a sense of who and where we are. The desert isn’t something we can avoid or ignore. It’s part of every human life. We discover it in Lent as a space God allows – that God creates – where we can receive God’s grace without hindrance. It’s our meeting place with God.

In the ABM Lenten desert reflections, Celia Kemp writes; …there is no space that God opens up in our lives that God doesn’t fill. The challenge is to leave the busy surfaces of our lives and enter the desert at our heart in the wild hope that a way may be prepared for us to see God. Amen.

Rev’d Peter Balabanski

Transfiguration A.  Mt 17 1-9

I want to tell you a story about a special friend who I saw transfigured at a time when he was desperately ill; a Luritja Man from the remote community of Papunya in the Northern Territory, true Dad to our Shekayla.

He was transferred down here to hospital, and after many weeks, he was still in an intensive care bed; his condition still critical. For over a month, they’d been trying to get him back on his feet. Throughout that time, we’d been on the phone with the family back in Papunya trying to keep them up with what was happening for him – he was such a long way from home. There were times when he’d say how he was worried – lonely. I saw him often. Yet how could you help him enough with so much worry, such a distance from country and family; such profound loneliness?

But on one particular day, I got there and something had changed. All the busyness around him was still going on, but about him there was a stillness; a peace. In his eyes, there was all of a sudden something like a great depth or maybe it was a vast distance; a kind of timelessness. We talked normally, joked. But he looked different. There was an ancient dignity. He was oblivious to the busy intrusion of intensive-care medicine. He was looking at something I couldn’t see – he could see way further than I could. I think of that time when I hear today’s gospel story. I think I have some idea of what Peter, James and John saw – a friend transfigured; someone I knew and loved suddenly become so much more than I’d ever imagined.

I didn’t have any idea what he could see now with his great, deep eyes. After he died, his other friends and I would piece together our conversations with him, and each of us added new dots to a picture which grew steadily in clarity; a pattern coming into view. It’s a picture of someone accepting that his death was coming. His pastor in Papunya spoke with him daily on the phone. They didn’t name it to each other, but the day after he died, his pastor wrote to me, ‘Looking back, I think he sensed he was dying.’

He must have. I watched as gently, he set about putting relationships in order. In his last week here, he was on the phone with his family for most of each day; absolutely there with them as far as he could be – adjudicating disputes, giving counsel, telling people how we belong to each other.

And when Shekayla came back to Adelaide for school, in the last two days he was here, when they were together, her Dad’s priority was to focus her on her school life, and on her relationship with us as her family here in Adelaide.

The whole time he was here, he had his Bible with him. From time to time, he’d ask me to get him some different strength reading glasses, so he could keep up with his daily Bible study. Every time we spoke, in person or on the phone, he’d make sure we prayed together.

At some moment, he’d changed. He’d entered a place of stillness; of peace. His vision deepened with a distance, with a timelessness, with an ancient dignity – he’d gone somewhere I couldn’t see; I had a glimpse of someone I’d never even vaguely known. He was transfigured. And his transfiguration keeps coming into view – now that he’s gone. It was coming into view up in Papunya at the sorry camp and the funeral, in our prayers and our sadness down here, and in our deepening bond with his family. We’re still discovering his transfiguration.

That’s something like what we saw begin on the mountain in today’s Gospel; it begins for Peter, James and John. Jesus is transfigured before them. But he knows they won’t begin to comprehend it until after Easter – until its full meaning can begin to be gathered. How could they understand that they’ve kept company with the God of all time and space? His transfiguration frightened them so badly they collapsed in dread? How do you make sense of such a vision? But then he touches them so normally; tells them get up; don’t be afraid. The whole majesty of God, and then a gentle touch of encouragement; can we grasp that?

Have you ever seen anyone transfigured? Did they do something, or say something, or did anyone tell you something about them which utterly transformed the way you know them? Often it’s close to their death, or after it – stories at their funeral that we’d never imagined; their transfiguration changes us – sets un on a new path that they could see, and we’re only now discovering it. Some of these moments we call mountain-top experiences; like the ones in the Bible. They bring us clarity and vision that we seldom find apart from the closeness of death. My hopes and prayers for a medical miracle blurred my vision of my friend’s epiphany and transfiguration – they hindered me from entering into it with him. But God is patient.

Matthew gets that across to us today. It’s amazing how we people can be so blind – how we try to domesticate something transcendent. Jesus is dazzlingly transfigured on a mountaintop there with his close friends. Moses and Elijah appear with him, and Peter says I’ll pitch three tents for you. Let’s contain this in something we can comprehend. Matthew shows us how bizarre our reaction to the transcendent can be. But then he can afford to be knowledgeable; he’s writing this after Easter.

The season of Epiphany opens with the light of the star of Bethlehem, and it closes with the light of the Transfiguration. It’s the time of the light of God’s presence – God revealed among us, vulnerable and gentle, touching us and saying, ‘get up; don’t be afraid’. It’s the light by which, if we truly look, we can see people being gently transformed into God’s likeness.

I’ve been learning that I’m in God’s presence when people are open to God. I mightn’t necessarily notice until it seems too late. But God makes sure it’s never a too-late time. I’ve watched Christ transfigure limitations – even death – into a vision of God’s Love. I’ve seen a man in Christ’s image accept his death and gently prepare his family and friends for what they would face.

The light of the world calls us to transfigure lives and set the captive free: hallowed be his name! Amen

Rev’d Peter Balabanski

Epiphany + 6A. Deut 10 12-22, Ps 119 1-8, 1 Cor 3 1-9, Mt 5 21-37

Kids: You go to the fridge; just a little something sweet would be so nice. You open the door, you search for something – anything. Then you see it – hidden at the very back behind a large jar of beetroot – a beautiful punnet of the most perfect strawberries you’ve ever seen. You look behind you – nobody there. You think, Just one; I can re-pack the punnet so it looks full again. You reach out, careful not to move the beetroot jar – they’d notice that. You tap the strawberry punnet sideways to where you can grab it safely. But then you see the sticky yellow label; the boldly written words: Don’t even think about it! Is there really any harm in thinking about it? What might be better?

Adults: We hear Jesus tell people today that even thinking about doing something unkind can do harm. Jesus wants us to love; to decide not even to think about doing harm: to decide not to despise; if someone hurts us, to decide not to plan revenge – but instead to decide to think about how to make things better – to decide to think about how to end fights and not to win them.

I’m saying the word decide a lot, because real love is not so much something we feel as something we decide. When people get married, when we ask them all those questions about looking after each other, they don’t answer, O sure, that feels right; they answer, I will – and those two words mean I promise this because I’ve decided to, not just because I feel like it. Your feelings can change with a little disagreement; your decisions; your promises are things you stick to no matter what you feel like. Real love is both a gift and a decision that we will hold to; just as real faith is a gift, and choosing to exercise it is also decision we will hold to – and those decisions make people reliable – committed, loving and reliable – they shape the people we are.

But isn’t it enough just to live a life where you don’t actually hurt anyone else; isn’t that enough? Jesus says no, it isn’t. He warns us that we might do nothing wrong – we might obey all the laws and do all the good things we’re meant to. But even then, if we’re in the habit of thinking we can judge and condemn other people, it can cause great harm and hurt our relationships. People know if we don’t respect them; people know if we don’t trust them – if we don’t approve of them. And who are we to judge anyway?

No-one wants to be around a grumpy, disapproving sort of person. We won’t work happily for a boss who never trusts us – who never seems to think we’re trying hard enough. But for an encourager – a boss who starts from a basis of trust and respect, you’ll do work you never thought you were capable of. It’s the same in a sports team; in a choir or orchestra; in a church. If you feel trusted, valued and appreciated, you’ll work miracles. Imagine missing out on that! Jesus is telling us not to miss out on the miracles that love can work.

This is the perspective of all today’s scriptures. Trust, faith, optimism, good will and love are the best foundation for a community; for a family. Jesus tells us to make them habits of mind; to decide to cultivate love for each other because, as he says twice in this gospel, love is the fulfilling of the Law.

Just two chapters on from today’s passage, Jesus says: In everything do to others as you would have them do to you; for this is the Law and the Prophets. ^{(Mt 7:12)} And later in the Gospel: You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the greatest and first commandment. And a second is like it: you shall love your neighbour as yourself. On these two commandments hang all the Law and the Prophets. ^{(Mt 22:36-40)} And he’s quoting from the Old Testament when he says this; the God of the Hebrews is the same as Jesus. This is nothing new.

When people you care for are thriving, it’s really lovely. And it’s even better when people you care for get on well with each other. That’s what makes good parties so much fun. All your best friends are there, and they like each other – of course you knew they should, because you like them all; you know they’re all special people.

But imagine if a fight broke out – a really bad fight – how you’d feel. As a child, I never understood how awful it was for my parents when my brothers and sister and I fought with each other. It was always worst in the car – locked in that confined space together – it only took one finger over an invisible line on the back seat to start it off. Parents love their children. They protect their kids from anyone who might hurt them. But when the kids start hurting each other, it’s just awful. The malice and the anger that parents try to protect their children from have come right inside – like an unwanted visitor. And it was invited in by something as small as an unkind thought; a selfish impulse. Jesus teaches us today how we deal with that sort of problem.

The readings today all focus on it. Maybe when we heard them, we thought they were all about laws and rules; do-s and don’ts. What they’re really about is love and care; how to nurture love and care in families, communities, societies and organisations. So we heard Moses say that God gave the words on the two tablets of stone  ‘…for your own well-being…’ because ‘…the Lord your God set his heart in love on … you…’^{Dt 10.13-14} We heard the Psalmist declare blessed those who ‘… keep [God’s] commands and seek after [God] with their whole heart.’ ^{Ps 119.2} Paul tells the Corinthian Christians to put their differences aside and realise that ‘…we’re God’s servants working together…’ ^{1 Cor 3.9} We are presented with a vision of ourselves as a world-healing community. We’ll pray for this as we meditate on these scriptures this week.

Two Wolves – A Cherokee Parable

An old Cherokee chief was walking along with his grandchildren when they saw a wolf on a cliff high above them. Pointing at the wolf, the old man told the children.

“A fight is going on inside me.” “It is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves.

“One is evil – that wolf is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, self-doubt, and ego.

“The other is good – that wolf is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith.

“This same fight is going on inside you – and inside every other person, too.”

The children thought about it for a minute and one asked, “Grandpa, which wolf will win?”

The old chief simply replied, “The one you feed.”

^{Author Unknown (possibly a Cherokee parable, and going back probably at least to the 1950’s in print – but unconfirmable)}

Rev’d Peter Balabanski

Epiphany + 4a. Lk 2 22-40

In every one of our families, we have stories of the first visit to the baby health centre; particularly that nerve-wracking first visit with a firstborn child. Some of those baby health nurses could be pretty daunting people to meet. But I doubt any of them could hold a candle to what awaited the first outing of a baby boy in the first-century Jewish community. On his eighth day, he was taken to be circumcised and named by the Rabbi; a pretty rugged outing. But for Jesus, it didn’t stop there, because he was also a firstborn child.

This meant that forty days after Jesus was born, and as soon as Mary was able to rejoin public life among her people, she and Joseph had to bring Jesus to Jerusalem to present him to the Lord. This was Law for every Jewish family with a first child; a command that came out of the Exodus story: a reminder that God rescued all the first-born Israelite children from death in Egypt.

We remember how the last of the plagues sent on the Egyptians killed all their firstborn – humans and animals. The Israelites had been warned beforehand to sacrifice animals and mark the doorways of their houses with the blood. The Angel of death ‘passed over’ all the houses marked in this way – didn’t go in – and so none of the firstborn in those houses died. This was the first Passover.

In Jesus’ time, families of firstborn children went to Jerusalem to make offerings on the fortieth day after their child’s birth; an offering for the mother’s purification, and they also offered their child to God, and then redeemed him – symbolically bought him back: a very profound ritual, laden with history and significance. We’ve just read that the holy family went to offer the best an average family could manage, two doves or pigeons for Mary’s purification. They were also there to present Jesus to the Lord. And they should also have paid five shekels to ‘redeem’ him. ^{(Num 18:15-16)}  But Luke doesn’t mention this – some suspect deliberately. “Jesus is never ‘bought back’, but belongs wholly to the Lord” ^{(Farris, 302)}

Every family across the length and breadth of the Land travelled to the Temple to perform this ritual; there were probably several families arriving every day. But things didn’t happen in quite the straightforward manner that Mary and Joseph might have imagined it would. As they came, they were greeted by some very old people who seemed to expect them; Simeon and the old prophet-woman Anna.

We read that the Holy Spirit had once revealed to Simeon that he wouldn’t see death before he would see the Lord’s anointed—the Messiah. And today, guided by the Spirit, Simeon came to the temple finally to meet the one God had promised; the one who would bring God’s blessing to all nations. Simeon took little Jesus into his arms. He gazed on the face that Jewish people had been praying to see for thousands of years. Out of all those devout, prayerful people, Simeon was one who saw his prayer answered. Simeon, as did Anna. And then Simeon sang:

Now, Master, you let your servant depart in peace, according to your word;

for my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared before the face of all peoples; a light for revelation to the nations, and the glory of your people Israel.

Simeon tells God, ‘you’ve done it! Just as you said you would! And I’m not just seeing the one you always said would come; I’m holding him in my arms. He’s in my arms, so now I can know the whole world is safe in your arms. Now my life is finally complete; I can die in peace; happy; content.’ In our tradition we sing or say Simeon’s beautiful song at the end of each day, and also at the end of every funeral. In the presence of Jesus, with Simeon, we may also welcome death with peace. And with Simeon’s insight into Jesus, we see light given to all who are lost in shadows of fear and hopelessness. That’s why today is called Candlemas.

And Anna was a prophet; a very old widow. She never left the Temple day and night, but worshipped there with fasting and prayer. When she saw Jesus, she too prophesied about this child to all who looked for the redemption of Jerusalem.

Think of their decades of waiting; Think of the turmoil of the world around them: an invading army; a king as bad as Herod the Great; a religious establishment obsessed with power and wealth; so many people missing the point.

Yet here were two people who didn’t seek power or wealth; they didn’t fear death. Simeon had longed for the moment which would herald his death. And today, when that moment came, he welcomed it as the mark of a life fulfilled – he saw only peace and hope in it.

Simeon and Anna had lived very long lives of faithful service to God. For them, this was at once a moment of exultation and of release. They could let go; they could die in peace; somebody else could carry the load now. It takes the eyes of age – the experience of years – to be able to trust that all this hope can possibly be left safely in the hands of a baby. It takes the certainty that God is involved.

Simeon’s song is called the night-prayer of his life and it remains the Church’s night-prayer; handing over to God the troubles of each day. Simeon and Anna give us a vision of that moment as a sign of new birth – fulfilled hope – joy and peace; an insight into our death as a sign of God’s coming to us; of God’s love for us.

How does this connect with you or me? Is there a Simeon or Anna here, and is there someone here to hand over to? M.K. Gandhi revived a classical Sanskrit expression Satyagraha – holding on to truth – whose power he demonstrated in the campaigns he waged. We have faithful seers and servants here, people who’ve held onto faith for a very long time; people who received the gift of faith from their forebears, and who, by God’s grace, have borne its light aloft for many years.

Faithful fathers and mothers of our church, I address you. Your children and grandchildren must hold the light aloft in a different world. What do you see ahead of us? Maybe you can help us better understand how to hold on, knowing that the life of faith is just as vulnerable and exposed as anyone else’s life. How, in the Christ Child, can we see God with us in those trials and joys?            Amen.

 A hymn for Candlemas – Ephrem of Syria (4^th Century Deacon and Hymn-writer)

Praise to you, Son of the Most High, who has put on our body.

Into the holy temple Simeon carried the Christ-child and sang a lullaby to him:

‘You have come, Compassionate One,

having pity on my old age, making my bones enter into Sheol in peace.

By you I will be raised out of the grave into paradise.’

Anna embraced the child; she placed her mouth upon His lips,

and then the Spirit rested upon her lips, like Isaiah

whose mouth was silent until a coal drew near to his lips and opened his mouth.

Anna was aglow with the spirit of his mouth.

She sang him a lullaby:

‘Royal Son, despised son, being silent, you hear;

hidden, you see; concealed, you know; God-man, glory to your name.’

The barren woman Elizabeth cried out as she was accustomed,

‘Who has granted to me, blessed woman,

to see your Babe by whom heaven and earth are filled?

Blessed is your fruit that brought forth the cluster on a barren vine.’

Praise to you, Son of the Most High, who has put on our body.

Rev’d Peter Balabanski

Australia Day 2020

I wrote in my weekly that today we wouldn’t use the readings set for Australia Day. They are scriptures which were used by the deeply religious Apartheid regime in South Africa to justify their exploitation of that land, and their treatment of its First Peoples. Such cruel irony is not appropriate to a worship service.

Tony Wilson replied to my weekly yesterday with a story. He wrote ‘Years ago on the farm, one of my employees was a native, Herbie Lovatt. He was one of ‘nature’s gentlemen’. The white employees liked him, and our young children adored him. He was a returned soldier. I have [a copy of] a neatly hand-written letter of Herbie’s, applying for a returned soldier’s block of farm land. He was refused because he was black!’

The readings we are using – those set for the third Sunday after Epiphany – are far better for a day as ambiguous as Australia Day. The readings from Isaiah and the Psalms are prophetic words of hope for the people of Israel. They were themselves a colonising people. They’d taken their land by force, but now they’ve been colonised and exiled themselves. Isaiah offers words of hope to this people who fear God has forgotten them, this people who live with the fear and shame of being controlled and exploited by foreigners. Isaiah’s words also speak to us who carry the burden of our own colonial heritage. They call us to hear Aboriginal Australians with more compassion.

I often hear people say they find the Old Testament difficult; that it’s so violent. But our story as colonisers of this land is very much the same. Ours is a too-little told story of continent-wide, calculated mass murder, theft and cultural genocide.

And it still continues today both physically, and in its bureaucratic form. In August last year, the Queensland government extinguished native title to a part of the Galilee Basin so its traditional owners couldn’t impede proposed mining developments there.

It’s still happening; we are still taking the land, we are still disregarding its spiritual significance to its traditional owners, and we are still turning a deaf ear to demands for common justice.

This is why many First Australians are so desperately hurt by our celebration of the day when all this horror began for them. It’s also why many First Australians read today’s prophecies in Isaiah so differently from the newcomers. The people who walked in darkness – on them, light has shined. … For the yoke of their burden, and the bar across their shoulders, the rod of their oppressor, you have broken. Imagine reading that literally; reading it as a promise that your people’s undeserved suffering will end; that God will do justice.

What’s our response? While I was away, I read some of Stan Grant’s recent book, Australia Day. An Aboriginal Australian, Stan Grant starts by focussing on his time as an Australian journalist working overseas. From that perspective, he is able to share the pride and delight we all do in Australia’s beauty, in our freedoms, and in the relaxed, friendly nature of our culture. An Australia Day barbeque is a lovely break from the tension of a journalist’s overseas posting. So he knows how we feel about the wonderful things that bind us together; how rightly proud we are of the sort of humanity and compassion we’ve seen time and again – and most recently in people’s compassionate response to the recent bushfire disasters.

Yet when he’s back in Australia, Stan Grant is deeply aware of First Australians being shut out of this beautiful community on a daily basis. He tries desperately to balance what there is to celebrate with what there is needing change.

So he reminds us of the 17-year mortality gap, reminds us how football crowds persecute Aboriginal players and commentators deny that it’s racist behaviour; he reminds us that Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander adults make up only 2% of the national population, yet constitute 27% of the national prison population; he reminds us that frequent Aboriginal deaths in custody continue; and he reminds us time and time again that we are better than this.

So our first job as Australian Christians is to make sure we can be better than this; that the Church offer leadership to the wider Australian community. And we’ve been offered a clear path to follow.

The National Constitutional Convention held at Uluru in 2017 gave Australia the Statement from the Heart so that we might have a way to be better than this. In its last paragraph, it says this. In 1967 we were counted, in 2017 we seek to be heard. So listening is the first step.

In 2017, the Anglican Church of Australia responded to the Statement from the Heart. General Synod backed its call for a constitutionally-entrenched First Nations’ Voice to the Commonwealth Parliament and asked that study resources be prepared in consultation with the National Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Anglican Council. The result was a study book called A Voice in the Wilderness. ^{https://www.abmission.org/resources.php/163/a-voice-in-the-wilderness} Last year, Vicky and I joined with a group of young parishioners to listen to this wonderful statement by using this book as a study guide. We’d welcome the opportunity to do so again this year with any of you who may be interested.

The next step after listening is to allow ourselves to be changed – to repent and do things differently. In today’s Gospel Jesus interpreted our reading from Isaiah in his own words. The people who sat in darkness have seen a great light. He interpreted it like John the Baptist did before him; he called people to repent – to turn from our present life in the shadows and to follow him into the light. Next, we saw him put that straight into action; he called Simon, Andrew, James and John to drop what they were doing and follow him on that journey into the light. And they did.

Can the Church follow this call? The Uniting Church in Australia did so in 2009-10. It added a preamble to its constitution which affirmed something about Aboriginal Spirituality that, until then, every church had rejected.

Paragraph 3 of this preamble reads, The First Peoples had already encountered the Creator God before the arrival of the colonisers; the Spirit was already in the land revealing God to the people through law, custom and ceremony. The same love and grace that was finally and fully revealed in Jesus Christ sustained the First Peoples and gave them particular insights into God’s ways. In short, the Uniting Church repented of its former views, and acknowledged the truth of God’s recognisable presence with Australian Aboriginal people since time immemorial.

Following Christ’s call can be hard. We’re asked to take risks, trust, and step into the unknown. Sometimes, we have to leave the familiar behind. Sometimes, our actions may make us look foolish. Following God may require us to admit and face our fears. Yet, we remember that we are all God’s children; we are never alone.

So may God give us courage to bite this bullet, to trust and to offer leadership to Australia. Amen