to curse or to bless?

 

I wonder when you last cursed something or someone?

Bloody politicians, they are all as bad as each other.

Here we go. Another storm. The weather is so miserable.

Why am I so clumsy?

I am a burden on others.

We might be surprised to realise how often we speak curses. How often we speak death.

The thing is, our words have power. You do not have to subscribe to the increasingly popular (at least among materially wealthy individuals) idea of manifesting to know that words have power.

If I curse the wind and the rain, it makes no difference to the wind and rain, but it does affect me. It concedes ground to the rule (kingdom) of death over me, as opposed to the reign of a loving, life-giving, life-sustaining God.

When I curse another person, it also affects me. But it can affect them too. Speak death over a life often enough and that life will be shaped by death. As will our own.

I wonder when you last blessed something or someone?

To utter a blessing is to speak the power of life and love in the world. To affirm a truth that may have been lost. To mend a part of the fabric of creation that may have been torn. Or simply to recognise and value what is in front of us. It does not so much create (as manifesting claims to do) material reality as it reveals the kingdom of God in the world—and allows both the one who blesses and that which is blessed to be shaped by that reality.

Uttering blessings does not seem to come as easily as curses. Like anything worthwhile, it takes practice. Some people journal between one and three things they are thankful for each day. Counting your blessings is not synonymous with blessing those things, but it may be a starting point.

Blessed are you, O wind, for you are strong and free.

Blessed are you, O rain, for you renew the face of the earth.

Blessed are you, O knife/pen, for you have been a faithful tool in my hand all these years. And blessed be the hand that made you, with such attention to the quality of their work.

Blessed are you, my cat/dog, for you have been a faithful companion.

Blessed are you, my child, strength of my youth and joy of my old age, for you will see things that I will never see and do things that I will never do.

Blessed are you, Members of Parliament, our representatives, for you seek to shape the world for the good of the people and give your strength to the common cause.

Blessed are you, O bird who sits in the tree, for you offer your song to the world without price.

Blessed are you, O tree, for you turn light into life, give shelter, filter air...

Blessed are you, food that we eat, for you nourish the body with nutrients and the soul with flavour and with the joy of companions [literally, those who break bread together].

Blessed are you, O farmers, for by the sweat of your brow you bring forth food from the earth.

Blessed are you, who get up while it is still dark to collect the waste from our homes and take it away, and you who sweep the streets by day, for you take upon yourself what others will not, and lift our burden.

Blessed are you, grandparent, for you know the joy of children given more than once in a lifetime, and the joy of returning them to their parents.

Blessed are you, who is unable for now to see yourself as a blessing, for you are loved by God; may you come to know your inherent goodness and beauty.

Blessed are you who are lost, in grief or despondency, for you will discover things you knew not of, and so could never have set out to find.

Blessed am I, for I am a child of God.

 

Simeon and Anna : part two : Anna

 

Malachi 3.1-5 and Luke 2.22-40

Anna awakes within the Temple complex. She is so old now that she does not have much need for sleep, but in the darkest hours she gets some rest, in the Chamber, off the Court of the Women, where the oil-soaked cakes for offering are prepared. It feels like home—after all, she is of the tribe of Asher, whom Jacob had blessed as providers of rich food, royal delicacies, through the generations for ever (Genesis 49:20). Though Anna herself eats little these days, as if sustained by food others know not.

You’ll know Anna, at least by sight. Day after day she comes and sits at the foot of the fifteen semi-circular steps that lead up from the Court of the Women to the Court of Israel, a small crowd always standing around her attentively. She has been here forever, long before the present buildings stood, longer even than old Simeon. She is, as much as the steps themselves, part of the fixings and the furniture. In all likelihood the great tide of humanity who pour in at the pilgrim festivals don’t notice her, or if they do she does not hold their attention: what is an ancient woman, compared to the bronze gates at the top of the steps, with which Nicanor wrought miracles, calming the sea—gates so revered that even Herod dared not replace them with gates of gold? But those who remain when the tide goes out again seek her out, for she speaks consolations.

A prophet, in the manner of Isaiah: ‘Comfort, O comfort my people, says your God. Speak tenderly to Jerusalem, and cry to her that she has served her term, that her penalty is paid, that she has received from the Lord’s hand double for all her sins.’ (Isaiah 40:1, 2) Anna speaks consolation from the inside, as one who has authority. They say the number seven stands for completion, perfection. But who can accept seven as the completion of a marriage to so kind a man, the only man Anna had ever loved this way? Seven years enjoying the fat of life, slurping the marrow of its bones, glistening on the fingers, running down the chin; swallowed up by death in a moment. She had railed at God, like the sea; but God did not answer. She had beaten her fists against the sky; God remained silent. She had questioned herself—had their love been too fierce to last? Eventually the night passed and, gradual as light, it dawned on her that the silence of God was not indifference, nor powerlessness, but that she was being held, by One much greater than herself. And that the silence swallowed death whole. Brought all things to peace. There was nothing here to fear. Her husband slept with their ancestors; and at night Anna would lie with him; learnt to rest in eternity and rise, morning by morning, in time. She had lived this way so long, some said she had discovered the secret of immortality.

That was the first of many times of dying, in the long years of her widowhood, and through each loss she discovered more and more the blessing only those who mourn can understand. Rich food, royal delicacies. An acquired taste, yes, but not a bitter aftertaste. A strange, unlooked for perfection, but a perfection, nonetheless: union with the Holy One of Israel.

She speaks consolation to those who seek it here. Reveals the invisible God in the common things of life, in universal emotions. Prayerful words, that charm the terrors of the night into the most tender of mercies; that transform unleavened cakes into the sustenance of heaven. Night and day, day and night, the prayers of a prophet.

She prays, and sings, not a classically beautiful voice, cracked now by age, but one that rings in harmony with the Unseen. And she is singing now. Over a young couple who have arrived at the foot of the fifteen steps on their way to present sacrifice in the Court of Israel, a pair of turtle doves. And the firstborn son, whom old Simeon has taken in his arms and holds high for all to see. Simeon utters words of blessing. Anna joins in with a song of her own, their voices joining to mend the world, so it can receive its King.

And what of you? What has been broken open in your world? And what blessing has been revealed within? What song have you been given to sing, in a cracked voice perhaps, but the melody of heaven?

 

Simeon and Anna : part one : Simeon

 

Malachi 3.1-5 and Luke 2.22-40

Simeon woke up knowing that today was the day. Knowing in his bones, the knuckles of fingers and toes worn smooth by his years as a fuller, the trade he had plied since boyhood. Boiling down soap plants into a bleach paste; kneading linen tunics by hand in a tub; massaging woollen outer garments underfoot in a vat. All those years. All those customers. All those priests in their flowing robes. Blood was the hardest stain to remove.

He had been an old man fifteen years ago, when Herod had the simple temple Zerubbabel built when the exiles had returned from Babylon five hundred years ago torn down, the Temple Mount complex extended to twice its size, and a new building erected, the largest temple in the world. Magnificent. A wonder. Fitting for the God of the Jews. So much accomplished, in only a decade. Herod was a man on a mission. These days, Simeon spent his days in the temple courts. Even so, he wondered, what would God make of it, these great stones? Would he shed tears at its beauty, if he had eyes like a man? Or tears of sorrow?

Simeon was a man waiting to die. Not in a morbid way. He was not depressed. It was simply that he had lived a long life, and seen many things, seen his family grow, held his grandchildren in his arms, and yes, seen many friends and family members go ahead of him to Sheol, to the rest of the righteous with their ancestors. He simply did not need to keep on living, was looking forward to his reward, if not for one thing. One task remaining. For he had heard the Spirit of the Lord speak to his own spirit, in the secret place of prayer, charging him with one last job, for his master and, yes, friend. To take up the fuller’s soap one last time and fulfil the prophecy of Malachi, to cleanse not just the priests’ robes but the whole temple on the day that the Messiah would appear there.

He had been waiting, ready, for that day ever since the made-new temple had been completed, the scaffolding taken down, the sound of hammers fallen silent. Five years now, and more visitors to the temple, more pilgrims, than could ever be counted. Who was he waiting for? He did not know. Just knew that he would know when he saw it, saw the one for whom he waited, for whom he stayed alive. And today was the day.

The old man, not a priest but unlike the priests who served in the temple by roster an old man who could be found in the temple day after day, spies a man and a woman who carries her son, an infant, just forty days old. He has been in this world, wrapped in swaddling bands, for as long and no longer than Noah dwelt safe in the ark. And today the waters have subsided and this child, like Noah of old, steps into a new world. A new beginning.

Simeon approaches, reaches out, asks, “May I?” and takes the offered child from his mother in his smooth bleached hands, holds him up at arm’s length, and gazes into his eyes. The child holds the old man’s gaze. This is the one. The herald. The heralded.

The old man blesses God, his Master, the One who Saves, the One who dwells in light no longer unapproachable. The One who smiles upon his servant and releases him from his duties to enter into rest. Speaks words over the child that, one day, long after Simeon’s time, he too might take up as his own. Into Your hands I commend my spirit.

And then he blesses the father and the mother. Declares over them their goodness, their share in the divine nature, the man and the woman, speaks words that resist, set limits on, the toil of their labour, reminding them of truths so easily forgotten. And yet a blessing is not magic, not an incantation that wards off evil. A strange blessing this one: thoughts, good and evil, will be revealed; and a sword will pierce this mother’s own soul. Not protection from evil, so much as strength to face evil, to face it and transform it. A fuller’s blessing: calling this daughter of Eve to bruise out the stain of sin beneath her feet.

The act of blessing is not reserved for priests but belongs to all God’s people. No, more than that, to all God’s children, to humankind. To reach out beyond us and our story to something far greater than we will see, or can even imagine, and remind the world of the inherent goodness of all that God has made. To draw on our part—whether priest or fuller or butcher, baker, candlestick maker—to set others free to play their own.

What, and who, will you bless today?

 

suffering

 

The BBC, Reuters, and other agencies are sharing photos and video clips of a stream of thousands of Gazans heading back to north Gaza on foot, with little idea what they will find when they get there. It puts me in mind of the ancient Israelites making an exodus from Egypt. There is only one humanity, and when we lose sight of the humanity of others it can only lead to the loss of our own. The good news is that what is lost can be found, what is hidden in darkness can be brought into the light, what is stolen away can be restored, what lies in ruins can be rebuilt.

Language changes over time. In English, to suffer used to mean to be the subject of the actions of someone else, as opposed to the one who acts. In a grammatical sense, to be passive; in an experiential sense, to possess less agency than the other person. In the Early Modern English translation of the Bible authorised by King James we hear Jesus instruct his disciples to suffer the little children to come unto him, which is to say, carry those too young to walk. In this understanding, we can suffer ill-treatment or suffer loving-kindness. And others can suffer ill-treatment or loving-kindness at our hands.

Just as we suffer destruction at the hands of others, even if we contribute with self-destructive behaviour, so also the rebuilding of our lives requires that we suffer the help of others, even if it also requires our active participation. Just as we suffer the degradation of our humanity, so we must suffer the restoration. No man, woman, or child is an island.

Humanity is revealed in our suffering.

 

fulfilled

 

Luke 4.14-21

What does it mean for the scripture to be fulfilled in our hearing today? This happens when, together, we encounter Jesus and, by his Spirit speaking to us through the internal and external noise of our lives, we hear and respond with trust and obedience. When, as Jesus puts it, we ‘repent and believe’ and follow him. When, over time, this forms more and more of our lives, at both a personal and corporate level.

To say that ‘Jesus is the fulfilment of Scripture, and all Scripture is fulfilled in Christ.’ (Brian Zahnd) is an invitation to a lifetime of discovery. But here is my own attempt at a summary starting point overview of the Bible, from this perspective:

Genesis: Jesus is the Second Adam, who fulfils creation; and the new Abraham, who fulfils faith

Exodus: Jesus is the new Moses, who fulfils salvation from the oppression of death

Leviticus: Jesus is the lamb of God, who fulfils salvation from the oppression of sin

Numbers: Jesus fulfils sanctuary

Deuteronomy: Jesus fulfils Life

Joshua: Jesus fulfils courage

Judges: Jesus fulfils repentance

Ruth: Jesus is the Son of David who fulfils ethnicity

1 Samuel:  Jesus fulfils the sovereignty of God

2 Samuel: Jesus is the new David, who fulfils messianic hope

1 Kings: John the Baptist is the new Elijah, who prepares the way for Jesus

2 Kings: Jesus fulfils the sovereignty of God (again)

1 Chronicles: Jesus fulfils the temple as the meeting place of God and humanity

2 Chronicles: Jesus is the new Solomon, who fulfils wisdom and grace

Ezra: Jesus fulfils the life of obedience

Nehemiah: Jesus fulfils the restoration of all that has been ruined

Esther: Jesus fulfils intercession on behalf of God’s people

Job: Jesus fulfils the presence of God in our pain (or, Passion, that which is done to us)

Psalms: Jesus fulfils the prayer of every emotion

Proverbs: Jesus fulfils all truth

Ecclesiastes: Jesus fulfils God’s enduring presence in our transient experience

Song of Songs: Jesus fulfils Love

Isaiah: Jesus fulfils suffering

Jeremiah: Jesus fulfils repentance (again)

Lamentations: Jesus fulfils grief

Ezekiel: Jesus fulfils the vision of heaven on earth

Daniel: Jesus fulfils humanity

Hosea: Jesus fulfils reconciliation

Joel: Jesus fulfils the outpouring of the Holy Spirit

Amos: Jesus fulfils integrity

Obadiah: Jesus fulfils God’s judgement of the nations

Jonah: Jesus fulfils God’s mercy on the nations

Micah: Jesus fulfils justice

Nahum: Jesus fulfils divine opposition to evil

Habakkuk: Jesus fulfils trust in God

Zephaniah: Jesus fulfils the Day of the Lord

Haggai: Jesus fulfils the temple (again)

Zechariah: Jesus fulfils holiness

Malachi: John the Baptist is the new Elijah, who prepares the way for Jesus (again)

Matthew: Jesus is the new David (again) and the new Moses (again)

Mark: Jesus fulfils time

Luke: Jesus fulfils compassion

John: Jesus is the fulfilment of God (that’s a bold statement)

Acts: Jesus fulfils the mission of God, to the ends of the earth

Romans: Jesus fulfils salvation (again)

1 Corinthians: Jesus fulfils the Church

2 Corinthians: Jesus fulfils reconciliation (again)

Galatians: Jesus fulfils fruitfulness

Ephesians: Jesus fulfils unity and diversity

Philippians: Jesus fulfils humanity (again)

Colossians: Jesus fulfils heaven and earth

1 Thessalonians: Jesus fulfils time (again)

2 Thessalonians: Jesus fulfils patience

1 Timothy: Jesus fulfils godly character

2 Timothy: Jesus fulfils the resurrection of the dead

Titus: Jesus fulfils godly character(again)

Philemon: Jesus fulfils liberty

Hebrews: Jesus is the new Melchizedek, fulfilling eternity

James: Jesus fulfils the life of faith (again)

1 Peter: Jesus fulfils holiness (again)

2 Peter: Jesus fulfils revelation

1 John: Jesus fulfils Life (again) and Love (again)

2 John: Jesus fulfils Truth (again) and Love (again)

3 John: Jesus fulfils Truth (again) and Love (again)

Jude: Jesus fulfils glory

Revelation: Jesus fulfils the sovereignty of God (again) and so fulfils all things

 

 

 

ruins

 

Reflections on Nehemiah 8.1-3, 5-6, 8-10 and Luke 4.14-21

Imagine, for a moment, that the Luftwaffe had won the battle of Britain, and that Germany and her allies went on to win the Second World War. While Paris is taken as a jewel in the crown of the German empire, Hitler has London’s key landmarks—the Houses of Parliament, St Paul’s Cathedral—destroyed, in part pure spite, in part sending a clear message to Britain’s allies. Key docks, bridges and roads that survived the bombing raids are also demolished. George VI, his Queen, and the princesses Elizabeth and Margaret are taken to Germany; they will all die in exile. Most of the aristocracy are taken with them, their lands given to Nazi sympathisers; along with the Government, most of whom are executed; and the civil service, some of whom are assimilated into the Nazi administration. At first the Germans put the recently abdicated Edward VIII back on the throne, but in 1950 he attempts to reassert independence, and he and his American wife are hanged from gallows erected in front of the ruins of Buckingham Palace. In schools, the teaching of British history and the work of British playwrights, poets, philosophers and composers is banned. Most of the population attempt to carry on, but with no central organisation or help from allies, rebuilding after the war is almost impossible.

Then in 2015 an expanding Russia defeats the German empire. Having no interest in the once great but now long ruined islands off Europe’s coast, the Russians allow the exiled British ruling class to return home. Some chose not to—their home is on the continent now—but others return, in three organised waves. Not without resistance from those who had never left, they start to rebuild roads and bridges that have not existed for over seventy years, along with the most iconic buildings. Today, in 2025, some milestones have been reached, but really all that has been accomplished is the foundations on which the real rebuilding might have a chance of lasting. The question is, what stories will give this population a sense of common purpose? What stories will help them make sense of what has happened and nurture perennial hope for what could be? Fortunately, many key works, since lost in Britain, were smuggled out to Germany at the great banishment. There, in secret, leaders in exile have created a British library, a national curriculum.

If you can imagine that you can begin to imagine what it was like for the people whose stories we read in the books of Ezra and Nehemiah, returning to Jerusalem from exile in Babylon.

We know that there are places in the world where this scenario is not hypothetical, cities in ruins that must either be abandoned for ever or rebuilt, reborn really. But that is not our experience. Nonetheless, in our lifetimes, we have witnessed cultural upheaval. After the War, we repurposed our coming together for peacetime rebuilding; but alongside that we became more open in questioning and even challenging the status quo. We saw the rise of the teenager in the Fifties, the sexual revolution in the Sixties, the rise of third wave feminism in the Seventies. All this undermined a patriarchal society, and its matriarchal mirror. From the Eighties we saw political backing for individualism, a rapid shift from an economy built on manufacture to one built on services, the funnelling of money upwards into the hands of a few—which we don’t question because we believe that we are one lucky break away from joining that elite club ourselves. We have seen several waves of immigration from our former colonies, bringing, among others, Muslims, Pentecostals, and Roman Catholics (of whom we have always been suspicious). We have seen advances in technology, including the birth of the Digital Age; each one giving rise to as many new problems as it solves old ones, including causing cancers and other illnesses, and an undermining and accelerated rejection of institutions that once brought and held us together.

For many, it feels like our cities lie in ruins, and this sense of loss is felt by the old and the young alike. Some lament their own eroded positions of authority in society. Some are simply disoriented by the onslaught of change, from every direction all at once; while others are dismayed that all this change has not made any difference at all: plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose (the more things change, the more they stay the same).

The biographer Luke records an occasion when Jesus was invited to bring meaning to the scripture set for that sabbath in the synagogue of his hometown, Nazareth. The text was an excerpt from the prophet Isaiah, a passage that spoke words of hope to those who would one day return from exile in Babylon and rebuild cities that, by then, would have lain in ruins for several generations. (Luke quotes the preceding verses.) There is a sense of playful appropriateness that Jesus, who was a builder and the son of a builder, should bring the interpretation for this particular passage in his own context, some six hundred years after it was written.

Jesus begins his exposition of Isaiah’s text saying, ‘Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.’ We might also translate Luke’s text as, ‘This ancient holy text [Isaiah] is made complete in the present day [Jesus’ time—and, indeed, our own] by your hearing and understanding, as you listen and obey.’

For those who make up the Christian faith community, within the wider local community, our sense of who—and whose—we are, and what we are called to be in the world—light shining in darkness, for example—is found and perennially renewed as we hear and respond to these holy texts. As we wrestle with them and seek, through all the background noise of our lives, both internal and external, to discern the Holy Spirit drawing alongside us and leading us into all truth in knowing how to embody these texts in our context.

We need to rediscover the scriptures, refamiliarize ourselves with the Bible, this great library that records the stories of our ancestors in faith, and that has spoken to men, women and children across the whole world through all the rising and falling fortunes of cities and nations over more than four millennia. That gives voice to every emotion in every season of life.

Which parts of the Bible do you find most life-giving?

Which parts of the Bible do you find hardest to understand?

 

betrayals

 

I like to be fashionably late to a party, unless it is an actual party, in which case I like not to go at all. And so it is that I watched the third series of The Traitors, having not watched the first two (even then, I didn't pick this one up from the very start).

A couple of quick takeaways.

Firstly, people, even people who believe themselves to be en vogue, are incredibly change resistant. This series saw a couple of twists, variations on how the game was played in the first two series (in part to keep the game fresh; in part, I'm sure, to generate exactly the kind of response it achieved) and a whole lot of viewers were up in arms. Even though this is a game of twists, we want the format to remain unchanged. We like the pretence of being in control that knowing the rules of the game gives.

Secondly, collectively we enter into an agreement to play the game. As far as I know (though I admit I did not go looking and so I may be wrong) the media respected the format. That is, although the series was filmed some time before it was broadcast (and was broadcast over a much longer time than the game took to play) the media did not report who had won (at least, even if that information could be found somewhere, you could engage with the media without finding out). The news media took the traditional roles of reporting, for the record, what had taken place the day before (the day before, in this case, being a conceit, but still) and offering editorial thoughts on what might unfold next; as opposed to the more usual current role of informing us today what someone in the public eye is going to do (e.g. leaking extensive content of a Prime Ministerial speech a couple of days before they deliver it). And this meant that we were all in a traditional and now increasingly unfamiliar role as consumers of media, held in time (not real time, as the series had already been filmed, but common time). If you chose not to watch an episode as it was aired, or if you had no choice but to catch up later, you had to avoid finding out details the next day that would spoil your viewing; but you were essentially in the traditional place of a newspaper reader who only got their newspaper a couple of days after the events it was reporting. This agreement, this holding of common time in a world of on-demand media consumption, also gives us a sense of security, which is illusionary but an effective placebo.

 

crowded

 

The Lectionary brings together short passages from across the collection of books that make up the library of holy texts we call the Bible, and invites them to have a conversation, to discover what they have in common, and how they express themselves in diverse ways.

Today the Lectionary pairs an extract from the Letter to the Hebrews (early communities of apprentices to Jesus, mostly fellow Jews, scattered over a wide geographic area against the backdrop of the first Jewish-Roman War) (Hebrews 7.25-8.6, an even shorter extract given below) and an extract from the Gospel According to Mark:

‘Consequently he [Jesus] is able for all time to save those who approach God through him, since he always lives to make intercession for them. For it was fitting that we should have such a high priest, holy, blameless, undefiled, separated from sinners, and exalted above the heavens.’

(Hebrews 7.25, 26)

‘Jesus departed with his disciples to the lake, and a great multitude from Galilee followed him; hearing all that he was doing, they came to him in great numbers from Judea, Jerusalem, Idumea, beyond the Jordan, and the region around Tyre and Sidon. He told his disciples to have a boat ready for him because of the crowd, so that they would not crush him; for he had cured many, so that all who had diseases pressed upon him to touch him. Whenever the unclean spirits saw him, they fell down before him and shouted, ‘You are the Son of God!’ But he sternly ordered them not to make him known.’

(Mark 3.7-12)

The extract from Hebrews opens with the claim that Jesus is able for all time (even, perhaps especially, times of war) to save those who approach God through him...and continues stating that Jesus is separated from sinners. This latter claim seems a little odd, given that in the Gospels Jesus is often seen to be, and criticised precisely for, associating with sinners.

In the extract from the Gospel According to Mark, we see a large crowd of people approaching Jesus, and his withdrawing or separating himself from them. Indeed, throughout the Gospels Jesus is often seen attempting to withdraw from the crowds, either alone or with his apprentices.

In the Gospels we see Jesus responding to whoever is right in front of him, usually with compassion, sometimes with frustration, one person at a time, but he never gives himself to the crowds. He never seeks to draw crowds to him, to gather crowds or to ignite a popular movement. He does not trust the crowd, with good reason, for crowds are dangerous. They project their own agenda on a person, and they are fickle as hell.

This particular crowd has come together from across a wide area. Many have travelled great distances to be there. They come with a wide range of motivations. Some have come in hope of a spectacle. Some looking for an argument. Some because there is something that they want Jesus to do for them, a healing perhaps. Some, in all probability, simply swept along by the crowd, carried away.

Jesus separates himself from them, getting into a boat, withdrawing deeper into the life and livelihood of his disciples, of those he is in the process of calling to be his apprentices. Indeed, Jesus has already departed from one crowded space to be with his disciples, and now finds himself withdrawing a step further, from the shore onto the lake.

It is salutary to note how often in churches we lament that there is no crowd gathering at the place where Jesus has called us to withdraw with him. We long for the very crowds Jesus himself so often separated himself from. He is not looking for a crowd, for those who want something from God, some validation or cause; he is not interested in being swept up in something and carried away.

He is still able to save those who approach God through him.

Who will you invest your life in today?

What will you separate yourself from to do so?

How might this model or point to something enduring to a world that is constantly chasing the next new thing, because each new thing is constantly passing away?

Where is Jesus in this?

 

speaking truth to power

 

“Let me make one final plea, Mr. President. Millions have put their trust in you, and as you told the nation yesterday, you have felt the providential hand of a loving God. In the name of our God, I ask you to have mercy upon the people in our country who are scared now. There are gay, lesbian, and transgender children in Democratic, Republican, and independent families, some who fear for their lives. The people who pick our crops and clean our office buildings, who labor in poultry farms and meatpacking plants, who wash the dishes after we eat in restaurants and work the night shifts in hospitals, they may not be citizens or have the proper documentation, but the vast majority of immigrants are not criminals. They pay taxes and are good neighbors. They are faithful members of our churches and mosques, synagogues, gurdwara, and temples.

I ask you to have mercy, Mr. President, on those in our communities whose children fear their parents will be taken away, and that you help those who are fleeing war zones and persecution in their own lands to find compassion and welcome here. Our God teaches us that we are to be merciful to the stranger, for we were all once strangers in this land. May God grant us the strength and courage to honor the dignity of every human being, to speak the truth to one another in love, and walk humbly with each other and our God, for the good of all people, the good of all people in this nation and the world. Amen.”

Mariann Edgar Budde, Episcopal Bishop of Washington since 2011: concluding remarks of the sermon she gave at the National Prayer Service, Washington National Cathedral, 21 January 2025.

.

“The so-called Bishop who spoke at the National Prayer Service on Tuesday morning was a Radical Left hard line Trump hater. She was nasty in tone, and not compelling or smart.... She and her church owe the public an apology!”

Donald Trump, 45th and 47th US President: on TruthSocial, 21 January 2025.

.

The so-called actual Bishop who spoke preached the sermon at the National Prayer Service on Tuesday morning was is a Radical Left hard line Trump hater passionate believer in the gospel of Jesus and the Episcopal Church’s particular witness. She was nasty gracious in tone, and not compelling or smart and articulate.... She and her church owe the public an apology! have nothing to apologise for.

.

do what you hear

 

Reflections on Luke 4.14-21, the Gospel text set for this coming Sunday.

‘The spirit of the Lord God is upon me,
because the Lord has anointed me;
he has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed,
to bind up the broken-hearted,
to proclaim liberty to the captives,
and release to the prisoners;
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favour,

[and the day of vengeance of our God; to comfort all who mourn; to provide for those who mourn in Zion—to give them a garland instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, the mantle of praise instead of a faint spirit. They will be called oaks of righteousness, the planting of the Lord, to display his glory. They shall build up the ancient ruins, they shall raise up the former devastations; they shall repair the ruined cities, the devastations of many generations.]’

Isaiah 61.1-2a [2b-4]

‘Then [Jesus] began to say to them, “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”’

Luke 4.21

‘Having read from the prophet Isaiah [Luke includes Isaiah 61.1-2a which may summarise a longer excerpt] Jesus began his interpretation of the text by saying, “This ancient holy text is made complete in the present day by your hearing and understanding, as you listen and obey.”’

Luke 4.21, my own paraphrase of the Greek text.

This is what it means to be formed by the communal hearing and responding to scripture, to the Law (divine instruction on the formation and continual renewing of a just and merciful society) and the Prophets (commentary on what it looks like to fulfil, or make manifest, the Law, in practice; and what it looks like when we fail to do so).

We hear. We do. We return. We confess, lament, dream, rejoice. We are sent.

This is what our baptism brought us into.

This is how we rebuild cities that have been devastated and in ruins for generations. How we rebuild a society that believes not only that Christianity doesn’t work (what would working look like, and upon whom?) but that nothing else works either.

Not imposing rules on others, rules we reject for ourselves, as Christian nationalism—a totalitarian bastardisation of faith, utterly anti-Christ—is attempting to do in various parts of the world; but committing ourselves to good news for the oppressed (whatever that looks like, from systemic attitudes to personal shame) those who are marginalised (within any sphere). And this not by being their saviour but testifying to the salvation that is already at work in the world.

We hear. We do. We return. We confess, lament, dream, rejoice. We are sent.

“This ancient holy text is made complete in the present day by your hearing and understanding, as you listen and obey.”

 

fruitful

 

Paul, an early apprentice of Jesus, wrote:

...the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control...

Galatians 5.22

This does not mean that these attributes are contrary to human nature, but that they are precisely the fruit we were created to produce, and the seeds and saplings of these attributes are planted in the soil of our lives by the Spirit of God.

(Immediately before writing this, Paul wrote about the contrasting desires, and works, of the flesh. But flesh does not refer to human nature; it refers to acting in opposition to what God hopes for us, such that we become brute animals, living yes, but less-than fully human.)

Whenever you experience love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control (and whenever other people experience these in and through you) this is evidence of the goodness and mercy of God in our lives, and signs of what we are made for. We know this is not the only fruit that is sown or planted in our lives, and that bears fruit: there are those who sow division and discord, enmity, jealousy, partisanship, and all kinds of bitter fruit. But the fruit of the Spirit of God is not rare or exceptional: indeed, it is sown and planted lavishly in all of our lives, without favouritism, and bears fruit all of the time, even if it is not the only fruit in our lives.

Look for the good. In yourself and in others. You will find it. Then give thanks to God.

And when you note bad fruit, bitter attributes, in your own life, look for who sold you the seed or sapling, and look to remove yourself from their influence. By this I do not mean cutting people out of your life in ways that would be contrary to love, patience and generosity; but simply, be wise about who you go to for your garden supplies (character formation).

Who do you know who helps you to be loving, joyful, peaceful, patient, kind, generous, faithful, gentle, or self-controlled (regulated) perhaps by modelling these attributes in ways you can aspire to practice for yourself? Remember, the empowering Spirit of God, who is at work in their life, is at work in your life too.

 

poeple

 

People frequently tell me that they do not understand people anymore.

Sure you do. You are one.

And people are a hot mess. You are a hot mess.

People are essentially selfish and generous, judgemental and kind. They are both/and beings, not either/or. Not so much contradictory as paradoxical. They all have an inner child who is scared, an inner teenager who is angry at the world all of the time, and an inner adult who is just so tired of all the drama (actually, just tired). The things you see and do not like in other people are the things you see and have yet to befriend in yourself. In other words, projection. The presence and the absence of people in our lives are, equally, almost unbearable (and yet we bear them). As is your presence and your absence in the life of someone else.

You are a pain in the ass. And I love you (in small doses).

When we say we do not understand people we are really saying that we do not want to know ourselves. We hide, ashamed of our nakedness, in the trees and hope not to be seen, declaring self-knowledge too great a burden to bear or to share.

But you were made to know and be fully known. You were made for union with God and neighbour. With people. And God comes looking, looking for you as friend. And of this God, you do not need to be afraid.

 

grace upon grace

 

Gospels unfold. Here is how John begins his:

‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it...

‘And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth...From his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace. The law indeed was given through Moses; grace and truth came through Jesus Christ. No one has ever seen God. It is God the only Son, who is close to the Father’s heart, who has made him known.’

John 1.1-5, 14, 16-18.

Not many verses later, we find ourselves at a wedding at Cana (John 2.1-11). And the wine has run out. At this celebration of hope and a future, not only for two families but for the welfare of the wider community, at this moment of light in what can feel a dark world, darkness encroaches. Loss encroaches. Death encroaches.

Indeed, death always encroaches on a wedding. In our own marriage vows, a couple commit to one another for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health. But no one wants to be reminded again at the reception.

The wine has run out. And Jesus instructs the servants to fill six stone jars to the brim with water. John has already declared that All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. That is, Jesus does not only turn water into wine; the water itself flows from him.

John has already declared, From his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace. The water is grace, and the wine is grace upon grace. The water is grace, that flows through Moses giving the Law. Some Jews ritually wash their hands as the first act after waking, after passing from the symbolic death of sleep to the new life of a new day. As a reminder that life is a gift, in the face of the temptation to view another day as a curse. Another Monday at school, at work. No, life is grace, and grace will bless our hands as we participate in the work of God to make all things new. Some Jews also ritually wash their hands before eating bread, pausing to notice the connection between our bodies and the soil of the earth to which we will return, our bodies and the sweat of the brow by which food is brought forth. To notice the connectedness and holiness of all things. And those Jews who were priests had water poured on the hands before pronouncing a blessing, before stretching out their hand to mend the world.

The water is from Jesus (through Moses) and is grace. The wine is from Jesus (through the unnamed servants) and is grace upon grace. The wine will be consumed, just as the earlier wine had been consumed, and the stone jars will go back to holding water for purification. But that grace is now re-enchanted.

And by this sign, Jesus revealed his glory, revealed the nature of the God whom we cannot see. A God who gives grace upon grace. A God from whom we have all received grace, and who does not stop there but gives the grace of his own transforming presence in our midst, in our lives.

This is not magic. Jesus is not a talisman to ward off evil. We do not say, trust in Jesus and you will not know loss, will not know disenchantment with the world, with life. Rather, we say, invite Jesus to your life, in its moments of celebration and in its inevitable moments of depletion, and you will not face these moments alone. Indeed, in him is hope, that God will restore all that is lost. In him is light that will not be extinguished. In him is life, in its fullness.

For from his fullness, we all receive grace upon grace.

 

wonder

 

I read recently about pioneering plastic surgery, a soldier who returned from the First World War with a badly burned face and a surgeon who grafted skin from his back onto his face instead. And it reminded me of Jesus taking living (that is, flowing, stream-fed) water from a mikveh and changing it into wine (John 2.1-11).

It reminded me of the journey from childlike faith to adult faith to rediscovered childlike faith.

It is often assumed, at least when it comes to faith development, that children see the world unquestionably, in simplistic black and white terms. That they simply receive the worldview of their parents, whatever that might happen to be. But in my experience of engaging with school children, of many different family backgrounds, they both ask brilliant questions and offer amazing insights.

It is as we get older that we begin to lose our sense of wonder (long before, in the normal course of things, we begin to lose our sense of hearing or sight or fingertip touch) our innate awareness that our body is intimately connected to all things, from the trees in the forest to the stars in the sky. And as we lose our sense of wonder, even as we continue to be concerned for the well-being of our bodies, we stop asking such brilliant questions, pushed out by a sense of loss of innocence.

This does not mean that we necessarily abandon faith. It may mean that our faith calcifies into hard dogmatic certainty, or empty ritualism, in place of participation in mystery.

And this may, in fact, be a necessary stage, of loss and perhaps growing awareness of what we have lost. For the truly wise among us are those who have wrestled with their discontent and found their way back to a childlike faith, to living with beautiful questions (more than answers) and (the gift of) profound insights.

Jesus takes the living water of water-purification rituals, of the moments we are invited to pause and discover once again that we have a body, that we are embodied creatures in the world, and he turns a certain amount of it into wine. The wine will be consumed, and the stone jars, unchanged by their content, will return to holding living water, will return to providing those moments for pausing and coming back to ourselves as holy, as having a particular purpose to bless the world. But for now, he takes some of this water and turns it into the wine of celebration.

Why? Because we can know that we are embodied, we can even know that our body is holy and yet run out of joy. Our awareness of loss can rob us of our ability to experience joy and express that joy in community.

Just as the surgeon took skin from the back of the body and grafted it onto the face, so Jesus took living water and turned it into wine.

And just as the raw skin on the back would heal, so the living water would continue to flow, but now the water-purification rituals are infused with a memory of celebration. A way back to childlike wonder and childlike faith.

We lose our sense of wonder, and I am not sure we can regain it in any way other than sheer gift, because it was always gift and never something we manufacture for ourselves.

This is the difference Jesus makes. But, like Mary, we must first notice that the wine has run out, and that he, alone, knows what is needed.

 

tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow

 

There is a moment in the Tragedy of Macbeth, where it is becoming clear that the future he and Lady Macbeth had tried to grasp will be ripped from his hand, and when he has just been informed that his wife has ended her own life with violence, where Shakespeare gives Macbeth this amazing soliloquy:

“She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.”

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow.

Three times in the opening chapter of the Gospel According to John, the biographer John writes: the next day, the next day, the next day.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow.

Building a sense of inevitability. A player stepping out on the stage. A tale told. But when his hour comes, this poor player will not be forgotten. The telling of this tale is not sound and fury, signifying nothing, but signs and passion, that the heater might believe for themselves.

[Bonus trivia connection: Macbeth act 5 scene 5 continues with Macbeth threatening a messenger:

“If thou speak’st false,
Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive,
Till famine cling thee:”]

John breaks the petty pace pattern of the next day, the next day, the next day at the start of chapter 2, declaring: On the third day ...

... an image he will carry through chapter 2 when Jesus moves from a wedding at Cana (On the third day) to the temple in Jerusalem, where when he is challenged to justify his driving out the animals, both the sheep and the cattle [note, contrary to those who use this incident to justify violence, the whip is not used against fellow humans, as if Jesus was an Egyptian overseer of Hebrew slaves, but as a practical means of directing livestock], he replies with an enigmatic statement his apprentices later understand as a prediction of his death [parched, hanging on a tree, charged with and declared guilty of false speech] and resurrection (in three days).

The difference between Macbeth, who was not only a literary character but also an historical king of Scotland for seventeen years, and Jesus, who is not only an historical person but also a literary character, is that Jesus does not despise the way to dusty death as the way of fools; he is the Way, and in walking the way faithfully – keeping faith with frail humanity – transforms dusty death into the door to life; a candle – the light of life – extinguished, briefly, only to reignite.

But before we get to the temple, and long before we get to the foretold death and resurrection, On the third day John takes us to a wedding in Cana of Galilee, where six stone jars that had held water are refilled with water, which is transformed into wine.

The point is not that the wine is better than the water. This is not Jesus superseding Judaism. The wine is the water, transformed, not replaced. The detail John notes is the instruction to fill the jars to the brim. That is, the water that was already in the jars has been depleted: you cannot fill a full jar. First depletion, then filling, then transformation. We must embrace loss, the impact of death, if we are to experience gain, the promise of life.

This is what Macbeth failed to grasp, and what we so often fail to grasp.