A reflection for Christ the King.

On May the 6th of next year, Charles will be crowned King Charles the 3rd, at Westminster Abbey. I have good reason to believe that the Archbishop of Canterbury has the occasion firmly in his diary. The Prime Minister of England will also be in attendance.

There will be lots of pomp and circumstance. There will be shouts of “Long Live the king”. People will wear spiffy clothes, trumpets will sound and choirs will sing. Afterwards, there will be a cup of English Breakfast tea and maybe a scone, or a marmalade sandwich. They will all need a little sustenance afterwards. It will be an extraordinary event. I count myself privileged to live in this age and to be one of the millions to gawp at this age-old tradition and see history in the making.

But in today’s gospel, we see an altogether different coronation. In fact, you could be forgiven for thinking that it wasn’t really a coronation at all. You could understandably and swiftly come to the conclusion that these are just some notorious felons, a few no-gooders getting their just desserts.

In fact, the Master has gone to exceptional lengths to place his finest moment in direct contrast to what we will see on our screens next year.

Instead of Westminster Abbey with its shiny brass and polished pews, we have nothing less than Golgotha-the Place of the skull. The name of the venue says it all.

Instead of a glittering crown of exquisite jewels, we get a spiky, harsh piercing crown of thorns.

Instead of a comfy throne with an embroidered plump cushion, Our Lord has a splintery crude cross.

Jesus will not have his hands anointed with fragrant holy oil, but instead, have them pierced with fearsome iron spikes.

There will be no triumphant trumpets and soaring choirs, instead, we get severe mockery and people staring on. The ones who will watch anything if it’s free.

Three groups of people mock Jesus. The leaders, the soldiers and one of the criminals. They mock Jesus’ identity and they mock his power to save. It is one thing to mock someone’s authority and power. What you do. But the mocking of one's identity is perhaps the harshest speech of all, for it is the mocking of who you are.

Listen closely.

First the soldiers.

“If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!”

Then the leaders

“He saved others; let him save himself if he is the Messiah of God, his chosen one!”

And finally one of the criminals.

“Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!”

Instead of the king being arrayed in gorgeous apparel, Our Lord is stripped naked. And at the end of the day, his tunic is not carefully dry-cleaned and folded away by the butler. It is gambled away to a lucky punter.

Instead of good quality Twining's English Breakfast tea or maybe a luscious show wine, Our Lord gets sour wine.  This too is part of the mockery.

Almost as if to say “Here ya go, cop this!”

The cheapest roughest red that has had the lid off just a few days too many.

A far cry from the wine of the last supper used the night before and a very far cry from the wine at the wedding at Cana.

“You have saved the best wine until now.”

It is the darkest of sets and episodes. If you were trying to write something glorious and majestic, you would go for the whole Westminster Abbey scenario in May and not the place of the skull on Good Friday.

And it begs the question.

If our Lord really is King of Kings and Lords of Lords, then why O why did he choose the place of the skull and such a disfiguring, demeaning way to have a coronation?

Two Reasons.

First, to show that there is no place, no situation, no time in our life, ever,  that he is absent from. Whatever dark place we might go to, whatever grim reality we find ourselves in, no matter how disgusting or abysmal, he has already been there and is there with us.

Secondly, so that you might see how much he loves you. “I will go to the place of The Skull and demonstrate in unequivocal and grizzly style, just what I am prepared to do for you. When I am on the cross taking my last breath you will see how much I adore you.”

It is this love, this unconquerable love, that makes him authentically King.

Yes, you could easily think that The Master had lost all control, all power, all authority. Any claim to leadership and being the brightest and the best was just phoney palaver...

He’d lost the plot, his clothes, his life, his dignity, and his power.

Or had he?…

There is a paradox that I know to be so very true and yet I can never understand it clearly, and the paradox is this.

That to consciously and willingly choose to surrender power actually shows that you are unassailably in control.

And that is what we celebrate here on the feast of Christ the King. This life-saving mystery, this paradoxical treasure. This is what we claim for ourselves; it is what we live in our daily lives. And we will rejoice in it, long after the last choir boy has packed away his music in Westminster Abbey and the Archbishop of Canterbury has put off his cope and mitre.

The 7th dimension

I went to see a film the other day. It was cathartic just to sit quietly in the dark and watch the moving images on the screen. An engrossing film takes you out of yourself and for a little while you are in a different dimension or is its dimension(s)?

In the 4th dimension on the screen, there are bumps and joys and falls. In fact, anything that a movie director can imagine. With our geeky world, any ‘reality’ can become ‘reality’ on the big screen. It’s lovely to escape and usually, all is resolved in some form or other by the time the credits roll and the lights go up.

What happens at the altar on a Sunday is very much like this except that we slip into something that I like to call the ‘7th dimension’. In this 7th dimension, we bring our scars, our foibles and our laughter with us. We don’t leave them at the ticket office. They are an integral part of who we are and they make their way to the altar to be blessed and made holy. The very essence of Him. We don’t escape from our ugly and tortured bits and pretend they don’t exist.

The broken, fragile and busted bread says it all. So also the wine that is poured out selflessly.

The drama of the altar is our drama and the reality we bring is his reality of scars, tears, dancing, feasting, solitude and wrestling with hard questions that will not relinquish their answers.

There is a time, place and need for the flickering images on the movie screen. The 4th dimension.

The 7th dimension is something else altogether. A timeless place that is all around and within. It is both inescapable, intangible and our most authentic reality. See you in the 7th dimension.

Construction through conversation 

A reflection for Sunday 13th of November

First a bit of background. When Luke sits down at his study desk to write today’s gospel, he is painfully aware of the persecution of the early Christian church. Hence he gives this rather ominous warning to his readers.

“They will seize you and persecute you. They will hand you over to synagogues and put you in prison, You will be betrayed even by parents, brothers and sisters, relatives and friends, and they will put some of you to death.”

Today I think the attacks on Christians are a little more subtle, but they are no less effective, but that’s not what I want to talk about today.

At the start of the gospel reading, Jesus and his chums are having a little tour around the temple in Jerusalem. It must have been a pretty glamorous temple and there were lots of oohs and aaahsss. ‘Look at the lovely gargoyle or the workmanship of that cornice’.

And it got me thinking about the different sorts of temples that we have today. There are our lovely Churches and some very grand stately homes. You can probably think of some other fine landmark buildings in the area.

But there are also things that we speak of that are ‘temple-like’ in their beauty.

It might be a piece of jewellery, our home, our family or even our own bodies. The Master reminds us that the day will come when all these things will no longer exist and “all will pass away”. Our pride and adoration of earthly things have the potential to distract us from God, the one we truly adore. The trick is to continuously remind ourselves of who gave us these things in the first place. Can you see God in them? Isn’t it splendid that we have a generous God who gives us the skill to create exquisite things to enjoy?

But ultimately we look forward to the time when we won’t need these temples to help us see God. We will see him face to face, as He really is.

So this week you might like to think about what are your temples and how they show you something of the glory of God. Your temples might be something really simple. Like a flower or broken bread, the face of someone you love, or an unexpected stranger.

What are your temples? What are the things that you worship?

Now part of the reason why our places of worship are ‘temple-like’ is that they are the place where people encounter the living God. For us, this is the place where we encounter him in bread and wine, for that is what he promised. “This is my body”. “This is my blood.” Our Lord always chose his words very carefully and always meant what he said.

So my question is not just ‘What are your temples’? but ‘Where are your temples?’

Where are the places where you encounter the presence of the living Christ?

My next question is how do you build up a temple? And here I am thinking of the temple we call relationship.

When a new priest is inducted into a parish, Bishop Gary will often speak about the importance of conversations between priest and people. He will remind everyone that they are called to the very serious vocation of listening and conversation.

And I put it to you that these conversations are the building blocks of a very special temple. Crafted and hammered and chiselled and refined and polished, these conversations, these building blocks,  become a temple, a relationship, where God is found, encountered, looked upon and rejoiced in. Just as surely as we find, encounter, look upon and rejoice in each other.

Something quite lovely and divine happens in conversations. In the construction through conversation, each one of us becomes a temple of the Holy Spirit.

Just like Mother Mary you and I  become the place where God dwells. We are the place where God moves and grows and transforms. And like the Blessed Virgin Mary you give God to the world. And you do this by both holding him and offering Him so that all may be richly sustained and become an even more exquisite temple than the one the disciples were admiring in the gospel.

So our loveliest temples are actually not built with rocks, stones and bricks. Our most wonderful temples are intangible, unshakeable constructs. They are invisible to the naked eye, but all the more gorgeous because they do not wear away, or fall down, or need a paint job, or  the gutters need cleaning out.

One of the finest examples of this sort of temple is the marriage of an old couple of many years who through the burnt toast and the disappointments and triumphs, have built something together that is bigger, better and more sumptuous than the bride and groom themselves.

And it works the same way too with individuals who through their own conversations with the Master, have built something quite magnificent.

Sometimes those conversations occur in the silence of our hearts with no audible words ever being spoken. We gently rest comfortably in His presence as He is in us.

Sometimes in the conversation of the eucharist where the dialogue is always with the divine and always with each other.

These temples, these people really do exist and they are plentiful and enchanting.

And if you want to see someone who has built something more magnificent than the temple of Jerusalem, someone who has constructed it through conversation, then all you have to do is look in the mirror.  

The interconnectivity of us all ...

Today’s story begins on the 8th of August, 36,000 feet above planet earth, on a plane somewhere over Europe, when someone suddenly falls seriously ill.

The pilot is forced to touch down at the nearest airport and the patient together with their family is transferred to the nearest hospital. Hundreds of people on that plane have their travel plans disrupted. Connecting flights are missed and frantic phone calls are made. Some people get sad and some get mad. None are glad.

But our story does not end at the help desk in a foreign country in Europe. The consequences of this mishap are felt all over the world, even here in Hamilton. Let me explain.

The plane that had to touch down was on its way to Melbourne to be refuelled and refreshed with those little itty bitty pillows and hygienically sealed blankets. This plane was then supposed to take Jeanine and me onto Los Angeles which of course it didn’t, or rather couldn’t.  Our flight is delayed by 24 hours and there is nothing anyone can do. So we too are a little sad and mad. Then we get in touch with our daughter in New York and the tentacles of melancholy spread around the world with the speed of the internet.

Our biff is not with the airline, our concern is for the patient and their family. The lesson we re-learn is the interconnectivity of us all. We might like to pretend that we are on our untouchable little island, but we are connected in ways that we do not realise or comprehend. We therefore must go gently and tread lightly. Be patient with the staff on the other side of the help desk and with each other, for we are more interconnected than we first thought.

Bewildering the bullies with a twisted bit of ribbon

Many of you will know that this squiggly thing is the symbol of infinity. At school, it was a mathematical number and I could never get my head around it. Perhaps I wasn’t supposed to. What it was trying to teach us, thick-headed students is that there is no end to our numerical system because you can always just keep on counting. There is always one more number, another number after that and so on. I get that now but at the time it made my brain squelchy. Surely when you went to your maths lesson you were taught everything fits neatly and tidily within margins and perimeters. Maths was something you ruled off on neatly with a set and right solution every time and it was always the same answer for the same equation. The whole infinity thing stomped all over that, tossed it out the window and said in a loud voice “Hooey. There is no limit to numbers. It’s not that squeaky tidy.” So which was right? Infinity or the hard-won answer at the bottom of your working out. I’ll let you know at the end of the homily.

But it is this type of paradox, between comprehension and incomprehension, knowing and not knowing, that is woven through the argy-bargy with The Master and the Sadducees in today’s gospel.

The Sadducees believed that you ruled off life at the point of death. Once your heart stopped beating and the doctor signed the dotted line on the death certificate, there was no more. That was it… kaput, finito and good riddance.

To prove their point the Sadducees concoct a ludicrous story about a poor woman (I’ll call her Esmeralda) who had married seven times because each of the brothers had a genetic defect and kept falling off the perch. You know it goes. In Jesus' day if a woman found herself a widow she had to marry her husband's brother if he was available.

“So Rabbi Jesus, if there really is life after death then whose wife will Esmeralda be in the next life?”

Jesus sweeps aside their question by pointing out that in the next life you don’t, or can’t be married. The next life is beyond and better than the loveliest of marriages and the sweetest of lovings.

The Master also points them back to an Old Testament text that the Sadducees would have been very familiar with.

“So chaps …in the account of the burning bush, even Moses showed that the dead rise, for he calls the Lord ‘the God of Abraham, and the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob.’ He is not the God of the dead, but of the living, for to him all are alive.”

What happens after we die is not just an extension of the good times of this life. It is infinitely more than we could ever hope for, think of or conceive. It is beyond our wildest imagining. It is in a different realm, a different dimension altogether. So what’s it like?

Some things that we can be sure of and then some wild speculation. First, the things that we can be sure of.

God is the God of living. The shiny box at the front of the church is not the end. It is the launching vehicle into that other dimension.

Joined in Christ’s watery death at our watery baptism, we also share in his mysterious, and glorious resurrection. Our Lord's empty tomb is our empty tomb.

And … it will be alright. We have The Masters promise for it and his promises are unshakable and unconquerable.

So now to the fun speculation.

One of my learned colleagues suggested that the first words we utter when we get to the other side will not actually be ‘Holy Holy Holy’ at all. but rather 'Ohhh… so this is what all the fuss was about.'

In my maths lessons, the tension between reliable surety and slippery infinity was and is resolvable. Surely both were right. There is a place where things are ruled off in nice tidy answers; always correct and sitting tidily on the line, but there is also a place for infinity which teases us on. She lures us to always go further and deeper. The two can coexist quite happily together. In fact, they need each other and complement each other.

There are hard unanswerable questions that we have on this side of the grave. The ‘why’s’, the ‘how comes’ and the ‘what's all that about.’ On the other side of the grave, through the veil, these will not be answered in a lovely easy to understand thesis with a pretty pink ribbon around it. In fact, they will not be answered with any words at all. They will be answered in that single nano-second when for the first time, we simply look into His eyes. Then we will understand and know that we are infinitely loved. Then we will be fully and truly alive forever and ever amen.

There is no recipe for grieving.

In the rectory there is a comprehensive collection of cookbooks, bursting with possibilities, waiting to be transformed into a meal. The words have the potential to make visible something that is just words on a page. To make physical, tasty fare from mere print.

With a recipe, there is a list of ingredients and there is a bit that tells you what to do with them. A nifty procedure to follow and always there is some waiting time. Frequently there is a guesstimate as to how long it will all take. In the end... Voila! There is devouring.

But over the years I have discovered that grieving does not have a recipe. Sure, you know some of the ingredients like tissues and tears and cards and flowers and questions. Sometimes there is writing. Flushing out onto a screen those things that are so difficult to put into words. It doesn’t matter if it isn’t articulate or persuasive; it is in the telling, writing and reworking that resolution slowly begins to work its healing. And with grieving, there is no magic end time. You can’t say that at this certain hour, in 6 months, I will have completed all my grieving and there will never be any more. It simply doesn’t work that way.

Now on the surface, all of this may not be very reassuring for you. But I reason thus; that if you find yourself being gazumped by the odd, unexpected wave of emotion, then you are quite normal, very healthy and the stupefying process is unfolding as it should. Bewildering, unpredictable and embarrassing perhaps but perfectly normal. For it is in these times and tears you are in heartfelt unison with the Master. The One who knew there was no recipe for grieving, as he sobbed over his companion Lazarus.

October 30th

Once upon a mountaintop, three little trees stood and dreamed of what they wanted to become when they grew up.

The first little tree looked up at the stars and said: “I want to hold treasure. I want to be covered with gold and filled with precious stones. I’ll be the most beautiful treasure chest in the world!”

The second little tree looked-up and saw a large boardroom table where important people gathered and made decisions that changed people's lives. It was a dignified, highly polished table, exquisitely finished and every join and corner was meticulously crafted.

The third little tree looked down into the valley below where busy men and women worked in a busy town. “I don’t want to leave the mountain top at all. I want to grow so tall that when people stop to look at me, they’ll raise their eyes to heaven and think of God. I will be the tallest tree in the world.”

Years passed. The rain came, the sun shone, and the little trees grew tall. One day three woodcutters climbed the mountain.

The first woodcutter looked at the first tree and said, “This tree is beautiful. It is perfect for me.” With a swoop of his shining axe, the first tree fell.

“Now I shall be made into a beautiful chest. I shall hold wonderful treasure!” the first tree said.

The second woodcutter looked at the second tree and said, “This tree is strong. It is perfect for me.” With a swoop of his shining axe, the second tree fell.

“Now I shall be that shiny elegant boardroom table where politicians and rulers will gather. They will sit around me and I will be first to hear what will be in tomorrow’s papers.

The third tree felt her heart sink when the last woodcutter looked her way. She stood straight and tall and pointed bravely to heaven.

But the woodcutter never even looked up. “Any kind of tree will do for me,” he muttered. With a swoop of his shining axe, the third tree fell.

The first tree rejoiced when the woodcutter brought her to a carpenter’s shop. But the carpenter fashioned the tree into a feedbox for animals.

The once beautiful tree was not covered with gold, nor with treasure. She was coated with sawdust and filled with hay for hungry farm animals.

The second tree smiled when the woodcutter took her to a carpenter’s shop, but no shiny big desk was made that day. Instead, the once strong tree was hammered and sawed into a simple little table with a wonky leg and an uneven top. The table was not planed or polished.

The third tree was confused when the woodcutter cut her into strong beams and left her in a lumberyard.

“What happened?” the once tall tree wondered. “All I ever wanted was to stay on the mountaintop and point to God...”

Many, many days and nights passed. The three trees nearly forgot their dreams.

But one night, golden starlight poured over the first tree as a young woman placed her newborn baby in the feedbox.

“I wish I could make a cradle for him,” her husband whispered.

The mother squeezed his hand and smiled as the starlight shone on the smooth and sturdy wood. “This manger is beautiful,” she said.

And suddenly the first tree knew he was holding the greatest treasure in the world.

One evening a tired man and his friends came to an upper room where the wonky old table lived. Around this table, bread was blessed, broken and shared. The wine was poured and one of the most enduring and important rituals began on the table. Life-changing words were spoken. ‘This is my body.'

And the second tree knew that he would never be forgotten and that he was holding the most important thing in the whole world.

One Friday morning, the third tree was startled when her beams were yanked from the forgotten woodpile. She flinched as she was carried through an angry jeering crowd. She shuddered when soldiers nailed a man’s hands to her.

She felt ugly and harsh and cruel.

But on Sunday morning, when the sun rose and the earth trembled with joy beneath her, the third tree knew that God’s love had changed everything.

It had made the third tree strong.

And every time people thought of the third tree, they would think of God.

In today’s gospel, Zacchaeus climbs a sycamore tree. He makes himself vulnerable, emptying himself of the things that are not important finds salvation. The Master also embraces the wood of a tree. Together with a spear and nails, makes himself vulnerable. With his arms open wide He offers us salvation as well.

One of the smashingly good things about going to a different country is that it makes you appreciate your own backyard with greater glee than ever before. One of the things that Manhattan taught me was how lucky we are to have so much space around us. We may not think of it much, but boy oh boy, it sure struck home when you go to live in New York for a couple of weeks.

Jack and David live in what we would call a ‘cosy’ apartment. A very skinny galley kitchen, one lounge room smaller than the lady chapel, a bathroom that just fits in the necessary and nothing else and a bedroom. In New York terms, it's positively palatial.

Why, because there is only a crushingly limited amount of space.

So all the buildings just go up. Selling ‘air rights’ above your church building is a real thing and worth big socks of American dollars to parishes there.

My son-in-law David works on the 67th floor of a building and the highest we ever went up to was the 105th floor of a building. The view was astonishing and unforgettable, but it did make me think.

The next time I tootled along a Western district road I could not help but feel how lucky we are to have all this space around us. We might see it all day, every day and so have come to take it for granted, but please dear reader, never forget how fortunate we are to live where we do and in such a scenic part of the world.

Everyone is from somewhere else.

One of the lovely things about growing old is that the next generation teaches you things and not just about technology and phones. Frequently they come out with really wise things and I was privileged to learn again from my son-in-law.

We had been visiting the Ellis Island Immigration Museum and he astutely remarked that ‘In New York, everyone is from somewhere else.’ For him, that is part of what makes New York a vibrant, bubbly, dynamic place to live. Wave after wave of different people from different places and different cultures are continuously reforming and reshaping this mind-popping city. You just never know who you’re going to meet next and from context, they have emerged.

At Ellis Island, we heard stories from all sorts of people who had come to the land of the brave and the free. Some came seeking a better way of life. Some came just to survive because their ‘home’ was been torn apart and their lives were at risk.

I am reliably informed that 98% of the folk that fronted up to Ellis Island were allowed to stay. Ever since people have been coming for a new life and fresh opportunities. They bring with them ideas, interests, food and spirituality. When diverse cultures are properly and healthily assimilated, we all learn and are enriched.

Everyone is from somewhere else.

Two questions to draw out this profound quip.

First, I wonder whether we as a nation, a community and as individuals are as welcoming. Ellis Island certainly had its criteria for entry, but the question was not ‘Why should we let this person in?’ but rather ‘Why shouldn’t they come and be a part of us?’

The other question … If everyone is from somewhere else… then where are you from?

Luke 18:15-30 October 23rd

Blessed babies and a miserable millionaire.

In today’s gospel, we have a conversation between a miserable millionaire and Jesus.

The wealthy guy asks what he has to do to get into the kingdom and Jesus swiftly kicks the question upstairs to the law.

Come on sunshine you know how this goes.

You know the commandments: ‘Do not commit adultery, Do not murder, Do not steal, Do not bear false witness, Honor your father and mother.’” And he said, “All these I have kept from my youth.”

And in my mind, I see Jesus looking at this guy and thinking.

“Why are we having this conversation? You know the answer already. What else is going on here? Where is this chatter going?”

And I want to come back to this later.

There is also an incident with babies being brought along to get blessed by Jesus. There is a link between the blessed babies and the miserable millionaire and the link is a question.  Who's going to make it into the Kingdom of heaven?

Answer

• Those with childlike trust.
• Those who know that the most important thing in the whole world is… HIM.

So Father David’s pet theory is that the Millionaire sees the babies being blessed and thinks … mmm … I’d really like some of that. What’s lacking in me?

It is not just a matter of keeping the law and staying squeaky, shiny, and clean, it is the quest of accepting, embracing, absorbing, and subsuming into one's very being, the kingdom, with the unqualified, uninhibited and joyous trust of a child. We can only do that if we know and rejoice in the fact that He is THE imperative for us and to us. We should rush to it and accept it; not just because it is the right thing to do, not just for the hope of heaven, not just because it will do us good, but because it is what He has always desired for us. The only question is how we inflame our desire to the same level of passion and joy as an innocent child.

Or put another way, it is not a question of meriting the kingdom of heaven; ticking off the commandments on our checklist like the miserable millionaire. One enters and claims the Kingdom by and through, a willing, cheerful, sacrificial, loving and transforming relationship.

Thus….

What exactly or who exactly are the babies accepting? What is Jesus’ messiahship? Jesus’ messiahship over us and within us, is a relationship with someone … it is a relationship with …HIM. This is what the babies are accepting and it is what we are called to embrace and live.

We trust and we are dependent… We know and live how much we need Him.

Back to where I began with the miserable millionaire and that intriguing conversation.

When the conversation with this ruler ends and he walks away, we are left to assume that he went his merry way and ultimately went down to the fiery depths of hell forever and ever amen. But… we are not told. In fact, I don’t think he is ever mentioned again. We’re not even given his name.

But later on, maybe he did sell everything. What then??

We can be so quick to judge others for a one-off conversation, an event, or a mistake. A quick look in the mirror and the briefest glance at our own history…Sadly and painfully we can be equally as swift to dismiss ourselves by some blotch that happened a long time ago and which God has already forgotten. We are far more than our smudges and flaws.

The ruler knew the commandments, knew he had kept them and yet he knew that he was somehow not quite complete. He knew that there was something more.. that he is lacking in some way and he was not sure what that something else was. … or ….maybe he did know and that is why he sought out The Master. This is why he is having this conversation and maybe if he knows, he is fearful of having this discussion. He is a little queasy because he knows what will be asked of him.

And I will bet a bottle of my finest that there are times when we have had a conversation in our prayers exactly like His. We have set off to ask safe questions in safe territory, all the time knowing that we need to travel just a little further to where we need to go, but we really don’t want to go there… not yet…maybe not ever.

And I am sorry that the millionaire went away miserable, but I reckon he was courageous for at least confronting his impasse … his predicament.

Perhaps he was asking as a child does.

Am I there yet … because at some level he knew he wasn’t. At some level, he knew he had a way to go.

The child on the other hand has no doubt. In their simple, unquestioning faith they are already there. They have already arrived. They are already home. In fact, they never left home. They have always been blessed and always will be.

Who are you Francesca*?

When Jeanine and I had the undeserved privilege of staying in New York we slept in a hotel room that was 12 square metres. The bed was squished firmly against one side of the room. The custom was that you left a paltry $2 tip for the housekeeping staff who are paid well below what they could reasonably expect. So $2 it was.

And every time we returned to our room, somehow, miraculously the bed was made in a meticulous fashion. The room was spotlessly clean. It smelt clean, it felt clean. Fresh towels were in abundance and there was a nice note from Francesca saying a very big Thank you for the generous tip, complete with a smiley face.

We happened to see one of the other domestic staff and mentioned not only how pleased we were with the service, but we hoped that $2 was an appropriate amount. It seemed such a little for so much work.

The staff member reassured us that it was a generous amount and that Francesca would be extremely grateful.

We never met Francesca, yet for 15 days straight she ministered to us in a hidden way that will always be deeply appreciated. So who are you, Francesca?

From the scant little bits and pieces, I gleaned here are some guesses.

Obviously, she worked hard and she probably had several other jobs just to live hand to mouth. From the other staff, I reckon I could have a good guess as to what the colour of her skin might have been. Francesca represents countless people who are the working class that we rub shoulders with and greet but never really know as human beings. They are on a malicious treadmill that somehow needs to be dismantled. Then together with all the ‘Francescas’, we can walk forward together in harmony and a healthier sharing of our abundance.

(* Not her real name)

What happens when God says ‘No’?

Our liturgical gurus will often divide the gospel of the year into the chunks we see for very good reasons. Sometimes their logic is hidden from us. Other times like today it's a little easier to understand.

We’ve got two stories, both about prayer, nestling side by side.

The first one is about the widow who does not give up.

She wants justice against her adversary. Maybe it was a feud about the tree that overhung her fence, or maybe her husband’s will was being fiercely contested by someone who hadn’t been in touch for years.

Whatever the biff, she consistently and politely continues to go to the judge and put her case before him.

It seems the judge couldn’t really give a dingbat about the widow and her petition, but in order to make his own life more comfortable he caves in and grants her request. The moral of the story is ‘Keep at it. Don’t give up.’ Politely and persistently bother the Almighty. This is a story about doing prayer.

The second story is also about prayer. But this one is about attitude. The state of heart when we pray.

The beginning almost sounds like a joke. Two guys go into a synagogue… One has a self-aggrandising attitude and waxes loudly about what a good boy he is and how woeful other people are, especially the other guy who happens to be praying in the Lady chapel.

‘God, I thank you that I am not like other people—robbers, evildoers, adulterers—or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week and give a tenth of all I get.’

The other guy in the Lady chapel is well aware of his shortcomings and … ‘He would not even look up to heaven, but beat his breast and said, ‘God, have mercy on me, a sinner.’

So those who organise our lectionary have given the preacher lots of material on prayer. It’s about persistence and it is about attitude. Both are necessary and vital.

And it’s very easy to give up when things don’t go our way. When God doesn’t seem to have our 64 precious things on His agenda. It’s also very easy to feel smug and gooey when we are tucked up in our own parish church and we haven’t done any self examination or if we have, we have been misguided, done our theological sums wrong and come to a false answer about how we stand in God’s eyes.

My thinking is that if we get the attitude right, then everything else falls into place.

We do believe in a merciful, compassionate and forgiving God, but we must always be honest with ourselves and honest with Him.

First, bring your contrition and integrity, and in that spirit offer everything else. I strongly suspect that our prayers are sometimes not answered, not because of what we ask, but the way we ask. Any parent is more likely to accede to a child's polite and courteous request, rather than the self righteous, self-entitled, temper tantrum of ‘It’s my right.’

So prayer is not just about ‘doing’… it is also about ‘being’.

Now, all that's fairly straightforward and tickety-boo. I’m sure you have heard it all before. But there is another harder question skulking in the background here.

What if …sometimes… God says ‘No’ or at the very least He seems to say ‘No’, or it feels like He says ‘No’. Ask any parent who is in the ICU unit of the Royal Children's Hospital today if they feel like their prayer is being answered.

What I offer is a random hotchpotch of thoughts and ponderings.

Sometimes, like the widow in the gospel, the answer is ‘not yet.’ Sometimes we have to wait a long time for healing or help or whatever it is we are asking for.

Sometimes the answer is not what we expected. The solution to our dilemma ABC may not be DEF, but actually 5.6 #! The answer is in a different dimension altogether. Something we never thought of.

Sometimes God helps those who help themselves. What if it’s not about God bestirring himself and waving a magic wand? The answer might well be that God is waiting for us to get our stuff together and do what has been blitheringly obvious for a very long time.

And sometimes God’s will is not done. It is not God’s will that people are caught up in war, or their life is ended by someone else. The gift of free will by our loving God means that folk are free to choose sin, which inevitably harms people in all sorts of ways. It’s why we pray ‘Your will be done’.

Something else I thought of while trying to cobble this interminable homily together. We all like it when God says ‘Yes’ and that’s all yummy and scrumptious. But sometimes Father should and must say a polite, but firm ‘No’. We may never know why and it might seem harsh and brutally unfair, but ‘No’ is just as valid an answer as ‘Yes’.

And if ‘No’ seems cruel, unreasonable and barbaric, then perhaps a bit of quiet reflection before a crucifix might help to put things in perspective. Or perhaps we might start again like the guy in the Lady Chapel.

‘Lord be merciful to me, a sinner.’