The Feast of the Fool

The Medieval Feast of Fools was a chance to peasants to dress up as people of power. It was an opportunity for “a brief social revolution”. A young lay person was dressed up as a mock pope or archbishop or bishop or abbot and mockingly consecrated as the Lord of Misrule or the Archbishop of Dolts or the Abbot of Unreason or the Pope of Fools or some other title parody. It was a chance for some fun. It was a chance to make fun of powerful people; but it never really made a difference to the power relations at all. The next day everything was just the same—the bishops were in their palaces; and the peasants on their plots.

The Feast of Fools was considered blasphemous by the Medieval Church and firmly condemned. It was officially forbidden by the Council of Basel in 1431 and several other condemnations followed. Early Protestants condemned it too; but the practice probably persisted into the seventeenth-century in some places; and Victor Hugo immortalises it his novel The Hunchback of Notre Dame in 1831 where Quasimodo serves as the King of Fools for a feast (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Feast_of_Fools).

The Medieval Feast of Fools is just one example of a pattern of festivals held by a variety of cultures as a kind of way to let off steam and poke fun at their political masters, thus enabling the people without power to go back to their ordinary lives, and perhaps even to drudgery the very next day. Once a year, the system could be made a laughingstock, but any more than that and maybe it was the beginning of a real revolution.

The Roman festival of Saturnalia had Saturnalicius Princeps who ruled the proceedings, setting his subjects such ludicrous tasks as “sing naked”. This festival may have developed as a satirical response to the development of the imperial monarchy with Augustus who first assumed the title of Princeps. The Saturnalia “made a mockery of a world in which law [was] determined by one man and the traditional social and political networks [were] reduced to the power of the emperor over his subject” (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saturnalia#King_of_the_Saturnalia).

Such carnivals are mockeries and parodies of everyday life. They take digs at the system of power; but seldom do they promote real change. Nevertheless, they offer a glimpse, in satire-form, of how life really is.

So, when we have a story of a Jewish peasant entering the great city of Jerusalem on the back of a donkey. We know it’s not a real political threat; and the authorities know it too. But parody is often greeted by hysteria from the powers that be. What if the people see us for who we really are? What if they take it into their heads to stage a real revolution? This parody of a noted general returning triumphantly from battle is no threat to Jerusalem or to Rome; or is it? It takes a few days for the powers that be to work out where they stand; and the treasonous, blasphemer is set for crucifixion.

The carnival and the fool are a threat to established power: not a military threat; not a threat of might and power; but a threat that people will be encouraged to see the world in a different way; and not go back to their ordinary lives the very next day. It is a threat that the world will change; and when you hold the power, any change is a threat.

And yet, this parody of a king has no chance of saving the people from their oppressors militarily or politically… what foolishness is this?

It is God’s foolishness that the real source of power is not in military or political might, but in the hearts and minds and lives of real people. And it is because of this, that God enters our humanity, becoming one of us and walking every painstaking inch of human life—all the way to death; and not just any death—an horrific death as a traitor and blasphemer. For the stories we tell ourselves matter—it matters that God in whom we believe is a God of mercy, compassion and love. It matters that the God in whom we believe became mortal in order that we might be enfolded in of God. It matters that real rulers care about their people and false ones make false promises and feather their own nests. It matters that life is not about who has the biggest army or the best rhetorical style in order to persuade the people; but who is genuinely in keeping with the will of God.

So, King Jesus, General Jesus, High Priest Jesus, comes as a parody of the world’s rulers and powerful people; and the ordinary people join in the fun and shout: “Hosanna! Save us!”

But the biggest joke is this; that this parody of a king has more power to save us, than all the might of Rome and all the prestige of the temple leaders. This parody of a general has the best that can be offered—hope and peace and love.

So, what shall we do with this fool of a ruler, this general on a donkey? Shall we laugh with him, or laugh at him? Or perhaps we will stop and think that the world just could and might be different if everyone knew that this is the way that God enters our lives: as a foolish peasant riding on a donkey colt?

Blessed is the One who comes in the name of our God!

Unless a Grain of Wheat

A married couple, the Conroys, arrive at the home of the Misses Morkam on the eve of Epiphany sometime at the turn of the 20^th century, probably about 1904. They are welcomed into a home filled with Irish old world charm. The Misses Morkam are music teachers. Their Epiphany celebration is a Dublin tradition.

From the beginning, there is tension between the Conroys, Gabriel and Gretta. Gabriel makes a smart remark about the amount of time his wife takes to dress. Its sexism is grating to modern ears. Gretta is quiet, withdrawn, preoccupied. Gabriel is focussed on the speech he is to give at dinner. He wonders if he is speaking over the heads of the other guests. His concerns and theirs seem so different.

The evening is spent in reminiscing. The eldest Miss Morkam produces a rendition of a piece that had once been the jewel in her repertoire. Old days, old times and old stories are remembered and shared.

Towards the end of the evening, as the Conroys are preparing to leave, Gretta, hears another guest sing an old Irish piece which stirs the memories of her youth. When the couple retire to their hotel for the evening, having chosen not to make the long journey to their home in the winter night's snow, Gretta reveals to Gabriel a story from her past: a story about a young man who seemed to have died for her.

The story is simple enough and, yet, strange, too.

Gretta's husband, Gabriel, is portrayed as a forward-looking, Europe-centred individual. He writes for a newspaper with English sympathies. He views his companions with the patronising gaze of one who has decided that he is of better quality and capability than those with whom he is associated.

In contrast, Gretta, the couple's elderly relatives, and the Dublin society of the era are depicted as mesmerised by the past and unable to appreciate the new. The music of the past is celebrated. The stories of the past are enjoyed. The youthful successes of the past are remembered.

By the end of the evening, Gabriel, under the assault of successive waves of reminiscing, seems to have succumbed to the lure of the past, to the culture and the history of his Irish heritage, against what appeared to have been his better judgement at the beginning of the story.

The story is by James Joyce, and, traditionally, it has been regarded as the embodiment of a death-focussed preoccupation which succeeds in stifling life. The central figure, Gabriel, under the influence of his relatives, the evening's events, and his wife's painful memories succumbs to the power that death has over life. The very title of the story seems to be hinting in that direction. The story is called "The Dead".

So, too, must it seem for those who look at Christianity from the outside in. For indeed, in the celebration of the death of our central figure and the injunction that all Christians should choose an apparently similar path, anyone not initiated into the Christian faith could be forgiven for believing that Christianity is a death-focussed and life-draining belief system.

In our Gospel reading for today, we hear some of that apparent preoccupation: "Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain..."; "Those who love their life lose it, and those who hate their life in this world will keep it for eternal life..."; "Now my soul is in turmoil, and what am I to say? `Father, save me from this hour'? No, it was for this that I came to this hour. Father, glorify your name.'"; "`And I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all people to myself.' He said this to indicate the kind of death he was to die".

There is no doubt that facing up to death is a difficult task. Facing up to death means facing our own mortality, our own impermanence in the world, the fact that we are human beings whose bodies can only take so much living, the fact that we are not all-knowing and all-powerful and cannot, ourselves, control the direction of our destiny, although we'd like to do so. That's not something that our society has particularly encouraged in the past and even today many people choose to avoid facing this reality: drugging bereaved people so that they cannot feel the pain; avoiding conversation about dearly loved friends and relatives who have recently died; pretending that whatever we do will always be bigger, better, faster and higher.

However, there is a fine line between facing and accepting death, and becoming unhealthily preoccupied with it. For many traditional interpreters of Joyce's story, the main character, Gabriel, succumbs to an unhealthy preoccupation with death. For many people looking at Christianity from the outside in, Christians have an unhealthy preoccupation with death, and, more specifically, with the death of one person, Jesus of Nazareth.

There are, however, many ways of interpreting James Joyce's story. Some of them challenge the traditional interpretations by suggesting that, while Gabriel appears to succumb to a dead past, in fact, it is a past which is very much alive and well in the present, in the struggle for Irish independence, in the lives of the women who have carried on the traditions for many years, remembering, repeating, encouraging new generations, facing up to the reality of the deaths of their loved ones in the constant struggle for self-determination. These interpretations come variously from feminist, Irish historical and other voices that were previously overlooked by literary establishment interpreters. They seek to face the issue of death in the story of James Joyce in a way that also faces the reality of life which it seems to offer.

There are, also, many ways of interpreting Christianity: not all of them have been helpful to us as individuals, to us as a church, or to other people, as they look at Christianity from the outside in. Those interpretations have come from Christians and non-Christians unlike. There is a very fine line between those interpretations that succeed in facing and accepting death in the context of the Christian message, and those that come to an unhealthy preoccupation with it. And, of course, many, if not most, interpreters want everybody else to understand Christianity in the same way that they do.

Death is a part of the process of living, and of the living of life in all its fullness, yet, it cannot be allowed to destroy life, to negate life's meaning and beauty, since it is, indeed, part of life. Death must serve life and the living.

That's something that bears keeping in mind when we approach the verse in today's Gospel reading: "Those who love their life lose it, and those who hate their life in this world will keep if for eternal life." Sometimes this verse, and others like it, have been used to give Christianity an unhealthy preoccupation with death, rather than a balanced understanding of death as part of, and servant to life.

An eminent Lutheran theologian just prior to his own death wrote these words: "The fear of death, I'm convinced, is at the bottom of all apprehensions. To say of any of us that we do not fear death is a lie. To be human is to fear death. To love life is to hope and to wish not to leave it. And all people fear death. I think that is one of the most creative fears there is because it bestows a value, an affection and a gratitude for life which otherwise there would not be."

Life is gift: a gift from God. Equally, we discover in today's reading, that death is also a gift. And in the context of that reading, it is a gift of life.

In today's reading, Jesus uses the wonderfully simple illustration of the seed falling into the ground and dying, in an attempt to explain the significance of his own death. "Unless a grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies, it remains that and nothing more; but if it dies, it bears a rich harvest." It is a carefully constructed story about the service to life that death gives.

Before sprouting, seeds must absorb water. They get this from the ground. Even a slight film of moisture will do for some seeds; just enough to soften the hard seed coat, enabling the plant embryo inside to push out and activate enzymes so that the growth process begins. Oxygen is necessary too, for the rate of respiration, of the seed's breathing, increases greatly at the time of germination, of the initial sprouting. Then light is needed for the seedling to grow BUT all this is nothing if the seed does not die. The death of a seed is in the service of life.

At the heart of the Christian message is the affirmation that God enters our dying ‑ that God, the creator of all things, the life of all life, has undergone that which is most common to us humans. The one of whom the church says, 'In this one is the fullness of God' not only died; he died a crucified convict. The Christian faith says that nothing in human experience is outside the experience of God. This means that the Christian faith does not abolish or eliminate the fear of death; rather it places alongside it, the affirmation that God is the life of life. God does not succumb to presence of death or to an unhealthy preoccupation with it. Everything, in God, is in service of life. If any one's life is a participation in the eternal life of God, that one's life is also part of that which cannot destroyed.

There is nothing more painful in life that losing someone whom we love or in facing the loss of ourselves, in all the myriad of ways humans can experience a sense of loss, and, yet, even our God, the life of life, has faced this challenge assuring us that death is indeed part of life and that unless the grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies, it remains that and nothing more; but if it dies, it bears a rich harvest.

At the medical school of the Sorbonne, a university in Paris, there is a room where autopsies are performed. An inscription is over the door of the room and it reads: "This is the place where death serves life." "This is the place where death serves life."

For ourselves, death is part of the bargain we make with life at birth. It is part of the endlessly rotating wheel of nature, of creation. It is not necessarily welcomed by life‑affirming people but when it is accepted for what it is ‑ part of life ‑ then it is no longer to be feared for it can be understood in terms of its place as part of life.

Paul Tsongas, a U.S. Senator discovered at the age of 42 that he had a form of incurable cancer. Tsongas wanted to get away from life, from the people, from the knowledge of his imminent death. He jumped across some rock ledges to a large boulder too far out in the river for easy access. There he lay on a large rock basking in the sun and allowing his mind to run free.

Eventually, he turned around and looked back to see where his children were playing. It was the first time he had envisioned them without himself. On the rock, too far away to be a part of the scene, he watched events which could have easily occurred after his death. At first his reaction was sadness. What a delightful scene and why couldn't he be a part of it always?

Then a sense of shock that indeed life would go on without him. Then a sense of comfort in realising that these people would pass through grief too and move forward to live their lives fully. Finally, Tsongas felt a sense of pleasure in the knowledge that his presence would always be felt by his absence and that life would go on. His presence would always be felt by his absence and life would go on.

Jesus struggled with his imminent death. John portrays this scene as being at a time when Gentiles are approaching Jesus asking questions, when the message is being heard beyond the Jews, when one would have presumed that it was just the appropriate moment for Jesus to branch out, to do a world tour and call a few more disciples. But for Jesus, the time is the time to accept the inevitability of his death: "Now my soul is in turmoil, and what am I to say? 'Father, save me from this hour'? No, it was for this that I came to this hour. Father, glorify your name."

In hindsight we can affirm that Jesus' presence is in some ways felt by his absence. Christ does not walk amongst us as the person who was Jesus of Nazareth and yet Christ's presence is always with us and often in the least expected places ‑ in the life of our community, in the life of individual people, in workplaces and homes and schools and community venues.

In hindsight, we can affirm that God enters every part of our life, even our dying, and that since death is part of life, it, too, is a gift of, and servant to life.

In hindsight, we can challenge an interpretation of Christianity that is an unhealthy preoccupation with death.

But none of this is possible without the facing and accepting of death which was demonstrated and evident in the life of Jesus. For, indeed, when a grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies, a harvest of great proportion can be produced, proving that, death is, and always has been, a gift of and servant to life. 

Looking Up to the Lifted One

…just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life. (John 3:14-15)

The serpent lifted on the pole is an ancient symbol for healing. The Hebrews had their story of Moses in the wilderness being commanded by God to make such an idol when the people starving and hungry also suffer the affliction of a plague of snakes. The people looked to the bronze serpent to live. The Greek god, Asclepius, was a practitioner of medicine; and his emblem, the snake on the pole continues to be a sign for medical practitioners to this day.

It’s a strange symbol. Why does a snake on a pole symbolise healing? Some people have suggested that the image of snakes shedding their skins is a symbol for renewal. Others have suggested that there is a link between the venom of snakes and the medicines offered by healers. Certainly, the Greek word for medicine, pharmakon, could just as easily mean poison. It is a strange symbol.

And it is stranger still to find this symbol, firstly in a story from the Hebrews and secondly in our reading from the Gospel of John for today. Although clearly John is wanting to depict Jesus as Healer.

…just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life. (John 3:14-15)

John is using this imagery to affirm Jesus as healer of the cosmos, not just of physical bodies, not just of humanity, but of the whole of Creation, the cosmos.

For God so loved the world [the cosmos] that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life. (John 3:16)

It’s the hub of the message of John's Gospel: the focal point of the good news which John has to give about Jesus. For John, the mission of Jesus originates in the love of God for the cosmos, the whole created order, and in God's desire for its healing, for its salvation. But it is an unusual recipe for healing offered in Jesus, an unusual medicine. At first glance, it could well look like and taste just like poison. For like the prescription given for the Hebrew people in the wilderness, the cure offered the cosmos is bit weird.

Think about it! The Hebrews are in trouble. They're in the wilderness, complaining yet again about God and about the wilderness and about leaving Egypt. So, as the story goes God sends them some more trouble to occupy their attention—a brood of venomous snakes. And lo, the people came to Moses and said, "We have sinned by speaking against the LORD and against you; pray to the LORD to take away the serpents from us." (Numbers 21:7) And Moses prays to God and God says to make an idol, to make a graven image, to make a serpent and erect it as a standard so that when the people are seen they can look towards it and recover from their bites.

Can you see the problem? The Hebrews are the people who are not into graven images. The Hebrews are the people who have learned to worship a God who has apparently explicitly told them not to make graven images.

Now, we can make all sorts of fine distinctions in an attempt to talk ourselves out of that dilemma but the fact is the people of God make an idol according to the direction of God. It doesn't make sense to everything they would have and we would have understood their idea of God to be. And it's the same with Jesus.

Like the Hebrew cure for snakebite, God's recipe for the salvation of the cosmos goes against everything humans, everything we would usually like to understand our God to be.

For John, the whole of God's intended salvation for the cosmos is achieved on the cross. The resurrection is only important because of the crucifixion. For John, Jesus is glorified at the point at which he is in the most vulnerable, the most hopeless situation he could possibly have faced—being strung up, being lifted up, on the cross as a criminal for all to see. It  doesn't make sense. People like to picture God in glory enthroned and surrounded by bright light unable to be dirtied. It gives us a sense of security to have an all-knowing, all-powerful head-kicker out there on our side.

But Jesus, for John, goes against all our human understandings of what a real God should be. Yet there it is—the reality of the Christian faith—a dying man on a cross deserted by most of his friends, alone and without hope. God lifted up in the fullness of God's glory. No wonder it was said that such an idea was an offense to the Jews and folly to the Greeks.

It doesn't make sense—this great God that people like to keep at a distance achieves the salvation of the whole of the created order at this momentous point of weakness as Jesus dies on a cross with his arms outstretched in a symbolic gesture of embrace for a dying world—a God who loves enough to die for a world which rejects that love. How could anything seem more helpless and hopeless?

But this is the centre of the Gospel, the centre of our faith, the centre of our lives. Those who see it, who understand, who believe it enter into the fullness of the life of God. Those who do not see it, who do not understand, who do not believe it by their own attitudes cut themselves off from the very source of life. And that doesn't mean that God is up there making a list of judgement decisions about whose going to heaven and whose going to hell. That's definitely not what the text says. The text says that God is opening God's self utterly to humanity through Jesus and the cross. Judgement is a result of people choosing to walk away from a God who does not meet their desires for the kind of controller who can be given responsibility and blamed for everything. Judgement is not meted out but is brought upon oneself. Judgement may come as a result of Christ's mission, but it is not its original intention.

You see our God isn't playing the power game. Our God isn't playing the ruling monarch who has power of life and death. Our God is offering God's very self to us so that we too as a part of the whole of creation might become whole, might be healed, might know the fullness of life that there can be.

Our God dared to be one of us. Our God dared to make fun of Jewish legalism and of Greek images. Our God dared to become Jesus, to die on the cross in order that we might understand that we can have life in all its fullness. Not so that we might run to God in fear but that we might make the journey gently on our own two feet to a God who wants to stand beside us not above us.

As Moses lifted up the bronze serpent so Jesus was lifted up for all to see that our God has the freedom to be the God who God is, the one who loves us utterly, enough to die on a cross to show us how to be free.

Our God loves us this much... Only this truth can set us free.

The Law of Christ

What do you think of when you hear the word “law”?

Very often in contemporary Western society, we hear the word “law” as stifling, as constraining and restricting. It is stuffy old words on a page that are far removed from the reality of us—only there to limit us. It is an external imposition upon our individual and personal freedom.

And then we read that sense of restriction and suffocation into the biblical texts that we’re encountering today.

And we come up with crazy schemas about how the Old Testament is all about Law and the New Testament is all about Grace; and the God in Exodus is completely different from the God in the Gospels. And we hear Jesus overturning the tables as an overturning of the law and the prophets; and a creation of a whole new way of understanding God, when in fact it is a call to God’s people to live in God’s Law; a call to go back to what God intended; not forward into a completely different life. In this story of Jesus being disgusted by the desecration of the temple into a marketplace, Jesus is prefigured as the new Jeremiah—the prophet who proclaims to the people that God’s Law must and will be written on their hearts because they have failed to live up to the covenant made with them by God. This new covenant will indeed be cut into their very being; but its essence is the same old Law, the Law of God—a law to be imbued and embodied, not taught and learnt (cf Jeremiah 31:32-34).

Jesus call in the temple is a call of the people back to God’s Law which is not just stuffy old words on a page, or in this case a scroll, and not just a set of restrictions upon their freedom, but a way of life, a way of living in keeping with the will of God—not just spoken or written words, but profound action. And that is thoroughly in keeping with the nature of God where God’s word is God’s action: “And God said… and there was…”

God’s Law is not about any set of words. It’s about a way of being, a way of being in relationship with God, with each other, with the stranger, and with the whole of Creation.

Anna Grant-Henderson puts it this way:

God's grace happened before any requirements were set out in Exod[us] 20 [the 10 Commandments]. It is expected that in response to God's saving acts people will want to respond and stay in relationship. God identifies [God’s] self as belong[ing] to the people , "I am the Lord your God". The Hebrew word, Torah, is often translated as law which can be a negative quality for many people. Torah is more about teaching… the commandments are positive instruction to enable the people, both to stay in relationship with God, and to behave in right ways with each other… the law and story [of liberation] are not separate entities, but an integrated whole… the law is a gift and not some deliberate hardship… if we all lived by grace knowing the right way to treat each other from our relationship with God we would not need any laws at all. [But t]hat is simply wishful thinking. As Christians we need reminding about who is the centre of our worship… [God’s Law] is part of a living relationship and is given to enable the people to stay in covenant relationship with God as a gracious gift. (http://www.oldtestamentlectionary.unitingchurch.org.au/2012/March/Lent3Exod20_12.html)

In the temple, Jesus is reminding the people whom they worship and what is expected of them in that relationship. Listen to the passage from Jeremiah that Jesus quotes (God is addressing Jeremiah):

²Stand in the gate of the Lord’s house, and proclaim there this word, and say, Hear the word of the Lord, all you people of Judah, you that enter these gates to worship the Lord. ³Thus says the Lord of hosts, the God of Israel: Amend your ways and your doings, and let me dwell with you in this place. ⁴Do not trust in these deceptive words: ‘This is the temple of the Lord, the temple of the Lord, the temple of the Lord.’

5 For if you truly amend your ways and your doings, if you truly act justly one with another, ⁶if you do not oppress the alien, the orphan, and the widow, or shed innocent blood in this place, and if you do not go after other gods to your own hurt, ⁷then I will dwell with you in this place, in the land that I gave of old to your ancestors for ever and ever.

8 Here you are, trusting in deceptive words to no avail. ⁹Will you steal, murder, commit adultery, swear falsely, make offerings to Baal, and go after other gods that you have not known, ¹⁰and then come and stand before me in this house, which is called by my name, and say, ‘We are safe!’—only to go on doing all these abominations? ¹¹Has this house, which is called by my name, become a den of robbers in your sight? You know, I too am watching, says the Lord…

²²For on the day that I brought your ancestors out of the land of Egypt, I did not speak to them or command them concerning burnt-offerings and sacrifices. ²³But this command I gave them, ‘Obey my voice, and I will be your God, and you shall be my people; and walk only in the way that I command you, so that it may be well with you.’ ²⁴Yet they did not obey or incline their ear, but, in the stubbornness of their evil will, they walked in their own counsels, and looked backwards rather than forwards. ²⁵From the day that your ancestors came out of the land of Egypt until this day, I have persistently sent all my servants the prophets to them, day after day; yet they did not listen to me, or pay attention, but they stiffened their necks. They did worse than their ancestors did.

Sitting here in our temple, it is easy to think that we are safe, we are okay, we are the people of God, we are in relationship with God; but Jesus’ challenge in the temple is also a challenge to us… Are we living God’s Law: the law that honours God and has compassion for the stranger, the outcast, the marginalised?

God’s Law is the basis for how a liberated people live in God. It is “not intended to restrict the people, but to free them from all the things that would have been destroying them in [captivity in] Egypt [and then in Babylon]: idolatry, oppression,” conflict, self-interest, social fragmentation. God’s Law is a structure for “peace, justice, freedom, compassion and love” (http://sacredise.com/blog/?p=1122).

But when “the Rabbi Jesus comes to the Temple which is the national and religious centre of God’s liberated people, he finds that even though the slaves have been taken out of Egypt [and out of Babylon], Egypt [and Babylon] ha[s] not been taken out of the slaves. [In w]hat should have been a sign of a liberated people—in spite of Roman Occupation—a place where God’s grace, compassion, generosity and justice [would be] daily on display, Jesus [finds] a corrupt and oppressive place where the love for God and neighbour had all but been forgotten… As Jesus angrily overturn[s] the tools of corrupt[ion], he quote[s] … Jeremiah. His hearers would have known what the rest of of the prophecy was—an indictment on the people of Israel for breaking [God’s Law]… for trading love of God and neighbour for power, wealth and self-interest.” (http://sacredise.com/blog/?p=1122).

God tells Jeremiah to tell the people that the temple will be taken away from them because they have gone away from God’s Law. Jesus challenges the people at the temple to give up the temple for the sake of God’s Law because they Law is not in the temple, but must be written on their hearts, embodied in their lives, embedded in their very being.

What would Jesus say if he came into this temple today?

The Breaking of the Storm

Well, the build-up is on! Lent began on Wednesday and we’re already four and a half days into our relentless journey towards Good Friday and the cross. Only 36 ordinary days and 5 and a half Sundays to go. Only 36 ordinary days and 5 and a half Sundays to go—if we can stand it; if we can hang in there; if we can resist the temptation to rush to the Easter celebration too quickly.

For we’re journeying with Jesus who is well on the road to Jerusalem and well into his ministry. This is the hard slog—the consistent preaching and teaching, healing and transforming, praying and seeking God’s will. This is the journey that keeps going no matter what—no matter that the outcome is clear. This journey is relentless and it moves relentlessly on.

Today, we’re reminded again of Jesus’ baptism, the act that prefigures his intentional ministry, the period of his consistent attempt to hold the kingdom of God before the people of God; and in that reminder, we hear the precursor of the great declaration that we celebrated last week on Transfiguration: "You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased."

And we know that he is impelled into the fullness of his proclamation in word and deed and indeed, in his personhood that "The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news." It’s not a pretty message, it’s not an easy message, it’s not an obvious message; but Jesus is committed to its proclamation in word and deed and indeed, in his own personhood—all the way to the cross.

We’re in the build-up! And like the build-up of the atmosphere prior to the wet season in the north of Australia, we are waiting, we are yearning for its culmination. Let’s get it over with. Let’s move on. Let’s celebrate the resurrection. Let’s have the rainstorm!

But we cannot do that yet, for we are still in the build-up, the storm hasn’t begun yet even if another storm has broken.

The beginning of Lent marks a break in a storm that we have been riding since Christmas—the celebration of the God who is with us in the joy of a newborn child; in the precariousness of an ancient infant birth; in the day-to-day journey and the beginning of a new year; in the wonderful healing of a miraculous healer.

Here we are at the beginning of Lent and it is not that God is with us is foremost in our seasonal reflections, but the question: “Are we with God?” Are you with God? Are we prepared to make this journey of Lent, this journey towards Jerusalem, this heart-breaking journey to the cross? Are we prepared to give our all for the one who has given all for us? Are you prepared to journey on this relentless journey with Jesus? The storm has broken and we are confronted with a choice—the choice to participate in the next build-up with all its onerousness and inconvenience, with all its hope and disappointment, with all its doubt and fear; or to say “No thanks, I’m happy with the baby in the box and the miraculous healer. I don’t want to go any further. It’s too hard to contemplate a journey to Jerusalem, a journey to the cross. Thanks, but no thanks. I want the easy pleasant Jesus, not the Christ upon the cross.”

Sometimes it’s hard to realise the moments when the storm has broken and we are invited into the change. It’s easier to behave as we were behaving. It’s hard to change our approach to life. If it’s been raining, we know we need our umbrellas and raincoats, but when the sun comes out, we’re quite overdressed. If it’s been sunny, we’re out there in our short sleeves and sun-block—hardly any protection against a lashing storm with occasional hail.

The Seasons of the Spirit material for this Sunday imagines how difficult the transition from storm to new settlement depicted in the story of the landing of the ark would be. When the clouds begin to close in again after they’ve landed, Ham, Noah’s son, wants to get everyone back on board the ark. Noah persuades the boys to change their minds and break the boat up for building materials. The storm has broken, but these boys need a sign. And yes, they get it—in the form of the rainbow, the sign of God’s covenant with humankind.

It would be nice to think we could get back on board the boat of the Christmas wave or even the Transfiguration whirlwind, but God is leading us into a different phase of our lives. This phase requires some hard work—the laying of new foundations, the erecting of new shelters, the establishment of a new community. This phase requires commitment and dedication and stickability. This phase required us to the question, not “Is God with us?” but “Are we with God?” Are we prepared to journey the long, hard road as well as the well-lit boulevards and avenues of Christmas and Transfiguration.

As a sign of our commitment, in Lent, we are asked to give something up or to enter into one discipline of discipleship more fully as part of our commitment to Christ’s journey. Perhaps you choose to give up chocolate, save some money and make a donation to the UnitingWorld for the projects that are highlighted as part of Lent Event. Perhaps you will decide to participate in Alpha or Back to the Basis in order to explore our faith further. Perhaps you will choose to make some changes with how you interact with family members or workmates in order to more clearly communicate the call of God on your life. Whatever symbolic act, whatever sign you choose, it is only significant if it is a sign that marks a change a new direction, a renewed commitment, a re-orientation to the way of Christ—the way of the one who is the very demonstration that God is with us; and also the one who asks us to dare to journey with God.

When we hear the affirmation that Jesus is God’s beloved child; and remind ourselves that that affirmation is extended to us because of Jesus; we are also reminded to hear the commission to ministry in that affirmation—the commission to a ministry that is relentless and leads to the cross.

So do we dare? Do you dare, to notice the change in the weather, the change your clothing for something more appropriate and to say, I stand with Christ, I am prepared to walk with Christ. Yes, there has been a break in the storm, but I am prepared to participate in the next build-up, to enter into this season of Lent, and to make the journey of discipleship all the way relentlessly and inevitably, but never too quickly, to the cross.