We believe we’re hard to deceive.  We tell ourselves we can see the usual cons and when it comes to fancy stories and fake news, we can spot it quickly.  So, the story about Thomas and his reaction to the disciples’ news, ‘Jesus has risen’, is understandable.   He will not accept secondhand news. (John 20:19-31)

We read Matthew’s gospel story of the revelation of Jesus’ resurrection with joy, excitement and delight. After the pilgrimage of the last few weeks and days, it is an extraordinary, hope-filled story.  So much happens, it is hard to keep up as we react to the impact of what has and is taking place.

Less than two months ago, we prayed with grief on the 4th anniversary of the invasion of Ukraine by Russia. Four years of unspeakable horror and corrupt leadership and gross misinformation.  To paraphrase Oleksandr Mykhed, a Ukrainian writer, we pray ‘about things one can never forget.  Or forgive.’ (Mykhed 2024:xi).  It seems like this is also the story for the illegal war between Israel, Iran and its proxies, supported by the US and dragging in the rest of the Middle East as we confront rising civilian deaths, and the killing and maiming of far too many children.  The war rolling on in South Sudan, testing ancient enmities has its own echoes of hell and matching genocide as well, while the Western World looks the other way.

This is Maundy Thursday, we encounter Jesus Christ, the servant Messiah, anointed by God, blessed by wise ones from the east, checked out by excited shepherds, watched over by weary parents, claimed by seers in the temple, ancient ones who saw God’s work alive and eternal in the life of a small babe and the joy of his mother and father.  Strong words spoken, prophesy and wisdom wrapped up in blessings and in the breath of life and death. But now, as we come to the final meal together, we see Jesus has spent a lifetime casting off, shedding old traditions, customs and practices, challenging them, and then a few short years in which to pack in all the teaching, grief, joy, peace, hope and love, forgiveness and mercy, he wanted to share and show: far too much for our short lives. 

The story of Jesus’ triumphant entry into Jerusalem and then, the obscene swiftness with which he was deliberately betrayed, arrested, denied, tried and crucified, is horrifying.  We encounter the worst and best of humanity when we are under pressure, just as it is happening for so many people today and just as it has happened throughout human history. 

How do we tell this extraordinary story of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead, exposed from a tomb.  He stinks. He has been dead 4 days.  He is covered in a burial shroud, saturated with death as he steps out of the tomb into daylight.  Life has changed forever for his sisters, now living after his death, filled with grief at his death.  The suddenness of it all, the overwhelming loss and absence of a loved one has pulverized the family. 

The story about the man, blind from birth whom Jesus healed and which we read in John 9:1-41 is both joyful and sad.  You would have thought such a miracle would have everyone rejoicing, but we notice it is only the man whose sight is restored who is joyful and giving thanks to God.   So why is this the response? Perhaps we might reflect on the prophet Samuel who anoints young David fresh from the fields, as the next, unlikely, king of Israel who is told: 

The Lord does not see as mortals see; they look on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.’ (1 Sam. 16:7)

I’ve often wondered about this unnamed woman in John’s Gospel 4:5-42, who is labelled ‘the Samaritan woman’, a term which is used in many early bible commentaries as a code for a sinful woman who had poor judgement, has been married multiple times, and is now living sinfully with someone. Yet she’s forthright, courteous, mistrustful but not cynical, she is curious and informed; and understandably wary of social and cultural religious rules which have labelled her, categorized and dismissed her.  She’s clearly learned to protect herself. She is like many women still today who are marginalized by the judgement of others.   

I have been wondering where faith starts, as we journey through Lent, and as we reflect on our lives in God and in this community and family of God. Jesus tells us we are born from above, born of water and Spirit, blown like the wind, not knowing where it has come from or where it is going.  So, I feel a bit like Nicodemus and thoroughly empathise with him and his confused response when Jesus asks the question: 

Are you a teacher yet you do not understand these things? (John 3:10)

Temptations come in sneaky ways!   The Gospel story this week tells us about Jesus’ wilderness experience when he was tempted.  I have wondered what his wilderness was like during those extraordinary 40 days and nights; what demons harassed him as he thought through what was being asked of him and how he would respond following his baptism. 

I recently attended training on restorative practices – which is about making and building peace and justice with one another and across the world – and one of the sessions explored our emotions and how they are reflected on our faces. 

Last week we heard God’s heartfelt wish for all of us from the prophet Micah, who reminded us what God requires of us: to act justly, love tenderly and to walk humbly with God (Micah 6:8). It’s an extraordinary expectation of each of us and is without any ambiguity.  This week Isaiah speaks similar words as he urges his listeners, to hear God say clearly:

 Is this not the fast that I choose: to loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the thongs of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke?’ Isaiah 58:6

I read a story recently about a woman who had lived in one of our major cities, was well educated, ran her own business and was doing well.  Life became complicated in Covid times, and in the end, she had to sell, and within three years, she had lost her work, her home, her income and she is now homeless, living in her car.   As our parishes try to work out how we might help homeless people this winter, some ask councils to move them on instead, blaming the homeless for creating this dilemma as their neighbours feel unsafe.  But if you had been treated badly and tipped out of society because of unjust laws, insufficient welfare, inequitable rents and housing policies, rising prices, domestic violence and insufficient mental health services, do you think you would continue to behave politely in such circumstances? 

I have been thinking about hope and where we find it these days.  The world feels uncertain and unsafe for many people.  Many of us have friends in different countries, telling us about their concerns for justice and peace, their sense of oppression, experiences of violence and their determination to survive, often at considerable cost when compassion appears in short supply.  People search for certainties and hope by choosing a side, and shouting loudly, drowning out other voices, it means they will have the final word. 

I saw a picture recently in social media, of three men and women in battle fatigues scrambling across ruined buildings with torches searching out and finding in the dark night, a mother and a new born baby.  The torchlight revealing a crumpled, weary young woman holding tight a small baby, keeping safe in a ruined bomb shelter, while bombs were dropped on the city.  The context of the picture was likely intended to remind us of Ukraine or Gaza or Sudan, but it could have been anywhere in our world today, where war and terror have laid waste and all that was known is now unrecognisable. 

Today we reflect on an ancient massacre, a murderous rampage, driven by fear and the overwhelming desire by the perpetrator to hang onto power at all costs.  Herod, together with those around him who enabled this terror in all its aspects.  

Mary’s Song, known as the Magnificat and it is offered as the Psalm in our Lectionary.  Swelling with new life by the power of the Spirit, and affirmed by her kinswoman, Mary sings the Magnificat, a hymn of praise joyfully proclaiming God’s grace-filled, compassion and mercy at the advent or birthing, the beginning of the messianic age. 

The readings today from Isaiah, Paul and Matthew are disconcerting.  They are intended to make us think and pay attention to the idea of peace, the theme for the 2^nd week of Advent. 

As I look at the attempts of peace being made around the world at the moment, as leaders try to bring an end to the most terrible of conflicts, it is really clear peace is not easily achieved.  Enemies don’t become friends overnight, long held injuries, injustices and the desire for vengeance, bring a range of calls for justice and judgement, making us realise there aren’t many people in the world who might be capable of such wisdom and courage.

Today we celebrate Christ the King – and – ‘Breaking the Silence’ Sunday about gender-based violence.  In the sermon preparation, I checked Government websites to see what progress is being made to prevent gender-based violence, to see if fewer women and children are being killed, and if incidents are reducing; and I explored again the ideas of Christ the King.  I read and reread the lectionary readings for this Sunday.

I watched an ABC programme this week about the reconstruction of Norwich Castle, in East Anglia, a favourite city and place in my childhood.  Originally the refurbishment of this Norman building was meant to take 3 - 4 years and cost just over $13 million pounds.  It was finally completed in 2025 after 7 - 8 years and cost $30 million pounds.  The whole building had been deconstructed and then rebuilt, and as original Norman construction emerged from centuries of decay and more recent rebuilds, the refurbishment was adjusted, some things had to be redone, and differently, and always to absolute exactness for fit and truthfulness for the original building.  The building is now admired as an outstanding example of Norman architecture, of skill and extraordinary crafting by stonemasons, carpenters, blacksmiths, weavers, embroiderers and painters.