revd.d

Jesus Freaks his parents out or searching for Jesus | Luke 2:41-52

Every year, Jesus' parents, Mary and Joseph, travel to Jerusalem to observe the Passover festival in accordance with Jewish tradition.

After the Passover celebrations, Mary and Joseph begin their journey home with relatives and acquaintances, assuming that Jesus is with them as he is of that age. However, after a day of travel, they discover he is missing. Alarmed and anxious, they quickly return to Jerusalem to search for him.

After three days of searching, they finally find Jesus in the Temple. He is sitting among the teachers, listening to them and asking questions. Those present are amazed at his understanding and responses.

When Mary and Joseph encounter him, they express their understandable distress over his absence, to which Jesus responds with a poignant statement: "Why were you looking for me? Did you not know that I must be in my Father's house?"

Despite not fully grasping the implications of his response, Mary and Joseph keep Jesus' words in their hearts, recognizing the significance of this experience. The story concludes with a note about Jesus returning to Nazareth with his parents, living in obedience to them, growing in wisdom and stature, and favour with God and man.

At first glance, this passage might seem innocuous—a short story from Jesus' youth—but there are essential and vital themes that Luke raises in this brief account.

On one level, this story hints at what is to come. Jerusalem, the Passover, the Temple, and three days of terror for Mary and Joseph during their frantic search is perhaps a nod to Jesus' crucifixion and death, and finding Jesus a nod to resurrection and surprising, hopeful turnarounds.

Searching and finding is a significant theme in Luke, as seen in the parables of the lost sheep, lost coins, and the lost son. Mary and Joseph's search for Jesus (and the bigger theme of searching and finding in Luke's gospel) got me thinking: In my search for Jesus, where do I look? Where do you find Jesus? Where do we collectively seek him? Discussions arise about where Jesus is—whether he is here or there, with this group or that group, at the centre or on the margins. Yet, this passage suggests that Jesus is, first and foremost, with God, or as someone once said, tethered to the Father.

"Why were you looking for me? Did you not know that I must be in my Father's house?"

From the beginning, Luke portrays that everything Jesus says and does stems from his deep connection to the Father. This connection drives Jesus from this moment as a child in the Temple through his life with his family, ministry, and, ultimately, his crucifixion and resurrection.

As I reflect on where I look for Jesus, I also ponder whether I am, like Jesus, tethering myself first and foremost to God. This is a question worth wrestling with.

THE WORD MADE FLESH: John's poetic birth narrative | John 1:1-14

Tonight (today), we reflect on John's birth narrative (yes, let's talk about John's whole "Word made flesh" business in terms of a birth narrative).

John takes a different tack from the other Gospel writers: Luke's narrative is the longest and includes the foretelling of the birth of John the Baptist, the foretelling of Jesus' birth, numerous angel visits, Mary's subversive song of praise, John's birth, and finally, Jesus' birth, which includes all those familiar elements: a census, an arduous journey on a donkey, and the birth of Christ in a manger, and shepherds. Matthew's narrative is much shorter; he covers Jesus' whakapapa (genealogy), Joseph's conversation with the angel about staying with Mary, and a few sentences about Jesus' birth to round things out. Mark doesn't mention Christ's birth; he gets straight into the action, beginning with John the Baptist's cry in the wilderness to repent. John's birth narrative, as we have heard, stands in stark contrast to the other Gospel writers.

Unlike Matthew, Mark, and Luke, John's narrative is poetic; it is a song of praise and employs images and metaphors that try to describe the indescribable as best they can. John uses creative language to engage our imaginations, illicit a sense of awe, and convey a sense of mystery and wonder over what's happened, the arrival of God in human history. John's language, while deeply theologically, is, first and foremost, the language of worship, and it reminds us that the incarnation, God's arrival on earth, is not a problem to be solved but a mystery to be engaged and experienced.

That's why we are here, tonight, right?

The incarnation is not a problem to be solved but a mystery to be engaged and experienced.

John speaks of the Word, who has always been, who was with God, and who was God. John speaks of how creation came into being through the Word, that the Word was life, and that the Word was light. John speaks of how the Word entered the world in the person of Jesus and how many didn't accept him, but those who did would become children of God. John talks about a man named John, who testified or bore witness to the light and lived in ways that pointed to the light, which perhaps points to our role in our time to do likewise, to be bearers of the light in the spaces and places in which we live and work. And then, in those famous, confounding, disconcerting, and hope-filled words, John announces that "the Word, the one who has always been, who was with God, and who was God, and who created all things, became flesh and lived among us," or as another translation puts it, "The Word became flesh and blood, [the Word became human], and moved into the neighbourhood."

I read recently that Christmas Day is not the time for a deep theological reflection, for an in-depth unpacking of John's logos theology, or to dive into the social, political, and religious implications of God's arrival in human form, there is ample time for all that in the days to come. No, tonight/today is a time for story, poetry and song, for standing in wonder, for immersing ourselves in the mystery of incarnation and letting it confront, move, and overwhelm us. 

This year, I gravitated to John's poetically beautiful birth narrative, and I am not sure about you, but I need it. Amid the hustle and bustle of day-to-day life, amid the heartbreak and hope that pervades our individual and collective lives, amid our fast-paced world, amid the war and violence that rages in distant lands, in our news feeds and on social media, I needed to hear John's poetic words again, to remember mystery of God's arrival on earth again, to be reminded again of God's deep solidarity humanity, of God's profound presence to us and with us in the heartbreak and joy of the human experience, and in and through this reminder, be awed, overwhelmed, moved and, most importantly, filled with a renewed sense of hope, hope that God has come, hope that God continues to come in friend and stranger, in Holy Spirit, in prayer, Scripture, and Eucharist, in community, and that God will come again, and in that coming, make all things new.

Kia ora koutou. For those who don't know me, my name is Dan, and I am the Precentor at the Taranaki Cathedral.

A few months ago, I was part of a small group that debriefed our second Diocesan Conversation. In that conversation, I offered a few reflections on the conversation and, more generally, on the current context of the church (well, at least, how I perceive the current context). For some reason or another, what I shared struck a chord with our Diocesan Manager and Bishop, and here I am.

So, here are some thoughts—not definitive answers or solutions, just reflections to get us thinking. I want to begin my reflection by reading Psalm 80.

[Read Psalm 80]

The Psalm I have just read is an exilic Psalm of lament, sung by the ancient Israelites during their exile in Babylon. I start with this exilic Psalm of lament because (maybe) the best way to describe the current predicament in which the church finds itself is "exile."

I suggest exile because the world has changed. The 21st century is vastly different from the world of previous centuries. At a geo-political level, we are witnessing the slow decline of some empires (USA) and the rise of old/new ones (Russia and China). At a technological level, we are wrestling with the positive and negative impacts of the "digital revolution" (the Internet, social media, and AI). At a planetary crisis level, humanity is acutely aware of its challenges (reckoning with colonial pasts, climate change, and widespread degradation/collapse of biodiversity and ecological systems).

Additionally, there have been seismic cultural shifts. Western societies are becoming increasingly pluralistic, faith is becoming increasingly a private affair, and there is an unfolding anti-institutional spirit in the air, which means diminishing engagement with and commitment to institutions.

So, for various complex reasons, the church is in a state of decline. We don't have the power and influence we once had (whether that power and influence was ever a good thing is a question worth wrestling with, but that's not for now). The general populous is, at best, ambivalent toward Christianity and the church or, at worst, hostile. What we were is no longer. The church now resides in a strange and unfamiliar land. The days of Christendom are over.

The question, then, is how we live in this strange land? To be clear, we don't necessarily need to conceive exile in negative terms; it could be precisely what we need right now.

Before we get to how we should live (or, at least, my suggestions for how we should live), it’s worth reflecting on how we are currently living in the situation we find ourselves. Or, put differently, how we are responding to our current context (again, just my thoughts and observations). Understandably, there seems to be a fair amount of anxiety and, coupled with this anxiety (or maybe because of it), busyness.

Why? What’s fueling the anxiety and busyness?

Could our anxiety (and busyness) be rooted in a futile struggle to regain what we have lost (relevance, status, power, and influence)? Are we trying to save the church through misguided attempts to engineer revival (if we do X and Y, magic, revival)? Have we become unnecessarily concerned with the instruments of marketing (branding), management, models (again, doing X and Y to get Z), and metrics? (For more on this, see Dr Andrew Shepherd's Morph talk: Ministry by marketing, management, models and metrics: Commodifying the Church | The Morph Event 2021, "Return to Normal?", Andrew Shepherd (youtube.com)). Has "bums on seats" become our primary concern, and if it has, have we missed something? Do we have an unhealthy fascination with "growth" in the church? And, as a side note, is our fascination with growth somewhat ironic given our current environmental realities (rapid destruction of ecological systems and mass extinction), which suggest our obsession with growth is deeply problematic?

Is what we do rooted in a paradigm of what we can get out of it rather than simply doing it because it is the right and faithful thing to do regardless of the outcome? Have we become pragmatists looking for a solution to fix our problem(s) with new technology or by deploying a particular program, model, or technique? Is this a good thing? I would suggest not.

And is the by-product of all this activity fatigue, burnout, and cynicism (for clergy and congregations)?

So, what do we do? And again, these are thoughts for reflection and discussion.

Perhaps the first thing to do is name and grieve our situation, just like the ancient Israelites did. It's tough at the moment. Things are dire, and there isn't a clear way forward. Let's just say it. Hence, the Psalm (and thus, the importance of the Psalms). Curiously, the Psalms of Lament (along with Lamentations and Job) suggest that vocalised grief can be a gateway to surprising newness (often not what we want, but undoubtedly what we need). The problem is, we are possibly disinterested on both. As Walter Brueggeman says,

“The dominant ideology of our culture is committed to continuity and success and to the avoidance of pain, hurt, and loss. The dominant culture is also resistant to genuine newness and real surprise. It is curious but true, that surprise is as unwelcome as is loss. And our culture is organized to prevent the experience of both.” (Spirituality of the Psalms, Walter Brueggemann)

The second thing might be to remember/reconsider the purpose of church (why we gather).

The Christian community, fundamentally, is not instituted by what we do (in terms of our activities, programs etc.), our size, or our relevance to society but by God's grace and love, extended to us most profoundly in the death, resurrection, and ascension of Jesus. God forms and makes the church. Our primary task, as Christians, is to gather together, pray, read Scripture together, make Eucharist, forgive and serve each other, and to live into the reconciling work of Christ together; and, through these Christian practices, bear witness to Christ crucified and resurrected, bear witness to the reign of God, bear witness to the God who has, is, and will make all things new. The task isn't to be relevant, well-branded, slick, or sexy, or even to grow; it's simply to be faithful to the way of Christ.

Maybe we don't need a shiny new program; perhaps we don't need to try and devise a solution to save the church; that's God's task, not ours. Maybe all that we need to do is what the church has always done from the beginning: gather around prayer, Word, and Sacrament (see Justin Martyr's letter to the Roman emperor Antoninus Pius circa. 150 C.E. | Dear Roman Emperor, We Are Made New Through Christ by Justin Martyr (plough.com)), be formed in and through these practices, and trust that despite the situation (whatever it may be) God is active and working somehow, someway, for the life of the world.

And this is perhaps my encouragement, particularly to those churches that don't feel like you are doing enough, that you are not relevant, that you need a new website, or a name change, or be on Facebook, or whose numbers are dwindling; your faithful showing up, week in week out, for services of the word or Eucharist or prayer, is enough, that your unwavering commitment to worship, Word, and Sacrament, and each other, even when it makes no sense, is a profound, strange (in a positive sense), and prophetic witness in deeply troubling times (and, I think, it's a profound kick up the bum to people like me who have in many ways acquiesced to the logic of marking, management, metrics, and models and/or think that our "fresh ideas and insights" are what's going to get us out of this jam). Yes, there are vitally important things to contend with, like H.R., buildings, and safeguarding the vulnerable among us; yes, not all of us will make it through what we are going through, but I wonder if we own our reality, lament it, and if jettison the notion that it is on us to save the church, we might ease the angst we hold for the future.

Some of us can do new things, cool (but maybe those of us who are trying new things need to make sure that what we are doing isn't a consent to capitalism or the latest fad or the death-dealing logic of the world but deeply grounded in the way of Christ and the Christian Tradition). Still, some of us can't do new things, and that's OK too (maybe better).

The possible critique here is that I am being sectarian (inward-focused). Maybe? But here's what I think: From society's perspective, a group of people gathering around Scripture, prayer, hymns/waiata, and Communion is utterly irrelevant, yet (maybe) our utterly irrelevant gathering together, across different genders, ages, ethnicities, and class boundaries (and this bit takes work), might actually be the very thing the world needs right now.

At this time, maybe we need to cut ourselves some slack, be honest about what we can and can't do, and remember that our job isn't to save the church; it's simply to be faithful to the way of Christ, to gather around prayer, Scripture, and Sacrament, for as long as we can, trusting that something bigger than ourselves, namely God, is at work.

Trinity Sunday

This week is Trinity Sunday, and it's an opportunity to reflect on one of the core tenets of our faith: the Trinity. The ancient formula says, "three persons and one essence." Ultimately, the Trinity is a mystery; it is beyond definition, but that shouldn't stop us, albeit with humility, from reflecting on its meaning and relevance to us today. It's good to remember Augustine here, who talks about how God is both transcendent and immanent; totally other but also visible/discernable in creation, Jesus, and one another. So, too, the Trinity). Totally other, yet present.

An essential aspect of the Trinity is relationships: The Father reveals the Son, the Son reveals the Father, and the Father and the Son reveal the Holy Spirit. The interconnectedness of three persons is also a complete oneness (or unity). Out of this profound community of three persons and one essence bursts forth the cosmos, creation, and humanity. We are drawn into this profound community through the life, death, resurrection, and ascension of Jesus and the power of the Holy Spirit.

This blows my mind. God, who is totally transcendent, is also immanent, and while totally transcendent, we are caught up in (or drawn into) the life of the Trinue God. A good starting for the reflection on the Trinity is awe and wonder, like Isaiah's in Isaiah 6:1-8.

Another question to ask ourselves is this: how does this God, the Triune God, affect/inform our shared life together? 

What might the political and/or social implications be for the church? For God's redemptive purposes that unfold around us, through us, and by us as we participate in God's redeeming work? Cue Leonardo Boff, Franciscan, Catholic Priest, and Liberation Theologian. Boff says, 

"Believing in the Trinity means that at the root of everything that exists and subsists there is movement; there is an eternal process of life, of outward movement, of love. Believing in the Trinity means that truth is on the side of communion rather than exclusion; consensus translates truth better than imposition; the participation of many is better than the dictate of a single one. Believing in the Trinity means accepting that everything is related to everything and so makes up one great whole, and that unity comes from a thousand convergences rather than from one factor alone. We never simply live, we always live together." (Holy Trinity, Perfect Community, Leonardo Boff)

May we, through the power of the Holy Spirit, God's presence with us, find ourselves caught up in new ways in the life of God, reflect something of the divine community. May we recognise the profound interconnections that exist between us: our shared humanity, image bearers, and baptism, and as we draw ever closer to God and one another, may we reveal something of the awesomeness of God and God's kingdom. May God's justice and peace be on show for all to see, and may others, as we have, find a home in and with God and us.

Peace, Revd.d.

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In the Eastern Orthodox church, the season of Lent takes on a unique hue, referred to as 'Bright Sadness.' This term, coined by Orthodox theologian Alexander Schmemann, is a poetic interpretation of the 'joy-making mourning' suggested by Saint John Climacus in his Ladder of Divine Ascent. It is a concept that harmonizes with lament, which are honest appeals to God that challenge wrongdoing, release pain, and pave the way for God's new life. 'Bright sadness' is not a contradiction but a paradoxical expression of the deep joy that comes from acknowledging our brokenness and yearning for God's restoration. It is a somberness that allows the flame of the Holy Spirit to glow within our hearts until we are guided to the brilliance of the Resurrection. This transformative power of 'Bright Sadness' offers a profound and thought-provoking way to describe Lent, instilling hope in our life with God. 

As a community, we are not particularly big on lament, which is the art of wrestling with our pain, the world's pain, the violence rooted in our hearts, and our deep need for God. This is not to say that we ignore or suppress our pain, but rather, we often focus more on the joy and hope that come from our faith. However, the concept of 'Bright Sadness' reminds us of the importance of lament in our spiritual journey. It encourages us to embrace the somberness of Lent, to acknowledge our brokenness, and to yearn for God's restoration. It is a call to balance our joy with a deep understanding of our need for God's healing and renewal. In this journey, we are not alone but united as a community, sharing in the 'Bright Sadness' and the hope it brings. 

This week's gospel reading is imbibed with bright sadness. It alludes to crucifixion, love, and life, three things that, if we are honest, don't gel well (at least from the world's perspective). John starts with a strange story. It's a story about a grumbling people wandering in the wilderness, who were bitten by snakes due to their impatience. In their distress, they turned to God, and God instructed Moses to raise a bronze snake on a pole, healing those who looked at it. John connects this story to Jesus, specifically Jesus' crucifixion, making the point that those who look to Christ find true life. John then speaks about God's love for the world, a love ultimately expressed on the cross. This profound and unconditional love offers comfort and reassurance, reminding us that we are deeply loved. 

In this season of bright sadness, may we take the time to acknowledge our missteps, those places of hurt within us and around us, to gaze at the cross, as uncomfortable as that often is, and as we do, may the flame of the Holy Spirit begin to burn in our hearts, brighter and brighter, as we make our way together to the brilliance.

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"As we make the first step into the 'bright sadness' of Lent, we see - far, far away - the destination. It is the joy of Easter, it is the enterance into the glory of the Kingdom. And it is this vision, the foretaste of Easter, that makes Lent's sadness bright and our Lentern effort a "spiritual spring." The night may be dark and long, but all along the way a mysterious and radiant dawn seems to shine on the horizon." - Fr Alexander Schmemann

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Lent began last Wednesday (Ash Wednesday). Ash Wednesday was a day in which many of us rubbed ash onto our foreheads, accompanied by the words "from dust you came and to dust you will return", as a tangible reminder of our need for God. Lent is a 40-day season of preparation in the lead-up to Good Friday and Resurrection Sunday (Easter Day). Lent is a season often marked by repentance, fasting, self-reflection, and prayer, and not in a self-punishing way, but in a pruning way, a way that ultimately "greens the soul" and creates space for the newness God to enter our lives and church. Throughout Christian history, many Christian sages and teachers have likened the season of Lent to a wilderness experience.

This week's gospel reading (Mark 1:9-15) touches on Jesus' baptism and the start of his ministry, and it also speaks of Jesus' wilderness experience (albeit very briefly). What might the notion of wilderness hold for us? Wilderness experiences are something humans have in common; we all have them, and they come to in a variety of of forms:

Shattered dreams. Personal tragedy. Feeling adrift when our inherited conceptions and understandings of God don't match our experience and the foundation which we thought was firm begins to crumble.

Life's wilderness experiences are sometimes self-imposed; our decisions distract from God's goodness and life, leaving us feeling lost, alone, and afraid. Sometimes, our wilderness experiences befall us for no logical reason; life is full of heartbreak and often not of our own making. Occasionally, our wilderness experiences occur because we live in ways that reflect the way of Jesus and God's reign of justice and peace; following Jesus can (should) get us into trouble. Sparks fly when God's reign of justice, love, and peace, embodied by God's people, bangs up against the death-dealing logic of the world. And that's hard but good. And sometimes, perhaps like in our Gospel reading this morning, God invites (or drives) us out into the wilderness because it's what we need; a time in the desert will be good for us.

Wildernesses, whatever they may be for us, are places fraught with difficulty, but they can also be places of goodness and growth. Wilderness places are difficult to pin down; they places filled with beauty and peril (our reading speaks of testing, wild beasts, and angels, all mashed together, co-existing); and wildernesses are places that, if we are open, have the potential to form and shape us in profound ways because, at least from a biblical perspective, wilderness places are where God is present: pillars of smoke by day and fire by night guiding a wandering people through the desert, where the Holy Spirit is at work (think of the wild goose Holy Spirit of the Celts chasing Jesus into the desert, not gentle dove Holy Spirit of his baptism), and wilderness places are places where God can be encountered (burning bushes and holy ground). As many of you know, me & Mai's time in Kolkata was a wilderness experience full of heartbreak, hope, and beauty. Moments when God felt close and moments when we felt abandoned by God; a season that has left its scars, but a season that has profoundly shaped us and formed us in who we are, how we relate to God, and how we see the world around us. That wilderness experience was an invitation; the Spirit (we think) pushed us out into that place and into that community. Was it what we expected? No. Was it hard? Yes. Would we change a thing? No (as much as I would like to some days).

We need wildernesses, and I think God is inviting us into them more often than we might think (or want). Wildernesses provide an opportunity to break from the status quo, disengage from the noise, and come face to face with God and ourselves, which can be frightening. Sometimes, I wonder if the wild beasts in our reading this morning aren't physical but the wild beasts that live within us: self-doubt, anxiety, loneliness, confusion, etc.

I love what Joyce Hugget says, "Since God's very own Son was transformed so radically by the desert, since it was in the actual or symbolic wilderness that his life-motto crystallised; his life-goals clarified, he was envisioned and empowered; since, in solitude, he received God's perspective on his ministry and was re-energised by love, perhaps we should not be surprised when our own pilgrimage takes us into desert-like places? Instead, of feeling guilty or afraid to admit that we are wandering around in the trackless wastes of the spiritual wilderness, perhaps, like Jesus, we should accept, with humility and versatility, the worst and the best the wilderness offers? Perhaps such an attitude would enable us to look back on our desert experiences with awe and gratitude? Perhaps it would better enable us to learn the desert's lessons with eagerness?" (Formed by the Desert, Joyce Huggett, pg 25)

Do you need a wilderness? Is the Holy Spirit (the wild goose one again) beckoning (driving) you into a wilderness? Are you ready to go, or will you resist with all your might? This Lent, as we make our way to the cross and on to resurrection and beyond, may you/we have the courage to enter the wilderness, whatever that may be, and in and through times alone, time in Scripture and prayer, may the God of love and life meet you in new, transforming, and liberating ways.

Peace, Revd D.

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As I reflect on our gospel reading (Mark 1:40-45), the first thought that comes to mind is the idea of "encounter." Encounter means to "unexpectedly be faced with or experience something hostile or difficult or "to meet someone unexpectedly." "Encounters" in the bible fascinate me, particularly between Christ and those he meets. How does Christ approach people, who approaches him, and what does he do, and how might these encounters teach us something about who God is and what it looks like to follow him.

In our Gospel reading, out of the blue, Jesus encounters a man with a skin disease, a disease that renders him, more than likely, a social outcast, someone to be feared and avoided at all cost, an enemy of sorts, and he petitions Jesus for healing. What blows my mind the most about this story is maybe not the healing but the fact that in and through this encounter, God is moved in God's spirit, in God's gut. Jesus, God incarnate, was "moved with pity," moved with anger (some translations), or perhaps the best translation, moved with compassion. The characteristic Greek word for compassion means to let one's innards embrace the feeling or situation of another. That's wild. At the beginning of Mark, we are learning and seeing, through Jesus' encounter with the man with the skin disease, the God who is the "great companion - the fellow sufferer who understands" (Alfred Northwhitehead).

One author describes compassion as "daring to move 'toward what scares us,' whether pain or brokenness, confusion or fear, or mourning or misery. Compassion is a whole-hearted, full-blown immersion into the human condition. It means to "suffer with" by opening oneself to hurt rather than protection. Compassion requires perception, sensitivity enough to feel the suffering of other people, enough concern to care about their suffering, and enough commitment to act in a way that tries to alleviate their suffering. Compassion fights denial and fatalism; it's the opposite of a cold cynicism that tempts us to think, "Why bother?" Compassion takes risks; it is a bold gesture of vulnerability and tenderness that is radically countercultural in a social context that is more inclined to feign invulnerability and [stir up] blame and rage. Compassion draws near to the other as equals; this recognition of equality is essential for solidarity that can heal personal wounds and social breaches" (The Ethics of Encounter: Christian Neighbour Love as a Practice of Solidarity, Marcus Mescher).

This compassion is the type of compassion Jesus embodied. Compassion is the posture that God extends to humanity and us. When we voice our complaints, pain, and heartache, just like the man with the skin disease, God reaches out with compassion, a compassion that meets us where we are and can heal, transform, and liberate us (Disclaimer: maybe not in the ways we imagine or want or hope for, but ways we need).

God's compassion, visible most profoundly in Christ, is good news, and it might cause us to ask how and where we "encounter" God. In our friends and neighbours, Scripture and song, and bread and wine. As we celebrate Eucharist this morning, maybe there is something (complaint, concern, issue, whatever) that you need to bring to God, a place within you that you need God to enter, transform, and make whole; I encourage you to bring that to God, to the foot of the cross, and to ask for what you need today.

But there's another side of all this to ponder. If compassion is Jesus' posture toward humanity, toward you and me is compassion, and if are a people committed to following in the footsteps of Jesus, then compassion, or acts of compassion, to and for our one another and our neighbours, particular those who reside on the religious, social and political fringes, is a vital Christian practice, perhaps non-negotiable even. Jesus' acts of compassion weren't nice shows of emotion; they were political and social acts that illuminated and railed against all that was wrong (next out the section "The Compassion of Jesus" in Walter Brueggemann's book The Prophetic Imagination for more).

We live in a historical moment where we need more compassion, where we need to be more compassionate. Acts of compassion towards those around us and toward each other have the power to illuminate and critique that which dehumanizes and ushers forth transformation.

In his book The Prophetic Imagination, Walter Brueggemann says, "[T]he one thing the dominant culture cannot tolerate or co-opt is compassion, the ability to stand in solidarity with the victims of the present order. It can manage charity and good intentions, but it has no way to resist solidarity with pain or grief… The imperial consciousness lives by its capacity to still the groans and to go on with business as usual as though none were hurting and there were no groans (reminds me of the Act Party). If the groans become audible, if they can be heard in the streets and markets and courts, then the consciousness of domination is already jeopardized… Newness comes precisely from expressed pain. Suffering made audible and visible produces hope, articulated grief is the gate of newness, and the history of Jesus is the history of entering into the pain and giving it voice."

This week is the Epiphany of our Lord Jesus Christ.

Epiphany means “a manifestation of a divine or supernatural being or “a moment of sudden and great revelation or realisation.” The story, which starts in the season of Epiphany, is the story of the Magi’s journey to pay homage to Jesus, the Christ child, born in Bethlehem.

The story of the Magi’s sojourn to Jesus is a story full of contrasts, and contrast a good because they can break open the doors to our hearts and minds and help us encounter God in Scripture in new ways, ways that have the potential to be liberating, healing, and hope-filled.

Jerusalem is the centre of religious, economic, and political power; this is the place where the Magi expect to find a king, and this is the place where we too might expect to see a king, a leader, a liberator, in the royal halls, in a place of importance, in a city of significance. But the place that the Magi except, where it made sense to find Jesus, is not the place. The place is Bethlehem. In the land of Judah, Bethlehem is a seemingly inconsequential place inhabited by people at the margins – peasants, just like Mary and Joseph. However, Bethlehem is the place where God’s work begins, work that will threaten the imperial power entrenched in Jerusalem, shatter boundaries, and bring new life.

King Herod and his advisors, the political & religious elite, stand in stark contrast to the Magi. The Magi are wise men, astrologers, pagans from the East, outsiders, strangers, and aliens who have travelled far following that “star of wonder.” What’s more, these Magi, these outsiders, came seeking this new king with curiosity. When the king wasn’t where they expected, and they were told he was in an insignificant town on the margins of the empire, they kept going; they kept searching. The Magi came with an attitude of humility, wonder, and reverence. They came with an attitude of generosity, bearing gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh, gifts fit for a king. King Herod, along with his advisors, the political and religious elite, on the other hand, were filled with terror and sought to do all he could to secure his wealth, power, and privilege.

God is at work at the margins of the empire versus at the centre of wealth and power. Outsiders versus insiders. God begins to open the way of God to all people. God breaking boundaries. Attitudes of curiosity, humility, wonder and generosity versus violence, arrogance, fear, and the pursuit of power and privilege.

Contrasts are good. Contrast invites reflection.

Perhaps we need to reflect on where we locate ourselves and our community in this story? Are we Herod? Hellbent on doing things our way? Protecting the status quo? Locked into specific ways of doing and being? Unwilling to see how God might be at work in new or different ways in, through, and around us?

Or are we like the Magi? Curious. Open to searching for God in the places where we might not expect God to be? Humble? Do we, or are we, approaching God with wonder and reverence? Wonder again at God’s coming into the world. Wonder at God’s love, which is extended to all. Wonder at God’s love for us? Do we come to God bearing gifts fit for a king? Time, money, our lives?

If you are like me, the answer is likely both. There are moments of Maginess and moments of Herodness. Moments of surprise, wonder, beauty, awe, and gratitude to God for how God works in my life and the lives of those around me. And there are moments of Herodness. Moments of frustration, fear, and anxiety when things don’t go as I planned. When God goes off script and operates in counterintuitive, counterproductive, strange, or unusual ways.

As we reflect on the story of the Magi’s visit to Jesus, as we reflect again on the upside-down nature of the Commonwealth of God, as we think about the Maginess and the Herodness that exists within us, may more of the attitude of the Magi bubble to the surface in us. May we, through the power of the Holy Spirit, resist the ways of Herod in us, ways that seek to protect our power and privilege, ways that close us off from what God is doing, the ways of fear and anxiety. In those challenging moments, in those bumps in the road, when we feel things aren’t working out as they should, may we, like the Magi, keep searching for Jesus. And when we find Jesus, may we be filled with more curiosity, humility, wonder, and generosity at the lifegiving work of Jesus in us, through us, and around us.

Christmas is upon us!

As we gather together to recall and celebrate the arrival of Christ, my prayer, my hope, is that you, that we, amid the noise, find some space and time to reflect deeply on the incarnation, that incredible event in which God, in all God's mystery and unfathomableness and otherness, became human.

John, in deeply poetic and symbolic language, describes the event like this:

"The Word was first, the Word present to God, God present to the Word. The Word was God, in readiness for God from day one. Everything was created through him; nothing—not one thing!— came into being without him. What came into existence was Life, and the Life was Light to live by. The Life-Light blazed out of the darkness; the darkness couldn't put it out… [And] the Word became flesh and blood and moved into the neighbourhood. (The Message Translation)

Luke, somewhat more practically, narrates the details of the events surrounding the arrival of God, of the Word becoming flesh and moving into the neighbourhood: Roman Empire, Caesar, and a census. A difficult journey, especially for Mary, to be registered. Mary giving birth in a shed. Animals and a feed box. A vulnerable baby. Angels exploding on the scene. Astounded shepherds. Terrified political leaders. Amazed people. Parents were in shock and awe at what was unfolding around them, and understandably so! God had just entered human space and time; something had happened, and people knew, somehow, someway, from that moment forward, nothing would be the same.

The arrival of God elicits a response. It did for those in Luke's telling of the arrival of God on earth: At the news of her pregnancy, Mary was perplexed and troubled by the words the angel Gabriel spoke to her. "This doesn't make sense," Mary thought. As the reality of what was happening in her womb sunk in, Mary responded with a revolutionary song of praise: "My soul magnifies the Lord," she sang.

When an angel of the Lord appeared to a group of shepherds (a.k.a. "the marginalised and forgotten), they were terrified, but their terror quickly morphed into curiosity and wonder as the angel's news about the birth of Jesus sunk in.

At the news of Jesus' birth, delivered by the Magi, Eastern mystics, Herod, and Jerusalem's religious & political elite (a.k.a., "The Powers") were utterly petrified. "Who is this new king in town and how can we get rid of him," they plotted.

People were amazed as they heard the shepherd news as the news broke out. "What is going on!" they wondered."

The arrival of God elicits a response.

Like those present at Christ's birth, the arrival of God in human form elicits feelings in me: amazement, surprise, awe, and sometimes confusion. What about you? What is it like for us? What responses does God's arrival in all of God's mystery, unfathomability, and otherness elicit in us? Does the mystery of the incarnation stop us in our tracks, fill us with awe and wonder, surprise and confound us, unsettle and trouble us, and force us, once again, to ask who is God, where is God, and what is God up to?

Who is God? God is the Creator, Redeemer, and bearer of Life. God is Parent, Child, and Spirit. What is God up to? God is meeting humanity in all humanity's beauty and brokenness. Where is God? God is with us.

Henri Nouwen says, "[We] have hardly thought through the immense implications of the mystery of the incarnation. Where is God? God is where we are weak, vulnerable, small, and dependent. God is where the poor are, the hungry, the handicapped, the mentally ill, the elderly, the powerless. How can we come to know God when our focus is elsewhere, on success, influence, and power? Our faithfulness will depend on our willingness to go where there is brokenness, loneliness, and human need… Each one of us is very seriously searching to live and grow in this belief, and by friendship, we can support each other. [The] only way for us to stay well amid the many "worlds" is to stay close to the small, vulnerable child that lives in our hearts and every other human being. Often, we do not know that the Christ child is within us. When we discover him, we can truly rejoice."

This Christmas, may we meet God in new and surprising ways. In bread and wine, in our neighbour, in creation, and deep within ourselves, and as we do, may we rejoice, may we sing, as did those angels long ago, "He honore, he kororia. Maungarongo ki te whenua. Whakaaro pai ki ngā tangato katoa" [Honour and glory to God, peace on earth, and goodwill to all people].

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My sister, the fabulous Mary Lander, introduced me to hopepunk this week. "Hopepunk" is a hopeful literary response to "grimdark," a type of fiction with a tone, style, or setting that is particularly dystopian, amoral, and violent.

More than a storytelling movement, however, hopepunk is a way of being; it's a commitment to "keep fighting, no matter what." If that seems airy fairy, consider the concept of hope. What does it entail? Love, kindness, faith in humanity, and, for us Christians, faith in God.

Now, picture these ideas not as a brightly optimistic state of being but as an active political choice, made with total self-awareness that things might be bleak or even frankly hopeless, and amid that bleakness, you'll keep hoping, loving, [and] being kind nonetheless.

By actively choosing love and kindness and not settling for the way things are, choosing hope becomes an act that affirms our humanity and a form of resistance against cynical worldviews that dismiss hope as a powerful force for change.

The founder of hopepunk says, "Hopepunk says that genuinely and sincerely caring about something, anything, requires bravery and strength. Hopepunk isn't ever about submission or acceptance: It's about standing up and fighting for what you believe in. It's about standing up for other people. It's about DEMANDING a better, kinder world, and truly believing that we can get there if we care about each other as hard as we possibly can, with every drop of power in our little hearts." (Hopepunk, explained: the storytelling trend that weaponizes optimism - Vox)

I think Archbishop Oscar Romero, our Advent guide, embodied hopepunk. Oscar Romero was a hopepunker, but a special kind; his hopepunk was rooted in Jesus. 

"At the centre of Romero's preaching was this central belief: the gospel is not an old-fashioned fairytale, but is alive and breathing, right here in our present time and circumstances. It was not hard for him to see Christ crucified all around him in the suffering of his people, who bore the image of God. And his conviction that Christ comes to us at every moment in human history made it possible for him to see the hope of the resurrection all around him, even in spite of the terrible circumstances that filled his days." (Camron Bellm, Advent with Saint Oscar Romero)

Romero could do what he did because of his firm belief in Jesus' arrival, God's arrival, on earth. Today's readings speak about Christ's coming, and they also talk about preparation, preparing for Christ's arrival, to receive God.

The prophet Isaiah says: A voice of one calling: "In the wilderness, prepare the way for the Lord; make straight in the desert a highway for our God."

The writer of Mark says that John the Baptist, Jesus' cousin, embodied Isaiah's words, preparing the way for Jesus, announcing his arrival, and preparing the people to receive him.

Advent is a season where we look forward to the coming of Christ, but it's also a time when we can/should intentionally prepare ourselves, our homes, and our churches to welcome Jesus (again) at Christmas.

In his 2nd Advent sermon, Romero speaks about preparing to receive Christ, our posture, and attitude; do we look forward to the arrival of Christ with a sense of expectation, hope, and joy, with a sense of excitement, excitement that the saving presence of God might emerge in new ways for us (individually and collectively), or are we filled with ambivalence and cynicism? 

Romero says, "Who, at some time, has not had this experience of Advent, this experience of preparing to receive a friend, a son or daughter, a spouse or parent coming from a distant place? One prepares the home and gets ready to welcome the person with a warm and cordial celebration. This gives insight into what the Church wishes to achieve during this time, namely, a warm preparation [for Christ's arrival]." 

That quote, for some reason, undid me. The invitation to prepare for the coming of Christ in the same way I would lovingly prepare food and my home to welcome a guest coming from a distant place moved me. It caused me to pause and to ask myself in what ways, amid the busy and crazy world, I was preparing myself to receive Jesus, not just in an individual private sense but in a way that my reception of Jesus might be a catalyst for inner and outer transformation (what I believe and what I do).

What does preparing ourselves to receive Christ like we receive close friends or family look like? What does it look like to welcome Jesus amid considerable heartache? What does it look like for us to do that as individuals? Silence, prayer, or intentionally cultivating a posture of humility and hunger for God, stopping to notice the good things God gives amid the hard, picking up that dusty Bible and giving it another go? What does preparing our place of worship look like to receive Christ (particularly those on the margins)?

Here's a question for mediation: "This year has been exceedingly difficult, on a national and global scale, but you have probably also had your own personal share of sorrows, whether they be losses or disappointments. In spite of all of this, we are reminded, Jesus comes. Imagine, just for a moment, that you are preparing a place in the midst of all this for Jesus to be welcomed. [Let yourself give in to joy, a joy that does not clear away the sorrow, but abides with it"] (Advent with St. Oscar Romero, Cameron Bellm).

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This Sunday marks the start of Advent, and as we begin, it's helpful to remind ourselves what Advent is and about. I love how the writers of Common Prayer: A Liturgy for Everyday Radicals describe Advent. They say:

Advent means "the coming." It's a time when we wait expectantly. Like Mary, we celebrate the coming of the Christ child, what God has already done; and we wait in expectation of the full coming of God's reign on earth and for the return of Christ, what God will yet do. However, our waiting is not passive; it is active. As any expectant mother knows, waiting involves preparation, exercise, nutrition, care, prayer, and work, and birth involves pain, blood, tears, joy, release, and community. It is called labour for a reason. Likewise, we are in a world pregnant with hope, and we live in the expectation of the coming of God's kin-dom on earth, and as we wait, we also work, cry, pray, and ache; we are the midwives of another world.

This Advent, I, along with others, am journeying with Saint Oscar Romero, Archbishop of San Salvador, from 1977 to 1980. We are reflecting on his life and work and reading and discussing his writings, particularly Romero's four 1978 Advent sermons. Over the coming Sundays of Advent, Oscar Romero will be our guide too.

"Let's set the scene. The year is 1978. The last two national elections in El Salvador were marred by fraud, solidifying the power of a military-backed executive branch intent on crushing any resistance from the impoverished majority of the country. Paramilitary death squads violently repress any group or individual who speaks out against injustice. Disappearances and kidnappings are common occurrences, and torture is frequently carried out by government forces. Multiple priests have been threatened, deported, or killed. Romero faces frequent denunciations by the government, his own bishops, and the papal nuncio of El Salvador, who is set on removing him from office for his refusal to be silent in the face of violence and human rights violations. The diocesan printing press, radio office, and Central American University in San Salvador have been bombed repeatedly. Advent draws near. The hope of the gospel buzzes in the air." (Cameron Bellm, Advent with St. Oscar Romero)

In his first Advent sermon, Romero offered three things that he believed were central to the season of Advent. 1) A hunger for God, 2) a posture of watchfulness and attentiveness to the presence of God in the poor, and 3) a commitment to being heralds of the kin-dom of God.

This morning, I want to offer three quotes from Romero's sermons that highlight these themes, followed by a question for reflection and then a short period of silence to engage with the question and with God. 

Firstly, hunger for God.

Romero says, "This is the meaning of hunger for God. The person who feels the emptiness of hunger for God is the opposite of the self-sufficient person. In this sense, rich means the proud, [those unwilling to open themselves up to God], rich means even the poor who have no property but think they need nothing, not even God. This is the wealth that is abominable in God's eyes, what the humble but forceful Virgin speaks of: 'The rich he has sent away empty' - those who think that have everything - 'the hungry he has filled with good things' (Luke 1:53) - those who have a need of God."

Question: How hungry are we for God? Is a deep desire for God central to our lives as Christians?

Secondly, Romero speaks of the importance of seeing Christ's face in one another, particularly the poor. 

As we have heard, Romero was preaching and pastoring amid horrific levels of violence, and in his conversations and preaching, Romero implored those he spoke with to see the face of Christ in one another because if they did, how could they kill each other? Romero said, "Advent should [push] us to discover the face of Christ in each brother or sister that we greet, in each friend whose hand we shake, in each beggar who asks for bread, in each worker who wants to exercise the right to join a union, and in each campesino who looks for work in the coffee groves. Then it would not be possible to rob them, to cheat them, to deny them their rights. They are Christ, and whatever is done to them Christ will take as done to himself. This is what Advent is, namely, Christ living among us." 

Of course, the counter by some is to say, well, people aren't acknowledging the image of God in me. Maybe, maybe not, but that's not the point. Jesus refused to mar the image of God in those to whom he ministered and confronted, despite the numerous times the " powers" marred the image of God in him. Our commitment to do the same, even when it's uncomfortable, even when we would rather not, bears witness to the kin-dom of God.

Question: Where is it easy for you to see the image of God in others? Where is it hard?

Finally, waiting [or hunger for God] and work.

For Romero, watching and waiting were active; the inward hunger for God and the tangible outworking of that hunger worked in tandem. It was not either/or but both/and. Romero says, "Advent is an attitude of waiting for everything to come from God but at the same time to have an attitude of dedicated work and of making our [Christian] contribution in the way that human beings must do." Put differently, pray like everything depends on God and work like everything depends on you (a say often attributed to St Augustine and/or St Ignatius).

Question: How does that balance look for us, are we about mainly prayer or mainly work? If in prayer, ask God to direct you to meaningful action to accompany it. If in action, ask God to lead your heart to prayer, to strengthen your hands for work.

This is Advent! 

I want to end with Romero's Advent invitation to his people, which is an invitation to us too, he says, "I invite you to enter into this Advent, into this time of spiritual preparation for Christmas with this sense that I have spoken about: a hunger for God. Let us become poor in spirit and in need of God. Let us be watchful and attentive to the presence of God in the poor, in our friends, in our sisters and brothers, so that we treat these people in the same way that we would treat Christ. As Christians, let us bring a committed presence to our society where we are called to be the heralds of the Kingdom of God! So be it!" 

At this week's service, we commemorate Parihaka Day. At Parihaka, Tohu Kākahi & Te Whiti o Rongomai built a model community and fostered a nonviolent resistance movement against the unjust confiscation (stealing) of Māori land. Their mahi (work) led to conflict with the colonial government. On November 5th, 1881, armed constabulary invaded Parihaka, decimated the community, arrested Tohu and Te Whiti, and imprisoned them (along with many other ploughmen) without trial. Look at this short video about Tohu and Te Whiti and the invasion of Parihaka on November 5th, 1881: The invasion of Parihaka and why it needs to be remembered.

As we remember Parihaka, we might ask ourselves why. Why do we recall and lament the brutal attack on Parihaka? Lament is an oft-ignored practice in the church. We live in a culture that wants to avoid pain at all costs, to not engage in what's difficult, to push it to the side. The comment, "oh, that happened in the past, we just need to get over it," seems (at least to me) an act of avoidance and, more precisely, a way to dodge doing the hard work of engaging with our preconceived ideas, personal biases, and unwillingness to change. Lament can be a vital way to pry the door open, confront ourselves and injustice, and start a journey toward healing, wholeness, and life.

Lament is an opportunity to bring before God all that is not right with the world, where we have failed, and where we need God to enter and bring justice, reconciliation, and peace within ourselves, with our neighbours and on the land. 

Lament is a profoundly biblical practice. The cries of the ancient Hebrew people living under the tyranny of Egypt (Exodus), Psalms, Lamentations, and Jesus' prayer in the garden of Gethsemane are all examples of lament. They are honest, raw, heartfelt cries to God for deliverance and justice. I love what Barbra A. Holmes says about lament (she is particularly talking about communal lament):

Lament is risky speech. It's risky because it challenges power structures, calls for justice, and makes demands on our relationships with "the powers that be," one another, and God. Lament allows the pain to escape and stitches us to our neighbours. God calls us to weep with those who weep. Lament gives us back our voice; it helps us say the unsayable. Lament is a collective response to tyranny and injustice. Lament is work that prepares us for action and resistance. It's art that heals our weary souls (Crisis Contemplation, pg. 96-96). Lament is a gateway to newness.

So, why do we remember? We remember, and we lament because in doing so, we challenge the arrangements of the world, give voice to our pain, call God into the situation(s), and make room for God to enter and, maybe just maybe, for God to act in ways that bring healing and wholeness to us and for us, individually and collective. 

As we remember Parihaka and lament our church's complicity in the carnage there, may God challenge us and inspire us in our work of justice and peace. May the past events not define us but instead catalyse us into people who, without fear and guilt, confront the biases and prejudices in ourselves (I have heaps), church, and community and work to build a better future for our kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids in the years to come.

Peace.

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This Sunday, we commemorate All Saints' Day, and I ask myself, what does it mean to commemorate this day in 2023, amid war in Palestine and Israel, environmental disaster, predatory capitalism, and political polarisation, and in light of this week's gospel reading, The Beatitudes?

At first glance, All Saints' Day might seem weird, and we might wonder what's the point. But here's the genius of it (at least for me). All Saints’ Day is part of the church calendar, which begins with Advent and continues through Christmas, Lent, Easter, and Ordinary Time. It includes special days like Trinity Sunday, Transfiguration, and Christ in All Creation Sunday. The church calendar is how we immerse ourselves in God's story year in and year out, and it's a story in which we find meaning and life. Our liturgy on Sunday works the same. It’s a little pilgrimage, one in which we find ourselves welcomed by God, where we confess our need for God, where we meet God in Scripture, prayer, and Eucharist, and where, finally, we are sent out into the world, re-membered as the body of Christ, to bear witness to Christ crucified and risen. These practices ground us as individuals and as a community, and in some ways, All Saints’ Day (along with the particular Saint days) is part of all this. It’s a way to intentionally recall those who have gone before, those who lived the way of Jesus in challenging and inspiring ways and who invite us to do the same.

The world throws many heroes and heroines at us: people who tell us greed is good, success looks like this, or things will make you happy. We need different heroes, heroines, and mentors to inspire and remind us of what's possible when we orientate our lives and community around the way of Jesus. This is why All Saints' Day is important; it's an intentional recollection of those who have gone before, Saints known and unknown, those who have laid the foundations for us to build on, and those who give us a (gentle) push, not into the past, but into the future.

The Saints are people we can learn from. The Saints were/are people who lived the upside-down way of the Gospel in ways that were often an insult to the political, social, and religious institutions of their day, people who, through their commitment to practising the way of Jesus, changed their little corner of the world. They are tangible examples for us. People like the Apostles, all of them pretty much martyred. People like the Church Fathers and Mothers, Augustine and Hildegard of Bingen, and other teachers of the faith. People like Francis and Clare of Assisi, two radicals that ushered in reform in the Church. People like Archbishop Oscar Romero, a man who stood against U.S. imperialism and state-sanctioned violence. People like Dorothy Day, a woman who birthed the Catholic Worker movement,  railed against war and violence and opened homes of hospitality amid the Great Depression. People like Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a pastor who spoke out against the Nazi Party and the unholy alliance between Church and state in Germany. People like Henry and Marianne Williams, a couple committed to spreading the Gospel and to justice and peace. Kereropa and Manihera of Taranaki, incredible evangelists who spread the gospel amongst their people. People like Rota Waitoa, a man who, despite being poorly treated by the Pākehā church, became Aotearoa's first Māori deacon and served his people with love and care. People like Tohu and Whitii (you can find biographical information on all these people in For All The Saints, our guide to the Saints in Aotearoa, New Zealand, and Pacifika). Incredible people who lived remarkable lives, people who, as best they could, embodied the Beatitudes in word, deed, and sign and, in doing so, extended the bounds of God's reign. And yet the Beatitudes tend to wash over us a bit; they become familiar and, as a result, lose their punch. To what extent do the Beatitudes Jesus spoke of move, challenge, inspire, and shape us?

Recently, I spoke about reconciliation (paying particular attention to Paul's writings). I talked about how reconciliation is central to the gospel. How it is a lens through which we can see and understand God's purpose and work in the world. And how it is work that we are called to as Jesus people (in our homes, workplaces, community, and in our church). I said that maybe, as Mennonite peacemaker John Paul Leaderach asserts, reconciliation is the gospel. 

In this week's gospel reading, Jesus talks about the cost of discipleship, points out that he hasn't come to bring peace but a sword, and talks about disruption and division, even amongst family (Matthew 10:24-39). What do we do with that? It feels like the opposite of unity, togetherness, and the reconciliation of all things, through Jesus, back to God.

Here are my thoughts. Firstly, when we read this passage, we must not weaponise it. Far too often, Christians have been guilty of using this passage (and other passages like it) to create unnecessary conflict, double down on their particular ideology or theological viewpoint, and push people to the side or out. This passage isn't a call to intentionally create unhealthy conflict or to abandon the call to embody unity in diversity; it is an unflinching reminder that conflict is an inevitable by-product when people and communities of people follow the way of Jesus. 

Matthew's community, the people to whom this letter was addressed, knew this; they knew the danger. In Matthew's time, "it was well know that Christians - including Simon Peter, who was important to the Matthean community - had been crucified in Rome under Nero" (Belief Commentary Series: Matthew, Anna Case-Winters). Matthew's community knew the "cost of discipleship," the cost of following Jesus. 

In this passage, Jesus reminds his followers (and us) that following him is costly. It's costly because the way of Jesus ultimately upsets the Powers That Be. The ways of the kin-dom: non-violence, justice, forgiveness, generosity, and love stand in stark contrast to the way of the world, the way of war and violence, white supremacy, patriarchy, greed, self-sufficiency, and individualism. Jesus' way confronts and insults the death-dealing logic of the world. "Although God's reign inaugurates a true shalom (Hebrew peace, wholeness, well-being, and safety), the announcement of God's reign comes as a genuine threat to those who reign now, and they will respond with violence" (Matthew at the Margins: A Socio-Political Reading of Matthew, Warren Carter). Walter Wink says, "When the Powers That Be catch the merest whiff of God's new order, they automatically mobilize all their might to crush it" (The Powers That Be, Walter Wink). Here are some examples: The Roman Empire and the religious elite's response to Jesus (they executed him), the British Empire's violent response to Gandhi's non-violent emancipation movement in India, the New Zealand Government's violent response to Tohu, Te Whiti, and the community at Parihaka, and, in a much smaller way, the community's response to our Advent sign (the sign depicted Mary, fist in the air, wearing combat boots, and surrounded by the words of the Magnificat (Luke 1:46-56)). The Powers That Be fight back in the face of Christ's kin-dom of justice and peace. It's as simple as that.

And yet I have a question (or I have a slight niggle when I think about all this): if reconciliation, love of neighbour, and non-violence are central to Christ's kin-dom, what's our response to the inevitable division and/or backlash that we create when we live the Jesus way? Amid our critique of the Powers That Be (and those who prop up the powers), how do we create space for transformation, healing, and reconciliation and not create further unnecessary alienation and division? Rather than seeing division as destructive, or understanding it negatively, maybe we need to think of the disruptive way of Jesus (the disruptions that occur when we follow the way of Jesus) in positive terms, perhaps as an opportunity for transformation, for God to enter, challenge (all involved), and create space for new life to emerge (or at least the possibility for it). Randy Woodley says, "Conflict is the path to shalom [peace]" (Shalom and the Community of Creation: An Indigenous Vision, Randy Woodley). The kin-dom of Christ illuminates that which is at odds with the ways of God (which is challenging but good); it disrupts the status quo, but it also should be an invitation to step into the life-giving ways of God and God's kin-dom (a double-edged sword of sorts). The disruptive "sword" of Christ is not a sword that brings death but one that makes way for life (for those who choose it). Disruption can bring peace. Disruption is OK. Disruption often means God is at work. 

This is challenging and risky work, no doubt, and as we contemplate all this, we should remember Jesus' other words in our reading. "Don't be afraid," Jesus says. God is with you/us. Jesus has gone before us. Jesus upset the Powers That Be. The Powers That Be attempted to silence Jesus (they thought they had). But, no, Jesus was vindicated. Resurrection happened. New life burst forth from death. God's reign was inaugurated. Amid the ups and downs of following Jesus, embodying his reign of justice and peace, we have to know that God is always with us, no matter what, and that God is a God who makes a way out of no way. 

Be encouraged! May our life together point to a different world. May our life together shake the world around us (in a good way), and may it lead us and others to more healing, hope, and life. May we be disrupted; may we be gentle disrupters, purveyors of a quiet revolution that challenges the death-dealing logic of the world, invites people into new life, healing, and wholeness, and makes God's reign visible in our families, church, community, and on this whenua (land).