Yesterday I heard the news that Rev. Dr. Ross Olivier, a long time friend and mentor had passed away. To say I’m shattered is not an overstatement. And I’m certainly not the only one. For a long time Ross has been at the forefront of South African Methodism, and his impact on our church, and on the Methodist Church across the world, cannot be measured. But, I don’t want to write a formal review of Ross’s life – there are those far more qualified than me to do that.

What I do want to do is put out a public note of gratitude for who Ross was, and for the impact he has had on me personally, and on the ministry of Sacredise. Although I had been familiar with Ross’s name for a long time, I first him met when he was the senior minister at Northfield Methodist Church in Benoni, South Africa. I had been approached to join the staff of the church as a worship specialist. Unfortunately, he was appointed to be the Executive Secretary of the MCSA before I arrived in staff, so I never got the chance to work with him in a pastoral setting for an extended time. But, it seems, he did not forget me. When the National Conference of 2001 was being planned, Ross approached me to take on the role of Worship Director. Listening to his passion for what the worship could be and catching his vision for the Church was inspiring. The months of planning, and the week of the Conference were scary and exciting times, and Ross never wavered in his support and encouragement.

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A Lectionary Reflection on Luke 24:36b-48 for Easter 3B

It seems like the most fundamental question that shapes both the faith and the influence of followers of Jesus has become: “If you were to die tonight, do you know where you would go?” The premise behind this is simple. The Gospel, we are told, is all about human beings getting to an eternity of heavenly bliss. Since sin stops us from going there, diverting us to the fires of hell, the task of Christians in “witnessing” to people is first to convince them that they want to go heaven, then to convince them that they won’t go because they are sinners, and then to convince them to accept Jesus in order to be forgiven and qualify for “glory”. I confess that the above model of Christian witness feels to me like an exercise in missing the point.

The very reality of resurrection speaks of something different than an eternity spent in disembodied, otherworldly bliss. As Jesus appears to his confused and disbelieving disciples, he has to prove to them that “It’s really me!” (24:39) – not a ghost, not an illusion, and not some kind of undead, resuscitated zombie – and so he eats. Meals had always been significant for Jesus in his pre-crucifixion ministry, and after the resurrection he often used meals to reveal himself to his friends. But, the act of eating, while characteristic of Jesus, also serves to show how very physical, how completely embodied he is. This removes any basis we might have for believing that our ultimate destiny is some disembodied state.

The Incarnation extends beyond the grave and reveals that our physical cosmos – including our own bodies – is an integral part of the eternal reality that we call God’s Reign, and not just some sort of temporary testing ground for the righteous to come to faith. We get saved in our bodies, in this world, and whatever waits for us on the other side of the grave is continuous with that.

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Although rituals appear to be few and far between in the world of today, and some people may even be rather disparaging of ritual, I don’t believe for a minute that rituals have ceased to exist and be popular. On the contrary, it seems to me that a supposedly "ritual-less" world is seeking rituals in more places and more ways, perhaps, than ever. Watch any reality TV show, and watch how ritualised the "tribal council" is. Observe how any significant moment, from first communion, to graduations, to weddings to birthdays, is celebrated and you’ll see plenty of rituals.

In particular, I believe, we ritualise what we love – and we often grow to love what we ritualise. It can be a telling exercise to see where we place the greatest ritual emphasis in our lives. Where do we tell the strongest narratives? What symbols do we most treasure? What practices do we love to repeat? What language do we employ when we speak of what gives our lives meaning? The answers to these questions can be a window into our hearts, and to what motivates, directs and shapes us.

A Lectionary Reflection on John 12:20-33 for Lent 5B

As the old saying goes, “You get to choose what you’ll do, but you don’t get to choose the consequences.” The problem is that we all spend way too much energy trying to avoid the consequences of what we do, and who we have become. Every one of us, by ignorance or design, has moments of destructiveness, addiction, narcissism and laziness. To use Scott Peck’s term, we are all, at one point or another in our lives, people of the lie.

The essential motivation for this struggle with integrity is our fear of what may come should we choose to face the music. We know that if we allow our actions and attitudes to catch up with us, we will be judged, we will be found guilty and we will need to be executed. What we don’t know is that we can never outrun our brokenness, and the judgement has already happened, the sentence already pronounced.

In this week’s Gospel reading, Jesus speaks those very disturbing words: “Those who love their life in this world will lose it. Those who care nothing for their life in this world will keep it for eternity. Anyone who wants to be My disciple must follow Me, because My servants must be where I am.” (John 12:24, 25) We talk a lot today about Jesus dying so we can live, but the truth is, according to Jesus, we do not get to avoid death. We are called to follow him, to be where he has been. This means we have to travel the entire road through the cross and beyond. We don’t get to life without passing through death. The reason for this is both very uncomfortable and quite obvious.

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We spend a lot of time in the Church dealing with the mind. We often speak about the mind as the place where our spiritual battles are fought. Our liturgy is largely aimed at the mind, focussed on solid theology and filled with words that, although often very beautiful, are primarily intended to engage us on the level of the intellect. Our preaching has traditionally been framed in a persuasive mode that seeks to convince and change our minds. Yet, we still wrestle with the uncomfortable truth that for all this “mind-work” many, if not most, worshippers think and behave little differently from those who do not regularly attend a church.

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