May 4, 2003

Ian Lawton

Easter 2     John 21:1-12 

Every community has its eccentric characters. Churches seem to attract more than their fair share. I remember as a boy going to church with Jesus' sister. She would have Sunday excursions from the local psychiatric hospital, moan and groan her way through the service, and then during the sermon curl up on the front pew and snore loudly. As a child these were the moments which made the day. Not sure if the preacher felt the same enthusiasm for Jesus' sister. The local hospital meant that there was no shortage of characters in that parish.

In the parish of Kings Cross in inner Sydney, a number of odd characters made their way in to church. And that was just the clergy. Then there was Gary who loved communion,… wine that is. He would walk to the steps and queue up soon after the peace, trying to look pious. There was Dennis one of the last living examples of the ancient and cruel lobotomy technique for curing mental illness, who would sing at the top of his voice, way off key.

Some eccentrics, like Dennis, would always remind me that faith is so often found in the least likely places. His dignity, gentleness and persistence were all marks of a resurrected life. There was a wonderful moment where volunteers were called for in a community style communion service. When Dennis goose stepped to the front to volunteer, a certain nervousness filled the air. But as Dennis handed out the broken pieces of bread with his callused hands, his eyes which spoke of such pain and anguish, his voice weak and troubled great meaning was added to the celebration. Having the bread administered to me by Dennis, with the words, the body of Christ broken for you, was one of my most significant communion services. It certainly meant more to me than having bishops and archbishops hand me communion. With Dennis that day it felt I was in the presence of the resurrected Jesus.

With Dennis that day it felt that the broken bread truly captured all the broken dreams, lost lives and fractured souls which fill our world. An ordinary encounter, an extraordinary life giving moment. Of course, St Matthew-in-the-City has its assortment of eccentrics. But you can relax, I won't be mentioning you today. You will be fodder for sermons in my next parish.

Today, still basking in the glow of Easter hope, we remember the quite ordinary, but moving account of Jesus appearing to his frightened disciples and eating fish with them. Fish represented many of the disciple's working life. Even after the highs, lows and dramas of their three years with Jesus, the calling of most of them was to go back to work, to take care of the ordinary.

As the disciples found the peace of the presence of their resurrected leader, so we seek peace in the communion and then in the everyday work and play of our lives. Our eyes are open, we find resurrection all around us.

"Have our eyes been opened, risen God? 


How much have we recognised you among us in one another, 
deep in our souls and in the heart of all that has life: 
the light within the sun's brightness, the breath within every living creature, the goodness within human company 
and the wholeness in earth's gifts of food and wine shared?

Have we glimpsed your presence in these things 
and merely glimpsing with inner eyes 
not been able to hold you fixed in sight before our vision fades 
yet glimpsing have our hearts not burned within us 
and assured us deep down of your presence 
like those whose eyes were opened at table?

And maybe even more than 
catching the merest glimmering of you in creation 
or momentarily feeling your freshness in the wind 
or tasting it in the fruit of the earth 
is it not when the beauty of the outward begins to break apart 
that we have glimpsed you most certainly, 
like those whose eyes were opened at the breaking of the bread 
and who recognised among them 
the One who died yet lives? 
Has it not been in seeing life's instability 
that sometimes we have been given sight of your eternity in our midst? 
Has it not been at life's edges in our falling and failing that you have shown yourself 
to be the centre of our lives, unshakeable?"

For these glimpses of resurrection presence, even though they vanish before we can name them, we give thanks. Today as all days we seek the ordinary, even the surprising and eccentric, as signs of hope in our midst.

As we approach the communion rail this morning, we do so not only as a private moment, but in solidarity with all that is broken and fragile, with the Iraqi people, the refugees, the unemployed, the lonely and the desperate. We touch the bread and drink the wine, aware of the labour which has produced them, the system which profits from the labour, the exploitation of workers and the degradation of the environment. These deaths too find their meaning in the communion.

We commune, we partake, then we go out. We go to family and friend. We go to work and to rest. We go a little changed, after all we have found peace, but we go. For it is in the everyday that we now express our communion; lives of justice and healing of all which is fragile and needs care. In that we live as the presence of Jesus for others.