Thank You Nick Cave

Chat GPT is the official name for a computer program that can generate essays with just a few suggestive words.

The following quote is from a letter by Nick Cave about Chat GPT. It was read by Stephen Fry on a YouTube series called ‘Live Letters’

“In the story of creation, God makes the world and everything in it in 6 days and on the 7th day, he rests. The 7th day is significant because it suggests that the creation required a certain amount of effort on God’s part. That some sort of artistic struggle had taken place.

This struggle is the validating impulse that gives God’s world its intrinsic meaning.

The world becomes more than just an object full of other  objects rather it is imbued with the vital spirit, the essence of its creator.”

There is much to draw out of this. Like… the very serious matter of keeping a day off. Clergy are notorious for not doing this properly, always to their own detriment and thus to their families' angst, sadness and unravelling.

Secondly, we often think that God just clapped his hands, muttered a few well-chosen words and in a puff of smoke, everything was created with no effort at all. What if it really was like Nick Cave suggests? What if things did not come that easily to God… That there was a struggle? Wouldn’t that mean a more approachable, sympathetic, understanding, compassionate God? A God who could quite genuinely say ‘I know the work of creating is a striving and difficult.’

Finally, just as a potter imbues the pot with something of himself, so too does creation throb with the heartbeat of God. His signature, his thumbprint and his joy are all around and within.

Thank you Nick Cave for reminding us to look and listen afresh.

Advent 3

This Advent I will be offering a series of reflections with the theme ‘The Faces She Saw.’

We’ll be thinking about some of the faces that Mother Mary saw in the lead-up to Christmass and today we reflect on the face of someone who said ‘No’ to Mary.

Only Luke gives us the birth narrative of Jesus and we have this intriguing line

“And Mary gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger because there was no place for them in the inn.”

This is jam-packed with questions. Like who was it that actually told them there was no place for them? Was it the barmaid, the innkeeper, the innkeeper's mistress, or a friend of the family who just helping out in the Census rush? We are simply not told. When the rooms were filled and the animals at pasture, an inn would improvise quarters for the poorer people in the animal courtyard. The humility of Our Lord did not begin at Calvary rather began here in an animal courtyard… in a feed trough.

But someone said ‘No’. Hopefully, they also said ‘Sorry’

So at some point, there must have been a conversation. Joseph and or Mary asked the question and an answer was given.

And one of the points I would rush to make is that there is a huge difference between saying

‘No, because I just can’t. I want to, but I just physically can’t do it. '

and

saying ‘No’ because I don’t want to or I don’t like you or I simply can’t be bothered.

It’s OK to say ‘No’ if you speak it with love and moral integrity.

The common legend and that is all we have is that it was the innkeeper and while we are not told it does make sense and I will lay odds that Our Lady and St. Joseph were not the only ones shown to the animal pasture.

And I can’t help but wonder what was going on with the innkeeper’s life.

I speculate that he would not have been enamoured with the Roman government which would have taxed him with great glee and great gusto.

I spectate that he would have worked hard and not every patron would come in peaceful and well-intentioned bonhomie.

On ‘That’ night, that special night, he would have been overrun, over worked overwrought. He would I imagine be longing for the peace of his own bed and some quiet after the rowdy hubbub of the bar.

I speculate too that he would have heard the rumours of a coming king. Longed for the Messiah and maybe practised a faith. That perhaps he was tired. Tired of waiting, tired of being taxed, tired of working, tired of the drunks who are belligerent. He was so tired of the strain that the hospitality industry put on his wife, their marriage. He was just simply tired out.

His work is all consuming and all he wants is a little peace. Peace in all its forms and all its expressions.

Someone called Jason Gray wrote a poem about our mythological, but probable Innkeeper. Listen as he skillfully tells the story that we all know so well and also gives us a hint as to some of the things that we will never know. Like what was going on in this innkeeper's life, his mind and heart.

I found them standing in my door
In the clumsy silence of the poor
I've got no time for precious things
But at least they won't be wandering
If they're sleeping on my stable floor
There were no rooms to rent tonight
The only empty bed is mine

'Cause I'm overbooked and overrun
With so many things that must be done
Until I'm numb and running blind
I need rest, I need rest
Lost inside a forest of a million trees
Trying to find my way back to me
I need rest

As a boy I heard the old men sing
About a Kingdom and a coming King
But keeping books and changing beds
Put a different song inside my head
And the melody is deafening
I need rest, Oh I need rest

Like a drowning man in the open sea
I need somebody to rescue me
I need rest

To Rome we're only names and numbers
Not souls in search of signs and wonders
But we're waiting for the day of our salvation
The Messiah who will be our liberation
We're waiting, I'm waiting
I need rest, I need rest
Oh come oh come Emmanuel
With a sword deliver Israel
I need rest.

Tonight I can't get any sleep
With those shepherds shouting in the streets
A star is shining much too bright
Somewhere, I hear a baby cry
And all I want is a little peace.

St. Joseph.

This Advent I am offering a series of reflections with the theme ‘The Faces She Saw’.

We’ll be thinking about some of the faces that Mother Mary saw in the lead-up to Christmass and today we reflect on the face of St. Joseph. What I hope this particular reflection teaches us, is that the Blessed Virgin Mary was a real person, with real thoughts, real emotions and real feelings. She lived, breathed, wept, laughed, ate and drank just like everyone here. We read about her ‘God side’ so often that we easily forget that she was just like you and me. Hec, she probably even smooched Joseph. So if she were writing a memoir it might go something like this.

He was ‘the older man’ in my life. I was flattered by his second glance, the first stirrings of womanhood pooling in my stomach. My heart beating faster and lighter. He had a fizzled grey beard with soft compassionate eyes that twinkled when he saw me. I tried to hide the smile that played on my lips whenever I saw him... It came unbidden, instinctive and it was there on my face before I had even thought about it.

Sure there were plenty who muttered and gossiped about us. Glowering looks at the fish market and my parents Joachim and Anne had plenty to say about it when I told them that we were engaged. Yes, they were pleased that I would be financially secure; but Joseph?… Really… of all people. “Are you quite sure about this?” Then when I came home to tell them the bewildering annunciation and that I was now with child, Joachim left the house in a blind fury determined to teach Joseph a lesson he would never forget. Mum broke down in uncontrollable inconsolable sobs. Her body heaving and wracking, moving to a rhythm that was beyond her control. I thought all the town would hear her sobbing… and they probably did one way or the other before the sun came up.

I knew where Joseph would be and I ran to him. We had already had ‘that uncomfortable chat’ and his befuddlement and bewilderment had evolved into a deeper love, a profound respect and a steely determination to support me no matter the harsh realities that we both knew would come our way. He too had said ‘Yes’ to God’s plan. Not with an angel to explain or to help. But by dreams and thinking and praying and wrestling and hurting. This is what made him so beautiful to me. This is what made him so good for me. In his way he had fought for me and he wanted to marry me.

As he took me in his arms I felt safe, secure, complete. I was whole and it was as if nothing could ever frighten me again. It would of course, many times over in so many ways that I could not see now. Like the time when we took Jesus to the temple as an infant only to have some old cook babble on about a sword piercing my heart. Not exactly an encouraging parish priest. The three fraught, angry days we spent looking for Jesus in Jerusalem only to find him unperturbed, almost arrogant in the temple. And even after Joseph had died, his face would always be visible to me. Surely he was there with me at the wedding at Cana, with the dancing and the food and the wine. Joseph would also be there at Golgotha. I could sense him speaking to me. His voice was clearer than the sound of the iron shocking the dumb wood. His words louder than the noise of the nails tearing through the flesh. Where else would Joseph be but there with me? His sense of comforting reassurance would always envelope me. This beautiful man. This lovely face, the one who loved me even when he didn’t, couldn’t understand.

But on this night, when my dad was breathing threats and stomping all over town, I was hiding with Joseph. I turned again, kissed him and I looked at his weathered, lined face. I stroked his thinning hair and watched the helpless tears run down his cheeks.

The world, for all its bitter confusion and uncertain future, was still wonderful, bursting with promise, just as long as I could go on gazing at this tanned, wrinkled, face. Here, looking into his eyes everything was so right, all was perfect. Everything was exactly as it should be. In his arms I was ‘home’. And yet… and yet.. if this was true. If this lovely mans face was the most reassuring, comforting, exquisite sight that I could ever hope to see, am seeing and want to go on seeing… then why am I crying?

Fasting from your phone

The wizened, mature retreat Conductor grinned and with a mischievous twinkle in his eye suggested that we fast from our phones during retreat. Whether many did or not I will never know. From my perspective, I found it an interesting exercise. I only glimpsed at the screen on my phone to change the alarm so that I could awaken in time for the next dress - meal - set of prayers.

It worked well for me because I was on retreat. It would not work so well if I was back in the parish where I rely on it a bit more strenuously and frequently. I found it a liberating adventure, but a few questions came bubbling to the surface while ‘fasting from my phone’.

• Question One. On what day in recent history did we become so reliant on this gadget? I guess that as the phone was able to do more and more things we became incrementally just a little more addicted. Just a little more reliant. I remember speaking in another forum and saying ‘Our world is our phone is our world. Yes, it was a gradual transition but as far as the pace of history goes it happened rather quickly. Say the last couple of decades?
• QuestionTwo. Where would we be looking if we were successful in this venture? Ie If we weren’t looking at our screens so much, what would we be gazing at with all this spare time?
• Question Three. What would happen if we all had the occasional fast from our phones? I’m not advocating switching them off altogether, nor having them out of reach, just in case however maybe only looking at them between 4 - 5 pm each day. Could we do it? Could you do it? Could I do it?

3/12/23 Advent 1

This Advent I will be offering a series of reflections with the theme ‘The Faces She Saw’. These are supposed to be gentle dollops for us to muse over and enjoy in the frenetic lead-up to you know what. I hope that they are a lovely Advent contrast.

We’ll be thinking about some of the faces that Mother Mary saw in the lead-up to Christmass and today we reflect on the face of the Archangel Gabrielle.

So what did the Archangel Gabrielle look like? A hymn writer from a very long time ago suggested that “His wings were as drifted snow and his eyes as flame”.

This I suspect would make the arrival of the Archangel Gabrielle a terrifying event and strike the poor Blessed Virgin Mary dumb with fear and trepidation.

But that is not what we find in her encounter. It is true that Mary is troubled by the words which could mean that she is puzzled but not necessarily afraid and as we read on, puzzlement and curiosity seem to be the more likely sensations. Our Lady is up for the discussion and even asks the very curly question about how it is that she will conceive because she hasn’t had intercourse yet.

“But how can this be since I am a virgin”.

As the dialogue progresses The Archangel Gabrielle helps Mary to understand her role in God’s plan of salvation.

So I do not believe that the Archangel Gabrielle was a daunting presence or had a terrifying countenance. In fact, he brings Mother Mary more great news when he announces the pregnancy of cousin Elizabeth.

He makes God's message understandable to her and helps her to accept it with a pure heart.

My hope would be that you know such a person or if you are very fortunate you know several people who are like this.

People who make God’s message to you understandable and accessible.

And if they are very pastoral, help you to accept it with a pure heart. They encourage you to go on and do God’s work in the world. To help you realise that Your vocation is to also bring God into the world. To enflesh him in your daily life and if this is the case then how blessed you are.

Perhaps then, you see an angel when you look in the mirror. Perhaps there are times when your eyes are aflame. What if the faces you see around you today are in fact, angels? Wouldn’t that have to change the way we interact with one another?

One other thing to ponder.

We often think that it is the Blessed Virgin Mary who was bedazzled by the angel. But what if .. what if… it was the other way around? You see the Archangel knows when he arrives that this will be a defining moment for this teenage working class lass. He knows that once he steps over the threshold and asks the question Mother Mary’s life will be changed forever and there can be no going back to an uncomplicated quiet life in a rural community. Perhaps it is actually The Archangel Gabrielle who is in awe when he looks at the Virgin Mary.

Jan Richardson exquisitely captures this mirror possibility in her poem ‘Gabrielle's Annunciation’.

For a moment
I hesitated
on the threshold.
For the space
of a breath
I paused,
unwilling to disturb
her last ordinary moment,
knowing that the next step
would cleave her life:
that this day
would slice her story
in two,
dividing all the days before
from all the ones
to come.

I wanted to save her
from what I had been sent
to say.
Yet when the time came,
when I had stammered
the invitation
(history would not record
the sweat on my brow,
the pounding of my heart;
would not note
that I said
“Do not be afraid”
to myself as much as to her)
it was she
who saved me—
her first deliverance—
her Let it be
not just declaration
to the Divine
but a word of solace,
of soothing,
of benediction
for the angel
in the doorway
who would hesitate
one last time—
just for the space
of a breath
torn from his chest—
before wrenching himself away
from her radiant consent,
her beautiful and awful ‘Yes’.

There is a film called “Schindler’s List” and the storyline goes like this. Businessman Oskar Schindler arrives in Krakow in 1939, all set to make his fortune from World War II. After joining the Nazi party purely for political expediency, he staffs his factory with Jewish workers for similarly pragmatic reasons. When the SS begins exterminating Jews, Schindler arranges to have his workers protected to keep his factory in operation, but soon realises that in so doing, he is also saving innocent lives.

The music for this film is a haunting and alluring piece written by John Williams. In one of the online clips, there is a woman Davida Scheffers who has lived her dream of winning a contest and the opportunity to play this music with the Dutch Orchestra. Davida suffers from an excruciating neuromuscular condition that derailed her career, and she thought she would never get to play in a professional orchestra again. There is a young blonde lady in the audience who is her daughter and turned 18 on the day of the performance.

At the end of the clip Davida is in tears, as is her daughter and I find that my eyes are also glistening. Why? Maybe it’s the music itself, maybe it is knowing the backstory of the people in the orchestra or is it something else? Perhaps it is the unconquerable triumph of beauty against the darkest backdrop of suffering and sadness. That even in heinous war and the fragility of our body, something exquisite and magnificent can lift, inspire, move and call us. Through our gentleness and perseverance, we offer to the world the promise that this is not all there is. Through patient courage, the other dimension is accessible with something as complex and simple as a piece of music.

Of the numbers 20 and 16

The 16 Days of Activism against Gender-Based Violence is an annual international campaign. This issue while uncomfortable is something that we cannot shun or pretend that it somehow doesn’t happen. This year 20 Victorian women have died at the hands of others, so clearly it goes on with brutal regularity. I also rush to point out that sometimes men are also the victims of gender-based violence. This is in a minimum of cases but it does occur.

Each of us should be concerned about this issue and our own Mothers Union holds this as a very pertinent issue. The Mothers Union's 3rd objective speaks very clearly.

“To promote conditions in society favourable to stable family life and the protection of children”.

So what to say?

Today I have no hesitation in proclaiming that violence against another is a sin.

And it's not just the victim that is affected but when violence occurs against another, we are all diminished. We are all connected and when one of our sisters or brothers is hurt, then we are also wounded. As one church leader succinctly put it. “Enough,” “To hurt a woman is to wound Christ, who from a woman, took on our humanity.”

The family unit is where safety, nurture, and the flourishing of individuals and relationships should be the norm. These relationships should be delighted in and enjoyed, for that is what God hopes for us all.  Violence in the context of the family then is particularly destructive, and absolutely contrary to a Christian way of life.

For your reflection, I offer you a surprising place, an unusual time and odd people.

In one month's time, the image that will be front and centre will be Mother Mary as she lays her child, in a feed box in a cave.

And in this one fleeting moment, when Our Lady places her Son in the cradle a couple of significant things happen.

First,  Mother Mary makes her Son available. We need to understand the miracle that happens when He is available and the thrilling miracle when we make ourselves available. This availability changes things and it must change us. The world can change, and everyone’s life can improve, if we make ourselves available to others, without expecting them to do it for us.  If we become agents of availability, we will be able to begin to mend the threads of a community torn apart by violence.

We can truly build peace only if we have peace in our hearts, only if we receive it from the prince of peace. So being available to others and for others is our commitment: By placing her child in the feed box and making Him available, Mother Mary asks us to make ourselves available for others and to others. By placing Him in a manky feed box Mary asks us to take the first step by being attentive to those who have the least.

The second thing that happens is that God is forever immersed in our muck.

His poverty, our muck, is good news for everyone, especially the marginalised, the rejected and those who do not count in the eyes of the world. Those whose scars are mental and physical and are hidden from us.

For that is how God comes: That is what is beautiful about seeing him there, laid in a manger.”

But for Mary, a mother, it must have been painful to see her son in our muck.

Contrast the amazement and enthusiasm of the shepherds on the one hand, with the quiet, pensive reaction of Mary on the other.

The shepherds tell everyone about what they have seen. They can’t shut up about it. Their exuberance and  amazement remind us of the beginnings of faith when everything seems easy and straightforward.”

Mary’s pensiveness, on the other hand, is the expression of a mature, adult faith. Her faith is not a newborn, but rather a faith that now gives birth. For spiritual fruitfulness is born of trials and testing and it takes root in, grows in and flourishes in, the muck of our humanity. The mess of you and I.

Mary gives God to the world in a dark stable in Bethlehem, Others, before the scandal of the manger, might feel deeply troubled. She does not: she keeps these things and ponders them in her heart.

And through faith, in her mother’s heart, Mary comes to realise that the glory of the Most High appears in humility; she welcomes the plan of salvation whereby God must lie in a manger available and mucky. She sees the divine child frail and shivering, and she accepts the wondrous, exquisite, divine interplay between grandeur and littleness…. divinity and humanity.

So on this day when we call to mind the atrocities against women and therefore their children, bring to mind Mary who knew how to hold together the various threads of life, the glorious as well as the worrisome. We need such people, capable of weaving the threads of communion in the midst of the barbed wire of conflict, violence and division.

You and I need to combine dreams and aspirations with concrete reality.

In these 16 days of activism, we place ourselves under the protection of this woman, the mother of God, who is also our mother. May she help us to keep and ponder all things, unafraid of trials and with the joyful certainty that the Lord is faithful and can transform every wound, every tear, and even a violent death into a triumphant resurrection.

The parable of the lunch box.

I remember with nostalgic affection the lunches that my mother used to pack me. There was the traditional sandwich, a piece of fruit, a treat and if practical, a little something left over from last night's dinner.  It was simple enough but served this growing boy well.

It wasn’t glamorous, but then that wasn’t the point. It was supposed to get me through the arduous school day. It wasn’t sparse nor was it squishy.

This wholesome image came to me the other day when I had back-to-back things carefully programmed for the day. It would always be a near-run thing as I dashed like a mad priest from one thing to the next. And then, discourteously, the phone rang and …

In my hurly-burly, I reflected that I was not doing this right. My days would be a whole lot better if I just used the parable of the lunch box to plot my time more adroitly.

My lunch box was never squished with too much in it. Try to pack too much in and nothing comes out as it should. Out of shape, a bit mangled, maybe even a bit manky.

No, we need strategic gaps that allow everything to have the space it needs.

You would think I would have learnt by now, but apparently not! So I offer these ramblings to you, dear reader. We all lead busy, frenetic lives and few of us have learnt the ways of gentle rest and to pack our lunch box days in simplicity and with care.

I am grateful to my mother, not just for nurturing with physical sustenance but also for a pragmatic lesson that would bubble to the surface 58 years later.

Remember the parable of the lunch box.

A Worn bit of Carpet

It's a worn bit of carpet in the Chapel of Our Lady at Christchurch Hamilton. It’s just in front of the altar where the priest stands and while it is not easy to spot, when you look for it, when you know it’s there… you can see it.

It makes sense of course, because every Saturday night and every Wednesday morning, this little bit of carpet gets its fair share of foot traffic by the priest.

I’m acutely aware of the countless other priests that have stood there since 1956. Twice a week, every week, for the last 67 years. No wonder the carpet is feeling a bit weary.

I’m also aware that long after I’m gone, other priests will stand in that same spot and do what I have been doing and say the words that I have been saying. An unbroken line of clergy with all their flaws, with all their gifts. All of us, just trying our best to be faithful and trying to respond to His loving request ‘Do this. Take, bless, break, distribute, eat.’

Sometimes we stand on that bit of carpet with broken hearts. Sometimes we stand there elated and joyous. Frequently we take to that place and space, the hopes and aspirations, the tears and drudgery of those who have blessed us with an insight into their lives. That bit of carpet in front of the altar is where we stand to unite heaven and earth.

Or is it that we stand there and understand that heaven and earth have always been interfused one with another? This is what the coming Christmass tide will teach us again.

On a worn bit of carpet, in a pungent stable, in the least likely of places, God chooses to envelop us once more.

The Parable of the Painters

Have you ever imagined what parables Our Lord might have offered if he came to this part of the world and in this particular time? Many of them still translate well for us.

I think the parable of the lost sheep would still resonate with many of us. We understand the connection between the farmer and his livestock. How important it is that he looks after, nurtures and protects his most special investment.

So too with the parable of the prodigal son. All of us have known families where things have gone awry. There has been falling out and grumpiness. We learn the very tortuous way that forgiveness is a very precious commodity and not always accessible, from those who ought to know better.

Today’s parable of the slaves who are left to trade requires a little more imagination. We could speculate that Our Lord would use our modern-day Stock market and financial institutions when telling this parable. And indeed we have that line from the Boss when he returns and becomes furious with the slave who fails to use his talent.

“Then you ought to have invested my money with the bankers, and on my return, I would have received what was my own with interest.”

But I’m pretty sure that Our Lord was not just referring to the way we use our hard-earned cash. He also expects us to use our talents, those things that we are good at and the things that we enjoy to give him glory.

So how would Our Lord tell this parable in 2023? Perhaps he might tell it like this.

Once upon a time, as all good parables go, a contractor needed a serious amount of painting done. 78 panels needed to have a total of 4 coats each. This is a serious amount of work.

The contractor, we’ll call him Barnaby, cheerfully employed one guy who he knew was an absolute gun. Kelvin was knowledgeable, handy with his hands, meticulous in his work and efficient to boot. What’s not to like?

The next painter was Esmeralda. She wasn’t quite as adroit but still showed a bit of acumen and was willing to put in the hard yards.

The third person was Daniel. He fronted up on his first day with a very candid admission that he hadn’t had much experience and yet, like the proverbial 50-cent piece, he just kept on turning up to work. His painting skills were lacking and he was as slow as a long winter. You could easily spot the panels Daniel had done by the missed bits and the heavy-handedness in other places, frequently on the same panel; which when you think about it, is very hard to do. It seems that all Daniel could do efficiently was wash out the brushes and rollers at the end of each day.

So the work progressed. Gradually, panel by painful panel the work went on. Kelvin and Esmeralda flourished and Daniel.. well … not so much. It got to a point where he was reluctant to even wash out the rollers and he stopped turning up altogether.

After all 78 panels were done Barnaby the contractor came along to give everyone their pay. He was of course delighted with Kelvin.

“Great work Kelvin! For doing such a great job you are now foreman in charge of painting all the local primary schools.”

To Esmeralda he said. “Well done Esmeralda`. You accomplished a great deal here. I’m putting you in charge of painting those two units that are being built in Church Hill.”

And then Barnaby quizzed Daniel. “Well, Daniel what happened to you.?”

“Well Barnaby, sir. I knew you were a harsh boss and I wasn’t doing anything particularly right and my painting was rubbish, so I just didn’t show up after a while. Here is the paint roller and overalls you lent me.”

Well, Barnaby just went ballistic. “So Daniel, you knew that I was a harsh boss expecting the best and yet you didn’t even have a go. I’m grumpy not because of your sloth, but because you failed to realise that washing up the rollers and brushes is one of the most important parts of the job. And I’m really sulky because your potential to go on to be something quite striking, grand and impressive was not realised. Not only have I missed out, not only have future clients missed out, but you have missed out in celebrating wonderful times and seeing yourself blossom into the professional you were called to be.”

Not all of us are called to be cracking painters. The important stuff is not just what we see at the end; the finished product. The little hidden jobs, those tasks that might seem menial, inconsequential and trivial are just as vital as everything else.

You can probably understand teaching from my mish mash and misappropriation of the Masters parable, but what of that last chilling line from the gospel?

“As for this worthless slave, throw him into the outer darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.”

Daniel’s outer darkness is not the tongue lashing he got from Barnaby. Daniels darkness is the blackness of his self inflicted sadness, his not being able to see his own gifts and light. And the weeping and gnashing of teeth, is his writhing and regrets at what might have been.

Peace - A First-world Luxury.

I’m typing this a few days after the whole Hamas / Israel volcano has erupted. The Holy Land has long been fought over. Far too much blood has been spilled and far too many tears have been shed. It’s important to remember that this has not suddenly happened in a vacuum. Someone didn’t just get up one morning, brush their teeth and decide to go on a slaughtering rampage because they had a blank page in their diary. As our Bishop Garry wisely pointed out ‘While the US President and even our own Prime Minister have condemned Hamas for these atrocities, many have forgotten the long squeezing of the Palestinians in Gaza by an immensely more powerful Israel that has been going on for the last sixty years.’

I would be the first to put up my hand and say I don’t understand the complexities of this tortured history and the intricacies of the politics. But the thing I do know is that ‘A life is a life is a life and it is infinitely precious. And it matters not which side of the border that life lives and breathes; in The Master's eyes it is the most valuable thing in the whole wide world.’ We are all diminished and gashed when such atrocities occur.

In 2023 we often find ourselves using the phrase ‘A first world problem’. I’ve lost my mobile phone, the car has a flat tyre, the electricity has been cut off for a few hours for maintenance, these are all ‘first world problems’.

Now I’m coining a new phrase. ‘A first world luxury.’ The internet is a first-world luxury. Worshipping without fear of retribution or persecution is a first-world luxury. Peace is a first-world luxury.

Jesus, The Party Guy.

One of Fr. David’s pet theories is that Jesus must have been dragged along to lots of parties when he was a child. Frequently The Teacher will use the imagery of a party to make some of his most incisive points about the Kingdom of Heaven.

Remember the story about the dress code at the wedding and the guy who got caught without the right clothes? In adult life, Our Lord’s first miracle was to shout fine wine at the wedding at Cana. And who could forget the dinner party at the tax collector's place when the young lady wept all over his feet and wiped them with her hair, causing eyebrows to rocket skyward and mumblings to rumble in the kitchen?

And here we have another wedding party story. The first thing that strikes you is the sense of tedium that sets in whilst waiting for the Bridegroom.

For those who have had the experience of waiting for a long time, you know what it means to fight off boredom. You do everything in your power to stay enthused. You use every ounce of strength and adrenaline, you draw on all your resources, but even so, you metaphorically fall asleep.

We fall asleep out of tiredness or out of distrust. We fall asleep because we are disappointed or because we don’t want to see the truth of things around us. We fall asleep because we are superficial or because we have lost the courage to hold out a little longer.

This passage describes the sleepiness that spreads through the community tired of waiting for the Bridegroom. It should be a night of celebration and joy because the Bridegroom, the one that brings the fullness of life is finally returning: But instead, our nighttime becomes frustrating: things don’t happen as we had hoped. God doesn’t work according to our schedule and the Bridegroom does not arrive when we want him to. I know this painfully well because clergy get just as spiritually drowsy as anyone. It’s why we went on retreat.

According to the parable, everyone falls asleep: both the wise virgins and the foolish ones. It is as if to say that falling asleep is inevitable, a fact of life. It is not avoiding sleep that differentiates the wise from the foolish.

The problem of the foolish virgins is not sleepiness, but something more fundamental. They never took care of the lamp that they were given. The Bridegroom even says that he does not know them. In their lives, they have never cared about the Bridegroom and that is why they are unprepared now.

Now we get that the Bridegroom is Jesus returning.  But what’s the deal with the virgins?  Who are they and what do they represent?  The Oil is a symbol of the Spirit, okay.  But why don’t the wise virgins share it?  And above all, why does the Bridegroom lock the other five out of the feast?  Isn’t He being harsh and discriminatory?

Perhaps this will help. I sometimes think that if Jesus were telling parables today, he would have told a Parable of the Marathon Runner to make the point he is making here.  You don’t just get up off the couch and run 26 miles.  You start small and you build up the ability to do it.  You get ready for the Big Day by living each small day before it with the clear awareness that the Big Day is coming when the habits, skills, and abilities you have cultivated before then will be required of you to meet the challenge of That Day.

The oil in the lamps is like that. We are given the Holy Spirit, but we are required to obey the Spirit and thus expand our capacity for receiving more of the Holy Spirit.

This is why the wise virgins could not share their oil. I cannot borrow your relationship with God. I can’t ‘do’ your relationship with God. I have to cultivate my own.

In the parable, the foolish virgins lacking the oil of the Spirit, go off to get some.  Notably, the text does not say that they return with oil.  They show up at the wedding and want in.  But they cannot come in.  Why?  Because they still do not have the oil of the Spirit.  They have not in any way prepared themselves for a relationship with the Bridegroom any more than the couch potato has prepared himself for the Marathon.  The Big Day is here and they cannot meet it because they have not prepared, in any way.  Nobody can do it for you.  You have to do it yourself.

And it's a salutary lesson for laity and clergy. Yes, we visit and call and email and harangue and invite and welcome but the bottom line is simply this. It’s up to the individual to physically get themselves to Church. We can do so much, and this parish does it better than most, but the actual relationship, its enhancement, its enrichment and its rejuvenation is up to the individual. We can pray with you and We can pray about you, but we can’t pray in your place by proxy.

The good news. The party is already in full swing. Come on in. The wine is poured, and there is laughter and joy. You are welcome and expected. Dance and giggle with us. Jesus the party guy has been waiting for you.