BCP April 2016

John 16:16-22

I was present at the birth of all three of my children. Susannah, our first, was born at the hospital, in a brand-new maternity wing. Noah and Elijah were both born at home. We benefitted from a one-to-one midwife system, where we saw the same midwife throughout pregnancy, labour, giving birth, and for follow-up care. At the hospital, Jo had made use of a birthing pool to relieve labour pain. She had found it so helpful that we took advantage of the midwives’ scheme of delivering inflatable birthing pools for home births. Both Noah and Elijah were born in such pools at home. So not only was I present, but I was actively involved, in inflating and filling the pools, and regulating the water temperature. It just so happened that when Jo went into labour with Noah, one mid-January, our boiler broke down. I borrowed electric urns from our church kitchen and had pans of water boiling on all our oven hobs!

I am led to believe that my experience of childbirth as a man puts me very much in the minority, historically. Most fathers have been kept out of the room, out from under the women’s feet. Our best understanding of Luke’s account of Jesus’ birth is that Mary gave birth in the main room of a family home, attended to by her husband’s female relatives and most likely a couple of other women who fulfilled the role of midwives to the community; while Joseph, along with any other male relatives, waited anxiously in the smaller guest room he and Mary were staying in at the time.

Of course, the adult Jesus would have no conscious memory of his own birth; but he would no doubt be familiar with childbirth, as would his disciples. For the majority of humanity, birth has always taken place in the home, and has almost always come with genuine uncertainty, and therefore anxiety, as to whether mother and child will both survive. For the majority of humanity, the moments surrounding birth have been those where men – whether the father or any other relative – have found themselves most helpless, most dependent on women, most returned to their own infancy. For the majority of humanity, birth is both a familiar everyday event and a significant crisis. And one where, if it goes well, the men benefit from something they did not bring about.

In our passage from the Gospel According to John, we listened-in on Jesus talking to his disciples on the night before his death. But the context – and in particular, the verses immediately preceding our reading – makes it clear that Jesus is not simply trying to prepare them for his death and resurrection. Indeed, how could they prepare for what lay just ahead? But more than that, Jesus is trying to convey something of what will be brought-about through those events. And the best way of putting it that the greatest communicator who ever lived could find is to compare it to childbirth.

Something new is about to be birthed. They won’t get to witness it. The process will remain for them a mystery. They will play no part in making it come about, other than the clumsy awkwardness of betrayal and denial and desertion and standing utterly bereft at the foot of the cross and standing at the threshold of the tomb unsure of what to do next, and being dependent on a woman to bring them news. They will play no part in making it come about; but they will get to benefit from it. They will get to rejoice, with joy that no-one can take from them.

What is this new thing that is about to be birthed? It is one-ness with the Father – a heavenly Father who is not at a remove in heaven, in the next room so-to-speak. Jesus is both ‘going to the Father’ and, in so doing, making the way for us to experience that one-ness too, not just in some future point but in the here-and-now.

In this regard, we are all men, whether male or female, and whether we have given birth or not (just as in another context we might speak of being, corporately, the bride of Christ, whether we are female or male). We don’t make one-ness with God come about through our efforts, our labour. We are simply recipients and beneficiaries. True, we might experience pain, though not alone, for the Father who would be with Jesus in his pain is consequently with us. And the deepest response is rejoicing.

We find ourselves on the other side of the death and resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth (and, indeed, on the other side of his ascension, though we’ll come to that next month). The question we are presented with is this: are our lives remarkable on account of joy that is not dependent on circumstance?

If so, we shall rejoice indeed. If not, Jesus continues, instructing us ‘Ask and you will receive, so that your joy may be complete.’

Fifth Sunday of Lent

Hospitality from the margins – the art of empowering

1 Kings 17:1-16 and Philemon 1-16 and Luke 10:1-16 (again)

This morning I want us to think about hospitality from the margins, or, the art of empowering. And I want to do that by focusing on a small word, a word that it is easy to overlook, a word that you might not expect to have anything much to say, but a word on which the stories of our lives turn and turn again. I want us to think about the three-letter-word ‘but’.

But is an unwelcome ending, a falling short of what is required, a running out of resources. In a drought-stricken land, Elijah finds provision from the mouths of carrion birds, ‘But after a while the wadi dried up…’ There and then, the prophet whose word could command clouds discovers the limits of his ability to exert control in the world.

But is a hesitation, a qualification of what we can offer, of what we can do. The Lord comes to a widow living a marginal existence on the very margin of the Promised Land and commands her to feed one of the greatest figures in Israel’s history. Elijah comes to her for hospitality, ‘But she said, “As the Lord your God lives, I have nothing…only…a little…for myself and my son, that we may eat it, and die”’.

But is a dying to self in the wilderness…and the rumour that death is not the end. ‘Elijah said to her, “Do not be afraid; go and do as you have said; but first…and afterwards…”’ But is God’s intrusion into our lives: the daring hope that we might be empowered to do what he has called on us to do, first for the sake of others, and, in so daring, discovering renewed life for ourselves.

But is the fanfare announcement of redemption. Onesimus is a runaway slave, who runs from himself – his name means ‘Useful’ but he cannot believe that he can inhabit such an identity – and from his master’s god. Runs, only to run into Paul, himself a slave of God, and so to be set free, for ‘Formerly he was useless to you, but now he is indeed useful both to you and to me.’

But is consideration, a bond of partnership, with others, and indeed with God. Paul writes to Philemon, ‘I wanted to keep him with me…but I preferred to do nothing without your consent…’

And in our Gospel reading, but is an honest assessment of our circumstances, that calls us to pray – “The harvest is plentiful, but the labourers are few; therefore ask…” – and to go, as lambs in the midst of wolves, trusting that the Good Shepherd is not far off;

but (if not) is a guarantee, that peace will not be stolen from us, will not run out;

but (whenever) is wise instruction, for when disciples are not met with a welcome; and

but (at the judgement) is the reservation by God of the right to have the final word over every protesting ‘But…!’

We live in an uncertain world, a world that – from the most global to the most local of concerns – turns and turns again on that little word but, in all of its senses. And yet in the midst of our unknowable, unpredictable, uncertain lives, something knowable, predictable, and certain also turns and turns again: the revelation of Scripture, most fully manifest in the person of Jesus, that God comes looking for us in the wilderness to transform our lives beyond what we can possibly imagine.

I see that written most large in the small deeds of kindness offered by a widow, a man running from his past; and in the lives of those members of this congregation who have stepped up in this past week to respond to the Lord’s gracious command, and found themselves unlikely ambassadors of the kingdom of God.

But what about you? Where are you within the story today? Are you at an end, or a beginning? Or do you find yourself at the turning-point in-between? What do you need to hear from Jesus today? A word that gives courage, or wisdom? That sends you out, or calls you back to him? Lent is a time to take time to be found, to be loved, to be empowered. To discover that small can have enormous significance. You may feel small, but…

Fifth Sunday of Lent (BCP)

Hebrews 9:11-15 and John 8:46-59

The latest installation in the Minster will not have escaped your notice. ‘Yahweh and the Seraphim’ is by far the largest and most ambitious work we have hosted to date, and an unprecedented opportunity not only to participate in Sunderland’s bid to be City of Culture in 2021 but also – and, for me, even more importantly – to engage the public in conversation about the nature of God and of faith, and to point people to Jesus.

We are confronted with a representation of Yahweh, the god of Israel, a deity notorious for writing a ‘no images’ clause into his contract with his people. That in itself resonates with many passages of Scripture: from the golden calf fashioned by Aaron, and the Baals and Asherah poles erected by the kings of Israel; to the vision of the throne of heaven Isaiah saw in the temple, and Zechariah’s shock at encountering the angel Gabriel in the Holy of Holies; to the deeply offensive man Jesus causing a stir in the temple courtyards.

In our reading from the Gospel According to John, Jesus actually claims for himself the name by which God revealed himself to Moses, I AM. Indeed, Jesus claims to have been I AM before Abraham was. And in our reading from the epistle to the Hebrews we hear that this Jesus is ‘greater and more perfect’ than what had come before, and, for this reason, the mediator of a new covenant.

It is impossible not to imagine God, for the need to be reunited is fixed within us. Even if we don’t make visible images, we carry an image in our hearts and minds – whether we search until we find it in the stories of the world, or resolutely reject the god our image reflects. So what is your image of God? And what is mine?

Even if I was to say to you that I believe God to be most fully revealed in the person of Jesus Christ, how do I conceive Jesus? Or, what Jesus do we present to the world? After all, he sits above our sculpture – the mediator of a new and better covenant – but is he really European (or, as the window in the West end of the building depicts, one of the Nordic gods)? And does he still offend our flesh, our old nature, even while giving life to the spirit, to our new nature; or is he too familiar for that?

Fourth Sunday of Lent

Hospitality without borders – the art of generous giving

Romans 15:20-29 and John 12:1-8

Birth mothers, adoptive mothers, step-mothers, those who have been like-a-mother to us: everyone has had at least a mother, and quite possibly more than one.

Today, at least in our country, is Mothers’ Day. A day to express thanks to, and for, the mothers in our lives. And this can be complicated, because – despite what the card industry depicts – mothers are not perfect; and neither are their children. So we pour out the bitter-sweet perfume of love and regret and loss and a whole host of emotions at Jesus’ feet, in the hope that in his presence our complex lives might become something beautiful.

Today is also Mothering Sunday, an observance with a longer history, when we are invited to express thanks for our ‘mother church’, the local community of Christians who first nurtured our faith, perhaps before we were able to own it for ourselves. For some of us, that church is this church, Sunderland Minster. For others of us, we are able to call to mind other churches, perhaps more than one, communities that have been a mother to us, in different ways, at different stages of our journey of faith. And as with singular human mothers, churches are not perfect, and so, again, we pour out a heady mix at Jesus’ feet.

These two strands – mothers, and mother church – are woven together in the Mothers’ Union. Recently, I had the privilege of listening to the wife of the Archbishop of Burundi speak about the way in which the Mother’s Union there has been the vanguard for reconciliation in the wake of a troubled history; is a voice for unity in a very uncertain present; and will undoubtedly be mobilised for healing communities in a future as yet unmet.

This Lent we are exploring the great theme of Christian hospitality. Within the history of a distinctly (though not uniquely) Christian hospitality is hospitality extended to those on a journey, or a pilgrimage.

In our first reading, Paul, intending to visit the church in Rome on his way to carry the gospel to Spain, writes, ‘For I do hope to see you on my journey and to be sent on by you, once I have enjoyed your company for a little while’. Unlike his travels around the eastern Mediterranean, we have no written account of Paul’s journey to Spain; though that he did indeed fulfil his intention to go there is testified to by several writers of the Early Church.

In our reading from the Gospel, Mary is no doubt aware that Jesus’ life is in danger as a direct consequence of his having raised her brother Lazarus from the dead; and that Jesus is nonetheless on a journey to Jerusalem and inevitable death; and her response is to receive him for now as honoured guest and send him on his onward journey provided for, prepared for the day of his burial.

Two incredibly rich passages to mediate on, over the coming days.

At the heart of the vocation of motherhood is the receiving of another as if they were sent to us by God; making room for them for a season; and then sending them out again, on their onward journey, ultimately back to God who had sent them to us. In this great blessing is to be found, though at great cost. The receiving, the making room, the sending onward: any or each of these can leave their stretch marks on us.

One of our great bitter-sweet privileges here is the way in which God keeps sending us international students; and asylum seekers; and more local people who would describe themselves as being on a spiritual journey: people we welcome, enjoying one another’s company for a little while, and then have to send onward on a journey in which we have partnered with them but on which we cannot accompany them. But in another sense, this is true of every one of us, from the teenagers who spread their wings to the very oldest passing from time into eternity.

We are all pilgrims on the Way. Historically, monasteries sprang up along the way* offering shelter. As you may have already heard over the past few days, the Minster café, which has been operating as an external franchise, has come back to us this weekend. We were not looking for that to happen; the short-notice of it all is a massive challenge. Why this, God? Why now, God? Why, in the midst of a series exploring hospitality? Why, for a community placed by God on a busy pilgrim route, albeit not a traditional one? … We’re going to call the café Biscop’s@theMinster – Biscop’s – after the patron saint of Sunderland, who went on six long journeys, and found a welcome along the road. Would you pray that this opportunity being birthed in our midst would help us fulfil our call to be a place of hospitality on the Way?

*We tend to think of places like Iona and Lindisfarne and Monkwearmouth as being, deliberately, off-the-beaten-path. But, in fact, in a time when international travel was by shore-hugging boat, they were located at the ‘airport hubs’ of their day.

Third Sunday of Lent

Third Sunday of Lent: Living within God’s hospitality – the art of contentment

Ecclesiastes 3:9-15 and Philippians 4:10-23 and Matthew 6:25-34

Our Lenten journey together this year is into hospitality. Let’s review where we have been so far.

On Ash Wednesday we heard Jesus speak about prayer and giving and fasting, as disciplines that enable us to enter-into, and to share or extend, God’s hospitality. Then, Sunday by Sunday, we have reflected on different keys to hospitality.

On the First Sunday of Lent we looked at listening, which is, really, the discipline of prayer.

On the Second Sunday of Lent we considered ‘reverse hospitality’ – the experience of being guest, rather than host; and how we might be used by God through the giving or offering of ourselves into that position of vulnerability.

Today, the Third Sunday of Lent, we are looking at contentment: at the ability to say ‘no’ to the voices that tell us we never have quite enough, which is exercised by the discipline of fasting.

Listening, being guests, and contentment. Praying, giving, and fasting. Now, I must confess that when I planned-out this series, I didn’t tie the Sundays into Ash Wednesday, but it just so happens that they belong together. Call it a divine coincidence.

So today we are looking at living within God’s hospitality, or, the art of contentment. The timing feels pertinent, as it seems to me that so much of our public discourse at present is focused on exploiting discontent. Now, of course, being content in all circumstances is not at all the same as being content with all circumstances – Paul, who claimed to have found the secret of contentment, was a constant agitator for change on behalf of others – but our fundamental contentment or lack thereof will determine the nature of the change we want to see, whether it is outward-looking or self-centred. Better a frugal meal shared with love than the richest feast consumed with resentment.

This week I’ve been having lots of conversations with people around the idea of contentment, and have received much insight and grace from those who have responded. It would seem that what contentment looks like differs from person to person – though with common themes – and is often stumbled upon by happy accident – or at least through indirect effort.

In other words, one might describe the causes of contentment as a gift, and one tailored to the recipient…

Certainly, one ancient Teacher of wisdom thought so, declaring, ‘moreover, it is God’s gift that all should eat and drink and take pleasure in all their toil’ (Ecclesiastes 3:13).

Paul writes of having learned to be content with whatever he has – despite all manner of perils, deprivations, and loss – and considers the lesson to be a secret. It is a secret he is happy to share, but can’t share in words: the secret of being content is only uncovered by participating in the secret.

How, then, might we participate in the secret of being content? Let me suggest that contentment has various dimensions, and that we might engage with them through hospitable practices.

Firstly, contentment has a spiritual dimension. By ‘spiritual’ I mean ‘non-material’. There is something intangible and certainly unmeasurable but nonetheless recognised in many of the responses I have received this week as to people’s experience of contentment. And here, the hospitable practice is perhaps simply thankfulness – whether that thankfulness is directed towards ‘god’ or not.

Next, contentment has a relational dimension. Meals are important – they are at the heart of the ancient Teacher’s definition of contentment – not simply as nutrition for the body but as shared social experience that breaks down walls and builds bridges. Here, the hospitable practice is eating together, as we shall do a little later on.

Then, contentment has a physical dimension. God’s gift is that all should take pleasure in their toil – even though toil is inevitably hard, and at times frustrating. It is hard to be content when your experience of work, or workless-ness, is primarily denigrating. And as contentment is part of God’s social contract for us – it is his gift that all should experience it – then it is impossible for me to enter fully into God’s hospitality while I am aware that others are excluded and do nothing about it. So here, the hospitable practice might be acts of service, more of us taking a share in serving refreshments, or being with the children, so that these things are rewarding for many and do not become burdensome on a few.

Contentment also has an intellectual dimension. We nurture contentment when we reflect on those times – whether fleeting moments or familiar seasons – when we have experienced contentment; on where, and why, we are content and indeed lacking contentment at the present; and what adjustments we might need to make. That has been one of the real values of the intentional conversations I have had this week, and I’d encourage you to do likewise. As a place to begin, I want to commend to you our Tuesday evening conversation group running in parallel with this sermon series. Do come along, if you are able to – 7.00-8.00pm in the Minster lounge.

And lastly, contentment has a financial dimension. This is, in fact, the least important of all: it belongs at the end of the list – though in public discourse it is always first in the list – but it is on the list, and rightly so. It is hard to be content when we have less than we need – and harder still when we have more than we need. The hospitable practices of this dimension are those that help us to live simply in order that our neighbour can simply live: sharing resources through lending and borrowing, rather than duplicating everything; reframing ‘second-hand’ as a positive choice; paying a fair price to producers. And here I will give a plug to our monthly Craft & Vintage Fair, which takes place again next Saturday, as an example of where I think we are working to get this right, investing in entrepreneurial energy in the local and sustainable economy, and providing simple gifts that express love and can help refocus our attention on contentment.

These practices are simple, but not easy. They are expressions of the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and Jesus tells us that we must strive for such as this: a description not of casual agreement, but of ongoing effort leading to habitual behaviour. Lent is, after all, a journey into the wilderness, into the place of testing. But after the testing, this is the very place of grace.

Lent 1

Lent 1: hospitality and dignity - the art of listening

this is the first in our Lent 2016 series on hospitality

Deuteronomy 6:1-12 and Acts 9:32-43 and Luke 5:27-32

Spoken, at least, the word ‘hear’/’here’ has two meanings: ‘hear,’ [cups ear] to listen; and ‘here,’ [points to the ground] to be present. If this is coincidence, it is a happy one: for it is not possible to hear unless we are here; or, more significantly, it is not possible to be here unless we hear.* We can probably all relate to the familiar phrase, ‘Have you heard a word that I said?’ and its common response ‘Sorry, I was miles away…’

[*By the way, that is why I print out a copy of my sermon for Rita, so that she can ‘hear’ too, so that she is valued ‘here’; and if that would help anyone else, let me know – I’d be happy to print off other copies.]

This Lent, we are going to journey together on an exploration of hospitality; of what it might look and sound and taste and smell and feel like to share with Jesus who is both our welcome/unwelcome guest and our comforting/discomforting host. We caught a glimpse of this in our Gospel reading, and see it over and over in the Gospels. And if we are to rediscover Christian hospitality, our starting-point must be to listen attentively; for to ‘Hear, O Israel’ is the first and necessary impulse for loving God and, by extension, our neighbour.

In our reading from the Acts of the Apostles we see something of how complex and vulnerable and beautiful and healing true hospitality is. The women welcome Peter into their lives, sharing with him what they have shared together, what they have done and what they have lost. And in turn, Peter gives them the gift of attentiveness, taking time to listen to their stories. If the raising of Tabitha from the dead is a rare miracle, the attentive listening that comes first is no less so – and is at the heart of the restoration that takes place. Hospitality does not always result in visible transformation, but it certainly makes such transformation possible.

So I’d like to tell you about my experience of listening in this place over recent days, and to invite you into that experience.

Approach with a smile the man who takes time to sit in this space whenever he comes shopping in town. Acknowledge his visits as a gift to us; enquire of his general well-being; allow him to take the conversation onward.

Listen to the swing of the door, the footsteps crossing the floor to the candle-stand; two women come in to light a candle and pray – for a child in hospital? It might be their first time; suddenly shy, they ask for permission, to come forward: please, go ahead.

Listen to the art students scattered around the space – the nave, the chapel, the galleries – sketchbooks on laps, making tentative pencil marks and rubbing them out again. What do they make of this space, quite alien to them?

Listen to the asylum-seeker, who has worshipped with us for a year now – was baptised in this place – come seeking a letter of support because the Home Office has decided that those in the midst of this process should be moved from city to city to prevent them from finding stable community.

Hear the woman who suffers from anxiety, bright lipstick presenting a brave face, braver than she feels inside, speak of how she feels peace in this place; of how the peace that rests here calms her inner storm.

Accidentally over-hear, through the toilet cubicle door, the man living rough, grunting, wheezing, doubled-up with discomfort. Taking a hospitable stance is at times uncomfortable. Can we offer anything more than privacy, without exposing our guest to shame? [I loitered outside at a discreet distance to make sure he was alright; and afterwards, cleaned up behind him.]

And what might God want to say to any of the above? What words of healing, what call to repentance, might the Holy Spirit want to speak (to, and) through us, as through Jesus?

This is a living, breathing space, stone brought to life by the Spirit of God, people called to hear [cups ear], here [points to the ground].

Over Lent we are once again setting aside two hours each weekday, from 12.00-2.00pm, as protected listening space, where people can come in; and sit; and listen for the still, small voice of God; and be listened to.

As before, the clergy team are covering those times between us, but listening is a gift of the Body of Christ, and who is to say that the clergy alone are the ears? Indeed, we are not! But we are called out to help the whole Body grow in exercising our various gifts. So we want to encourage those who have a heart for listening, who are good listeners – or would like to be better listeners – to listen along with us. Here is an opportunity to ‘give it a go’, perhaps a couple of times, or even one day each week, between now and Easter.

If that sounds like something you might be able to offer, I’d love to hear [cups ear] from you, here [points to the ground], today.

Sunday before Lent

Exodus 34:29-35 and 2 Corinthians 3:12-4:2 and Luke 9:28-36

I want to begin by showing you a short YouTube clip. I recognise that video is not the easiest thing to bring into this space, and apologise to those who will find it hard to see the screen; but nonetheless I think it matters enough to try. The film in question, seen by over nine-and-a-half million people, was made by Shea Glover, and is titled ‘People react to being called beautiful’…

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aW8BDgLpZkI

…So, there it is. People reacting to being called beautiful. One way or another, almost all of them were overwhelmed. For many, perhaps most, their face lit up [and for the benefit of the viewer that was given some help by tilting the camera; but I don’t think that was necessary]. For quite a few, their initial response was confusion: for some, that confusion was overtaken and disarmed by joy; for others, confusion took a step back, regrouped, and simply deflected the complement. And then for a few being called beautiful was just too painful to receive.

How do you react to being told that you are beautiful?

The word I want to focus on today is ‘glory’. In our readings, Moses and Jesus both shine, reflecting the glory of God; but then we are told that this radiant halo isn’t just for a few very special holy people, but that all of us can come into the presence of the Lord and that our faces too reflect his glory. When we stand in front of God he holds our gaze and says, ‘I find you beautiful’ – and our faces light up.

And being overwhelmed, and confused, and even finding that too painful to receive for now, is part of that too; for this is a life-long process of transformation, from one degree of glory to another.

Ireneaus of Lyons (130-202 AD) wrote that ‘the glory of God is man fully alive; and the life of man is the vision of [or, consists in beholding] God.’ That is, we have a God-given and God-dependent glory. Just as the face of moon reflects the light of the sun, and so is bestowed a beauty of its own, so as we gaze on the face of God revealed in Jesus our faces shine.

So come, and in the gift of this space, these scriptures, the bread and wine, look upon the face of Christ. And then go, go out into the world, this city of Sunderland, with faces shining from the encounter.