“Fix your course to a star and you can navigate through any storm”

Leonardo da Vinci 1452.

Jeanine and I were privileged to attend the LUME in Melbourne where there was an immersive experience featuring the works and inventions of Leonardo Da Vinci. Not only did he paint, he also invented and thought deeply about a lot of important things. Part of this exhibition was some of his more insightful and profound sayings. I intend to use some of them in this forum. One of them I found particularly helpful.

“Fix your course to a star and you can navigate through any storm”.

We all need some standard to measure ourselves against. Some places, some aspirations, and some ideals to reach for. Clarify your purpose and values and align them with your goals and strategies.

We live in a very turbulent ever-changing almost washing machine-tumbling society and world. We can so easily be tossed about and emerge battered, confused and bewildered. There are so many competing demands and philosophies out there, that it would be very easy to select a different one each day to suit our whim of the moment. This would of course see us sloshed about with no direction or hope of arriving anywhere or accomplishing anything.

A star is a good metaphor because you never actually physically reach it. You are always striving, always looking beyond yourself; always there is more to try for.

So for your reflection, you might like to ask what are the ‘stars’ that you strive for? Who taught you these principles? You likely acquired them almost by osmosis from a significant elder in your life. Maybe a parent or a teacher.

Have these ‘stars’ been helpful or have you found others along the way and what are your storms?

May 5th … You did not  choose me… but…

One of the many security tests Jeanine and I encountered on our trip to the States was that we had our fingerprints taken, both going in and leaving the country.

We were tired, jet-lagged, bemused and fraught by it all, but we were not going to argue with the really big guys with the really big shiny badges and the really big guns. Oh no sireee! We swiftly did as we were told and looked forward to that moment when we made our way to the luggage carousel, then to Jacky and David, then to a taxi and then to a shower.

I offer this little memory because it should remind us that each and every one of us is completely unique. No two people have exactly the same fingerprints. No one has exactly the same set of fingerprints as you and some really clever people could probably use other body bits and pieces to make the same scientifically provable fact. It is also true that no one else has exactly the same set of memories and combinations of perceptions as you. You are marvellously unique and that is a wonderful and exciting reality to try and hold onto and get your head around … if you can.

That's the good news.

The flip side of this glorious truth is God knows your blueprint. He designed it specifically and he knows your every wrinkle, your every gift, your every flaw, and he knows exactly what you are really, really good at and what you enjoy.

This means that he will specifically choose you, has specifically chosen you for this particular point in history in this particular place to do some particular work.

Hence the haunting line “You did not choose me … but I chose you” from the gospel today.

Clergy I am first to admit, are particularly good at kidding themselves that God has chosen them to do fantastic wonderful whizz bang sparkly things and to go to the plum parish St. Swithens in the bog.

If only they knew.

God always takes the initiative, God always does the calling and sometimes we discover to our dismay that it is not altogether to our liking.

I could point you to any number of your favourite biblical characters who found themselves called by God to a position that they did not want, or like, or ask for.

Consider the Blessed Virgin Mary who did not send a welcome email to the Archangel Gabrielle to apply for the job.

Or Joseph who had to spend some time in Pharaoh's prison wrongly accused of an improper relationship with Pharaoh's wife. Or Moses, or the disciples.. and you can probably think of lots of others.

But what about a modern-day 21st-century example?

Glad you asked.

Bishop John Stewart was Bishop of the Eastern Region of Melbourne. One of his roles was to attract vital, young, intelligent, witty, geeky, holy clergy to the Eastern parishes of Melbourne. Not an altogether easy role but there you have it.

Perhaps as a sweetener to this role or perhaps to raise his blood pressure even further, Bishop John was given the role of administrator of the diocese. Ah, now here is a better gig. You simply step into the Archbishop's role whilst he’s on holiday or in Lambeth or whatever it is that Archbishops do when they are not in the office and, maybe flex a bit of muscle, send out for pizza for the office staff and anything too thorny you say ‘Thats an archbishop's decision and you’ll have to wait until they return from the Bahamas.’

Bishop John was doing a fine job as administrator in October 1989 when Archbishop David Penman was on leave. All was going swimmingly well when Archbishop David died just as arrangements were being made for a heart transplant.

All of sudden Bishop John is ‘It’. For an unknown period of time he’s now Number One and all of a sudden the job isn’t so much fun any more. You can’t just go down to the local supermarket and see which Archbishop is on special this week. This process takes time and no one knew it better than Bishop John.

Bishop Johns's fervent prayer as he entered the office each day was a simple and profound prayer and one that I am tempted to offer from time to time.

“Dear God, please don’t let anything happen today.”

It was years later that I got to know Him better. He and his Janine had a holiday house to the north of St. John’s Soldiers Hill and whenever he was there for the weekend he would graciously come and preach for me. A different flavour, a different voice and fresh sparkling insight. He was a treasure and would take me out to ridiculously long lunches and enlighten me with hysterical tales of recalcitrant clergy the names of which for some reason I cannot now remember. We were just what each of us needed at that point in time, in that place, each with our own particular talent for chattering and listening. Bishop John needed to savour his stories and reminisce. I needed to learn what not to do… again! Each of us, with our own frailties and foibles.

I’m typing this within 24 hours of learning of his death. The fruit of his conversations are made all the more likeable because of the fruit of the vine is still abiding and still lasts and will continue to abide, until I see Him again.

You did not choose me … no I chose you and commanded you to go and bear fruit, fruit that will last.

What / Who am I doing this for?

We gathered at Melville Oval Hamilton. It was a drizzly, chilly morning and there were hundreds with me. There is a single light on the statue and far too many crosses on the lawn.

It was cold, bleak and depressing. I had left the comfort of a warm bed and a scalding shower. It was easy to slip into the question… What am I doing this for? Despite the countless ghost-like figures in the early morning gloom, I was in a solitary place.

The thought that rescued me from my self-pity was this. It must have been so much worse for those who first landed on the shores with bullets slaughtering the friend next to them. I did not have fear coursing through my veins. I knew that I would be going back to a warm home, a cup of rich espresso and a day of work that I relish. But these youth who could easily have been my son or daughter… What were they thinking? Did they ask the same question? What am I doing this for?

A better question would be WHO am I doing this for? The brutal, inescapable truth is that those teenagers did it for me. The answer to my question is… I am doing it for them.

We have never met. They lived and died decades earlier. They are but names on a monument to me. But they were real people with hopes, dreams, aspirations, laughter, tears and joy. Real bullets tearing through real flesh. Real breath, real bones, real death.

They did it for us. I did it for them and will continue to do so until that day when He who taught us that all life is sacred gathers us into His loving arms and we finally live in peace.

Wicked Little Letters

I went to see this film the other day. I should probably start with the health warning that some of the letters were technicolour in their content. That’s the next level above colourful.

The film starred some well-known folk like Olivia Colman, Edith Swan, Jessie Buckley and Rose Gooding.

The film was based upon a true court case in the 1920s and without giving too much of the plot away, several wicked little letters were posted around Littlehampton in England. The letters are crude, insulting, clever and demeaning. Fingers are pointed at who the author might be and.. well… the plot unfolds with a quirky bounce. It’s a jolly good romp. The good guys come out trumps whilst the right person/author is caught out and given their just deserts.

Aside from just being good fun, I was reminded again about the potency of the written word. The responsibility of those whose written words are read by many people is significant. Once written, whether on paper or a screen, they cannot be retrieved. You can’t pretend that you somehow didn’t write them. In this electronic age, it’s even more salutary because your words can be speedily sent on to countless numbers of people in the time it takes to click a computer mouse. I don’t think that there is such a thing as an anonymous email these days. That’s why we rightly employ clever, wise people in this burgeoning industry called Cybercrime.

The lesson for all those who stroke the keyboard, and especially myself is ‘Be careful.’ Read and re-read, your words before they are sent off into the cyber cosmos. Our wicked little letters are more easily found out in the 2020s than they would have been in the 1920s.

From Bishop Mark Burton.

Of Tupperware and Tin.

John Donne wanted to die with his boots on. No quiet exit, slipping away in bed while asleep.

Ideally, he wrote, in a letter to a friend, ‘it hath been my desire) that I might die in the pulpit.’ And preferably, mid-sermon, to fall headlong into the congregation. He wasn’t granted that wish, for which the staff and people of St Paul’s, London, were probably glad. Rather like Saint Paul himself, for Donne, Death was the last enemy, finally to be overthrown in the victory of God in Christ: let Death earn its keep, ‘not merely seize me...but win me, and overcome me.’ Donne was defiant in the face of death—which was, we must remember—everywhere around him; but he could confidently declare that, ‘I shall have my dead raised to life again.’

A more ‘material’ man would be hard to find and while I might not endorse every aspect of Donne’s life to be emulated (any more than my own, I hasten to add), I find his earthiness attractive and profoundly spiritual (which may sound like a contradiction to some). Not for him a denial of the stuff that is our present reality; not for him a fleeing from matter as if it were the tainted by-product of a failed cosmic experiment by some half-baked demiurge or godless. This fragile, dangerous dimension we inhabit, wherein even the most ordinary of objects can result in disaster (a pin, a comb, a hair pulled, Donne observed), is that which God declared ‘very good’. The Word became flesh, not to condemn the world, but to save it.

The reminder of this material fragility is everywhere around us; the Gospel itself—' this treasure’—is held in breakable vessels, made of earth and clay. The treasure of the gospel is held in earthenware clay. It is held in you and it is held in me. And we are given to fragility: and like the disciples who are argued who was the greatest, we are also very brittle likewise brittle. A potential we all exhibit from time to time, I expect.

The wonderful news is that God is actually very pleased to be associated with such fragile earthenware. God is not embarrassed by us, by matter. This truth is supremely evident in the solid and thoroughgoing humanity of the Son of God, a humanity still present in a transformed, surpassingly superior yet recognisable resurrection body, still bearing the marks of suffering.

Here, this morning, we are surrounded by those material things in and through which the Holy Spirit of God is pleased to be present and to work: in addition to our very selves we have the scriptures, written and spoken; bread and wine and water; lyrical voices; this building itself, a reminder of the importance of place and yet subject to decay. Even hand sanitiser, a sign of our times.

Each of these things is material, made of matter. Whether spoken words or words on the pages of the scriptures, ink-on-paper (or pixels-on-thin-film-transistors, polycrystalline silicon ‘words’, for you technology buffs), they are material. We have no doubt that the Gospel, so conveyed, is effective that words can be a ‘means of grace’ as the old Prayer Book puts it. And if words, then so too water and bread and wine and oil—all manifestations of God’s good creation that can be and are used to achieve God’s purposes. (As a test, wherever you encounter the expression ‘means of grace’, substitute the word ‘grace’ with ‘action of the Holy Spirit’,

The Gospel is properly described as ‘treasure’, yet ironically it is to be kept on open display, with neither lock nor key; to be in constant use by means of its distribution to those who need it; and never to be rationed. Because the Gospel is not a finite resource, it is to be shared lavishly, even indiscriminately—for who is to say who the next ‘unworthy’ convert will be? All of our material bits and pieces—words written or spoken; water of baptism, bread and wine of the Holy Communion; oils with or without fragrance—arises from, and points to, the coming of the Son of God as one truly human. Ignoring them impoverishes us, and others. If we ration them we are mean. These material things point forward to the perfection, the completion of all things in Christ, the first-born of all creation, who will be all and in all, as Saint Paul put it; when these things will no longer be needed.

We look forward to the putting on of a ‘spiritual body’—which looks like a contradiction in terms—an embodiment modelled on, and sharing in, that of the risen Christ’s: the-same- but-different, immortal (that is, not subject to decay), when the Last Enemy is finally overthrown.

In the meantime let us dare to knock the tops off the fragile, earthen vessels and pour out the generosity of God: share the Gospel, in season and out; let the waters of baptism be sloshed about as if we mean it; welcome sinners to the Lord’s Table; anoint lavishly and with confidence; offer the best we can, given our circumstances. And leave the outcome to God.

There is less of me that is original now than there was when I was a younger, slightly more attractive vessel: my hips are made of titanium and ceramic; I have about a third of a metre of Dacron plumbed through a major artery; and my gallbladder is a distant memory. I am now more earthen than ever. As, I suspect, are some of you. But take heart: this is God’s good pleasure, to take the unlikely and the ordinary, and through it to do things unheard of, finally to renew it and make it fit for the Kingdom of Heaven.

Dear Cleo,

This letter comes to you in two parts. There is the grown-up bit at the start for old people and then there is the nice bit which is a story especially for you.

Let’s get the old people bit over with first.

You came into this world with much anticipation and joy. You were looked forward to and wanted and loved even before you emerged from your Mum’s tummy. Even before you cried loudly in the labour ward and the first bottle of pop went … well…. it went Pop!

You were baptised or Christened on April 21st 2024. In Churchy terms, it was the 4th Sunday after Easter that year or the fourth Sunday in Eastertide or Good Shepherd Sunday.

It’s very hard to describe to old people what Jesus is like so there are lots of times when we say that Jesus is like… Like a Good friend, or like a really good parent or like a fantastic older brother who sticks up for you.

On the Sunday you were baptised we said that Jesus was like a Good Shepherd or a good farmer.

Someone who knows each and every sheep or person. He knows what is good for us and where we need to be at any given moment of the day or night.

The Good Farmer speaks to us and sometimes it's a bit hard to hear him so we have to practice being quiet and being very still in our hearts and outside when we are playing. This is very difficult for us especially when there is so much great stuff on TV and good friends to play with.

Jesus the Good Shepherd also leads us or shows us where we are supposed to go into the future and somehow (you’ll have to ask him how he does this) he is also behind us shooing us along or encouraging us. Then it gets really tricky because he also walks alongside us. Sometimes he helps us up if we fall over and skin our knee or if we feel lonely or just because he really likes being with us and giggling with us.

You see what a tricky but thoroughly enjoyable Farmer Jesus is?

Sometimes life plays tricks on us and things don’t seem to go the way we think they should. This is where Jesus the Good Farmer really comes into his own. We can rely on him when we have all sorts of hard questions and  especially when we have our cranky pants on and are feeling cross.

The priests, people, your parents and Godparents are also a bit like shepherds. They love you very much and are there to help you and support you. You can easily see them and listen to them and ask them all sorts of tricky questions. They will try to show you what Jesus is like by the way they care for you.

Jesus church is always open for you and will always welcome you. That’s a really important thing to remember.

Phew… that was the older person’s bit. Now comes the story.

Once upon a time, in a place not very far from where you are reading this, there was a really great Shepherd. He had exactly one hundred sheep. He knew each of them by name, he loved them so much that He even knew what each one liked for breakfast and how they liked to have their wool clipped.

Each day he couldn’t wait to get up and go and count all his sheep and give them their crumpets, vegemite toast and coffee. But one morning … Uh Oh.. one of his sheep was missing. The Sheep's name was David and Jesus the good farmer was really Really sad because David was missing. Jesus the good farmer did not waste a single minute. He began looking for David immediately.

He went down to the hen house because he knew David liked to play with the chickens. He looked in every nesting box even though he kind of knew David the sheep wouldn’t fit in the nesting box.  No David. Oh Dear where can he be? He went down to the haystack because he knew that sometimes David liked to go and have a little old persons snooze at the back of the haystack. But no… David was not there. The Good Farmer Jesus did not give up. He went to the prickly bramble bush (which he didn’t like very much) and looked all through the bush; but no David.

Then he thought.. I wonder if David has gone down to the very back paddock to try and get a drink from the grungy dam. It takes the good Farmer Jesus a long time to walk all the way down to the dam. It is very hot and it is a very rocky path but eventually he gets there. And there is David  in the middle of the murky dam crying and crying, because he is stuck in the stinky mud and can’t get out.

The good Farmer Jesus dives straight into the very muddy icky water.  Kersplosh! He rescues David.

He carries David on his shoulders all the way back to the farmhouse even though David is dripping with muddy water and smells disgusting. Then the Good farmer Jesus calls all his farming friends and throws a wonderful big party with sausages and sauce and fairy bread and sausage rolls and chips and lots of fizzy drinks that make you go burp.

May you have lots of great parties Cleo and may you always remember that Jesus the good Farmer is with you at every party.

I’m writing this on Good Friday

There is a YouTube series called ‘Letters Live’. In this series, Benedict Cumberbatch reads one of Alexei Navalny’s final letters dated 17th of January 2024.

Alexei died in what might be called ‘puzzling circumstances’ and that is me pouring a fair amount of chocolate sauce on it. His opposition to one of the world leaders and his ardent desire to offer an alternative are well documented.

His letter is strongly worded and articulate. With him speaking ‘from the other side of the grave’ his words are both humbling and foreboding.

In his letter, Alexei speaks candidly about his interviews with the prison staff who ask him ‘Why did you come back? You must have some secret deal, some arrangement that has not come to fruition yet.’

But Alexei… says “No ..there is no such plot. I have my country and my convictions” and goes on to spell out his love of country with the passion of his convictions. This is why he has returned.

There is a very challenging line where Alexei simply says ‘That if you do not act on your convictions then you have no convictions at all’.

This is inspiring and sets the bar dizzyingly high. When I look in the mirror and ask myself the inevitable searing questions…

I’m writing this on Good Friday. A day that means different things to different people and we fill this day up according to our convictions.

For many, it's a day when we recall and enter into the mystery of The Master who lived His convictions and so found himself dying a premature death at the hands of others. A bit like Alexei, who acted on His convictions and… Would I, could I? Do I have any convictions?

I’m writing this on Good Friday.

3 cheers for our Doctors.

Each year I go and see a gentleman who I refer to as my ‘Big Doctor’. We have known each other for decades and we do the whole shooting match. Blood, diet, state of mind, anything and everything. All the numbers and counts are ticked off. He has seen me in good health and some pretty icky patches.

A lot is going on with this consultation. It’s not just about the science and readings and scans.

My doctor walks that delicate tightrope between being compassionate as well as being a very straight shooter. He kindly tells it exactly as it is. There is no chocolate sauce dolloped on top and if he thinks my weight is not good, or my blood pressure is too high, then he will let me know. I have always been grateful for his skill, integrity and bedside manner.

We desperately need more GPs and we need more like my ‘Big Doctor.’ Our population is not getting any less or younger and our bodies are hard-wired for mortality. The bits inevitably start wearing out and falling off as we age. How do we engender the sense of vocation to become a doctor and just as importantly how do you sum up this undeserved privilege we call a medical consolation?

I found some words in Singapore recently which say it far better than I ever can. I offer them to you.

“The practice of medicine is a calling. It is a calling in which your heart will be exercised as much as your mind. Your call is to be with those who suffer. Your call is to help heal the ill and the disease-ridden, mend broken bones and touch wounded spirits.”

Dr. Balaji Sadasivan
The Singapore Medical Council
Physicians Pledge Affirmation
Ceremony, 7 May 2055

Easter 3 14/4/24

‘How do you like your fish?’

On our menu today you can have battered and deep-fried; roast or baked; pan-fried; poached.  Or, how about broiled?

In the Gospel the disciples gave Jesus a piece of ‘broiled’ fish to eat so that Jesus could prove to them that he was ‘real’ and not a ghost; When I read this, I realised that I didn’t actually know what ‘broiled’ meant.  So I spent some time by the flickering light of the computer and I learned that broiling is ‘cooking by exposure to direct radiant heat, either on a grill over live coals, or below a gas burner or electric coil’.

The first of these options is all that would have been available back in the first century AD, and is basically what, today, we would call barbecuing – cooking over charcoal.  This echoes with another resurrection story John’s Gospel where Jesus was cooking fish for them over a charcoal fire for breakfast.

But there’s a more significant aspect to this than how Jesus likes his fish cooked.  We’re told the main reason  that Jesus asked for something to eat was to prove to the disciples that he was ‘real’ – that it was actually, really truly him as fully human flesh and blood.  After all, only a ‘real’ person – not a ghost – could eat ‘real’ food.  So why didn’t Luke just tell us that Jesus ‘ate some food’; or even that he ‘ate some fish’?  Why did Luke specifically state that ‘They gave him a piece of broiled fish, and he took it and ate in their presence’? What’s Luke trying to teach us here?

Well, perhaps Luke gave this specific detail because he was keen to show the reality of Jesus’ appearance – that it  really did happen. Like a witness in court, the more vivid detail they can provide, the more credible they are.

So Luke is helping us because he knows that the hardest part of faith is actually realising (that is, feeling as well as academic knowledge) the truth of what we say we believe. This is a continuously difficult thing for any disciple. Just look at the disciples: they’d lived with Jesus day-in and day-out for three years; they’d witnessed all his miracles, heard all his teaching, been given privileged additional insights.  And yet, when faced with the risen Christ, Luke tells us that they were ‘startled, terrified, disbelieving and wondering’.

So, if it was difficult for those first disciples, how much more so for us, to ‘accept the reality’ or ‘realise the truth’  that God is real and that Jesus is the real personification of God.

Indeed, this slippery grasp onto the living reality of what we believe goes right back to Moses, when he asked how God should be identified to the Israelites, God replied simply, “I AM”!  Perhaps what God meant by this was that, “If you really want to know what is really real, then ‘I AM’”.  Indeed, God is more real than anything else, because He is the source of everything that we consider real.  What Moses, what the disciples, and what we must realise, is that God is more real than anything else.

It might help if we unpack the word ‘realise’. It's the word ‘real’ with ‘ise’ on the end.  Its dictionary definition is to ‘become fully aware of something as a fact; to understand clearly’.

So how do the gospel writers help us become fully aware of the resurrection as a fact?

By telling us resurrection food stories. We connect so very strongly with food stories.  Remember another of Luke’s stories where the risen Jesus walks unrecognised with two of his disciples. It was only after they arrived at the village of Emmaus, and Jesus broke the bread at the dinner table, that they finally recognised him. Then there is the scene with Peter and other disciples after a long day of fishing. They see the risen Lord calling them from the shore. When they arrive, they find that he has cooked a breakfast of bread and fish for them and invites them to “Come, have breakfast.” (John 21:1-14)

So what else will help us feel and know the reality of a physical, touchable, tangible, palpable, body resurrection?

Jesus did some other curious things right after the resurrection: like breathing on his disciples and inviting Thomas to actually touch his nail wounds and feel the sword gash in his side.

These resurrection touching, feeling, scenes drive home not only help us to understand the resurrection but teach us the importance of the human body. For Jesus, his physical body wasn’t just something that he “wore” while on earth, but part of his very being. And for us, our bodies are not something solely for this life which we forever discard at the time of death. As human beings, we are a beautifully mysterious combination of body and spirit. Just as in the Ascension, Jesus took his resurrected body with him back to the Father, we, too, at the end of time, will receive back our glorified body for entrance into heaven. The body is a profoundly good part of how God created us. The body is holy—thus what we do with our bodies and what we do to other peoples bodies really does matter.

Flesh and spirit are not at war. They are actually exquisitely complementary. They need each other and they find that perfect union in Him who liked his fish barbecued.

For your reflection you might like to recall your favourite bible food story and why it appeals to you?

To paths not taken…

It was a quick line on TV. The high-level police having solved a particularly heinous case are reflecting over some tumblers of beverage,

One of them turns wistfully to his colleague and asks.

‘So George… if you hadn’t been a detective what would you have been?’ George replies “I come from an Italian heritage and I would have set up my little Italian restaurant using Mama’s recipes with lashings of Chianti, garlic and pizza.”

A few others reminisce and ponder… Run a Hotel, become a surgeon… a child care worker. There is much bonhomie, more beverage and a percolation of thoughts.

Someone makes the salient point that if any one of them had pursued these other paths, then they would not have met, friendships would not have been formed and to push the envelope out.. Then it might be that the recently captured felon would still be out there committing monstrous crimes and slaying people.

When I was quite young I had aspired to be a doctor. Nothing fancy like a specialist or epidemiologist, just your average, coughs and colds GP.  I’m not sure what happened; perhaps I realised early on that I did not have the academic prowess to accomplish this noble profession.

The flip side is also true. That if I had become your white-coated, stethoscope-slinging GP, I would not be writing this post. I would not have broken bread, celebrated weddings, sent souls on their way and thrilled in the baptisms of the quite young and somewhat more mature. I would not have met so many amazing people including you.

The folk on the TV raise and chink their glasses. ‘To paths not taken!’ I join them in this toast, swiftly and with joy. ‘To paths not taken.’

Easter 2.

John 20.19-31

Conquering with brokenness.

What is it about hands? They crop up quite a bit in the good book. Pilate washes his hands before sending Jesus on his way to death. Jesus places his hands on little children and the sick. The laying on of hands confers the Holy Spirit and authority in the early church.

Our Lord has his hands pierced and then will show them to his disciples. So hands are important. The Risen Master shows his hands off for two reasons. First, they are exhibit A as proof of his identity. It really is me chaps. Secondly, they are proof that the crucifixion really did happen. The crucifixion was an actual event, complete with nails and wood, gristle and blood.

Jesus' hands and more specifically his wounds will say what words cannot. No promises from his colleagues could dispel Thomas's doubt, but the wounds sure do.

And so there is the invitation.

Jesus offers exactly the proof that Thomas has requested.

“Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails”

Its almost as if Jesus is saying. Very well Thomas. If that is what it will take, then I gladly offer you my pierced hands. Do precisely as you have asked. Touch and see.

I wonder what we would ask for as our exhibit A? Or if we are bluntly honest what is it that we have asked for in the past? What are we asking for today? What is it that we will ask for next week?

It is sorely tempting to ask for the big-ticket stuff or what we want or we need, A B C Q and Z.

But whatever we might ask for … dazzle-dazzle and miracles, Our Lord will always offer something else entirely… brokenness. Broken hands, broken feet, a pierced side. Broken bread and poured-out wine. And so the resurrected and pierced Messiah is what we hold out to the world. We hold out and offer… HIM. One who always invites, but never stomps his foot and claims ‘You must’. For faith and love are not manufactured or coerced. They cannot be compelled or engineered. They cannot be purchased with a bit of plastic, or after pay or through a mortgage broker. They are priceless and spring forth from that place within the deep soil of our soul. They find outward expression in His hands, his body, his blood, his side

And it is not just a physical invitation to touch and see for Thomas. This invitation, this scandalous and outrageous dare, is for all people individually and it is for all humanity collectively. We have done our worst, humanity has done its most grizzly and appalling and continues to do its macabre best and in the face of our fear of each other, our fear of Him and fear of ourselves, He still calls us to see and to touch.

Everything that is mushed about us, He heals and makes whole. He does this by the gore of his own hands. If we can embrace and touch his broken hands with our own distorted and twisted hands, then like the man with the withered hand in the synagogue, we might also reach out in our responsiveness. We do so not really knowing what will happen or why.  In our reaching out we will, no matter how tentative, how precarious, how nervous, or confused we might be, our crinkles and warts, all that is not quite right, will be made fresh and clean and beautiful; We become who we were meant to be, who we always were from the beginning and who will always be.

‘Put your finger and see my hands.’

It is an uncomfortably intimate invitation. One hand touching another. The action of lovers.

It is also confronting for the Master asks us to not only acknowledge what we have done but to physically touch His wounds and to feel the damage that we have done. And if we can do that; acknowledging how we have damaged others and damaged ourselves, then and only then, can our own healing begin.

But there was something else that happened in that locked room between Thomas and the Master.

After this encounter, Thomas would have been different. He would have been changed, transformed. He could not un-hear Our Lord's words. He could not un-see the wounds, the place where the nails were driven through. The gash where the sword pierced. The illness of Thomas’ doubts is banished not by eloquent argument, or by a vote by his colleagues, or by them physically giving him a caning until he comes round to their way of thinking. Nor was his change of belief transactional. No one said…”Look, Thomas, would a couple of hundred denarius sort this out for you?” The only way fear doubt and wounds are conquered is by holding onto the wounded in our world and holding onto Him.

Which does, of course, open up all sorts of dimensions when you come and open up your hands to receive Him and touch Him at the altar. And just as surely as Thomas was invited .. so too you are invited.. with Thomas and the 12, with those gathered around you today… to touch again ‘The body of Christ.’.