Sunday, January 10, 2016


No sermon at South Yarra tonight. Instead, following the reading from Luke 3:13-22, several people shared the story of their baptism. This was mine:

When I was baptised
   there was no River Jordan,
   just a dented tub in an ugly room.

There was no hairy prophet,
   but a smooth-skinned man
   who told me to read Tillich first.

God’s voice didn’t thunder.
The heavens stayed resolutely shut.
Not even a small bird floated down from the skies.

Coming up from the waters
   I felt silly, adolescent,
   awkward, strange.

No more sure of God’s love
   or my direction
   or my self.

Yet somehow, in all its smallness,
   it was enough.

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