I am an activist. I confess it now. I have always believed that part of my responsibility as a Christian is to call out evil, to use what power I have to improve our community. So I write letters to politicians and newspapers. I sign petitions, although I only click on the Facebook polls that are of most concern to me. I fear cheapening my voice if I am simply a ‘clicktivist’!
I am not sure if I have made a difference in calling attention to Indigenous deaths in custody, or in protesting the inappropriately cruel treatment our country metes out to refugees, but I am convinced it has been worth trying.
I encourage you too to be actively involved in God’s task of making a better world.
So it’s puzzling, in this parable about wheat and weeds, to be told to leave the weeds. Not to act, but to wait until the end for God to give judgement. Not acting feels as if one if being unfaithful to God ‘who makes all things new’ Revelation 21:5.
The parable of wheat and weeds reminds us that, while there are times to be an activist, there are also times to stand back and wait. The evil storm will blow itself it. The weeds will be destroyed at harvest-time. Or God may simply want to deal with it in God’s own way.
This parable invites me to pray for two gifts: one is the gift of discernment, so that I know when God desires our action, and when God desires us not to act. Saint Paul tells us that discernment is a gift of Holy Spirit (I Corinthians 12:10), a gift that comes as we live out our Christian commitment.
The second is a spirituality of waiting. ‘Wait for the Lord;’ says the Psalmist, ’Be strong, and let your heart take courage; Yes, wait for the Lord.’ (Psalm 27:14). We resist waiting, because we think waiting is passive; but real waiting creates an active space for evil to resolve itself and good to re-assert itself. Waiting is holding the space for God, or someone else, to act for good. Waiting is actively trusting that the seeds sown in God’s garden will grow and bear fruit.
This parable of God’s garden, with its wheat and weeds, reminds me that my activism has only a limited role. It invites me to see activism in perspective, and to implore God to give me the two gifts of discernment, taking time to see what God is doing here, and the courage and the strength to wait, and create change by intentionally not acting.
God has sown his seed into every possible situation, rich soil and arid, and God will reap a bumper harvest.
I saw this wooden sculpture of the Sower in the Cathedral bookshop in Hong Kong. I saw it and liked it. It called to me. I went back for three days and eventually bought it.
I like this Sower’s strength. He is well-muscled and strides purposively. He is no agricultural fool strewing seed in silly places. He has deliberately sown the seed everywhere. He knows there will be a harvest and that it will be surprisingly good – a bonanza!
In this interpretation of the Parable of the Sower, God is the Sower, Jesus is the seed, and all of us can be at different times hard ground, off the path, choked by thorns or even beautiful soil.
But, like many of Jesus’ parables, the Sower is not mainly about us: it is about God.
God has sown his seed into every possible situation, rich soil and arid, and God will reap a bumper harvest.
The seed is the way God’s power works. Jesus does not compare the Kingdom to, say, the ‘in your face’ power of the occupying Tenth Legion of the Roman Army, but with a seed. A seed is small. It disappears into the earth. Then its power is shown as it germinates, and the plant grows and produces its yield.
The Sower is a parable of hope: whenever we think that the Church is dying as this generation ages, we remember that God has sown onto hard ground, and will reap a harvest. Whenever we are choked by anxiety, perhaps by the unpredictably of Covid-19, God has sown into thorns, and a bumper crop will be harvested. Whenever we worry that this age is too secular to respond to the Good News of Jesus, we remember that God has already planted his seed off the path, and there is still bounty to be reaped. Whenever we rejoice at a friend’s spiritual growth, we remember that God sowed into rich soil, too. Then we see the bounty of the crop.
But whether we now see the bountiful harvest or not is not important. Rather we rejoice in the reality that God has already planted the seed of the Good News of Jesus in every possible situation.
When we moved our young family to the United States, we couldn’t find a ‘see-saw’ anywhere. When eventually we found a playground with a see-saw, we were told it was called a ‘teeter-totter’. On reflection, the American name is more descriptive than ‘see-saw’: ‘teeter-totter’ describes the way two children play on the equipment.
Each child sits at her end of the long plank and balances up and down. Two ends, a plank, and an elevated pivot are all that it takes to make a see-saw.
Jesus describes a spiritual see-saw at the end of this Sunday’s Gospel reading. There are two ends to the see-saw: one end is ‘Come unto me … and rest’. The other end is ‘Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me’ (Matthew 11:28-30).
These are two poles of Christian life. At one end is the delightful world of prayer, of resting in God, of basking in a relationship with the One who utterly accepts us. At the other end, is the world of ministry, of efforts for the Gospel, of actively caring for others.
Spirituality and pastoral care, being loved by God and loving others. The see-saw reminds us that, though there may be two ends, it is one plank. In the end you cannot separate prayer and ministry.
In the Franciscan tradition, we say we Christians serve God in the Three Ways of ‘Prayer, Study and Work’. These are the three activities into which all Christians are invited. ‘Study’ is like the vertical beam of the see-saw which enables us to pivot between Prayer and Ministry. ‘Study’ is learning from Jesus (Matthew 11:29), considering mindfully both our prayer and our work for the Kingdom.
What we learn is that prayer and ministry cannot be separated. They are the same plank, the same life. Some Christians are tempted to spend ‘sweet hours of prayer’, retreating to the safety of spirituality, and never venturing out to practise on others the love which God lavishes on us.
Some find it easy to ignore the pesky questions about God and prayer and put all their effort into social activism, caring for the refugee, standing up against racism, feeding the hungry – and forget that it is not sustainable. We need also to be fed ourselves, and nurtured and healed.
The wisdom of Jesus is that both are needed: ‘Come unto me…’ and ‘Take my yoke upon you.’ The challenge of the end of this Sunday’s Gospel reading is this: how is your balance on the teeter-totter? Do you move ‘up and down’ between prayer and ministry, or are you stuck at one end or the other? What ‘study’ do you need to help integrate spirituality and ministry?
The story of the (near) sacrifice of Isaac is foundational for Jews, Christians and Muslims. Abraham’s faith is proved. It is a mysterious story with many threads. I have written the story The Witness to highlight one of those threads.
The climb up Yahweh-Jireh in the wastelands of Moriah brought me to the edge of insanity, but I honestly don’t think it shook my faith in Lord Yahweh, blessed be his Name.
The lands of Moriah are barren and windswept, bad lands where even sheep don’t bother to go. They are dotted by rounded steep hills which at first glance look identical to each other. Actually each one is slightly different in height and shape. It’s a maddening place to find your way through. You are never sure of landmarks, and even the sun casts shadows in unpredictable directions off and around those hillocks. A place to lose your way and your mind.
The only place to go when God asks you to weigh up what you value most: your faith or your son. How can you make such a value choice? My faith gives me life; my son is the brightness of my life. Everything I have comes from God, and I acknowledge that by faith. Everything I am, and everything that I have produced, is summed up in my son.
I think I would die of grief and emotion if my son was taken from me by disease or accident. I know I would die from the spirit down if my faith was taken from me. Yet here was I being asked to take the initiative in killing off one or the other. Your son or your faith. This was not the thief’s choice of
“your money or your life”.
This was the no-win choice of
“your life … or your life”.
We set off, travelling light. Just two servants, young men who would not awkward questions, new workers for whom I hadn’t yet built up that lifelong sense of mutual loyalty. But I travelled with that heavy-heart of dread that drags a man down, dreading the moment when Isaac and I had to leave them and go on on our own.
Isaac could ask awkward questions. He always had that sense of freedom with me. I encouraged it, indulged him, if I tell the truth, because he was the son of my old age, the miracle of God’s provision. You can’t believe the joy of knowing that one time in my life when I was capable of fathering a son, and the even more intense joy that that son turned out to be Isaac. Don’t blame an old man for spoiling his son, for idolising what God had given, when his faith had proved him right.
Yet for all my errors, God was never faithless. God never let me down. You might feel it was cruel of God to place that ultimate test before me: stand and deliver, man; hand over your faith or your son. Your life or your life.
It was hard to bear, I can tell you that. My throat cramped with pathos at Isaac’s innocent question. “Father, the fire and the wood I see for a burnt offering, but where is the lamb?” I choked out my reply, “Yahweh Jireh” … God will provide. No logic in my answer, but it was the deepest statement I could give. With my whole being, I knew it in my depths. Yahweh Jireh. God will provide.
But I was caught, like a ram caught in a drafting race. I had to go through with it: The fascinating horror of it all drew me on. I built the altar on the desolate hill-top. My hands carried stone after stone, building what I thought was his tomb. Isaac was eager to help. “Father, let me carry that large stone,” he kept saying, each offer a stiff blow to my chest.
Numb to the core, I motioned to my lovely son to lie on the wood on top of our altar. I tied him there with a rope, forcing myself to look into the beautiful eyes consenting strangely with patience and trust to this ultimate violation.
As he lay, his head fell back a little, not fully supported by the dry branches. His throat was exposed. I raised the monstrous knife, my eyes affixed to that new skin, not yet stubbled with a man’s beard, and my brain seemed to explode as I brought down the knife thrusting to kill God’s most precious gift.
After that appalling moment, I opened my eyes. Isaac was alive. My hand was still above my head, still poised, but there was no purpose left in it. The knife hung slack like a broken question mark. My head was light, almost dizzy. I vaguely realised that a sacrifice was about to take place, and there, caught in a thicket of thorn bushes, was a ram. A most pleasing subject for a burnt offering. Yahweh Jireh. The Lord had provided. The feeling in the depth of my being was right: deeply and marvellously right and in tune with the heartbeat of the Universe: In the most desperate, the most threatening, the most tearing apart experiences, trust and wait. Yahweh Jireh.
God knows what that choice is like. God also sent his son to a wasteland – the loveless, lifeless, sad place that Israel was under Roman occupation – and took his lovely son Jesus up the hill of Calvary and broke his heart too.
God, though, completed what I couldn’t complete. He allowed the sacrifice of his only Son, his only hope for the future. He killed him off. From my experience I can whisper of some of the pain which that caused God. Some of his grief, some of his extreme agony. God brought that knife down and took the breath away from the son whom he loved as his own life.
But my experience also tells me of the deep hope that runs strongly underneath even in that nightmare time. The knowledge – far deeper than wishful thinking, far more real than casual hoping – the sure knowledge that Yahweh Jireh – it will be provided.
Surely Yahweh himself had that deep knowledge as he waited for the resurrection of Jesus – Yahweh himself must have shouted with joy on the first Easter Sunday, “Yahweh Jireh” – my son is given back to me!
Surely each one of you, though you may not, as I was, be driven to the edge of madness, but simply as you live, as you cope with joy and sorrow, as you experience the attainment of relationships and their breaking-up, as your career paths open and close, with all that makes up life, you too can shout with the deep knowledge “Yahweh Jireh” – in God’s providence, it will be provided.
You cannot put a price on human life. Maybe it’s acceptable to buy and sell live animals in the market, ‘two sparrows for a penny’ (Matthew 10:29), but human life is beyond price. Centuries before, Moses had delivered God’s commandment, ‘You shall do no murder’ (Exodus 20:13). When God made human beings, he pronounced them, ‘Very good’.
Note that he made human beings, two individuals, one male, one female. We can conclude that God values three things about us:
1. All human beings are ‘very good’. All of humanity has God’s stamp of approval. I strongly agree that ‘Black Lives Matter’: even more I affirm that ‘All Human Lives Matter!’
2. As individuals as well as a species, you and I are ‘very good’. Every individual is cherished.
3. The differences between male and female are to be celebrated. Diversity is valued. God’s good creation is beautiful because of diversity. I’ve learnt that every magpie has its own personality. Every pebble in a gully is unique.
To treat one human being as though they were of less value than others is sinful. It defies God’s explicit values. To treat groups of human beings as though they were less than others is sinful. It denigrates God’s evident joy in diversity.
It makes me sad and angry that we need to declare that ‘Black Lives Matter’. The truth is that in Australia, as in the USA, we live in a world made for and by whites. Our community is systematically distorted by the sin of racism.
The brute facts spell this out:
* 432 Indigenous deaths in custody since the 1991 Royal Commission.
* 29% of people in prisons are Indigenous, yet there are only 3% in the wider population.
* For the period 2008– 2012, about two-thirds (65%) of Indigenous deaths occurred before the age of 65, compared with 19% of non-Indigenous deaths.
There is much for us to work on to combat the scourge of racism.
Our first task as Christians is to loudly declare the equal value of every human being.
We proclaim the virtue of humility, yet one of the white community’s worst traits is to believe that we know the best for Aboriginal people. It is surely time to listen to Aboriginal voices, to hear what they say about their disadvantage and about white privilege.
It will be an uncomfortable journey. It’s painful to recognise one’s own prejudice. Moreover, people who protest racism, either in person or at a rally, easily divide those around them, ‘settinga man against his father, and a daughter against her mother, and a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law and one’s foes will be members of one’s own household.’ (Matthew 10: 35-36).
Opposing racism, however, is a crucial struggle for Christians. When we see racism in action, we need the courage to call it out, and not allow people in our circle to get away with casual racist comments. We may be called to work at a political level to oppose racism, making sure Government policies do not cement racism into place, and exhorting politicians to listen to Aboriginal voices.
Surely to be racist, or to allow racist behaviour to continue, is the same as to deny Christ before others (Matthew 10:33). Acknowledging Christ and his values is our calling.
We Christians are a people who have been sent. Apostles. Envoys. In a long line of sent people, we are part of the Apostolic Church. We have a mission, the mission of God, which is to bring God’s healing and liberation to others.
The Franciscan Third Order, to which I and my wife Rae belong, states ‘Our primary aim is to make Christ loved and known.’ By virtue of our baptism, every one of us is called to evangelism, to respond to the Great Commission (Matthew 28:10).
Some are called, like Billy Graham or Saint Augustine, to preach to stadiums and summon people to respond to the message. But that kind of evangelism is the exception, not the rule.
We are called to live the Gospel and let our lives be the message.
Living the Gospel means at least three things.
Firstly our lives display our openness to God’s healing and liberation. We should live with integrity, our standards being higher than those the wider community demands, so that people can see God’s goodness in us. Christians don’t fudge our tax returns and we don’t steal from workplaces or shops, or from anyone, for that matter. We live the Gospel and let our lives do the talking. A saying attributed to Saint Francis of Assisi puts it this way, ‘Preach the Gospel at all times and if necessary use words.’
Secondly, Christians care passionately. Christians actively love wife or husband, children and those they meet every day. We refuse to take them for granted. We care about the hungry, the homeless and the refugee. We worry about the systemic racism which allows higher rates of incarceration for blacks. We raise our voices to protest the culture which leads to deaths in custody.
We resist the temptation to tear down our leaders and look instead for opportunities to build them up. Being loved by God, we actively allow God’s love to flow through us and bring other people and all creatures the healing and liberation God wants.
Thirdly, we allow ourselves to be healed and freed. We can bring healing to others only as we open ourselves to be changed for the better. We work to know ourselves better so that we can be better instruments of God’s care. We seek to free ourselves from those hidden habits and attitudes which can harm our relationships with others.
All this we do – and it can feel overwhelming if we forget that it is not our initiative, it is not our mission. It is God who sends us, and God who empowers us.
As we return to our churches to worship, we are aware that at the end of every Eucharist we are sent out: ‘Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.’ That is who we are: people sent by God.
Once upon a time, the good book tells us, heaven and earth, that is, God’s creation, had it all together. God said, ‘It was good… it was good, … it was very good.’ (Genesis 1: 4,10,12,18,25,31). The first account of creation in Genesis appeals to us and challenges us because we recognise that the world we know is not so good: it is marred, fractured.
We see the degradation of the environment, even Covid-19 is a result of the unwanted collision of wild animals and humans. We feel the rupture of relationships, our own and those around us. Ultimately the cause of this broken world is a mystery, but we can be sure that God means to mend and restore creation.
The Gospel tells the astounding news that we are part of this great project of bringing heaven and earth back together.
Matthew recounts how Jesus led the Eleven up a mountain. For Matthew, going up the mountain meant two things: on the mountaintop we experience the power of God, and secondly, on the mountain, Jesus, like Moses before him, teaches about the reality of God.
So we are there with the Eleven on the mountaintop to experience something of God’s power and to open ourselves, week by week, to God’s teaching. Like the Eleven, we both ‘worship and doubt’ (v.17). We are human beings after all. But our power to believe or not it is not relevant.
‘All authority in heaven and earth has been given to me,’ Jesus states (v.18). The extraordinary claim of the Gospels is that the Risen Jesus has all God’s authority. We can be tempted to domesticate Jesus and turn him into a harmless friend. The reality, however, is that Jesus acts with power in our lives.
The French philosopher Simone Weil (1909-1943) was born to agnostic Jewish parents. From her childhood, she took seriously the teaching of Jesus to love one’s neighbour as one’s self. After a lifetime of activism loving her neighbour, she was drawn more deeply into the life of Jesus, experiencing his power in a series of prayer experiences. Weil’s book, Waiting for God, has become a spiritual classic. After reading George Herbert’s poem ‘Love III’, she wrote, ‘Christ himself came down and took possession of me.’ These experiences transformed her into ‘a great spirit’ recognised by Christians and non-Christians alike.
Our journey may not be as extreme as Simone Weil’s, but the reality of Jesus’ power in our lives shapes us also to be instruments of healing.
So Matthew reminds the Eleven – and us – of the colossal enterprise to which Jesus calls us: the healing of earth and heaven. We, the community of the faithful, are called to teach all nations his commandments, those of love and healing.
And the best of the Good News is that Jesus ‘will be with us always, to the end of the age.’ (v.20).
In the Biblical languages. ‘breath’, ‘Spirit’ and ‘wind’ are the same word.
God breathes into the man of mud and he becomes a living breath (Genesis 2:7). Or you can read it: At creation, God breathes his Spirit into a human being, and he became a living spirit.
Not just human beings, but every living thing.
Psalm 104 paints a spectacular picture of all of the Lord’s ‘manifold works’: the heavens ‘stretched out like a tent-cloth’ (v.3), ‘the earth on its foundations’ (v. 6), the sea and the mountains (vv. 7 and 9), wild and domestic animals (v. 12), the birds (v. 13), and the water and food to provide for them all. Human beings have a place to work (v.25).
God’s world is a supremely fertile and attractive universe. And it all depends on God breathing God’s Spirit:
When you take away their breath, they die and return to their dust. When you send forth your spirit they are created. (Psalm 104:29b-30).
So on the first Pentecost, God was doing both a new thing and repeating an old thing. God was breathing His Spirit into human beings and all creation, and giving them new life.
But there’s more. The first human being was an individual, Adam. At Pentecost, communities spring to life, not just as individuals; a community of disciples able to pass on the word of Jesus – the first Church members. An even larger community of listeners is brought into being. Its separate components are listed:
“Parthians, Medes, Elamites, and residents of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of Libya belonging to Cyrene, and visitors from Rome, both Jews and proselytes, Cretans and Arabs…’ (Acts 2:9-11)
In other words, the whole known world is gathered into a community. They are gathered by hearing the same language: the very opposite of the scattering into mutually incomprehensible language groups at the tower of Babel (Genesis 11:1-9). Community happens where we talk to each other and understand each other.
The Spirit still breathes into our lives, gathering us into communities. During these strange days of pandemic, for example, members of the St Mary’s community in Busselton have continued the enormous task of providing meals three days a week for those who need them. As they work together, Spirit is breathed into the workers to gather them closer to each other, and the people who come to the Family Centre are also held in community.
‘God is faithful’ (I Corinthians 1:9), so we can expect God’s breath to breathe into us again and again, bringing us new life and gathering us into godly communities. This is the promise of Pentecost.
The eucalyptus was growing darker in colour. Leaves and limbs stood nearly black, giving the tree sharp definition even against the darkening storm-cloud behind. The swirling nimbo-cumulus filled the sky almost down to the horizon where a small sliver of grey light brightened the line of charcoal sea. Smaller trees bent to the will of the winds and the foliage of the big tree was ruffled, as if the tree tried to stay aloof from the coming storm.
The sandy path seemed to lead directly into the surf. Tousle-headed low scrub filled both sides of the path. A few brittle twigs cracked and fell to the ground. The gathering darkness brought with it the heaviness of moisture in the air.
The watching warrior felt within for any signs of life nearby. There were no magpies singing or seagulls squawking. The animal kingdom was silent as if there were not enough breath for voice. They were invisible, too: Bunyitch sensed snakes huddled in holes, possums and birds sheltered under the umbrellas of the eucalypt foliage, wading birds and wallabies pressed into thickets of mallee. The path was evidence of people, but they, along with their fellow creatures, were for now invisible, and silent. Bunyitch could not feel any of his mob with his mind.
The trees, though, knew that such compressed energy would some time be released, and they too waited.
Far off, where the great roiling cloud met the black line of the sea, and where the small sliver of light brightened the world, there was movement; movement contrary to the movement of wind and cloud. It appeared first as a little white dot bobbing westwards along the horizon. It appeared to be skating the line, neither part of the sky nor part of the sea.
As Bunyitch focussed and waited for the seeing to come, as he had been taught, he could make out a shape – a thick black horizontal line surmounted by squares of white. At this distance the shape was smaller than his fingernail.
A wadullah canoe,’ he thought, and worried. This was the first one that Bunyitch had seen, and despite his stillness he could feel the worry of the elders almost as clearly as if sitting around the fire and listening to them discuss the coming of the ghosts. The ghosts on board just one of their ships like the one now labouring in the bay numbered more than the total of the handful of family groups that comprised his mob. And they had seen half a dozen of these big canoes in the bay and off the wild sea coast since the last moon.
If these ghosts were allowed to come ashore to stay, none of the elders could tell the impact their arrival would make on the Wardan people; but there would be an impact, and a heavy one. The elders had pointed out to Bunyitch that their canoes were made so large not by magic, but by human skill. His people could use that skill and share their own. The ghosts seemed to have little sight or hearing and could not sense each other across the country. The elders believed these were skills they could fruitfully trade. On the other hand, the Wardan had heard from beyond the far boundaries of Noongar country that where the ghosts had come ashore in other places they had taken women and caused wars.
Bunyitch was indistinguishable from the trunk of the tree next to him, lightly leaning on two spears, his khaki heel pressed against the black skin of the side of his knee. He could stand guard here for ever.
A feeling of alien distress crowded out any sense of friends. Looking out into the bay, Bunyitch watched as the lines of the brigantine resolved themselves. Huge waves were throwing themselves at the ship, some tearing at the great sails. The warrior could see the tiny ghosts running back and forth on the deck, and he felt their cries. Any sound from this distance was drowned out by a large crack, followed by a sheet of white lightning and the deep boom which made the warrior’s thighs tremble.
All seemed to explode as the trees wildly bent and swayed, rain dropped like hard stones, and the cloud turned itself inside and out again. The warrior knew the power of these storms across the bay, but he himself was unmoved. He looked to where the horizon had been a moment before and waited – calmly amongst the agitation of the storm – for his seeing to return.
The boat was now closer and heaving horribly in the huge waves. Bunyitch closed his eyes and felt for the power of the storm. The wind, which had started in the west, now turned savagely south and waves like huge rolls of darkness carried the boat haplessly towards the warrior.
The wadullah canoe seemed to be racing towards him. The ghosts now were screaming, running, kneeling, and grabbing one another and the rigging and stays, their terror hitting against Bunyitch’s calm mind like a white wall. The canoe seemed one moment to be travelling faster than the monster wave following behind it. Next moment, the whole ship had turned at right angles and was barrelling under the curl of the wave like a surfer bent on earning a ten for technique.
The warrior closed his eyes again and felt inward. He made a great effort. When he opened his eyes again, no wadullah canoe was to be seen. It had not broken up in the surf or on the hard beach. It was not among the waves subsiding after the peak of the storm. He had sent it back to where it came from.
At the Busselton foreshore I watched my four grandchildren spread over the playground in the shape of a shipwreck. They laughed as they climbed through rigging and tunnels to the crow’s nest. They squealed with delight as a slide and a ‘fireman’s pole’ brought them down in a rush of speed. They rollicked in sand; they splashed in water. The kids shouted with joy, their imaginations and bodies nourished by the playground’s brilliant design.
I look forward to the time post-Covid-19 when they may return to the ship playground.
The youngest kids, I am sure, believe that this ship was created just for them. As they grow, they will realise that the playground was built, not just for them, but for all kids who visit the foreshore, even those they don’t like! Soon enough, they will recognise that the City of Busselton, who provided the ship, provides roads and libraries and dog pounds for everyone.
Sitting there on the edge of the playground, I realise that it is all about the kids, but it is also about something much bigger: how we work together to build a community.
Today is the seventh, and last, Sunday in the Easter season when we cry, ‘Alleluia, Christ is risen!’ Our Gospel readings during the Easter season have so far traced the benefits of the resurrection for humanity and creation:
* we don’t need to be perfect to receive resurrection benefits,
* the risen Good Shepherd cares for us and provides for us,
* the Spirit of the risen Jesus comes to us as an Advocate, companion, and guide on the way.
The keyword for this Sunday is ‘glory’. Easter reveals God’s glory, and ‘we are blessed because that spirit of glory, which is the Spirit of God is resting on us.’ [1 Peter 4:14].
If we were children, we might conclude that Easter is all about the godsends provided for human beings by the resurrection. It’s a gift of hope for us; it’s for us to receive eternal life; it’s for us to delight in the community of the faithful. If we were children, it would be quite in order to believe that Easter is all about us.
But we are not children and the good news of Easter is not only about us creatures. Easter is first about God and God’s work in creating a stunningly beautiful universe and blessing it as a resurrection gift for the ages to come. The glory is God’s.
We can get the order wrong. If we put humanity first, then the shadow side of humanity including our cruelty, our negligence, our selfishness can have its full impact and we war with each other and degrade the rest of creation. If we think it is all about human beings, we reap the sinful self-centredness we sow.
What Jesus teaches in today’s Gospel is that he shares in God’s glory because he, Jesus, did God’s will. The disciples – including us – share in the glory of Jesus when we put God first.