A Pastoral Reflection from the Moderator Elect, Rev. Pablo Nunez on the Bondi Attacks

I learned the news in the strangest of ways.

I was holding a microphone, smiling for a crowd, welcoming families wrapped in tinsel and picnic rugs. Christmas Carols were unfolding - children laughing, candles flickering, choirs finding their pitch. And then my phone vibrated. Quietly. Relentlessly. The kind of vibration that carries weight. As I walked down the stairs while the band kept singing Carols, a group of young people that I had the honour of baptising told me the news.  

Bondi. Violence. Lives shattered.

And it was the first night of Hanukkah. I was going to mention it on my next introduction to Carols, but then everything had changed 

I remember standing there, caught between two worlds. One hand holding the script, the other holding grief. One eye on the stage lights, the other on the shadow that had just fallen across our nation. And I had to go on. The music had to continue. The crowd didn’t know - yet. And maybe that’s where theology stops being theory and starts being flesh and blood.

Because this is the world we live in.

A world where songs of peace are sung while sirens wail somewhere else.

A world where light is kindled while darkness still takes lives.

A world where celebration and sorrow do not take turns - they collide.

Hanukkah is the festival of lights, born not out of comfort but out of trauma. A people bruised by violence, desecration, and loss dared to believe that light, once lit, refuses to be negotiated with darkness. Advent tells a similar truth. Not that darkness disappears, but that God enters it. Fully. Vulnerably. Without armour.

That night, standing at the Carols, I felt the deep ache of that truth. Emmanuel -- God with us -- does not arrive after the danger has passed. God arrives while the danger is real. While blood is still on the ground. While prayers are choked with tears. While the MC keeps smiling because the children deserve joy, even as the heart is breaking.

This is not denial. This is defiance.

To light candles in a world like this is an act of holy resistance. To sing “Peace on Earth” when peace feels fragile is not naïve -- it is prophetic. It is to say that violence does not get the final word. Fear does not own the future. Hatred does not write the ending.

The Bondi incident reminds us – painfully -- that we are not as safe or as distant from one another’s suffering as we sometimes pretend. It tears through the illusion that evil is somewhere else. And yet, in the midst of that tearing, something else is revealed: our shared humanity. Our shared grief. Our shared responsibility to be bearers of light.

Pastorally, I want to say this clearly: if you felt shaken, numb, angry, or exhausted by the news, you are not weak. You are human. If you struggled to sing, pray, or even hope, you are in good company. The Psalms are full of people who kept worshipping with trembling hands.

And if, like me, you had to “go on” while carrying sorrow, know this: God was not asking you to perform joy. God was standing with you in the tension -- between carols and cries, candles and coffins, hope and heartbreak.

As we approach the Fourth Sunday of Advent, love stands at the centre of the wreath. Not sentimental love. Not easy love. But costly love. Love that shows up. Love that refuses to look away. Love that chooses presence over despair.

And as Hanukkah draws to its close, the menorah reminds us that one flame is enough to begin. You don’t need to chase away all the darkness. You only need to light what you can, where you are, with what you have.

So here is my prayer, my blessing, my benediction:

May the God who chose to dwell among us --
not above us, not protected from us --
But with us and for us,
hold every grieving family close.

May the Light that no darkness can overcome
strengthen all who feel fragile, afraid, or weary.

May Jews, Muslims and Christians, neighbours and strangers,
stand together against hatred and violence,
and for dignity, compassion, and peace.

And may you, as Advent deepens and the last Hanukkah candles fade,
carry the quiet courage to keep loving,
keep singing,
keep lighting candles --
even when your hands are shaking.

Go in peace.

Go in light.

And go knowing that God is still with us.

To light candles in a world like this is an act of holy resistance. To sing “Peace on Earth” when peace feels fragile is not naïve -- it is prophetic. It is to say that violence does not get the final word. Fear does not own the future. Hatred does not write the ending.