23/9/25

Parents - The final frontier

It’s an odd but unfightable phenomenon,  but I am finding that more and more childhood memories surface in my conscious memory. They just sort of pop up unbidden and flaunt themselves.

These memories teach me a bit about myself and a bit about my parents. They always leave me with the unquestionable fact that I was loved and my folks did genuinely try to do the right thing. For example, I vividly recall the time I got caught playing with matches and the appropriate punishment was meted out swiftly and with understandable vigour.

But no matter how many memories come up to the surface to say ‘Howdy’, I can only go so far in my understanding. I could never and probably will never understand my Mum and Dad as an equal adult. The years and circumstances did not allow that. So I can never completely understand what drove them, their joys and giggles, their hurts and tears. I can never completely grasp what made them tick.

So while I am continuously learning about all sorts of other people and enjoy the experience, this luxury of getting to know my parents is not afforded to me, which is odd because these are the people who helped to form me.

They will always be vital and fundamental, yet frustratingly ethereal and a marvellous mystery.

I shall look forward to more little memories appearing as each one will take me further and further into the infinite space of my past and, in a sense, my parents' past.

This final frontier I am learning is not something to be feared or approached with trepidation, but a whole new world that in my dotage, is just beginning to open up for me. Something else my parents are still generously giving to me.

Are You Ready … Because The Jig Is Up?

First up, a bit of context. Luke is the only one to tell us today's parable. He will place it between two other parables that are also unique to him.

Just before today’s gospel, we have the story of the prodigal son. And following on from today’s parable, we have the tale of the rich man and Lazarus. You see, Luke’s got a bit of a theme happening here.

In the parable of the prodigal son, we have the wayward son who squanders his dad's living in seedy nightclubs and on slow horses. In today’s parable, we have the dishonest steward who squanders his master’s share portfolio, while the parable of the rich man and Lazarus begins with ‘There was once a rich man who used to feast sumptuously and dress in fine purple’.

When we come on a Sunday, we usually get just one gospel story, and we can easily forget that the one we hear is linked with others in a theme. We only get the ham in the sandwich.

Today’s story revolves around a rich man who calls his steward to account for poor management of his estate.

Faced with losing his position, yet unwilling to make a living as a labourer or through begging, the steward decides instead to summon his master's debtors one by one. After asking each of them what they owed, he then acquits a large portion of their debts to ingratiate himself towards them ahead of his impending dismissal.

Then comes the confusing part. The steward now has a track record of undermining his master's financial interests. But when the master discovers everything that has taken place, rather than becoming angry at the steward, he praises him instead:

The master commended the dishonest steward for his prudence; for the sons of this world are wiser in their own generation than the sons of light. And I tell you, make friends for yourselves by means of unrighteous mammon, so that when it fails, they may receive you into the eternal habitations. (Lk 16:8-9)

What's going on here? The conclusion of the parable is startling, but that shouldn't come as a surprise. The Master has a disquieting habit of telling us a shocking story to grab our attention and shake us out of our complacency. With that in mind, several things can be said about the interpretation of the passage.

To begin with, we should notice that the master praises the unjust steward not for his dishonesty but for his prudence. Indeed, Jesus goes out of His way to clarify that those who are dishonest in small things will be dishonest in great things (v. 10), and He directly cautions against those who serve the almighty dollar instead of  Almighty God (v. 13). Clearly, then, the steward in question is not being held up as a good guy to be imitated; he may in fact be in grave spiritual danger.

Nevertheless, while the moral conduct of the steward leaves something to be desired, the urgency with which he faces his predicament is admirable. So, as this unjust steward is willing to go to extreme lengths to save his livelihood, how much more so should you and I be willing to go to extreme lengths to put things right.

The dishonest steward is, in some ways, honest in that he is well aware of his limitations. “I’m not strong enough to dig, and I’m ashamed to beg”.

Something is refreshing in the honesty of those who know their limitations. Knowing your gifts, what you are good at and what you enjoy, is the easy bit. It's often harder to fess up and say I have never been any good with left-handed screw drivers and applying striped paint, and I must never pick up a chainsaw… like ever.

What is more, Frank (I’m sure I read once that the dishonest steward was Frank, because he is Frank about his situation)

Frank knows that he is in a crisis, and he never tries to pretend otherwise. As redundancy draws ever closer, she will not be right at all. Things need to be done, put in place, so that when he does have to front up to Centrelink, he at least has some friends who will feed him and maybe give him a bed for the night.

There is a call for us here. A vocation for us to take our spiritual shortcomings seriously and to actually do something about them. We need to be ready, and we need to be honest. The jig is up. All of us have a limited time on this side of the grave. Each day must count, every relationship must be enhanced and enjoyed, every conversation matters, and how we use our fleeting finances is an indispensable part of how we are to live in this life and how we will be judged. We are only stewards for a little while, and like the dishonest steward, sometimes painful sacrifices need to be made. Our stuff was and is, never really completely, totally, forever and ever, ours anyway.

Our real, lasting, authentic riches, like our real, lasting and authentic home is not on this side of the grave.  So… Are you ready? Because the jig is up and we need to start practising for heaven.

Going Cheap

I am like many of you who have watched that elusive gift of peace disappear further and further into the future. In my little life, I had hoped that we might actually have managed to achieve some semblance of stability. The sort that we enjoy here in Australia. That we might spread it around and help towards a healthy ceasefire or at least some helpful negotiations that might make way for a cessation of hostilities, the return of hostages, the just and equitable sharing of our generous resources.

But it is not so. We need to be honest about that. ‘Us vs. them’ is still the order of the day. The images in our lounge are graphic and instant, and this, I think, only feeds my disappointment. When did my appetite for fear and anger become so ravenous? Have life and property always been so expendable? A quick flick through the pages of any history book will say ‘Yes’. It’s always been this way. But we know better now… don’t we…??

Part of the quandary is that we have heavily discounted the value of human life. It is inexpensive and plentiful. The light of the Christmass story that is peeking over the horizon once more should remind us that all human life is sacred and the skanky pub is the place where God lives. Our church has plenty to say and loudly about how the squashing of another’s life is not acceptable. Thou shalt do no murder is one of our top 10 biggies.

From my desk and through my eyes, all life is of infinite value. To be cherished, enhanced and enjoyed. I deeply appreciate the pull of retribution and revenge, but… it is time. We’ve tried an ‘eye for an eye’, ‘brother for a brother’. We’re tired and it's time to do things differently.

14 September 2025

That Silver Coin.

One of the things that made our Lord’s teaching so attractive was that he often dressed up his message in stories. We still tell them, and they still resonate strongly with us.

I strongly suspect that his parables came from real-life incidents that he had personally witnessed. The prodigal son, the good Samaritan —perhaps the Master had seen and experienced families and people just like these.

Today’s gospel has two mini-stories, one about a shepherd and his sheep and the other about a woman and her housekeeping money.

I wildly speculate that the Master might well have seen something very much like this silver coin in his own home.

You see the scenario. Mother Mary is about to head off to the market with her 10 silver coins, and just as she gets to the door, she drops one and it rolls away. “Bother!” she says, and putting aside her environmentally friendly tote bag made completely from recyclable fishing net, she begins to hunt for that silver coin.

There is much being fraught with worry and panic. It is not an amount of cash that you think … oh well, it’s just parking metre money anyway. Loose change.

She lights a lamp so that she can see more clearly, sweeps the house so that the silver coin can be more easily seen and then the hunt is on in earnest. She looks faithfully, diligently, persistently, relentlessly. She can not give up, she will not give up, until the coin is found.

It does not matter how long it takes, or how much energy is expended in this search, the crusade does not end, will not end, until that silver coin is found.

When the coin is finally found in the most obvious place, of course, something quite special occurs. The joy of finding the coin is not something to be squirrelled secretly away and kept to herself. The joy is too great and so potent. It would be like trying to keep your engagement to your beloved a secret.

No … nothing less than a party will do. Friends and neighbours gather around, bring food and drink and celebrate what might seem to be insignificant (I mean, people lose and find coins all the time, right?) but is actually a marvellous occasion.

In this story, we are given a glimpse into the immeasurable, unquantifiable joy of heaven. You can’t stuff it into a box and say There it is. It jumps out at you and expands and unfolds and fills every possible space. I theorise that one of the reasons why the Master often used the imagery of a party to describe heaven, is because he watched Joseph and Mary entertain. And it would be a natural progression then for him to go to the wedding at Cana, to dinner parties and maybe quite a few other social events that aren’t recorded for us. He would be the sort of guy that you would want to invite to your table. The one that has some rather interesting stories to tell. He would light up the room, say some wise things and you would find yourself laughing … a lot and wanting more, always more.

A few things to draw out of this story.

The good news of the Messiah is not something we keep to ourselves. The good news is to be celebrated and we are called to invite others to come along to our parties.

Each and every one of us, like the silver coin, is absolutely, crucially vital. We are essential to God and whilst we might think he has gazzillons of angels and saints and parishioners, every last single one is needed. Sometimes we might feel like we are undervalued and not as shiny as the newly minted coin that we are called to be, but that is not how the Master sees us.

And like the woman, we will find that God cannot give up in His quest for us until we are brought safely home, and we know that we are worth a neighbourhood street party.

Something else I learnt only this year when I had reread the gospel a few times.

There is a clear direction about lighting a lamp, doing the sweeping and searching. How come I’d never picked up on this before 2025?

Our search for him begins with lighting our own lamp, reading our bible, coming to the altar, saying our prayers so that our souls may be illuminated and we begin to see things a little more clearly.

We are called to sweep away the grunge and dust that so easily and readily gets in every crevice and crease. When the lamp is bright and the sweeping done, only then, can our search for him begin. And we shall spend a lifetime keeping the lamp burning, sweeping out the muck and looking diligently, faithfully, sometimes just catching a glimpse, but always knowing that this pursuit is the same relentless enterprise that everyone else is undertaking.

Our search will be nearly over when we understand that actually,… He found us a long time ago. We just didn’t ‘get it’ at the start.  And it will be finally complete when we come home to that party where all are welcome and celebrated as infinitely precious.

Manipulative vs Superhero

Over the years, it has been my undeserved privilege to be with people in pain. To wander in, to be invited in, to be expected when someone is in pain is a compliment that is not to be taken lightly.

I have watched many people gallantly march on through the rehabilitation process with panache, grace and yes, sometimes drugs and tears. They have inspired and challenged me, and I come away asking… How would I go in situations like this? Would I be as strong or wise, to say nothing of those who are nearest and dearest by the bedside? They, too, have their own psychological and emotional pain that leaps up at them and frightens them.

It’s a pretty fine line between being an absolute wimp at one end of the spectrum and being a superhero at the other. Asking for the right medication at the right time, but also not abusing the marvellous medicine world that we happen to live in at this point in history and in this place. How do you get the balance right?

They tell me everyone’s threshold of pain is different, so perhaps the key is to be absolutely honest with that mystical ‘pain number’ between 1 and 10. What if we said that it was OK to tell the world that today really sucked, or that actually, I think I can and will do those painful exercises and just see if I get a little further than I did last week.

If you are one of those who are struggling through some kind of long-term pain, physical, emotional, psychological, or you have a combo, then I doff my biretta to you. You have my sympathy and admiration.

When it comes my turn, as inevitably it must, may my greatest super weapons be tissues, drugs, courage and honesty.

It had been a week.

I had the privilege of having some chats with a couple of colleagues, and I had been emerging from the rubble of a common cold.

And part of the problem when you have a cold is that you can give in to the very persuasive temptation of ‘pushing through’. It’s only a cold after all. Nothing, a few tissues, a hot toddy and some paracetamol wouldn’t sort out.

But what if my colleagues had phoned, sounding heavily nasal and like microwaved death. What advice would I give?

Turn on your electric blanket, switch on the answering machine and leave the mobile under a pillow in the spare room at the bottom of the cupboard. Do not emerge until you have a clean bill of health signed off by three independent medical experts.

I took the middle course and did the bare minimum, but also decided that an old man’s nap was just what the doctor ordered. I did take over-the-counter medicine and gave a wide berth to the red ned while I was ingesting prescribed medicine.

Odd, isn’t it? I know exactly the right and wise advice for my colleagues and if it applies to them… then it certainly applies to me. But why am I so hesitant to act determinedly on own advice?

A sense of pride of my own importance? That the Church of God would unravel if I caught a few zzz’s.

The Church of God might actually be in better shape, if I was in better shape. I am certainly more astute, more caring, more articulate if I am not trying to operate from behind the haze of bleary eyes and feeling wretched.

I must listen more attentively to that still small voice. Him who knows me better than I know myself. The Master physician.

31 August 2025

Help, My Cistern is Busted!

In today’s first lesson, Jeremiah sallies forth and gives his listeners quite a tirade. He finishes with these telling lines

My people have committed two sins:
They have forsaken me,
the spring of living water,
and have dug their own cisterns,
broken cisterns that cannot hold water.

Now, when we think of a cistern in 202,5 we think of the container of water above the loo.

But this is not what Jeremiah was talking about when he gave this lecture to the people of Israel. For Jeremiah and the people of his time, a cistern was an artificial reservoir or tank used for storing water, particularly rainwater. These structures were crucial for survival due to the limited and seasonal rainfall. Cisterns were often dug into the earth or carved from rock, then lined with plaster to prevent leaks. They served as a vital water source, especially during dry seasons.

Cisterns were central to daily life because they provided water for drinking, cooking, and other household needs. In times of siege, a well-stocked cistern could mean the difference between survival and defeat for a city.

So a well-maintained and functioning cistern was essential for the individual and the community. I guess that it would also have been somewhat of a meeting place as people would gather to get the water they needed, much like we might bump into somebody down aisle 7 of the supermarket when we are hunting and gathering today.

Sometimes a cistern was used as a prison, and because Jeremiah’s not-so-quiet little reflection found its mark, some of his listeners decided that it would be ironically appropriate if Jeremiah finished up in a cistern. A cistern that he had claimed was broken. Here’s what happened.

“The officials of the king took Jeremiah and put him into the cistern of Malkijah, the king’s son, which was in the courtyard of the guard. They lowered Jeremiah by ropes into the cistern; it had no water in it, only mud, and Jeremiah sank into the mud.

But Ebed-Melek heard that they had put Jeremiah into the cistern. While the king was sitting in the Benjamin Gate,  Ebed-Melek went out of the palace and said to him, “My lord the king, these men have acted wickedly in all they have done to Jeremiah the prophet. They have thrown him into a cistern, where he will starve to death when there is no longer any bread in the city.”

Then the king commanded Ebed-Melek the Cushite, “Take thirty men from here with you and lift Jeremiah the prophet out of the cistern before he dies.”

So Ebed-Melek took the men with him and went to a room under the treasury in the palace. He took some old rags and worn-out clothes from there and let them down with ropes to Jeremiah in the cistern. Ebed-Melek the Cushite said to Jeremiah, “Put these old rags and worn-out clothes under your arms to pad the ropes.” Jeremiah did so, and they pulled him up with the ropes and lifted him out of the cistern.

It’s pretty obvious that Jeremiah’s message had made people petulant, but what on earth did he mean by

My people have committed two sins:

They have forsaken me,
the spring of living water,
and have dug their own cisterns,
broken cisterns that cannot hold water.”

In these little lines, Jeremiah is pointing out that they have abandoned God and gone after other Gods.

A "broken" cistern is one that is cracked or damaged, and therefore cannot hold water. This signifies that these man-made solutions cannot truly satisfy the deepest longings of the human heart. They may offer temporary comfort or pleasure, but they ultimately leave people feeling empty and unfulfilled.

That which is most precious to us and essential for us can seep away from us if our cistern, or our heart, is not right. If we are distracted and forgetful of Him who once described Himself as the living water springing up to eternal life.

The cistern, then, for us is that special place, deep in us, that we come back to to find him and replenish ourselves. It is so easily chipped and damaged by the cares and worries of our lives.

Thousands of years later, Jesus is at Jacob's Well, where he asks the woman for a drink, but in turn also offers her something much more. The living water.

And there are times in our lives when our own cistern has run dry and the living water has evaporated. When there seems to be nothing left to offer those who are closest to us, who need us most and perhaps even to replenish and refresh ourselves. It’s tempting then to shake our fist at God and ask for more water, but perhaps in our deeper and more honest reflection, we might ask ourselves why the cistern is dry. Perhaps water has been seeping out for a while to other places, other priorities, other distractions, and we haven’t realised it. Perhaps we weren’t attentive to the maintenance of that place within us where the living water sparkles.

There are times when we need to take time out to simply attend to the maintenance of our own cistern and make sure it is water-tight, and there are times when we need to simply say

Help, My Cistern is Busted!

Of Knitting

At this time of year, you may well have noticed that I wear lovely knitted jumpers. These are warm and personal, and it is a great joy to wear them both practically and emotionally.

A lot of hours go into the creation of one of these garments. It doesn’t just happen overnight. In fact, it happens over many nights, and it's a wonder to watch them slowly emerge into the fashionable garment they become. Each stitch draws ever closer to the finished product. So what’s all this got to do with parish life and sorting out the Church of God?

Most days are a single stitch, maybe 2 on a really good day. A little something happens, a conversation, a prayer, a reading, a surprise encounter, a cheeky text. It’s all just part of the potpourri of parish life. It’s hard to step back and see the progress that is being made. What has changed over time? Anything… something? The completed outfit in all its wonder lies hidden from us. We have to be content with just seeing part of what is happening. Sometimes it doesn’t look like much, and there are some days when it certainly does not feel like much. But then, that’s OK. Maybe the threads of continuity and consistency are the strongest and most colourful and heartwarming of all. The simple knowledge that each and every day, prayer is offered and we give The Almighty a chance to whisper back to us. You have to listen for a long time and like the knitting experience, not a lot seems to happen, but everything is happening.

It’s helpful to look back over the years and reflect. Where have I/we come from? How has the garment changed, developed? Where were the blunders, and just look at the progress?

24/8/25

To Foster an Encounter … Bring Your Empty Bowl.

It was a quirky little phrase that got my mind ticking and thinking.

It could be a catchphrase for one of those dating app things. A way through to the screen to foster an encounter with someone whom you probably haven’t met before. An encounter that hopefully might be fruitful and joyous.

But the person who said or wrote ‘To foster an encounter’ was a Christian religious leader of many people, and so they were obviously talking about encounters of another sort. Encounters with other people, encounters with the living presence of The Risen Christ.

How do we foster, encourage, allow, and make possible these encounters? A few quirky reflections from my desk.

Encounters with others and encounters with the Risen Master sometimes occur by chance, and sometimes they happen as a result of our conscious seeking and effort.

So part of this ‘fostering of encounters’ business is to make conscious decisions to actually encounter others and to encounter Him. We place ourselves in the right time and space in order for this experience, this meeting, to occur. There is an effort to be made.

All familiar and logical and things you have heard before.

But peel back the first layer of the onion skin and ask yourself this.

Do I encourage others to foster the possibility of an encounter through me? In modern lingo, am I the screen through which others might be tempted to click on a link that leads them deeper into the mystery of the God who adores them.

It seems to me that for others to encounter the Messiah via me, I first must have encountered Him myself and that somehow my attitude, my words, my countenance, my ambience must demonstrate clearly that encountering Him is a joyous and marvellous meeting and an ongoing relationship with the one who can never give up on us. Perhaps it's not all that much different from a dating app after all.

So having an attitude of joy, maybe even chortling or giggling sometimes, seems to be a good place to start. And showing forth that you are loved and that you KNOW that you are loved, must make a distinctive and discernible difference in how we live and how we interact with others and how they find us.

But there is a bit of risk here. And the risk is this. That we think that just because we have had the awesome privilege of encountering The Master, that we have all the answers and that we’ve got Him, and others haven’t. That it’s all gooey and mushy and lightning and rainbows and clearly the slick solutions and 8-character passwords are exclusively ours.

But so often when we seek and encounter those who need us, who are most broken, we find that actually we do not have the magic words after all.  That instead of smart and savvy phrases all we can offer are our tears and emptiness. Instead of bandaids and fixing it all instantly solutions, we find to our horror that we are cursed with the most appalling void of inadequacy and there are no words. Instead of us bringing an encounter to the crumpled ones, in our incompetence and dereliction of solutions, the broken and smashed are the faces of the bruised Him, and they actually foster us with an encounter of the pierced Saviour. So in order to foster an encounter, maybe we should just come with an empty bowl and allow ourselves to be filled with their peace …His love …His peace.

Jacinda Ardern eloquently captured this upside down, round the wrong/right way, this role reversal,  this piercing, reaching, ache for adequate words in her speech to parliament after the massacre in Christchurch in 2019, where 51 people were killed and 89 others were injured. She said

“We gather here, 14 days on from our darkest of hours. In the days that have followed the terrorist attack on the 15th of March, we have often found ourselves without words.

What words capture the anguish of our Muslim community being the target of hatred and violence? What words express the grief of a city that has already known so much pain?

We may have left flowers, performed the haka, sung songs, or simply embraced. But even when we had no words, we still heard yours, and they have left us humbled, and they have left us united.

They were simple words, repeated by community leaders who witnessed the loss of their friends and loved ones. Simple words, whispered by the injured from their hospital beds. Simple words, spoken by the bereaved and everyone I met who has been affected by this attack.

I thought there were no words, but then I came here and was met with this simple greeting. Your greeting. As-salaam Alaikum. Peace be upon you.”

In order to foster an encounter … First, bring your empty bowl.

Broken-heartedness is the beginning of all real reception

Jack Hirschman

Jack’s line seems rather brutal and not one of the most uplifting phrases that have ever been written.

When we have our hearts broken, as we all have and as we all do, we have a choice. We could barricade ourselves securely behind the concrete pylons of bitterness, revenge and retribution. This will effectively keep any potential and possibilities of a close relationship and intimacy safely away in another ‘country’, a different dimension. This ensures that the same gut-wrenching of hurt can never envelop us again.

Or… we could, if we are very brave and over a long period of time with lots of bumps, bruises and relapses, use the experience to refine our gifts of compassion, understanding and empathy.

In a world that seems to have fiercely set up its cement and barbed wire borders, we need folk who can empathise and understand. Those who, when they hear us howl, can say to themselves… ‘Ah, yes, I remember this bit. I know what this felt like. I would really have appreciated someone just to sit with me and maybe just quietly pass me yet another box of tissues.’

We need people who will wisely, graciously and with great tenderness receive us when we are at our lowest.

Jack’s words are a call to all of us to transfigure that revolting experience, which is our most ickiest, into the most welcoming and sought-after ministry.

The really good news is that you don’t need to have a clerical collar to do this. Some of the most scrumptious acts of caring I have ever had the privilege of receiving have been from people who are exactly like you, dear reader, and you have left me inspired and always wanting more.

12/8/25

Recently, Jeanine and I went to see a very light movie called ‘Jane Austen Ruined My Life’.  The storyline is so thin that it was almost transparent. A young woman must choose between two possible suitors. Like that’s never happened before. Hmmph! A good friend who has always been there and the dashing rebel, an impossibly good-looking guy, she meets on a writer’s retreat.

Within all the froth and turmoil of this love triangle, there are some provoking lines and important lessons to be (re) learned.

Towards the end, the young lady reflects that she is quick to blame others for her own lack of a happy ending, when ultimately this is up to our own very selves, the person in the mirror.

In today’s world of the ‘quick click on the computer’, we look for instant relationships/partnerships. Someone who will fix everything instantly, from a leaky tap to a broken heart. Over the years, we learn that the most excellent of bonds are painfully constructed over a lifetime, and the people whom we enjoy most are also those who stretch us and challenge us to be the very best we can be. And while I squirm, this is what I see every time I look at the squashed guy on the cross. But I’ll let the gifted Beth Pattillo (script writer) have the last word.

“I could blame my lack of a happy ending on Edward all day long, but the truth was that my dissatisfaction with my life wasn't anybody's fault but mine. I'd been looking for a man to sweep me off my feet when I should have been looking for one who was willing to pick up the pieces. Not some fictional hero, but a real flesh-and-blood man. Someone who would love me for the long haul.”