Sent in Peace - “As the Father Sent Me, So I Send You” - A Reflection on John 20:19–31

There is something very human about the scene in our lectionary passage today from John’s Gospel.

The disciples are gathered behind locked doors. They are afraid and disoriented. Unsure of what comes next.

This is not a triumphant church. This is not a community full of certainty and bold faith. This is a fragile, anxious, uncertain gathering of people who have lost their centre. And it is precisely here we are told, not later, not once they have sorted themselves out - that the risen Christ comes and stands among them and says:  “Peace be with you.”

John places this moment in Jerusalem, behind locked doors, on the evening of Easter Day itself. 
Unlike Gospel of Matthew where there is no Jerusalem encounter with the disciples, and where the commissioning happens later, on a mountain in Galilee, here in Gospel of John the sending happens right in the midst of fear on Easter night.

There is no delay between the events of Good Friday and the commissioning on Easter Sunday evening. There is no spiritual preparation course, and no requirement of perfect belief.  Just fear… and presence… and peace… and sending.

And perhaps that is the first thing John wants us to see: The mission of the church to live in the way of Jesus does not begin when we are ready. It begins when we are met by the Divine Presence and a word of peace is spoken into the midst of our fear. 

John tells us the disciples were afraid of “the Jews.” But many scholars remind us that this is better understood as “the Judaeans” - those associated with the religious and political centre in Jerusalem.
This is not a blanket statement about a people. It is a symbolic contrast.

The disciples, who are themselves Jewish, are however from the margins, from Galilee, the edges.
The “Judaeans” by contrast represent the centre of power, control, and religious authority.  And so the tension here is not ethnic, it is spiritual and social: The way of Jesus emerges from the margins… and often stands in quiet resistance to systems of power that cannot recognise it.

And as the narrative unfolds, we find that three times Jesus says: “Peace be with you.”
Before any sending, before any commissioning, before any instruction: Peace.

This is peace, not as a vague feeling, but as a grounding presence. Because the work to which they are called cannot be sustained by anxiety, fear, or striving. It must flow from peace.

And then comes the commission: “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.”

This is John’s version of the Great Commission and echoes the Great Commission at the end of Matthew’s Gospel.  But notice: Jesus does not say, “Go and build a religion about me.”
He says, in effect:  “Live the same life I have lived. Embody the same way of love. Become what I have been.”

This is a call to growth, a call to human maturity. In John’s Gospel Jesus represents not just the Divine Presence, he also represents the fullness of what it means to be a mature human being.  The commission to the disciples is to become what Jesus is in the world: As the Father sent me, so I am sending you… How was Jesus sent by the Father?  According to the opening chapter of John’s Gospel, he was sent as a light in the darkness, he was sent as the bringer of life in all it’s fullness, sent to enable others to become children of the Divine, sent as one who was full of Grace and Truth. And this is now the task of the disciples… and us. As the Father has sent me to I am sending you. 

Then comes one of the most profound moments in all the Gospels: “He breathed on them and said, ‘Receive the Holy Spirit.’” This is John’s Pentecost moment. Not 40 days later, as in Gospel of Luke and Acts, but here, and now in this room on Easter Sunday evening.

And the imagery and symbolism is unmistakable.  It takes us all the way back to Book of Genesis, 
where the first Human Beings come to life when the Divine breath is breathed into them. This is not just empowerment. This is new creation… The fearful disciples are being re-created, re-animated, re-born into a new way of being – breathed into with the peace of Christ… breathed into to live in the spirit of Christ.

But notice again: Nothing external has changed. The world is still dangerous. The powers that crucified Jesus are still in place. But something within them has changed.  The Divine breath of life and peace has entered their fear… and transformed it into a vocation.

And then comes one of the most puzzling and often most troubling of verses. Jesus says to them: 
“If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.” What exactly does this verse mean?  In the Catholic and Orthodox traditions, this has been understood as priestly authority to grant or withhold absolution. 

But what might it mean here, in John’s symbolic and spiritual language? Perhaps this: To live in the Spirit of Christ is to become a bearer of reconciliation.  When we forgive - truly forgive - we release others. We loosen the chains of guilt, shame, and estrangement. But when we refuse to forgive - when we hold onto resentment, bitterness, judgment - we participate in the retaining of those chains.

In other words: The Risen Christ is reminding us that we have enormous power and responsibility.  This is part of what it means to grow to full human maturity. We the power to create worlds of freedom… or worlds of imprisonment.  Not through divine decree, but through the way we live, relate, and love. The question is how will we use that power? How did Christ use that power?

And then in the narrative we meet Thomas.  Honest, courageous Thomas. “I will not believe” he says “unless I see… unless I touch…”

And a week later, we read that Jesus comes again. And this time, Thomas present and  is invited:
“Put your finger here… See my hands… Reach out your hand and put it into my side…”
Now, what do we make of this? Are we meant to imagine a literal physical verification? 
Or is John inviting us into something deeper?

Throughout this Gospel, “seeing” is never just about physical sight. It is about perception., recognition and awakening. Perhaps what Thomas represents is this: We do not come to faith by avoiding the wounds. We come to faith by entering them.  To “touch the wounds of Christ” is to participate in his way of being, to stand with those who suffer, to love in the face of rejection, to give oneself for others.

And it is there, not in some kind of abstract belief, but in lived participation that we come to see and understand the way of Jesus. And so Thomas responds: “My Lord and my God.” Faith arises from ‘touching the wounds of Christ’, from participating in the way of Christ, sharing in his sufferings, touching, as it were, his wounds.

And what does that exclamation of Thomas mean; My Lord and my God? Earlier on in John’s Gospel, Jesus quotes from the Psalms and says: Don’t your own scriptures say: You are gods? It is the same word Theos in both instances. When Thomas says ‘My Lord and My God’, he is not just recognizing the Divine in Jesus… he is seeing in Jesus a reflection of his own true nature… he too was made to be Divine… to be a barer of the Divine Nature. 

And so the passage ends with a word for us: “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” This is not a statement about blind belief.  It is an invitation.

We may not see Jesus with our physical eyes, like the early disciples who knew the historical Jesus.
We may not have dramatic encounters. But we are invited into the same path: To receive the breath.
To live the peace. To embody the love. To touch the wounds. To participate in the mission. And when we do that we too will see… not with our eyes, but with an inner knowing and an inner understanding: ‘Ah, now I see what Jesus was all about’!

And so we return to that central line:  “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.”

This is not just a commission, it is a calling into identity.  To be sent as Jesus was sent, is to live as an expression of divine grace and truth in the world, bringing life, shining light into the darkness.

It is to go where there is fear - and bring peace. To go where there is division and embody reconciliation. To go where there is suffering and dare to love.  And perhaps most importantly, to discover that it is in the going…in the living… in the sharing of that life… that our doubts begin to soften, and our inner vision begins to clear…That we come, in our own way, to recognise: The risen Christ is not only someone we are invited to believe in… but a life we are invited to live. Amen. 

​ What is the point of the resurrection?  Matthew 28:1–10 

What is the point of the resurrection?

That may sound like a strange question to ask on Easter morning. Surely the point is obvious?

And yet… when we listen carefully to the different voices of the New Testament, it becomes less straightforward.

Paul the Apostle, our earliest Christian writer, speaks of resurrection as transformation, a metapmorphsis into “a spiritual body”, not simply flesh and blood brought back to life. And his encounter with the Risen Christ was not with a resuscitated physical body but with a voice and a light on the road to Damascus.   Gospel of Mark, the earliest Gospel, written after Paul’s writings, ends with an empty tomb and a promise, but no appearance of the risen Jesus at all.  Gospel of Matthew written about 20 years later gives us two brief encounters, mysterious, powerful, but not over-explained. And the later Gospels of Luke and John become more physical, more tangible in their descriptions of the Resurrection of Jesus.

And then in Matthew’s telling of the Resurrection story there is a strange detail, one no one else includes: The earthquakes. At the moment Jesus dies, the earth shakes, rocks split, tombs open. And again, on Easter morning, the earth shakes once more. Why?

If this were simply about reporting events, surely all the Gospels would mention something so dramatic. But Matthew alone tells it this way. Which suggests he is not only describing something that happened… He is telling us what it means.

For Matthew, the death and resurrection of Jesus are not small, contained religious moments. They are earth-shattering. They shake the very foundations of reality. The world, as we have known it - our assumptions, our certainties, our systems - is being shaken loose. It is as though something has come into the world that does not fit… and cannot be contained.

And that brings us back to the question: What is the point of resurrection?

Perhaps it is, first of all, this:  Resurrection is the announcement that death is not the end. That life is stronger than death. That what we see is not all there is. For people who live with the quiet fear that everything ends in loss… everything fades into nothing… Resurrection speaks a word of deep freedom:  You do not need to live in fear. Life is larger than you imagined. The story is bigger than death.  And perhaps that is why in Matthew’s telling of the story the first words of the Risen Christ to the women are the words: “Do not be afraid.”

But that is only part of it.

Because if resurrection were only about life after death, it could remain something distant—something for the future. Matthew will not let it stay there because the one who is raised is this Jesus. The one who taught love of enemies. The one who refused violence. The one who ate with prostitutes, tax collectors and sinners. The one whose radical love challenged both religious and political power. The one who embodied a way of being human that seemed, to many, naïve… impractical… even dangerous.

And what did the world do with that way of being? It rejected it. It silenced it. It crucified it.

Why?

Because the way of Jesus exposes something. It exposes how much of our world is built, not on love, but on fear. Not on truth, but on control. Not on trust, but on the anxious grasping of the ego.

And so here is the second meaning of resurrection:

It is God’s yes, the Divine yes, to the way of Jesus.

Where the world says, “This way cannot work,” Resurrection says, “This is the way of life.” 
Where power says, “Strength comes through domination,” Resurrection says, “True power is revealed in self-giving love.”  Where fear says, “Protect yourself at all costs,” Resurrection says, “Lose your life, and you will find it.”

And now, perhaps, we begin to understand the the deeper significance of the earthquakes in the story.

If Jesus truly lived in tune with the deepest reality, if his way is aligned with the very grain of the universe, then everything that stands against that way is, in some sense, unstable, out of alignment, built on shaky ground. And when that deeper truth is revealed - fully revealed in the crucifixion and resurrection - then the ground begins to move, the rocks split, the tombs open, the old world begins to crack. Because the resurrection is not just about what happens after death, it is about what happens when truth meets illusion, when love meets fear. When the way of Christ meets the ego-driven structures of the world, something has to give.

And Matthew tells us that it is the world, as we have known it, that begins to tremble. This is why the resurrection is not just comforting, it is also deeply unsettling. Because if it is true, if the way of Jesus is not just a beautiful ideal, but touches the deepest truth of reality, then it calls everything into question:  The way we live. The way we relate. The way we build our lives around control, status, security. All of it stands on ground that is not as solid as we thought.

And yet, this is not a message of destruction. It is a message of liberation. Because what is being shaken is not what is real - it is what is false. It is what cannot ultimately endure, so that something deeper… truer… more alive… can emerge.

And this is where Matthew leads us. The women meet the risen Christ. And what are the first words they hear? “Do not be afraid.” And then: “Go and tell…”

And at the end of the Gospel just a few verses later:  “Go and make disciples…”

This is the point of resurrection in Matthew’s Gospel. Not simply that Jesus is alive, but that a new way of being human has been revealed as true. That love is stronger than fear, that life is stronger than death. And that we are now invited, not just to believe it, but to live it, to become disciples of this risen life. And perhaps that is why Matthew describes the women falling down in worship and holding onto his feet.

What does worship actually mean?  The old English comes from two root words:  Worth and Ship  / Shape… and means to give worth or value… As they fall in worship and hold onto Jesus feet, they are affirming that in Jesus they have seen their highest value… holding onto his feet.

To worship Jesus it to declare that in Jesus we see our highest worth, to see in Jesus what is most valuable in life, To worship is to dedicate oneself to the way and the values of Jesus. It is not so much to put Jesus on a pedestal and constantly say how much better than us Jesus is. It is to commit ourselves to becoming like Jesus… discovering our own inner Christ-like potential and bringing it forth into the world, becoming who and what Jesus is. It is to put his teachings into practice. 

And perhaps that takes us to the symbolism of woman grasping Jesus feet? Firstly, it is a sign of deep respect. In the east, particularly in India to greet a great spiritual teacher one bends down and touches their feet.  It is a sign of humility, but also more than that, it is a symbolic way of expressing a desire to follow in the footsteps of the teacher, Feet are the means by which we walk through life, they represent the path we walk, to grasp Jesus feet is symbolically to affirm the way of Jesus. 

Resurrection message of Matthew is not just a message of admiring Jesus, it is in fact a call to follow Jesus. What t is the meaning of the Resurrection for Matthew?  It is a call to walk in the way of Jesus, to make the way of Jesus our own, it is to make his values and teachings our own, so that the Way of Jesus lives on in us -  love of enemies, being true to our word, loving our neighbours as ourselves, reaching out in compassion to the poor, the hungry, the thirsty, those in prison. 

And when that happens the earth is once again shaken… 

And so perhaps the question for us this Easter is this:
Where in our lives is the ground beginning to shake?
Where are the old certainties cracking?
Where is the way of Jesus quietly, persistently, unsettling the way we have learned to live?

Because that shaking… is not the end. It is the beginning. The beginning of resurrection.

Amen.

Genghis Khan or Jesus Christ?  - (Palm Sunday - Matthew 21:1–11)

In a press conference last week, Benjamin Netanyahu remarked, “History proves that… Jesus Christ has no advantage over Genghis Khan… if you are strong enough, ruthless enough, powerful enough, evil will overcome good.” The words sparked an immediate reaction, with some hearing in them a hard realism about the world, others troubled by his dismissal of the way of Christ.

Netanyahu later clarified that no offence was intended, but that he was arguing that moral strength alone is not enough without military power in today’s security environment.

And yet, even with that clarification, the question still remains: Does history ultimately belong to Genghis Khan or to the crucified Christ? 

And it is precisely into that question that the story of Palm Sunday speaks.

There is something both joyful and deeply unsettling about Palm Sunday and Jesus triumphal entry into Jerusalem.

Cloaks are thrown on the road, branches are waved, voices cry out, “Hosanna to the Son of David!” It feels like a coronation ceremony.

And yet, within days, the mood will shift. The same city that welcomes Jesus will reject him. The same voices that praise will fall silent or even turn on him.

But Matthew is not simply recounting an event here. He is shaping a vision of discipleship. Writing to a largely Jewish Christian community, he draws deeply on the Scriptures of Israel to help them, and us, see what kind of king Jesus is, and what it means to follow him.

Jesus approaches Jerusalem from the Mount of Olives and sends two disciples to fetch a donkey and a colt. This is no small detail. It is a planned, deliberate, prophetic act.

Matthew tells us this happens to fulfil the words of Book of Zechariah:

“See, your king comes to you,
gentle and riding on a donkey,

Now in the ancient world, kings rode warhorses into battle. A donkey was something else entirely, a sign of humility, of peace, of a different kind of authority. And so Matthew again, as he has done from from the very beginning of his gospel, shows that Jesus is redefining kingship.

He does not come as the conqueror many expected or longed for. Not as a military liberator. Not as one who will meet violence with greater violence (as many of us, if we are honest, secretly desire in our own hearts), but as a king whose power is expressed through gentleness, integrity, humility, courage and love.

And Matthew’s Gospel is written to create and shape disciples of Jesus, and so he wants his readers to understand: if this is your king, then this is also your way.

The crowd, of course, has its own expectations. They cry out words from Book of Psalms: “Hosanna… Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!”  They call him “Son of David”, a title rich with hope for national restoration, for deliverance, for the fulfilment of God’s promises…. And they are not completely wrong. But they do not yet see the whole picture.

Because the king they welcome will not overthrow Rome in the way they are hoping for.
He will not secure victory through force and violence. He will not become Genghis Khan in order to defeat Genghis Khan.

Instead, he will walk a path that looks, to the logic of the world, like weakness, but in truth, it carries a power that can change the course of history. Jesus is planting small seeds, mustard seeds, of transformation. Seeds that, over time, begin to challenge the very values upon which the Roman Empire itself was built: power, spectacle, domination, and violence.

And in time, those seeds begin to bear fruit. For example, in the year 391 AD, Christian monk named Telemachus travelled to Rome and entered the great Roman Colosseum where crowds had gathered to watch gladiators fight to the death.

As the spectacle unfolded, Telemachus ran into the arena and stood between the fighters, and is said to have cried out: “In the name of God, stop!” The crowd roared in anger. And in the chaos, one of the gladiators struck him down, killing him there in front of them all. And yet… something shifted, 

The story tells that the crowd fell silent. One by one, people began to leave. Something in that moment, something in that act of costly, self-giving courage, pierced through the hunger for violence… a quiet turning of hearts in the crowd.  And from that time on, the games began to lose their hold. The tide had turned.  It is a small story, almost hidden in the vast sweep of history. And yet it points to a deeper truth: that the way of Jesus can, in time, overturn even the most brutal systems. But it is a way that is not without cost.

And here, quietly but profoundly, the image of Isaiah’s Servant of God or Suffering Servant passages come into play. Though not quoted directly in this passage, the echoes of Book of Isaiah are unmistakable.

The one who comes gently, riding on a donkey, is the one who in Isaiah 42 does not cry out or raise his voice in the streets (Isaiah 42)… the one who according to Isaiah 53 will be despised and rejected, a man of sorrows.

Matthew has already linked Jesus with Isaiah’s Servant of God passages earlier in the Gospel. Now, as Jesus enters Jerusalem, that identity comes into sharper focus: The king is the servant. The one who is acclaimed will be the one who suffers. The one who is hailed as Son of David will reveal his kingship not through domination, but through self-giving love. This is the paradox at the heart of Matthew’s Gospel.

And so the question raised at the beginning begins to take on a different light. If the world says that only ruthless power prevails… if history seems to favour the strong…then what are we to make of a king who chooses this path?

Is this naïve? Is it impractical? Or is it, in fact, the deepest truth about the nature of God and the shape of reality? Is it the way that brings the Way of Heaven to the Earth? 

Because here is the quiet challenge of Palm Sunday:Jesus does not simply reject violence when he tells one of his companions in the Garden of Gethsemane to put away his sword. He refuses to become what he opposes. He embodies a way of being in the world that does not mirror evil, even in the act of confronting it.

At the end of the passage, the whole city is stirred and asks:  “Who is this?” And the answer comes: “This is the prophet Jesus from Nazareth in Galilee.” It is a true answer, but not yet a complete one, because Matthew leaves the question open, not just for Jerusalem, but for us.

Who is this?
Is he a prophet?
A teacher?
A symbol of goodness?
A the king who redefines power…?
the servant who reveals the heart of God…?
the one who shows us that true life is found not in grasping, and controlling but in doing justly and walking humbly with one’s God.

Often, like the crowd, we want a God who will fix things quickly, triumph visibly, and confirm our assumptions. But the Way of God revealed in Jesus comes gently, quietly, subversively, riding not on a warhorse, but on a donkey.

And so we too stand where the crowds once stood: caught between two visions of how the world works: One says that history is ultimately shaped by those who are strong enough, ruthless enough, powerful enough to prevail. The other is revealed in the quiet, unsettling figure who rides into Jerusalem on a donkey, who refuses the sword, who walks the path of self-giving love even to the cross.  And this way of Jesus can be seen to be echoed in other religious traditions as well, most notably in the Buddhist concept of the Bodhisattva, those who practice not just for their own spiritual awakening, but who dedicated themselves to the spiritual awakening of others, even when it is costly to do so. 

As we enter this Holy Week, we are not asked to settle that question in theory, but to live it in practice, in the choices we make, the spirit we embody, the way we interact with both friend and enemy.

For in the end, the question is not only about empires or nations, but about the very shape of our own ordinary lives:

Does history ultimately belong to Genghis Khan… or to the crucified Christ?

And perhaps just as importantly: which one are we becoming?

Can these Bones Live?  - John 11:1–45 & Romans 8:6–11 & Ezekiel 37:1-14 

In this week where we have just passed the Spring Equinox in the northern hemisphere, our Gospel reading from the Gospel of John the raising of Lazarus  interestingly, symbolically reflects themes related to the season of Spring… new life where before the darkness of winter had seemingly prevailed. 

As we have seen in recent weeks, John’s stories tend to be much longer and more involved than the shorter stories of Matthew, Mark and Luke. And so he story unfolds slowly and dramatically. Jesus receives word that his friend Lazarus is ill, yet he delays his journey. By the time he arrives in Bethany, Lazarus has already been in the tomb for four days. Martha and Mary come out to meet him with words that echo the grief many people have felt: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”

Even the names in this story invite us to look a little deeper. The name Lazarus comes from the Hebrew Eleazar, which means “God has helped.” And the village of Bethany is often understood to mean “house of the poor” or “house of affliction.”

If John’s Gospel is speaking symbolically, as it so often does, then already the story is hinting at something deeper. In the house of affliction, in the place where human vulnerability and suffering are most visible, we meet the one whose name means “God has helped.”

Jesus is deeply moved when he encounters the grief of Mary and Martha and the sorrow of the crowd. In the shortest verse in the Bible we read simply: “Jesus wept.”

These two words reveal something profound about the heart of Christ. His heart is moved wherever he sees humanity bound in the tombs of suffering, wherever people are wrapped in the grave cloths of grief, fear, injustice, or despair. The tears of Jesus remind us that divine compassion is not distant or detached. It enters fully into the sorrow of the human condition.

Then Jesus walks to the tomb and asks that the stone be rolled away. Standing before the grave, he cries out with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” And Lazarus emerges, still wrapped in the grave cloths. Jesus then says to those standing nearby, “Unbind him, and let him go.”

It is a story that has stirred faith and imagination for centuries.

Yet many thoughtful readers naturally find themselves asking a question: Did this literally happen? Did Jesus physically raise a man who had been dead for four days? Or might this story be meant to point beyond itself, to convey a deeper spiritual truth?

It is an honest question, and it is worth asking.

One thing we notice when reading the Gospel of John is that it often speaks in a deliberately symbolic way. Again and again people misunderstand Jesus because they take his words too literally.

When Jesus tells Nicodemus that one must be born again, Nicodemus imagines a literal second birth. When Jesus tells the woman at the well about living water, she imagines a magical water that would remove the need to draw from the well ever again.

In both cases Jesus gently leads them away from literalism toward a deeper meaning.

And the stories in John’s Gospel often work in the same way. They carry layers of symbolic significance.

Some readers have also noticed that if the raising of Lazarus were simply a historical miracle, it seems curious that it does not appear in the other Gospels, the Gospel of Matthew, the Gospel of Mark, or the Gospel of Luke. One might expect such a dramatic event to appear in all the early accounts.

This has led some scholars to wonder whether Lazarus in John’s Gospel may function symbolically.

If that is the case, the question becomes fascinating: what, or who, might Lazarus represent?

Some have noticed a possible connection with a story in the Gospel of Luke: the parable of the rich man and Lazarus. In that parable, Lazarus represents the poor of the world, the forgotten ones lying outside the gates of wealth and comfort.

Seen in that light, the setting of Bethany, the house of the poor, becomes even more suggestive. The story may be pointing us toward those places in the world where suffering and exclusion are most visible. In such places the voice of Christ calls life out of what the world has written off as hopeless.

But the symbolism may reach even further than that.

Perhaps Lazarus represents all those who feel entombed in some way.

People who feel trapped by fear, addiction, grief, anger, resentment, or despair. People whose lives feel stuck, whose spirits feel numb, whose sense of purpose has faded.

And sometimes this can include people who appear outwardly successful. Even wealth or status cannot answer the deeper question of meaning. Anxiety about preserving what we have can itself become a kind of tomb.

In that sense Lazarus may represent the human condition itself, the way we can become bound up and confined in ways that slowly drain the life out of us.

The Hebrew Scriptures often speak about this kind of spiritual death using vivid imagery. One of the most powerful examples is the vision of the valley of dry bones in the Book of Ezekiel, described in Ezekiel 37.

In that vision the prophet sees a valley filled with dry bones, lifeless, scattered bones. When the breath of God moves over them, they come together and rise into living beings again.

No one imagines this was meant to describe a literal resurrection of skeletons. It is a symbolic vision of a people who felt spiritually dead being restored to life by the Spirit of God.

And this brings us to today’s lectionary reading from the Epistle to the Romans.

In Romans 8, the apostle Paul the speaks about death and life in a way that clearly points beyond physical death. He writes:

“To set the mind on the flesh is death, but to set the mind on the Spirit is life and peace.”

Paul is not talking here about people physically dying and rising again. He is speaking about a spiritual condition that exists even in the present moment.  

A life dominated by fear, ego, anxiety, or self-absorption can feel like a kind of death. But when the Spirit awakens within us, something new begins to emerge, life, freedom, peace.

Paul even says that the Spirit that raised Christ from the dead is already dwelling within believers, giving life here and now, giving life to our mortal bodies through the divine breath breathed into us.

Seen in that light, the story of Lazarus in the Gospel of John begins to look very much like a story-shaped illustration of the same spiritual truth Paul describes.

Lazarus lies bound in the tomb.

Then the voice of Christ calls him out into life.

But notice something very important in the story: the community around Lazarus has a role to play.

Jesus tells them, “Take away the stone.”

They must roll back the barrier that seals the tomb.

And when Lazarus emerges, Jesus tells them again: “Unbind him, and let him go.”

The people gathered there become participants in the miracle. They help remove the things that bind Lazarus to death.

Seen symbolically, this becomes a powerful picture of spiritual awakening, not just for individuals but for communities.

The voice of Christ calls people out of the tombs in which they have become trapped. But others help remove the stones. Others help loosen the grave cloths.

Communities of compassion, understanding, and support help people rediscover life.

And perhaps that is why the tears of Jesus matter so much in this story. They reveal a love that refuses to walk past human suffering. Wherever humanity is trapped in tombs of despair or wrapped in the grave cloths of fear, the heart of Christ is moved with compassion.

Perhaps that is what the Spirit of God is always doing, calling life out of death, hope out of despair, freedom out of whatever binds us.

The voice that called Lazarus from the tomb still speaks today.

It speaks into the quiet tombs we inhabit: fear, regret, bitterness, exhaustion, the loss of meaning.

And it calls gently but firmly:

Come out.

And then the community hears another command:

“Unbind him, and let him go.”

Amen.

​Seeing Clearly and Living Freely - John 9:1–41 & Matthew 6:24–34

Our Gospel reading today from John tells one of the most vivid and dramatic stories in the New Testament – the healing of the man born blind.

Jesus and his disciples encounter a man who has never seen – born blind we are told. Immediately the disciples ask a theological question: “Who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” It is the kind of question religious people often ask, trying to find blame, trying to explain suffering through moral accounting.

But Jesus refuses that framework. He says neither this man nor his parents sinned. Instead, he shifts the focus entirely: the situation will become an opportunity for the works of God to be revealed.

Jesus then does something unusual. He makes mud with saliva, places it on the man’s eyes, and tells him to wash in the pool of Siloam. The man obeys and when he washes, he receives his sight.

At first this seems like a simple miracle story. But John’s Gospel rarely tells simple stories. There are always layers of meaning beneath the surface. What follows is almost like a spiritual drama unfolding in stages.

The neighbours are puzzled. Some say, “Is this not the man who used to sit and beg?” Others say it only looks like him. The man simply says, “I am the one.”

Then the religious authorities begin to investigate like the Taliban. The problem is not the miracle itself, the problem is that it happened on the Sabbath. The focus shifts from compassion to rule-keeping. The man is questioned, his parents are questioned, and the pressure grows.

The Pharisees insist Jesus must be a sinner because he healed on the Sabbath. The man responds with beautiful simplicity: “I do not know whether he is a sinner. One thing I do know, though I was blind, now I see.”

As the questioning continues, something remarkable happens. The man who was once blind begins to see more and more clearly – not just physically, but spiritually. Meanwhile the religious authorities, who believe they see clearly, become increasingly blind.

Eventually the man who has been healed is expelled from the synagogue.

When Jesus hears this, he seeks him out again and asks: “Do you believe in the Son of Man?” When the man asks who that is, Jesus says, “You have seen him.” And the man responds with faith.

Then Jesus speaks the paradox at the heart of the story: “I came into this world for judgment so that those who do not see may see, and those who think they see may become blind.”

This is interesting because earlier in John’s Gospel we hear that Jesus did not come to judge the world but to save it. The judgment here is not something Jesus imposes. The religious authorities have judged themselves by believing they can see when in fact they are blind.

Now alongside this story today we hear words of Jesus from the Sermon on the Mount in Matthew’s Gospel.

Jesus says: “No one can serve two masters… You cannot serve God and wealth. Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life… Look at the birds of the air… Consider the lilies of the field… Seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness.”

To understand these words, it helps to remember the larger vision of Matthew’s Gospel. Matthew presents Jesus as a teacher who reveals the deeper meaning of the Kingdom of God. Much of his teaching is gathered in the Sermon on the Mount – a vision of life shaped by trust in God. Again and again Matthew raises the same question: Where is your heart oriented? What master governs your life?

In that context Jesus warns that the human heart cannot serve two masters. It cannot be divided between trust in God and the pursuit of security, control, and status. The word often translated “wealth” is mammon. It represents the whole system of anxiety-driven accumulation – the belief that our ultimate safety lies in possessing and controlling.

And beneath that system lies a deeper issue: worry. Why do we cling so tightly to security and control? Because we are afraid. Because we struggle to trust that life itself is held within the care of God – within a deeper wisdom and compassion that ultimately holds our lives. So Jesus invites his listeners to look at the world around them: the birds of the air, the lilies of the field. They are not anxious about tomorrow, yet life unfolds within a larger providence.

The call of Jesus is not irresponsibility. It is freedom from anxiety. Freedom from the illusion that we must secure life entirely by our own grasping. Instead, he says: Seek first the Kingdom of God.
In Matthew’s Gospel the Kingdom is not simply a place we go after death. It is a new way of seeing and living – a life aligned with divine reality rather than with fear.

And perhaps on this Mothering Sunday that invitation takes on a very human shape.

One of the quiet things that mothers do for us – and indeed all who nurture children – is that they help us learn how to see the world. A mother teaches a child to notice things: the beauty of a bird in the garden, the wonder of flowers opening in spring, the small signs that life is good.

And mothers also teach something even deeper: they teach trust. A small child begins life vulnerable and fragile. But through being held, fed, comforted, and reassured, that child slowly learns something very important – that life can be trusted. That there is a greater love that holds us.

In a sense, mothers are often the first people who help us learn the very lesson Jesus speaks about in the Sermon on the Mount: not to live our lives consumed by fear and worry, but to trust that there is a deeper love and wisdom that sustains life.

If we return now to the story of the man born blind in John’s Gospel, we can see this teaching from Matthew in a new light. The story in John is really about two ways of seeing the world.

On one side are the religious authorities. They believe they see clearly. They have knowledge, status, and institutional authority. But beneath it lies fear – fear of losing control, fear of losing their system. And because they are bound by that fear, they cannot recognise what God is doing right in front of them. So when grace appears before them – a man receiving sight – they cannot celebrate it. They can only interrogate it.

Meanwhile the man who was blind begins the story with almost nothing. No status. No authority. No theological credentials. All he has is his experience of grace.

Yet as the story unfolds, he becomes freer and freer. At first he simply calls Jesus “the man called Jesus.” Then he calls him “a prophet.” Finally he recognises him as one sent from God. His physical sight becomes a symbol of deeper spiritual sight.

And notice something else: he is no longer afraid. When the authorities threaten him, he speaks boldly. When they try to silence him, he answers with clarity. Even when he is cast out, he stands in the truth of what he has experienced. The man who was once blind is now living the freedom Jesus describes in Matthew’s Gospel. He is no longer serving the master of fear. He is living from trust.

Perhaps this is why Jesus ends the story with that paradox: Those who do not see may see, and those who think they see may become blind.

Spiritual sight does not begin with certainty. It begins with humility. The Pharisees are trapped because they believe they already see perfectly. But the man who was blind is open enough to receive a new vision of reality.

And perhaps this is also where the words of Jesus in Matthew become deeply practical for us: “Do not worry about your life.” This does not mean life will always be easy. It means anxiety does not have to be the master of our hearts.

When fear and worry govern our lives, our vision becomes narrow. We begin to see the world only through the lens of threat and scarcity. But when we seek first the Kingdom of God – when we trust that life is held within a deeper wisdom and compassion – something changes in the way we see. We begin to notice grace where we had not seen it before. We begin to notice beauty where anxiety had blinded us. In other words, light begins to shine into our once anxious lives.

The story of the man born blind turns out not simply to be about physical sight restored, but about the eyes of the heart being opened. In the story, the opening of his eyes becomes the opening of his soul.

And perhaps that brings us back once more to the invitation of Mothering Sunday.

One of the deepest hopes of every loving mother is not simply to protect a child forever, but to help that child grow into someone who can live freely and courageously in the world. To see clearly. To trust deeply. To live without being ruled by fear. In that sense, motherhood itself reflects something of the heart of God – nurturing life, opening eyes, and encouraging trust.

And perhaps that is also the invitation of these Gospel readings today. Not simply to admire a miracle long ago, but to ask ourselves:

What might God be trying to show us that our fears prevent us from seeing?

What if the Kingdom of God is already present all around us – like the birds of the air and the lilies of the field – waiting for us simply to trust enough to open our eyes?

I realise I am preaching to myself here… because I often live with an anxiety that robs me of joy.

In the end we have two options:
to live with a deeper trust that there is a greater wisdom and compassion at work in the universe that undergirds our lives…
or to believe that everything ultimately depends on us alone.

And if that were the case, anxiety really would be our only option.

And so on this Mothering Sunday, may we begin to let go and trust, that the eyes of our hearts might be opened to see the signs of God’s nurturing love and grace around us, and that in place of anxiety we might know the gift of joy. 

​Living Water & Love-Beyond-Limits  (John 4:5–42 & Matthew 5:38–48)

Today the lectionary takes us to one of the most loved stories of John’s Gospel, the encounter between Jesus and the Samaritan woman at the well (John 4:5–42).

As we enter the story, Jesus is tired. It is midday. He sits beside Jacob’s well in Samaria. Already the story is charged.  Jews and Samaritans did not get along. They disagreed about worship.
They distrusted one another. The history between them was a long and painful one.

And then something unexpected happens. A woman comes alone, to draw water at noon, a strange time, perhaps suggesting she is isolated or excluded from her own community. And Jesus does the unthinkable. He not only speaks to her, but he asks her for a drink.  For Jews and Samaritans, this would have been a jaw-dropping moment. 

The boundaries and divisions in this encounter are large and thick: 

- Jewish vs Samaritan
-Male vs Female
-Religious insider vs Religious outsider
-Respected  Rabbi/Teacher vs Morally compromised and compliciated woman

And yet Jesus crosses these boundaries calmly and without hesitation as though what he was doing was perfectly normal and perfectly acceptable. 

In the encounter between them, He speaks of “living water” in response to her inner thirst for love and meaning. He speaks of living a life of worship “in spirit and in truth,” not bound by a building or place in response to her question about Jews and Samaritans having different places of worship. 
He reveals knowledge of her past without any sense of condemnation. He remains engaged in conversation with her even when the disciples urge him otherwise.

And in response the woman becomes a witness to her own village, bringing them out of the town to see Jesus. And by the end of the story, these Samaritan outsiders confess: “Truly, this is the Saviour of the world.”

We’ll come back to John 4. But now we turn the words from Matthew 5:38–48 where we hear Jesus saying: 

“You have heard… An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth…
But I say to you… 
“Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.”
“Turn the other cheek”
“Be perfect or whole, as your heavenly Father is perfect or whole, who makes his sun shine on the righteous and the unrighteous alike, who sends his rain on the just and the unjust. 

Again, as we saw last week in Matthew 5:21-37 we hear the repeated pattern:“You have heard that it was said… but I say to you…”

Firstly: “An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.” This teaching was not in fact meant to be barbaric. It was merciful. It was meant to limit revenge, to limit retaliation. It prevented escalation. It prevented doing more harm to another than they had done to you. Retaliate yes, was the old teaching, but no more than was done to you. 

But Jesus says:  “Do not resist an evildoer. If anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also.” And then:  “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.”

These verses have often been misunderstood. They are not instructions for passivity. They are not commands to remain in abusive situations. They are invitations into a radically different way of being human.

Matthew’s Jesus is not abolishing justice. He is transforming the logic of retaliation. The old pattern said: harm must be answered with harm. But Jesus introduces a new pattern: harm can be turned around and transformed by love, wisdom and courage.

Last week we saw that anger fractures communion long before violence erupts. Now Jesus shows what it looks like when anger no longer governs us. To turn the other cheek is not to pretend evil is good. It is to refuse to let evil dictate who you become. 

And part of Jesus concluding challenge in Matthew 5:38-48 is that it is incomplete and insufficient to love only those who love us in return… for even sinners and tax-collectors love those who love them in return.  But disciples of Jesus are called to a love that is not transactional or limited. 

And then Jesus gives the reason: “So that you may be children of your Father in heaven.”

This is an important Matthean perspective. For Matthew, discipleship is not about following laws and rules but about about growing more and more  to resemble the nature of the One Jesus calls Abba. 

At the end of this section we hear these words:  “Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect.”

“Perfect” as I said last week is a poor translation of the Greek word ‘Teleio” which actually means something closer to being whole, complete, mature.

And what is the Father like? “He makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the righteous and on the unrighteous.” Matthew’s Jesus tells us that God’s generosity is indiscriminate.  God’s love is not reactive. Gods love is not determined by the worthiness or the recipient. And according to Jesus in Mathews Gospel, our love for others is meant to resemble God’s love for us and all humanity. 

And as we turn back to Jesus’ encounter with the Samaritan women at the well we see these teachings of Jesus being lived out by Jesus in John 4.  What if the story in John 4 is not only about spiritual thirst and living water. What if it is also about boundary breaking love lived out and embodied by Jesus? 

The old pattern in the ancient world was simple: injury for injury, tribe for tribe, loyalty to insiders and suspicion towards outsiders. Even without violence, there were the invisible lines. Jews did not even share eating or drinking vessels with Samaritans. They did not linger in conversation. 

Yet Jesus does not abide by these invisible lines of hostility and enmity taught to him by the culture of his day. Instead he initiates relationship across the lines of hostility.  He asks for water from someone who represents the “other.” He allows himself to be vulnerable.

In John 4, Jesus does not wait for hostility from the woman or the Samaritan townsfolk — he pre-empts it with openness.  His is a pre-emptive strike, not of violence or aggression but of openness and friendship

And so the boundary breaking love which Jesus teaches in Matthew 5 in the Sermon on the Mount
is quietly acted out by Jesus beside the well. 

From a Jewish perspective, Samaritans were religiously compromised, historically suspect. They were the enemies and religious heretics. Yet Jesus does not approach this woman as an enemy to defeat in theological debate.

He listens. He engages. He speaks truth - but without humiliation or condemnation. When he names her past, but not to shame her.  He sees her fully and still treats her with dignity and respect despite her past. This is love beyond transaction or reciprocity.  He is not loving someone who already belongs. He is loving someone across divide.

He is reflecting the love of the Father “who sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous.”
In John 4, Jesus is completely aligned with the heart of the Divine.  There is no trace of tribal superiority. No defensive identity. No narrowing of compassion. When the disciples return they are bewildered that he is speaking to her. But Jesus’s wholeness allows him to remain steady. His identity is not threatened by crossing boundaries.

And that wholeness in Jesus becomes contagious. The woman leaves her water jar and becomes a bearer of living water to her community.  The village that might once have been considered “enemy territory” becomes a place of ‘harvest’.

And the story ends with the townsfolk saying of Jesus: “Surely this is the Saviour of the World.”  
Saviour of the world... Augustus Caesar had once used that title to refer to himself.  With all his military might, he was exalted as the benefactor and bringer of peace to the world. But in this passage it is not Caesar who is proclaimed as the Saviour of the World, it is Jesus. They see in Jesus something remarkable, a wisdom, a presence, an inner strength and composure, a love that has the power to heal the brokenness and divisions of this world.  And so in this simple story in John’s Gospel we see a widening of the horizon beyond tribe and human made boundaries. We see the kind of love that can save and heal the world. 

And what about us?  Who are the Samaritans in our own lives?  Who are the people we instinctively keep at arm’s length?  Whose story do we assume we already understand without truly listening to them? Who are those we consider ‘other’. 

John 4 shows us that enemy-love does not always look dramatic.  Sometimes it looks like sitting beside a well and asking for a drink of water.

For God so Loved the Cosmos- John 3:1-17 & Matthew 5:21–37

On this 2nd Sunday of Lent, the lectionary gives us words from John’s Gospel: the mysterious nighttime conversation between Jesus and Nicodemus.

We read well-know words: “Unless one is born from above/anew, one cannot see the kingdom of God.”  And then those words so often quoted: “For God so loved the world…”

But we’ll come back to these words from John’s Gospel.

In addition to the Lectionary readings over Lent that come from John’s Gospel, I would also during this Lenten season like to reflect intentionally on the Sermon on the Mount from Gospel of Matthew. And at first glance, John and Matthew feel very different. John speaks of new birth, Spirit, eternal life, cosmic love. Matthew gives us teachings on anger, lust, divorce, and taking oaths.

But what if they are describing the same transformation from two different angles? John tells us where transformation begins. Matthew shows us what transformation looks like. To be “born from above” or “being born again” is not a religious slogan. It is the awakening of the inner life. And in Matthew 5, Jesus shows us what that awakened life looks like in practice.

Importantly, when we open Matthew’s Gospel, we are not simply reading a biography of Jesus. We are entering a school of discipleship. Matthew’s Gospel functions almost like the earliest catechism of the Church, a manual for forming people in the way of Christ. And this becomes unmistakably clear at the very end of the Gospel, when the risen Jesus says:

“Go therefore and make disciples… teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you.”  That final sentence tells us why Matthew wrote. This Gospel is not merely to inform us about Jesus. It is to form us by Jesus. And at the heart of this formation stands the Sermon on the Mount.

Matthew structures his Gospel around five great teaching blocks, five great discourses (see below), echoing the five books of Moses. And Matthew is deliberately telling us something through that structure. Just as Moses gave Torah to Israel, Jesus now gives teaching, a new Torah to a renewed people.

So when we come to Matthew 5:21–37, we are not just picking up a handful of moral sayings about anger and divorce and oaths. We are stepping into Matthew’s curriculum for discipleship.

But whereas Moses says, “Thus says the Lord,” In Matthew’s Gospel Jesus says, “But I say to you.” This is breathtaking. Jesus talks with greater authority than Moses. Matthew’s Jesus is not rejecting Judaism. He is portraying Jesus as revealing the deepest intention of Torah. And what is that deepest intention? Not mere rule-keeping, but transformation of the heart.

In today’s passage we hear six times: “You have heard that it was said… but I say to you…” And as he does so, murder becomes anger, adultery becomes lust, divorce becomes covenant faithfulness and oaths become simple truthfulness.

At first glance it sounds as though Jesus is making the law harsher. But that is not what is happening. This is not intensification. It is interiorisation. Jesus moves righteousness from external compliance to inner transformation.

Murder destroys life, but anger and contempt destroy relationships long before blood is shed. Adultery breaks a relationship. But a gaze that turns another person into an object fractures love at its root. Oaths were designed to guarantee truthfulness. But Jesus calls for a life so integrated that no oath is necessary. Let your “yes” be yes and let you “no” be no.

The movement is always the same: From behaviour, to the heart, to relational wholeness. This is why in John’s Gospel Jesus speaks of a transformation of the heart, a rebirth of our inner life. Because anger, lust and dishonesty cannot ultimately be managed merely by external restraint. Something in us must be made new. Nicodemus knew the Law. But knowing the Law is not the same as being inwardly renewed. And so in Matthew, the Sermon on the Mount assumes rebirth. It assumes a heart being reshaped.

|As we saw 2 weeks ago, just before this passage in Matthew, Jesus says: “Unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will not enter the kingdom of heaven.”  That sounds intimidating, until we understand what Matthew means by righteousness. Righteousness here is not legal precision. It is alignment with the heart of God.

And that alignment culminates later in this chapter: “Be perfect as your Father in heaven is perfect.” “Perfect” does not mean flawless. It means being made whole, mature, integrated. It is the perfection of a love that shines on good and bad alike.

Matthew’s Jesus is not primarily a miracle worker in this Gospel. He is the teacher of divine wisdom and the revealer of the Father’s character. And he is forming people who reflect the heart of God.

But notice how in Matthew, community is the place of salvation. Notice how relational this passage is: Be reconciled before you bring your gift to the altar. Settle matters quickly. Let your speech be truthful.

For Matthew, salvation is not merely private forgiveness. It is the formation of a reconciled community. In Matthew, worship without reconciliation is incomplete. Discipleship is the formation of a reconciled and a reconciling community. And later on in chapter 18, Matthew will expand this vision: how to deal with conflict, how to forgive, how to live together.  The church is meant to embody a new kind of humanity.

But this vision of a reconciled community is not just limited to individuals or even the church. John’s Gospel speaks of God’s Love for the world. In fact the Greek word is ‘kosmos’. For God so loved the world… for God so loved the Kosmos. God’s saving renewing love according to John’s Gospel includes not just individual human souls but the whole world. A cosmic love that embraces the entire Kosmos. Those who experience a rebirth from within begin to share in the Kosmic love of God. Transformed individuals begins to transform the world because their hearts are aflame with a Love for the whole Ksomos.

And this renewal begins as an inward reality. The “Kingdom of Heaven” in Matthew’s Gospel begins in the heart.. and what does that kingdom look like according to Matthew’s Jesus?

Not simmering resentment. Not objectifying desire. Not manipulative speech. The kingdom is not first a political revolution. It is transformed heart, a transformed, consciousness that leads to healed relationships and then radiates outward. It is what happens when the law moves from tablets of stone to the depths of the heart.

So what does this reveal about Matthew’s perspective on the Jesus story?

It tells us that for Matthew:

• Jesus is the definitive interpreter of Torah.
• Discipleship means obedience to his teaching.
• Obedience means interior transformation.
• Interior transformation creates reconciled community.
• And reconciled community embodies the Kingdom.

The Jesus story according to Matthew is not merely about the cancellation of guilt. It is about the creation of a new humanity.

And so the question for us is not, “Have I avoided murder?” but “What is happening in my heart toward my brother or sister?” Not, “Have I technically kept the rule?”
but “Is my life becoming whole, is my life radiating Divine Love?”

The Sermon on the Mount is not optional spirituality. It is the shape of Christian maturity. It is the slow, patient work of allowing Christ to transform not just our actions, but our perception, our desires, our speech, and our relationships. And in that transformation, the Kingdom comes.

In closing we return to Nicodemus.

He comes to Jesus at night, curious, cautious, not yet seeing clearly. And Jesus speaks to him of birth from above. Inner renewal of the heart.

Perhaps that is what Lent is for. Not moral tightening. Not religious anxiety. But allowing God to bring forth new life at the root of our being.

And why? Because “God so loved the kosmos.” Not just me. Not just you. Not even just this whole tangled, wounded, yet beautiful world, but the whole create order.

The Sermon on the Mount shows us the shape of that love lived out: anger relinquished, contempt healed, desire purified, speech made simple and true

And when that happens, even imperfectly, the kosmos begins to look, in some small way, as God intends it to be. Amen. 

​Into Temptation... Into the Wilderness with Jesus (Matthew 4:1–11)

On Wednesday, many Christians all over the world marked Ash Wednesday. Some may associate it mainly with Roman Catholics, yet for many Protestants too it has become a deeply meaningful doorway into Lent, especially those within the Lutheran and Anglican tradition, but also many ecumenically minded Methodists and Reformed Christians. On Wednesday as ashes were traced on foreheads, of Protestant and Catholic people, they would have heard these ancient words from Genesis 3:19:

“From dust you have come, and to dust you shall return.”

Ash Wednesday is therefore a reminder of our physical mortality. Physically speaking we are fragile. We are finite. And yet it is not a morbid day. It is an honest day. It clears away illusion. It invites participants into a season of preparation — a journey toward the cross, and beyond the cross, toward resurrection and a deeper awakening to our truer and deeper spiritual identity.

Lent has traditionally been a time of repentance, of self-examination, of facing temptations, and of learning again to walk more steadfastly in the way of Jesus.

And that brings us to our passage today.

Matthew tells us that immediately after his baptism, Jesus is led by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted.

Now if we consider the Gospel of Mark, which most scholars believe was written first, Mark’s account is brief and stark. Mark simply says that Jesus was in the wilderness for forty days, tempted by Satan, surrounded by wild animals, and attended by angels.

But Matthew expands that shorter narrative into something far more elaborate and dramatic. Why?

Because Matthew is writing primarily for a Jewish audience. He wants his readers to see Jesus as the fulfilment of Israel’s story, the fulfilment of Israel’s hopes, the true embodiment of what Israel was always meant to be.

And so Matthew deliberately shapes this story to echo Israel’s forty years of wandering in the wilderness.

Israel passed through the waters of the Red Sea, and then entered the wilderness.
Jesus passes through the waters of baptism, and then enters the wilderness.

Israel wandered for forty years.
Jesus fasts for forty days.

Israel was tested in the wilderness.
Jesus is tested in the wilderness.

But here is the crucial point: where Israel failed, Jesus stands firm.

Each of the three temptations deliberately echoes Israel’s wilderness experience.

1. Firstly, Stones into Bread

After forty days of fasting, Jesus is hungry. The tempter says:

“If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread.”

This is not a trivial temptation. Israel too was hungry in the wilderness. According to Israel’s epic story, they grumbled against God. They longed to return to Egypt. They doubted God’s provision.

Jesus responds by quoting Deuteronomy:

“One does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.”

That quotation comes from Deuteronomy 8, which is a reflection on Israel’s wilderness hunger. According to the story, Israel learned, slowly and painfully, that life depends on trusting God.

Where Israel grumbled, Jesus trusts.
Where Israel demanded bread on their own terms, Jesus entrusts himself to the Father.

This first temptation is about more than food. It is about using power to meet legitimate needs in illegitimate ways. It is about self-sufficiency rather than trust. It is also a story of Jesus discerning what kind of leader he would be.  Would he try and win people over by providing all their physical needs for them, or would he teach them that there is a deeper spiritual dimension to life that needs to be satisfied to live a truly satisfying life. 

2. Secondly, Throw Yourself Down

In the story, the tempter takes Jesus to the pinnacle of the temple and says:

“If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down.”

This echoes another moment in Israel’s story, at Massah in the desert, when they tested God, demanding proof of God’s presence: “Is the Lord among us or not?”

Jesus again quotes Deuteronomy: “Do not put the Lord your God to the test.”

Israel demanded signs. Israel tested God. Jesus refuses to manipulate God into proving himself. He will not build his mission on spectacle. He will not coerce belief through dramatic displays.

3. Thirdly, All the Kingdoms of the World

Finally, the tempter shows Jesus all the kingdoms of the world and their glory:

“All these I will give you, if you fall down and worship me.”

In this last temptation we hear echoes of Israel’s repeated temptation toward idolatry, the golden calf, the worship of Baal, the desire to be “like the nations.”

Again Jesus quotes Deuteronomy:

“Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.”

This is the deepest temptation of all: the temptation to achieve good ends by compromised means. The temptation to gain the kingdoms of the world through allegiance to the spirit of domination.

Israel longed for political security, military triumph, visible glory. Would Jesus fall into the trap and seek to fulfil these hopes? 

And here we must pause.

What Kind of Messiah would Jesus be?

In Jesus’ day, many longed for a Messiah. But they longed for a particular kind of Messiah: A strong man. A big man. A warrior king.

One who would raise an army, defeat Rome, restore national sovereignty, echo the conquest stories of old, crushing the Amalekites, Gideon routing enemies, David defeating the Philistines.

For many, “Kingdom of God” meant the political restoration of Israel.

But in these temptations, something profound is happening. Jesus is not only resisting the inner temptations we all must face. He is discerning what kind of Messiah he will be.

Will he use power to dominate and to force his own way?
Will he seize political control forcing others to submit to him?
Will he rule like the kingdoms and rulers of this world, lording it over those beneath him?

Or will he embody something radically different?

The Kingdom of God, as Jesus proclaims it, is not a political nation-state. It is not built on military might. It is not secured by violence.

For Jesus, the Kingdom of God is the reign of love.

It is like yeast working invisibly through dough.
It is like a mustard seed growing quietly into a tree.
It transcends tribal boundaries.
It embraces every tribe and tongue.
It heals the nations.

The inspiration for Jesus’ Messiahship is not the warrior stories of conquest in the Old Testament, but the vision of Isaiah’s suffering servant, the one who bears wounds in order to bring healing.

Here, in the wilderness, Jesus chooses the path of the servant.

And the season of Lent invites us into this same wilderness.

We may not be tempted to turn stones into bread, but we are tempted to trust our own resources more than God.

We may not stand on the temple pinnacle, but we are tempted to demand signs, to manipulate outcomes, to seek spectacle.

We may not be offered “all the kingdoms of the world,” but we are tempted to compromise our integrity and our humanity by power, influence, recognition, security.

And perhaps most subtly, we are tempted to reshape Jesus into our preferred image: 
A nationalist Jesus.  A partisan Jesus. A triumphant strongman Jesus.

But the Jesus of the wilderness chooses another way.   Matthew ends this passage quietly:

“Then the devil left him, and suddenly angels came and waited on him.”

The wilderness is not the final word. Temptation is not the final word. Even mortality, those ashes on our foreheads, is not the final word.

The one who refuses domination will walk toward a cross. The one who refuses spectacle will suffer humiliation. The one who refuses worldly power will be crowned with thorns. And yet beyond the cross lies resurrection.

Lent is a season of preparation. It is a season of repentance, not as shame, but as realignment. A season of choosing again what kind of kingdom we belong to.  Will we build lives around control, fear, and domination?  Or will we yield to the slow, transforming reign of love?

In the wilderness, Jesus chooses love. He chooses trust. He chooses the servant path. And because he does, angels attend him.

May this Lent be for us a wilderness not of despair, but of clarity.  A place where illusions fall away.
A place where we rediscover who we are, dust, yes, but dust breathed upon by God.

And may we walk with Christ, through temptation toward the cross, and through it, into the dawn of resurrection.

Amen.

Attending the Lamp Within - Transfigured by Love​ – Matthew 17:1–9

Today is Transfiguration Sunday, a Sunday stands at a turning point in the church’s year – just as the Transfiguration story stands as a turning point in Matthew’s Gospel.  In terms of the Church year it comes to us as the end of the season of epiphany just before the season of Lent starts as the Christian Calendar invites us to journey towards the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus. In Matthew’s Gospel, it is a moment of dazzling light, but it is not an escapist light. It is occurs, quite deliberately, on the way to Jerusalem, on the way to suffering, misunderstanding, and the cross.

In Matthew’s narrative, the Transfiguration comes immediately after a hard saying of Jesus. Peter has just confessed Jesus as the Messiah, only to recoil and be taken aback when Jesus speaks of rejection, suffering, and death. “God forbid it, Lord!” Peter says. And Jesus responds with the shocking words: “Get behind me, Satan.” He then speaks to all the disciples about taking up the cross.

It is six days later, Matthew tells us, a detail that already hints at deeper meaning, that Jesus takes Peter, James, and John up a high mountain by themselves. What happens on that mountain must be heard in the echo of what has just been said below it. This is not a retreat from the way of the cross, but a revelation given so that the disciples can endure it.

Matthew is very deliberate with his imagery. Mountains matter in this Gospel. It is on a mountain that Jesus delivers the Sermon on the Mount. It is on a mountain that he prays. It will be on a mountain in the final scene of the Gospel that the risen Christ gives the Great Commission. Mountains are places where heaven and earth feel dangerously close.

And here, on this unnamed mountain, Jesus is transfigured. Matthew says, “His face shone like the sun, and his clothes became dazzling white.” In the Gospel story this is not simply a moment of glory; it is a moment of recognition. The veil is drawn back, and the disciples glimpse who Jesus truly is.

Matthew’s language deliberately echoes Exodus 24, where Moses ascends Mount Sinai and enters the cloud of God’s presence. In that story too there are six days. In that story too there is a cloud. There too the glory of the Lord is described as a light – in the Moses story as a consuming fire. In that story, Moses comes down from that mountain with his face shining, so radiant that it frightens the people.

But Matthew is also careful to show us that Jesus is more than Moses. Moses appears next to Jesus, yes, but not alone. Elijah stands beside him: symbolic of the law and the prophets, the whole story of Israel, converging on the figure of Jesus. And yet it is Jesus alone whose face shines like the sun. Moses reflected God’s glory; Jesus radiates it.

Then the cloud comes, the same overshadowing cloud we find in Exodus, the same cloud that filled the tabernacle, as well as the Old Testament stories of the dedication of the Temple, the same cloud that signified the mysterious nearness of God. And from the cloud comes a voice:

“This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him.”

These words gather together several strands of Scripture. “My Son” echoes Psalm 2, where God speaks to the anointed king: “You are my Son; today I have begotten you.” That psalm is not about private spirituality; it is about God’s commitment to justice in a world of violence and oppression. It is about a kingship that stands over against the destructive powers of the age.

But the voice also echoes Jesus’ baptism, “with him I am well pleased”, and now Matthew adds something new: “Listen to him.”

This is crucial for Matthew. Moses and Elijah are present, but they are not the final word. The disciples must not freeze this moment into a shrine, as Peter instinctively tries to do. “Let us build three dwellings,” he says, one for Jesus, one for Moses, one for Elijah. Matthew tells us, with gentle irony, that Peter is still speaking when the cloud interrupts him. God, the Divine has a tendency to disrupt our small minded pursuits. 

Revelation is not given so that we can preserve it untouched. It is given so that we can follow.

Matthew alone out of the Gospel writers tells us that the disciples fall to the ground, overcome with fear. This is not the fear of terror alone; it is the fear that comes when reality is suddenly deeper and more demanding than we expected. (In the last scene of Matthew’s Gospel, the disciples also fall down to the ground before the Risen Christ, not in fear but in reverence and worship.

Getting back to the transfiguration story, Matthew alone tells us what Jesus does next. He comes to them. He touches them. And he says, “Get up and do not be afraid.”

This is the heart of Matthew’s Christology. Glory does not distance Jesus from human vulnerability; it draws him closer. The one whose face shines like the sun is also the one who bends over and reaches out to steady frightened disciples. 

Then, just as suddenly as it began, the vision ends. Moses and Elijah are gone. They see no one except Jesus himself alone. And they come down the mountain.

The way of faith, Matthew insists, does not remain in secluded rapture. It descends into the ordinary world, into conflict, misunderstanding, and pain, but now with a deeper awareness of of the One walks with us.

This is where the words from the Second Letter of Peter offer us a gift. Reflecting on the Transfiguration, the writer of Second Peter says:

“You will do well to be attentive to this as to a lamp shining in a dark place, until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your hearts.”

That is very interesting language. According to Second Peter, the Transfiguration is not only something that happened to Jesus on a mountain long ago. It is something that can happen within us.

Notice the movement in the letter of Second Peter. We are attentive to the lamp, but the dawn rises in our hearts. The light we attend to slowly becomes the light by which we see. The glory we behold in Christ begins, quietly and imperceptibly, to transfigure the one who beholds it.

This suggests a profoundly contemplative and mystical understanding of faith. Not a faith of grasping, or striving, but attending, listening deeply. Staying with the light. Allowing ourselves to be shaped by what we behold.

What might this kind of attentiveness look like for us?

Perhaps it is a practice of returning, again and again, to the Gospels, not to master them, but to sit in their presence. To listen, as the voice commands us, “Listen to him.” This could be called a Christian form of mindfulness, gently resting attention mindfully on Christ as the light of the world and the light in our hearts. Allowing him in the Gospel stories to become the lamp that illuminates our hearts and our understanding. Holding before our awareness the pattern of his life: self-giving love, truth spoken with courage, mercy extended without condition.

Perhaps this attentiveness or deep listening is also learning to notice moments of quiet radiance in our own lives when the morning-star figuratively speaking rises in our hearts: moments of quiet compassion freely given, moments of forgiveness and letting go of the past, moments when love breaks through fear, moments of deep inner connection – the kinds of moments that can bring tears to our eyes, moments of quiet stillness when we feel the joy of simply being alive and a deep inner peace and contentment. These may not look spectacular, but they are real transfigurations.

In difficult times - and these are difficult times - perhaps the invitation of the Transfiguration is to carry the mountain within us as we descend into the valleys of our own lives. To remain attentive to the lamp shining in the dark place. And to trust that, in God’s time, the morning star will rise - not only in the world, but in our hearts as well so that the Transfiguration is not just a story about Jesus, but by Divine grace it becomes our story too as we are transfigured from the inside by the light, as we, like the disciples, walk with Christ, on the road to the cross and resurrection, the road of costly but also triumphant love. 

Amen.