Would It Be OK if I Just Listened?

This reflection comes from a powerful memory of long ago. I wasn’t in the best place at the time, and my friend, knowing this, sought me out and just sat beside me. For about 2 hours, nothing was said. Nope, not one word. Which was peculiar because we were usually unstoppable in our conversation.

There were no magic words, no medicine, no mathematical formula to make it all better. The next morning, the same quandaries were still there to stomp on me … but … I did know that someone cared and that they would do whatever it took, for as long as it took, to roll away the boulders.

And inch by inch, together, over literally years, we chose to put our shoulder to the stone each day, until we gradually made progress and a little chink of light could shine through.

I think about that silent meeting a lot in my parish encounters. Usually, we try to fill up spaces and silence with words, sounds and images. In this ‘age of the screen’, we’ve become quite good at it.

But if you asked me when I think I might have been most fruitful, I reckon it would be the times (rare as they are) when I tried very hard not to say anything at all and just listened. The times when I did not rush in with the quick, glib, easy catchphrase but allowed the silence to massage the ache and bruises.

I wonder what would happen if we spoke less and let the ‘other’ just sit alongside us as we sit alongside them.

Would it be OK … if I didn’t say anything, but just sat with you and listened, just being with you, allowing the silence to speak for both of us?

When God Makes You Laugh.

There are parallels between the story of Sarah in our first lesson today and the story of the Blessed Virgin Mary. They are both about God doing the impossible for His people.

They are also mirror images of each other.

One is about a young girl, the other about an old woman.

One isn’t married and is a virgin; the other has been married for years but is still childless.

One receives a terrifying visit from an angel, who promises a child who will be conceived.  The other is visited by three strangers, one of whom is the Lord himself, who promises a child who will be conceived even though she is past the age of childbearing.

The first responds to this impossible promise with

“But how can this be since I am a virgin?”  The other responds to the promise by laughing to herself about how impossible it is.

We love the story of Our Lady, but the story of Sarah is more like the story of our lives.  Often the promises of God’s salvation seem so out of touch with the reality of our lives that all we can do is laugh.

With the Blessed Virgin Mary, her dreamy life is abruptly interrupted by God.  But when the child is born, she treasures and ponders, as the shepherds return to their flocks, glorifying and praising God. It’s a great story …

Unless …  you are Sarah, who is at the opposite end of life’s journey.  In many ways, her life has been a nightmare, ever since she was uprooted from her home in Ur of the Chaldees and hauled along on that long trip to an unknown land, all because her husband said God had told him to go.

But the thing that hurts most is the disappointment and shame of never having her own child.  Sure, Abraham kept assuring her that God had promised a child, a child from her own body.  But after 90 years..??

Then these three strangers suddenly show up.

Sarah plays a small part in the first scene, scurrying about with mealtime preparations and then retiring into the tent as the menfolk ate their dinner.  She is in the background, hiding behind the tent flap, curious about these strangers, listening to the conversation.  Suddenly, she is thrust into the centre of things with one question.  “Where is your wife, Sarah?” they asked.  You can imagine Sarah’s head jerking up, her pulse quickening. “How do they know my name?”  Abraham grunts his monosyllabic response, “There, in the tent.”  Then comes the bombshell. “The Lord said, ‘I will return to you about this time next year, and Sarah your wife will have a son.’”

After all these years of childlessness, she hears God speak the promise.  In one year, Sarah will have a son.  Oh joy!  Oh ecstasy!  Oh Lord!  Oh brother!  Are you kidding me?  Are you serious? “Sarah laughed to herself….”

It’s not hard to imagine why she laughed.

She laughed because of the sheer impossibility of the promise.  If God had promised this 60 years ago, even 30 years ago, maybe…  But now? “Sarah laughed to herself as she thought, ‘After I am worn out and my master is old, will I now have this pleasure?’”

Who does this stranger think he is?

Given her past and her present, she was not going to have a baby, no matter who says she will. Even God.  So, she laughed at the promise of God.

Not in God’s face, but to herself. She laughed not out of arrogance, but out of a broken heart, out of a lifelong disappointment that had taught her not to clutch at straws.  Hopelessness, not pride, underlay her inability to believe God’s impossible promise.  It wasn’t that she had no faith, but that her faith was small because of the nightmare of her life.  She was not a rebel, but a realist.  When she was confronted with her laughter, she cowered and lied, but she didn’t keep laughing as a rank unbeliever would.

God understands.  That’s why he responds to her unbelieving laughter not with fire and brimstone, but with truth and grace and with his own little joke.  “Yes, you did laugh.”  That’s the truth.  You can’t fool God.  He knows the truth about our secret laughter in response to the promises of his Word.  He knows how we kid ourselves about the strength of our faith.  He knows about our inability to put the past behind us and believes that he can and will do miracles in our present and future.

I wonder, …could it be that God even laughed with Sarah, that his response was a warm chuckle?  The name of this child was Isaac, meaning “laughter,”. He was God’s wonderful little joke, the punch line of a long story of suspense and confusion.  You shall call his name Isaac, because his mother laughed when God promised his birth.

Because of God’s all-powerful love, those who laugh behind God’s back, even those who laugh in his face, can find God’s blessing.  It’s an unspeakable comfort to know that salvation depends not on our unfaltering faith, but on God’s grace in Christ.  When God makes you laugh, He’s also laughing with you.

In Praise of the God who Prods us.

In today’s readings, we have God giving two people a bit of a prod. Abraham and Matthew are nudged out of their comfort zones and asked to go somewhere else, do something else and BE someone else. To take up new tasks and different work. The Almighty is really good at this nudging business. When this happens, the prodded ones are often given a new name to signify new responsibilities and a fresh start. Think of Saul becoming Paul.

Today, we have Abram, who becomes Abraham. When you read over his call carefully, you begin to understand that this nudging and prodding business often does not seem very fair. In fact, God seems more like a friendly irritant than a gooey comforting God.

There’s Abram quietly minding his own business; he’s now 75 years old, so he’s of pensionable age; he has built up his superannuation with a wise and diverse portfolio of sheep, goats, cattle, oxen and maybe a few doves for good measure. He’s been in the same country all his life, the country of Haran, and it was his dad’s country before him, so he knows how it all ticks. As well as his lovely wife Sarai and his nephew Lot, he has probably built up a goodly number of friends and relationships over the decades.

It all seems pretty tickety-boo, snug and delicious.

Then God, seemingly uninvited, says Go, leave your country, your father's country and depart to a new land that you haven’t seen, but I’ll show it to you and give you the 3-point sales pitch. It’s called Canaan; don’t worry about the stinky Canaanites; you’re going to love it, and we’ll throw in the lands of Bethel and Ai as well.

In all of this, Abraham doesn’t seem to say much. He just calls on the name of the Lord and builds a couple of altars for good measure. I think Sarai and Lot might have had something to say… but we are not told.

Matthew’s call seems equally abrupt and disconcerting. It’s just another quiet day at the office. The Master comes along and says just two words, and Matthew gets up and follows him.

It immediately gets him into trouble when he throws a late-night dinner party at his house. Jesus, some of Matthew's tax-collector work colleagues and some sinners are having a great time when some Pharisees challenge the guest list and the security arrangements. This riff-raff shouldn’t be socialising with your teacher. And if we think about it, the challenge is not against the tax collectors and sinners, the barb is against The Master Himself. What sort of Teacher can he be if this is the sort of company he keeps?

Matthews’ new job, working alongside Jesus, will not be as easy as collecting taxes and getting rich on the profits. Living out mercy as a compassionate way of life is much harder than ticking the boxes on your spiritual wellness list. Mercy is an inner attitude that finds expression in every action and word. It requires the constant perception of what the other needs. It is not necessarily something you do; it is something you are. To be merciful (mercy full).

The good news. It is sinners that the Master calls, and we rejoice that even when we are a bit grubby, you and I are the ones he wants on his team. The soiled and squalid perfectly fit the key selection criteria to be a disciple.

The teacher looks to our future and potential, not back at our troubled and murky history. Like Matthew, we have to get up from our past, stand tall, leave our comfort zone and walk with Him to a new land and a new way of living.

When we are gallant and gutsy enough, two things happen.

First, we are blessed out of our socks. In ways that we sometimes know and often we are unaware of, and frequently we don’t realise until much later. Both Abraham and Matthew were blessed in their own space, in their own time, and we still read about them and are inspired by them today.

But something else really important and exciting happens. When God shoves us into a different place, he says

I will make your name great,
    and you will be a blessing.
I will bless those who bless you,
and all peoples on earth
    will be blessed through you.

So we are not only called to be blessed, but to be a source of blessing to others.

Sounds terrifying and unachievable, but it is true.

Part of our vocation when we are nudged from our happy place is to be a source of blessing for others, and I can speak from personal experience that you are just that. You have been and continue to be a bubbly fountain of blessing for me.

And for that undeserved and thrilling blessing, I kneel with you before the throne of grace today and give you and our prodding God magnificent thanks.

In praise of the God who prods us.

The Parable of the Archer’s Target.

Far too often, I have found myself distracted by ‘other’ things that I thought were absolutely vital and essential to the church of God. The sad reality is that they were not. They were petty distractions, and to my shame, I wasted far too much time and energy flirting, dancing and wrestling with them.

I had forgotten about the main thing. And the main thing to remember is that The Main Thing is The Main Thing and THE Main Thing is always… ‘Him’.

I console myself a little because Mother Church has sometimes been distracted, and some of my most admired colleagues have also fallen for this trap.

One of them once came to my aid by telling me a mini parable about an archer’s target. You always aim straight for the centre, the bull's eye. Don’t be distracted by the outer rings, which, while they are necessary, are not the most important thing. The outer circles are not what you are aiming for. What you are aiming for is the bull’s eye. Plump and centre.

Archery, like relationships, takes time, practice and an unceasing willingness to persevere. Focus only on the bull's eye, and the outer rings fall into their proper perspective. They enhance and complete the target. They are not THE target.  Only the bull's eye is.

The finest archers, the most athletic runners, and the most convivial people are those who actually enjoy what they are doing. Whether it’s high jumping, leapfrogging, cooking lamb roasts or engaging in witty conversation, they are admirable because they are simply enjoying themselves. We will have consistently hit the bull's eye when we can breathe, allow the distractions to dissolve, and let the arrow fly. It will find its home when we know we have always been at home.

What’s a LIG?

Last time I went to confession, it was just before Christmass. To my great comfort and joy, I discovered not a squeaky clean plaster saint, but a shabby sinner just like myself. Fancy that! Someone who had faced the same delectable tempting scenarios and made the same mistakes as I had. Who’d a thought?

“Lovely looking things tempt us", he said. And he was right, of course. We are so easily seduced by that which looks glamorous and glitzy. The mundane and challenging things are not nearly as appealing, but they are essential, like discipline and forgiveness.

The other takeaway he offered was a simple three-word phrase. ‘Let it go.’ I’ve often shortened it to LIG so that I can remember it more easily. As you get older, your memory becomes a little more unreliable.

At one level, the wise old priest was telling me to let my sin go. The Almighty has already done away with it. Why was I still hanging onto this muck? Because they are entertaining and addictive, but sadly, like last year’s Christmas tinsel, they have lost their glitz and must always disappoint.

But there is another LIG. There are things in our lives that we should let go of. The things that weigh us down and hold us back. The time when old so and so… and the person on the TV who gave/gives us the screaming heebbies. The energy we waste in looking back to when I could have, I should have.

I suspect LIG explains why some use doves and helium balloons at funerals and weddings. The past is set free and let go. And while we might yearn and squint to see them in the sky, ultimately we must LIG. Only then, with verve and joy, are we free to begin afresh.

Let It Go. Now!?

Patients are not always Patient

Some of you are aware that I had some surgery earlier this year.

I went in absolutely determined that I was going to be the most courteous and thankful patient that they had ever encountered. I tried really hard, and for the 24 hours that I was there, I think I succeeded. I mean, it’s easy when you're on a truckload of really good drugs and feeling very happy and floaty.

The process of what happened after  I was discharged from the cocoon of the medicos and machines was a whole lot more confronting. As you come down from the placid euphoria of medication and pain management becomes your own responsibility, the control begins to unravel.  When I combined this with some discourteous and belligerent side effects, then I discovered that actually… I am not the model patient after all. In fact, there are times when I was impatient and more than a little tetchy. A few things to come out of all of this.

First, I consider it a source of great blessing that I live in this part of the world and at this point in history. We have access to great medical expertise and resources. These are not always available to many of my brothers and sisters around the globe, and certainly weren’t accessible to my forebears.

Secondly, spare a thought for those who work tirelessly and compassionately with the ill, all day, every day and around the clock. The nurse who tended me overnight was going home at the end of her shift to take her children to swimming lessons!

Finally, my feeble hope is that my experience might make me more understanding and sympathetic to those whom I find in my ‘priestly travels’. The comforter who also needs comforting. A wounded healer.

This is not what we were expecting!

Often, I have tried to imagine myself as one of those frightened disciples locked up in that upper room. Where not much is said, but simply being together and wanting to be together says it all. What is the next move? What do we do now? Go back to fishing… leave the country? Fly to Port Douglas for the winter? And what of the news from the women at the tomb? Tales and gossip, surely. Did we get it all wrong? Were our loyalty and hopes so misguided?

The doors bolted, hearts pounding, shame and fear swirling after the chaos of the cross. The disciples have every reason to shrink back, unsure if they even belong in the presence of their Lord. And then, suddenly, Jesus is there. Not with words of blame, but with a message that lands like a soft, comforting doona: “Peace be with you.”

This is new and radical. It’s outside the box and boggles our expectations. Anyone else would have visited with an accusing eye, the pointed finger of blame and the question ‘Why? How come you nicked off?

But instead, we simply get ‘Peace be with you. .

 And even his being here is not what we expected.

The Master doesn’t ask for explanations or apologies, and what we would say anyway. Ummm, sorry… but you do understand we were fear-filled and you always wanted what was best for us … right? To stay alive.

And He shows them no magic trick, no healing, no stilling of the storm. Instead, he shows them… He shows them his wounds; proof that love has survived hate, retribution and the grave. Our fear melts into joy because in that moment, forgiveness is not just a concept. It’s a person. It’s Jesus, alive and loving them as fiercely as ever.

This is not what we were expecting

This is not just a story for that one locked room. It’s for every single one of us. For there are times when we have all felt ashamed, unworthy, or afraid to stand before God. Jesus says, to you and to me. “Peace be with you,” not as a suggestion, but as a gift. He meets us in our fear, whatever monster that might look like, no matter how ferocious or untamed our fears might be. He calls us beloved. “My son, my daughter, I love you so very much and am always with you. Peace be with you”

This is not what we were expecting.

But Jesus doesn’t stop there. He breathes the Holy Spirit into his followers, not only to comfort them, but to send them out. “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” We’ve got work to do. The Church’s mission is born right there, in that space between fear and forgiveness. The Holy Spirit fills that room, and suddenly the disciples are changed. They’re no longer hiding. They go out and speak in every tongue, sharing the Good News with the world.

This is not what we were expecting.

You don’t need to be a perfect person for the Spirit to work wonders through you. The disciples were ordinary people: full of doubts, regrets, and rough edges. They were mucky men. But when the Holy Spirit comes, those locked doors open up wide. The Spirit meets us as just as we are, grubby and hopeful. It gives us the courage, the words, and the love we need to build up the Church and the world around us.

The Spirit’s gifts aren’t just for a chosen few. Each of us receives them in unique ways: through our personalities, our strengths, even our weaknesses. Perhaps especially in our weaknesses. Some of us build up the body of Christ with patience, others with kindness or faithfulness, still others with gentleness or self-control. These are the fruits of the Holy Spirit, growing quietly within us, lighting up our hearts so that we can share God’s love with everyone we meet.

This is not what we were expecting

And what is this love? It’s mercy that knows no end. It’s forgiveness that wipes away every sin. And it’s the invitation to join Jesus; not just in his suffering, but in his resurrection, in the joy and hope of new life.

So as we go out today, let’s remember: Jesus is always with us. The Spirit is alive in our hearts. We are called to forgive, to love, and to serve; not because we are perfect, but because we are loved.

Let’s give glory to our Lord God by living this truth. Let’s love our neighbour, forgive as we have been forgiven, and build a community where the light of the Spirit shines bright. And always remember these words: “I love you, my son, my daughter, and am always with you.” Go out with love, give praise and glory to our Father in Heaven, and love those around you as God loves you.

It is not what the world will be expecting. Maybe it is not what we were expecting, but it is everything that we need so desperately in our wonky broken world today.

The things that are not expected.

Peace be with you.

Our Interconnectedness Should be our Strength.

As I’m writing this, the war in Iran is raging, as are the tempers of some world leaders. It’s not pretty, it’s not pleasant, and it’s not new.

The war in the Middle East has been going on for some time now, and someone who is far cleverer than I would be able to give you the dates, whys and wherefores.

Once upon a time, I would have shrugged my shoulders and said ‘There’s nothing I can do about it’ and ’It’s not my problem’.

This time, however, it’s different; it’s personal, it does affect me, and I know that it is my problem. I feel this pain and connectedness every time I hand over my little bit of square plastic with the 16 magic numbers at the petrol station

I am deeply, deeply sorry that this war is happening, and while I snore loudly in my comfy bed in Western Victoria, others have their tenuous shelter blasted to bits. They cry themselves to sleep, mourning those whom they love and miss. They are hungry at night and live in fear each day.

This particular war has taught us that every war is everyone’s problem. We are all interconnected. We are all responsible for each other. It is our problem, and while there seems little we can do to extinguish the flames of retribution and revenge on an international scale, back here in our community, we can live peaceably in ways of forgiveness and compassion. We can bind up scars with bandages of caring. We can pour the balm of a listening silence onto those whose wounds are hidden from us.  We can wipe away tears.. softly. We can be gentle with ourselves. It is our problem after all. We are interconnected, and this should be our strength.

17/5/26

I Believe in the Communion of Saints.

This homily has been given to me over the years by several people. They were unaware of this treasure, but this just makes their gift all the more generous. They did not seek any recompense or reward. This homily is about several people, and yet no one in particular.

Frequently, it has been my privilege to visit someone in supported care. They have been uncurious, or asleep, or somewhere in between. Certainly, a conversation was never going to happen.

I’ve never been completely relaxed about this type of visit. I’ve always gone with my heart way down at the bottom of my gum boots and my heart going pitta patter. It’s confronting to say the least, particularly if I have known the person for some time. The difference in how I once knew them and the image before me is brutally different. How did it come to this? Part of my squeamishness is that I know this might be me one day.

So I tiptoe in, I say my prayers, sometimes a hand is held, and often it is mine. I find myself speaking in hushed, reverential tones because instinctively I know that the veil between this life and the next is flimsy and almost transparent.

Around the walls and on the bedside table, there are photographs of family and friends. They are almost surrounding the person in the bed with their image, their love and prayers. All I can see, of course, is the photo and the person in the bed, but that is not all that is going on here.

The patient was and is clearly loved and held in high esteem. Even though I can’t see it or touch it, that love is not in any way diminished or shrunken. It somehow becomes more real, more potent and more ferocious because of the excruciating circumstances of this illness and nearing death.

The patient in the bed, who is comatose, asleep, unconscious or whatever it is, is blissfully unaware of all of this, although the staff and I will tell you that they somehow always know and that the sense of hearing is the last to leave a person.

So perhaps they are not as oblivious as the outward appearances seem to tell us. Perhaps in their altered state, they are actually more alert and more in tune with the invisible than they are with the visible. Perhaps that’s what's really going on here. Transitioning from the visible and tangible to the invisible and untouchable, moving from this dimension to the other, they become more aware of and begin to live in a different way as people of that quirky resurrection way. The life that is almost the same … but not quite.

So are my friends in bed, oblivious and ignorant to the people in the photos around them or is it, as I choose to believe, that they are somehow already lying in and enveloped in that dimension of love which is stronger than anything we know on this side of the grave?

I come close to this … I think… sometimes… in the chapel at morning or evening prayer. When it’s just me and maybe one other. Am I alone and muttering my questions in the early morning gloom… who will roll away the stone… or am I in fact already surrounded by Our Lady, St. Peter, St. Mark and Him who is always at table with me.

Perhaps this is what the authors of our creed meant when they gave us ‘I believe in the communion of saints’; that you and I are already surrounded by a countless host of saints and angels and martyrs. That we are not alone but continuously being loved, prayed for, encouraged and cheered along the way.

I’m pleased that the folk in care have these photos of the people who love them more and more each day. I’m pleased that we have our stained glass windows and icons to remind us not of people of the past but who are part of our very present existence here and now in May 2026.

Because of the timelessness of that other dimension, we are already living with those who have gone before us, and we are already living in the bright future of heaven.

It’s hard to see, it's hard to sense, it’s hard to believe, particularly when the husk of the person and a few glossy photos are all we have. But even so, I will continue to say.

I believe. I believe in the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body and the life everlasting, amen.

Would it be OK if I said … “ I’m sorry ”

On Anzac Day, I am always moved. I’m not sure if it's the bugler, the hundreds who turn out, or the minutes' silence, but all of it stirs me in ways that are profound and indescribable.

But war must always disappoint us. Retribution, retaliation and revenge must inevitably spiral downwards into the muddy trenches of death and tears. In part, the message of the Anzacs should be that the wholesale slaughter of a generation is not the way forward, and we should not forget this, lest we forget, if that makes sense.

Yes, it’s all very well for me to sit on my comfy chair in my study and type away, but it wasn’t me who was shot at and killed. It wasn’t my family that received a telegram. It wasn’t me that came home irreparably altered.

I can’t wipe clean the besmirched page of our history book written in blood, but I can try each and every day to walk gently upon the face of this marvellous planet. I can choose to speak gently or less often and listen more. And when I have got it wrong, say a simple ‘I’m sorry’.

My feeble, as yet unfulfilled hope, is that we would learn that while the cost of war is immeasurable, it costs nothing to say ‘I’m sorry’, to make amends and to walk forward. It is OK to say ‘I’m sorry’, in fact, it is essential; for until and unless those words are spoken, we are always stuck in the past. Those two words liberate us so that we may embrace a new day where the potential for peace is not just the dream of some old guy on his comfy chair typing in his study, but the living reality for each and every one of us.