To each . . . for the common good

A reflection on John 2:1-11: Sunday, 14 January 2007

Over the years, Carol and I have been to the cinema on quite a number of occasions to see movies which are all about weddings.

There was My best friend’s wedding, and Four weddings and a funeral; there was the very Australian Muriel’s wedding, and the remake of an old favourite Father of the bride.

These movies are all comedies and the use of wedding breakfasts for comic possibilities is a tried and true formula. Even Greek theatre more than two thousand years ago was using the wedding feast as the setting for comedy.

Today’s gospel reading is another wedding breakfast, but is it comedy?

Well, let’s think about this for a moment. Can we recognise comic elements in the story, even if it doesn’t read like twenty-first century comedy to us?

Some comic possibilities:

1. The story is set among general drunkenness, after all of the other wine has run out, even the wine which is usually saved until after all the guests are drunk.

2. The Jewish mother tries, not once but twice, to organise her son into doing things her way.

3. To the amusement of the reader, the man supposedly in charge of the festivities, the chief steward, does not know what is going on.

4. And even more humorously, his servants, who are not supposed to know anything, know exactly what has happened!

But this is not a story told just for laughs.

The writer of John’s gospel sets the story in this fashion, not for the comedy, but so that we can fully appreciate the irony of what happens. The irony.

Here, at the beginning of the gospel, at the very beginning of Jesus’ ministry, we are told the story which is usually reserved for the end.

We get the “happy ending” story at the beginning!

In My best friend’s wedding the reception is at the end, the story comes to its conclusion. So, too, with Father of the bride. And even with Four weddings and a funeral, where there is no wedding at the end, the final act is played out with the friends gathered around the kitchen table, drinking coffee, the almost wedding feast.

Wedding feasts signal the end. The comedy is resolved, the time of peace and stability has arrived.

But the wedding feast at Cana comes at the beginning of Jesus’ ministry.

What ending is there here?

The clue to the answer to this question lies in the symbolism of the six stone water jars which, we are told, were used “for the Jewish rites of purification”.

This wedding breakfast is the end.

It is the end of inadequate ways of making people clean.

In the same way that the wine ran out for those gathered for the wedding, so had the rituals of Judaism come to the end of their usefulness for salvation.

Jesus, with the new wine, is the end of one way of doing things and the start of a new way..

The beginning of Jesus’ ministry is the beginning of a new way to salvation.

This story points to the end of an era and to a new revelation of God in the person of Jesus Christ.

Within this story, however, there are other clues as to why it is positioned here, and to the significance of this story within the overall context of John’s gospel.

There are only two places in the entire gospel of John where Mary, the mother of Christ, is mentioned. Only two:

Here, at the beginning, she speaks to Jesus and he replies,

“Woman, what concern is that to you and to me?
My hour has not yet come.”

The only other place where Mary is mentioned is at the crucifixion of Jesus, at the end, where her son speaks to her from the cross, again calling her “Woman”.

Why is this so?

I believe the answer lies with Jesus’ next words to Mary at the wedding feast:

“My hour has not yet come.”

Jesus’ “hour” is when the glory of God will be revealed and that hour will not arrive until he is hung on a cross, and the salvation of humanity is not fulfilled until Jesus is revealed to be the Son of God.

Jesus understands that his glory is not to be revealed casually through some cheap miracle.

But Jesus is revealed.

Despite his protests, Mary goes over his head to the servants.

Jesus is revealed and the disciples believe in him because of this, the “first of his signs”.

There is something here for us –- something reassuring, something encouraging.

Yes, this is a miracle, and because of this miracle the disciples believe.

But what kind of miracle is this?

It’s a quiet one, an unassuming one.
Jesus goes to great lengths not to make a fuss, not to draw attention to himself.

In fact, this miracle goes almost unnoticed.

If it weren’t for his mother, the disciples and the servants, this whole episode would have gone quite unremarked.

Jesus takes that most ordinary of substances, water, and turns it into something only marginally more remarkable, wine.

There is no nature miracle, no stilling of a storm or something like it, to mark the beginning of Jesus’ ministry.

There is no miraculous healing to draw the crowds to this new-found saviour.

There is no divine voice booming from heaven to command the recognition of this Jewish peasant as the heavenly Messiah.

We are drawn to belief in Christ through this very ordinary miracle –- the changing of a few litres of water into wine.

And why does Jesus perform this common miracle?

Is it too much to suggest that he does it for the “common good”?

Who benefits when Jesus turns water into wine?

Those at the party were not all disciples/believers.

It was not just the righteous sons of Israel, not just the holy, not just the deserving.

All those present were given this simple gift of wine.

They all benefited, they were all given the best that Jesus had to offer.

And so we find the theme of gifts for the common good.

The gifts of Jesus are gifts for all.

This is what Paul is driving at in the reading from Corinthians where he says: To each is given the manifestation of the Spirit for the common good. To each . . . for the common good.

Epiphany – is the season in which we reflect on how God is revealed.

God is revealed in Jesus through this miracle and his disciples begin to believe.

God is not completely revealed: that will not happen until Jesus is crucified and then rises again.

God is revealed for a purpose: that is, for the common good, for all people.

For us, this story points to God’s involvement in the very ordinary and everyday business of life. God’s desire is to be part of our ordinary and everyday lives, and that we, too, might believe in him. Jesus is Emmanuel –- God-with-us - revealed in the ordinary: water for washing, wine for drinking, friends for loving, and even comedy for laughing. Amen.

Things to come...

First of all, apologies to anyone who has been looking for new material in the last few weeks. For a variety of reasons, I haven't managed to post anything since December. However, normal transmission looks set to resume in the near future.

Please note that at the bottom of each post, there is an icon for comments. I would love to have feedback on anything that appears here on this blogspot, so please feel free...

2007 is shaping up to be an interesting year! Lots of things to explore and discover on the journey of faith. May you feel the closeness of the incarnate God with you each step of the way.

Peace - beginning here

A reflection Luke 3: 2-6: Sunday, 10 December 2006

The second Sunday of Advent is the Sunday for Peace, and you might be forgiven for wondering just how today’s bible readings talk to us about peace. Well, they don’t – at least, not directly. What they do talk to us about is “change”.

Malachi is about change. John the Baptiser is about change.

In the Hebrew Scriptures, we hear the prophet ask:

“Who can endure the day of God’s coming, and who can stand when God appears?”

And God speaks:

“I will draw near to you for judgment; I will be swift to bear witness against the sorcerers, against the adulterers, against those who swear falsely, against those who oppress the hired workers in their wages, the widow and the orphan, against those who thrust aside the alien, and do not fear me.”

But the Holy One is not really interested in judgment; what is really desired is change:

“Return to me, and I will return to you.”

God’s desire is for reconciliation:

“[You will] be mine,” says the Lord of hosts, “my special possession on the day when I act, and I will spare [you] as parents spare their children.”

When we’re thinking about peace, then the list of accusations against God’s people is interesting: adulterers, liars, oppressors, the arrogant – all of these people who destroy peace. And peace cannot be possible without change, the opportunity for change which God holds out to all.

And this is a central theme in the life and work of John who went around baptising. What was baptism for John?

“basically the rite functioned as an expression of willingness to change and be prepared for change by receiving divine forgiveness. Baptism is submission to this new initiative. It is not simply change of the individual, but change of the individual in readiness for change of the world. Change of the world means transformation, liberation, freedom, salvation.

Bill Loader

The Chinese philosopher Lao-tse says exactly this:

"If there is to be peace in the world,
There must be peace in the nations.

If there is to be peace in the nations,
There must be peace in the cities.

If there is to be peace in the cities,
There must be peace between neighbours.

If there is to be peace between neighbours,
There must be peace in the home.

If there is to be peace in the home,
There must be peace in the heart."

Christ coming to us at Christmas – this Christmas, every Christmas – is to draw us into the process of change, to draw us towards peace with ourselves, peace with those we love and with those we hate, to draw us towards peace in the world, to draw us towards the peace of the kingdom of God. And that peace begins here.

A prayer by Thom Shuman, a prayer for peace:

“but you come”

if you came

with a fistful of anger,

who could endure?

but you come

with open hands,

eager to grasp our own

in love.

if you came

with the fire of judgment,

who could endure?

but you come

with the light of grace

to show us the way.

if you came

hardened against our sin,

who could endure?

but you come

holding us in your heart,

so we might have life,

if you came

bearing bad news,

we might be able to handle it . . .

but can we endure

the gift

of good news?

even so,

come, Lord Jesus,

come.

(c) Thom M. Shuman

Hope - stars in the darkness

A reflection on Jeremiah 33:14-16; Luke 21:25-36: Sunday, 3 December 2006

Yesterday, I was reading the letters to the editor in The Weekend Australian magazine. A number of people had written responding to an article the previous week about global warming. I’ll share some of those responses with you in a moment, but first I want to point to a reality: the world is no longer the way it used to be. Global warming or climate change can no longer be denied. After years of fruitless attempts to share the bad news with us, the environmental scientists have finally been listened to. Is it too late? I don’t know; but I do know that things are looking pretty black for us, and things are looking pretty black for the world.

There is an ancient Persian saying: “When it is dark enough you can see the stars.” “When it is dark enough you can see the stars!”

Today is the first Sunday in Advent. Even though the shops have been telling us for weeks that Christmas is coming, today is the first Sunday that the church turns its eyes towards 25th December and begins to prepare for the coming of a baby.

But this morning’s readings are not about the coming baby. This morning’s readings are about the coming darkness. Our readings from Jeremiah and Luke are quite dark. And it isn’t just the readings that are dark. When we look at our world we also see much darkness.

Twenty centuries after Christ we still have wars, poverty and injustice. The world is still racked with violence, yet not destroyed. It is filled with destruction, yet not overcome. We live amidst injustice, poverty and prejudice, yet still there are signs of God’s kingdom, signs of hope.

And just as in the time of Jeremiah and in the time of Luke, we wait and we watch and we hope - for the light which Jesus will bring. For when it is dark enough we can see the stars - those little specks of light that bring hope. This first Sunday in Advent is the Sunday of hope. As Christians we are called to be people filled with hope.

Walter Brueggemann, the biblical scholar, tells us that Jeremiah was written while the Israelites lived in exile. He tells us that in exile they learnt some important things: They learnt how to express sadness, rage and loss. They learnt how to complain - not in a way which left them overwhelmed by the darkness. No. Their complaining was so that they could search for stars in the darkness. In exile they learnt how to face the darkness of their lives so that they could live in hope.

Sometimes it feels like we live in exile too. Family life, society, and the church are no longer what they used to be. The old ways are being dismantled and we are still waiting for the new ways to be birthed. At times like this we have three choices just as the Israelites of Jeremiah’s time had choices:

First, we can pretend it isn’t dark; we can go on pretending nothing has changed. But if we do this we will be left behind. The hope we have for the future will become less and less real and will no longer sustain us. Interestingly, there were letters yesterday crying out, “There’s nothing really wrong with the environment. We’ve got nothing to worry about.” It’s extraordinary the lengths people will go to, to pretend that the darkness is not real.

Second choice, we can focus on the darkness. Many people focus on the darkness of life. They keep picking at all the things that are wrong. They worry, they complain, they are negative, they become depressed and in the end they have no hope. They refuse to see the stars until, in the end, they are unable to see the stars. Again, yesterday’s letters illustrated this stance too: all is doom and gloom, global warming means the death of us and the death of the world. Darkness obscures the possibility of stars.

But there is a third choice: we can acknowledge the darkness and put our energy into searching for the stars. If we are willing to see the darkness in our lives and in the world then we can look for the stars. The stars are those points in our lives where we meet God. Those people and places that remind us that God is with us; that God will never leave us alone; that God’s ways of justice and faithfulness will come when we live lives of justice and faithfulness.

Last week, Joan was telling me about just such an event in her life and in the lives of some young refugees from Afghanistan. After a long period of time, two of their brothers arrived in Australia. After all of the struggles to convince the Australian government that their situation is one of genuine need, after all of the paperwork, all of the waiting, after many disappointments, light has shone in their darkness. There still is darkness, not just for this family with parents and a brother still in Afghanistan, still in great danger but also darkness for the millions of refugees around the world. But there are still stars that shine, to give hope to all those who wait in darkness.

As we prepare for Christmas we remember that each Advent, each coming, is a reminder to us of the hope we have because God chose to become human and live among us. Even in the darkness, or perhaps, because of the darkness, God chose to become one of us. God continues to choose today to love us, to forgive us, to invite us to journey into God’s future looking always for the stars – those signs of God’s presence with us.

Each Advent we are reminded of how God wants us to respond to the darkness within the world. We are to be the people who seek out the tiny lights of justice, and kindness, and loving, which are a part of life. We are to live in ways which make many more of these tiny lights until the darkness of our world is illuminated with the light of Christ.

Hannah - keeper of the faith

A reflection on 1 Samuel, chapter 1: Sunday, 19 November 2006

Once upon a time in a land far away there lived a woman all on her own. Perhaps I should explain: about the time - long before you and I were born, or our parents, or even their parents; about the land - it was far away, far enough for us not to have visited, even though some have tried; about the woman - because there is no story without the woman; but most of all I should explain about her living on her own.

You see, she lived on her own with other people. By which I mean she shared her home, her hearth, her bed with others, but she was still on her own. It’s possible to live with others and be alone. It’s possible to rise and eat and work and sleep surrounded by family and friends and still be on your own. Perhaps you know what I mean.

The woman’s name was Hannah - you had guessed that by now - and her aloneness was not comfortable: not for her, not for the man who loved her, and certainly not for the woman who feared her. When worth is measured in baby boys, then “barren” is a desperate word. It seems that Elkanah loved her all the same, even loved her more, at least that’s the way the story reads, but still barren was who she was. She knew it, and he knew it, as did her rival.

Oh, he tried to make it comfortable. Each year, a double portion of the sacrificial lamb, to comfort, to reassure, to let her know that he saw more than emptiness in her. But her emptiness couldn’t be hidden. Her emptiness became both the cause of the other woman’s delight and the cause of her anguish. How could he love her? She was empty where Penninah was full; she was desolate where Penninah was fertile; she had no sons while Penninah had ensured a lineage, a heritage, a source of confidence in times to come. But still, he favoured the wrong woman.

What does an empty woman do in times like those?

Perhaps a woman who keeps the faith might go to pray. If all else fails, perhaps the One who closed the womb might also be the One to open it. A long time ago that’s how it was seen, and even now.

Now Hannah was one who kept the faith. And so she prayed, and her prayers were answered at once.

I wonder what a modern practitioner of science might say to Hannah’s answered prayer. Do you think there might be murmurings of “mind over matter”?

Eli the priest, once reassured that the woman is empty rather than full of wine, sends her on her way: “Go in peace, and may God grant your desire.”

Peace, of course, is the very thing which an empty woman lacks. While others rise in the dark of night to attend infant cries, while others chase the rebellious offspring or mop the fevered brow, at least they have the peace of knowing their worth. For they are the mothers of sons. But in barrenness there is no peace.

“Go in peace”. An easy thing to say; a harder thing to do.

But Hannah is one who keeps the faith. Perhaps Eli’s words are a gift.

Perhaps the empty woman is already no longer empty. She is not full of child, but perhaps she bears the seed of hope. She goes away hoping to find divine favour now lodged inside her womb. And she is no longer sad.

Faith and hope are not strangers.

Faith and hope go hand in hand into the face of death. There is light in the darkness. There is resurrection to follow death. Dying to self leads to rising in Christ.

Have you noticed how often this story is told? Hannah, Ruth and Naomi, a blind man beside the road, Lazarus from a tomb, Jesus from the tomb.

And in our time: Bonhoeffer, Martin Luther King, Mother Teresa – life from death in the slums and the streets, faith and hope hand in hand.

And now we are keepers of the faith.

Help us,
O Keeper of Faith,
to keep the faith entrusted to us,
faith in a world worth saving,
faith in a dream worth sharing,
faith in a heritage worth keeping
even as we reinvigorate it
to have meaning for us now.
Help us keep faith in You,
and help us not to lose faith in ourselves,
for faith is the substance of our hope,
and hope, the assurance of love.
Praise to You, O Faithful One,
now and forever.
Amen.

(source of prayer – Miriam Therese Winter, WomanWisdom)

Poverty and abundance

A reflection on Ruth 3:1-5,4:13-17 and Mark 12:38-44: preached on Sunday, 12 November

I’ve spent a fair bit of time in the last few days trying to work out where to start with this reflection. Initially, I was drawn to the scandalous bit. You know, start “shock and horror” and go from there. But then I thought, if I was going to talk about poverty and abundance, perhaps I should open by reflecting on my own experience of poverty, or rather my own inexperience of poverty. Then again, it’s important to note that these are women’s stories – stories about women, for women. Again I could speak about this from the depths of my own inexperience of being a woman. So where to begin?

What the heck, let’s start with the scandal!

Naomi says to her daughter-in-law: “observe the place where [Boaz] lies; then, go and uncover his feet and lie down… ” To which Ruth replies: “All that you tell me I will do.”

So Ruth went and uncovered Boaz’s feet.

Have you ever wondered about that? Have you ever paused to consider why Naomi would want her beloved daughter-in-law to do that? She’s just come back from the fields, from hours of back breaking work in the sun and the dirt, and her mother-in-law says, “Go and uncover Boaz’s dirty, smelly feet and lie down with him.” Does that make sense to you?

Perhaps it makes sense if we understand that the bible doesn’t always mean what it says. Sometimes the bible uses a polite word for something else. “Feet” in the bible doesn’t always mean feet! Ever wondered about those six-winged angels in Isaiah that used one pair of wings to fly, another pair to hide their faces, and the third pair to hide… their feet!

“Observe the place where [Boaz] lies; then, go and uncover his feet and lie down… ”

Does this surprise you? Does this shock you? Aren’t you just a little bit scandalised? But doesn’t it make sense now?

These are the lengths to which Naomi and Ruth will go in order to secure a future for themselves and a heritage for their lost husbands. These are the lengths to which resourceful, committed, intelligent women will go, breaking the rules, risking scandal and shame, so that they might honour the promises they have made to each other.

Attitude is everything.

In a world of limited good, those who have little must depend upon those who have a lot. In Jesus’ world, those who had little were entirely at the mercy of those who had an abundance. And generally the attitude of the rich was (and is) to preserve their riches, to only give away what they felt they could afford, and often to only give it away expecting to get something in return. And the attitude of the poor? Well, they had (and have) two choices – resignation (the hopeless acceptance of their lot) or hope (the refusal to concede that what is will always be what is).

Naomi and Ruth were poor – at least, they were poor in material terms, in societal terms; but they were rich in other ways – they were rich in their commitment to one another, they were rich in their resourcefulness, they were rich in their belief that things might be different, and they were rich in their willingness to risk scandal in order to secure a future for themselves and their kin. They were poor and yet they also had an abundance.

If we turn to today’s gospel story of the poor woman and her two small coins, we are immediately confronted by the different attitudes of those who are rich and those who are poor. Jesus drags the attention of his disciples to the generosity of the one who can’t afford to be generous. It’s an attitude thing:

“Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those… For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.”

Now, when we bring together these three extraordinary women, we find something here which pricks our consciences and which asks us questions about poverty and abundance in our own lives.

In the vast richness of Australian society, how much time to we devote to imagining ourselves to be poor? All the illusions of how hard-up we are while we live without having to worry about where our next meal will come from or whether we will have a roof over our heads at night. When we stop long enough to put aside the illusion of poverty, we know ourselves to be rich; but we also know that it is possible to be rich in the material things yet remain poor in the things that really matter: hope, love, forgiveness, peace, compassion.

These three women operate with an abundance of the intangible things of life. What must it take to give away all that you have? How much generosity? What an abundance of hope there must be to make oneself so vulnerable. What must it take to risk so much for another? How much love? What an abundance of hope there must be to make oneself so vulnerable.

Taken together, these women ask us, “How much hope do we have? How prepared are we to do something in order to realise that hope?’

I suppose that these are the questions I see confronting John and Mary (whose child Amanda was baptised in this service): how much hope do they have for their child’s future? And how far are they prepared to go in order to realise that hope? And these are questions for all of us, parents, grandparents, and single folk alike. What hope do we have for the future, and how far are we prepared to go?

For me, there is something which lies behind the questions I raise. After all, it is possible to be filled with hope and expectations for personal riches; but without belief in the never-ending supply – the abundance – of God’s grace, personal riches mean very little. The world is full of people who are rich beyond dreaming but whose lives are full of emptiness and despair. Without something beyond ourselves, something which calls us beyond ourselves, then we are poor indeed.

But those whose lives are transformed by the living God, who are nurtured and sustained by the overflowing abundance of God’s grace, they are the ones who go beyond themselves to transform the world through love and kindness and compassion. Out of the abundance of grace they give all that they have so that all might live. Amen.

A time for prayer

A reflection on “Water… a time for prayer”, Ruth 1:1-18, and Mark 12:28-34; preached Sunday 5 November 2006

We arrived in Clermont in January 1997, when the country was displaying all the signs of the longest dry spell in recorded history. Our last hundred kilometres was through “the long paddock” – the cow cockies’ shorthand for the roadside where cattle had been turned loose to graze because the real paddocks were bare. I sought to reassure my daughter that the gaunt grey shapes of the Brahmans were not indicators that the end was nigh, but my words simply betrayed my ignorance of just how bad things really were.

A few days later we went visiting. The prospect of a property with an eleven kilometre driveway kindled our imaginations, but again reality bit into our naivety. We were taken aback as Bill’s cows rushed to greet us – cows smart enough to realise that vehicles were the source of the molasses and hay which was keeping them alive, but not smart enough to tell the difference between the feed truck and the new minister’s station wagon.

Further out we called at “Tricorner”, a carefully selected block of prime dirt – black soil so rich and so deep that the homestead had to be built on a concrete raft floating fifteen feet over bedrock. The owners had not been there long and their first year had been a good one: wheat going nearly three tons to the acre without fertilizer. But in dry times the next season saw half of that, and the year after half of that, and the year after half again.

But the saddest story was Martin’s (not his real name). His was one of the older properties, gracing the surrounding district with its name and history, a block of great beauty and immense richness – when the rain fell. Martin was a man of great faith. Shortly after we arrived, I met him in town and he spoke passionately of his love for the Lord and his deep-seated belief in the power of prayer. Repentance for his sins and earnest supplications claiming the promises of scripture would win him through. No, it had hardly rained for six years, but his faith and perseverance were sure to be rewarded by his Lord.

There was a certain fragility, however, to Martin’s claims. Six years with little or no rain in answer to his petitions meant a heroic battle to stave off doubt and uncertainty. When the end came it was not pretty. In faith, in confidence, in response to the weather bureau’s predictions and the ag. consultant’s advice, Martin planted sunflowers. And nothing happened. A week without rain, another week, a month. And almost overnight, the property was sold and Martin was gone.

Three weeks after that it rained – not much, but enough to bring the sunflowers from the soil. There was follow up rain, too – not much, but enough for a crop. A drive past Martin’s old property revealed paddock after paddock of golden, nodding sunnies, a crop like the good old days, a crop to fill the silos, to keep the property going another year at least, a crop to pay off some debts and to keep the bank manager from the door.

And Martin? Well, it’s a small world, and it was inevitable that he would hear what had transpired. Rain had fallen, but not for him. Martin had what we dismissively call a “breakdown”. At least he didn’t do what many farmers have done over the years – take the rifle down from the wall and go for one last walk down to the machine shed. But Martin was a broken man.

You and I both know that it rains on the just and unjust alike. The bible tells us that. Conversely, it fails to rain with the same lack of discrimination. Martin’s prayers presumed that God plays favourites, that the faithful will be singled out, that we just have to have enough faith. But it doesn’t work like that. After all, if it worked like that we’d all be believers.

How does prayer work?

I’m not sure just how much my prayers change God. What I do know is that my prayers change me. I could dress that up in religious language and say that through my prayers the Holy Spirit aligns my will with God’s will. Perhaps that’s what happens. Whatever the mechanism, prayer changes me.

Somehow, I am altered. When I attend to God (and surely that is what is happening when I pray) when I attend to God, I am changed.

The story of Ruth and Naomi is a profound example of how people are changed. We begin with Ruth, a Jewish wife and mother, taken to a foreign land (I hope you noted Elimelech’s pragmatism in the face of famine) and the story rapidly descends into tragedy. By the seventh verse of the opening chapter, Naomi has been widowed and her sons are dead. She is adrift in a foreign land without a single male relative to provide her with security and a place in the community. Equally, her daughters-in-law – Orpah and Ruth, having given up their birthright as Moabites and now widowed – are also without kith and kin to provide for them.

We should avoid romanticising what happens next. Naomi tries to reduce her problems by divesting herself of the liability of two daughters-in-law she simply cannot provide for. Just as practically, Ruth and Orpah resist, at least Orpah resists for a little while before deciding that her best bet is to attempt to find a Moabite man prepared to take in a used woman. And Ruth – well, Ruth utters those fabulous, famous words:

“Where you go, I will go;
where you lodge, I will lodge;
your people shall be my people,
and your God my God.”

And so begins the story of Ruth and Naomi.

What do we take from their tale? After all, God features very little in the book of Ruth. We don’t hear much about prayer; we certainly don’t hear of fervent supplications offered up and divine compassion miraculously revealed in response to faith. I’m sure that Naomi, as a faithful Jew, and Ruth, as a faithful convert, did pray. I’m sure that they called upon the name of the Lord, but the point of the story is not about how God is changed but about how Ruth and Naomi are changed.

They change. They do things differently. They attempt something neither of them has attempted before and, with great courage, they make things happen. Tragedy does not overcome them. There would be no story if they had not turned themselves around and together – note, together – confronted what had to be confronted.

Now I haven’t said much about this week of prayer, have I?

What should I say? That if we pray hard enough, God will have a change of heart and bring the rain? That if we just have more faith it will rain? That we need to repent of our sins and it will rain? That we just need to persevere a little longer – a little longer than poor old Martin, anyhow – and God will change.

Perhaps it might be more helpful to look at how we are called to change. The suggested reflections for this week of prayer call us to profound change: to be thankful, to change our ways, to care for creation, to act with compassion, and then to rest in order that we might be renewed. It is no longer a secret that there are direct and incontrovertible links between climate change and humanity’s wilful disregard of creation, and now we ask, “Is it too late for us to change?”

Surely Ruth and Naomi are to be our models – looking out for one another, demonstrating the total commitment that we need if we are to change our attitude to God’s gift of rain, demonstrating how far it is possible to go together to make things right. “I will go where you will go… Your people shall be my people.”

And here is the link to today’s gospel, Mark’s story of “which commandment is the greatest of all”:

Did you note something quite cute in Mark’s account of the scribe’s question? The scribe asks for one commandment; Jesus gives him two: Love God, and love your neighbour. And the one who does those two things is “not far from the kingdom of God”.

Praying for rain for me and for my needs is not the answer. Loving my neighbour is the answer. Recognising that the guzzling of resources that goes on in prosperous Western societies is stealing my Third World neighbour’s future. Being bold enough to say, “Your people will be my people”. Knowing that I have to change because if I don’t then the kingdom of God will slip further and further away.

I commend to you the material distributed by the Heads of Churches; I ask you to consider what changes we might make as individuals, as families, and together as the church in order to use God’s gift of water responsibly. I ask you to investigate for yourselves the true nature of what we face, because to love our neighbour means we need to be educated. You might like to visit your local library and read volume twelve of the Griffith review, or something by Professor Ian Lowe the president of the Australian Conservation Foundation, or even The weather makers by Tim Flannery.

We need to change. We need to do things differently. We must attempt something we have not attempted before and, with great courage, we must make things happen. It is not inevitable that tragedy will overcome us. But there may be no story if we do not turn ourselves around and together – note, together – confront what has to be confronted.

But, whatever else you do, please pray. And may God change us all. Amen.