Sometimes we meet the Gospel at the sharp edges of our lives. Today is one such occasion.
If the Good News of Jesus Christ can’t speak to and for us today, there’s probably no point in continuing to follow Jesus. So, we enter this time of exploration and reflection with some trepidation. Can light shine in such darkness?
Sometimes the particular passages put before us week by week, in a lectionary plan devised by others – from other places, at other times – can be helpful; and sometimes not. At first glance, the readings set for today might seem less than helpful: Isaiah’s prophecy that God will “turn all mountains into a road, and highways shall be raised up” is not a prophecy many would find helpful this week, where mountains have come down on roads (- and houses - and people); and highways have been lifted up (and twisted and broken)... If all that’s God’s wonderful doing, there’s not much hope.
Similar problems arise from a gospel reading where Jesus is quoted as saying “don’t worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear.” Aren’t these the very things that have been the topmost concerns these last few days? The people of Christchurch have been deeply worried – and rightly so – about their lives; they have good reason to continue to worry about what they will eat and drink, what they will wear, where they will sleep for days to come. Lifted out of context, and placed without thought into the particular context of Christchurch this week, these words might seem rather empty and meaningless – or, even distasteful and offensive.
What to do on such occasions? I was tempted to ask Iris not to read the last verse of the Isaiah passage (no shifting mountains and roads this week, please). And then I realised that such a request would be to succumb to a kind of Biblical literalism and reinforce unhelpful assumptions about God. Over the week, I found myself worrying over the “don’t worry” gospel passage – concerned that this morning’s sermon could turn into a simplistic assurance of hope. Somehow, “don’t worry, trust in God, all will be well” didn’t do it for me. And, as I continued to ponder, continued to reflect on this week’s shocking tragedy, I came to realise that these readings – as with all readings – may take us into new places at a time like this. Placing today’s Bible readings alongside this week’s events may well help us know the Gospel in new ways – bringing to mind again that the God whom we worship cannot be domesticated; that the Bible we treasure is much more precious than any prescriptive rule book and that the faith we hold is far from a bunch of trite Pollyanna-like aphorisms.
As we sang in our opening hymn, ‘our knowledge is frail’ – but there are some things we do know and it is on them that we draw at a time like this. So let’s bring some of that frail knowledge to this morning’s Gospel reading.
Throughout this season of Epiphany, for which today is the last Sunday, we have been called first and foremost to make our allegiance to God’s kin-dom – a way of being the prophet Isaiah yearned for – a way of justice and peace that Jesus taught about and lived out – a common-wealth, where people are called out of darkness into light, where there is enough food and water and justice for all people. Each Sunday, we have called to mind once again, that this kin-dom is not the one we usually see in our day to day living – it’s a way of living that is the antithesis of what reigns within oppressive Empires such as those of the financial market, self-interest and greed.
Before it heads into its ‘don’t worry’ theme, this morning’s gospel commences with a reinforcement and reminder of the competing Empires at work in our world: “no-one”, Matthew’s Jesus reminds us “can serve two masters”. The choice Jesus puts before us is stark: you can’t have a foot in both camps, he argues. You have to choose between self-interest and grasping greed or life-giving kindness and compassion. And this is not just a choice for a moment – but a choice for a life-time, which will influence the moments. Jesus’ ‘don’t worry’- teaching is no simple self-help reminder – it’s the outcome of making that choice. Once you have set your mind on God’s kin-dom, then you won’t need to worry.
... Oh yes? Isn’t this just pure idealism – or perhaps even prosperity gospel teaching?
And yet, over this week, we have seen something of a miracle happening in our country. Time and again, people have made choices for compassion, over self-interest. Granted, there have been some appalling and despicable acts from those choosing the way of mammon. But, overwhelmingly and thankfully, what has been displayed in these last few days has been an astounding open-hearted generosity and kindness from thousands and thousands of people, from all over the world. In this time of tragedy, we have seen possibilities emerge that seemed almost buried and forgotten in our society. We have remembered again the Maori proverb: He aha te mea nui o te ao? He tangata! He tangata! He tangata! What is of great importance? The people, people, people.[1]
In the midst of death and anguish, strangers have risked their lives for others; hospitality and trust have been revitalised; the usual discourse of greed and accumulation of things seems to have been sidelined, as giving and sharing of basic resources has become part of everyday living. (There was even a short period when care for neighbour and compassion for others banished the world we have been encouraged to think of as the norm. The Empire of Mammon, was, for a time, held at bay as television channels screened hours of newscast without a single piece of advertising.)
In these dark days, we have had glimpses of the light: we have come to know new things about ourselves – we have been taken beyond words in our quest for meaning – we have also learnt things about which we had no desire to learn. One of the things we have learnt is that the seed of an alternative way of being - sown by Jesus (and by other teachers) long ago - has not completely died. It can still flourish. Should we choose to continue on this new path, setting our minds on God’s kin-dom, God’s righteousness, we can imagine more miracles will occur.
I want to conclude this morning with a reflection, entitled “The Knowing” written this week by Rev. Dr. Susan Jones[2]. May it assist in watering the seed and bringing fruit from the aching, troubled earth.
After Pike River we knew
about gases and explosions
now we are tragically knowledgeable
about magnitude, depth
and location of seismic activity.
We know at visceral level now
the difference
between ‘ rescue’ and ‘recovery’.
We know now,
in a way we had only before suspected,
that soft yielding bodies
and hard concrete rubble
do not mix,
information we could have done without
This knowledge we did not want to know.
We thought twenty nine in a mine was the worst,
but for this sharply climbing toll,
we need another word than ‘worst’
to speak our pain.
We have lost our innocence.
We now know too much
about our earth, our vulnerability,
about ourselves.
Grappling with the reality
of this land’s traumatic wound,
to meet this tragedy,
we have had to grow up.
But now, other knowledge we also have;
We know of amazing courage,
community spirit and love,
help given between strangers,
generosity on a scale we haven’t seen before
and we have seen firsthand
the dedication of rescuers and medics,
of officials and police.
To meet the challenge
the human spirit
has risen phoenix-like from the rubble.
We still weep through this dark night,
but we also know
in a believing-against-all-the-odds kind of knowing
in an Easter-Day-after-Friday’s-darkness kind of knowing
that some morning,
the joy of life will return.[3]
