The Reign of Love - John 18:33-37 

You may not realise it, but today is officially the last Sunday of the Christian Year – Certainly according to the Western Christian Calendar. Next Sunday is the first Sunday of Advent which begins the new calendar year for Western Christians like ourselves.  

In Advent we begin our Liturgical Year praying for the coming of the One Born to Be King. “Come Thou Long expected Jesus”.  The rest of the year plays out the drama of the Jesus story the one born to be King and yet who is rejected by both the religious and secular authorities – they do not recognise his Kingdom. And on the last Sunday of the Year we end on a high note proclaiming the Universal Reign of Christ – Jesus shall Reign, where’er the Sun doth his successive journeys run…

And so on the last Sunday of the Christian Year it has become tradition to reflect on the theme: Christ the King, which is why all of our hymns and readings today carry that theme.  

But what exactly does that mean? What kind of a King is Jesus?

Today, as we reflect on this theme of Christ the King, we encounter a powerful moment in John’s Gospel where Jesus stands before Pilate. In these verses we find the collision between contrasting visions of power, authority, and leadership. Pilate, who represents the might of the Roman Empire, questions Jesus about his kingship, asking, “Are you the King of the Jews?” Jesus’ response reveals a profound truth: “My kingdom is not of this world.”

What does Jesus mean when he says this?  For some the phrase suggests that Jesus is King of Heaven… King of the World to come.  But not all are convinced by this interpretation.  For many theologians, when Jesus says his kingdom is not of this world, he is really saying: My Kingdom is different from the (usual/normal) Kingdoms of this world. 

In this sense, the kingship of Jesus is in fact about an alternative way of using power - even in this world.  The kingship of Jesus is not about dominance, coercion, or territorial control. It is a kingship of service, humility, and truth. Pilate's understanding of kingship by contrast is rooted in power structures that enforce control through violence and fear. Yet Jesus redefines leadership entirely. His kingdom is one where the greatest are the servants, where love, not force, rules, and where truth, not propaganda, is meant to guide.

This radical reimagining of kingship subverts our normal worldly expectations. As Jesus tells Pilate, “If my kingdom were of this world, my followers would be fighting.”   But Jesus' kingdom is about inner transformation and about relational healing, not about wielding power over others.

This vision of leadership aligns beautifully with the wisdom of the Tao Te Ching, that foundational text of Chinese Taoism. Lao Tzu writes:

“The best rulers are barely known by their subjects. The next best are loved and praised. Then come those who are feared. The worst are despised. When the best rulers achieve their purpose, their subjects claim, ‘We did it ourselves.’” (Tao Te Ching, Chapter 17)

Elsewhere in the Tao Te Ching 66,  “Why is the sea King of a hundred streams? Because it lies below them. Humility gives it is power.  Therefore, those desiring a position above others must speak humbly. Those desiring to lead must follow.”

The Tao Te Ching therefore teaches that the ideal leader is one who acts selflessly, who leads not by force or self-interest, but by embodying humility and wisdom. Such a leader creates conditions for others to flourish without seeking personal glory or recognition.

This resonates with Jesus’ example. Throughout the Gospels, we see Jesus washing his disciples' feet, embracing the marginalized, and standing alongside the oppressed. His leadership empowers others to discover their own dignity and to embody love and truth in their lives.

And so when Jesus speaks of his kingdom, he is describing a reality that transcends political and social systems but also contains the seeds that will transform them as well. His kingship is about the inward transformation of the human heart and the outward creation of a world rooted in justice and compassion.

This is a kingship that challenges us to reconsider what true leadership looks like in our lives and communities. In a world often driven by competition and self-interest, Jesus and the Tao Te Ching remind us that true power lies in serving others and in surrendering our egos to the greater good.

As followers of Jesus, we are called to live out this transformative vision in our own unique way. What might it look like to embody Jesus' upside-down kingship or the wisdom of the Tao in your personal and communal life? Perhaps it means leading with quiet strength, fostering environments where others can thrive. Or it might mean confronting the injustices of this world not with violence but with love, truth, gentleness and resilience.

On this Sunday of Christ the King, may we commit ourselves to this higher vision of leadership—a leadership that reflects the truth of the Spirit within us all, the truth that binds us to one another in love. For this is the kingdom Jesus spoke of, the kingdom not of this world, but a kingdom that is ever being born among us when we live as agents of compassion, justice, and peace.

Amen.

​“The End of the World (as We Know It)” - A Reflection on Mark 13:24-32

Today’s passage from Mark 13 is filled with striking images: the sun darkened, the moon dimmed, stars falling, and the heavens shaking. In our modern minds, these words might conjure scenes of destruction, chaos, or fear – perhaps bringing to mind scenes from the Valencia floods or War in Gaza and Lebanon. But as we explore this passage, I want us to consider it not as a prophecy of doom, but as a message of hope, resilience, and readiness—something far more empowering than we may realize at first glance.

To truly understand this passage, we must first step back to consider the world in which Mark was writing. The Gospel of Mark was composed around the year 70 AD, during one of the darkest periods of Jewish history. Jerusalem was in turmoil. The Roman Empire, whose power loomed over every aspect of life, had just brutally crushed a Jewish uprising with relentless violence. 

Josephus describes how the Romans encircled the city of Jerusalem cutting off all supplies in order to starve the population into submission.  Josephus recounts scenes of extreme desperation, with people resorting to eating anything they could find. Roman soldiers are also described as showing little mercy to the Jewish people. As they breached the city, they went on a rampage, killing indiscriminately.  Josephus also describes how thousands of captured Jews were crucified outside the city walls as a display of Roman power and as a warning to anyone who might contemplate further rebellion.

In the process of this siege of Jerusalem, and the crushing of the rebellion, the Temple—the very centre of Jewish worship and identity—was destroyed, leaving the people devastated and disoriented. For many Jews, the destruction of the Temple was tantamount to the end of their world. The end of the world as they knew it. 

And in the midst of this, Mark’s Gospel was written for fledgling a Christian community trying to make sense of their place in a world that seemed to be collapsing around them. The imagery of cosmic upheaval—the darkening sun, falling stars—echoes this collective experience of upheaval, uncertainty, and loss. And yet, Mark’s intention was not to add to the fear of his audience. Instead, he offered words of encouragement, solidarity, and even a sense of divine purpose amid the chaos.

Ched Myers, a theologian who has explored deeply the social-political context of Mark’s Gospel, suggests that this apocalyptic language doesn’t point to literal events. Rather, like all the ancient Jewish apocalyptic writing of that period, Mark’s Gospel uses symbolic language to depict the downfall of oppressive systems and regimes. When Mark speaks of the sun darkening and stars falling, he is referring not to the literal end of the world as most fundamentalist evangelicals would read it.  Rather, Mark is referring symbolically to the collapse of earthly powers that seem unshakable—empires like Rome that dominate and dehumanize others.

For Ched Myers, this passage is a call to resist oppression. Just as ancient Israel longed for freedom from Egypt, Jesus’ followers now longed for liberation from Rome. Jesus’ words here would have resonated as a message of hope: the empire’s power is not eternal. Its grip on God’s people will one day come to an end, and a new order—one built on justice and compassion—will emerge.

Jesus gives his followers a simple image to hold onto—a fig tree sprouting new leaves, signalling that summer is near. This is a reminder to be vigilant and attentive to the times. Just as we can read the signs of the seasons, we can also recognize the movements of justice in the world. It’s a message of active waiting, a call to discern where God’s Kingdom might be breaking through, even in times of turmoil.

In our world, we may look around and see reasons to despair. We might feel as if darkness is settling, not just over the sun, but over the very heart of our societies—through wars, inequality, environmental crises, and divisions that wound our communities. But Jesus’ words remind us to keep looking, to keep hoping, and to see the signs of new life and new possibility emerging, even in the midst of crisis.

As Myers points out, Jesus’ promise in this passage isn’t just about individual survival or escape. When he speaks of gathering “the elect,” he envisions a new community, united not by fear but by a shared hope in the ultimacy of Divine justice. This gathering of the so-called ‘elect’ is an invitation to become a new kind of people, living out God’s values of compassion, mercy, and resilience in a world that often lacks them.

We, too, are invited into this community of hope. As followers of Jesus, we are called to form a different kind of kingdom—not one ruled by power or wealth, but rather by love and service. We are called to bear witness to a better way, even if it seems at odds with the world around us.

At the end of the passage, Jesus reminds us that no one knows the exact timing of these events—not the angels, not even the Son. This statement has often been taken as a caution against obsessing over predictions of the end times, but it is in fact more than that. It’s an invitation to live as if the Kingdom is always near, to embody its values in every moment.

The writer of Mark’s Gospel doesn’t wish us to live in fear, scanning the skies for signs of disaster. Instead, he calls us to live faithfully, in the present, bringing the Kingdom to life through our actions, words, and choices. We don’t know the timing of God’s renewal, but we do know our role within it—to live as God’s agents of peace and justice, creating glimpses of the Kingdom here and now.

AUDIO RECORDING OF TODAYS REMEMBRANCE DAY SERVICE 

A Remembrance Sunday Reflection on Mark 12:38-44 

On this Remembrance Sunday, we reflect on the sacrifice and courage of those who served in times of war, those who gave up their lives, and those who bore witness to incredible suffering, all in the hope of building a world of peace. Our Gospel passage from Mark 12 offers us a striking image of sacrifice and humility that speaks directly to this Day of Remembrance.

In this passage, Jesus observes people bringing their offerings to the Temple. The wealthy give large sums, visible to all, but a poor widow quietly places two small copper coins into the treasury—an amount so small that it would go unnoticed by most. Yet, Jesus sees her act and says, “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all the rest. For they all contributed out of their abundance, but she, out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.”

The widow’s offering is, in worldly terms, insignificant, but Jesus suggests that in God’s eyes, it is priceless. Jesus measures her gift not by its material value but by the love and sacrifice with which it is given. She gives, not out of her abundance, but out of her very being. Her gift is a complete offering of herself, her whole trust placed in God. She gives all she has.

The sacrifice and self-giving of the poor widow is significant in a deeper sense in Mark’s Gospel, for it comes not long after Jesus has arrived in Jerusalem, the place where he has repeatedly warned his disciples of the sacrifice of his own life to come.  Repeatedly the disciples have failed to understand.  But in this unknown and socially insignificant woman, who stands on the margins of life, we see one who has already entered the Way of the Kingdom in contrast to the rich and the powerful, and in contrast to the disciples themselves all who are all in one way or another seeking rewards, recognition, wealth or glory. 

As we remember those who served in wars past and present, we can recognize something of this widow’s spirit in them. Many who went to war gave of themselves in a way that cannot be measured by any worldly calculation. They offered not out of abundance or for personal gain, but from a deep sense of duty and selflessness. Their sacrifice, like the widow’s, often came without recognition or reward, a quiet giving of their very lives to protect others, to defend peace, and to resist the forces of hatred and division.

Psalm 146 complements this message by calling us to place our trust not in the powerful of this world but in God alone, “who executes justice for the oppressed, who gives food to the hungry, opens the eyes of the blind, raises those who are bowed down... watches over the foreigner, relieves the fatherless and widow; who lifts up those who are bowed down.” The psalm reminds us that real strength and security are not found in armies or wealth, but in God’s unwavering love and justice. Those we remember today embodied that same spirit of trust, willing to sacrifice their safety for the hope of a world shaped by compassion, justice, and peace.

The heart of such sacrifice is love. 1 Corinthians 13 tells us that even if we accomplish great feats, without love, we gain nothing. “If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing.” Love, Paul tells us, “is patient, love is kind… it does not seek its own advantage.” Love is at the centre of every true sacrifice. Those who served and fell in the line of duty surely did so not for self-advancement but ultimately for love—love for family, country, freedom, and peace.

In light of today’s Gospel, we are invited to honour that love by cultivating a spirit of humility, generosity, and self-giving. Just as the widow gave her all, we too are called to give of ourselves, to love one another sacrificially, and to work for a world of peace. 

May we honour those who served, then, not only with words but by living out the values they defended. Let us work for justice, pray for peace, and live with hearts open to all, seeking to heal divisions and bridge divides. And may we be willing to offer our own small acts of love and kindness—our own “two copper coins”—for the sake of a world where all may live in dignity, harmony, and hope.  

In remembering their sacrifice, may we also be inspired to place our trust in the God of peace and justice, who lifts up the humble and honours the small acts of love that so often go unseen. And may we, like the widow, be willing to give all that we have, that we too might bear witness to God’s love in this world.

Video Reflection on Mark 12:28-34

Greatest Commandment or Greatest Promise? - Mark 12:28-34 
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​In today’s reading from Mark, Jesus gives us what he calls the greatest commandment: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind, and with all your strength,” and the second, “Love your neighbour as yourself.” These words are often heard as commands. But Frederick Buechner an American author, Presbyterian minister, preacher, and theologian, offers us a new perspective on them when he writes these words: “The final secret I think is this, that the words ‘You shall love the Lord your God’ become in the end less a command than a promise.”

When we hear Jesus’s words as commands, they may feel like a weight on our shoulders, one more thing we must do in an already full life. But Buechner suggests that love for God is not so much something we must strain to produce or impose upon ourselves—it is, in the end, something promised to us. It is a relationship with God or the Divine that, over time, invites us to experience God’s love so deeply that loving God back becomes as natural as breathing. This promise implies a gentle unfolding of God’s love within us rather than a rigid rule imposed upon us that we have to live up to. Love is not so much something we have to live up to, but rather a Divine Promise that we must learn to live into.

In this view, we might hear the words of Jesus as an invitation and a whisper of possibility rather than an obligation. The promise of loving God with all our heart, soul and mind is one that God fulfils within us as we open ourselves to the Divine presence in our lives. Seeing these words of Jesus in this way shifts the focus from the question "How much am I loving God?" to "How much am I letting God love me? “How much am I opening my heart to the Infinite and Boundless Love of God”


But Jesus in fact remind us that the Kingdom of God is within us, which suggests that this Divine Love of God already resides within us and is woven through the fabric of all things. From this perspective Rumi, the Sufi Mystic’s quote rings true when he says: “I looked in temples, churches, and mosques, but I found the Divine in my heart.”

This promise extends also to loving our neighbour as ourselves. The more we experience the vastness of God’s love flowing up from within and through our own hearts, the more naturally that love flows out to others. Loving our neighbour, then, becomes less about exerting our will to be good and more about an overflow of the love we’ve received. In 1 John, we read, “We love because God first loved us.” The command to love, then, is ultimately a promise that we will grow in compassion, kindness, and empathy.

If love of God and love of neighbour are promises rather than demands, then faith becomes an invitation to rest and trust rather than strive and labour. And in resting and trusting in the Divine Love, we find ourselves gradually transformed, growing more capable of love in ways we might never have thought possible, becoming more loving not so much by effort, but by letting God’s promise of love take root in our lives.