AUDIO RECORDNG - Sunday Service 

​Luke 2:41–52 - Growing in Wisdom and Grace

At the beginning of a new year, we often reflect on where we have been and where we are going. In today’s reading from Luke, we find a young 12 year old Jesus, caught in that in-between space between childhood and adulthood, between the familiar and the unknown. The story invites us to consider our own journey, how we navigate growth, how we seek understanding, and respond to the divine spark within us.

In the Gospel narrative, Jesus, at age twelve, stays behind in Jerusalem, immersed in the temple among the teachers. When his parents return in search of him, Mary’s question: “Why have you treated us like this?” echoes the concern of every parent or caregiver or guardian watching a loved one step beyond the bounds of the expected.  And so as the young Jesus, sits in the temple, listening, questioning and learning, he begins breaking away from the familiar patterns of his life. His questions are not about maintaining the way things have always been but rather about seeking truth, even if it challenges the assumptions of those around him.  Jesus’ response: “Did you not know that I must be in my Father’s house?” is as mysterious as it is profound for his parents who struggle to understand. It signals a shift within Jesus, a dawning awareness of his deeper purpose in life.

On this the first Sunday of the New Year this story offers us a powerful metaphor for the spiritual journey. At times, we too find ourselves being moved beyond familiar patterns, drawn toward something greater than ourselves, even when it disrupts the comfort of those around us. The call of our deeper truer nature, our deeper purpose, can unsettle others and even ourselves, but it is part of what it means to grow.

Thomas Keating once wrote that, “The greatest sin is the refusal to grow.” This warning speaks particularly to adulthood, where our ideas and beliefs often become rigid and fossilized.  In adulthood there is the danger of becoming cynical and jaded, feeling like, because we have been around the block a few times, we now know exactly what to expect from life and how life works.  Is it any wonder that for many adults, the magic of life and living feels like it is gone. But what if we don’t yet know the whole truth? What if, as St Paul says, we indeed only see in part and that in fact there is more here to see and understand?

And so this Gospel story of the 12 year old Jesus in the Temple becomes an invitation to reflect on our own growth inviting us to reflect around four things - 

Firstly, Seeking God in the Temple or the Inner Sanctuary of the Heart– In the story  Jesus stays behind in the Temple while his parents travelled back to Nazareth.  But the outward temple of Jerusalem was always only a symbol of the inner temple of the heart that all of us must seek to enter if we are to grow in wisdom and grace.  At the beginning of this New Year are we willing to spend time like Jesus in the temple of the heart or the inner sanctuary of the spirit where God dwells and were the seeds of God’s Spirit within us can be tended and nurtured? 

Secondly, the passage invites us to find companions who can help us to grow.  In the story, when Jesus’ parents find him, not only is he in the temple, but he is seated amongst the teachers in the temple courts. He situates himself among those from whom he can learn. 

Within the Buddhist tradition there is a story of the Buddha’s disciple Ananda who once remarked that good companionship is half of the holy life. But the Buddha corrected him saying: “No, Ananda, good companionship is the whole of the holy life.”  Who are the companions in our lives who stretch us and challenge us to grow, inspiring us with greater love and wisdom? 

Thirdly, the passage invites us to grow by deepening our listening.  In verse 46, when his parents find him sitting with the teachers in the temple courts, the first word that describes what Jesus does is ‘Listening’.   Listening is an essential ingredient for any form of growth or learning.  Henri Nouwen once said that "Listening is much more than allowing another to talk while waiting for a chance to respond.” 

To listen deeply is to become open and attentive. Listening is the quality that opens the heart to another’s truth and another’s being.  It is the quality that rests in stillness, welcoming what is unsaid as much as what is spoken.  Listening is the quality that hears beyond words, that temporarily suspends judgment in order to find new understanding. Listening is the quality that creates space in which new possibilities, new perspectives and new insights, can be discovered. And listening requires humility and attentiveness.  It calls for stillness and patience.

Fourthly, not only is Jesus sitting amongst the teachers listening, He is also asking questions. Little children remind us of the importance of asking questions in order to grow in understanding.   Questioning is essential if we are to grow, but Christianity has not always given space for people to ask questions.  It is one of the gifts of the Non-Subscribing Presbyterian Church that it’s members are not asked to accept unquestioningly what the minister preaches from the pulpit, nor are they asked to accept unquestioningly a set of second hand doctrines handed down to them.  Questioning in our tradition is to be encouraged. 

Albert Einstein once said that "The important thing is not to stop questioning. Never lose a holy curiosity." When we cease to be curious, asking probing questions we stop growing. Thich Nhat Hanh the Vietnamese Zen teacher writes: "Sometimes the questions are more important than the answers, for the questions keep us present, humble, and open."   This is echoed in the words of Bertrand Russell who once said "The whole problem with the world is that fools and fanatics are always so certain of themselves, and wiser people so full of doubts."  

As our questions and doubts keep us humble, present and open, one could also say questions keep us trusting in a Higher Wisdom. There is something bigger at work than our egoic thinking.

As the Gospel story comes to an end, Jesus does not remain in the Temple. He returns to Nazareth, to the ordinary rhythms of life, where he will need to integrate his spiritual insights into daily living. This is the balance we are all called to embody, drawing strength from the inner sanctuary while engaging fully with the responsibilities of the world.

At the beginning of the this New Year, whether we choose to make resolutions or not, may we simply allow ourselves to be open to continue learning and growing.  Like the boy Jesus in the Temple, may we seek moments when we can enter the temple of the heart, the inner sanctuary of the spirit where God dwells. May we spend time with companions who stretch us and challenge our assumptions and grow our understanding. May we practice the art of deep listening being open and attentive to life and to those that we meet. And may we nurture a holy curiosity, asking probing questions that keep us open and humble and thus truly wise. Amen. 

THE CAROL SERVICE AUDIO RECORDING -
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Advent 4 - Joseph Chooses Love over Fear - Matt 1:18-25

As we light the fourth Advent candle, the candle of Love, we turn to Matthew 1:18-25, the story of Joseph’s dream.  As with the other passages we have been reflecting on, this story provides a universal metaphor for how the Divine breaks into our lives and our world. Beneath its surface lies a profound invitation: to embody love—a love that is courageous and compassionate.

In the story, Joseph is faced with a dilemma. Mary, to whom he is betrothed, is found to be with child. According to the accepted cultural customs of the time, Joseph could have chosen to distance himself from Mary, preserving his honour and fulfilling the expectations of society. Instead, Joseph listens deeply. He opens his heart to a voice beyond his fear and pride—the voice of the Divine, the voice of possibility, the voice of Love itself. The angel in the dream whispers, “Do not be afraid.” And Joseph, in a moment of surrender, chooses love over fear. He chooses to stand by Mary, to embrace the unexpected, to welcome life unfolding in a way he had never imagined or planned.

What does it mean for us to choose love in our own lives? Love is often portrayed as gentle and sentimental, but Joseph’s story reminds us that true love requires great courage. Love calls us to move beyond our fear, fear of judgment, fear of what others might think or say, fear of vulnerability, fear of the unknown, and to trust in a Greater Wisdom unfolding in the midst of what may feel sometimes like a world of chaos. In these moments, Love calls us to stand beside others when it would be easier to turn away. It calls us to choose compassion over respectability. It invites us to accept the mystery of life even when we cannot see the full picture.

And so, in this Advent season, as we are reminded of the Infinite Love of God shining upon a fragile world, lost in the darkness of human fear, pride, cruelty and violence, we ask ourselves: Where are we being called to choose love? Where might we set aside our fears, our pride, or our doubts to make room for something greater?

The story of Joseph reminds us that love is an active choice, not just a feeling. As we are touched by that Divine Love and Light that has been revealed in the Christ-child, love should become something we do, something we live, something we participate in. Like Joseph in the story, when we choose love, we make space for new life, new possibilities, and new hope – for the Christ-child to be born again into the world. Amen.

The Audio Recording of Beany and Sheenie's Nutivity Quiz

Luke 1:57-80 -  Joy in a Fragile World

Advent is a season of waiting, and anticipation. In this fragile world, where uncertainty and fear often cloud our vision, the Advent theme of Joy invites us to pause and contemplate a deeper truth. 

In Luke 1:57-80, after the story of the annunciation and Mary’s visit to Elizabeth, we read of he story of  the birth John the Baptist and Zechariah’s prophetic song. Again, the narrative is more than a single moment in time. It is a universal metaphor for how the divine speaks into the fragile, human places of our lives bringing joy into the world.  

The narrative begins with Elizabeth’s miraculous pregnancy in her old age reaching its culmination as she gives birth to her son John the Baptist. Her neighbours and relatives rejoice with her, not just because a child is born, but because they perceive in this event the hand of something greater.  Every birth, every new beginning, reminds us of life’s sacredness, even in a world that often feels broken. A few weeks ago in church I mentioned a quote that every new baby born into the world is a reminder that God has not given up on humanity.  But sometimes there is born into the world those who will profoundly shape and change the world… those who will make a huge impact on the world for the better.  The birth of John the Baptist in Luke’s narrative is one of those moments. 

Zechariah’s story echoes and amplifies this joy of Elizabeth and her companions. His silence, imposed earlier in the narrative because of his disbelief, ends when he names his son John, in obedience to the angel’s message. In that moment, his tongue is freed, and he bursts into song—what is often called the Benedictus. Zechariah’s song is a hymn of liberation, a proclamation of joy rooted in the fulfilment of ancient promises. He sees his son not just as a child but as one who will prepare the way for transformation, for a world redeemed by love and light.

This is a joy that transcends his own personal happiness. It is the joy of hope breaking through a collective despair. As Zechariah finds his voice again, he sings of healing, wholeness, forgiveness, and peace, breaking through into a fragile world. His words remind us that joy is not an escape from the world’s fragility but a courageous and defiant embrace of its potential to be renewed and transformed.

This Advent, it feels like our world is more fragile than ever. Yet Advent reminds us to seek joy not as an avoidance of these realities but as a response to them. Joy, like the light of the Advent candles, begins small and tentative but grows as we nurture it. It is found in the small, courageous acts of love and kindness, in the willingness to believe in a better world even when evidence is hard to find.

Zechariah’s prophecy closes with a promise: the dawn from on high will break upon us, guiding our feet into the way of peace. 

On this third Sunday of Advent may we light the candle of Joy in our hearts so that in the midst of a fragile world joy rise like the dawn, guiding our feet into the way of God’s Peace. Amen. 

Today's Service - Audio Recording

A Radical Vision of Peace - Luke 1:39-56

The second Sunday in Advent, with the lighting of the second advent candle, invites us to reflect on the theme of peace—not a superficial calm, but a profound and transformative peace that transforms individual human hearts and goes on to reshape the very fabric of our world. It is a peace born of a radical love for others. Nowhere is this vision clearer than in the Magnificat, Mary’s song of praise in Luke 1 as she bursts into song at meeting her cousin Elizabeth.  

Mary has just learned that she is pregnant. The first thing she does is go on a road trip into the hill country to meet with her beloved cousin Elizabeth.  The news cannot be contained in her own heart. It needs to be shared with someone special. Someone she trusts. Someone who will not reject her because she is not yet married. Someone whose heart is big enough to embrace her in this in this moment of both joy and crisis. 

The bond between Elizabeth and Mary is tangible.  There is a shared intuition between them.  Elizabeth’s own heart leaps within her at the arrival of Mary and at the same time, the child in her womb leaps as well. She senses that something deeply significant for the world is unfolding in Mary’s life and growing in her womb. Blessed are you among women and blessed is the fruit of your womb.  And in response, Mary bursts spontaneously into song.  The opening passages of Luke’s Gospel read a little bit like a musical. 

But the song of Mary is no lullaby; it is in fact quite a radical manifesto of love. It is a bold declaration that peace comes not through preserving the status quo but through a radical reordering of society on the principles of love, bringing justice and balance to a world fractured by inequality under the Roman Empire and a corrupt and patriarchal Jewish hierarchy – a symbol of all corrupt and patriarchal religious institutions in this world that undermine the ways of love and peace while pretending to be righteous and religious on the outside. 

Mary’s visit to Elizabeth is thus more than just a meeting of relatives. It is a quiet revolution of love and kindness, a coming together of two women baring within them the seeds of profound change for the world they live in. A change that begins from within.  Elizabeth bares within herself the seed of John the Baptist who will call people to a radical change in their lives.  Mary bears within her womb the seed of Jesus – the King of Love. And in their exchange, we see a glimpse of the conditions for real peace that Mary proclaims. It is a peace born in community and solidarity between two marginalised women, where the lowly are lifted up, and where hope for a better world is rekindled.

Elizabeth’s affirmation of Mary—“Blessed are you among women”—is an act of courage in itself. It recognizes that peace begins in the margins, where the world’s forgotten and oppressed find their voices. This setting prepares us for the song of Mary, which shifts our focus from the personal to a new vision of hope and peace for the world born of reverence to the God of Goodness and Love.  

Mary’s Magnificat is not merely a hymn of gratitude; it is a proclamation of God’s justice breaking into the world. “He has brought down the powerful from their thrones and lifted up the lowly; he has filled the hungry with good things and sent the rich away empty.” These are not abstract ideas—they are a call to reimagine society. 

This is peace as justice, peace as a realignment of power and resources. In a world where the few hold much and the many struggle, Mary’s words are a challenge to all systems of oppression and exclusion that leave people marginalised and powerless, unable to fulfil the potential that God has placed within them. They remind us that true peace cannot exist without addressing inequality or without actively seeking to the flourishing of those at the bottom of society. 

As Khalil Gibran wrote, “You shall be free indeed when your days are not without a care nor your nights without a want and a grief, but rather when these things girdle your life and yet you rise above them unbound.” Peace is not the absence of struggle but the presence of justice and dignity for all and the vision of devoting our lives to creating value in the world.

Mary’s song also envisions balance, a restoration of harmony to a world out of sync. The proud are humbled, and the humble are lifted up. The hungry are fed, and the rich are emptied. This is not about punishment; it is about healing fractured societies that are out of balance and out of harmony with themselves. It is the recognition that a society in which resources and power are hoarded by a few is not only unjust but unstable. The hoarding of wealth undermines the harmony and stability of society.  It is a well known fact that those societies that are the most unequal in the world also have the greatest levels of crime and violence. And so we ignore the needs of those at the bottom of society at our own peril.  And the flourishing of those at the bottom of society is for the benefit and harmony of the whole. 

The Dhammapada teaches, “Hatred is never appeased by hatred in this world. By non-hatred alone is hatred appeased. This is a law eternal.” Mary’s vision aligns with this truth: the peace she sings of is not born of retribution but of restoration. It is a peace that seeks the flourishing of all, not just a privileged few.

In our fragile world, the Song of Mary remains profoundly relevant. We see its echoes in movements for economic justice, environmental stewardship, and human rights. Mary’s vision calls us to ask: Where are the hungry in our world today? Who are the lowly waiting to be lifted up? What are the places of imbalance in the world today where balance needs to be restored? And what is our role in this work of peace?

John O’Donohue offers this wisdom: “May the light of your soul bless the work you do with the secret love and warmth of your heart. May you see in what you do the beauty of your own soul.” I think these were words that Gavin Byrne used in his sermon last week.  The Song of Mary invites us to see our work for peace as sacred, to recognize that even small acts of kindness and courage contribute to a larger transformation.  Jesus suggests that even the smallest act of deep and genuine love and care for others (especially the lowly and marginalised) is like leaven that causes the whole dough to rise. 

And so as we light the second candle of Advent – the candle of Peace, not just on our Advent wreathe, but even more so as we light it in our hearts, may we remember that peace is not passive. It is a bold, radical act of love for others. It calls us to move beyond our own limited and narrow self-interest. It calls us to challenge systems of inequality, to lift up the lowly, to feed the hungry, and to create spaces where balance can be restored and where all can flourish.

And so in the spirit of Mary’s song, may we be peacemakers this advent. Not merely wishing for a better world but actively participating in building one. May we, like Mary, sing songs of justice and joy, trusting that the seeds we plant today will grow into a harvest of hope and harmony into the future.  May we remember that no seed of love planted in the world is ever too small to make a difference… even if it as small as a mustard seed. 

AUDIO RECORDING - Todays Service -  led by Gavin Byrne

Also a short reflection by Brian...

Hope in a Fragile World - Luke 1:26-38 

Advent is a season of waiting and preparing. It is a sacred pause where we symbolically light candles against the gathering dark of winter, trusting all the while that the Light will turn. Today, on this first Sunday of Advent, we reflect on the theme of hope in a fragile world, hope, that fragile yet resilient light that lives on in our hearts even in the darkest of times.

The Annunciation, the angel's message to Mary, is more than a single moment in time. It is a universal metaphor for how the divine speaks into the fragile, human places of our lives. Mary, is a young woman of little status, living in a world dominated by empire, and is asked to carry the impossible: hope for a new world, a world shaped not by fear and power and violence but by love, service and peace. Her response, “Let it be,” (let it be to me according to your word) is an act of radical trust—a trust that the seed of hope planted in her would grow even amidst uncertainty.

In our own lives, we too are often visited by "angels"—not winged messengers, but whispers of possibility in the midst of despair. Sometimes, the hope offered feels as improbable as the angel’s promise to Mary. Yet, hope is not about certainty; it is about courage. It is about saying, "Yes," to the possibility of light, even when the shadows loom large.

Rumi writes, "Try not to resist the changes that come your way. Instead, let life live through you. And do not worry that your life is turning upside down. How do you know that the side you are used to is better than the one to come?"

The world around us feels fragile—climate change, war, division, the cost of living crisis—but hope is not about ignoring these realities. It is about choosing to act in love despite them. In this regard, the Tao Te Ching reminds us: "A tree that fills a man’s embrace grows from a tiny shoot. A tower nine stories high begins with a heap of earth. The journey of a thousand miles starts from where you stand."

Hope starts small, like a seed in Mary’s womb, like the first flicker of a candle’s flame. It is nurtured by each act of kindness, each step toward justice, each word of compassion.

This Advent, may we embody Mary’s trust. May we cradle hope within us, even when it feels fragile. And may we, like her, dare to say, “Let it be,” to the dreams of a better world that the divine plants in our hearts.

I close with another quote from Rumi:  If everything around you seems dark, look again, you may be the light”  -  as Jesus reminds us in Matthew – You are the light of the world… Perhaps God wishes us to become the hope that people are looking for – the hope of the light of Christ's Love shining through us? 

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.