Scripture and Theology – Page 2

In the sound of sheer silence (1 Kings 19; Narrative Lectionary for Pentecost 21)

On the passage about Elijah in 1 Ki 19 proposed by the Narrative Lectionary

In the passage which the Narrative Lectionary places before us this coming Sunday (from 1 Kings 19), we come to Elijah; one of the key prophetic figures whose deeds are recounted in the books of the Kings or whose words are collected within the Hebrew Scriptures under the catch-all second section of Nevi’im (Prophets).

Elijah, famous for being described as “a hairy man, with a leather belt around his waist” (2 Ki 1:8), was first introduced as Elijah the Tishbite, meaning he came from Tishbe in Gilead (1 Ki 17:1), a place whose precise location has occasioned some debate. See

This initial portrayal of Elijah is nested within the accounts of that long period of time when Israel was ruled by kings, when prophets functioned as the conscience of the king and the voice of integrity within society. The distinctive dress of Elijah perhaps sets him apart from the court of the kings, where a more “civilized” dress code was presumably operative. Nevertheless, Elijah does have some engagement with the kings who ruled at the time he was active: Ahab, and then Ahaziah. Indeed, his distinctive dress points to his emboldened attitude towards those kings.

Elijah operated during the period when Ahab ruled Israel; he figures in various incidents throughout the remainder of 1 Kings—most famously, in the conflict with the prophets of Baal which came to a showdown on Mount Carmel (1 Ki 18), and then later in his confrontation with Ahab and his wife Jezebel, over the matter of Naboth’s vineyard (1 Ki 21). Like Jesus, Elijah was no shrinking violet!

Elijah first appears in the narrative of the various kings, seemingly out of nowhere, just after King Ahab had taken as his wife Jezebel, daughter of King Ethbaal of the Sidonians, who presumably influenced him to begin his worship of Baal (1 Ki 17:31–33). In the same way, at the end of his time of prophetic activity, Elijah simply disappears from sight soon after Kong Ahaziah died. Elijah hands over his role to his successor, Elisha, and as “a chariot of fire and horses of fire separated the two of them”, Elijah ascends in a whirlwind into heaven (2 Ki 2:1–15).

In the book we know as 1 Kings, the compiler of the Deuteronomic History (which stretches from Deuteronomy through Joshua and Judges to Samuel and then Kings) reports many incidents which attest to the courage and power of Elijah. The boldness of Elijah is evident in the confrontations that he has with various rulers; this is made clear, centuries later, to the followers of Jesus, in the earliest account of his life, when John the baptiser is depicted as a fiery desert preacher, calling for repentance, just as Elijah had called the kings to account (Mark 1:1–8).

In a later account of Jesus, there is a clear inference connecting John with Elijah when Jesus notes, “Elijah is indeed coming and will restore all things; but I tell you that Elijah has already come, and they did not recognize him, but they did to him whatever they pleased” (Matt 17:11–12).

Then, in his sermon in Nazareth (Luke 4:16–30), Jesus refers to the first reported miracle of Elijah, when he provided a widow in Zarephath with food and oil that “did not fail”, even though the land was in drought (1 Ki 17:1–16). In subsequent incidents in 1 Kings, Elijah raises a dead son (17:17–24), directly confronts King Ahab with his sins (18:1–18), and famously stares down the prophets of Baal in a mountaintop showdown (18:19–40), leading to the breaking of the drought (18:41–46).

Elijah later condemns Ahab over his unjust seizure of the vineyard of Naboth (21:17–29) and then stands before Ahab’s son, King Ahaziah, to condemn him to death (2 Ki 1:2–16); a death “according to the words of of the Lord that Elijah had spoken” which is promptly reported (2 Ki 1:17).

During the rule of Ahab, Elijah had also most famously heard the Lord God “not in the wind … not in the earthquake … not in the fire”—but rather in something else, which the NRSV renders as “the sound of sheer silence” (1 Ki 19:11–12). This incident is, as noted, the story set before us by the lectionary this coming Sunday. We need to ponder what is being conveyed through the symbols employed in this story.

The three means by which God is said not to have appeared to Elijah reflect the very same means through which Moses, and the people of Israel, did experience the manifestation of the Lord God in their midst. When the escaping Israelites arrived at the Sea of Reeds, according to one version of this archetypal story, “the Lord God drove the sea back by a strong east wind all night, and turned the sea into dry land; and the waters were divided” (Exod 14:21).

The people later celebrated the defeat of the Egyptians who were pursuing them: “you blew with your wind, the sea covered them; they sank like lead in the mighty waters” (Exod 15:10). The wind was a sign of God’s presence, and an agent of divine protection—indeed, it was the very same “wind from God” which “swept over the face of the waters” at the beginning of creation (Gen 1:2). But for Elijah, the Lord God was “not in the wind”.

Then, as they had travelled through the wilderness, the people were accompanied by a blazing fire, another sign of divine presence: “the Lord God went in front of them in a pillar of cloud by day, to lead them along the way, and in a pillar of fire by night, to give them light, so that they might travel by day and by night” (Exod 13:21). The fire signalled the divine presence.

Indeed, the very same flaming fire had been manifested to Moses when he was but a mere shepherd in Midian; “the angel of the Lord appeared to him in a flame of fire out of a bush; he looked, and the bush was blazing, yet it was not consumed” (Exod 3:2). What follows is the account of the call of Moses; God tells him “I will send you to Pharaoh to bring my people, the Israelites, out of Egypt” (Exod 3:10). The fire had been the assurance to Moses that it was the Lord God who was present. But for Elijah, the Lord God was “not in the fire”.

The same element of fire was present when Moses and the people ultimately arrived at Mount Sinai in the wilderness of Sinai (Exod 19:1–2). “Mount Sinai”, so the account goes, “was wrapped in smoke, because the Lord had descended upon it in fire; the smoke went up like the smoke of a kiln, while the whole mountain shook violently” (Exod 19:18). Associated with this there was “thunder and lightning, as well as a thick cloud on the mountain, and a blast of a trumpet so loud that all the people who were in the camp trembled” (Exod 19:16).

The scene at Sinai surely reflects the experience of an earthquake; the same phenomenon that prophets would later interpret as a sign of divine presence—indeed, divine judgement. “You will be visited by the Lord of hosts”, Isaiah subsequently tells the people of his time, “with thunder and earthquake and great noise, with whirlwind and tempest, and the flame of a devouring fire” (Isa 29:6).

Still later, Zechariah describes how “the Mount of Olives shall be split in two from east to west by a very wide valley”, and instructs the people, “you shall flee as you fled from the earthquake in the days of King Uzziah of Judah; then the Lord my God will come, and all the holy ones with him” (Zech 14:4–5).

Nahum reflects on the jealous and avenging nature of God, declaring that “his way is in whirlwind and storm, and the clouds are the dust of his feet; he rebukes the sea and makes it dry, and he dries up all the rivers; the mountains quake before him, and the hills melt; the earth heaves before him, the world and all who live in it” (Nah 1:2–5).

This dramatic motif continues on into later apocalyptic writings (Isa 64:1; 1 Esdras 4:36; 2 Esdras 16:12). The prophets and their apocalyptic heirs knew clearly that this whole dramatic constellation of events revolving around an earthquake was a sign of divine presence. But for Elijah, the Lord God was “not in the earthquake”. He was heard in something quite different.

What did Elijah hear? The Hebrew phrase in verse 12 is qol d’mamah daqqah. The King James Version translated this as “still small voice”. More recent translations have provided variants on how these words might be translated. Alternatives that are found include “the sound of a low whisper” (ESV), “a gentle whisper” (NIV, NLT), “a soft whisper” (CSB), or “the sound of a gentle blowing” (NASB). These reflect variations on the kind of nuance that the KJV was offering.

However, the NRSV option of translating this phrase as “the sound of sheer silence” is more confronting: the presence of God is sensed in the absence of sound; any communication from the deity comes, not in audible sounds, but in the utter absence of any sound. It is a striking paradox!

And in the context of the developing story of 1 Kings, the paradox is strong. Earlier, the prophet had stood firm against the might of Baal, the foreign god whom Ahab and Jezebel had prioritized in the life of Israel (1 Ki 18:17–40). When “the four hundred and fifty prophets of Baal and the four hundred prophets of Asherah who eat at Jezebel’s table” gathered on Mount Carmel, they failed to obtain any response from their god, the god of storms. No matter how intensely the pleaded, all they heard was “no voice, no answer, no response” (18:29).

Elijah, by contrast, prays to the Lord God and the fire of his god fell on the sacrificial altar; it consumed “the burnt offering, the wood, the stones, and the dust, and even licked up the water that was in the trench” (18:38). The victory was absolute and complete; the storm god had been defeated. And yet, the deity who accomplished this would communicate most personally and intimately with his chosen prophet, “not in the wind … not in the earthquake … not in the fire”, but rather in “a sound of sheer silence” (19:11–12). What a deliciously powerful irony!

Elijah was his own, distinctive man, with his own, distinctive encounter with God. He experienced God in a way quite different from what was experienced by Moses and the people of Israel. He experienced God in a way that stood apart from his contemporaries who were priests and prophets of Baal. For that reason, whilst the Lord God of Elijah stands over and against the Baal of Ahab and Jezebel, so too Elijah stands alongside and apart from Moses as a different, but equally great, leader of the people.

I have built you an exalted house, a place for you to dwell in forever (1 Kings 5, 8; Narrative Lectionary for Pentecost 20)

Discussion of the passages from 1 Kings 5, 8 offered by the Narrative Lectionary

Some weeks ago, the Narrative Lectionary offered the story of God calling Moses to lead his people out of slavery, into freedom (Exod 3–4), followed by another story about the way that Moses exercised this leadership during a testing time (Exod 16). Two weeks ago, we heard the story of God calling Samuel to be prophet (1 Sam 3)—the first of many who would be called to that role. Then last week, we moved on to hear the story of God calling David to be king. So we have had stories about a range of leaders in ancient Israel: the Liberator, the first Prophet, and the most beloved King.

This coming Sunday we jump to another element that is foundational in the religion of ancient Israelite society. For many years—ever since the “wandering in the wilderness”—the people had a focal point for worshipping their God. The Tabernacle, created during the “wilderness story”, was a mobile sanctuary, travelling with the people (Exod 25:1–9). This sanctuary was faithfully served by the Levites, a group set apart for this priestly role (Num 1:48–54).

However, the central figure in this coming Sunday’s story is not a Priest, but rather a King—Solomon, one of the many offspring of David, and the one who, by all manner of machinations, succeeded his father on the throne. The lectionary deftly steps over all those stories, told with gruesome detail in the early chapters of 1 Kings.

Solomon was not first in line to ascend the throne; that would lie with the eldest of his brothers still living, Adonijah. Adonijah knows this; the first book of Kings opens with the revelation that, since “David was old and advanced in years … Adonijah son of Haggith exalted himself, saying, ‘I will be king’; he prepared for himself chariots and horsemen, and fifty men to run before him” (1 Ki 1:1,5).

However, Solomon plots with his mother Bathsheba and the palace prophet Nathan to arrange for the assassination of his older brother. In addition, a number of other people also had to be eliminated to establish Solomon’s firm grip on the monarchy, and to ensure there were no other possible legitimate claimants to the throne remaining. Such was the raw and vicious nature of “life at the top” those days. (Has anything much changed?)

In fairly quick succession, after Solomon had arranged for the death of his eldest brother Adonijah (2:13–25), he banished the high priest Abiathar who had supported Adonijah (2:26–27) and replaced him with another priest loyal to himself. Next he removed Joab, a cousin who was the commander in the former king’s army (2:28–34). He achieved this via a hit man, Benaniah, who became the general of his army (2:35).

Then, Solomon had Shimei, who was a relative of Saul, the king before David, killed (2:36–46). In this way all potential contenders for the throne and their powerful supporters were removed, mostly by violent means. As the narrator curtly comments, “so the kingdom was established in the hand of Solomon” (2:46b).

Fortunately for preachers following this lectionary, there is no expectation that there will be any need to read, reflect on, and speak about these chapters during worship. They certainly reveal the depths of degraded humanity! Rather, in the manner that characterises the Narrative Lectionary, we move from high point to high point—and so, this coming Sunday (in 1 Ki 5:1–5), we hear about the beginning steps taken by Solomon in the preparations for erecting the building which would not only sit on the highest point in Jerusalem, but would stand as a symbolic representation of the highest elements—what was best, most valued, most important—in ancient Israelite society.

Solomon, King of Israel, consults with Hiram, King of Tyre (who has a large navy and workforce) regarding the materials and labour needed to undertake this major building project (1 Sam 5); as the narrator indicates, “Solomon’s builders and Hiram’s builders and the Gebalites did the stonecutting and prepared the timber and the stone to build the house” (1 Ki 5:18). And then, after seven years of intense work, the temple is complete (7:1). Here, the lectionary (wisely) skips over the tedious detail of the items made by the artisans and craftsmen of Solomon (6:1–38).

The second part of the reading offered by the lectionary for this coming Sunday tells of how, after thirteen years, King Solomon assembled “the elders of Israel and all the heads of the tribes, the leaders of the ancestral houses of the Israelites” (8:1). Again, the lectionary skips over the detailed account of the work of Solomon’s men in building his own house: the House of the Forest of Lebanon, the Hall of Pillars, the Hall of the Throne, and the house where he would live (7:1–12).

In like manner, the lectionary jumps over the detailed account of the work of Hiram the bronze worker: pillars, stands, basins, pots, and a whole host of items to be used in the sanctuary (7:13–50). Thank goodness the lectionary compilers jumped over all of those verses!

At any rate, when Solomon assembles the leaders of the nation, in the presence of “all the people of Israel” who had assembled, the priests and Levites bring forward the Ark of the Covenant, the Tent of Meeting which had housed the Ark for decades, and “all the holy vessels that were in the tent (8:1–4). It was surely an impressive majestic procession, followed by a scene of overflowing abundance, as the priests received and sacrificed “so many sheep and oxen that they could not be counted or numbered” (8:5).

There’s no mention of the rivers of blood that must surely have flowed as these sacrifices took place. It may seem like a most unpleasant and unedifying scene to modern eyes and ears; however, the sacrificing of blood was an expression of the central Israelite belief that “the life of the flesh is in the blood … as life, it is the blood that makes atonement” (Lev 17:11). Each sacrifice of a chosen animal was a sacred offering of life that symbolised the obedience and dedication of the person, or people, who had brought the animal to be sacrificed. They were dedicating their whole life to the Lord God through this action, and in return, they were receiving atonement (the forgiveness of their sins) for all the misdeeds they had performed.

Finally, after the procession and sacrifices, the Ark was brought to “the most holy place” (8:6). The presence of the Ark evoked Solomon’s father, David, and his taking of the city from the Jebusites. Solomon was making clear that he was seen to be standing in that fine tradition.

The Ark was placed in the space known as “the Holy of Holies”, as a much later Jewish-Christian writer describes it (Heb 9:3). It was from that time to be set apart as holy for only the High Priest to enter, and at that but once a year (Heb 9:7).

The scene is presented as one of profound religious significance, for “when the priests came out of the holy place, a cloud filled the house of the Lord, so that the priests could not stand to minister because of the cloud; for the glory of the Lord filled the house of the Lord” (1 Ki 8:10–11). The Temple from that time became the fixed dwelling place of God; “O Lord, I love the house in which you dwell, and the place where your glory abides”, one psalmist sings (Ps 26:8); another sings, “bring an offering, and come into his courts; worship the Lord in holy splendour; tremble before him, all the earth” (Ps 96:8b-9). Other psalmists likewise assert the holiness of God in his temple (Ps 11:4; 24:3–4; 48:1; 99:1–5,9).

Holiness (kadushah) was central to the people of Israel. Those who ministered to God within the Temple, as priests, were to be especially concerned about holiness in their daily life and their regular activities in the Temple (Exod 28–29; Lev 8–9). The priests oversaw the implementation of the Holiness Code, a large section of Leviticus (chapters 17–26), which explained the various applications of the word to Israel, that “you shall be holy, for I the Lord your God am holy” (Lev 19:2; also 20:7,26). The people were expected to be a holy people, dedicated to God, serving obediently by adhering to all the laws and commandments that Moses had received from the Lord God at Sinai (Exod 19:5–6).

As the glory of the Lord fills the Temple, Solomon makes the solemn declaration to his God that “I have built you an exalted house, a place for you to dwell in forever” (1 Ki 8:13). He then offers an extended prayer which stretches over the next 38 verses—another element of the whole story that the Narrative Lectionary, mercifully, does not prescribe for reading in worship!

Henry J. Soulen, ‘Queen of Sheba Visits Solomon’ (1967), illustration in *Everyday Life in Bible Times*
(National Geographic Society, 1967), pp. 230-231

Solomon, I am sure you are thinking, is remembered as The Wise King. As the lectionary has offered this passage for this Sunday, it is worth our thinking further about Solomon. Next week we will jump forward a century or so, to the prophet Elijah. So we might, today, reflect on the quality of Solomon he is best known for: his wisdom. In 2 Chronicles 1, God says to Solomon, “because you have asked for wisdom and knowledge for yourself … wisdom and knowledge are granted to you” (2 Chr 1:11).

And later, King Solomon is said to have “excelled all the kings of the earth in riches and in wisdom. And all the kings of the earth sought the presence of Solomon to hear his wisdom, which God had put into his mind. Every one of [those kings] brought silver and gold, so much, year by year” (2 Chron 9:22–24). And so, Jesus relates how “the Queen of the south [the Queen of Sheba] came from the ends of the earth to hear the wisdom of Solomon” (Matt 12:42).

This wonderfully wise, insightful, discerning man, Solomon—bearing a name derived from the Hebrew for peace, “shalom”—became a powerhouse in the ancient world. But he did not always live as a man of peace, as we have seen in tracing his rise to the throne. Indeed, as ruler he used his 4,000 horses and chariots and 12,000 horsemen to good effect; we read that “he ruled over all the kings from the Euphrates to the land of the Philistines and to the border of Egypt” (2 Chron 9:26).

Solomon was remembered as king over the greatest expanse of land claimed by Israel in all of history. This large scope of territory noted in scripture forms the basis for the claims of zealous fundamentalist Zionists, in the 21st century, that Israel should run “from the river to the sea”. It’s a claim that has fuelled the building of illegal Jewish settlements on the West Bank and the erection by the modern state of Israel of The Wall which divides Israel from Palestinian Territories—but which divides families and friends as it seeks to separate Israelis from Palestinians.

Solomon, there can be no doubt, was a warrior. And warrior-kings were powerful, tyrannical in their exercise of power, ruthless in the way that they disposed of rivals for the throne and enemies on the battlefield alike. Think Alexander the Great. Think Charlemagne. Think Genghis Khan. Think William the Conqueror. Solomon reigned for 40 years—a long, wealthy, successful time. (Although 40 years, in Israelite time, is basically a way of saying “a heaps long time”.)

Yet in the passage we hear this Sunday Solomon appears not as a powerful king. Rather, he is a humble person of faith. He stands before all the people, raises his arms, and prays to the God who is to be worshipped in the Temple that he had erected. He is a person of faith, in the presence of his God, expressing his faith, exuding his piety.

The prayer of Solomon goes for thirty-eight solid verses; there are eight different sections in this prayer. In the first two sections of this prayer, Solomon identifies two important features of the newly-erected Temple. The first is that the fundamental reason for erecting this building is to provide a focal point, where people of faith can gather to pray to God (2 Ki 8:23–30). The second key element of Solomon’s prayer is that the Temple reaches beyond the people of Israel, covenant partners with the Lord God. He recognises that the Temple is also the place for the prayer of “a foreigner, who is not of your people Israel, [who] comes from a distant land because of your name” (2 Ki 8:41–43).

This is a striking and dramatic element to include in this dedication prayer before all the people of Israel! Perhaps that is the best way we can remember Solomon: a man of his time, committed to his people, but open to receiving the gifts and the prayers of people from afar. Would that, in our present world of nationalistic fervour, militaristic aggression, and parochial bigotry, there were more rulers like that!

For more on the prayer of Solomon in 1 Kings 8, see

O hear in heaven, your dwelling place (1 Kings 8; Pentecost 14B)

Shamelessly persistent: a widow and a judge, the Christians and the system (and Nathan Taylor). A sermon on Luke 18 (for Pentecost 19C).

A sermon that I preached at Dungog Uniting Church on Sunday 19 October 2025.

He was the seventh child—seven of ten. That had to be lucky. And all bearing biblical names: Joseph, Sarah, Daniel, Benjamin, Rebekah, Elizabeth, Nathan, Hannah, Mary, and Joshua. Biblical names, reflecting the strong religious convictions of their non-conformist parents, Joshua and Mary.

Young Nathan was born surrounded by promise and hope. What would his life turn out to be? His parents hoped, and prayed.

As a young adult, Nathan Taylor was joined in marriage to Betty Clegg. He had known her all his life. They lived in adjoining houses, in their West Yorkshire village of Almondbury, a few miles to the south-east of Huddersfield. Perhaps Nathan had married up in the world; non-conformist as he was, his marriage was conducted by the vicar, on 15 September 1839, in the Almondbury Parish Church. It seems that the Clegg family were members of the established Church of England.

A son, William, was born that same year, in 1839. (Perhaps he was the reason that Nathan and Elizabeth married?) Then, two years later, a daughter, Mary, was born. The Census for 1841 lists a family comprising Nathan Taylor, 25, Clothier, his wife Elizabeth, 20, and their two children, living in Schofield Lane in the township of Huddersfield. Sadly, William later would die by drowning at the age of 18; and no other trace of Mary can be found beyond this 1841 Census.

A second son, John, was born to Nathan and Betty in Huddersfield in January 1845. He was given the maiden name of his mother, Clegg, for his middle name, and appears in official records as John Clegg Taylor.

However, within two years, the family, was torn apart. On 6 March 1847, at the age of 33, Nathan Taylor was tried at the York Assizes, on the charge of “Warehouse breaking”. He was sentenced to ten years imprisonment. All the promise of a fine son, that his parents had invested in him, was broken.

Also tried with him that day were John Johnson, 33, and Thomas Waddington, 37, both of whom received the same sentence for their crime of “Robbery in company with violence”. These three men were amongst 302 convicted men who subsequently were transported to the colony of New South Wales on board the ship Adelaide. This was the last of the ships bearing convicts to come to the colony of NSW. Later convicts were sent to Moreton Bay (now Brisbane), and then later to the Swan River (now Perth). But none followed the Adelaide to New South Wales.

Indeed, further investigations reveal that Nathan Taylor had already served time, for an incident of aggravated assault, a couple of years earlier. He was not, by any means, a fine, upstanding, law abiding citizen, it would seem.

So Nathan came to NSW. So, too, did Betty, with sons William and John. They were reunited, and went on to have further five children, three daughters and two sons, who were all born in the Richmond River region in northern New South Wales.

Nathan himself appears to have lived a full life in the Richmond River Region, where he was employed initially as a Labourer. In 1858 he bought land in East Ballina, and in 1862 additional land in Casino. He was appointed as a Foot Constable in the Northern Police District, on 22 November 1858. Police records describe him as 5’8” tall, with light brown hair, brown/grey eyes, and a sallow complexion. He worked as a Constable for six years (Number 782) before resigning on 31 October 1864.

******

Nathan had come good. From being a criminal, breaking the law, serving time in prison, and being transported to the colonies, he had ended up as an enforcer of that law, a solid, upstanding citizen.

After leaving the police force, Nathan conducted a store and then was licensed as the publican of the “Horse Shoe Inn” in Lismore in the 1870s. He later bought the warehouse and hotel of Henry Brown, which he kept until his death in 1874. He was a valued citizen of Lismore in his later years.

Nathan Taylor, my great great grandfather, intrigues me. He intrigues me because he was a convict: the sixth one of my ancestors to have been sent to the colonies as convict, as far as I have been able to ascertain thus far—three on my mother’s side, three on my father’s side, although there are still another three ancestors that I haven’t been able to nail down precisely, about whom I suspect they may well have been convicts.

Nathan Taylor intrigues me, also, because he was a Chartist. Nathan Taylor, as well as John Johnson and Thomas Waddington, along with many others on board the ship Adelaide, were Chartists. A whole group of a Chartists had been sentenced to ten years imprisonment, and then sent to the Colony, under special arrangements.

Now, Chartism was a movement in Britain during the period of 1838 to 1857 which was initiated by the promotion of a Peoples Charter in 1838. The Chartists held mass protest meetings and collected petitions which were presented to Parliament. There were protest activities by Chartists in many English cities. It was especially strong in the northern regions of England—precisely where Nathan Taylor was living as a young adult in the 1840s.

The Chartists were seeking a series of reforms to the political system (reforms which were eventually adopted, and which are taken for granted in modern democracies)—the vote for all adult males, the use of a secret ballot, the removal of a requirement for property ownership by Members of Parliament, payment of Members of Parliament, electorates with equal numbers of electors, and annual Parliamentary elections.

The arrangement concerning convicted Chartists was that such men would be sentenced to ten years and then sent to the colonies, and if they exhibited “exemplary” behaviour on the voyage to the south, they would be pardoned on arrival. This appears to have been what was done in relation to Nathan Taylor, for he was promptly pardoned and then his wife and two sons were brought to the colony, under the arrangements made by the Poor Law of the United Kingdom.

There is an annotation in the records of the ship that Betty Taylor and her two sons, William and John, travelled on, that reports “£5.0.0 paid by self and £10.0.0 paid by the Relieving Officers of Huddersfield”. Relieving Officers were appointed under the Poor Law Act of 1834, to oversee the administration of relief to the poor. It appears that the system was such that Elizabeth was able to petition to be reunited with her husband in the Colony.

And so she was. Had she not, I would not be here!

******

The story of Nathan Taylor, Chartist, convict, and copper, and his wife and family, came to my mind as I thought about the Gospel reading we have heard today (Luke 18:1–8). In a sense, the Chartists were very much like the widow in the story which Jesus told. Like her, they were seeking justice. Like her, they were met by indifference, or resistance. Like her, the Chartists pressed, arguing their case, disrupting the society of their day, and even, it is clear, resorting to violence in order to fly their flag and gain wider attention.

And, like the judge in the Gospel parable, eventually the British system relented, and began to adopt a number of the reforms that the Chartists had argued for over the years: the vote for all adult males, the use of a secret ballot, the removal of a requirement for property ownership by Members of Parliament, payment of Members of Parliament, electorates with equal numbers of electors, and annual Parliamentary elections.

If that list sounds familiar, it should—for we, today, have inherited these reforms (and more) in our own Australian parliamentary and legal system—inherited directly from British society. We owe our current democratic system to the agitation, the persistence, of those Chartists.

The parable which Jesus tells, is regularly understood to be a parable about persistence. Don’t give up! Keep on pressing the point! Knock on the door of that judge, and keep knocking, until he rises from his sleep and opens the door to you. Don’t let the authorities ignore you or marginalise you. Make a noise! Rouse the sleepers! Agitate! Work to see your demands brought to fruition!

Now, a standard way of interpreting parables is to allegorise them. That means, drawing clear lines of connection between the characters in the story, and people in real life. Classically, the judge who was being disturbed by the persistent widow, knocking on his door, perhaps crying out in the dead of night, this judge is usually equated with God. The persistent widow, by contrast, is equated with faithful people, praying to God.

If that is done, then we are provided a most disturbing picture of God. Do we really see God as unjust, oblivious to the cries of need around him, asleep in bed as the needs of the world grow larger and more pressing? It is not, I would suggest, how people of faith really conceive of God.

What about turning this interpretation on its head? Even though the text suggests that we interpret the judge as a symbol for God, that isn’t the end of the matter. If the text is about prayer, then it is about the two-way interaction that happens when we pray. Prayer is as much about what we say to God, as it is about what God says to us, what we hear when we pray, what is pressed upon us from our close and intimate engagement with our Creator.

So, if we flip things in the parable—what about if we see the judge as a symbol of systems in our human society? Like our systems often become, the judge was inflexible, aloof, resistant to interference, opposed to alteration. And why not see the woman as a picture of God? Persistent, incessant, calling out the injustices of our society, raising a ruckus when things are unfair or inequitable.

Read like this, the parable is about the way that God continues to press on us, challenging us, confronting us, pushing us to grow in our discipleship and deepen in our faith.

Now, there is one more aspect of this parable that I want to raise before we finish. If we explore the word used to describe the widow in the original Greek of this Gospel, the word that is usually translated as “persistent”, we will find that the original Greek is more accurately rendered as “shameless”. How about that picture of God—the one who is utterly shameless—shamelessly persistent in making demands of us?

In this way of reading the parable, the widow acts in precisely the way that Lady Wisdom is portrayed in Proverbs 8:1-4. She, a female, is on the public arena of ancient Israel: “On the heights, beside the way, at the crossroads she takes her stand; beside the gates in front of the town, at the entrance of the portals she cries out.” These locations were where men were expected to be active, and the gates to the town were the places where men gathered to discuss Torah and determine cases brought to them as judges.

For a woman to be there, and to be vocally active in such a public way, was a breach of the honour-shame code. Women speaking out in public were acting in a way that challenged the honour of the men who alone “rightly” belonged there. They did not adhere to the posture and action of shame that they were required to demonstrate, as the flip side of honour. They were acting in a way that demonstrated they were shameless.

The widow, pressing the point with the judge, is not only persistent, but—like Lady Wisdom, like God as we listen to and engage with God—utterly shameless.

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So for each one of us, the question stands: how does God call us to account, in the covenant by which we have committed ourselves to God? What knocking do we hear on our doors in the middle of the night? What voice cries out to us, persistently and shamelessly, at all hours of the day?

Where is God challenging us to deeper discipleship in active ways? How is God beckoning us to gracious openness, to offer lavish hospitality, to provide friendship and fellowship to those from outside our indeed circle?

In the Wesleyan tradition, which entered the Uniting Church through the Methodist Church, there is a Covenant Service, which was first used by Charles Wesley in 1755, drawing on a liturgy that is believed to have been created by the 17th century English Puritan, Richard Alleine.

Wesley’s Covenant Prayer includes words which I take as the start of our Prayers of the People for today.

Let me be exalted for you,

or brought low for you;

let me be full,

let me be empty,

let me have all things,

let me have nothing:

I freely and wholeheartedly yield all things

to your pleasure and disposal.

Do not judge by appearances (1 Samuel 16; Narrative Lectionary for Pentecost 19)

A discussion of the Narrative Lectionary passage from 1 Samuel 16

The narrative passage proposed by the Narrative Lectionary for this Sunday (1 Sam 16:1–13) comes from the period of time when Israel was ruled by a king. The story of the choosing of the first king, Saul, is told in 1 Sam 9; his rule runs through this narrative until the last chapter of this book, 1 Sam 31.

As I have noted before, although these narratives have the appearance of being historical, they are actually ancient tales which were told and retold, passed on by word of mouth and then written down, because of their enduring significance for the people of ancient Israel. Scholars call such stories “myths”, meaning that they convey something of fundamental importance. (We might best define myth as “a traditional story, usually associated with the time of origins, of paradigmatic significance for the society in which it is told”.)

See more on the nature of these stories at

How can we preach on passages in the Bible that are myths?

The picture of Saul, the first man chosen to be king in Israel, demonstrates the flaws of this system of leadership. His reign was characterised by turbulence and opposition; as early as chapter 13 there are signs of the problems that there were in his leadership. After defeating the Philistines, and being impatient for the prophet Samuel to arrive, he went ahead with a burnt offering, in contradiction to the command of God. “You have done foolishly; you have not kept the commandment of the Lord your God, which he commanded you”, Samuel berates the king (1 Sam 13:13). This is not the behaviour expected of a person leading the chosen people of God!

The prophet Samuel foreshadows the coming turmoil under Saul’s leadership, telling him that “the Lord would have established your kingdom over Israel forever, but now your kingdom will not continue” (1 Sam 13:14). In the passage offered by the lectionary for this coming Sunday (1 Sam 16:1–13), we learn that because the rule of Saul is fraught with difficulties, a significant change is on the cards.

Pushed by the words of the prophet Samuel, Saul confesses his sin (1 Sam 15:24, 30). Samuel announces to him that “the Lord has rejected you from being king over Israel” (15:26) and declares, quite dramatically, “the Lord has torn the kingdom of Israel from you this very day, and has given it to a neighbour of yours, who is better than you” (15:28).

The narrator of this story engages in an interesting theological exploration at this point. Samuel is clear about God’s intentions: “the Glory of Israel will not recant or change his mind; for he is not a mortal, that he should change his mind” (15:29). This God had explicitly chosen Saul, who said he was “only a Benjaminite, from the least of the tribes of Israel, and my family is the humblest of all the families of the tribe of Benjamin” (9:21).

God had chosen David, this least and most humble person, to serve as ruler over the people, to “save my people from the hand of the Philistines” (9:16). He would rule form40 years—the biblical,way of saying “for an awfully long time”—and exert great power. We might note that this “least-become-greatest” dynamic prefigures some of the teaching of Jesus, a descendant of David, a millennia later.

Samuel, exercising his prophetic leadership, had assured the people, “there is no one like him among all the people” (10:24); but some in the crowd were doubtful, saying, “how can this man save us?”, and they despised him (10:27). Paradoxically, these men had insight into the character of Saul which the Lord God himself failed to perceive at this time.

However, a little later, the narrator of this story muses that “the Lord was sorry that he had made Saul king over Israel” (15:35). This is regret, but seemingly not quite a full change-of-mind. It does, however, paint the divine in a rather human way; an action undertaken that does not bear fruit for us as anticipated can indeed generate regret.

Elsewhere in Hebrew Scriptures, the matter of a change-of-mind for the divine is explored. Jeremiah instructs the people, “amend your ways and your doings, and obey the voice of the Lord your God, and the Lord will change his mind about the disaster that he has pronounced against you” (Jer 26:13). In the tale of Jonah, when God saw the repentance of the people of Nineveh, “God changed his mind about the calamity that he had said he would bring upon them; and he did not do it” (Jon 3:10).

The prophet Amos petitions God, such that “the Lord relented concerning this; ‘it shall not be,’ said the Lord” (Amos 7:3, 6). And in the story of the Golden Bull, Moses implores God to “turn from your fierce wrath; change your mind and do not bring disaster on your people”, and so the Lord repents (Exod 32:12–14).

We might wonder: is the regret that the narrator perceives in the divine (1 Sam 15:35) strong enough to chasten God in future actions, so that there will be no need for a divine change-of-mind?

For more on this topic, see

God changed God’s mind (Jonah 3; Epiphany 3B)

As Saul relinquishes his role, Jesse steps onto the stage; one of his eight sons will sit on the throne. It has been a bitterly-fought transition, and Samuel was saddened by the course of events. But the voice of God pushes him on, to step into his role in the transition taking place; and so the prophet faithfully anoints Saul’s successor.

We should remember that, in the a Christian canon, the two books that tell of the rule of Saul and then David are named, not after those kings, but after the prophet, Samuel—who held and exercised great power, as the story shows, in that he is attuned to God’s voice and speaks God’s words to the people. We saw this dynamic clearly articulated in the earlier narrative (1 Sam 3) on the Sunday after Trinity Sunday (Pentecost 2).

So Samuel follows God’s advice: “do not look on his appearance or on the height of his stature, because I have rejected him; for the Lord does not see as mortals see; they look on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart” (1 Sam 16:7). This verse is often quoted by people of faith when reflecting on the importance of inner conviction and commitment to God.

This narrative portrays a God who sees and deals with the heart of human beings (v.7). The heart is important to God because of its directional role: “the good person out of the good treasure of his heart produces good, and the evil person out of his evil treasure produces evil, for out of the abundance of the heart his mouth speaks” (Luke 6:45). In like manner, Proverbs 4:23 states “keep your heart with all vigilance, for from it flow the springs of life”.

There is a danger here, of course; the outward actions of people are indeed important, and the claim that God’s focus is solely on our “heart” can be deceptive. Both our inner nature and our outer actions are significant; they each point to our faith and express our discipleship.

Indeed, it is worth remembering that, in the Hebrew language—the language in which this narrative was written—the word translated as heart is לֵבָב, lebab. It’s a common word in Hebrew Scripture, and is understood to refer to the mind, will, or heart of a person—words which seek to describe the essence of the person. It is sometimes described as referring to “the inner person”. The word appears 248 times in the scriptures, of which well over half (185) are translated as “heart”. It has a strong connotation of indication “the whole of a person’s being”. That’s what God is focussed on; that’s where faith is shown and discipleship is lived out.

For more on this, see

Love with all that you are—heart and soul, completely and entirely (Deut 6 in Mark 12; Pentecost 23B)

So Jesse brings his sons before Samuel. But which son is it to be? Samuel first offers a sacrifice to God (15:2–5), in the expectation that what he does next will be in accord with the will of God. Samuel had his own ideas, based on appearances; God reprimands him, now telling him to focus on the heart—the very core of the being of the chosen one, the whole of that person’s being (16:7). After receiving all of Jesse’s sons in order (16:8–10), Samuel exercises his prophetic discernment, selecting the youngest son, David, to be the new king (16:11–13).

God confirms this choice by gifting David with the spirit: “the spirit of the Lord came mightily upon David from that day forward” (16:13). Openness to new ways and new possibilities has led to this defining moment.

Ironically, when Samuel first sees David, the narrator introduces him with the description, “he was ruddy, and had beautiful eyes, and was handsome” (16:12)—precisely the elements of “outward appearance” that we were told earlier that the Lord does not consider. Even the careful crafter of this story gets caught!!

Peace with Justice: end the genocide in Gaza

It’s hard not to look at what has been happening in the Middle East—and particularly in Gaza—over recent years, and make some very harsh decisions from afar. For a start, after the series of attacks that Hamas and some other Palestinian groups made two years ago yesterday, on 7 October 2023, it seems easy to condemn the violence of terrorists fighting for Palestinian rights. The firing of 4,300 rockets, the slaughter of 1,195 Israelis, mostly civilians, and the taking of around 250 hostages, some still held today, all deserve to be condemned.

The Gaza Strip and the national state of Israel,
from a map in the Encyclopedia Britannica

But it is also hard not to decide that all Israelis should be condemned for the aggressive militaristic actions taken in response to the 7 Oct attacks. On 8 Oct, the Israeli government declared that the nation was “in a state of war”. That “war” has continued each day since then, with consistent attacks across Gaza.

Current estimates by the Hamas-run Gaza Ministry of Health are that around 67,000 residents in Gaza have been killed, including 18,000 children; 170,000 people have been injured, and 1.9 million people displaced. Amongst the deaths, Al-Jazeera estimates that around 300 journalists and media workers have been killed. They say that across Gaza, the destruction includes 92% of all residential buildings, 88% of all commercial facilities, and more than 2,300 educational buildings have been destroyed.

The clearest accusation that has been made for some time now is that Israel is committing genocide. The World Council of Churches asserts that “the Government of Israel’s military campaign in Gaza has entailed grave breaches of the Fourth Geneva Convention which may constitute genocide and/or other crimes under the Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court (ICC)”. This council has denounced “the system of apartheid imposed by Israel on the Palestinian people, in violation of international law and moral conscience”. It’s clear that Israel,is acting outside the agreed international laws and customs. Yet the USA and other countries continue to provide Israel with all manner of materials and products to sustain their genocidal aggression.

However, it’s important not to not tag all Israelis with the one brush. The Israeli Defence Forces are carrying out the policies implemented by the right wing Prime Minister and his far right fundamentalist coalition of parties. They are committed to the Zionist ideal of ensuring the security of Israel, and of removing all opposition to this nation within the region. They are prosecuting this with vigorous zeal. The bombs and buckets continue each day. But as they oversee this policy, we should remember that they are not representative of everyone in Israel.

Elizabeth and I have a friend in Israel who is faithful and deeply committed to justice; they have been working with others for peace in their country for decades, and they are currently most distressed by their government’s callous fundamentalist actions. And we have a friend in Australia who served in the IDF who is now campaigning vigorously to stop the genocide, lobbying our government to push this message internationally.

They are not all “the same”—what the army is implementing is a government policy that is incredibly divisive within Israel. Not all Israelis support what has been happening; many disagree with the genocide happening in Gaza. Jeremy Bowen, of the BBC, reports that “Israelis are war-weary and polls show that a majority want a deal that returns the hostages and ends the war. Hundreds of thousands of reservists in the armed forces, the IDF, want to get back to their lives after many months in uniform on active service.”

In like fashion, it’s not fair to label all Palestinians as terrorists. Some are, but many are not. Good Palestinians of integrity do not support the actions of organisations like Hamas.

It’s a complex situation which is not helped when people adopt the simplistic media language that paints all XXs as evil people or all YYs as good people. Indeed, the actions of warfare, terrorism, and genocide that we see playing out each day are held in disdain by millions of people in the region. Like them, we should hope for, yearn for, and pray for peace.

I wrote this blog on what happened two years ago today:

Israel, the West Bank, and Hamas: a prayer for peace, and a yearning for justice

In today’s blog, I have drawn on the following sources:

https://abcnews.go.com/International/israel-hamas-wars-devastating-human-toll-after-2/story?id=126252242

https://www.aljazeera.com/news/liveblog/2025/10/7/live-israels-genocide-continues-across-gaza-two-years-since-start-of-war

https://www.bbc.com/news/articles/cvgqyj268ljo

https://www.oikoumene.org/resources/documents/statement-on-palestine-and-israel-a-call-to-end-apartheid-occupation-and-impunity-in-palestine-and-israel

For other related blogs, see

Significant days, reflecting Shoah, Independence, Nakba, and 7 October.

The problem of Canaan: conquering, colonising, massacring (Deut 34; Pentecost 22A)

Re-reading the story of Palestine and Israel

Speak, for your servant is listening (1 Samuel 3; Narrative Lectionary for Pentecost 18)

The two books of Samuel and the early chapters of 1 Kings recount the development of the monarchy in Israel, with stories of Saul, David, and Solomon, the first three men charged with the responsibility of leading Israel and ensuring that there was justice in the land. We have four passages proposed by the Narrative Lectionary at this point of the cycle, beginning this Sunday with 1 Sam 3:1–21.

These stories also engage us with the lives of prophets, Samuel and Nathan—men who were called to speak the word of God. This week we hear about the call of the young Samuel. We are told that as Samuel grew up, “the Lord was with him and let none of his words fall to the ground; and all Israel from Dan to Beer-sheba knew that Samuel was a trustworthy prophet of the Lord” (1 Sam 3:20–21). Years later, Nathan is commissioned by “the word of the Lord” to “go and tell my servant David, ‘thus says the Lord’” (2 Sam 7:4–5). That is the role of the prophet—to listen to what God says to them, and then to speak forth the word of the Lord to the people of their society.

Samuel, Nathan, and other prophets were particularly called to speak truth to the king and to recall them to the centrality of their role, to ensure that God’s justice was a reality in Israelite society (Isa 42:1–4; 61:1–2; Mic 3:8). We see this when Nathan confronts David (2 Sam 12), when Elijah confronts Ahab and the priests of Baal (1 Ki 18), when Isaiah advises Hezekiah (2 Ki 20), and when Josiah consults Huldah (2 Ki 22; 2 Chron 34).

As we pay attention to the details of the stories, let us remember that these stories are not “history” as we know it today. Rather, they are ancient tales told and retold, passed on by word of mouth and then written down, because of their enduring significance for the people of ancient Israel. Scholars call such stories “myths”, meaning that they convey something of fundamental importance. (We might best define myth as “a traditional story, usually associated with the time of origins, of paradigmatic significance for the society in which it is told”.)

See more on the nature of these stories at

How can we preach on passages in the Bible that are myths?

Identifying the stories in the narrative books of the Hebrew Scriptures as myths doesn’t mean they are “not true”—rather, it means that we need to read them, not as historically accurate accounts, but as stories which convey fundamentally important ideas. These stories were valued by people of ancient times. They may well offer us, in our own times, insights and guidance of value.

So we read and ponder these stories from old once again, in our time, because we believe that there is wisdom and guidance in the dynamics we see at work in this ancient society. We pay attention to them because we believe that the same Spirit who anointed the kings, and who called and equipped the prophets, is the very Spirit who today meets us, calls us, and equips us.

This Sunday, the Narrative Lectionary offers us a narrative that recounts the call of the young boy, Samuel, to the role of prophet (1 Sam 3:1–21). Samuel was the designated prophet whose wisdom guided the people in the early period of the monarchy. This story from the early years of Samuel’s life instructs us as we hear it in later times, to listen to God’s voice, and to respond with obedience.

Young Samuel was in the temple, where the elderly Eli was priest. In the evening, while the lamp was still burning, Samuel hears a voice. The voice simply calls his name. “Here I am”, Samuel responds when he hears that voice. He is sure that it is Samuel who is speaking to him—there is nobody else around. Three times, he hears “Samuel”; and three times, he responds “here I am” (vv.4,6,8).

Samuel had been thinking that it was Eli speaking to him; but it was not the priest, it was the voice of the Lord. The story conveys a sense of confusion and unknowing. This reflects something of the uncertainty that people of faith often have with regard to “hearing the voice of the Lord”.

Indeed, the fragility of living by faith without clear and obvious demonstration of he presence of God is signalled in the opening verse: “the word of the Lord was rare in those days; visions were not widespread” (v.1). The poor vision of the elderly priest, Eli (v.2), is a second signal of this uncertainty. The priest cannot see; the child hears but does not understand.

Paying attention to the voice of the Lord is a persistent refrain in Hebrew Scriptures. Indeed, the psalmist rejoices in the clarity of God’s voice: “the voice of the Lord is over the waters; the God of glory thunders, the Lord, over mighty waters; the voice of the Lord is powerful; the voice of the Lord is full of majesty” (Ps 29:3–4). Yet another psalmist recalls the time, in the wilderness, when the people of Israel “grumbled in their tents, and did not obey the voice of the Lord” (Ps 106:25). The people were not always faithful, even though the voice sounded with clarity. They needed reminders of that voice.

In the foundational saga of Israel, Moses is called by the voice of God while tending sheep on Mount Horeb (Exod 3:4). In obedience, he leads the people to freedom—and then informs the people, “if you will listen carefully to the voice of the Lord your God, and do what is right in his sight, and give heed to his commandments and keep all his statutes”, then God promises not to inflict them with disease (Exod 15:26). Later, when Moses has delivered to them “all the words of the Lord and all the ordinances”, the response of the people is an affirmative “all the words that the Lord has spoken we will do” (Exod 24:3).

A number of the prophets indicate that they are impelled to declare “the word of the Lord” to a sinful people because they have heard, and are obedient to, “the voice of the Lord”. Isaiah hears the voice of the Lord calling him: “whom shall I send, and who will go for us?” (Isa 6:8). Isaiah is given words of woe to pronounce over the people (Isa 6:9–13); he warns the leaders of Israel, “listen, and hear my voice; pay attention, and hear my speech” (Isa 28:23).

His fellow-southerner, the shepherd Amos, opens his words with the bold declaration, “the Lord roars from Zion, and utters his voice from Jerusalem” (Amos 1:2), before he launches into his long series of oracles against the surrounding nations (Amos 1:3—2:3) and then against Judah and Israel (Amos 2:4–16).

The image of the lord as a roaring lion is used also by Joel, “the Lord roars from Zion, and utters his voice from Jerusalem, and the heavens and the earth shake” (Joel 3:16), while in another oracle he says, “the Lord utters his voice at the head of his army; how vast is his host!” (Joel 2:1). Joel’s words of judgement penetrate to the heart of the evil of the people: the coming day will be “a day of darkness and gloom, a day of clouds and thick darkness!” (Joel 2:2), and so he calls the people to “return to [the Lord] with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning; rend your hearts and not your clothing” (Joel 2:12–13).

Micah also declares, “the voice of the Lord cries to the city (it is sound wisdom to fear your name)” (Mic 6:9) before he lambasts the people for their wickedness: “your wealthy are full of violence; your inhabitants speak lies, with tongues of deceit in their mouths” (Mic 6:12; the whole damning oracle is 6:9–16).

Called as a youth by “the word of the Lord” (Jer 1:4–8), Jeremiah hears the assurance, “I have put my words in your mouth” (Jer 1:9); the prophet later instructs the people, “amend your ways and your doings, and obey the voice of the Lord your God, and the Lord will change his mind about the disaster that he has pronounced against you” (Jer 26:13). Again, he tells them, “obey the voice of the Lord in what I say to you, and it shall go well with you, and your life shall be spared” (Jer 38:20). Eventually, the people affirm, “whether it is good or bad, we will obey the voice of the Lord our God to whom we are sending you, in order that it may go well with us when we obey the voice of the Lord our God” (Jer 42:6).

In the return from exile, both Haggai (Hag 1:12) and Zechariah (Zech 6:15) rejoice that Israel “obeyed the voice of the Lord their God”; but Daniel laments that his people “have not obeyed the voice of the Lord our God by following his laws, which he set before us by his servants the prophets; Israel has transgressed your law and turned aside, refusing to obey your voice” (Dan 9:10).

And yet, various prophets had hesitated when first hearing “the voice of the Lord”. The initial response of Moses is “who am I that I should go to Pharaoh, and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?” (Exod 3:11), followed by a series of further objections that he raises (Exod 3:13; 4:1; 4:10). Amos explains to the priest Amaziah how his call had surprised him: “I am no prophet, nor a prophet’s son; but I am a herdsman, and a dresser of sycamore trees” (Amos 7:14).

Isaiah seeks to excuse himself from the prophetic task: “I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips” (Isa 6:5). Jeremiah objects, “truly I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy” (Jer 1:5). A number of the prophets are, initially at least, reluctant spokespersons for the Lord God.

By contrast, in the story told in 1 Sam 3, after hearing his name spoken by the Lord for a third time, Samuel responds with a declaration of obedience: “speak, for your servant is listening” (v.10). This was just as the priest Eli had instructed him (v.9). Here, Samuel demonstrates careful listening, patience, openness to what he encounters, and complete obedience to that voice.

Just beyond the passage set by the lectionary, the narrator indicates that what will follow will be dramatic and compelling; it will “make both ears of anyone who hears of it to tingle” (v.11). The immediate drama which les ahead will tell of punishment for the sins of the house of Eli. Young Samuel is given his first commission: tell his patron Eli about what lies in store for him. Samuel, in fear and trembling, dutifully does so (v.18); Eli recognises the word of the Lord in the voice of the prophet, and accepts his fate.

The pattern of Samuel’s life is thus set: he will need to summon inner strength, demonstrate commitment to the cause, use clarity of speech, and model integrity of life. The fact that the young Samuel already demonstrated these qualities may well be why this story is remembered and retold. These two stories from the early years of Samuel’s life are remembered in order to instruct those who hear them in later generations, to listen and to obey, to be brave and focussed. And so we, in our time, are to hear the story, reflect on it, and respond appropriately.

Peace within creation: a sermon for the Season of Creation 2025

A sermon preached during the 2025 Season of Creation

Today, 4 October, is the day when many churches of various denominations in numerous countries around the world remember two important saints, Francis and Clare of Assisi. Many believers pray to them, or rather ask them to make intercession with God for them. This blog post is in honour of them and the discipleship that they modelled. It is a sermon that I preached in the Dungog Uniting Church on 21 September 2025, during the Season of Creation.

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The sequence of Bible readings that we follow in this church throughout the year comes from a resource called the Revised Common Lectionary. A lectionary is a collection of passages from the Bible, arranged in a particular way, and intended for use in Christian worship. The word “lection” simply means “reading”, so a lectionary is just that: an arrangement of readings.

The readings are arranged by season. We all know that the season of Spring has begun; it started on 1 September, at the change of month. Although my nose and eyes had already alerted me, some time before that day, to this turn-of-the-seasons. But as from 1 September, it’s officially Spring.

Of course, there’s are many other signs of the coming of Spring downunder. The days are lengthening, the warming sun is strengthening its heat, the grass and flowers—and weeds!—are returning from their wintry hibernation.

Here in Dungog where I live there is a string of local community events that are planned for these pleasantly warm weeks. We have already had Run Dungog and Sculpture on the Farm, and the Dungog Tea Party. There is also Ride Dungog social bike rides, a new art exhibition in one of the local galleries, the Dungog Rumble for hot rod cars, and then the Dungog Show early in November.

However, alongside the seasonal change, there’s also an ecclesial significance to the change-of-season taking place. In 1989, the Ecumenical Patriarch Dimitrios I (bottom left), the head of the Eastern Orthodox Church, declared 1 September to be a day of prayer for the natural environment. I guess it’s somewhat overshadowed by the fact that in Australia, this day is Wattle Day, honouring the national floral emblem of our nation. But in the church calendar, 1 September was the Day of Prayer for the Environment.

In 2008, the World Council of Churches made a decision to extend this focus beyond one day. It invited all churches to observe a Time for Creation from 1 September to 4 October—the day which had long been kept as the feast day for St Francis of Assisi (top left).

Francis, of course, is probably the most popular Catholic saint in the world. He is the one who preached to the birds; blessed fish that had been caught, releasing them back into the water; communicated with wolves, brokering an agreement between one famous ferocious wolf and the citizens of a town that were terrified of it; and used real animals when he created the very first, live, Christmas nativity scene. As a result of these, Francis is the patron saint of animals and the environment. And he is the inventor of the familiar nativity scene.

Every 4 October, Francis of Assisi is remembered in churches around the world—along with St Clare of Assisi (top right) who, like Francis, came from a noble family, but decided to renounce it all to live a life of simplicity with Francis and his brothers. Unlike Francis, who was a mendicant, a wandering friar, Clare lived an enclosed life of poverty and prayer, leading a community of women who shared the same vision.

In 2019, the Pope who had taken the name of Francis for his time as Pontiff (bottom right) adopted the Season of Creation for Roman Catholic worship. It runs from 1 September to 4 October. And so, in many churches around the world, the whole of September is now designated as a time to focus on Creation—a truly ecumenical festive season, involving Eastern Orthodox, Roman Catholic, Anglican, Lutheran, and many Protestant churches alike.

The Rev. Dr Elizabeth Smith is an Anglican priest living in Western Australia and a well-known hymn writer; she wrote the words for “God gives us a future”, for instance, and for “Where wide skies roll down”, which we will sing in a few minutes. Dr Smith recently attended an internal colloquium which was exploring the adoption of a Season of Creation by all mainstream denominations.

She described the impetus for such a gathering in this way: “Christians have joined the growing chorus lamenting the climate crisis and its effects on nature and on vulnerable humanity, especially the poor. Energy is coalescing around liturgical acknowledgement of the value of ‘creation’—both God’s creative action and the universe it produces.”

She then noted that “Ecumenical efforts are pressing toward a feast or season that raises both the act and fact of creation to the praise and thanksgiving of assemblies across denominations, from the Orthodox and Catholics where the initiatives began, to Anglican, Reformed, Lutheran, Methodist, and Pentecostal fellowships and associations.”

We can only hope that this initiative moves from “a good idea” to “a practical implementation” of that good idea! It will be good to have a regular formal liturgical accompaniment, ecumenical and international, to the signs of the change of season that is all around us.

In the meantime, we have opportunity today to give some attention to the environment; to celebrate the wonderful achievements of God’s creative work all around us; to lament the ways that human beings have ignored, exploited, and destroyed elements of that creation; and to commit to living in ways that honour the creation, ensure its continued viability, and plant seeds of hope for the future.

The theme for the Season of Creation this year is Peace with Creation. It’s a theme that is inspired by the example of Francis and c,are, but is taken directly from words in the passage we heard in Isaiah 32, in which the prophet offers words of hope after the time of exile and despair has taken place. Isaiah foresees that “a spirit from on high is poured out on us, and the wilderness becomes a fruitful field, and the fruitful field is deemed a forest” (Isa 32:15).

In these words, the prophet offers a fine, bountiful expression of the abundance that exists in creation; an abundance which came into being, as the priests would describe in their story telling of the act of creation, when the spirit of God, in the form of a mighty wind, “swept over the face of the waters” and energised the creation of earth and sky, seas and trees, fish and birds, land creatures—and human beings (Gen 1).

Isaiah draws from this priestly story, which we know from Genesis 1, and then continues, describing this coming time as a period when “justice will dwell in the wilderness, and righteousness abide in the fruitful field” (Isa 32:16). These are the two central qualities that God desires amongst human beings—justice and righteousness.

“Happy are those who observe justice, who do righteousness at all times”, one of the psalmists sings (Ps 106:3). As king, Solomon is told that “the Lord has made you king to execute justice and righteousness” (1 Ki 10:9). The prophet Amos most famously declared, “let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream” (Amos 5:24).

And in the time of exile, Jeremiah prophesies about what lies ahead, stating that God has said to him, “I will cause a righteous Branch to spring up for David; and he shall execute justice and righteousness in the land” (Jer 33:15). For Christians, of course, this righteous branch, executing justice and righteousness, is considered to be Jesus, the chosen servant, upon whom God pours out the spirit, so that “he will proclaim justice to the Gentiles” (Matt 12:18).

The vision that Isaiah has shares elements, also, with an earlier passage, in which he looks to the child to be born, who is “named Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace” (Isa 9:6). This passage, also, we Christians appropriate and claim that it gives us insight into the nature of the child born in Bethlehem,raised in Nazareth, and crucified in Jerusalem. “His authority”, Isaiah declares, “shall grow continually, and there shall be endless peace” (Is 9:7).

So in chapter 32, Isaiah continues, declaring that “the effect of righteousness will be peace, and the result of righteousness, quietness and trust forever. My people will abide in a peaceful habitation, in secure dwellings, and in quiet resting places” (Isa 32:16–18). The global vision of how the environment will operate is that it will be a time of abundance, a time of justice and righteousness, a time of peace.

How will God achieve such a wonderful time? What role do human beings have in helping the divine to shepherd this time of environmental peace into being? What do we have to do to bring abundance, justice, and peace into being across the world? What do we have to do give up to ensure there is plenty for all, equity for all, and peaceful co-existence amongst human beings, amongst all creatures, across all the ecosystems and environments existing in this world?

And especially, how do we convince our leaders to act so that there is peace in the world: peace in Gaza, peace in the Ukraine, peace in Sudan, peace in the Yemen, peace in the many places where conflicts still continue.

The Season of Creation stands as a time when we can consider what we do that harms the planet … what we do that contributes to the destruction of forests, the endangerment of species, the futile warfare amongst human beings. This Season calls us to walk lightly on the earth, recycle and reuse in every way, decline plastic in our shopping, buy local food and minimise the mileage travelled by ships and trucks transporting food across large distances.

The sign on display at the front our our church in Dungog declares our commitment to such a way of living, as individuals and families, and as a church. And hopefully, as a nation, as our leaders consider the latest report on what needs to be done to ensure the growth of renewable industries and the closure of coal mines—with appropriate retraining for all those employed in mines at the present. This sign is an expression of solidarity with friends in the Pacific region whose countries are slowly being swamped by rising sea levels; it is an expression of our care for the whole creation.

Can you see the vision of fruitful abundance, security and peacefulness, for the whole of creation that Isaiah sets forth? And in seeing that vision, can you commit to small, achievable, daily actions that contribute to ensuring this vision can become a reality? May this be the path we see ahead of us; may this be the path we walk in the days ahead.

The road to freedom: seeking the safety of refuge (Exodus 16; Narrative Lectionary for Pentecost 17)

Discussion of the story of the Israelites in the wilderness (Exod 16) for the Narrative Lectionary.

This coming Sunday, we will hear a story that didn’t happen—yet a story that is always happening. We hear stories from the grand saga of ancient Israel at this point in the lectionary cycle each year: stories of Abraham, Sarah, and Hagar, of Isaac and Rebekah, stories of Jacob, Leah, and Rachel, and the twelve sons of Jacob, the stories of Joseph and his brothers and the stories from early in the life of Moses.

Yet a critical approach to scripture recognises that these stories did not actually happen as they are reported; but they are told because the dynamics at work in the stories reflect the realities of life as the ancient Israelites experienced it. And we read them again, and listen, and reflect on them, because we have faith that they also convey something to us, in a very different culture and location, about the realities of life as we know it.

Personally, I don’t think we can say that these ancestral stories happened as actual historical events. Certainly, the historical elements in the story of the Exodus are impossible to validate using the standard methods of historical criticism. However, they are worth remembering and retelling, because they are always happening, in the murky depths of human life.

So this year in the cycle of the Narrative Lectionary, as we read and hear this story yet again, may it refresh our understanding of life and take us somehow into the centre of our existential being. This story and others around it have been told and retold throughout the centuries, because they express things that are deep within our lives.

The people depicted in the wilderness in today’s passage (Exodus 16:1–18) are quite relatable characters, to me. We are introduced to “the whole congregation of the Israelites” right at the start, and are told that they “complained against Moses and Aaron in the wilderness” (v.2). I’m going to pass on making any connection between this verse and any congregation of which I have been a part, or in which I have ministered. Let’s just say that humans complaining should not be a surprise to us!

However, let’s pause and consider: the complaint raised by the Israelites against Moses and Aaron appears to be quite unreasonable. How long have they been travelling in the wilderness? And already they seem to think that life was better for them back in Egypt, where “we sat by the fleshpots and ate our fill of bread”. Now, in the wilderness, the accuse their leaders of wanting “to kill this whole assembly with hunger” (v.3).

However, if you put yourself into the situation of the Israelites, you might well have a more empathic understanding of their situation. Their years in Egypt were intensely difficult: the Egyptians “set taskmasters over them to oppress them with forced labour … [they] became ruthless in imposing tasks on the Israelites, and made their lives bitter with hard service” (Exod 1:11–14). How were the Israelites to respond? Fright? Fight? or Flight??

We might hypothesise—imagining what might have been going through the minds of the Israelites in the story as they considered their situation. (As noted above, I don’t think that this was an actual historical event—but it is told in Exodus as a history-like narrative, and that history-like character invites us to consider how the hypothetical characters in that story might have thought and acted.)

In such a situation, fright would have been an understandable response. The power of the Egyptian overlords would have generated fear amongst the Israelites as they struggled to complete the increasingly demanding tasks imposed upon them. As there presumably were many years between the death of Joseph (Gen 50:26) and the time when “a new king arose over Egypt, who did not know Joseph” (Exod 1:8), that suggests that fright gripped the people and paralysed them into inaction. They continued as slaves under increasingly difficult conditions.

The thought of fight might have entered the minds of some—standing up for their rights and asserting themselves in order to gain freedom may well have been suggested, even debated, during this extended interim period. Indeed, as the story recounts, Moses himself, fuelled by a passion for justice and a dislike of injustice, was known to have intervened with passion and force into a situation of injustice—such that “he saw an Egyptian beating a Hebrew, one of his kinsfolk; he looked this way and that, and seeing no one he killed the Egyptian and hid him in the sand” (Exod 2:11–12). The next day, fearing that his actions were known, he fled across the desert to Midian, where he remained for quite some years.

Would Moses have thought to press hard against his Egyptian overlords, agitating for them to act justly in relation to the Israelites? His initial thoughts in this regard may well have been completely deficient—that is, until he had encountered God in the burning bush (Exod 3:1–5). From that bush, the voice had come, commissioning Moses to approach Pharaoh “to bring my people, the Israelites, out of Egypt” (3:10).

Moses, of course, argued with God about what that would mean (3:11–4:17)—but in the end, he returned to Egypt (4:18–31) with the intention of confronting Pharaoh, to say “Let my people go” (5:1). The initial request was simply “so that they may celebrate a festival to me in the wilderness” (5:1)—but Pharaoh was resistant, leading to the long sequence of divinely-initiated plagues (7:14—10:28), culminating in the plague of the death of “all the firstborn in the land” (12:29–32).

It was flight, however, which won the day for the Israelites—after they, in turn, had been convinced by Moses that this was what God wanted them to do (12:3, 21–28). And that flight, according to the story line, was supported by the interventions of the divine into the sequence of human events: “at midnight the Lord struck down all the firstborn in the land of Egypt, from the firstborn of Pharaoh who sat on his throne to the firstborn of the prisoner who was in the dungeon” (12:29), and then “the Lord brought the Israelites out of the land of Egypt, company by company” (12:51), and then “the Lord went in front of them in a pillar of cloud by day, to lead them along the way, and in a pillar of fire by night, to give them light, so that they might travel by day and by night” (13:21).

Then, when confronted with the sea in front of them, “the Lord hardened the heart of Pharaoh king of Egypt and he pursued the Israelites, who were going out boldly” (14:8), and then “the Lord drove the sea back by a strong east wind all night, and turned the sea into dry land; and the waters were divided. The Israelites went into the sea on dry ground, the waters forming a wall for them on their right and on their left. The Egyptians pursued, and went into the sea after them, all of Pharaoh’s horses, chariots, and chariot drivers.” (14:21–23).

And so the story resolves the tension: “the Lord tossed the Egyptians into the sea. The waters returned and covered the chariots and the chariot drivers, the entire army of Pharaoh that had followed them into the sea; not one of them remained. But the Israelites walked on dry ground through the sea, the waters forming a wall for them on their right and on their left.” (14:27–29).

The Israelites, so the story reveals to us, had thus experienced a long sequence of frightening and troubling events—culminating in their witnessing the mass drowning of the army that was pursuing them. The narrator makes it clear that “the Lord saved Israel that day from the Egyptians; and Israel saw the Egyptians dead on the seashore” (14:30). Today, meeting people who had experienced such a sequence of events, we would recognise that they had been immersed in a series of traumas, and we would readily explain their current state of being with reference to PTSD—post-traumatic stress disorder.

Of course, as we have noted, the narrator shrugs all of this off with the glib summation, “Israel saw the great work that the Lord did against the Egyptians; so the people feared the Lord and believed in the Lord and in his servant Moses” (14:31). The narrator expects the people in the story to move on. And so we are then given the full set of lyrics of the song that Moses led the people in singing, “I will sing to the Lord, for he has triumphed gloriously … the Lord is my strength and my might … this is my God, and I will praise him” (15:1–18), followed by a recapitulation of the earlier verses in the song that Miriam and the women sang, “Sing to the Lord, for he has triumphed gloriously; horse and rider he has thrown into the sea” (15:21).

But as the story continues on, the narrator cannot but help give indication of the ways that the trauma of this long sequence of events has impacted on the Israelites. The first indication of that comes in the complaint of the people when they could find no water; they cried out to Moses, and God intervenes again to enable him to provide water for drinking (15:22–25).

There are further indications when another set of complaints is brought against Moses and Aaron, for the people are now hungry (16:1–3); then the story of another moment of complaint, at Rephidim (17:1–7); and still further stories of complaint at Num 11:1–15 and 14:1–4.

If we enter into the story and imagine the state of the people, there can be no doubt that they would have been gripped with terror and fear—wondering what the future would hold, lamenting the difficulties of the present, and looking back already on the past with “rose-coloured glasses”, unable to remember exactly how difficult and oppressive it was for them to live in Egypt.

And yet, the narrator wants us to understand that, in the midst of the complaints raised by the people, there was hope: they camped at a fertile oasis at Elim (15:27), they ate the quails and manna provided each day (16:13–18; Num 11:7–9); they had water to drink at Massah and Meribah (17:7)

The story that is shaped in the narrative of Exodus has a strong belief in an active, interventionist deity. That is possible to claim with the benefit of hindsight, knowing that the people did survive their time in the wilderness, did have nourishment and water, did eventually enter the land promised to them, and did settle and become prosperous in the land. That is the blessing of telling a story long after the time in which it is set; the long range result can be known!

It was not the case in the midst of the story, as the events being narratives took place. Doubt and fear grounded in uncertainty, as well as dysfunction generated by repeated traumatic events, would have blurred and marred any sense of confident hope, surely. And that is precisely the situation that we find ourselves in, today. Life is “happening” to us. We do not have a guarantee of the end-in-view, the longterm result that is hoped for. We live by faith, with hope, yearning and trusting.

So the story we hear this coming Sunday (Exod 16:1–18) tells of God’s provision for the people of Israel—and, by extension, for people of faith today—as they, and we, live with an attitude of hopeful expectation and patient faith.

The climax of the story, at least in terms of the verses that the lectionary offers us, is the simple affirmation that the “fine flaky substance, as fine as frost on the ground”, the “bread from heaven” that they found, was indeed “the bread that the Lord has given you to eat” (16:4, 14–15).

Later in the chapter, we are told that this was the staple diet of the people for “forty years” (16:35), which is the standard biblical expression for “a very, very long time”. And much later, of course, in Christian tradition, Jesus of Nazareth is presented as “the bread from heaven”, the “living bread” which is given “for the life of the world” (John 6:31–51)—bread which lasts, not for ”forty years”, but “forever” (John 6:51).

Also in the story told in Exodus 16, we are told that “the house of Israel called it manna” and that “it was like wafers made with honey” (16:31). An explanation of this name—drawn from the comment made in Numbers—is that the phrase means “this is aphids”, indicating that the dew was crystallised matter deposited by insects. (See “the manna was like coriander seed, and its color was like the color of gum resin”, Num 11:7.)

An alternative explanation for the name manna lies within the text of Exodus itself; for when the people ask, “what is it?” (16:15), the Hebrew is man hu. And so the name reflects the initial puzzlement—a nice ironic twist, indeed.

How do we read this story today? For me, the story of the first half of Exodus has really strong resonances with the story of millions of people in the world today. These are people that we call refugees and asylum seekers—people fleeing from oppression and mistreatment in the land where they were born, travelling through difficulties and dangers, to seek the safety of refuge in a new land; a land that becomes, for them, a land of hope, a land of promise.

The United Nations Refugee Agency, UNHCR, keeps track of current numbers and publishes a summary each year. For 2024, the figures were:

There has been a consistent rise in numbers of internally displaced people and refugees throughout this century. Compared to a decade ago, the number of refugees under UNHCR’s mandate has more than doubled. This steady increase reflects the persistence of civil war and uprisings in many places, and the impact of various natural disasters (many being the result of, or exacerbated by, climate change).

Each person in those millions of people has experienced trauma, sought to escape, travelled along difficult pathways on land or sea, and is seeking safety in another country—or is patiently waiting to be resettled from the refugee camp where they are, into another country. In their report on the situation in 2024, the UNHCR says that “While mental health issues can affect anyone, refugees and other forcibly displaced people often face additional stressors that affect their mental health. According to a survey conducted by UNHCR, refugees in all countries are at a higher risk of experiencing depression compared to the host population. Refugees who have experienced violence, are widowed or separated from their partners or who live in adverse living conditions are more likely to experience depression.”

There are other key factors noted in their report, which can be read at https://www.unrefugees.org/news/five-takeaways-from-the-2024-unhcr-global-trends-report/

Perhaps the Exodus story can resonate in our current global context, and remind us of the value of people who are seeking the safety of refuge, whether as displaced persons within their own country, or as refugees fleeing to a safe haven in another country. It can remind us of the importance of meeting the needs of these people, and the necessity of remembering the trauma that they experienced which has pushed them to flee their homeland and seek safety elsewhere.

The people of Israel, in the ancient story told by Exodus, were refugees, seeking asylum in a foreign land. And as people of faith, we might well ponder: how do we serve as the agents of God, to offer to refugees and asylum seekers, today, “the bread that the Lord has given [them] to eat”?

My take on Exodus, as not an historical account but more of a foundational myth, raises questions about preaching on such stories. I have considered this matter in this blog:

How can we preach on passages in the Bible that are myths?

Standing on holy ground (Exodus 2–4; Narrative Lectionary for Pentecost 16)

Discussion of the Narrative Lectionary passage from Exodus 2–4

“The angel of the Lord appeared to [Moses] in a flame of fire out of a bush; he looked, and the bush was blazing, yet it was not consumed. Then Moses said, ‘I must turn aside and look at this great sight’ … and [when] the Lord saw that he had turned aside to see, God called to him out of the bush, ‘Moses, Moses!’ And he said, ‘Here I am.’ Then he said, ‘Come no closer! Remove the sandals from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground.’” (Exod 3:2–5)

The story of the burning bush is well-known; it is the moment when Moses, the murderer who has fled from Egypt (2:11–15), is galvanised by a striking event to become Moses the liberator, the one who will “go [back] to Pharaoh to bring my people, the Israelites, out of Egypt” (3:10). The transformation is striking—although perhaps the transformation is not quite as dramatic as many envisage.

It may well be the case for Moses that a strong sense of justice undergirds both his act of killing the Egyptian who was beating a Hebrew (2:11), and his commitment to deliver the Israelites from “the misery of Egypt” (3:17). Moses was passionate about the need for justice in society. Paradoxically, this passion led him to say NO to a man he witnessed committing a crime, and YES to a body of people who were suffering oppression in a foreign land.

Of course, common sense says that Moses should not have taken things into his own hands when he saw that Egyptian man beating one of his fellow-Israelites. But the passion within him—passion for fairness and justice—boiled up inside him and overflowed into unjust actions. This was in keeping with the charge given to the father of his people, when God mused about Abraham, “I have chosen him, that he may charge his children and his household after him to keep the way of the Lord by doing righteousness and justice” (Gen 18:19).

No wonder Moses fled, escaping the wrath of Pharaoh, travelling east across the desert areas of the Sinai Peninsula, all the way to Midian! (Exod 2:15). His action, out of proportion with the crime he saw being committed, was unjust. It is not a very propitious start for Moses, the man who towers over the story of the people,of Israel—ironically, best remembered as Moses the lawgiver!

Mind you, throughout Genesis, we have been regaled by tales of men behaving badly—Abraham lying about his wife Sarah as his sister (Gen 12 and again in Gen 20) and threatening to sacrifice his own son (Gen 22); Isaac, who also lied that his wife Rebekah was his sister (Gen 26); and Jacob, the deceiver, who stole his birthright from his twin brother Esau (Gen 27) and then deceived his father-in-law Laban and profited from his flock (Gen 30–31). And let’s not go into the treatment of Joseph by his brothers, throwing him into a pit in the desert, and then selling him off to some passing Midianite traders (Gen 37). And there are more; they are not exactly wonderful role models!

Yet the story about Moses that we are offered by the Narrative Lectionary this week presents Moses in a much more positive light, and it contains two fundamental elements in the story of Israel: the declaration that Moses stands on holy ground, and the revelation of the name of God.

Holy ground

God’s word to Moses, after calling for his attention, is to declare that “the place on which you are standing is holy ground” (Exod 3:5). This is the first occurrence of the concept of holiness in the Torah—the word is absent from all of the narratives in Genesis. And it is fascinating that this “holy ground” is in Midian, both far away from Egypt and far away from Canaan, the land that would subsequently be decreed as holy (Exod 15:13; Jer 21:23; Zech 2:12). This God is now able to appear in places far away from Canaan, and declare them holy.

A central motif in Hebrew Scripture is that holiness was a defining character of the people of Israel. A section of Leviticus (chapters 17—26) is known as “The Holiness Code”; its main purpose was to set out laws to mark Israel as different from the surrounding cultures. “You shall not do as they do in the land of Egypt, where you lived”, God told Moses, “and you shall not do as they do in the land of Canaan, to which I am bringing you” (Lev 18:2).

The rules of Leviticus were meant to set the Israelites apart from the Canaanites and Egyptians, who at that time had customs and rituals that were not to be adopted by the Israelites. Moses is instructed to relay to the people, “you shall be holy, for I the Lord your God am holy” (Lev 19:2), and to remind them to “consecrate yourselves therefore, and be holy; for I am the Lord your God. Keep my statutes, and observe them; I am the Lord; I sanctify you” (Lev 20:7). The whole book details those many statutes and commandments, all designed to keep the practices of the Israelites “holy to the Lord” (Lev 19:8; 23:20; 27:14–24).

Once the Temple was constructed, as a holy place within that holy land, those who ministered to God within the Temple, as priests, were to be especially concerned about holiness, both in their daily life and in their regular activities in the Temple (Exod 28–29; Lev 8–9). The priests oversaw the implementation of the Holiness Code, explaining the various applications of the word to Israel, that “you shall be holy, for I the Lord your God am holy” (Lev 19:2; also 20:7, 26).

In the years before and during the exile, a number of prophets took to addressing the Lord God as “the Holy One of Israel” (Hos 11:9, 12; Isa 1:4; 5:9, 24; 10:20; 12:6; 17:7; 29:19; 30:11–15; 31:1; 37:23; 41:14–20; 43:3, 14; 45:11; 47:4; 48:17; 49:7; 54:5–6; 60:9, 14; Jer 50:29; 51:5; Ezek 39:7; Hab 1:12; 3:3). The psalmists also pick up this phrase (Ps 71:22; 78:41; 89:18), reflecting the affirmation made by Hannah, “there is no Holy One like the Lord, no one besides you; there is no Rock like our God” (1 Sam 2:2).

As a consequence, Israel is regularly assured that the whole nation is a “chosen people” (Deut 7:6–8, 14:2; Ps 33:12; Isa 41:8–10, 65:9), set apart as “a kingdom of priests, a holy nation” (Exod 19:4–6), called to be “a light to the nations” (Isa 42:6, 49:6). So in the towns and villages of Israel, by contrast to the centralised priests, the scribes and Pharisees provided guidance in the interpretation of Torah and in the application of Torah to ensure that holiness was observed in daily living of all people in Israel.

These dispersed teachers undertook the highly significant task of showing how the Torah was relevant to the daily life of Jewish people. It was possible, they argued, to live as God’s holy people at every point of one’s life, quite apart from any pilgrimages made to the Temple in Jerusalem. These figures, scribes and Pharisees, are evident in a number of interactions with Jesus that are reported in the Gospels—interactions focussed on interpreting the Torah (Mark 7:1–23 and Matt 15:1–20 exemplify such encounters).

Perhaps the origins of this localised interpretive role are told in the post-Exilic narrative of Nehemiah, when “the priest Ezra brought the law before the assembly, both men and women and all who could hear with understanding”, ably assisted by men who “helped the people to understand the law, while the people remained in their places”, explaining the significance of “this holy day” and other matters (Neh 7:73b—8:12). The story explains the modus operandi of these teachers.

Certainly, the culture and religion of the Israelites was to be marked by a concern for holiness. This is read back into the foundational narrative of the call given to Moses, “to bring my people, the Israelites, out of Egypt” (Exod 3:10, 17). When he hears this call in Midian, Moses is standing on holy ground (3:1-12).

Name of God

Although he is in Midian, far away from Canaan (later to become Israel), Moses encounters the God who is most firmly identified with that land. It is “the Lord, the God of your ancestors, the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob” who appeared to Moses (Exod 3:6, 16). This is the first occurrence of this characteristic linkage of the Lord God with the three patriarchs (see also Exod 3:15–16; 4:5; 6:3, 8; 33:1; Lev 26:42; Num 32:11; Deut 1:8; 6:10; 9:5, 27; 29:13; 30:20; 34:4; 2 Ki 13:23; Jer 33:26).

Identified, therefore, as “the God of your ancestors” (in Hebrew, elohe abotekem) (3:15, 16; 4:5), a distinctive term is added into the mix, and highlighted by God as “my name forever … my title for all generations” (3:15). The term is regularly translated as Lord, and is often capitalised to indicate its distinctive nature. In fact, the name comprises just four consonants (transliterated as yhvh or yhwh).

Despite its apparent simplicity, the meaning of the word has occasioned intense discussion amongst interpreters over the centuries. First, we should note that many Jews today adhere to the age-old prohibition and do not speak the name of God. This is based on the third of the Ten Commandments, “You shall not take his name in vain” (Exod 20:7; Deut 5:11).

Rabbi Baruch Davidson, writing on the website chabad.org, explains: “Although this verse is classically interpreted as referring to a senseless oath using G‑d’s name, the avoidance of saying G‑d’s name extends to all expressions, except prayer and Torah study. In the words of Maimonides, the great Jewish codifier: ‘It is not only a false oath that is forbidden. Instead, it is forbidden to mention even one of the names designated for G‑d in vain, although one does not take an oath. For the verse commands us, saying: “To fear the glorious and awesome name. Included in fearing it is not to mention it in vain.’” See

https://www.chabad.org/library/article_cdo/aid/1443443/jewish/Why-Dont-Jews-Say-Gds-Name.htm#footnote2a1443443

The name of God that is given to Moses in this story is often referred to as the Tetragrammaton (meaning “four letters”), because it is a four-letter word, yud-hey-vav-hey (יהוה). This name is derived from the verb “to be”, which has led to speculation that it could be translated as “I am who I am” or “I will be whom I will be”—revealing nothing, really, about the nature of this divine being, other than the existence of God. It is a curious “revelation”. What has Moses actually learnt about God in this encounter??

Since Hebrew words are constructed with a set of consonants as the base, to which a variety of vowels can be added, this short word is often expanded to either Jehovah or Yahweh. The former places the vowels of the word Adonai (meaning “lord”) to form the artificial term Jehovah, a title that has been popularised by the Jehovah Witnesses. The latter is a more accurate rendition of the blending of these consonants with the vowels of the verb to be, hayah, forming Yahweh.

This name is certainly mysterious. What does it mean to say, “I am who I am”? or “I will be who I will be”? The mystery of each phrase invites the listener or reader to pause, ponder, and consider what is being conveyed. This is not a direct propositional statement, declaring a closed statement along the lines of, “God is love”, or “God is all-knowing”, or “God desires justice”, or other such statements. It is, rather, mystical, evocative, inviting, something that is invitational and encouraging exploration. Perhaps that, in itself, is enough of a basis for our considering as to who God is and what God desires?

Jewish mystical literature actually teaches that there are seventy names for God; and if you explore the biblical texts (the Torah), the developing rabbinic literature (Mishnah, Talmud, and Midrash) and then the proliferation of Jewish mystical terms, God is referred to by almost more names than can be counted.

Rabbi Stephen Carr Reuben asks “Why so many names, and why does God tell Moses that the name he knows God by is different from that of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob?” As he explores this question, he notes that “Every name reflects a quality in relation to human beings that each of us can choose to emulate in our own lives. Thus in Jewish mysticism, the ideal state is to be in harmony with the Divine by emulating the attributes reflected in the great diversity of divine names.”

The rabbi offers some examples: “As God is called, ‘The Compassionate One’ (HARAKHAMAN in Hebrew), so each of us can strive to be compassionate in our behavior toward others. As God is called EL SHADDAI (The Nurturer), so we can be nurturing of the dreams and longings of others. As God is called The Righteous Judge (DAYAN EMET), so we can express righteousness and stand up for justice in our lives.”

What, then, of the revelation to Moses? Rabbi Carr Reuben suggests that “when God tells Moses that he was known by a different name to the patriarchs, it is because every moment in history, and every challenge we face personally demands that we draw upon a different quality of holiness to emulate in our lives. We must choose the name of God that captures the essence of the attributes of Godliness that is appropriate to the moment, and up to the challenge of the day.” See

Naming the Divine

and also https://www.myjewishlearning.com/article/the-tetragrammaton/

Act Now for a Peaceful World: the International Day of Peace 2025

A post for the International Day of Peace, 21 September 2025

Over its lifetime, the United Nations has been proactive in identifying issues of concern in the world and designating specific “days of” and “weeks of”: World Environment Day, World AIDS Day, World Mental Health Day, World Diabetes Day, World Poetry Day, Day for the Elimination of Violence against Women, Interfaith Harmony Week, World Immunization Week, World Space Week, and more …

Today, 21 September, is one of those days: it is the International Day of Peace (Peace Day). This day was established in 1981 by a resolution of the United Nations resolution, supported unanimously by all representatives who voted. So Peace Day is a globally-shared date for all humanity to commit to Peace above all differences and work to ensure that Peace predominates over the conflicts raging in the world.

There is perhaps no more acute time, in 2025, for such a day to be highlighted. Our world today is beset by conflict, aggression, and devastating warfare. Mass starvation and the killing of civilians in Gaza; a genocide, many now (rightly) say. Decades of terrorist activity and the exercise of military power in Israel, the West Bank, Gaza, and surrounding nations. An entrenched military battle on many fronts in the Ukraine, bogged down in the ego of a long-term tyrant. Ethnic violence and long-enduring civil warfare in the Sudan. Armed uprisings in the Congo. A civil war in Myanmar following the 2021 military coup. The list could go on to cover many—far too many—places.

One of the myths of the 20th century is that there were two great wars (the two “World Wars”). That puts the focus on conflicts that involved many nations around the world, coalescing together in alliances to fight “the other side”. However, the terrible reality is that in every year of the 20th century, in country after country, Peace was absent. Civil wars, border disputes, regional conflicts, and terrorist insurgencies against unjust dictatorships, all attest to the continuing reality of the Lack of Peace around the world.

And at the moment, we really need some signs of Peace in our world. Where is Peace? When will it ever come? It is more important than ever that we recommit to seeking Peace in our world, and press our leaders to work towards peace in national life and International relations.

The theme for the 2025 International Day of Peace is Act Now for a Peaceful World. UN Secretary-General António Guterres has rightly said, “Around the world lives are being ripped apart, childhoods extinguished, and basic human dignity discarded, amidst the cruelty and degradations of war.”

Coinciding with the UN’s International Day of Peace is the World Week for Peace in Palestine and Israel, an event established by the World Council of Churches (WCC) and held each year during the third week of September. This year that week runs from Saturday 20 to Friday 26 September.

The week aims to encourage people of faith to pray for, and work towards, an end to Israeli oppression and allowing both Palestinians and Israelis to live in peace. A fine set of resources has been prepared by the WCC, containing testimonies, a Christian liturgy, a reflective poem, and a “concept note” that sets out the situation in Gaza, the focus of the week, and a set of steps that can be taken locally. See

https://www.oikoumene.org/events/WWPPI-2025?

The Uniting Church has long been a strong supporter of initiatives building towards Peace. Early in the life of the Uniting Church, the National Assembly made a clear and unequivocal commitment, on behalf of the whole church, to support peace-building and reject the idea that the world can be made a better place by killing people.

In 1982, that Assembly declared “that God came in the crucified and risen Christ to make peace; that he calls all Christians to be peacemakers, to save life, to heal and to love their neighbours. The call of Christ to make peace is the norm, and the onus of proof rests on any who resort to military force as a means of solving international disputes.”

It called for action “to interact and collaborate with local communities, secular movements, and people of other living faiths towards cultivating a culture of peace” and to work to “empower people who are systemically oppressed by violence, and to act in solidarity with all struggling for justice, peace, and the integrity of creation”. It also identified the need “to repent together for our complicity in violence, and to engage in theological reflection to overcome the spirit, logic, and practice of violence”.

Since the horrific attack on Israel by Hamas militants on 7 October 2023, and the devastating military retaliation by Israel in Gaza, the Uniting Church in Australia Assembly has sought to respond to a worsening conflict situation with a commitment to justice and peace. It has published a number of statements, which can be read at https://uniting.church/palestine-and-israel/

At the moment, the church is encouraging Uniting Church communities to take practical action on Palestine and engage with the World Council of Churches Statement on Palestine and Israel: A Call to End Apartheid, Occupation, and Impunity in Palestine and Israel. This statement has recently been affirmed and adopted by the Uniting Church Assembly.

In the statement, the WCC has declared that “the Government of Israel’s military campaign in Gaza has entailed grave breaches of the Fourth Geneva Convention which may constitute genocide and/or other crimes under the Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court (ICC)”. The WCC calls for churches “to witness, to speak out, and to act” in this matter.

See https://www.oikoumene.org/resources/documents/statement-on-palestine-and-israel-a-call-to-end-apartheid-occupation-and-impunity-in-palestine-and-israel

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For more of my blogs on Peace, see

Blessed are the peacemakers

Pondering peace, worrying about war

Being Peacemakers

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