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.

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 
​
​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.

Seeing with the Eyes of Love (Mark 10:46-52)

Rev. Bob Oshita, a minister in the Buddhist Churches of America once shared the story of a woman from his own congregation who had been blind for many years and finally underwent an operation, that was able, with new medical advances, to restore her sight. After the surgery, she could see again for the first time in many years. As she stepped outside and began looking at the world with her newly restored vision, she found herself overwhelmed with awe and love. Everything around her appeared radiant—more beautiful than she had ever remembered or imagined. The trees, the sky, the flowers, the people—they all seemed to sparkle with life. Even the rubbish lying on the street seemed beautiful to her.

What struck Rev. Bob was how this woman’s experience mirrored something deeper—a shift not just in physical vision, but in her capacity to see the world in a new, more profound way. Through her restored sight, she encountered everything around her with a sense of awe and love. He described her as seeing with ‘enlightened eyes’, what Eknath Easwaran calls, ‘seeing with the eyes of love’. 

This story resonates with the Gospel passage we are reflecting on today, the healing of blind Bartimaeus in Mark 10:46-52. Like the woman in Rev. Bob's story, Bartimaeus experiences a moment of transformation where his blindness is lifted, allowing him to see the world anew.

Bartimaeus, a blind beggar sitting by the roadside, cries out to Jesus, "Son of David, have mercy on me!" He is rebuked by the crowd, but he persists, crying out even louder. When Jesus hears him, he calls Bartimaeus forward and asks, "What do you want me to do for you?" Bartimaeus responds simply, "Rabbi, I want to see." Jesus tells him, "Your faith has healed you," and immediately, Bartimaeus receives his sight and follows Jesus along the road.

As I have said previously, the Gospel are not simply histories of the life of Jesus.  They are symbolic narratives, designed to communicate symbolically the deeper meaning of Jesus life, ministry and teachings.  And so we need to look beneath the surface of each story. And when we do so in this passage we see that there is a deeper significance here beyond the physical restoration of sight. Bartimaeus’s cry, “I want to see,” reflects a universal human desire: the longing to perceive reality as it truly is, to see beyond the surface and into the heart of life. The crowd initially tries to silence Bartimaeus, much like the distractions of life often silence our deeper longing for the Divine. But Bartimaeus persists, crying out even louder. This persistence symbolizes the deep, inner yearning of the soul that refuses to be silenced.  And so Bartimaeus’s healing symbolizes more than just the ability to see the world with physical eyes; it is an awakening of spiritual vision, of seeing with the eyes of love, what Paul in Ephesians speaks of as the opening of the eyes of the heart (Eph 1:18).

This story of Bartimaeus stands in stark contrast to other figures in Mark’s Gospel who remain spiritually blind. The Pharisees and religious leaders are blinded by their rigid adherence to tradition and their obsession with the minutiae of the law, unable to see the way of compassion that Jesus embodies. The rich young man, who comes to Jesus earlier in the chapter, is blinded by his attachment to his wealth  and walks away grieving, unable to release the things that hold him back from fully seeing the Kingdom of God. Even the disciples, James and John, are blinded by their desire for status and power, asking to sit at Jesus’s right and left in glory. Each of these figures, while physically able to see, remains spiritually blind—unable to perceive the deeper reality of the Kingdom of God that Jesus is inviting them into.

But Bartimaeus, in his physical blindness, already sees more clearly than many of those around him. He knows who Jesus truly is, calling him “Son of David,” a Messianic title that acknowledges Jesus’s divine mission. He recognizes that Jesus has the power to restore not just his sight, but his whole being. And most importantly, Bartimaeus, is willing to ask for help, to cry out for mercy.  His openness, his faith, and his deep desire to see allow him to experience the transformative power of God’s love.

In many ways, Bartimaeus represents each of us. We, too, are often blind—not in the physical sense, but in the way we fail to see the world through the eyes of Christ and the lens of love. We are blinded by our egos, our attachments, our fears. We may see people, but we don’t always see them as they truly are. We may look at the world, but we fail to recognize the sacredness in each moment. Like Bartimaeus, we need healing—not just of our physical sight, but of our spiritual vision.

And what does it mean to be healed? To see with the eyes of love is to see the world as God sees it, as Christ sees it: with the eyes of wisdom and compassion, with understanding, and with an awareness of the inherent unity that connects all beings. When we see with love, we begin to see beyond surface differences—beyond race, class, status, or beliefs—and recognize the common humanity that binds us together. We become more patient, more forgiving, more willing to extend mercy to others, just as Bartimaeus, whose name means, ‘Son of the unclean’, knew his own need and sought mercy from Jesus. 

This is what Eknath Easwaran calls “seeing with the eyes of love.” He writes:

"When we see with the eyes of love, we see a different world. Where others see divisions and separateness, we see unity and togetherness. Where others see differences, we see the same self in all."

This way of seeing transforms our relationships, our communities, and our world. Instead of focusing on what divides us, we begin to recognize something of our shared humanity, our shared struggles, and our shared potential for growth. We no longer view others constantly with suspicion or judgment but with greater compassion and empathy seeing more clearly our common human tendency to be lost in spiritual ignorance and spiritual blindness and in the process bringing suffering upon ourselves and others. 

Bartimaeus, once healed, immediately follows Jesus along the road. This is no small detail—it signifies that true spiritual sight leads to action. Once we see with the eyes of love, we are called to walk the path of love, to live in a way that reflects the truth of what we have seen. We are invited to follow Jesus, not just as a historical figure, but as the embodiment of love, wisdom, and compassion.

Eknath Easwaran also reminds us:

"As this awareness grows within us, we begin to live in harmony with this unity, as we are able to love without distinction, without any reservations. This is the supreme vision of love, and it has the power to transform everything in our lives."

And so, like Bartimaeus, may we have the courage to cry out for mercy, to ask for the healing we need, and to open ourselves to the possibility of seeing the world with new eyes—the eyes of Christlike love. And once we have received that sight, may we follow the path of compassion and wisdom, transforming ourselves and the world around us. Amen.

The Way of Jesus, the Tao, the Bodhisattva - Mark 10:35-45 

Today marks the 69th Year since JRR Tolkien published the book ‘The Return of the King’, third and final book in his Trilogy ‘The Lord of the Rings’.  The series of books grew out of Tolkien's traumatic experiences of participating in World War 1 and became a cathartic way for him as he worked through the trauma he had experienced.  In doing so, Tolkien also revealed the power of mythology to express deep archetypal truths about human existence.  Most specifically the book is a commentary on the ability of power to corrupt and to bring out the darkness within us.  Corrupted by power human beings have inflicted the most terrible atrocities on one another. This is symbolised in the book by the magical ring of power and that those who wear it for too long get drawn into darkness and evil. 

And this brings us to our Gospel Passage today from Mark 10:35-45.

In last week’s Gospel Passage we encountered a man who was blinded by his attachment to his material wealth so that he was unable to experience the deeper life of the spirit. 

In today’s Gospel Passage we now encounter two of Jesus closest disciples who are blinded by their desire for role and status, the desires of the ego, that likewise have become an obstacle to understanding and entering the life of the Spirit and the Way of Jesus. 

The story of the rich young man who is blinded by his attachment to wealth ends with Jesus saying to his disciples: “The first will be last and the last will be first.” He then tells them of his impending suffering and death in Jerusalem, but James and John show a complete failure in understanding. 

They imagine that Jesus is going to Jerusalem to over-throw the occupying forces of the Roman Empire and to re-establish the Jewish state of kingdom of Israel as a political entity bringing back the glory days of David.  They think that Jesus has come with a Jewish nationalist agenda and that his aim and purpose is to make Israel great again, to put them back on the map and to destroy and drive out their enemies.

And so James and John come to Jesus secretly, because they do not want the other disciples to over-hear what they are about to ask as they put this special request to Jesus: 

“Let one of us sit at your right and the other at your left in your glory”. 

Now we must be clear, when they refer to the glory of Jesus, they are not referring to some heavenly glory in the after-life, in world to come.  What they have in mind is something much more worldly. They are very specifically thinking of Jesus in his worldly political glory with all the political pomp and ceremony and power that goes with that.  They are imagining themselves to be Jesus right and left hand men when Jesus re-establishes the throne of David and reconstituting the political entity of the Kingdom Israel. 

Jesus replies with these words: “You have absolutely no idea of what you are asking”.  In other words, they have completely misunderstood the values, aims and intentions of Jesus. 

This becomes clear and explicit at the end of the passage. By this time the other disciples have got wind at what James and John have asked of Jesus and in verse 41 we read that they have become indignant with James and John. 

The Greek word is aganakteó and it means to be aggrieved, to be indignant
to be angry, to be incensed. It is how you might feel when someone slips in first and steals a parking that you have been waiting for.

Why are the other disciples aggrieved, indignant, angry and incensed?  Because they have been eyeing out the positions for themselves.  They too have completely misunderstood who Jesus is and what his values, aims and intentions.  The disciples reveal to us the danger that every Christian faces when our Christian faith becomes wedded firstly to a nationalistic agenda, and secondly when we follow the ego’s desire for power, role, status and control. 

And so Jesus, with infinite patience, explains to them yet again the Way of the Reign of God, the Kingdom of the Heart, the Reign of Divine Love: 

Firstly he points to the way of the Gentile rulers, the Rulers of the Nations. In other words, he is pointing to the Way of the Roman Empire and all the empires of the world.  These are the ways of domination, ruling with force and with power, clearly establishing who is boss, ‘lording it over others’ with an iron rod and threats of violence.

“Not so with you” Jesus says to them.  In other words, this is not they Way of the Reign of God. It is not the Way that Jesus is modelling for them. 

“Instead,” he says “whoever wants to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wants to be first must be the slave of all.”

And so the Ways of Jesus, the Way of the Reign of God, turns the way of power on it’s head.  It is why the Way of Jesus has often been referred to as the ‘Upside Down Kingdom’ because the Ways of divine love work from the bottom up rather than dominating and controlling from the top down. 

And Jesus goes on to say, “For the Son of Man did not come to be served but to serve and to give his life as a ransom for many.”   Here, the term ‘son of man’ does not refer only to Jesus, but in fact refers to the universal divine consciousness that resides in every human being as our highest self.  Jesus is therefore modelling what it looks like when people begin to live from their deepest spiritual identity.  Instead of grasping for power which corrupts those who live from the place of their higher divine self and allow the divine to reign within their hearts quite naturally begin to walk in the ways of humility and love, taking on the role of a servant of others, giving of themselves often at great cost for the sake of others. Jesus expresses it thus “For the Son of Man did not come to be served but to serve and to give his life as a ransom for many.”   True greatness lies not in asserting one’s individual will or ego but in surrendering it to the great whole and to the reign of Divine Love. 

And so in our passage today, Jesus challenges all our previous authoritarian notions of God as the dominating, controlling force who watches threateningly over us. Jesus is clear, the Way of God is not the way of domination over others. Rather it is to be seen in the ways of gentleness, kindness and redeeming love, the way of selfless love and humble service.

This Way of Jesus, of humble and loving service towards all people is not unique to Christianity, even though it is very profoundly embodied and expressed in Jesus.  It is  echoed very profoundly in Mahayana Buddhism in the ideal of the Bodhisattva. The Bodhisattva is one who stands on the edge of final spiritual attainment, and instead of entering the bliss of Nirvana makes a vow to delay their spiritual attainment for the sake of helping to liberate all beings who are lost in the great ocean of suffering.  This is very profoundly expressed in the legendary and mythical figure of Ksitigarbha who vows not to enter into the bliss of Nirvana until all the hell realms have been emptied and all beings trapped there have been liberated from their sufferings and they come to realise that they too are Buddha’s in disguise.  

This Way of Jesus, of selfless love and service rather than following the way of status, control and domination is also beautifully expressed in that ancient book of Chinese Wisdom called the Tao Te Ching. At the heart of the Taoist philosophy, we find the same humility and letting go of control. The Tao Te Ching teaches that the sage leads by serving, that the soft and yielding is superior to the hard, dominating and controlling.  We find it expressed beautifully in chapter 30 

Whoever relies on the Tao in governing people
doesn't try to force issues
or defeat enemies by force of arms.
For every force there is a counterforce.
Violence, even well intentioned,
always rebounds upon oneself.

And again in chapter 8: 

The supreme good is like water,
which nourishes all things without trying to.
It is content with the low places that people disdain.
Thus it is like the Tao.

In dwelling, live close to the ground.
In thinking, keep to the simple.
In conflict, be fair and generous.
In governing, don't try to control.
In work, do what you enjoy.
In family life, be completely present.

When you are content to be simply yourself
and don't compare or compete,
everybody will respect you. 

And finally the Way of Jesus, or the Reign of God is expressed profoundly in J.R.R. Tolkien's Lord of the Rings in a quote that speaks of using power for healing rather than destruction:  

“For it is said in old lore: The hands of the king are the hands of a healer, and so shall the rightful king be known.”

Amen. God bless you as you reflect more deeply on these things. 

Finding Freedom, Letting Go  – a reflection on Mark 10:17-31 

One of the great privileges of ministry is journeying with people through all the phases of their lives, but what often feels like the most privileged moment is journeying with congregation members in their final days and hours.  It often feels like an angelic voice whispers as with Moses at the burning Bush, that one should take one’s shoes off because one is standing on sacred ground. 

A few years ago, Wendy read a book by Stephen Levine entitled ‘A Year to Live’. He invites the reader to imagine that one only has a year to live and to work through what that might mean for you.  What changes would you make?  What relationships would you nurture? What things would you let go of, knowing that within the space of a year, you are in the end going to have to let go of everything? 

In today’s passage from the Gospel of Mark, we meet a man who asks Jesus a question many of us have probably asked in some form: What must I do to inherit eternal life? Modern, contemporary people would probably phrase the question:  What is the meaning of my life? How do a find true fulfilment, and a deeper sense of connection to something beyond the everyday world. For the man in the story, this question represents a sincere spiritual seeking—a desire to live in alignment with what is most true and lasting.

Yet, when Jesus gives him an answer—sell what you own, give to the poor, and follow me—the man goes away grieving. His wealth, his possessions, his attachments, are too great to let go of.  They become barriers to his deeper spiritual life. If before we die, all of us are going to need to do some serious letting go, this Rich Young Man is not ready to let go, not ready to start the shedding process that will bring him true spiritual freedom.  

This story, though situated in a specific Christian context, speaks to a universal human experience that resonates with all the great spiritual traditions of the world. At its heart, it’s a teaching about loosening the grip of worldly attachments, transformation, and the search for true fulfilment—a wisdom echoed in many of the world's spiritual traditions.

The rich man in Mark’s Gospel is not unlike many of us. He has done well for himself, followed the commandments, and likely lived a respectable life. But it is not enough. There is something missing. He is seeking eternal life, which we might understand as the search for that which is timeless, meaningful, and real. In a world of constant change, he is seeking that which changest-not to quote the hymn writer.  Yet, when asked to let go of what he has accumulated—to release his attachment to wealth—he finds it too difficult.

In all the great spiritual traditions of the world, this theme of attachment is central. Whether we look at the teachings of Jesus, the Buddha, or Hindu sages, the message is clear: the things we cling to, whether material possessions, ideas, or even our self-image, are often the obstacles to experiencing deeper spiritual freedom. The Buddha teaches that attachment to worldly impermanent things   is the root of much of our suffering, because when we hold onto impermanent worldly things —whether wealth, relationships, or status—we limit ourselves, tethering our identity to the impermanent trying to find security in things that are constantly in a state of change, like ever shifting sands. 

In this story, the man’s wealth represents more than just material goods. It symbolizes the layers of identity we build around ourselves—the roles we play, the status we achieve, the things that give us a sense of security. But these external things, no matter how much comfort they provide, are not lasting. As the mystics and sages remind us, they can obscure the deeper truth of who we are.

Jesus’ invitation to the man—sell what you own, give to the poor, and follow me—is not simply about money or charity. It’s about the willingness to let go of whatever it is that holds us back from experiencing the deeper truth of life. On the spiritual path, letting go is not an act of loss, but and act of freedom. It’s about releasing our grip on things that prevent us from living fully in the present, connected to the larger flow of life.

In our Christian tradition, this letting go is described as dying to self so that we might live in union with the Divine.

The invitation to the rich man is, therefore, a universal call to all of us: to consider what we are holding onto that might be preventing us from living more freely, more lovingly, more fully. Is it material wealth? Is it a particular identity or role we feel we must uphold? Is it an old wound that has come to define us or is it fear of change? Whatever it may be, the spiritual wisdom across the ages tells us that true transformation begins when we are willing to release these attachments and trust the unfolding of life and in a Higher Power or Wisdom that in our tradition we call God. 

When the man walks away grieving, Jesus acknowledges the difficulty of what he is asking: “How hard it is for the rich to enter the kingdom of God!” In fact, he says, it’s easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich—someone attached to the things of this world—to enter into the deeper reality of life.

The rich man’s grief shows us the pain of clinging to what is familiar, even when it no longer serves us. 

And yet, this seemingly impossible task is followed by a word of hope: “For humans/mortals it is impossible, but not for God; for God all things are possible.” This is a reminder that, though letting go can feel impossible from our limited perspective, we are not alone in this journey. The words of Jesus suggest that God, the Higher Wisdom of Life is not in fact working against us. The Great Mystery we call God is in fact on our side, infinitely benevolent, constantly working on our behalf drawing us all every onward and upward, constantly filling us with the inner power and resources to do things we thought we were unable to do. “For humans/mortals it is impossible, but not for God; for God all things are possible.”  In all the great spiritual traditions there is always the recognition that we are part of something much larger than ourselves. Whether we call that God, the Divine, the Universe, or the Tao, we are reminded that there is a deeper wisdom and grace that constantly supports us in the process of transformation. In the Christian tradition, it is the belief that the mystery God’s grace works through us, even in our weakness, helping us to release what we cannot on our own.

And so as we reflect on this story, we are invited to consider our own lives. What are we holding onto? What attachments or fears keep us from living more fully, more freely, more lovingly? And what might it look like to trust in the process of letting go?