What has happened at Bondi Beach is a tragedy. Many are grieving, many are injured; many will be traumatised, many will be more anxious and more afraid of life in Australian society. Amongst other things, it might give us pause to consider who we are, together, as a society.
The black-clad figure on the bridge at Bondi Beach in Sydney, Australia, shooting into Archer Park, where a Hanukkah celebration was taking place
Jewish people are an integral part of contemporary Australian society. There was a handful of Jews on the ships of the First Fleet (estimates range from eight to sixteen people), arriving here in 1788. A Jewish burial society (Chevra Kadisha) was established in 1817. The first Jewish marriage took place in 1832. Jews have served as members of parliament, as justices in various courts, as Governor-Generals, as military officers, as surgeons and nurses and police officers, as actors and artists and journalists and business people, indeed in all areas of society. They have contributed in so many ways to making our society what it is today: diverse, welcoming, hardworking, tolerant.
Muslims people are an integral part of contemporary Australian society. Muslims from Makassar (Sulawesi, Indonesia) had traded with the First Peoples of the northern part of the Australian continent for centuries before 1788. Some married First peoples and over time the Macassars contributed to the developing culture of the First Peoples. Muslims sailors and convicts came on ships in the early decades of British colonisation onwards. Muslims later came from India and Pakistan to provide transport, labour, and support in the building of essential infrastructure in the vast inland desert area of the continent like the Overland Telegraph Line and the Ghan Railway. Later Muslim migration occurred especially from Albania, Bosnia, Lebanon, Afghanistan, Iraq, Sudan, and Somalia. They have all brought their vibrant cultures with them and become an important part of contemporary Australian society.
I have known many Jews through my ministry in the eastern suburbs of Sydney and participation in the Uniting Church’s dialogue with the Jewish community. I have also known some Muslims through the relationships built between United Theological College and ISRA, the Islamic Studies organisation that, like UTC, is now an integrated part of Charles Sturt University. All of these Muslim people and these Jewish people are honest, ethical, law-abiding, dedicated, creative, intelligent, compassionate people. They would each be horrified at what has taken place at Bondi Beach yesterday.
I know a number of Jewish people who are horrified at the policies of the current Israeli government, and who are working in various ways to find peace with justice in the fraught environment of Gaza, the West Bank, and the illegal settlements. What is happening in the Middle East is the result of distorted extremist fundamentalist views that are not held by the vast majority of Jews living in Israel, or Jews living in Diaspora around the world. Israeli government actions do not represent general Jewish viewpoints.
The best of who we are today as a society is because, in part, of the persistent, faithful, dedicated contribution of both Jews and Muslims over the centuries. They are part of the whole of us, and we are all interrelated to and interdependent on Jews and Muslims in so many positive ways. We should not let the scare tactics and dog whistling of marginal voices in our society blight our minds and lead us to snap judgements about “all Muslims” or “all Jews”. We would do best to stand with those who grieve and commit to working to ensure peace, safety, and respect in Australian society.
The Coexist image was created by Polish graphic designer Piotr Młodożeniec in 2000
The Chalcedonian Creed was adopted at the Council of Chalcedon in 451 in Asia Minor as a response to certain heretical views concerning the nature of Christ. It sets forth a complex philosophical understanding of Jesus as incarnate Word of God, “truly God and truly [hu]man”.
This expression of the nature of Jesus, two-wrapped-into-one, is the theological understanding that underlies the story that is told and retold each Christmas season. This is the real “reason for the season”, surely.
In the light of this creed, and the clear admonitions that it offers, I present my contribution to Christmas caroling—to be sung to a very familiar tune, Hark the herald angels sing (7.7.7.7.D and refrain). Perhaps if we sing this regularly, the complex concepts of orthodox theology might be more widely known??
1
God the Word, Lord Jesus Christ,
Perfect in the Godhead, he;
Truly God and truly human,
perfect in humanity.
Reasonable in body and soul,
consubstantial, present, whole:
First Begotten as Godhead,
now with us in faithfulness:
God, the Word, Lord Jesus Christ,
This is the one whom we confess.
2
Inconfusedly he came,
pure, unchangeable, was he.
Indivisible he lives,
quite inseparable is he.
Whilst distinct, his natures stand,
for each nature does retain
each their property unique;
mystery of God, filioque!
Both concur in one Person,
One Subsistence, in the Son.
3
As the prophets have declared,
as the holy fathers say,
as the Lord himself has taught us,
so we faithfully do say:
God the Word, Lord Jesus Christ,
Perfect in the Godhead, thrice,
Truly God and truly man,
Perfect in humanity.
These two natures do concur,
One Subsistence, in the Son.
*** *** *** ***
Sing it, sisters and brothers!!
For another light-hearted take on the Chalcedonian theology, see
The text of the Chalcedonian Creed (in English translation, reflecting the original gendered language, typical of the time) reads as follows:
We, then, following the holy Fathers, all with one consent, teach men to confess one and the same Son, our Lord Jesus Christ, the same perfect in Godhead and also perfect in manhood; truly God and truly man, of a reasonable soul and body; consubstantial with us according to the manhood; in all things like unto us, without sin; begotten before all ages of the Father according to the Godhead, and in these latter days, for us and for our salvation, born of the virgin Mary, the mother of God, according to the manhood; one and the same Christ, Son, Lord, Only-begotten, to be acknowledged in two natures, inconfusedly, unchangeably, indivisibly, inseparably; the distinction of natures being by no means taken away by the union, but rather the property of each nature being preserved, and concurring in one Person and one Subsistence, not parted or divided into two persons, but one and the same Son, and only begotten, God the Word, the Lord Jesus Christ, as the prophets from the beginning have declared concerning him, and the Lord Jesus Christ himself taught us, and the Creed of the holy Fathers has handed down to us.
What follows is a piece that I wrote a few weeks back for Ruminations, the quarterly journal of Saltbush, which is a ministry that resources rural and regional Uniting Churches in the Synod of NSW and the ACT. I wrote it just at the time when “expectations” were swirling around the church; I’m publishing it now as the theme of Expectations seems to be most appropriate for the season of Advent.
*****
The Synod of NSW.ACT has recently met, and given consideration to “The Presbytery Project”, which has the subtitle “Future Directions for the People of God on the Way”. The expectations surrounding the move to the Three Presbyteries Model are no doubt clear: sharing of resources, mobilising of personnel, collaboration of teams, hope for the future.
Just after that meeting, the Synod of Victoria and Tasmania met and adopted their vision for the future, entitled the “Faithful Futures Project”. It is setting expectations in that Synod; it aims “to prepare the Uniting Church in Victoria and Tasmania for the next 10 to 15 years”. And, of course, right across Australia, the church has been pondering the outcomes of the 2024 Assembly, when the Act2 Project was received and its proposals adopted. Already newly-constituted Commissions are meeting, planning the steps ahead in their respective areas. No doubt they have expectations about what they will achieve.
Indeed, even in my small rural church, we have had a recent process in which people have shared “what I hope for this church”, learning about better ways to be welcoming, and setting out steps for mission in the local community. And the Presbytery in which I live has a neat slogan on its website, declaring that it seeks to “Live by Faith, be Known by Love, and be a Voice of Hope”.
Expectations abound at every level!
Jesus was no stranger to the basic human element of “expectations”. He didn’t know about the anticipatory joy of an expectant parent, looking to the birth of their child. He presumably was a stranger to the bubbling internal expectations that mount when you have just two months before you start that “dream job” that you have just been offered. And I am not sure that he ever took part in a day-long, facilitated workshop of setting forth the “purpose, mission, and values” of a faith community!
But Jesus knew about expectations. The earliest account of his adult life tells us that his first words in public were words of expectation: “the time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near” (Mark 1:15). In another account of his life, he is reported as saying “the kingdom of God is not coming with things that can be observed; … in fact, the kingdom of God is among you” ( Luke 17:20-21). That surely must have set his followers agog as they scurried to determine just how this expectation of the coming kingdom was, in fact, now present among them.
Indeed, Jesus lived at a time when expectations were running high amongst his people. This was not a new thing. In the foundational story of the Exodus from Egypt, it is said that Moses offered words of expectation to the people: “Do not be afraid, stand firm, and see the deliverance that the Lord will accomplish for you today; for the Egyptians whom you see today you shall never see again” (Exod 14:13).
The scrolls containing the words of the prophets, which faithful Jews would have known quite well, were full of words of expectation: “the days are coming when all that is in your house will be carried off to Babylon”, announced Isaiah (Isa 39:16); “the days are surely coming, says the Lord, when I will make a new covenant with the house of Israel and the house of Judah”, said Jeremiah, during that exile (Jer 31:31); “I am coming to gather all nations and tongues”, declared an anonymous prophet after the people had returned from Babylon (Isa 66:18). Each important step in the story of Israel had been prophetically signalled by a word of expectation.
And by the time of Jesus, after centuries of continuing foreign rule, and after a series of uprisings, defeats, compromises, and plots to regain control, expectations continued to run amok amongst the Jewish population. For some, the expectation was that they would someday regain political control of their land (the zealots and political revolutionaries of the day). For others, the expectation took shape in a vision of “the sons of light” waging a final cataclysmic battle against “the sons of darkness” (as in one of the Dead Sea Scrolls). Still others held to the word of the Lord, “I am sending my messenger to prepare the way before me, and the Lord whom you seek will suddenly come to his temple” (Mal 3:1).
It was this latter expectation that had gripped John, as he carried out his programme of calling people to repentance and baptising them in the river. And as he did so, the man from Nazareth came and submitted himself for baptism. “Behold the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world!” one later writer claimed that he said (John 1:20). His expectations had come to pass in ways that perhaps even he had not thought possible.
The followers of Jesus certainly had expectations about him. “Are you the one who is to come?”—the question that John had sent his followers to ask of Jesus (Matt 11:3; Luke 7:19)—soon became their question. Expectations about what Jesus would achieve abounded. “We had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel”, two of his followers mused, soon after he had been put to death (Luke 24:21). That was some expectation, to be sure!
Some of those not as enchanted by the way of Jesus also had expectations about him. “How long will you keep us in suspense? If you are the Messiah, tell us plainly”, they taunted him (John 10:24). Hovering somewhere around Jesus was the expectation that he might in fact be the figure long hoped-for, come to redeem Israel. And even as he hung in the cross, he was again mocked and taunted: “He saved others; he cannot save himself. Let the Messiah, the King of Israel, come down from the cross now, so that we may see and believe” (Mark 15:31–32). Again, that expectation that he was someone significant—or that he thought he was someone significant—is in play. Just what might we expect from this Galilean stirrer?
The path that Jesus trod both met expectations, but also failed to meet expectations. He did achieve something significant; but he did not do so in the way that was most surely expected. He would redeem Israel; but only by giving his life. He would be shown to be Messiah; but not on the clouds of glory—rather, on a rough wooden cross. “Truly this man was God’s Son!”, the Roman soldier is claimed to have said as he witnessed this cruel death (Mark 15:39).
Perhaps Judas had unreasonably high expectations about Jesus; he was one of the inner group that travelled with him, ate with him, learnt from him, and began to carry out the mission that Jesus had given them (Luke 9:1–6). And yet his expectations took a sharp turn; we don’t know what drove him to betray Jesus with a kiss, nor do we know what expectations he had about what would eventuate from that. His sad end (Matt 27:3–6; compare Acts 1:18–19) perhaps reflects his recognition—tragically, too late—that his expectations regarding Jesus were doomed to fail.
And let’s not get too caught up in the complexities of the apocalyptic expectations that swirled around at the time—expectations that Jesus addressed, and redefined, in one of his longer teaching sessions (Mark 13:5–37). On the one hand, he is clear that something unexpected and yet long yearned-for will indeed take place (“they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in clouds’ with great power”, Mark 13:26). The expectations people held in relation to him were justified, it would seem.
And yet, he warns his followers to “beware that no one leads you astray” with specific timetables (13:5), advising them that chaotic times of cosmic upheaval are nothing “but the beginning of the birth pangs” (13:8), there will be suffering that will need to be faced and endured (13:19), and insisting that “about that day or hour no one knows” (13:32), that “you do not know when the time will come” (13:33, 35). Expectations may be raised, hopes may be high; but resolution is not easily attained.
So how do we deal with expectations? “Managing expectations” has entered the language both of business practice and of personal psychology. We need to be wary of setting expectations too high. Thinking about how all nations will flock to Jerusalem is setting expectations too high. They didn’t, and they won’t (especially today, in the fiery political landscape of Israel and Palestine). So too is expecting that everyone will see clearly that Jesus, the Messiah, is the Son of God who is the one to perform miracles at will and the one to redeem all of Israel and all of the nations—that, too, is unrealistic. We haven’t seen this, and he hasn’t redeemed everyone at all. Life continues on despite the failure to meet such high expectations.
And in similar fashion, setting expectations too low is something we should avoid. The young adult comes home from their first attempt at sitting for a drivers license, and proudly announces “I got it!” Dad looks up, amazed, and responds, “Wow! I really didn’t think you’d get it this time”. The expectation was set low, the triumph evaporates all-so-quickly. We need to manage our expectations: not too high, not too low.
And what of expectations we might have for our church community? Have you talked together in your congregation or faith community about what you hope for? what you would love to see happen? what you could work together to try to achieve? what you can pray for, bringing reason and knowledge into your words of hope and expectation to God?
We should have expectations; we should talk about our expectations; and most importantly, we should be working together to see how we might achieve those expectations, and make them become a reality. Sometimes that can be a hard thing to do. Nevertheless, it is central to our life together.
As for expectations in our own personal spiritual life: that’s another area to consider carefully. We all have our familiar daily or weekly practices. They may be shaped by years of loving care and devoted repetition; we may be growing into a particular spiritual practice as we return to it consistently over time; or we may be now just “trying something new” in our spiritual life. Whatever the case may be, we have expectations about what that spiritual practice will do for us, and how it will help nurture our life of discipleship. We should identify our personal expectations and see how we are moving towards achieving them.
At the end of three of the Gospels, there are words that Jesus is reported as saying as he appeared, after his resurrection, to his followers. These words set the expectations for his followers. Matthew reports his words, “make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you” (Matt 28:19–20). In these words, Jesus offers a clear set of expectations.
Luke reports that he said “you are witnesses of these things”, of all that he has told them, so he offers them a command which contains an expectation: “stay here in the city until you have been clothed with power from on high” (Luke 24:48–49). In the subsequent volume written by Luke, the expectation and the charge is clear: “you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth” (Acts 1:8).
Most simply of all, John has Jesus say to the disciples, “peace be with you … as the Father has sent me, so I send you … receive the Holy Spirit” (John 20:21–22). Whichever Gospel account we prioritise for ourselves, the charge is clear—and the sense of expectation is strong. And so may it be for us, day after day, as we walk the way of Jesus, full of expectation!
I preached this sermon, a reflection on the apocalyptic words of Jesus reported in Luke 21, at Dungog Uniting Church on 16 November 2025.
Conflict. Aggression. Upheaval. Disaster. Destruction. Catastrophe. A cosmic conflagration, as there are “great earthquakes, famines and plagues … dreadful portents and great signs from heaven … on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves”. A time when “people will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken”.
If you have a mental image of gentle Jesus, meek and mild, calling the children to sit on his knee, placidly proclaiming the importance of love, healing the sick and blessing the people who listen to his words with awe and respect—then banish this unbiblical image! For the words we have heard today—words of conflict, aggression, upheaval, disaster, destruction, and catastrophe, are the final teachings of Jesus; the last words he offered his disciples in a lengthy, detailed, and deeply disturbing speech that he made in the shadow of the glorious Temple in Jerusalem.
How kind of the lectionary to give us the solid excerpt from this speech, reported in Luke 21, as the last-but-one Gospel passage in this year when Luke’s Gospel has been in our view. Through this year, we have heard of Jesus blessing the poor, healing a crippled woman, telling stories about a Good Samaritan, welcoming outcasts to a banquet table, and the persistent seeking of justice, as well as recruiting a band of willing helpers to disseminate his message, instructing his followers how to pray, and sharing at table with a chief tax collector. All inspiring, encouraging, positive stories, you will agree.
And yet, today, we hear about deceivers and destroyers, armed troops and prosecuting authorities, upheavals in earthquakes and suffering in famines: quite a contrast, and not what we normally associate with the Galilean preacher, Jesus of Nazareth.
I don’t know if you have seen any episodes of the series being shown on ABC-TV, I Was Actually There. In particular there was an episode about the Black Saturday fires in Victoria in 2009. It put me in mind of the Black Summer fires along the eastern coast in 2019–2020. Living in Canberra during that season, we had a fire that came within 5kms of our house, and we knew people whose memories were jogged of the 2003 fire when whole suburbs of Canberra were incinerated. Two people that we worked closely with had lost their entire house and contents in that fire. From a distance of 5km, the fire seemed threatening enough to us; I can’t imagine what it must be like to see a fierce raging fire come storming along the very street where you live!
Actually, scenes of destruction abound in our news: destruction in the war in The Ukraine, the ravages of genocide in The Gaza Strip, landslides in Nepal and Bangladesh, earthquakes in Afghanistan and Türkiye, cyclones in the Pacific and the Bahamas, floods in Spain, bushfires in California and Greece, famine and droughts in countries in central Africa and southern America. Watching the news, we can’t avoid regular exposure to such “natural disasters”.
So the words of Jesus, on one level, should be no surprise to us. Has there ever been a time when “disasters” have not been occurring on this planet?
And yet, the surprise is, that the particular series of disasters that Jesus describes are all associated with the culmination of his ministry, the climax of his message, the pinnacle of his project: “when you see these things taking place, you know that the kingdom of God is near” (Luke 21:31).
The kingdom of God, which Jesus had preached persistently since emerging out of his 40 days in the wilderness (4:43). The kingdom of God, which he put front-and-centre as the message for his followers to proclaim (9:2; 10:9). The kingdom of God, which he boldly declared to the Pharisees, was “among you” (17:21). It is this kingdom which Jesus boldly declares will come with signs in the heavens, distress on the earth, upheavals in the sea, and great fear in the hearts of people.
Why?
This particular way of speaking and writing is described by scholars in a technical theological term: apocalyptic. That is an ancient Greek word which literally means, “revelation”, “making clear what will happen”, “lifting the lid on what God is planning for us”. God is planning a sequence of cataclysms, disasters, and catastrophes.
Apocalyptic is the essential nature of Jesus’ teachings about “the kingdom of God”. This final speech confirms the thoroughly apocalyptic character of Jesus’ teaching. The parables he tells about that kingdom are apocalyptic, presenting a vision of the promised future that is in view. The call to repent is apocalyptic, in the tradition of the prophets. The demand to live in a way that exemplifies righteous-justice is apocalyptic; it stands firmly in the line of the older prophetic call for repentance and righteous-just living.
In chapter 21 of his Gospel, Luke has drawn his narrative to a climactic moment with the same focussed attention to the vision of God’s kingdom, as was expressed at the start. The beginnings of the birth pangs are pointers to the kingdom that Jesus has always had in view. This call is as demanding and difficult as giving birth can be, Jesus warns. Jesus was, indeed, a prophet of apocalyptic intensity. We should not forget that.
So what do we do with this terrifying language, with the threatening vision that Jesus places before us today? We could put our head in the sane, pretend he really didn’t mean it, and carry on with business as normal. We can hold to the romanticised picture of gentle Jesus, meek and mild, adoring children on his lap, admiring adults by his side.
But that picture is utterly at odds with the passage we have heard today. We need to accept the vision of Jesus, embrace his words, explore what it is that this means, and respond to what he is calling us to do. And his words in this passage are fierce, direct, confronting.
Some want to use these words to read “the signs of the times” and paint a picture of unstoppable decay surrounding us and engulfing us. They want to use these words—misuse these words, I maintain—to threaten us with hellfire and brimstone. “God is coming to get us” they proclaim; “just look at how much of this is happening now”.
But this was not, and is not, the purpose of such language. Tellers of apocalyptic tales have always invited their listeners, living in times of crisis, to suspend disbelief, watch the vision unfolding, hear the angelic interpretation, even undertake the heavenly journey that the author retells; and to do this with expectation and hope. “God will act” is the central message. “Trust in God”.
Apocalyptic is always written in the midst of despair; despair for Israel that had been fuelled by foreign invasion, murder and rape during the pillaging of that invasion, enforced slavery, religious repression, cultural imperialism, and societal oppression, with the loss of much-loved traditional practices and customs, disconnection from the homeland (the place where God resided), and a continuing sense of having been abandoned by God.
In the midst of all of this, apocalyptic texts invite their readers or listeners to have hope: hope that God would act; hope that despair would be dispelled and life would flourish once now; hope that the familiarity of traditions would be reinstated; hope that the evils perpetrated by the invading oppressors would be rectified by acts of divine revenge; hope that life, even in their own time, would be transformed into a realm where righteous-justice was in force, where the evils of lawlessness were dispelled.
All of this, this, it should now be clear, is what Jesus was looking to in his apocalyptic teaching, in his teachings about living with fidelity to the covenant with God, in his invitations to his followers to walk the way he walks, leading to the realm of God’s kingdom. His visions of cataclysmic times, in the apocalyptic speech of Luke 21, provide a hope-filled declaration that, despite the turmoil of the times, God is indeed acting to intervene in events, overturn evil, and institute the righteous-justice of God.
And all of this is intensely contextual, thoroughly political, firmly directed towards the injustices perpetrated under the religious and economic system of the Temple and the cultural and religious oppression of the Roman colonisers. In Mark’s account, Jesus refers to the “birth pangs” that are just beginning (13:8). They herald the coming good times when “the great power and glory” of the Lord is evident (Mark 13:26; Luke 21:26). In Luke’s version, this is the time when “summer is near” (21:30). That is the kingdom of God, in which much fruit is borne (Luke 8:15), much growth occurs (13:19), new life will emerge (9:22; 9:44; 18:33; 20:38); righteous-justice is enacted by God (20:15–17); and love of God and neighbour is practised by those in that kingdom (10:26).
Out of the darkness and despair, the agony of the birthpangs point to the hope of abundance that has been persistently proclaimed by Jesus. And so, we might pray: may that time come, may that kingdom be a reality, even in our time, even in our place; or, as Jesus taught us to pray, in thoroughly apocalyptic terms: “your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth, as in heaven”. And that is a fine way to end the long series of passages from Luke’s Gospel that we have heard throughout this year.
At this time of the year, every year, the Revised Common Lectionary offers us passages from the Gospels that are strikingly vivid and dramatic. Each year we end “the church’s year” with an excerpt from the long apocalyptic speech that Jesus delivered to his disciples, some time after they had arrived in the city of Jerusalem. And so, this coming Sunday we will read Luke 21:5–19.
These verses are the first half of a long speech that Jesus gives (reported with slightly different variations in Mark 13, Matt 24, and Luke 21) as his public activities draw to a close. It is a striking speech, with vivid language and dramatic imagery, drawn from the traditions and patterns that are found in the increasingly apocalyptic fervour of prophetic oracles delivered through the history of Israel. The apocalyptic character of the speech means that it certainly makes a mark!
Indeed, this speech confirms the thoroughly apocalyptic character of the teaching of Jesus, right through the Gospel accounts. His parables about the kingdom are apocalyptic, presenting a vision of God’s promised future. The call to repent is apocalyptic, in the tradition of the prophets. The demand to live in a way that exemplifies righteous-justice stands firmly in the line of the prophetic call. Such repentance and righteous-just living is as demanding and difficult as giving birth can be.
“Apocalyptic” comes directly from the Greek language—the language in which the words of Jesus are first recorded, in the Gospels. It means an uncovering, a revealing, a making clear—in other words, a revelation. In Greek, the title of the book of Revelation is “Apocalypsis”. So an apocalyptic message is one that uncovers or reveals what lies ahead, in the plan of God.
Jesus was, indeed, a prophet of apocalyptic intensity. But how do we make sense of this dramatic language in the context of the post-Enlightenment scientifically-aware world of the 21st century? How do visions of turmoil and warfare, oracles about fiery destruction and fierce retribution, relate to our contemporary world?
One way of understanding this kind of language and these kinds of speeches, whether by Jesus or any number of the prophets, is to claim that these words were spirit-inspired predictions, from long ago, of the turmoil and conflict that was to take place in the future. These words may relate to the times immediately in the future of the writer (in the late 1st century in the case of this Gospel passage). Or they may point forward in time, to events well beyond the time of the reader, even into our own times (that is, the 21st century).
Like the final book in the New Testament, Revelation, this speech of Jesus in Luke 21 has been interpreted by fervent believers throughout the centuries as providing evidence that the end of the world was at hand. “Repent, now” is the message that is proclaimed—repent, before the end comes, and it is too late.
Another line of interpretation holds that this kind of language needs to be understood as inspired scripture, which provides us with clear doctrinal statements about what is called “eschatology” (the study of the end times, the last days). If this were the case, the words of Jesus could be mined as a source for teachings about “the last days”, instructing us so that we are aware and informed. It may not be that we are right in the midst of those “last days”, but we are able to interpret and understand what is happening—to know exactly where we are, now, in the alleged timetable of events leading up to “the last days”.
However, there are difficulties with both lines of interpretation. Neither understanding actually reflects the nature of the literature, nor the purpose for which each of the apocalyptic oracles and speeches were given in their own time. It is important to understand the literary nature of apocalyptic writings, as well as the social-historical context in which such works came into being. The same applies for Luke 21.
There are three key apocalyptic elements that help us to “make sense” of the intensely dramatic, vivid language that Jesus uses. The first is that we need to be clear about the historical context within which this Gospel was written. The author of this work was writing in a context fraught with tension, conflict, and bloodshed. Israel had been under foreign occupation for centuries. From the time that Roman troops had occupied Palestine, in 63 BCE, tension and conflict had grown.
In the year 66 CE the governor, Florus, demanded money from the Temple treasury in Jerusalem. This was too much for some Jews; hostilities broke out in various places across Palestine. The war which resulted lasted eight years; in 70 CE, the Temple in Jerusalem would be burnt to the ground, and by 74 CE, all active Jewish resistance to the Romans would be quashed.
In this setting, amidst the battles fought in Galilee, Samaria and Judaea, apocalyptic hopes were inflamed. Many of the Jews actively fighting the Romans believed that their actions would help to usher in the long-promised kingdom, in which God would reign over Israel and foreign troops would be banished. Perhaps a significant number of the followers of Jesus also believed that the kingdom of God was drawing near, as Jesus had proclaimed some decades earlier, in the events of their own day.
Should the followers of Jesus, then, join with the rebel groups in rising up against Rome? Was the way to the kingdom to be won through conflict, martyrdom, and military victory? Or was there another way? In this context, one writer chose to answer these questions by writing a whole story in which he remembered what Jesus said about how people were to follow him. We call this work the Gospel of Mark.
Some decades later, it had become clear that this uprising did mark the end of Jewish practices in Jerusalem (the Romans had expelled Jews from the city and renamed it with a Roman name). The Romans had won the war, and their grip on power was unshakeable. (Their Empire would continue to expand for some centuries to come.)
So as Luke writes his account of Jesus, a few decades after Mark, he has to come to grips with the fact that “the end” did not, indeed, come with these events. God did not intervene. Life continued on under Roman rule. So whilst Jesus is remembered for his apocalyptic fervour—Luke maintains the structure and content of the speech found in Mark, with a number of variations—the message of Jesus is put into a different context, with an emphasis on the fact that ongoing faithfulness, and bearing witness to that faith, was to be a key marker.
Luke, even more than Mark, backs away from having Jesus call for a radical uprising. Luke intensifies the Markan call to discipleship, and throughout this Gospel he provides still more examples that indicate that Jesus is calling for faithful following of the way that leads to the cross. The initial apocalyptic fervour of Jesus is somewhat muted in this later account; but the cost of discipleship and the urgency of the call to follow remains strong.
So, as Jesus is in the forecourt of the magnificent Jerusalem Temple (Luke 21:1, 5), he sets out the way that his disciples should respond. During this apocalyptic discourse, Jesus has indicated that the situation still to come will be one of persecution: “they will arrest you and persecute you” (21:12), there will be betrayal and death (21:16), “you will be hated by all” (21:17), and false preachers will arise (21:8).
In this context, the fundamental act of discipleship will be to bear witness to the way of Jesus: “this will give you an opportunity to testify” (21:13) and “the words and wisdom” for this testimony will be given by Jesus himself (21:15). The role of the disciple will be to remain faithful throughout these trials: “by your endurance you will gain your souls” (21:19).
The need for such faithfulness is underscored by the closing words of Jesus’ teachings: “be on guard … be alert” (21:34, 36). Jesus had not advocated joining in the armed uprising; he counselled faithful following of his way of service. Luke’s account underlines and emphasises the importance of this response.
In reading apocalyptic material (such as Mark 13 and Luke 21), we also need to consider their typical literary characteristics. There are a number of common features in apocalyptic texts, which are striking in their impact and powerful in their capacity to invite attention. What is central to all apocalyptic writings is a clear portrayal of a stark conflict between good and evil, which often comes to a head in a grand cosmic battle. To put it in populist terms, apocalyptic texts “spin a good yarn”. They use the techniques of dramatic storytelling, or of good action films. They are vivid and compelling accounts.
Jesus is, by and large, adhering to the conventions of the genre, as he presents his graphic portrayal of what lies on store for his followers in this speech, which Mark says was delivered on the Mount of Olives, opposite the Temple (Mark 13:3)—although in Luke’s account, he is still within the Temple itself (Luke 21:1, 4; see also 21:37–38). In making use of this genre, Jesus demonstrates that speaking in apocalyptic terms is actually doing political theology within a specific socio-historical context. This is the third key element in seeking to understand apocalyptic.
Apocalyptic is “political theology” because it explores faith in the context of the realities of life in the polis, the city. It often provides a counter-narrative to the dominant story of the rulers and those in power, exposing the evil of their ways and proposing an alternative world in which righteous-justice will reign supreme.
The people of Israel, even from the time before they were taken into exile, had lived under the shadow of the dominant world power of the time—the Assyrians, who conquered the northern kingdom; then the Babylonians, who took the southern kingdom into exile; then, after a return under the Persians, an apparently more benign power, there came the crushing power of the Macedonian empire as Alexander the Great and his troops swept into the Jewish homeland.
Tellers of apocalyptic tales invited their listeners, living in times of crisis, to suspend disbelief, watch the vision unfolding, hear the angelic interpretation, even undertake the heavenly journey that the author retells; and to do this with expectation and hope.
Apocalyptic is always written in the midst of despair; despair fuelled by foreign invasion, murder and rape during the pillaging of that invasion, enforced slavery, religious repression, cultural imperialism, and societal oppression, with the loss of much-loved traditional practices and customs, disconnection from the homeland (the place where God resided), and a continuing sense of having been abandoned by God.
In the midst of all of this, apocalyptic texts invite their readers or listeners to have hope: hope that God would act; hope that despair would be dispelled and life would flourish once now; hope that the familiarity of traditions would be reinstated; hope that the evils perpetrated by the invading oppressors would be rectified by acts of divine revenge; hope that life, even in their own time, would be transformed into a realm where righteous-justice was in force, where the evils of lawlessness were dispelled.
There are clear, sharp pointers to the political situation of the time in which many works of apocalyptic are written—from the time of the Seleucid rulers (from the 180s BCE) through to the Roman conquest of Judaea (63 BCE) and on into the period we call the first century CE, when Jesus lived and then the Gospels were written. These works are political.
All of this, this, it should now be clear, is what Jesus was looking to in his parables of the kingdom, in his teachings about living with fidelity to the covenant with God, in his invitations to his followers to walk the way he walks, leading to the realm of God’s kingdom. His visions of cataclysmic times, in the apocalyptic speech of Luke 21, provide a hope-filled declaration that, despite the turmoil of the times, God is indeed acting to intervene in events, overturn evil, and institute the righteous-justice of God.
And all of this is intensely contextual, thoroughly political, firmly directed towards the injustices perpetrated under the religious and economic system of the Temple and the cultural and religious oppression of the Roman colonisers. In Mark’s account, Jesus refers to the “birth pangs” that are just beginning (13:8). They herald the coming good times when “the great power and glory” of the Lord is evident (Mark 13:26; Luke 21:26). In Luke’s version, this is the time when “summer is near” (21:30). That is the kingdom of God, in which much fruit is borne (Luke 8:15), much growth occurs (13:19), new life will emerge (9:22; 9:44; 18:33; 20:38); righteous-justice is enacted by God (20:15–17); and love of God and neighbour is practised by those in that kingdom (10:26).
Out of the darkness and despair, the agony of the birthpangs point to the hope of abundance that has been persistently proclaimed by Jesus. And so, we might pray: may that time come, may that kingdom be a reality, even in our time, even in our place; or, as Jesus taught us to pray, in thoroughly apocalyptic terms: “your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth, as in heaven”.
Discussion of the Narrative Lectionary passage from Amos
The prophet Amos lived in the northern kingdom of Israel during the reign of Jeroboam II, the thirteenth king of Israel, who reigned for four decades (786–746 BCE; see Amos 7:10). It was a time of prosperity, built on the trading of olive oil and wine with the neighbouring nations of Assyria to the north and Egypt to the south. Jeroboam, however, is remembered as a king who oversaw multiple acts of sinfulness during his years on the throne.
Most infamously, he replicated the sin of Aaron, who oversaw the creation of a golden calf during the time that the people of Israel were awaiting the return of Moses from his time on the top of Mount Sinai (Exod 32). Jeroboam had the city of Shechem built, as a direct challenge to the centrality of Jerusalem; and he had two golden claves built and installed, one at Bethel, the other at Dan (1 Ki 12:25–30).
For these and other persistent sins during his 22 years as king, reported at 1 Ki 12:31–33 and 13:33–34, Jerobaom incurred the divine wrath, such that God determined that “ the house of Jeroboam [was to be] cut it off and destroyed from the face of the earth” (1 Ki 13:34). Later passages in this book refer to “the sins of Jeroboam” (1 Ki 14:16; 15:30; 16:2, 19, 31; 2 Ki 10:29, 31; 13:2, 6, 11; 14:24; 15:9, 18, 24, 28; 17:22) and “the way of Jeroboam … and the sins that he caused Israel to commit, provoking the Lord, the God of Israel, to anger by their idols” (1 Ki 16:26).
So although the Temple in Jerusalem was the focus for religious activity in the southern kingdom (Judah), Jeroboam had established a number of religious sites in the northern kingdom. Amos warns about the sites at Dan, Bethel, Gilgal and Beersheba (Amos 5:5; 8:14). At these places, not only was the Lord God worshipped, but idolatrous images were used in worship services (5:26). Amos is trenchant in his criticism of the worship that the people offer (5:21–27); embedded in this crisis is a doublet of poetry, words most often associated with Amos: “let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream” (5:24).
Indeed, it is the perpetration of social inequity within Israel that most causes him to convey the anger of divine displeasure. He admonishes the rich for the way that they mistreat the poor: “they sell the righteous for silver, and the needy for a pair of sandals—they who trample the head of the poor into the dust of the earth and push the afflicted out of the way” (2:6–7); “you trample on the poor and take from them levies of grain” (5:11).
Again, Amos rails: “you trample on the needy and bring to ruin the poor of the land … buying the poor for silver and the needy for a pair of sandals, and selling the sweepings of the wheat” (8:4, 6). In a biting oracle, he criticises the “cows of Bashan who are on Mount Samaria” for the way they “oppress the poor, crush the needy” (4:1).
Bashan was the mountainous area to the northeast of Israel (Ps 68:15), which rejoiced in majestic oaks (Isa 2:13) and extensive pasture lands (1 Chron 5:16). The luxurious lifestyle of these people can well be imagined. The reference to “winter houses … summer houses … houses of ivory … and great houses” (3:15) is telling. Luxury and opulence is evident amongst the wealthy.
So, too, is the description of “those who lie on beds of ivory, and lounge on their couches, and eat lambs from the flock, and calves from the stall; who sing idle songs to the sound of the harp, and like David improvise on instruments of music; who drink wine from bowls, and anoint themselves with the finest oils” (6:4–6). The extravagance of the wealthy is obvious, juxtaposed against the plight of the poor, as we have noted.
Amos indicates that God had given Israel a number of opportunities to repent, “yet you did not return to me” (4:6, 8, 9, 10, 11). God pleads for Israel to “seek me and live” (5:4), “seek the Lord and live” (5:6), “seek good and not evil, that you may live” (5:14).
But this is all in vain; ultimately, the prophet insists, the Lord God will bring on the day of the Lord—a day of “darkness, not light, and gloom with no brightness in it” (5:18–20). God is determined; “the great house shall be shattered to bits, and the little house to pieces” (6:11); later, he insists again, “the dead bodies shall be many, cast out in every place” (8:3).
In so many reports of prophetic activity, it is justice which is the heart of their message—God’s justice; the justice which God desires for the people of God; the justice which God speaks through the voice of the prophets; the justice that God calls for in Israel; the justice that provides the measure against which Israel will be judged, and saved, or condemned.
Moses himself was charged with ensuring that justice was in place in Israelite society. One story told of the time after the Israelites had escaped from Egypt places Moses as a judge. Whilst in the wilderness of Sin, being visited by his father-in-law Jethro, we learn that “Moses sat as judge for the people, while the people stood around him from morning until evening” (Exod 18:13).
Noticing that Moses was overwhelmed by the volume of matters requiring adjudgment, Jethro suggested—and Moses adopted—a system whereby appointed men who “judged the people at all times; hard cases they brought to Moses, but any minor case they decided themselves” (Exod 18:14–16). The charge given to these men is clear: they are to give a fair hearing to every member of the community, and they “must not be partial in judging: hear out the small and the great alike; [do] not be intimidated by anyone, for the judgment is God’s” (Deut 1:16–17).
Prophets coming after Moses thus inherited this responsibility to ensure that justice was upheld within society. The most famous prophetic word of Amos is, as we have noted, his call for “justice and righteousness” (Amos 5:22). Micah asks the question, “what does the Lord require of you but to do justice?” (Mic 6:8), while through the prophet Hosea, the Lord God promises to Israel, “I will take you for my wife in righteousness and in justice, in steadfast love, and in mercy” (Hos 2:19).
Isaiah ends his famous love-song of of the vineyard by declaring that God “expected justice” (Isa 5:7) and he tells the rebellious people of his day, “the Lord is a God of justice; blessed are all those who wait for him” (Isa 30:18). He proclaims God’s judgement on those who “turn aside the needy from justice … and rob the poor of my people, that widows may be your spoil, and that you may make the orphans your prey!” (Isa 10:1–2).
Other prophets join their voices to Isaiah’s declaration. Ezekiel laments that “the sojourner suffers extortion in your midst; the fatherless and the widow are wronged in you” (Ezek 22:7). Jeremiah encourages the people of Jerusalem with a promise that God will allow them to continue to dwell in their land if they “do not oppress the sojourner, the fatherless, or the widow” (Jer 7:5–7).
Second Isaiah foresees that the coming Servant “will bring forth justice to the nations” (Isa 42:1) and knows that God’s justice will be “a light to the peoples” (Isa 51:4). The words of Third Isaiah continue in this prophetic stream, for this anonymous prophet begins his words with a direct declaration, “maintain justice, and do what is right” (Isa 56:1). He goes on to articulate his mission as being “to bring good news to the oppressed, to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and release to the prisoners” (Isa 61:1), thereby demonstrating that “I the Lord love justice” (Isa 62:8).
This commitment of Amos and many of the prophets resonates also with the psalmist, who praises “the God of Jacob … who executes justice for the oppressed; who gives food to the hungry … [who] sets the prisoners free, [who] opens the eyes of the blind, [who] lifts up those who are bowed down [and] loves the righteous, [who] watches over the strangers [and] upholds the orphan and the widow” (Ps 146:5, 7–9). See
Today, 31 October, begins a special sequence of days, which in traditional Roman Catholic piety form a triduum (simply meaning, “three days”). There is one set of three days that is very well-known: the Great Three Days of Easter (Good Friday—Holy Saturday—Easter Sunday). This current sequence of three days is the “other” three days—standing in the shadow of those other three days. Whilst the three days of Easter celebrate new life (the Triduum of Life), this “other” set of three days has been called the Triduum of Death.
Why, death? Well, the explanation lies in the three particular days that are included: All Hallows’ Eve, All Saints’ Day, and All Souls’ Day. All three have to do with life beyond this life as we know it, in one form or another—that is, they are dealing with death and those who have died.
All Hallows’ Eve is best known to us as Halloween; it falls, every year, on 31 October, round about six months after Easter Sunday. Unlike Easter, however, this is not a “moveable feast”, following the pattern of the lunar cycle (which does not lineup with our solar-based calendar). Halloween falls, each and every year, on the very last day of October.
It needs to be said that the contemporary commercialised celebration of Halloween is a long way from its origins in medieval Christian piety. And so it also needs to be emphasised that Halloween is not a pagan festival. It has its origins deep in Christian history and tradition.
The English word ‘Halloween’ is a shortening of All Hallows’ Eve(n), which long ago began this series of three holy days, designed to enable the faithful to remember the saints of old (All Saints’ Day on 1 November) and the faithful who have died, “the souls of the faithful departed” (All Souls’ Day on 2 November). These three days, Halloween—All Saints’ Day—All Souls’ Day, belong together—as the “other” Christian triduum (like Good Friday—Holy Saturday—Easter Sunday).
How long ago this sequence began is not clear, as local customs varied. There is evidence that some days had been identified as the time to remember individual saints or groups of saints in some locations in the 7th to 9th centuries. By around 800, churches in Northumbria and Ireland apparently remembered “all saints” on 1 November.
In the online resources of the Northumbria Community, there is a good statement about the significance of this time: “The old belief was that there was danger and vulnerability at this time of transition, which was neither in one year nor the next. Spiritual barriers could be dissolved. Inevitably, looking back led to the remembrance of those who had died and gone before; and, as the dark, cold days were awaited, protection was sought against the evil spirits that were bound to be abroad until spring returned. These old beliefs were never quite eradicated by the coming of Christianity, but lingered as a persistent superstition, a residual folk memory.” See
By the 12th century, All Saints’ and All Souls’ had become holy days of obligation in the medieval churches, and various rituals developed for each day. Baking and sharing cakes for the souls of baptised people is evidenced in some European countries in the 15th century; this may be the origins of trick-or-treat. Lighting candles in homes on these days was done in Ireland in the 19th century—another element which is reflected in current Halloween practices.
The Forerunners of Christ with Saints and Martyrs by Fra Angelico (1395–1455)
I have had the experience, in churches today, of being caught up in a grand worship experience for All Saints’ Day, the middle of the three days (a number of these were memorable experiences where my wife Elizabeth Raine created and presided at the liturgy). We surrounded ourselves with the memory of saints of ancient and more recent times, and recalled with gratitude saints of the present times, particularly those important to the immediate locality or congregation.
In those times of worship, we joined in singing “for all the saints who from their labour rest—alleluia! alleluia!” (from a hymn by William Walsham How), and then “a world without saints forgets how to praise; in loving, in living, they prove it is true— their way of self-giving, Lord, leads us to you” (from a hymn by Jacob Friedrich).
It is sometimes claimed that Halloween originated as a response to existing pagan rituals—but we need some considered nuance as we reflect on this. A number of the current practices involved in Halloween certainly do show the strong influence of folk customs with pagan origins in a number of Celtic countries.
This is especially so in relation to Samhain in Ireland, marking the start of winter with a festival from sundown on 31 October to sundown on 1 November. This was a liminal time when the boundary between this world and the world beyond was thinned; at this time, it was thought, the spirits could more easily enter this world. The connection with the Christian days of All Saints’ and All Souls’ is thus clear to see.
However, this does not mean that we can simply (and simplistically) conclude that these days have pagan origins; rather, what we ought to recognise is that, like other Christian festivals, there has been a blurring of customs and practices and a linking of Christian patterns with pagan festivities.
This blurring and linking is a natural tendency that has taken place time after time in place after place. This is what historians and scholars of religion call syncretism—the merging and assimilating of traditions that were originally discrete, with separate origins. It can also be called eclecticism; but I prefer to see this more accurately as contextualisation, the shaping of a tradition in the light of the immediate social and cultural context.
For that is what Halloween did in the mists of the time when it was being created and shaped—existing practices of pagan neighbours were co-opted and adapted by faithful Christians. Then, the practices were extended with the introduction of days to remember All Saints and All Souls. (The same dynamic was at work in the ways that Easter was shaped, drawing on northern hemisphere Spring practices, and the way that Christmas also developed, drawing on northern hemisphere Winter Solstice practices—but these are stories for other times of the year!)
The same perspective can be applied to the ways that Halloween, in particular, is commemorated each year. Lamenting the commercialisation of a festival that was originally Christian is a poor strategy. (And, as noted, this commercialisation has already happened with Christmas—which is now peak selling period for so many businesses and peak holiday period for many families—and in a different way with Easter—which is now a second peak holiday period for so many families.)
This kind of commercialisation (Jack-o’-Lantern pumpkins, bright lanterns, all manner of costumes, the proliferation of sweets for Halloween, trick-or-treat, and more) is now well underway with Halloween. We won’t turn the clock back. People of faith can simply hold to Christian understandings and practices in the midst of the increasing changes being made in broader society. As we observe what is taking place around us, the best strategy, surely, is to inform ourselves of the origins of, and reasons for, the season, and to reflect on those matters that take us to the heart of our faith.
*****
To close, here is my poetic musing on this season in the life of the church:
Every year in the church we remember,
we remember the saints of old;
those who kept silence, those who spoke clearly,
monks and ascetics, sisters and nurses,
teachers and preachers, writers and poets,
mystics and prophets, all serving faithfully;
saints who were blessed in their lives,
saints who blessed others through their lives.
Every year in the church we remember,
we remember those souls now departed;
family, friends, acquaintances, strangers,
known and remembered, hallowed in death.
To commemorate all the faithful departed,
we mark this time as All Souls’ Day.
And the evening before All Saints’ Day,
it is best known as “Halloween”.
Hallowed, sanctified, sainted in memory,
recalled in remembrance, all saints and all souls.
Elizabeth and I have just attended the Closure of Ministry service at which the Rev. Jane Fry concluded her years of service as the Secretary of the Synod of NSW.ACT—or, as Elizabeth referred to it, the Synod of the ACT and NSW (ever loyal to our time in the Canberra Region Presbytery!)
It was held in the impressive surroundings, dripping with signs and symbols of Christendom, in St Stephen’s Uniting Church in Macquarie Street, Sydney, directly opposite the NSW Houses of Parliament. The team from St Stephens, under the wise and gentle leadership of Ken Day, did a fine job in hosting the crowd of people who came for this important occasion.
Banks of wooden pews filled the large floor area of the church, with wooden panelling running around the walls. At the front, above the high central (typically Presbyterian) pulpit, stained glass windows reached up to the high vaulted ceiling—including various Hebrew prophets and early Christian saints (including, of course, St Stephen himself). Two flags from the glory days of Church and Empire hung high at the front—the Australian Blue Ensign on the left, the British Union Jack on the right—and the respective flags of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders were draped over the railings running out from the high pulpit. Rich symbolism abounded.
Our venturing all the way into the Sydney CBD for this event (170km, but who’s counting?) meant, on the one hand, that we had to endure the thick, turgid, stress-evoking traffic snarls of Sydney; nothing can be a stronger signal to Elizabeth and myself that we have made the right decision to retire in rural Dungog! Yet this visit also offered the welcome opportunity to celebrate and express gratitude for the gifts Jane has brought to this crucial leadership role, and to meet up with many people with faces and names familiar from past years (or decades)! It was good to reconnect in person with many who for some time now have been “Facebook friends”. The bonds of years past hold strong.
There were multiple conversations in the church’s Ferguson Hall in the time after worship, as we ate, drank, and caught up, under the watchful eye of the Rev. John Ferguson, after whom the hall is named. Ferguson was minister of St Stephen’s from 1894 to 1925, including a term as Moderator-General of the Presbyterian Church in Australia commencing in 1909.
Alan Dougan writes in the Australian Dictionary of Biography that “his inaugural address, published as The Economic Value of the Gospel, raised a storm in Melbourne and praise from trade union leaders. Billy Hughes said ‘The new moderator preaches a gospel all sufficient, all powerful. He grapples with the problems of poverty … he insists on justice being done, though the heavens fall. I advise every citizen to read every word of it’.”
Ferguson was a most enlightened minister, it would seem; apparently he sought an audience with the Pope on a visit to Rome in 1914, “an action that evoked much hostile criticism in Sydney”, says Dougan. The tribalism in Sydney’s ecclesial life, clearly evident in this reaction, is sadly still alive and well in this city, where sectarian fundamentalism (“We Know The Truth, and Only We Have It!”) has an iron grip in some churches. Not in the Uniting Church, however!
Jane Fry calling the people to worship
The church on this occasion held a full congregation when the service itself began, with Jane in characteristic pose, arms outstretched, as she called the people to worship: “Look! Listen!”, with a string of appropriate scripture sentence after each iteration. Nathan Tyson then acknowledged Country, giving thanks for the First Peoples who have cared for the land for millennia, and offering a gracious and warm welcome to the many Second Peoples (of multiple cultural heritages) who had gathered for the occasion.
Nathan Tyson (left), Simon Hansford (right)
Past Moderator Simon Hansford brought words of confession (“we speak words of cynicism and anger; for this we are sorry …”) before offering an Assurance of God’s pardon, to which we replied, “thanks be to God”. Jane and Simon had worked together as a fine set of leaders of the Synod team for six years, through the difficulties and challenges of the COVID pandemic. It was good to have his clarity of thought in these prayers of confession.
We sang a number of good hymns, including a favourite one written by Charles Wesley “a long time ago”, as wry Jane’s annotation in the order of service observed. How many people were like me: enjoying the melody and harmony of “And can it be” whilst inwardly recoiling at the blood, wrath, and divine vengeance permeating the hymn, before divine grace eventually shone through?
Yes, these words show that it was indeed “a long time ago” that such theology reigned supreme; fortunately within the Uniting Church we can see that “the Lord has yet more light and truth to break forth from his word” (in the words of John Robinson, spoken to the Pilgrims in 1620 as they departed on their journey to “the new world” in 1620, and then include in a hymn written by British Congregationalist George Rawson in the 1850s).
So it is that, as a church, we do indeed rejoice in the affirmation that we “remain open to constant reform under [God’s] Word” and that as “a pilgrim people, always on the way towards a promised goal” we are able to delve into our scripture, traditions, and heritage, “give thanks for the knowledge of God’s ways with humanity which are open to an informed faith”, “sharpen its understanding of the will and purpose of God by contact with contemporary thought”, and stand “ready when occasion demands to confess the Lord in fresh words and deeds”. (Excerpts from the UCA Basis of Union)
Neale Roberts of Uniting brought two readings from scripture, delivered with eloquence, nuance, and expression. From the scriptures we share with Jewish people he read a passage celebrating Wisdom: “When he marked out the foundations of the earth, I was there, beside him … now, then, listen to me” (Proverbs 8).
Neale Roberts
And then he read words attributed to Jesus: “do not worry about your life … look at the birds of the air … consider the lilies of the field … do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own; today’s trouble is enough for today”. As Neale observed to me afterwards, “I am sure Jane picked that passage for its final words, as a word to the church today”. They do indeed encapsulate the deep faith and strong hope that Jane has always exuded.
Elizabeth Raine, friend and colleague of Jane since they first met as theological students at UTC in the early 1990s, preached the sermon. Indeed, as a personal aside, I was struck the fact that all who offered leadership in this service, apart from Nathan Tyson, had studied theology and undergone formation for ministry at UTC during the 1990s; perhaps a fine testament to the grounding they had received then—more certainly, a clear indicator of the qualities and giftedness that each person has brought to ministry over the ensuing decades. The church has benefitted much from the calling to which each of them has responded.
Elizabeth preaching (left); Elizabeth and Jane (right)
Elizabeth spoke about the figure of Wisdom who had been the focus of the Proverbs reading. She warned the congregation, “I told Jane I would be feral and unfiltered … and Jane said to me, ‘go for it!’” And so she did. You can read the full sermon via the link at the end of the blog, but here are some choice extracts: “Wisdom calls us on an unexpected journey … she transgresses male boundaries, standing at the street corner, raising her voice in public places … but Wisdom has been grafted on to Jesus by the early church scholars … they were consumed by their categories and systems … we emerged with a transgendered Holy Spirit … a meek, obedient virgin-mother became the model for women … the figure of Wisdom has been overshadowed.”
Elizabeth offered incisive exegetical insights into the riches that the poetic passage in Proverbs contains. concluded that Wisdom speaks to the church today; “she offers us a relational faith, listening to others, working together for the common good … anyone, but anyone, can acquire what she offers … she would undoubtedly value the invitation of Jesus to his disciples to ‘fish on the other side of the boat’, to be open to new possibilities, not to be bound to practices of the past, and to hold to a relational, experimental theology”. “How will we as a church relate to Wisdom?” she concluded.
It was clear from the many expressions of thanks—mostly, not entirely, from women in the congregation—that Elizabeth’s “unfiltered” feminist exposition of this crucial passage had struck a very positive chord for many who were present. “We need to hear this message, we need to hear your voice” was a regular refrain. Preachers and teachers in the church should take note; there is, within informed Uniting Church people, a deep appetite for substantive biblical preaching with a clear, prophetic, feminist hermeneutic that speaks directly into our situation today!
After joining in an Affirmation of Faith, we enjoyed the inspiring playing of the Stephens’ Organ Scholar, Andrei Hadap (pictured in action above), as we meditated on the delightful words of a hymn by Thomas Troeger: “how shall we love this heart-strong God who gives us everything, whose ways to us are strange and odd: what can we give or bring?” Associate Secretary of Synod Bronwyn Murphy then led the prayers of the people to this “heart-strong God”: “so much pain held within one small planet … so hear us, O God, as we pray for your earth … for all people, gathered within your welcome … for the Uniting Church, a body in transition … and for Jane and her family”.
Bron Murphy prays
Jane then spoke in her characteristic direct and challenging style. She referred to the “nine years of drama, change, and engagement across the church”. She is, she confessed (as if we needed reminding!) “a sceptical person, not an early adopter [who] did not expect the recent significant decisions of Synod to have been adopted!” Her reflection at this point was, once again, characteristically Jane; she saw this as an indication that “God is not done with the Uniting Church”.
She reminded all present that “the change [we have] initiated is just housekeeping. Synod is administrative, Presbytery has an oversight role, but the Congregation is where faith is nurtured”. She emphasised that the church is called to “nurture faith, form discipleship, and welcome all: these are the critical elements of being the church.” Her final word exuding the hope she has always held over the years in fulfilling her leadership roles in Congregation, Presbytery, and Synod: “neglecting the disciplines of faith is incredibly dangerous: prayer is the foundation. Letters us remember: ‘God has got this’”.
The Moderator receives from Jane the stole which symbolized her ministry as Secretary of Synod
The Moderator, Mata Havea Hilau, then led the formal closure of ministry for Jane, offering the thanks of all present in the worship space and those participating via the livestream, and praying for Jane, “May the God who rested on the seventh day to delight in all the creation hold you in her arms as you have held this work, celebrate with us the life that takes life from you, and give you grace to let go into a new freedom”; to which all the people responded: Amen!
In the Ferguson Hall after the service, in the midst of the plethora of conversations filling the space with a cascade of sounds, Peter Walker, the incoming Secretary of Synod and former Principal of UTC (and yet another graduate of UTC from the 1990s!) presided over a brief time of formality. Jane expressed her thanks to many people who had worked alongside her and encouraged her over the past nine years. She was given a gift of a lovely bunch of native flowers.
And then the crowd dispersed, stepping back into the rain, the traffic, the chaos of everyday life … … …
*****
You can read the full text of Elizabeth’s sermon at
A sermon on Proverbs 8: 22–36, preached by the Rev. Elizabeth Raine in St Stephen’s Uniting Church, Sydney, at a service of Closure of Ministry for the Rev. Jane Fry, outgoing Secretary of the Synod of NSW.ACT, on Wednesday 29 October 2025.
When Jane asked me to preach at this event, I was very surprised. I expected that a former Moderator or Board Chair would be invited to preach at such an important event as the General Secretary of the NSW/ACT Synod retiring. But here I am!
Jane (left), Elizabeth (right)
It is true that Jane and I go back many years, as we went through UTC together, bonded by the attitude of the sexist male colleagues who accused us from everything from ‘sleeping our way to high distinctions’ to being ‘feminists’, like it was some sort of virus. I confess this rather patriarchal attitude has informed this sermon, though it is also true that so many more women now occupy prominent positions in our church, which is a very good thing.
I did warn her that I was unsettling, potentially feral and capable of saying things that were unfiltered in my sermons. Was she sure she wanted to risk such a this? Apparently she did, so here I am.
I was grateful to Jane for her friendship and support then, and I am grateful to her now for her presence as General Secretary over the last 9 years. She has approached this position as she does most things, with integrity, thoughtfulness and a straightforward approach to dealing with what I call ‘faffing around’. Jane has a deep and abiding love for the church and hopes only for its successful transition into the future, and I wish her well for her future in retirement.
The book of Proverbs from which one of the readings we heard is drawn tells us a lot about Wisdom (hochma in Hebrew). She is a central character in chapters 1–9, and she appears as a mystical feminine aspect of God. “Lady Wisdom”, as she is known, is a central character in many chapters of Proverbs, and those who know her are seen asrighteous people. She calls to us and invites us on an unexpected journey. She is offered as a role model for us, her teachings are a template for life, and she a pioneer who opens up a pathway to faith and obedience.
Scholars have debated how the personification of Wisdom should be interpreted, especially as Wisdom is stated to be the first creation of God (“the Lord created me at the beginning of his work, the first of his acts of long ago”, Prov 8:22) and is involved in the creation process itself (“the Lord by wisdom founded the earth”, Prov 3:19). Is wisdom meant to be a specific aspect of God or even a separate being from God? Or should all such language be taken as mere metaphor?
She has been described in many ways—as an aspect of God, as a divine entity existing in her own right, even as something approaching a feminine deity, as Proverbs 8 states: Wisdom was present at the beginning of creation as a co-creator with God, who delighted in her presence.
The divine Wisdom has fascinated ecclesiasts and scholars since the inception of the Christian church. As we have heard, Wisdom has been described in many and various ways but Wisdom’s primary function was understood by the very early Christians to be a mediating force between God and the world, and was particularly associated with the work of creation.
The text from Proverbs 8:22 was important for this belief: here, Wisdom declares, “The Lord created me at the beginning of his work, the first of his acts of old”. Wisdom was believed to be a vehicle of God’s self-revelation, granting knowledge of God to those who pursue her through scripture and learning.
Wisdom (Sophia) on her throne supported by seven pillars A 16th century Icon of Divine Wisdom in the St George Church in Vologda, Russia
Despite this, the Christian tradition, for most of its life, cannot be said to be famous for finding the feminine aspect of the divine. Relentlessly masculine, the early Christian church systematically excised any sense of the feminine from the orthodox view of God, spirit and Jesus.
The ruach (Holy Spirit) became masculine through the language of Latin; the bat qol (the voice of God) of the rabbinic literature found a different, masculine grammatical construct in Greek, and hochma or sophia (wisdom) morphed into the figure of Jesus, as the New Testament writings firmly associated the attributes of Wisdom with the person of Jesus Christ.
This last is most clearly seen in the letter to the Colossians. This document was originally attributed to the apostle Paul, but is now thought to have been written by a follower of Paul, soon after the apostle’s death in the early 60s. Some early verses in Colossians make it clear that Wisdom had been grafted onto Jesus:
“He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation; for in him all things in heaven and on earth were created, things visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or powers — all things have been created through him and for him.”
The Divine Feminine through whom God created the world was replaced with the Divine Masculine. A good example of this can be found in the writings of Justin Martyr – he claimed that Jesus was Wisdom, Logos and the Glory, thereby removing the feminine Spirit (ruach), Wisdom (hochma), and Glory (shekinah) all in one stroke.
Wisdom sadly morphed into a male saviour, who by assuming the divine characteristics Wisdom was meant to share with God, found himself inserted as the third person of a doctrine of trinity with a transgendered holy spirit, who crossed masculine, neuter and feminine across biblical languages.
Instead of recognizing Wisdom, this feminine aspect of the divine, early Christian male leaders instead have tried to satisfy women throughout the world by presenting them with role models of martyrs and virgins, thereby setting a standard that the vast majority of females cannot possibly aspire to.
Wisdom fast lost her independence and feisty nature, and the meek, obedient woman, characterized by the mother of Jesus (another virgin), was held up as the model to which all women should strive to be.
However: far from being obedient and submissive, Wisdom occupies what is the domain of men, teachers and prophets. She stands on busy street corners, she is at the town gate; she sets her table at the crossroads where many pass by. Unlike her counterpart in Proverbs 31, there is nothing of the domestic goddess about her. She is radical, counter cultural and subversive. She teaches knowledge and leads her people on their way through history. In a most unfeminine way, unaccompanied by a male chaperone, she raises her voice in public places that are the domain of men and calls to everyone who would hear her.
Wisdom offers us a radical example of faithfulness yet she remains a disturbing presence. She is a most unladylike figure, venturing outside the house, to stand beside the crossroads, crying out in full voice, surprising and startling and provoking with her words.
She transgresses boundaries by standing amidst the male elders at the city gates and presuming to teach them. She has a clear voice, a colourful personality, a dominant presence, and offers words of hope and the promise of life. She is a vehicle of God’s self-revelation, and grants knowledge of God to those who pursue her through scripture and learning.
The prominent biblical scholar, Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, has written this about Wisdom:
Divine Wisdom is a cosmic figure delighting in the dance of creation, a “master” crafts wo/man and teacher of justice. She is a leader of Her people and accompanies them on their way through history. Very unladylike, she raises her voice in public places and calls everyone who would hear her. She transgresses boundaries, celebrates life, and nourishes those who will become her friends. Her cosmic house is without wallsand her table is set for all.
In short, the biblical figure of Wisdom represents a spirituality of roads and journeys, of public places and open borders, of nourishment and celebration, of justice and equality – rather than a spirituality of categories, doctrines, closed systems and ideologies. Her dramatic modus operandi stands in striking contrast to the slow and methodical way of operating that we see in the classic formulations of Christendom, doctrines that have come to define the church in the eyes of those outside of it.
The church fathers, the male patriarchs of the church, and the myriad of male theologians who followed were, in my humble opinion, consumed with their categories; they articulated their doctrines by amassing the data, analysing the information, systematising the component parts and categorising the key dogmas. And they wrote down these dogmas and systems and turned them into the doctrines by which faith was measured.
By contrast to these closed systems of belief and knowledge, the biblical figure of Wisdom asks for a relational faith, and invites us to develop a wide openness in the way we approach others and God. She requires of us that we really listen to others, including those we don’t agree with … she calls us to listen, to understand, to speak in ways that connect with others and ways that build productive and fruitful relationships across the differences that separate us.
Wisdom calls us to work together, for the common good, with others in our society. She is not a figure bound to buildings, books and writing; she is an outdoor, community spirit, seeking relationships with people, engaging wholeheartedly in the public discourse, debating back and forth in the public arena the key elements of a faith-filled life.
What Wisdom presents is a radical democratic concept, in that anyone, whether illiterate or educated, whether without or with status, whether poor or wealthy, can acquire what she offers.
She invites us to be life-long learners of the faithful and missional type, and calls us to be constantly open to challenge and change as we read, study, think, discuss, explore, debate, and decide.
I think that Wisdom is precisely the kind of person who would have relished the invitation, once offered to his disciples by Jesus, to fish on the other side of the boat. She would value the opportunity to look in a different direction, to reconsider the task at hand and seek a new way of undertaking it. Rather then remonstrating with Jesus saying ’but we have always done it this way’, she would jump at the chance to set out in a new arena, to pioneer a new task, to reshape her missional engagement so that it was fresh, invigorating, and creative, open to new possibilities and exciting pathways. What a role model that is, for the church today!
So, the question that I invite you to ponder at this moment is: How will we interact with Wisdom? Are we open to the exploration and discoveries that the biblical figure of Wisdom invites us to pursue?
Are we content with just repeating our tried and true traditions from the past? Are we happy staying in our familiar comfort zones? Will our mission be simply no more than wishing people to walk through ourdoors, as we remain in our comfortable, self-contained spaces?
Or will we choose the way of the rather unladylike and subversive Wisdom, the radical at the street corner, crying out to all who pass by? Can we adopt Wisdom’s model invitation of radical hospitality as relevant to the church today? Should we be more concerned with ‘raising our voices’ in the public arena than confining ourselves to church buildings?
Hopefully as a church we will choose to follow the path of Wisdom into the future, which through its relational, radical and inclusive theology offers us the potential to transform contemporary situations of injustice, brokenness and violence in the communities we serve. By taking our stance in the marketplace, we can demonstrate the ways that show our deep and profound relationship with and love for God, and how that love is extended to all people. Hopefully all of us, not just a few, can follow Wisdom out of our enclosed gatherings to the space where such social and spiritual change can take place.
I trust that as a church, we will continue to encounter Wisdom, hochma, and learn from her, again and again in the coming years.
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You can read a report of the whole service of Closure of Ministry at
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.
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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.
An Informed Faith 