A Full Tank

There are few things more capable of producing low-grade national anxiety than the phrase “strategic petroleum reserve”. It sounds important. It sounds like the sort of thing you’d like to assume someone competent is handling so we can think about other things.
 
And yet, here we are, every major news site in Australia throwing up explainer articles about how many days of fuel Australia has left, where it’s stored, and whether “supply chain resilience” is code for “we’re cutting it a bit fine”.
 
It’s all very modern. And also very ancient.
 
Because underneath the technical language is a simple, human question, “are we going to be ok?”
 
You can feel how quickly the conversation slides from barrels of oil into the territory of dread. None of this is really about petrol – it’s about peace of mind.
Nations, like people, don’t cope well with the idea that we might be more fragile than we look and so we build reserves – personally, we make bigger barns (Luke 12:16-21), nationally we stockpile, hedge, and diversify supply.
 
Jesus once told a story an oil shock. In Matthew 25:1-13 ten bridesmaids were waiting for a wedding, each with a lamp. Five bring extra oil and five don’t. The delay comes. The night stretches on. Eventually, the difference between them isn’t self-confidence or intention or sincerity it was whether they actually have enough oil when it matters.
 
It’s a slightly uncomfortable story for a culture that prefers optimism to readiness. We tend to assume things will work out. That there will be enough. That we can always borrow a little more when we need it.
 
But Jesus’ point is sharper than that.
 
There are some things you can’t outsource. Some forms of readiness that can’t be borrowed at the last minute. Some kinds of security that have to be settled beforehand. Which raises a question that no strategic reserve can answer.
 
What are you running on?
 
Most of us have an internal fuel source. It might be competence. Or reputation. Or being needed. Or the comforting sense that we are, on balance, doing fine.
 
And in ordinary times, that fuel does the job. The engine turns over. Life moves along. We don’t think too hard about how much is left in the tank until something interrupts the supply.
It’s when we face a diagnosis, a conflict, a failure that can’t be spun, or a season where the usual reassurances don’t quite reach –  then suddenly, the question becomes urgent.
 
The Christian claim is not that you should try harder to build a bigger personal reserve. It’s that, in Jesus, you are invited into a different kind of economy altogether.
 
Not one where your security depends on how well you’ve stockpiled your own resources, but one where your life is held secure in someone else’s abundance. The New Testament keeps circling the idea that in Christ his life, his righteousness, his standing with the Father is not a limited supply that might run out if demand spikes. It is, rather scandalously, a gift the eternal God gives infinitely to his children.
 
Which means the deepest question is not “have I stored enough?” but “am I drawing from the right source?”
 
Because the real danger is not that you will run out of your own reserves. That was always going to happen. The real danger is trusting a fuel source that was never designed to carry the weight of your life in the first place.
 
Jesus’ story about the lamps is not ultimately a call to anxious stockpiling. It is a call to be ready for him. To have your life anchored in him. To be found, when the moment comes, not scrambling to borrow what cannot be borrowed, but already belonging to the bridegroom who has arrived.
 
Which is a very different kind of security. Our politicians and our press will keep worrying about reserves. Sensibly so. It matters. We can be secure even if the bowsers run dry because of what he has already safeguarded.

Grace and Peace,

Steve

Citizens of where, exactly?

It’s been a heavy news week. In Victoria, a so-called “sovereign citizen” murdered two police officers—a dreadful act with an ideology that feels like it’s been imported from the more combustible corners of America’s internet, but which is disturbingly homegrown. Meanwhile, in Canberra and across all the state capitals, we’re bracing for a “March for Australia” this Sunday, billed as a patriotic gathering but reportedly shaping up to be a far-right rally with the usual cocktail of grievance, nationalism, and suspiciously large flags.

There’s a thread running through both stories: a simmering anger about identity, belonging, and authority. Who gets to tell me what to do? Who am I really loyal to? Sovereign citizens claim they’re not bound by government laws; marchers on Sunday will wave flags proclaiming they’re the “true” Australians. Both stories hum with the anxiety of people desperate to define themselves and their place in the world, and suspicious of anyone else trying to do it for them.

It’s a bit too easy to scoff at conspiracists or cringe as we realise that the impulse that made the White Australia policies of the last century have not been as vanquished as we thought. But the truth is, all of us are trying to settle the same questions: Who am I? Whose rule am I living by? Where do I belong? These are deeply spiritual questions, and the gospel has something profound to say about them.

When Paul wrote to the Philippians, he said something that would have been startling to his Roman readers:

“Our citizenship is in heaven. And we eagerly await a Saviour from there, the Lord Jesus Christ.” (Phil. 3:20)

To a Roman citizen, that was radical. Roman Citizenship was a golden ticket; it shaped your entire identity. Paul, a Roman citizen himself, was saying: even that’s not ultimate. Christians belong first and foremost to Jesus. Our primary passport is stamped with the cross, not the Southern Cross.

That changes how we think about power and authority, too. Sovereign citizens reject governmental authority entirely. Christians don’t—we respect government as God’s good gift (Romans 13:1-7) but we also remember that no government is ultimate. Christ is king, and every other authority is temporary. And that’s good news: you don’t have to pin your hopes or your identity to Canberra, Washington, Beijing—or even your own defiant independence.

The gospel sets us free from the exhausting scramble to carve out our own sovereignty. You are already profoundly known, deeply loved, and permanently “at home” in Christ. And that makes us, ironically, the best kind of citizens: people who can live at peace, love our neighbours, honour leaders, and stand against evil—because our citizenship isn’t fragile. It’s secure.

So, as some segment of Australia marches and shouts and fumes this weekend, maybe Christians can quietly model something better: a calm confidence in the King who doesn’t need defending, and a deep love for the neighbours who don’t yet know that their true citizenship could be in heaven too.

grace and peace 

Steve