This sermon originally included the names of a lot of real people, which was fine when spoken but is inappropriate on the Web.  With the exception of my brother, his wife and the Japanese potter Takeshita Shikamaru, all the names in this written version have been changed to invented names of the same ethnicity as the originals.  I don’t know any people who have these names, and if I have invented a name of someone you know it’s purely coincidental.

Acts 10:44-48 | John 15:9-17
I had thought this sermon through before I realised that I’d be giving it on Mothers Day, …

Psalm 23 | John 10:11-18
I’ve always found the sheep stories in the Bible a bit hard to take.

Partly, I’m sure, its something to do with the suburban life that I live. My encounters with sheep are limited, brief, and mostly from a distance. Apart from the very occasional visit to the Easter show, sheep for me are basically white blobs which dot the hillside – and my encounters with shepherds are rare still. I’m not sure I’ve ever had a conversation with a shepherd, not sure I’ve even met one.

Of course it made sense for David, and Jesus, to talk about shepherds and sheep. That was the world they knew, the world they experienced. It’s not mine. Not, I’m guessing, yours. Not likely to be Nathan’s, when he grows up.

But that’s not my main problem with the sheep stories. We know that the Bible presents us with problems of context, of making sense, in our modern age, of stories told in an ancient world. It’s part of the struggle of reading scripture – and it is testament to the incredible power of the Biblical narrative that despite all the changes in the world since the words were first written, they still ring true for us today.

No, my problem with the stories of God as shepherd and us as sheep is basically this: sheep are stupid. I mean, maybe I’m wrong, as I said, I don’t know a lot of sheep, but as far as I can see, the main thing you can say about sheep is that they are not the brightest animals in the field.

Psalm 118:19-29 | John 12:12-16
The Passover festival was approaching, the high point of the Jewish year, the one time that every Jew who possibly could, would come into the city, and come to the Temple. Jerusalem was packed – every inn full to overflowing, every street packed with stalls, animals, and people, people, people. The air was full of the sounds and smells of life.

But Jerusalem, in the days of Jesus, did not belong to the Jewish people. As Jews came to the Temple they could not miss the watchtower, the Roman military building built to overlook the Temple, to watch over the holy places of the Jewish faith. As the faithful entered to worship, they could see Roman soldiers looking down upon them. Resentment against the Roman occupiers ran high, and the Jewish revolutionary zealots found in this resentment an ideal opportunity to recruit for their cause.

For Passover was a religious festival, but it was more than that. At Passover the Jews celebrated the event which had defined them as a people; God setting them freedom from slavery in Egypt. Passover was not just a celebration of the Jewish religion, but of being set free from oppression; set free by an unlikely leader and the hand of God. And there were many who longed for the same to happen again – for freedom, this time from Rome.

And the Roman authorities were well aware of this – of the meaning of Passover, of the political implications, of the stories of the people being set free from oppression. And they had no hesitation in stepping in to crush even a hint of rebellion.

Now add to the political tension, another layer. Human nature being what it was, Passover was also a commercial opportunity. Animals had to be purchased for sacrifice, money had to be changed (because Roman currency was not acceptable for offering at the Temple), rooms and meals had to be purchased – and there will always be those who are ready to provide these services at a healthy profit.

Put together the massive crowds, the political tension, and the money involved – and the city of Jerusalem at Passover was a tinderbox – a mass of frustration, and resentment, with sporadic violence and, never far from the surface, the possibility of riot.

Jeremiah 31:31-34 | John 12:20-28
Jeremiah has a reputation as a grumpy, pessimistic sort of chap.

Not entirely unwarranted, either; for he was a prophet of downfall, a prophet of disaster. When the nation was threatened by foreign powers, and the authorities, as authorities will, were trying to keep people’s spirits up, Jeremiah was telling them that the cause was lost. This is God’s doing, he told them, we will fall and be taken into exile.

But prophesying doom is only half of the Jeremiah story.

For throughout his writings, unheard, perhaps, by those who could not see past what they perceived and treachery and treason, was a promise… “but then…”
And when everything gets dark, when it becomes clear that his warnings were true, that the nation would fall, when desperate hope fell into despair, Jeremiah brings a promise of hope from God.

Ephesians 2:1-10 | John 3:14-21
Surely the best known reference in the Bible, John 3:16 has been used over and again as a one sentence summary of the gospel: For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.
And with good reason. For in this one verse are captured some absolutely core truths of the message of Jesus: that the mission of Jesus was motivated by the love of God; that God’s response to human need is to give; that God’s deepest desire is that all might share with God in the joy of eternal life.

Or, as Rob McFarlane put it on facebook earlier this week, “Grammatically and theologically this shows that God’s love is greater than wrath; God’s fundamental purpose is to give life”.

As John continues, God did not send the Son into the world to judge the world… that wasn’t the point. Judgement wasn’t Jesus’ agenda… but in order that the world might be saved through him.

Those who believe in him are not judged, but those who do not believe in him are judged already because they have not believed in the name of the only Son of God.

Suddenly it’s all a bit more messy, a bit more complicated.

A couple of weeks ago, St. John’s hosted the World Day of Prayer for the local churches. Those who attended were privileged to hear Rose Raward speaking on Justice. Rose has been kind enough to allow me to reproduce her address here.

Thank you for inviting me today. Selamat Dartung. Peace and welcome to you all.

The Oxford dictionary’s definition of justice says justice is a conduct, the exercise of authority in the maintenance of right.

Children’s notion of justice is simplistic: If you hit me, I’ll hit you back. I see it often in the playground – young children having a sense of what they see as fair and just. So we teach them skills in conflict resolution and encourage them to respond peacefully. As children grow older they observe and learn more sophisticated levels of justice – in their schools, around their home and in their communities. They’re told that bullying is not acceptable; that parents should treat family members fairly, and this is an expectation between siblings – so watch out if, as a parent, you are perceived to have given one child more benefits than the other! You can just hear it – it’s not fair – you allowed him more freedom to do things than me when I was that age! Children learn that lawmakers and law-enforcers, local and national governments have a responsibility to uphold the laws created to protect everyone and to ensure that justice is done in society at large. With modern technology the young quickly become aware of global issues and develop opinions based on what they hear and see through various media of what is fair and just.

Exodus 20:9-11 | Mark 11:15-19
I wonder if you recognise these words:

God is love, and whoever lives in love, lives in God.

Brothers and sisters, let us love one another, for love is the fulfilling of the law.

Or what about these?

I hate, I despise your festivals, and I take no delight in your solemn assemblies

Woe to you, blind guides, hypocrites, For you cross sea and land to make a single convert, and you make the new convert twice as much a child of hell as yourselves

Genesis 12:1-4 | Mark 8:31-38
He was starting to feel a bit old. In his young adulthood he’d travelled a bit with his father, wife and his nephew, but they’d settled down and made a life for themselves in Haran. His father had died a while back, and although he and his wife had no children they were not without family: they raised their nephew, whose parents had died when he was young as their own. He’d done pretty well for himself in Haran; lived a good, honest, honourable life, accumulated enough to retire on in some comfort.

Abraham was seventy five years old when God called him.

Surely Abraham must have felt like saying “you know what, God – maybe you should call someone else?”. For what he was being called to do – “go from your country and your kindred and your fathers house” – was no small ask. This was not an age when “go to another country” just meant checking your passport and visa and buying a plane ticket; this meant taking everything, crossing the desert, facing uncertainty and insecurity, never knowing how good the next pasture would be, where the next well was to be found.

This was a journey that many young men would have feared, and many would not have survived. Abraham was safe and secure, and what he heard himself being called to do was to risk his comfort, risk his status, risk his life. How tempting must it have been to say “no, I’d rather look after what I’ve got”. How sensible it would have been, how understandable, how human. And no doubt he would have lived out his life in Haran, comfortable, respected, safe – and never quite sure of what he had lost.

For those who want to save their life will lose it.

Psalm 25 | Mark 1:9-15
As part of Lent Event this year I decided to give up drinking coffee. So if I seem a little grumpy, or find it hard to stay awake at times, there is a good, chemical reason. At least that’s my excuse.

Lent is best known as a period of fasting, of doing without. In fact, that idea has probably come to dominate the popular concept of Lent – I imagine if you asked the majority of people outside the Church what Lent was about, they would either have no idea what you were talking about, or would simply know that it’s a time when people give something up.

In modern years, and with an eye to shedding the negative, life-retricting image that the Church too often has, many people have tried to change the emphasis of Lent. It’s quite popular now to talk of taking something up instead of giving something up; to view Lent as an opportunity to build a new, positive dimension in your life; whether that be committing to a time of prayer or reading of the Bible, or a regular act of service, or spending increased time with family and friends, or giving in a more disciplined way to a cause you believe in.

Exodus 34:29-32 | Mark 9:2-9
On Tuesday night at Nooma we had what I call a ‘help Chris to write his sermon’ study. Essentially this consists of listening to a passage of the Bible being read, and then reflecting on a few simple questions.

Last Tuesday we looked at our gospel reading for today, and essentially the concensus we came to was that none of us in the room could see how this story has anything to do with our lives today.

So what’s it about? Why does Mark choose to include this story in his gospel? What role does it play in his narrative, what is it about Jesus that we are supposed to read through, in, or behind these words?