By Fr. Travis O’Brian

St. Barnabas Church Victoria, Rector

Today, we celebrate and give thanks for the angels of God in whose presence we are made aware of the nearness of God in our lives. I am not sure if belief in Angels is one of the things the Catechism says is required for salvation. Perhaps it is not. But we do a disservice to ourselves when we seek ‘proof’ of spiritual realities using faculties intended for perceiving material realities. When we do that, when we insist that everything that exists must be sensible to our physical eyes and physical ears, we diminish our sensitivity to the wonder, mystery, and fullness of God’s creation. It would be very odd, after all, to pick up one of the apples which Irene has been so generously distributing and, just by holding it, conclude that it has no taste. It is only biting into the apple that we can be awakened, as it were, and surprised even, by its sweet, tart, taste; how good it is. Similarly, we can be awakened to the presence of Angels only by our spiritual senses – the senses by which we ‘taste and see that the Lord is good’: faith and hope, patience, kindness, generosity, open-heartedness, thanksgiving, long-suffering, and above all, love. Only when we taste and see the world through these faculties are we able to sense the angels all around us – even when they take the shape of the ordinary flesh-and-blood person with annoying habits who sits in the pew next to you every week!

Angels are bearers of God’s word. They are messengers of the promise that God will always be for us and with us. Angels ‘appear’ to us in times and places where the distance separating earth and heaven is thin: ascending and descending in Jacob’s dream at Bethel; calling Moses from the burning bush; commissioning Isaiah at the Holy Altar of the Temple; at the conception and birth of Jesus, and in the empty tomb; with the disciples at Jesus’ ascension; freeing the apostles from prison; encouraging Paul to confront the Emperor with the Gospel.

The story of Jacob’s encounter with the Angels at Bethel is one we read two or three Sundays a year. When we first meet him in this story, it is dusk, and Jacob is fleeing down a road in the middle of nowhere. He’s fleeing his family because he recently tricked his father into bestowing the family’s birthright on him instead of upon his elder brother, Esau, to whom it rightfully belonged. Now he is forced out of his home into that lonely, God-forsaken place. When he can no longer see because of the growing darkness, he throws himself on the bare ground to sleep. And in his sleep, he encounters – unmerited, unasked for, unexpected – life-transforming grace: a vision of Angels ascending and descending on a ladder set between earth and heaven. Along with that vision, he hears the Word of divine promise: “the land on which you lie I will give to you and your offspring; your offspring shall be like the dust of the earth . . . and all the families of the earth shall be blessed in you and in your offspring.”

Then Jacob awoke from his sleep and said, ‘Surely the Lord is in this place and I did not know it!’ And he was afraid, and said, ‘How awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven!’” The very place that had once seemed so empty and forlorn, the country that only shortly before he had ‘seen’ through eyes narrowed by envy, self-righteousness, dissatisfaction, impatience – he now sees, waking up, in a completely new light. Suddenly, the place is for him a place of awe and wonder, hope, amazement, joy in the knowledge that God has not forgotten him, but is including him in his plan of salvation – not only for himself and his future family, but for “all the families of the earth.” The Angels free Jacob from the snare that he has fallen into. They remind Jacob of the nearness of God working in and through him. They have given him new eyes to see. They have given him courage and hope.

The next time we read this story will be in November at the ‘feast of the consecration,’ when we celebrate the ‘birthday’ of our parish Church. We will read this story at that time in recognition that this place is also a place where the distance between heaven and earth is thin, that here too is a place upon which the Angels ascend and descend between earth and heaven. We read this story often to help us refocus on the miracle of this place. Because the truth is that sometimes, because we are human, sometimes our spiritual senses can become a little dulled. Who knows why. Perhaps it is simply because we grow too used to things. If we eat an apple a day, then it can happen that we are no longer surprised by the taste of an apple. We can become inured to the wonder. For some reason, it sometimes becomes difficult to see the Angels even when they are sitting right beside us – because, after all, that is ‘only’ Jim sitting there, it is ‘only’ Irene and her apples again, it is ‘only’ the carpenter’s son. The extraordinary we begin to perceive as only ordinary; the miracle as only ‘everyday.’ But this, this impression of the ‘everydayness’ of things, is the opposite of love. From it grows the weeds of the spirit, the kind of attitudes that shaped Jacob’s perception before his encounter with the angels: his discontent, complacency, impatience, envy.

So there is a very real spiritual danger when things begin to seem to us as ‘only everyday.’ But, thank God, the Angels are constantly ascending and descending upon this otherwise ordinary place. We come here precisely to be reminded that God uses everyday things as vehicles of his awesome grace: things like bread, wine, water; and ordinary people like the one you sit beside week after week in the pew. God uses everyday people and everyday things to wake us up to the truth that NOTHING in all creation is simply ‘everyday’ – least of all this place, where the distance between earth and heaven is so thin. We come here to be awakened again and again to the truth that, in the awe-struck words of Elizabeth Barrett-Browning:

Earth’s crammed with heaven. And every common bush afire with God. But only he who sees takes off his shoes . . .

. . . Browning’s words are a beautiful echo of Jacob’s cry of wonder, “How awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of God!” They are a beautiful echo of our own song of ‘Great Thanksgiving’ which we raise in unison with the Angels and Archangels surrounding the throne of God: “holy, holy, holy, Lord God of hosts, heaven and earth are full of thy glory!” Joy, hope, faith, awe, amazement, kindness, generosity, gratitude, patience – and above all, love. These are what we celebrate when we celebrate our life together here, where the Angels dwell among us – among us and, yes, are sitting right there beside us. There is no such thing as ordinary.




By Fr. Travis O’Brian

St. Barnabas Church, Victoria, Rector

O God, who makest us glad with the yearly remembrance of the coming of the Holy Spirit upon thy disciples in Jerusalem: Grant that we who celebrate before thee the Feast of Pentecost may continue in thy love forever . . .  Amen.

For the first three centuries after the resurrection of Jesus, the church understood the event we celebrate on this day, God’s pouring out of His Holy Spirit on the day of Pentecost, to be the second most important day in the Church’s year, next to Easter.  The Church celebrated this feast 300 years before it began to celebrate Christmas, for example.  That may surprise us.  The question is why this was the case.  Why is Pentecost such a profoundly important celebration?  And why should we renew our efforts to celebrate it with joyful festivity?

The quick answer is because Pentecost marks the ‘birth of the church.’  So this is a kind of birthday party.  But the deeper answer helps us to understand what the church is and so what her birth means.  Pentecost is so profoundly important because of the intimate relationship between the events we celebrate this day and Easter – and why Pentecost marks the end of the Easter season.  Remember, what Easter celebrates is not the resurrection of one person, Jesus, alone.  For the Easter promise is that we shall all share in his resurrection.  Easter promises not one resurrection for Jesus and another resurrection for me and another for you.  The Easter promise is that there is one resurrection, of which Jesus is the ‘first fruits.’  The promise of Easter is that death does not separate us from the eternal love of God, but that all things are, as Christ, to share in the very life of God, the life of His Love, forever.  This is a great and even overwhelming mystery.  But it is the ground of Christian hope and Christian joy: the Easter promise that we shall live as one with God and one with one another in God’s love, just as the Father and the Son are united in and by that same Love.

Pentecost and Easter go together because on the day of Pentecost the apostles were at last given to understand this Easter promise.  On the day of Pentecost the Holy Spirit opened their hearts to know that the same power which raised Christ from the dead was working in them at that very moment.  The Church was born, in other words, as the foretaste and a living witness of the one life of resurrection – the life of eternal love in which all are one in Christ as Christ is one in the Father through the power of the Holy Spirit.  In other words, the Church was born as God’s declaration, and the Apostle’s realization, that the promise of resurrection is not just for the other side of death.  The Church was born as the embodiment and living witness of resurrection life – of the life we share with Christ Jesus – starting now, today, right here.  Reborn through the waters of the Holy Spirit, the Church is the community which no longer lives ‘my life for me’ and ‘your life for you,’ but which is animated by the Spirit of resurrection, in which Christ is all in all.

Remember the story.  The apostles are gathered behind locked doors.  “Suddenly a sound came from heaven like the rush of a mighty wind . . . and there appeared to them tongues as of fire . . . resting on each one of them.  And they were all filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other tongues.”    And then comes the most important thing of all: gathered in Jerusalem were “devout men from every nation under heaven.  And at this sound the multitude came together . . . and each one heard them speaking in his own language.”  In what then was the power of the Holy Spirit?  Was it in the wind and fire?  Was it in the ability to understand foreign speech as naturally one’s mother tongue? These things were signs that the power of God was at work in them.  But that power was at work for a purpose – to unite all those disparate people, separated as they were by language, race, class, culture, sex – to unite them into the one life of Christ; that they might awaken to the power of the resurrection working in them.  The Church was born as “this multitude came together,” as this once-timid and frightened and disparate group was transformed by Love to be the living witness of the resurrection of Christ in and for the world.

The Church is born wherever and whenever the power of the Holy Spirit unites the people of God, no matter what divides us, into one body, the body of Christ, and where the life of that body becomes, therefore, a living witness and a sign of Christ’s resurrection.  The Church, properly speaking, is not the institution, but the living witness of the love that raised Christ from death into life.  That may sound Utopian.  Of course we never get it perfect.  There has never been a moment, except perhaps on that day of Pentecost, where the Church embodied perfectly the love of the Holy Spirit in all its members.  Many things still separate us.  Different circumstances bring different sensibilities.  Different perspectives bring different opinions.  Different times of life bring different needs and different priorities.  God leads each one by different paths and for private reasons.  Yet the question the Holy Spirit challenges us with is: how do these differences contribute to the one life of the body, rather than cause division?  The love that unites doesn’t always flow naturally from our hearts.  Just read the book of Acts.  Luke tries to smooth over some of the difficulties, but even he is clear that the Apostles needed to work hard at this business of love.  To be one in Christ doesn’t always mean we need to be of one mind.  But it does mean we need to be of one heart, to share the heart of Christ.  Always, we need to pray for the grace of the Holy Spirit, to examine ourselves, and reach out to one another, especially those who may be divided from us by race or education or economics or age or opinion or theology.  We cannot be who God intends us to be without them.  We need them and they need us; for only together can we be the body of Christ; only together can we be the sign and living witness of the resurrection which is the Church.

At St Barnabas, we celebrate Pentecost with the messiness and joy and reminder of new life that children and youth always bring.  For young people in the Church are a sign of hope and resurrection life.  To live in that hope, to live together as the Body of that hope, is to learn to see our differences and all that separates us, as gifts of the Spirit.  Let us listen to each other.  If something is remiss, then let us help and encourage one another without blame.  None of us is perfect; that is why the Holy Spirit has given us to one another – so that we may practise the love of Christ on one another.  And the gift of that love poured out upon the Church is what we celebrate on this Holy Day of Pentecost.



By Fr. Travis O’Brian

St. Barnabas Church Victoria, Rector

According to the Gospel of St Matthew, the very last words Jesus shared with his disciples were those we read this morning:

All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me.  Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you; and lo, I am with you always, to the close of the age.

How fitting, as we gather on this Trinity Sunday to celebrate the baptism of Ross Matthewson, that Jesus explicitly evokes the name of the Trinity in reference to baptism, and in the context of his promise of never-failing faithfulness.

Jesus instructs his disciples to baptise in the name of the Trinity.  Baptism is to be the seal of his Covenant with them – his promise that their love for one another will never fail; that as long as they turn to him, they shall find him present with them; that they shall be his people, and he shall be their God.  Except the promise Jesus makes goes beyond Jesus alone, for the mystery of baptism is this: that the love Jesus offers is not his love alone.  The love Jesus offers is God’s, is one and the same love shared by the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  In this way, baptism brings us into the very centre of the life of God.  Moreover, we discover that even our love for Jesus is not ours alone, but is the Holy Spirit at work in us – that is to say, we discover God has been with us even before we knew to call upon him by name.

So by baptism we live in the assurance that our life is one with God’s life; that we have been given to share in the One Love that is the life of God.  In loving confidence, we offer ourselves to be submerged by water.  Love unites us to Christ’s death; and we pledge to die to everything that separates us from God.  So we say that by baptism, our sins are forgiven.  Let us understand, this word ‘sin’ does not mean that we are all wicked.  In the same way, neither does the great blessing that God pronounces over all creation, “it is very good,” mean we are well-behaved, morally correct.  Rather, this word ‘sin’ signifies all the ways in which our lives are shaped by the forces of separation – separation from one another, from our true selves, from creation – ultimately from the love and life of God.  And our ‘goodness’ in turn signifies that we are beloved of God; that despite the ways in which we align ourselves with the powers of separation from one another and from God, God nevertheless will not separate himself from us.  Baptism is our acknowledgement that since we cannot remain always faithful to Love ourselves, we are in desperate need for Love to be faithful to us.  And so He is.  However often we fall, however often we believe that God has turned his face from us; however we might cry with Naomi that “the Almighty has dealt very bitterly with me,” we nevertheless will find that the moment we break, the moment we are able to receive His love, He is there to receive us.

Well, all this is perhaps beginning to sound more theological than I intended.  But I hope I shall be forgiven for waxing theological on Trinity Sunday!  And I pray we are able to glimpse the mystery of which our baptism invites us.  This life of atomization and loneliness which we live is not what is really real.  Christ is with us to the end of the age – that is to say, the time when God will be ‘all in all,’ the time when we are, along with the whole of creation, returned to perfect and Holy Communion.  Baptism is our promise that in Christ, the Holy Communion shared by the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, is already begun to be shared also with us, and indeed with all created things.  Baptism is our ‘entry’ into the promise of that new creation.

Ross, Patience, Kristin, Brad.  Our lives are held within the mystery of God’s grace; and I at least find it good to think on these mysteries; to strive to love with all my mind the infinite Love who is God for us.  But in the day to day life of our families, all we need really to know is Christ’s promise: “I will be with you always.”  And we need to know this, not just as a piece of information, but we need to know it in a way that shapes the life of our home.  God has created the family to be an image of the life of the Trinity, the common life shared by the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  For to be a family is to know that one love binds each person to each and each to all in one common life; and it is also to know that this common life at the same time gives each individual to be him or herself more completely than could otherwise be possible.

The reason why disfunction and the break-down of relationship in families is always so painful and destructive is precisely because of this intention that our families reflect the Love of the Trinity in this way.  That it is also the why we must, as a family, always to turn to God’s promise of grace, as the source of the patience, long-suffering, and love without which we cannot live together.

So the image of the Trinity is deeply ingrained in our hopes and desires regarding our intimate family.  But at the same time, today, baptism creates and unites us to a much larger family: the family of Christ’s Church, the family we call “the communion of Saints.”  And the life of this family, united as it is in Communion beyond the limits of of blood, nation, or culture, God intends even more perfectly to reflect the life of the Trinity, the life of the One love who is God.  We who are gathered here, and the whole of the communion of saints on earth and in heaven, are celebrating Ross’ baptism today.  So let us pray that we may live in spirit and in truth the life of this love which binds us and frees us – the love manifest by Christ: the One love of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  And may we be renewed in the life of that Holy Communion every time we join together at the altar of God’s never-failing love.



Service of Ordination     Christ Church Cathedral        July 24, 2016

Meagan Crosby-Shearer (priest)

Rob Crosby-Shearer (deacon)

Christopher Samson (deacon)

Jeremiah 45:1-5

Matt. 20:20-28

First, let me say what an honour it is to have been asked to preach today, on this important occasion in the life of our Diocese and in the lives of Meagan, Christopher, and Rob.  During the pre-ordination retreat this past week, the four of us reflected pretty intensely together on what it means to be ordained.  One thing it means is to be set aside for what I have been invited to do today: to preach.  Remember, every sermon is an act of worship.  Every sermon is a prayer – not just of the preacher, but of the preacher and congregation together.  Meagan, Christopher, Rob, as ones ordained to preach, you may be the ones speaking, but don’t let that fool you.  The sermon is not a time for you to entertain the congregation with your knowledge, stories, bad jokes, or even your deep insight.  Every sermon is essentially an exercise in listening: the preacher and congregation waiting together upon God’s Word.  Listening and waiting: like all prayer, the sermon is essentially a work of silence.   The preacher’s words are not so much a mode of speech, as a mode of holding ourselves open, and of waiting to be addressed.  No word the preacher says is his or her own.  In this way, a sermon is different than a speech or a lecture.  Every word you shall ever preach is the sign of an infinitely more meaningful, full-to-over-flowing Word, which no word of yours, or of any preacher, can possibly contain.


It goes without saying how great an honour it is to be entrusted with leading the Church in this act of worship and in this work of listening.  Meagan, Christopher, Rob: to a great degree, to be ordained means to be set aside, not perhaps in your private person, but in your office, as a kind of sacramental sign of Christ, who is all in all.  It is in this way that every word you speak, especially from the pulpit, or at the sickbed or confessional, God uses to mean more than you can ever hope to mean; and every sign you make, especially at the altar, at the font, or the graveside, God uses to express more than you can ever hope to express: the presence of Christ in and for the world.

It is such an honour and a privilege to be so ordained, to be set aside to be used by God for this sacramental purpose.  We know all too well how unworthy we are of this honour.  We know how painfully approximate our words are, how short our trust and our love fall.  But take heart in this: if God ordained only those who are superlatively faithful, extraordinarily more prayerful or more righteous than everyone else, then our vocation could not be sacramental: for God uses the very common bread that is our lives to point toward what all people truly are in Christ: children of grace and icons of the Father.


What an awesome an honour it is – to be set aside for what the Book of Common Prayer calls the “dignity” of the ordained office.  But at the same time, we must be careful with this language of ‘honour’ and ‘dignity.’  James and John were seeking to be honoured, after all, when they entreated Jesus to seat them, one on his left, the other on his right, when he became King.  At the time of their asking, they were practically within sight of Jerusalem, on the final leg of Jesus’ last pilgrimage to the city.  Everything was charged, pregnant with expectation: the revolution that all Israel had been yearning for for so long was finally at hand!  Hence the brothers’ request: when you are King; when you restore Israel to its rightful dignity among the nations, what portfolio do you plan to give us in your cabinet?  What will our position in the new order be?  What special privilege will we enjoy, we who have been your faithful friends and supporters from the beginning?

We of course know, from our vantage point in history, that the revolution Jesus lead was not to be a political revolution, but a revolution of the Spirit; and that the New Israel he came to inaugurate was not a restoration of the Kingdom as it was under Solomon, but rather the Church.  In this new order, Jesus warns his followers, ‘honour’ is the opposite of public prestige, power, or respect.  Rather, to be honoured in this new Kingdom will mean to become a slave, and so despised by the kingdoms of the world.

For about three hundred years, this was, we know, indeed the case: to be a baptized member of Christ’s Kingdom – far from being seated at the right hand of religious and political authority – meant to be banished from the Synagogues and persecuted by the State authorities.  But after those initial years came a time – maybe fifteen or sixteen centuries – when James and John actually got what they were asking for!  For fifteen or sixteen hundred years, the disciples of Christ were indeed given places on the left and the right side of the thrones of political power.  For all those millennia, rather than bearing the mark of the suffering servant, the Church actually became the fulfillment of the hope of first century Israel: a restitution of the reign of Solomon in all his glory.

Well, we ought not to be too quick to disparage Christendom.  Christendom gave us Raphael and Bach and this very Cathedral.  It is not possible for us to regard the age of Christendom simply as one long mistake.  God always makes use of His broken vessels.  If that were not so, none of us would be here.  And yet – Anglicans especially must learn to hear the ‘good news’ at work amidst the collapsing walls of Christendom.  There is so much hand-wringing over the so-called ‘decline’ of our Church.  But I suspect what we are grieving over is not ‘the Church,’ but rather Christendom!  Power and prestige are being taken from us.  But that does not mean the Church is dying.  The Church cannot die – for the Church is the sacrament of Christ’s resurrection life!  So we must learn to rejoice in this time, rejoice, for God is recalling His Church to its original vocation: to be a sign, a parable, a sacrament, a pinch of yeast, a grain of the salt of the Kingdom of Love on the other side of power.


Meagan, Christopher, Rob: you are being sent out to be sacramental servants of this Love at a moment in history when God is restoring His Church to her original place of prophetic exile from the seats of power.  “Behold, what I have built I am about to tear down, and what I have planted I am about to uproot.”  These words we just heard from the mouth of the prophet Jeremiah.  We must learn to hear, not just the word of judgement, but the word of hope in them.  For God is entrusting His Church, at this moment in time to you, and to all of us: servants of His kingdom, which lies on the other side of power.  This is the greatest honour.  Let us serve boldly and without fear, alive in the knowledge of His grace.



Pentecost 9 (C)                                                                                                                             

July 17, 2016

Colossians 1:15-28

Luke 10:38-42

These have been a confusing, difficult, and sad couple of weeks.  The world is in such turmoil.  Britain votes to leave Europe, suicide killings in Istanbul and then the military coup there, the killings in France; in the U.S.A. the bewildering revival of racial tensions on top of the recent shootings in Orlando.  Moreover, this week I came across a review of a book by William J. Perry, the US secretary of Defence from 1994 to 1997.  Perry’s book is called My Journey at the Nuclear Brink.  In it, he writes bluntly, “Today, the danger of some sort of a nuclear catastrophe is greater than it was during the Cold War and most people are blissfully unaware of this danger.”[1]  Then of course there was the fiasco at General Synod last Monday which seemed to reflect, instead of resist, the confusion around us.

I was not present at General Synod, but Esther-Ruth Teel was, so perhaps we can ask her to clarify for us exactly what happened.  What I understand is, that when the initial vote was taken on the question of changing the marriage canon of our church to include same-sex marriages, it appeared as though the ‘no’ vote had won by the slimmest of margins.  Immediately following the vote, the Chancellor of the Synod (David Jones) announced that “the marriage canon does not contain a definition of marriage or a prohibition against solemnizing same-sex marriages.”  If he is correct, it is difficult to understand what the vote was all about in the first place.  In any case, as soon as the Chancellor made this announcement, several diocesan bishops rose to say that despite the ‘no’ vote, they would begin to perform same-sex marriages in their dioceses.  The next day, a recount discovered that a vote was miscounted, pushing the majority from the ‘no’ to the ‘yes’ side; therefore permitting a change in the marriage canon after all.   Although most of us, at least in this parish, I am sure will be pleased with the end result, it is impossible to be pleased with the whole process.  Love and order were not seen walking hand in hand.

It just seems like the fear and divisiveness infecting the world was also infecting our Church.  As a friend of mine said, at the very moment in history when we need most to be working together to meet the incredibly pressing problems facing the world, we are degenerating into tribalism.  How else to understand Trump and his wall, or the Brexit vote, let alone ISIS and the mess in Syria.  Tribalism: when fear polarizes issues until opposing groups become blinded by ideological conviction; that ‘it’s us against them.’  This was on display at Synod when we allowed our affinities to trump order and due process.  When this happens, things begin to break apart; we to lose the ability to communicate across the boundaries, and finger-pointing and hardness of heart take hold.


I am saddened because my hope is that the Church will model for the world a different way of being, will model community across boundaries, model love even for enemies.  But this is not what I heard happening at Synod.  I didn’t hear it in the vitriolic language of some of the ‘no’ vote; I didn’t hear it in the ‘we’ll take the matter into our own hands’ attitude of some of the ‘yes’ vote.  In the face of all the destructive forces working to destabilize the world, the Church may be the one source of light and hope, but only if it can learn to be true to its own faith, the faith we heard St. Paul articulate this morning in his letter to the Colossians:

Christ is the image of the invisible God . . . and all things have been created through him and for him.  He is before all things, and in Him all things hang together . . . For it was the Father’s good pleasure for Christ to reconcile all things to Himself, having made peace through the blood of His cross.


In Him, in Christ Jesus, all things hang together.  Christ is the Logos, the word, the way, the fulfillment of the Law of God.  This is the faith we have inherited – and if we cannot witness this faith faithfully, then we are failing our commission: to be a light for a dark world.

So what are we to do?  Let us turn our attention to today’s Gospel, the story of Martha and Mary.  Martha scolds her sister for not helping her in the kitchen, for sitting around at Jesus feet.  Jesus in turn rebukes Martha, “Martha, you are worried about so many things; but only one thing is necessary; and Mary has chosen the better part.”  Of course, Jesus knows full well that a household must be run, that there are things to get done; that the household of the Church needs attending to.  But he is warning us that before we begin to do the chores, before we presume to set the house in order, before we roll up our sleeves to tackle the problems and injustices besetting us – oh and long before we line up behind this or that ideological camp: left or right, conservative or liberal, gay-rights or ‘moral majority,’ we need to sit at His feet.  Especially when we are convinced that our way of thinking is the way of Christ – we must sit still, sit in silence, at his feet.  We must learn that it is not in adhering to this or that idea about what it means to follow Christ that we adhere most faithfully to Christ.  He is the image of the invisible God: beyond our knowledge, beyond our ideas.  We follow him by loving him, not by loving our ideas about him.  And it is only loving him, loving the one who is the centre of the world, that the world will begin to be transformed – transformed not, I am quite sure, in line with this or that idea we hold, but transformed by and for the Love.

So I am asking this of us, Christ’s Church: that before we act, we sit at his feet, and in silence acknowledge Him to be the Lord, the centre in which all things hold together.  After this, it will no doubt be time to make decisions and to act.   And when we do come to make decisions, no doubt our disagreements will persist.  But there will be this difference: we will no longer identify Jesus with our ideas about Jesus; nor will we identify ourselves with those ideas as if our salvation depended upon them.  If I quieten my beliefs about what it means to be a disciple of Christ in order to sit silently at the feet of Christ, when I sit together with my enemy at his feet, then we can no longer define ourselves as enemies, by who or what we are ‘against.’  Our ideas, our ideological commitments, may continue to separate us, but we will know that it is not after all in our ideas about Christ that all things ultimately “hang together,” but that it is in Him that all things are reconciled.

In a world threatened by fear and tribal ideologies, the prophetic witness of the Church is not to join in the panic, adding its own ideas into the clash of partisan ‘solutions.’  Our calling is rather, together with Mary, to sit at the feet of Christ.  We do not have to save the world, for Christ has already saved it.  Then, when it finally does come time to determine a line of action – we will be united in and by a love which exceeds all that can divide us.  Increasingly it seems that defeat of the enemy is the only way we can see to resolve conflict.  In such a world, the Church is called to witness, in and through its own conflicts, another way, the way of Christ who is “the peace of God which passeth all understanding.”


[1][1] Jerry Brown, “A Stark Nuclear Warning,” in The New York Review of Books, July 14, 2016; p.11.


Jeremiah 33:14-16
Luke 21:12-36

Today we begin the season of Advent. It is the season, we know, in which God invites us to reflect on our faith in this age of waiting and watching. The Gospel lessons through the four Sundays before Christmas tie together the themes of preparing for the arrival of Christ with exhortations to prepare for his apocalyptic coming again “in a cloud with power and great glory.” So if Advent is about preparation and anticipation, that is, about waiting, how are we meant to do this? What exactly is this activity of waiting upon God’s grace?

Surely, this must be one of the most pressing of questions, how we hold ourselves open to Christ’s coming, open to the presence of him who is the end and the hope of all things. For this activity of ‘holding ourselves open’ to grace, what is that but what we call faith? The truth is, how we believe, how we are faithful, is more important than what we believe. Ideally, of course, the ‘how’ and the ‘what’ of our faith match up perfectly. But I know in my own life how considerable and confusing gap there is between how I believe and what I believe. ‘What’ I believe may be perfectly orthodox, perfectly correct. Perhaps when I arrive at the gates of heaven St Peter will say to me, “On the written exam you get a gold star. But unfortunately, the written exam doesn’t count toward your final grade! For the only mark that matters in the end concerns the practical portion of the test, how you lived what you knew in faith.”

So the question concerning how we practice our faith is the same question as the question concerning how we wait upon God and His grace. In the carol Once in Royal David’s City, we sing of our expectation that we shall meet Christ in heaven, “Where like stars His children crowned/ All in white shall wait around.” As a boy this conjured up the image of a bunch of extremely bored angels loitering around on a cloud. But this is not the kind of ‘waiting’ the carol intends, of course. What the hymn means by ‘waiting’ is serving: the saints are serving God, attending to God in heaven. We wait upon God as we serve God: and according to the ‘two great commandments,’ we serve God first by our worship of God and second by our loving care for our neighbour, “the earth and all that is in it” (Ps.24:1).

It is by loving that we wait. That is at the core of the call to discipleship. And yet our reading today, with its picture of apocalyptic turmoil, of distress in nature and distress among nations, complicates this ‘on-the-surface-simple’ message of love. When you see these distressing things, Jesus says, know that I am near, that the time of your redemption is near. But where is the Love in that picture? Where in that picture is the Jesus we long for, Jesus meek and mild?

If the central theme of Advent is of our waiting for Christ to come again to us as he came before – this is not just an expression of hope but it also contains a warning: think how few recognized him when he first came! All those faithful Israelites, waiting so long for the Messiah to come: how few recognized him! Even those who were closest to him, they too, more often than not, could not recognize him. He remained invisible to them. Even as he stood amongst them, there was a sense in which he was also absent to them.

Think again about the experience of waiting, especially waiting for the arrival of one we love. Is it not true that part of the experience of waiting is being acutely aware of our loved one’s absence? At the airport, isn’t the lover’s agitation due not only to his excitement over his beloved’s immanent arrival, but thus also at the same time his heightened awareness of her absence? Hence the imagery of cosmic unrest in Luke’s Scripture: the whole of creation is in a state of violent agitation because the nearer the Redeemer of the World approaches, the more acute the effects of his absence become: “signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars . . . on earth the distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea.” We are to read these signs, Jesus tells us, and recognize what they mean, just as we know the unfolding leaves herald the coming of summer.

But waiting is difficult for us. For to wait is to admit that even if God is present in our waiting, that God is also absent. This absence is extremely uncomfortable. We have an almost violent need to insist “that God is present with us, with me.” God’s presence is our reassurance that we are on the side of power; on the winning side of history, the side of ‘truth’: to long after that comfortable certitude, to know that we know! This is just as true of the Liberal Church as it is of the Evangelicals. But such knowledge is not faith. To insist that we have God is not to wait upon the coming of God in Christ. It turns our love for God rather into a kind of possessiveness. And this possessiveness, and this fear – don’t we see it all the time? – it is a kind of violence. Religious violence! And that violence, when turned outward or inward, confirms precisely the absence of God. By my insistence that God is with me, I manage only to absent Him from me.

The violence of history, the restlessness of the natural world, these are signs both of creation’s longing for its redemption and the world absenting God from the centre of its life. Do you think this is a contradiction – to kill what we love and long for? Don’t think Christ was crucified out of hatred for God. Just the opposite is true. Christ was crucified because Israel’s love for God became a possessive love that had forgotten how to wait, that could not tolerate God’s absence from among them. They insisted on knowing that they knew. And, affronted by what escaped their knowing, they killed the one they were longing for, but could not see.

To wait for Christ, we must not hope to possess him. We must not be afraid of his absence. “He whom we must love is absent,” said Simone Weil. It is not that His absence is absolute, but that for us His presence is hidden under the form of absence. His presence, in other words, is hidden under the form of the Cross: precisely there, where no one can see God, precisely there, where God cannot possibly be, God is – and is for us.

So this is the message of today’s Gospel: when you see violence in the heavens and on earth, “stand up and raise your heads.” We are not to turn our eyes away from the places where God is all too absent. We are to look precisely there – there at Christ’s mangled body nailed to the Cross. We are to look where God is not, because that is where God has promised that He is, where we must wait for him, where we must direct our love.

Advent is the season we learn that everything depends on how we wait. We are told to look, told to love, precisely where love is absent. And so unafraid of the truth we see everywhere about us – the degradation and the violence and confusion – unafraid of God’s absence, unafraid of the Cross, knowing nothing but our love for Him, we will, one day, perhaps even today, “stand before the Son of Man.”   AMEN.


Deut. 8:7-18
2Cor. 9:6-15
Luke 17:1-19

Friends, what has God not provided us? It is right to give our thanks and praise. But how can we do so with a good conscience? How can I give thanks for the more than enough that I have received when there are so many who suffer serious want? If it is not just words, what does our Thanks-giving mean? Or perhaps the question is, how ought our practice of Thanksgiving shape our lives?

Why do we – and by ‘we’ I mean, I think, the human race – why do we concentrate so much energy on what we do not have, instead of gratitude for what we do have? What is it about human beings, that we are always craving more? . . . Well, isn’t it natural to want to better our lot in life? Isn’t it one of the wonders of being human, that we are able creatively to overcome conditions of weakness or scarcity? Isn’t that creativity in fact the root of civilization – leading us to develop agriculture, alphabets, medicine? Doesn’t the desire to have more than we need set us apart from most animals; providing us the leisure for those pursuits we have historically considered to be essentially human: religion, philosophy, the arts and sciences?

Yes, that’s all true. And yet it seems to me that our constant appetite always for more and for better must have some kind of invisible limit – a tipping point after which unrestrained ingenuity begins to turn against us, begins to work toward destructive rather than constructive ends. “Take care,” the Deuteronomist warns, “take care that you do not forget the Lord your God, by failing to keep his commandments . . . Remember the Lord your God, for it is he who gives you power to get wealth . . . If you do forget the Lord your God and follow other gods . . . you shall surely perish.” There is a clue to those limits in these words, if we can only take them to heart. God has set “commandments” and “ordinances” – that is, limits even to our creative desire, so that we do not begin to consume ourselves in our hunger for more and more.

I do not watch television very often. But this week at my father’s home on the news we watched the trajectory of Russian missiles, launched from ships on the Caspian Sea, travel overland hundreds of miles, over Iran, over Iraq, finally strike targets in Syria. It was an uncomfortable feeling, sitting with a glass of wine watching as hundreds of lives were, in a blink of an eye, irrevocably changed. It was not a movie. There were real deaths and real bereavement: fathers, mothers, children. Whole buildings vanished with terrible efficiency. All because we are unable to limit our hunger – our appetite for more power, more control, more wealth, more revenge maybe – I don’t know, just more of More; all because we are unable to pause and give thanks to God, because what we have is enough – and more than enough.

Even here, right at home, I can’t understand what we are doing to ourselves. We live in one of the most fecund places on this earth, and we have come to believe it is ours just to eat: we cut down the forests, dig and drill, pave wetlands for big box stores, stuff people into soulless housing developments, everything as cheap as possible to squeeze out every drop of profit . . . Does it have to be this way? We are told that yes, it does have to be this way. It has to be this way in order to ensure that the economy keeps growing. We need more and more and more: more consumer spending, greater productivity, More of everything. Otherwise, terrible things will happen. The economy will stall. People will lose their jobs. They will lose their homes. Our standard of living will shrink. There will be suffering: we will no longer be able to live in the manner to which we have grown accustomed. We cannot let that happen. So above all, we ought not to limit our appetite. The more we eat, the better life will be.

I don’t know. I cannot argue economics with the economists. All I know is that when I watch the forest of Mt Elphinstone near Roberts Creek turned into a barren clear cut, or when I buy groceries at the nearest strip mall, I am confused with anger and grief. I know that though I am like everybody else and I just can’t seem to stop eating, I know I am already full to the point of feeling sick. All I know is, is that the more the world is covered with only human fingerprints – every forest a ‘managed’ forest, every stream a ‘run-of-the-river’ project – I feel increasingly claustrophobic, that there is an all-too-human net tightening, shutting out the fresh air of the Spirit of God . . .

My friends, when is ‘enough’ in fact exactly what we need? When will we stop and give thanks for what we have, instead of looking for the next thing to eat? I cannot argue economics with the economists. In the terms of the world we have constructed, they are in the right. But my soul grieves for a different possibility . . . . “Take heed lest. . . when you have eaten and are full, and have built goodly houses, when your silver and gold is multiplied, when all you have is multiplied, you forget the Lord your God.”

My brothers and sisters, to insist on justice, to hope for beauty, to expect love – it’s so naïve. Naïve as a child. Perhaps that is why Jesus told us we must become like children if we are ever to see the kingdom of heaven. We have been brought into a good land, a land of wheat and barley, flowing with streams, a land in which we have bread without scarcity . . . how ought the practise of Thanksgiving shape our lives? How are to remember the Lord our God? And the limits God has ordained for our appetite?

God has provided us the way: “On the night he freely gave himself to death, our Lord Jesus Christ took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it, and gave it to his disciples and said, ‘Take, eat: this is my body which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.” My brothers and sisters, to practise Thanksgiving is the way of Eucharist. That is what the word Eucharist means: “thanksgiving.” Offering to God bread and wine, we offer God our food, our hunger, our life. God blesses our offering and returns it to us, now blessed, charged with His own life, as a means of Communion with him. This Eucharistic practice begins and is fulfilled at the altar, but it must shape our whole life: ‘we should at all times and in all places give thanks unto thee, O Lord, holy Father.’ Thus whenever and wherever we offer up to God – God’s world, God’s people – from what God has given us, we practise Thanksgiving, our lives are shaped by Eucharist. My friends, let us practise this Eucharist together. For love of Christ, let us richly give of the riches we have been given. For to lift up what we have been given, to stop hungering for a moment to acknowledge, ‘this is enough, this is already so much,’ and to break your loaf in thanksgiving and to share it: this is to receive Christ. And when we receive Christ, we have everything, for we possess the whole world. God bless you and your loved ones during this feast of Harvest Thanksgiving.