A different path

Yesterday I was at my wife's graduation ceremony with my youngest son. We were waiting for her to complete 'gowning' and return for photos, when I received a text message from my daughter who was on holidays in Sydney, "In case you've heard about the hostage situation in Sydney, Nicola and I are nowhere near that so we're all good."

What hostage situation?

Quickly my son was on his phone and we were shocked at the events that were unfolding. Like most of the country we followed the story all day, and woke up to the tragic conclusion this morning. Like most of the country we held the hostages and their families in our thoughts and prayers, and like most of the country we were heartened (but not surprised) in the typical Australian response as #illridewithyou started to spread across social media.

I've read some intelligent, thoughtful and, can I say, genuinely Christian responses to yesterday's events, but, as was to be expected, I've noticed some divisive, fear-fuelled, Islamophobic comments starting to appear. There will be more in the coming days as the emotion surrounding yesterday eases and the atmosphere becomes more open to certain religious and political agendas.

So, I can't stay silent. For what it's worth I felt I needed to try and give a different perspective. I am not Muslim, I am a Christian, a follower of Jesus Christ, and have been for most of my life. I believe Jesus is the Lord and Saviour of the world and that his followers are called to live in such a way that they image the kingdom of which Jesus is king.

I wrote that last paragraph to give some context to my thoughts. You see, I don't think that most Muslims support the hate and terror we see on our tv screens or digital news feed. I think most simply want to live peaceful lives and raise their families. There are radical groups, and portions of the Koran or interpretations of it that seem to validate violence and conquest.

But, you see, I love history, and I have read about the domination of other cultures and religions by the Christian Church after Constantine, about the violence and torture perpetrated against 'heretics' throughout the Christian era of which the Inquisition was only one highlight, about the Crusades, about the religious wars that devastated Europe, and about the use of the Christian faith - or a version of it - to oppress and marginalise on the basis of race, gender or sexual orientation.

I also spent the first eleven years of my life in the UK, and remember clearly the bombings and shootings and violence that occurred in Northern Ireland and spilled over into England. IRA versus Prods, Catholic versus Protestant, Christian versus Christian. And though we might - rightly - argue that they weren't being very Christian when they were behaving in such a way, many Muslims will argue the same of the radicals and extremists that make the news.

Too much of what I have read on social media over the last few months seems to reduce to a kind of 'my religion's better than your religion' as if this was a contest to see which religion is best and therefore will win. There is an argument that in one sense there is a cultural struggle underway, but within the lifestyle framed by the teachings and life of Jesus, if Christian people descend to hate, information manipulation, fear mongering and aggression, we have already lost. I may see things in a different way to a Moslem, or Buddhist, or Hindu, or atheist, or whoever, but we are all humans, seeking to make our way in this world, and we do that best together.

The good news about Jesus is that God has already acted through the birth, life, death and resurrection of Jesus the Messiah to reconcile humanity to himself and secure the redemption of all creation. The good news is that God has done for us what we couldn't do for ourselves, and that Christ now sits enthroned as the world's true Lord. Whatever empires, ideologies, religions, philosophies, movements or political systems exist, the message of the New Testament in general, and Revelation (written to an oppressed, marginalised and persecuted people) in particular is that despite what we might see and experience, God is working to bring peace and justice to the earth.

When I see messages that depict Christians as 'God's warriors' (distorting a Pauline analogy and echoing the worst elements of any religion), or calling for believers to be lions not lambs (despite the biblical call to follow the Great Shepherd of the sheep; and besides, there's only one Lion, he's of the tribe of Judah), or imposing the extreme ideologies and agendas of the radical few on the whole, or making simplistic and ill-informed statements about any group, or repeating the socio-political rhetoric of certain interest-groups without considering their agendas or the consequences, it makes me wonder how we reconcile all of this with the Jesus I read about in the gospels.

I'm not talking about the one who is depicted as 'meek and mild', he was anything but! The Jesus I see in the gospels is the one who faced off against the propagators of hate, injustice, socio-political religious intolerance and persecution, in fact all the influences and forces that abound in this world that are opposed to the kingdom of forgiveness, justice and love that he embodied. This is the way of Christ, this is the path of the Christian, this is the path I am called to follow.

The path Jesus leads me on is a narrow one. It is one that sees the damage that other ways can do to humanity and God's creation (whether in the name of religion, politics, ideology, commercial gain - or Christianity), and radically chooses to live in a different way. It is the path of forgiveness, justice, mercy, grace, peace and welcome. It is a way that recognises the realities we face, seeks to support those who protect our community, but to do so in a way that doesn't demonise another community, people or culture. It is the path that the early church followed, one that, in spite of the opposition of the greatest empire to that time, ultimately triumphed through love, compassion and justice.

A lone, damaged man won't make me hate; cruel extremists won't make me seek vengeance; the intentions and agendas of other voices won't drive me to fear; the distortion of the Christian message for personal or political gain won't cause me to embrace despair; for I follow one who endured suffering and rejection with us and for us and rose in triumph. That's good news, that's the best news, and it all started with the event we will shortly celebrate - Christmas, an event that announces God's peace and goodwill to all humanity.

Before she left Sydney to travel home my daughter posted some reflections which were sensitive, thoughtful and hopeful. She closed with a picture of some wall art (above) she saw in Sydney, "May every sunrise hold more promise; and every sunset hold more peace." In many ways that is the path Jesus has called me to walk, to live each day with the intention to enjoy the opportunities it affords to be an instrument of peace and reconciliation.

How do you measure a life?

We are good at measuring things. We have measurements and scales and standards and grades and criteria by which we determine the relative value of an object or performance, or by which we measure our own status relative to other people. But just how do you measure a life?

Of course right now you are probably asking the natural question, "Why would we measure a life? What right do we have to do that?", and to be honest, you're probably right - and yet we do. We all measure our lives against other people or against some standard that determines whether we are successful or influential or just better than average. It's the brilliantly exposed heart of humanity from the final scenes of Saving Private Ryan where the now aged Ryan turns to his wife and asks if he's been a good man, if he's lived a good life (cue tears, it gets me every single time...)

When we are in moments of self-reflection, when we are thinking about our place in the world, when we are seeking a sense of 'self' and purpose, or when we just want to know that we have value, these are the times and occasions when we measure our lives and hope that it's all for something.

People measure themselves by various standards: what they own; what they have achieved; how often they are mentioned on Google; how many Facebook friends they have; whether they will leave a 'legacy'; or just whether they are doing better than their neighbour, their work-mates, or the people they grew up with. We measure ourselves by many standards, and unfortunately too many of those standards are determined in relationship to others which means that we are not only measuring our own lives but the lives of other people as well.

So how are we to measure ourselves? How are we to self-reflect and give consideration to our place in the world?

Can I suggest - stories? That we can determine our place, not our value, but our sense of being by the stories that are told about us. Stories are powerful. To a great degree stories give meaning to our lives. We encounter stories in books, on the small screen and the big screen, in the paper, the magazine, or in the next conversation we will have. Stories are all around us and both frame and give context to our lives. When a person passes away we frame our memories of them in words - we tell their story.

The stories people tell about us help us to see ourselves through other's eyes, and the stories we tell ourselves reveal not only how we see ourselves but also who we want to be. The stories may not always be true, even the ones we tell ourselves are often distorted and edited, yet even the untrue, partially true and mostly true all give perspective to who we are and how we are in our world.

The true stories may be good or they may be bad, and that is the beauty and power of the story - they remind us we are human. Even the worst person has glimpses of humanity, and even the best person has moments of selfishness, thoughtlessness, unforgiveness and vindictiveness that cause pain and hurt to others. Stories remind us we will never be so great we cannot fall and never be so lost we cannot find redemption.

Jesus suggested that there is great blessing even in lies and insults when they are because of faith in him. By extension we could also suggest that when good, right and just behaviour precipitates lies and insults then those stories, though bad are actually good, and reveal not only something about ourselves but about those who speak the words. Even Christ was considered a glutton, a drunkard and a friend of the wrong sort of people. Well, one out of three ain't bad, and though his accusers meant their words to be an insult, they were, in fact, a badge of honour.

What are the stories that are told about you? What stories do you wish were told? This is the point at which we start to measure ourselves, the point where we begin to reflect what we need to do (or cease doing) to find a convergence between what is said and what we wish was said. It is true that we should never let ourselves be defined by what people say, but if their words don't inform our understanding of who we are and how we are perceived then that is foolishness.

What stories are told? Who is telling them? And what stories do you tell about others?

The Table Broke

A couple of weeks ago, on a lazy Saturday afternoon, I was sitting in our family room reading. I wasn't reading anything serious, just a novel, when the peace was punctuated by the noise of something shattering just outside the sliding doors onto our alfresco area.

I looked up expecting to see the light globe broken or something, but I couldn't see anything...until I looked down and saw that the table of our outdoor setting, a glass topped table, had completely disintegrated. It was now thousand of bits of safety glass covering the patio. There seemed to be no reason, no explanation, it just broke.

It might have been the cold mornings and warm days, the age of the glass, a combination of the two, or some other reason (I'm thinking a really over-weight insect), but our table broke. My daughter came to see, my wife came to see, my son came to see, and we started the job of cleaning up the mess, all the while making sure our inquisitive dog didn't injure himself on the glass.

So, armed with broom and shovel and dustpan and brush and wheelie-bin, we cleaned up the broken glass. We have a smaller, wooden setting that we dragged over to re-arrange the patio. In some ways it actually looks better, but not quite the same. You see I know, I was there, I heard it, I remember.

The table broke.

We all have broken tables in our lives. We all have moments and events and seasons when our ’tables’ break. Often there isn't a reason, sometimes there is but it isn't a very good one, sometimes we are to blame. Everyday has the potential for a broken table, the value of the table (yep, I'm really stretching the metaphor now) determines whether you will attempt to repair it or not, but at some point you will need to clean up the mess and re-arrange things.

Your table might be the death of a loved one, a lost relationship, the demise of a dream, financial hardship, health issues or another personal tragedy. To some people it might only be a broken table and they wonder why it means so much to you; but it's your table, it happened to you, and you remember it clearly. Your memory will probably include your emotions at that moment and the echoes of those feelings every time you think of it. 

And no matter how you approach it, or whether other people understand or not - your table broke!

Jesus knew all about broken things. He came to a world full of broken people, demonstrated how to live a life that will not only bring healing to ourselves, but enable us to participate in the healing of others as well, and ultimately he died and rose again to prove that even the most painful brokenness of all - death - cannot triumph over the kind of life he makes available.

Jesus knew all about broken things, he said, "A bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out, till he has brought justice through to victory" (Matt. 12:20). Did you get the power of that? There is, in that little verse, the inference that some things, when broken, can't be put back together again, that sometimes we will never 'get over it' and 'move on.' But the promise of justice and victory, one day, also means that rather than stare hopelessly at our broken tables we can, with God's help, clean up the mess, re-arrange things, and keep going.

We might remember, we might still feel the hurt, the pain, the regret, we might still not understand why the table broke, but at least we don't have to pretend to be anyone other than someone who has had a table break on them and chooses to live in a world of broken tables without fear, without despair, and with a little more compassion and understanding and grace.

I started writing this post on the afternoon the table broke. I was sitting on the other setting with Vicki and diligently writing about broken tables. Then I moved the text to Dropbox ready to complete it on my laptop later.

And then the internet broke. Somehow my text got lost somewhere between my iPad and my MacBook. The internet broke, Dropbox dropped the ball, and my post got lost. I don't know how the internet works, and my original post is somewhere lost in space being read by ET, but it simply serves to underline the reality that we live in a world of broken things. It's a world where tables break, the internet breaks, and metaphors get stretched to breaking point. It's a world full of people who have broken tables of their own who can stand with us and walk with us to a place of healing, and of a God who loves broken people and who gave all he had to suffer with and for his creation.

What are your broken tables? How have you cleaned up? Who can you walk with to a place of healing, or who can walk with you?

Two mothers walk into a...

...life. I know, it sounds like the start of some sad 'dad' joke, but Sunday was Mother's Day, and I was reflecting on the two mothers who have been important in my life: my mother, and my wife. They are two women, two mothers, who walked into my life, for which I will be eternally thankful.

My mother grew up in a little village in England. I'm not sure how she viewed herself growing up. She had two sisters, Elsie and Doris, and one brother, George. I don't know if her identity was as a sister or as the daughter of Bill and Mary, but eventually she met the man who become become her husband and my father and she gained an identity - Tom's wife.

It seems strange, but that's how Mum self-identified, and even how she later described herself for the twenty-one years they were married before my father died. She was Tom's wife. 

And then, one day, Tom was gone. I have a vivid memory of being told my dad had died, and, after some thought, racing downstairs to see my mum even though I had been told to stay in my room. I think my aunt meant well, I think she didn't want me to see the distress my mum was in, the completely out-of-control grief of a woman whose whole life had collapsed. 

She was sitting on a dining chair surrounded by relatives. She was moaning and weeping and rocking and resisting all attempts to calm her down. No one saw me as I edged closer, until I slipped through and knelt in front of her, grasped her legs and put my head on her lap. I didn't know what to do, I didn't cry, I just knelt there.

My mum always remembered the story like this: that her world and life was over and all she wanted to do was to die. She didn't know if she would have done anything, but she simply knew that with my father gone she didn't want to live any more. She just wanted to shut down and slip away. But then I put my head on her lap, and an internal voice cut through all her grief and pain, "You have to live for Tom's son."

Did you get that? Tom's son. She didn't even primarily identify as my mum, she was Tom's wife and I was his son. That set the tone for the next season of her life, she was no longer Tom's wife, she was now Jeremy's mum. Her identity still wasn't her own, it was linked to her role as a mother.

My mum was a strong, determined, sometimes obstinate but always compassionate woman who, with no training, ran the family business during and after my father' death, raised me, provided for me, moved across the world to give me the possibility of a better life, resisted any attempts to manipulate or coerce her (salesmen watch out!), and became the strong, dependable friend for many in times of struggle and difficulty.

A day came, I don't know when, but the day came she found out who she was. She was Joyce, and she found herself by identifying with someone else, someone who wasn't a husband or a son but was her Lord. My mum discovered her identity through her faith in Christ.

My wife is very different to my mum. Her childhood was different. It was difficult, full of painful memories. She grew up, got married and became the mother of four amazing children (that's not just a dad speaking, they really are!). Due to life experiences and the challenges they presented she has faced darkness and hopelessness. She has journeyed through that dark valley and rather than it breaking her, has found a way for that struggle to temper her and form her into the incredible woman she is today.

My wife is a strong woman, a compassionate woman, a determined and sometimes obstinate woman who is an example for our daughter and other young women in our community. I don't think she ever found her her identity in others the way my mother did, but I think she hid her identity, unsure of just who she was and lacking the confidence to truly be Vicki.

Today she is Vicki. She is brilliant and creative and generous and is achieving things she subconsciously always knew she could, but lacked the confidence and internal permission to attempt. I could write much more about my wife, but what is important is this, she found her identity through her faith in Christ.

Two mothers walked into a life, my life, two strong women whose identity and presence in the world was shaped and released through Jesus. They were/are his girls.

I wrote that last sentence, even though I don't like it or particularly agree with its inference. God's girls, what on earth does that mean? To be honest it sounds patronising, as if we have graciously let them into a club where they really don't belong but think it will make them feel a bit special. I don't like the whole, 'princess - daughter of a king' description floating around today, even if it's coupled with the idea of being a 'warrior princess' (images of Xena and leather and swords and an irritating side-kick flash into view). I don't like these descriptions, God's girls and princesses, because they fall far short of the incredible description that is given is the Bible, the description that empowers women and forges an identity that makes them strong and confident and fierce (yes, thank you Tyra and Next Top Model).

I'm all for inclusive language in translating the scriptures, but there's one aspect that is so often lost. One example, "But to all who receive him - all who believe in his name - he has given the right to become God's children" (Jn. 1:12). Yes, but no. God has done away with the social constructs imposed by gender (Gal. 3:28, Acts 2:17), yet he has given the right to be sons of God, as the original says. Without unpacking the whole cultural context suffice to say that a son had rights and privileges a daughter didn't, but in Christ we all, male and female, have been welcomed as sons with all the rights and privileges that implies.

There are, however, current cultural and social difficulties with referring to women as sons. There is the implication they have to be other than they are to gain acceptance and value. So perhaps a better way to think of this whole-hearted welcome into the life of the trinity is that we are all, male and female, heirs of God.

Two mothers walk into a life as women who have found their identity in the one who frees them to confidently face life as heirs of God. They are women, they are mothers, and they are/were* followers of Jesus who have found their true selves as Christ is formed in them.

Thankfully my daughter is like her mother and grandmother. She is strong, confident, determined, and sometimes a little obstinate (ok, that might be from me), she is a young woman who has found her identity in Christ.

What of the women in your world? What of the mothers and daughters and wives and sisters and friends around you? What of the mothers, the women who walk into your life? What of the men? What of the fathers and sons and husbands and brothers and friends around you? How are you encouraging them, men and women, to find themselves, their identity, their strength and presence in the one who seeks to free them to be 'children and heirs of God.'

*My mother passed away in February 1997.

The middle seat

Susan sat next to me on the flight home from Melbourne. She was a lady around my age, friendly, and didn’t scream in horror and demand a change of seat when she discovered I was a pastor.

Susan’s story was interesting. She was a single Mum who had raised three children in country Victoria. She worked hard, began her own business, and gave her kids the best she had. Once they were grown she started to travel, including backpacking through Europe three years ago, and a desire to do the El Camino walk. She seemed strong, determined and adventurous.

But then she shared other aspects of her life. The struggles, the difficulties, some of the pain and disappointments she has faced and continues to negotiate. As I listened I realised that not only did her adventurous side challenge my relative complacency, but the difficulties that confronted her were, in many ways, the same ones we all face at different times and in slightly different contexts.

John sat on the other side of me. I had thought that I had an aisle seat which meant I could (if I chose to), ignore my fellow passengers and lose myself in a book. But God has a sense of humour and made sure I was in the middle of two people who were willing to chat the flight away.

I’m glad he did; God seems to know what he is doing.

John had been in the army for most of his life and now worked as a truck-driver. He was involved in the Malaysian conflict, was in one of the first Australian units into Cambodia following the overthrow of Pol Pot, and served with UN forces in Mogadishu, Somalia (echoes of Black Hawk Down?). In other words he was deployed to almost every crap-hole the ADF was involved in during his years of service.

He had a failed marriage behind him, had trouble sleeping, was subject to anxiety attacks when on planes, and drank too much on Anzac Day. As I listened to his memories of the Killing Fields and other deployments I thought about these consequences and wondered, “Is that all?” He saw and experienced things I thank God I never had to, and if I had I’m sure the list of issues I struggled with would be a lot longer than John’s.

He told me of family tragedy, and of his pride in the accomplishments of his new wife and his children. As I listened to John it reminded me that the people in his world are often the reason people join the ADF, to maintain our way of life and to remind the world that injustice and oppression isn’t acceptable.

Whatever the politics that landed John in those far off places, he did a job, and came home to other difficulties and challenges and to resume his role as husband, dad, and mate.

Susan and John, acquaintances, chance meetings on a place, who I’m confident, in other circumstances might have become friends. They both had a story, they both shared memories of difficulty and of accomplishment, they both had hopes and dreams, they both had families they cared for deeply. They were just like me.

As I read the gospels I am struck by something that I think we can often neglect - the people Jesus met. We know about the miracles, we read (even if we don’t always practice) his teaching, we see this journey from manger to cross to empty tomb and assign meaning without stopping to consider the steps, the thousands of steps he took to get there.

Those steps were full of people. We read about them and give them descriptors like, ‘the woman at the well,’ ‘the blind men,’ ‘the lepers,’ ‘the prostitutes and tax-collectors’, ‘the scribes, Pharisees and Sadducees,’ and so on. Some of them have names, Mary Magdalene, Lazarus, Martha, Mary, Peter, John, Judas, Nicodemus. Whatever their descriptor, whatever their name, they were people. They all had stories, they all navigated a life filled with difficulty and accomplishment, hopes and dreams, and even families they cared for deeply.

To us they are words on a page (or on a screen…), but to Jesus they were people. He stopped to talk with them, eat with them and even party with them. He listened to their stories. Why were they prostitutes? What caused them to become a scribe or Pharisee? How did they deal with the pain of rejection as a leper, or the socio-economic reality of being blind?

He listened, he heard, he was one of us for a time and engaged with us in our world. The miracles were a sign, the teaching was a new possibility for life, the people were the reason he came.

I read a lot, I talk, discuss and debate a lot, I do stuff and I plan more stuff to do. But in the end, it’s the people that matter. Sitting on a plane talking to two strangers and listening to their stories I was reminded of the value and dignity of every life and the overwhelming love of God for each of us.

Two hours. That’s all our flight was, two hours. But I don’t think I’ll forget Susan and John easily, or their stories. You see they reminded me that Jesus is less concerned with what I think or read or write or do and very, very interested in whether I stop and listen and give time to the people he died to set free.

Who’s around you? Whose story will you listen to? Who will you take the time to stop and notice?

Surrounded by Miracles

Last week I flew to Melbourne. It was an early morning flight, a very early morning flight, and typically I didn’t sleep very much the night before, so I anticipated a restful journey. The people seated next to me were accommodating and set the tone by falling asleep immediately after take-off. I made the mistake of losing myself in a cryptic crossword for a while until I no longer was able to drop off, and the three boys seated in front of me alternated between fighting with each other and chanting meaningless phrases before breaking into laughter.

Occasionally their father would lean across the aisle and tell them to, “Shut up!”

We landed early in Melbourne, usually a good thing, except that I was waiting for a friend to land and that turned my two hour wait into a two and a half hour wait. So I bought a sausage and egg muffin and coffee at Hungry Jacks, and proceeded to read whilst making the breakfast last as long as possible.

The coffee was no better luke-warm than it was fresh - or what passes for fresh in an airport fast food outlet.

As much as I was enjoying my book, I am, by nature, inquisitive. People who know me might suggest that I’m nosey, but I prefer ‘inquisitive.’ I take notice of the people around me, a little like Sherlock Holmes without the acute deductive ability, and wonder what their lives are like. Everyone is interesting, everyone has a story.

The man sitting next to me had engaged the father of the family next to him in conversation. It was a loud conversation, it wasn’t my fault I could hear that he was a truck driver from the country who was finding it a tough life at the moment and had a few hours to kill before catching a bus home. The father seemed genuinely interested in what the truckie was saying, his wife and teenage children didn’t.

I had the thought that, being a little gregarious I could have engaged the truckie in conversation when I sat down. The Christian part of my brain said I should have done and looked for a ‘God’ opportunity. The tired and under-caffeinated part advised me not to be so stupid and get back to the book, you don’t want to try and be pleasant this morning…

I noticed the airport workers grabbing a bite before, during or after their shift. The middle-aged woman staring at the planes and wondered if she was seeing someone off, greeting them, or just wishing it was her leaving life behind for a while. I noticed the young couples who were excited about their holiday together, the teenagers who were fixated on their mobile phones, and the requisite retired couple who ate quietly, never speaking to or even looking at each other and vowed once more that would never be my wife and I.

I noticed the family sitting across from me, mother and father, two kids - a boy and a girl - and the grandparents. I wondered if they were all going away, or if the parents were and the others were seeing them off, or if the grandparents were and the parents wished it was themselves. Then the mother noticed the odd middle-aged man who had obviously finished his breakfast looking at her family and I quickly looked away.

As I said, I’m inquisitive.

And then it occurred to me as I sat there with my empty wrappers, coffee dregs, kindle, and the voice of my truck driving neighbour still bemoaning the hours he had to work just to make ends meet, that I was surrounded by miracles.

Each person in that airport is a miracle. Each person on our planet is made in the image of God and is known and loved by their creator. Each one is unique, has their own hopes, dreams and sorrows. Each one has a story.

I think Jesus was inquisitive. He took the time to notice people, to actually see them. It didn’t matter whether they were rich or poor, whole or hurting, humble or proud, respected or rejected, he saw them. He saw the miracles that they were, the stories they lived and the possibilities they represented. Every individual carried the potential to touch another life with one act of kindness, one gentle or encouraging word, one generous gesture. Every individual carried the potential to remind someone else that we aren’t alone on this planet, we are connected, and even without realising it somehow echo the broken, flawed and damaged echo of the God in whose image they were created.

Or, conversely, they could do the opposite. They could touch another life in a way that echoes the hurt, pain, injustice, greed, selfishness, indifference and hate that are so much a part of the human condition and our experience of life.

Each person, you and me, have the opportunity each day to be more human or less human, more like Jesus or less like him, to image the possibility of a kingdom and a life that isn’t like our current experience or to surrender that hope and do further damage to ourselves and others by the way we behave.

Every day we are surrounded by miracles. Every day we have the opportunity to remind our world that there is a different way of being human, a way that actually sees those around us and engages with the hope of a new and better tomorrow. Some might call it, ‘being the change you want to see’; Paul called it, ‘…the work of the Lord, knowing that in the Lord your labour is not in vain’; Jesus called it, ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’

You don’t have to be in an airport to see the miracles and the possibilities around you. You could be in a shopping centre, in a school, in a University, a workplace, a kindergarten, a park, a car, or anywhere there are people around you. All we have to do is look, notice, be attentive to those around us.

In his steps

I remember, as a young boy, walking over the Yorkshire moors in winter with my dad. In case you weren't aware, the moors in winter are covered with a white blanket of snow. The landscape is stark and beautiful, the air is crisp and cold, and when you breathe out through your mouth you can see your breath, when you breathe in too deeply it sears your lungs.

I walked with my dad. Often, for fun, I walked behind him and, to maintain the untouched purity of the landscape, placed my little feet in his footsteps. That way it seemed that not only were we the only people around, but there was only one person trekking across the moors. My dad laughed at my escapade, thinking I just wanted to be like him (which I did), but to me there was something beautiful in the sea of white marred only by a single line of foot prints.

This is the memory that came to mind as I reflected on the scriptures for our faith community leading up to Good Friday. It's an odd memory for Easter, but it revolves around that disturbing passage in 1 Peter 2:21, "To this you were called, because Christ suffered for you, leaving you an example, that you should follow in his steps."

The context is that of suffering for being a Christian, something millions across the globe endure, but mostly, we in the West are free from. The church as a whole seems to have taken one of two extreme positions on this verse, both of which distort the New Testament depiction of the Christian life. The first is that to be a Christian is to suffer, and we should embrace and celebrate suffering. In the first century, despite the revisionist history that is present today, the reality was that to be a Christian meant, for the most part, suffering.

Jesus clearly indicated that whilst in this world there would be trouble, that the Christian walk was a difficult one, and that his followers would have a 'cross' to bear. But he, and the other New Testament writers, also describe a life of joy, peace, overcoming, freedom, acceptance, and soul-nourishing community.

The other end of the spectrum ignores the realities of this verse, or at least diminishes them, and presents the Christian life of one of untold 'blessing' and extravagant prosperity. To follow Jesus, in this reinterpretation of New Testament Christianity, knows nothing of taking up the cross and following in his steps of enduring and identifying with the suffering and oppressed. Rather it presents the Christian life of one where God intends for everyone to be rich and healthy and uncompromisingly successful in all they do.

Neither of these perspectives represents the Christian walk to which Christ calls us or that expressed in the New Testament. Neither engages with the core of this verse in 1 Peter and the power to transform our lives and communities.

The underlying theology of this verse recognises that in the suffering of Christ and the struggles of his followers in this fallen world God has and is birthing the new creation, the kingdom of God, that will one day be consummated with the return of the King - Jesus. Paul powerfully describes this in Romans 8 where he compares the Christian life to the birth pains a woman experiences in labour. This is powerful because not only does it indicate that we are participants in the story of God bringing the new creation but, like Jesus, we live in the reality of confident expectation of the resurrection.

This is where the Easter story collides powerfully with the command to follow in his steps. Good Friday was Christ suffering with and for his creation, but with the expectation of resurrection on the Sunday. His death both birthed a new reality, a new creation, a new way of being human in this world, and promised the experience of a future hope now. To follow in his steps is to endure the challenges, the difficulties, the struggles of this life. To overcome some and to endure others. To resist injustice and oppression and to demonstrate forgiveness and grace and love. And in doing so, in following in his steps, every believer participates in some way in the reality and promise of his kingdom, in the hope and presence of a new way of living, and in the shadow of the cross and the transformative power of the empty tomb.

Imagine the Yorkshire moors in winter. Imagine the pristine, white snow, marred only by that single line of footprints. Imagine that, instead of the stark beauty of the landscape, the image represents the cold, harsh, difficult 'lostness' of a world that is desperately hoping for the promise of new life, a new way being that is just and free and peaceful and, well, warm.

Imagine now those steps, those perfect, pristine steps first walked by Christ. And now imagine hundreds and thousands of others seeking to walk, imperfectly and often stumbling, in those steps. The imperfections actually widen the breadth of the steps, disturb more of the snow, create a path that draws us ever closer to the centre, to the first steps of Jesus. Imagine the steps of followers of Christ across the globe who are struggling and enduring and overcoming and all the while carrying the light and hope and reality of the resurrection.

The power of Easter is a man hanging on a cross, an empty tomb, and the invitation to all to participate in this great story, this great promise that one day it will all be different.

And one day starts today.