I
have recently returned from spending eleven days taking part in a clergy
consultation at St George’s House within the walls of Windsor Castle. Each
morning and afternoon, we gathered in St George’s Chapel to take part in the
daily round of worship. Since the royal wedding, they have seen a marked
increase in visitor numbers; and it was quite surreal to go about our
deliberations in a private space within the castle, separated from thousands of
tourists by a thin metal chain running across an archway.
We
were there to wrestle with how we might more confidently engage in public
conversations about God in the context of the challenges facing us as a society
today, including healthcare, Brexit, democracy in a ‘post-truth’ Information
Age, the activity of organised criminal gangs, and environmental crises.
Underlying
all we reflected on was the use of language: how we speak about God. One of the ‘alternative facts’ being
promoted at large is the belief that Science and Religion are fundamentally
opposed, and that Science provides us with a superior way of talking about
life, the universe and everything. That is, of course, a theoretical approach
that ignores the inconvenient empirical evidence of those engaged in scientific
work who hold religious convictions. But one of the many things that scientific
language and religious language have in common is that they both turn to metaphor in order to make sense and pass
on meaning.
A
metaphor is a figure of speech in which a word or phrase is applied to an
object or action to which it is not literally applicable. Metaphors engage us
emotionally and help us to understand complex ideas; but they also powerfully shape
how we respond to complex issues. To
give a scientific example, one of the most significant areas of biological
research involves gene mapping.
Mapping is a cartographic metaphor,
one that emphasises discovery and pioneering, noble endeavour. It sounds better
than gene colonialism (and masks ethical concerns about pharmaceutical
companies copyrighting our genetic makeup). On the subject of genetics, Richard
Dawkins wrote a book titled The Selfish
Gene – another metaphor. Genes aren’t
selfish; but it suggests something very different from The Cooperative Gene…
At
Windsor we listened to an environmentalist speak of how her team have built a platform in the cloud: not an observation deck in the mist-enshrouded
rainforest canopy, but a metaphorical description of storing and sharing
information. We were told that we have a
window to address global warming; and need to significantly reduce our
carbon footprint. Metaphor.
Paul
turned to metaphor to speak of how God, in and through Jesus, was bringing Jews
and Gentiles together. He tells the churches of Asia Minor that they were
strangers and aliens but have become citizens. He speaks of a dividing wall
being demolished and a temple being built – neither the Jewish temple in
Jerusalem nor the temple of Artemis in Ephesus, but something new.
For
some, being a stranger and alien is not only a metaphor but also literally
true. It is literally true for quite a few of our congregation at Sunderland
Minster. And we live in a world where there are literal walls, or at least
fences: dividing Israelis from Palestinians; potentially dividing Americans
from Mexicans.
But
if you are a Christian, of non-Jewish descent, you are someone who was a stranger and alien, and who has been
given citizenship. Note this is not a comparison, not a simile. We were not like strangers and aliens (our Gospel
reading this morning employed a simile to describe people as being ‘like sheep
without a shepherd’). We were
strangers and aliens, without hope in the world. An exilic metaphor of longing for a new beginning. And then – because
it doesn’t end there – an architectural
metaphor, of these immigrants having something of value to contribute that
transforms the receiving culture. And that has to shape how we view
asylum-seekers and immigrants, Christian or otherwise. It has to shape how we
participate in public discourse around these areas, in a society driven to
rushing about so that it has no time to rest and to reflect. Metaphor can
pre-dispose us to fear, as in front page headlines proclaiming a tsunami of
foreigners heading towards us. But metaphor can also open our hearts and minds
towards others.
Of
course, Paul’s primary concern is not that the Roman empire should be persuaded
by the efforts of the saints in Ephesus. His focus is on another city – not
beyond this world, but in its very midst – whose members are being transformed
by Christ, their ruler. It is a transformation that involved, first, the breath-taking,
costly dismantling of the wall that divides: hostility having been put to death
on the cross – its very moment of apparent triumph – so that we are no longer
under its power; so that now, where before we focused on the outward
differences, we see in one another the family-likeness of God and of each other
as sisters and brothers.
Second,
it is a transformation that involves being built together spiritually into a
dwelling-place for God (note: a dismantling that has been accomplished, and a
building project that is ongoing). Now the Hebrew scriptures we know as the Old
Testament are clear: God’s dwelling-place is in the heavens, and even they
cannot contain God; but it was a metaphorical reality that God’s dwelling-place
was the temple in Jerusalem, and if prayer to God was addressed there, from
anywhere, God would receive it and enter-into correspondence. A postal metaphor, perhaps. The temple of
Artemis functioned in a similar way, where the goddess of (among other things)
hunting and child-birth could be petitioned, so both Jew and Gentile would
recognise this. If we, then, are being built into a dwelling-place for God, not
only does every stone have its place but we exist for our neighbours, carrying
their petitions to God and God’s reply to them. And that reply always begins
with a proclamation of peace, grounded in the person of Christ.
This
incorporation with and in Christ has the power to transform the whole world.
But it is so far beyond the scope of regular language to grasp, only metaphor
can begin to communicate its wonder and our awe. It cannot be fully explained,
but it can be responded to at the deep level of being human (like sheep; but not sheep). We cannot stop Jesus from getting away, but we might
touch even the fringe of his cloak, and that is enough to be healed.
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