Thirteenth Sunday after Trinity 2018

Ephesians 6:10-20

This morning I want to focus on our reading from Paul’s letter to the Ephesians. It is a letter written from prison. He describes himself as ‘a prisoner for Christ for the sake of you Gentiles’ (Ephesians 3:1) and ‘the prisoner in the Lord’ (Eph. 4:1) and, in the passage we heard read today, as ‘an ambassador in chains’ (Eph. 6:20).

Paul found himself a prisoner on several occasions over the course of his missionary journeys, sometimes for his own protection and sometimes as part of the process of bringing his own appeal to the authorities. We know he spent time in the city prison at Philippi, in army garrison prisons in Jerusalem and Caesarea, and under house arrest in Rome — and it was probably from Rome that he wrote to the saints in Ephesus. Prisons were not used as a form of punishment after trial, but as custody awaiting your day in court. We know, from the end of the Luke’s record of the early church, Acts, that Paul was able to receive and entertain many visitors while under house arrest, though under guard. We know, from another letter Paul wrote at the same time, to the church in Philippi, that his captivity had served to spread the gospel in that the whole of the imperial guard had heard the gospel being proclaimed (Philippians 1:12, 13), and that some of the emperor’s household — that is, including his guard and slaves — had even become saints, brothers and sisters in Christ (Phil. 4:21). Indeed, Paul turns the whole idea of captivity on its head. In his letter to the Ephesians he refers to Psalm 68 to describe Christ making captivity itself a captive (Eph. 4:8), setting those who had formerly been in spiritual captivity free. Paul, chained to a guard, was free; while the guards, on a rota to be chained to Paul, were the captive audience, hearing the gospel, being taken captive by it, talking about this strange prisoner among themselves.

We also know that Paul didn’t write letters. He dictated them. This was the normal practice of the day, where many people could not read and a good proportion of those who could read couldn’t write. If you wanted to send a letter, you paid a professional scribe (amanuensis) to write down your words, and then someone who could read to deliver them — that is, to carry them to their intended destination, and then to read the letter to the intended recipient. This was Paul’s practice, with scribes and postmen even becoming part of his apostolic team. So, Paul’s letter to the church at Rome was written down by Tertius (possibly the amanuensis of Paul’s host, Gaius), who penned his own greeting at the end (Romans 16:22). And at the end of his letter to the Galatians, Paul takes up the pen himself for the concluding remarks, even commenting, ‘See what large letters I make when I am writing in my own hand!’ (Galatians 6:11), possibly on account of failing eyesight.

Here is the thing: when Paul starts speaking about the whole armour of God, the very first hearers of these words are not the saints in Ephesus but include the soldier Paul is chained to. His captor, and his captive audience. Just sit with that a moment. Paul looks at his captor and sees something of God’s provision, and something of our Christian response. That is amazing.

How would the guard in question have responded? It is quite possible that they themselves are by now Paul’s brother in the Lord, in which case they would surely have felt incredibly affirmed by the idea that what they do reflects and partners with God in the world: that they are divine image-bearers. It is, of course, as likely that they don’t share Paul’s faith, that they find themselves co-opted into Paul’s teaching despite their cynicism. What then? Is this a violation? An awakening? An amusement? Nothing to them? Still, the word will get out.

I wonder what would happen if our eyes were opened to see the people we come across in our daily lives as image-bearers? The care worker who attends to us at home; the teacher in whose class our child finds herself; the security guard in the shopping centre; the street sweeper; the barmaid; the person on the till at the supermarket; the asylum seeker; the homeless couple sleeping in the church doorway. I wonder what would happen if we not only saw them as image-bearers, but we let them know? Might it be ‘abundantly more than we can ask or imagine’? (Eph. 3:20)

I’d like to paraphrase Paul in the light of A-, a street sweeper in the city centre. Due to cuts in the number of street sweepers, to keep his job and a roof over his family he has to work thirteen days in fourteen, every Saturday and every other Sunday. Without him, we would soon be wading ankle-deep through waste. Even so, in carrying more than one person’s load, he is not able to do the job as well as he would like. Despite this, as he goes about his business he looks out for those sleeping rough on his patch, making sure they are alright.

Therefore take up the whole work-clothes of God, so that you may be able to withstand a god-denying age, and having done everything, to stand firm. Stand therefore, and fasten the belt of truth around your waist, and put on the high-vis jacket of your vindication being in God. As reinforced boots on your feet put on whatever will make you ready to proclaim the good news of peace. With all of these, take up the bin-cart of faith, with which you will be able to counter the persistent littering of wilful carelessness towards the world. Wear the logo that identifies you as both God’s workmanship and co-worker, and take up the grabber claw of the Spirit, which is the word of God.

Ninth Sunday after Trinity 2018

2 Kings 4:42-44 and Ephesians 3:14-21 and John 6:1-21

To be a disciple of Jesus is to learn to see and to act differently, to see and act as Jesus does. It is a process, and one in which our teacher regularly tests us in order to help us grow. Jesus tests Philip, asking ‘Where are we to buy bread for these people to eat?’ and he tests us in the same way today, in a week where the stockpiling of food and medicines has been in the news.

Set alongside our Gospel passage we heard Paul’s prayer that the saints in Ephesus and in every place may have the power to comprehend what is the breadth and length and height and depth of the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge. It is a prayer that cannot contain itself but spills out in praise to God who is able to accomplish abundantly far more than all we ask or imagine. But how can we comprehend something so expansive? How are we empowered to do that?

It struck me afresh as I sat with our Gospel reading in preparation for today that both the crowd and the disciples try to grasp hold of Jesus – and fail. The crowd want to take him by force and make him king (or at least Tetrarch of Galilee and Perea in place of Herod Antipas). But their imagination is not expansive enough. The disciples wanted to take him into the boat, because his walking on the water terrified them; but immediately reach land instead. Whatever Jesus has in mind is, as Paul would have it, abundantly far more than all we can ask and imagine, whether we identify with the crowd who want to recruit Jesus to their cause or the disciples who have been recruited by Jesus to his.

To comprehend love is not to contain or control love. Indeed, the moment we attempt to contain or control love, we show that we have not comprehended love at all.

How, then, might we comprehend love? Perhaps our Gospel reading gives us a clue. After the crowd have eaten their fill, Jesus instructs the disciples to gather up the fragments left over, so that nothing may be lost. The Greek word for ‘left over’ means ‘that which is over and above’. The ‘left overs’ does make straightforward sense; but ‘that which is over and above’ carries a deeper sense: this wasn’t a miscalculation, an over-catering, a waste of food: it was a demonstration of the abundantly-more-than-we-can-ask-or-imagine.

And that which is over and above, abundantly more than we can ask or imagine, is gathered up in twelve baskets. Specifically, these were small baskets, of a standardised size used in the buying and selling of grain; a standard measure that safeguarded trust and enabled confidence. They were an agreed shared value.

What enables us to comprehend things invisible, like love, and glory, and faith; like hope, and peace, and grace, and mystery, and wisdom? What enables us to speak of community, or of the future – things no one has ever seen? What enables us to speak of the strengths and limitations of how we organise ourselves, work with others, view one another? These things depend in part on shared values. As Barak Obama said just the other day in a speech to mark the centenary of Nelson Mandela’s birth, facts are facts and lies are lies, and cooperation is dependent on recognising a certain baseline of objective truths. You don’t mess with the size of the basket; and if you do, everybody agrees that you are in the wrong.

But a standardised container is only part of the answer. We come to comprehend love by gathering up the fragments left over by love – and by recognising that the fragments represent not the totality, that must be hoarded because we might not have enough, but the over-and-above that which already filled us. So, how about we have a go at gathering up some fragments?

Within the Minster community, in no particular order, we come across fragments of God’s love in the sharing of a sign of Peace;

we come across fragments of God’s love in receiving tokens of the broken body of Christ in our hands and on our lips;

we come across fragments of God’s love in the people who slip into this building throughout the week to sit, heads bowed in prayer; to light a candle, or pin a prayer request on the board;

we come across fragments of God’s love in the noticing who isn’t here today and feeling the weight of their absence, and in the visiting of the elderly and infirm;

we come across fragments of God’s love in the smiles of our Iranian brothers and sisters;

we come across fragments of God’s love in the dependable familiarity of our liturgy;

we come across fragments of God’s love in the coming-together of different generations and in the diversity of our skin-colour and nationality; our lived-experience and point-of-view;

we come across fragments of God’s love in the children and grandchildren who are at home here week by week, and in the welcoming of other families over the summer;

we come across fragments of God’s love in the stories of Jesus we hear again whenever we come together;

we come across fragments of God’s love in every wedding, baptism, and funeral;

we come across fragments of God’s love in the singing of the choir and the ringing of the bells; the dusting of the pews and the welcome on the door; the anointing with oil for healing and the serving of refreshments;

we come across fragments of God’s love in the beauty of the Sunderland sunrise and sunset, of our beaches, and the horizon where sea meets sky.

And each of these is just a fragment, left-overs of the miracle of love. Small in themselves but pushing back where fear and self-interest would hem-in our breadth and length and height and depth. Another way to understand gathering fragments is counting our blessings. Counting our blessings may be a small thing, a dismissively simple thing; but in a society contemplating stockpiling resources, it is a deeply subversive thing. Counting our blessings makes that which is more abundant that we can ask or imagine comprehensible. What begins as a discipline can become a habit, a disposition that increases our thankfulness and opens us up to even more wonder – and Paul’s prayer becomes fulfilled in our lives, to the glory of God.

In a world shaped more by worry than by wonder, more by fear than faith, that is Good News. So, throughout the week ahead, gather up the fragments left over, so that nothing may be lost. You’ll be amazed at how many are fed and satisfied.

Eighth Sunday after Trinity 2018

Ephesians 2:11-22 and Mark 6:30-34, 53-56

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.

Fifth Sunday after Trinity 2018

Lamentations 3:22-33 and 2 Corinthians 8:7-24 and Mark 5:21-43

I want this morning to focus on Lamentations, in part because it is a gem of a book and in part because it has become unfamiliar: a lost treasure. The Lamentations are a collection of five poems written in response to the fall of Jerusalem to the Babylonian empire in 587 BC. The Babylonians had besieged Jerusalem, on and off, for twenty years; culminating in a lengthy siege that prevented food from entering the city, until people were dying in the streets, pressed so hard that cannibalism was on the table at least as a serious option. After the fall, the ruling class were carried off into exile in Babylon to the east, while many others fled to Egypt to the south. It was the very undoing of the Great Story that began with the Call of Abraham (way out east) and pivoted on the Exodus out of the land of Egypt. It was a disaster we cannot imagine, not because there is nothing comparable going on in the world today, but because we have hardened our hearts to the images on our tv screens.

This took place almost 400 years after king David, who was known as a writer of psalms. And among his most famous psalms, then as now, was the one we know as the twenty-third. Here, David, who had looked after his father’s sheep as a young boy, took up the rhythms of the flock as a metaphor for human life. Just as the sheep were under the care of their shepherd, so were God’s people under God’s care. The shepherd sought out pasture for the sheep, leading them along the right paths in search of grass. When the low winter pasture wore thin, the high summer meadow beckoned, the flat table-top hills covered with wild flowers like a banquet table spread with the finest of fare.

The journey was steep, up narrow paths along the edge of the wadi or channel cut by flash floods in the spring rains. Moreover, hungry predators hid in the rocks — lions and bears. The sheep couldn’t see them; but could smell them. And yet they followed the shepherd on the path because he carried a crook, to press against their flank and steer them away from the drop; and a club for driving back predators.

At the end of the trail, the shepherd would run his hand over the sheep, parting the wool in search of cuts and sores picked up on the way, pouring on healing oil where needed, before sending the sheep out into the meadow. By day, the shepherd would keep a look-out for predators; and by night he would bring the sheep into the safety of the pen, sleeping in the entrance as a human gate in order to protect them.

That is the story of the twenty-third psalm. And, of course, it isn’t about sheep but about a people, and their long history of being led by God. How God had taken a people down to Egypt when there was famine in Canaan; had provided for them under Joseph (of technicolour dream coat fame); how the provision there had eventually worn thin under a new Pharaoh; and how the Lord had led them out and through the wilderness, watched over by the shepherd Moses; and brought them into a land flowing with milk and honey. How that land had been contested many times, and how God had raised up judges and later kings to lead the people through adversity into freedom when they cried out for a deliverer.

But the kings that came after David were bad shepherds, almost to a man. And eventually, God had had enough.

I tell you this because the third poem, the one at the very heart of Lamentations, contains a breath-taking inversion of the twenty-third psalm. The writer says of God, ‘I expected protection, but you have beaten me with your club. I expected to be brought through the dark valley, but you have taken me there to ambush me. I expected your healing hand over me, but you have broken my bones and made my flesh waste away. You have blocked my ways and made my paths crooked. Far from delivering me from the lion and the bear, you, o God, have become the bear and the lion, carrying me away and tearing me to pieces. Instead of a banquet table honouring me in front of my disgraced enemies, you have filled me with bitterness and made me the laughing stock of my enemies. Where I expected that you would restore my soul, my soul is bereft of peace; and where I proclaimed that I shall be in want of no good thing, all I had hoped for from you, Lord, is gone. In place of still waters, tears flowing without ceasing. In place of the sheep pen, the pit of death.’

The twenty-third psalm is in the Bible; but so is Lamentations chapter 3.

The twenty-third psalm speaks truthfully about our experience of life; as does Lamentations chapter 3. This is how it feels at times, and that needs expression.

And it is in this context that we hear the words that were read out this morning. It is in this context that the writer calls to mind the character of Yahweh, the Lord:

a God of never-ceasing, abundant steadfast love (verses 22, 32); of mercy (22); of faithfulness (23); of goodness (25); of compassion (32).

You see, there is a difference between our perception of God — however seriously we need to take that — and what God has revealed to us in word and action.

Life is very complex, and, at times, incredibly messy. And there are easy answers that fall short of that complexity, that sound wise but are in fact simplistic. This is equally true of the clichés of religious faith and the clichés of those who reject God. And then, on the other hand, there is the hard-won response of true simplicity, that lies on the far side of the complexity and mess. Simple does not mean easy: it takes effort to keep returning to the self-disclosure God has shared with us:

‘The Lord, the Lord, a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness, keeping steadfast love for the thousandth generation, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin, yet by no means clearing the guilty, but visiting the iniquity of the parents upon the children and the children’s children to the third and fourth generation.’ (Exodus 34:6, 7)

The unfaithfulness of the people had consequences not only for themselves but for their children and grandchildren. We recognise that in the complexity of our own society, and of the world we live in today. But the Lord does not abandon us for ever (indeed, the power of God’s love exceeds that of our folly as a thousand exceeds three and four). There is hope: that, if we consent, God will walk alongside us, will train us in the ways of righteousness as an experienced ox trains the young ox it is yoked with. Another agricultural image from this poem, from the part we heard read out.

Of course, we also heard two other passages read out today. How do they relate together? Might I suggest they do so in this way:

Jesus points us to the Lord in the miracles we saw in our Gospel reading, in the face of a complex world in which some people live with chronic illness and children die;

and Paul points us to the Lord in seeking to raise support for a community hit by famine.

For some, these contexts are reasons to turn our back and walk away. But as a community of faith we are called to look to God in the real world. And if we are going to do that, Lamentations is a resource within our faith tradition that will greatly help us, a treasure in our possession we might need to rediscover that we even have. You’ll find it more-or-less at the very middle of the Bible, and I commend it to you. And if my recommendation is not enough, might I add that of Jesus? When the Romans were threatening to destroy Jerusalem all over again (they finally did this in AD 70) Jesus turned to this very passage from Lamentations 3 and the image of bearing the yoke to proclaim that, yes, indeed, God has not forgotten us (see Matthew 11:25-30). And in a world that falls apart around us on a fairly regular basis, that might just be good news.

Birth of John the Baptist

Acts 13:14-26 and Luke 1:57-66, 80

Today, the Church remembers the birth of John the Baptist [which also means that it is six months till Christmas, cousin John being six months older than Jesus].

Zechariah and Elizabeth have a son, and name him John. What’s in a name? Well, in the Bible, quite a lot actually: names are important; they have meaning; and they often have significance to the life-story of the person with the name.

For example, ‘Zechariah’ means ‘Yahweh has remembered’. Specifically, Yahweh has remembered his people. And it carries a certain weight. ‘Yahweh has remembered’ is not ‘Yahweh had forgotten about us but now he has remembered us’. It is the timely reminder, when we have been waiting ages for God to move, ‘Despite appearances to the contrary, God has not forgotten or abandoned us’.

Zechariah is married to Elizabeth. ‘Elizabeth’ means ‘God’s oath’. That is, God’s covenant promise. The promises God made, for example, to Abraham or to David. God stands by his oath. But that oath is contractual: it invites Abraham and his descendants, and David and his descendants, into faithful committed relationship with God. If ‘Zechariah’ is a reminder to the people that Yahweh has not forgotten them, ‘Elizabeth’ is a reminder to the people—every time someone called out her name—that they should not forget God. That they shouldn’t look around for a better god-offer when the honeymoon shine had worn off their love.

So, Zechariah and Elizabeth both mean something. But there is more: biblically, when a man and a woman marry, they become ‘one flesh’...so, Zechariah and Elizabeth become ‘Yahweh has remembered his oath’. That is, ‘the time has come for Yahweh to act on his oath to rescue his people’ who have once again found themselves in need of rescuing and have once again found themselves calling out to their god.

And the result of Zechariah and Elizabeth becoming one flesh is John. And ‘John’ means ‘Yahweh is gracious’. So, when the time has come for Yahweh to act on his oath to rescue his people, the result—that is, the action—is grace.

And that grace looks like provision of a fresh start, in a renewed kingdom-of-God with a renewed faithful king, Jesus, descendant of David. A fresh start, symbolised by John in baptism, in an historical re-enactment of passing through the Jordan into the land. But now the kingdom is not limited to Galilee and Judea, and the reign of the king is not limited by death.

When Paul is invited to bring a word of exhortation for the people—a word that urges that we do something in response—he rehearses stories of Yahweh remembering his people and acting on his oath. Stories of leading his people out of slavery in Egypt, of acting to give to them the land he had promised to give to Abraham’s descendants, of giving them judges to deliver them from the surrounding nations who contested that land, of king David and God’s promise to king David. A story that culminates in John the baptiser holding out grace, setting the scene for Jesus.

And to discover what happens next, you will have to read on in Acts. But the promise is that by Jesus everyone who believes is set free from all those sins that hold us captive. From fear and greed and everything that comes between us and loving God and loving our neighbour as ourselves. You see, the name ‘Jesus’ means ‘Yahweh saves’.

Today, the Church remembers the birth of John the Baptist. Today, we retell the story of Zechariah and Elizabeth and John. Today, we reaffirm that God has not forgotten us, even if some days it feels as if God has forgotten us. Today, we celebrate God’s promises, and reaffirm our commitment in response. Today, we rejoice at God’s grace, birthed in our midst, much to our amazement, starting small and vulnerable and growing strong—grace that is hidden away, perhaps for years, until in God’s time the day comes when it appears publicly and has a wide impact.

A truth, carried in a story, we need to come back to year by year. And where we find ourselves again today. And where are you in the story? Elizabeth’s neighbours heard and rejoiced and came and assumed that they knew the same-old story and challenged the new chapter and enquired and found out and were amazed and a little bit afraid and gossiped the news everywhere they went and pondered what would come of it all. Elizabeth stood her ground, trusting God. Zechariah experienced freedom and used his freedom to praise God. John grew and became strong in spirit, in the hidden and even lonely place. And you, as a congregation? And you, personally? And me? Where are we in the story, this time of hearing? Because it is a gift to us, a means of God’s grace, to find us where we are and to draw us deeper into the mystery of God.

Second Sunday after Trinity 2018

Genesis 3:8-15 and 2 Corinthians 4:13-5:1 and Mark 3:20-35

Paul wrote, we believe and so we speak. That isn’t just a description of Christian witness in the world. It is a profound observation into the human condition. What we believe determines our speech – and how we speak reveals what we believe. What we believe about God, and human beings, is revealed in the tone of voice we hear and use.

Turn with me to Genesis chapter 3. This is part of our Origins myth. By myth, I do not mean an entertaining tale, or a downright lie, but an account of the world that is so deeply true that it transcends its original context and expands to fill all of time and space.

If this were a play, the stage directions for this scene would begin [noises off]. God is walking in the garden at the time of the evening breeze. And God calls out to the humans, ‘Where are you?’

When you read those words, what tone do you hear? Is it playful, like a parent playing hide-and-seek with their children? Is it enquiring, like a friend who has called you on your mobile phone because they expected to meet you at a certain time and place, and can’t spot you – are you delayed? Is there an edge to it, a busy person somewhat exasperated to be kept waiting? You see, it matters: because what you hear reveals what you believe concerning God’s fundamental disposition towards us, and about our fundamental position in relation to God.

God calls out, ‘Where are you?’ This is not a distant God who has created the world and left, having more important things to be concerned with than mere people. And it isn’t an all-seeing all-knowing Big Brother, who has filled the garden with security cameras. This God is genuinely interested in getting to know both the garden and the humans.

Was asking this question a new experience for God? Or had God called out, ‘Where are you?’ before, as he came looking for us? Was the difference not so much that the humans were temporarily hidden as before, but that they were deliberately hiding, in the hope of not being discovered?

How we hear God matters; as does how we hear the humans. The man says, ‘I was afraid’. Note that fear was not necessarily a new experience. The man has already known loneliness; has already experienced being overwhelmed by the enormity of the task of tending the garden, so needing a helper. The gift of man and woman clinging-together in the face of the enormity of the world is rooted in an earlier scene. But now, the fear relates to himself, to his nakedness. It is a fear of being ourselves – he is literally not at home in his own skin – without something external that projects a character into the world.

This is new. And God responds, ‘Who told you that you were naked? Have you eaten from the tree of which I commanded you not to eat?’ And, again, what tone do you hear? Anger? Or genuine interest? Or concern? This is fundamental to how we view God, goes towards what we believe God’s disposition to be towards us and others. And as we believe, so we speak.

If you believe God is angry with you, you will believe that to be true in relation to others. And if God is angry – as fundamental disposition – towards others, then we ought to be, too.

If you believe God is genuinely interested in you, you will believe that to be true in relation to others. And if God is genuinely interested in others, then we ought to be, too.

If you believe God is concerned for you, you will believe that to be true in relation to others. And if God is concerned for others, then we ought to be, too.

But it is hard to be genuinely interested in, or concerned for, others if we believe that God is fundamentally angry with us all. That isn’t to say that God doesn’t ever get angry – as the story unfolds, we will see what makes God angry, and how God responds in ways that are not volatile and unpredictable, but measured and dependable.

How we hear God matters; as does how we hear the humans. The man says, ‘The woman whom you gave to be with me, she gave me fruit from the tree, and I ate.’ The woman says, ‘The serpent tricked me, and I ate.’ What do you hear? Is this blame-shifting: the man shifting blame on to the woman, or, indeed, on to God; the woman shifting blame on to the serpent? Or, are they genuinely trying to work out what has gone on: to make sense and find meaning? Or, is it all these things?

The wonderful thing about myth is that it is so deeply true that it is big enough to embrace our humanity. When we read these verses, we need to resist the temptation to indulge in caricatures: ‘typical man, blaming the woman!’ or ‘typical woman, seducing the man!’ What we see here is not typical man and typical woman but archetypal humans: complex, and often conflicted, in our motivations.

God says to the woman, ‘What is this that you have done?’ And, again, what tone do you hear? Does God have an angry voice, an I’ll-give-you-something-to-really-be-afraid-of-young-lady! voice? Or is it the voice of anguish, because God knows the consequences?

God’s response is to curse – that is, to severely restrict the freedom of – the serpent. And if you read on from where we left the story hanging, if you pay close attention, you will see that while God goes on to address the woman and the man, God does not curse them. God curses the serpent, not the humans. What follows, for the woman and the man – for humanity – is not punishment. God sets out the inevitable consequences of what has occurred – that is to say, God shares with them divine knowledge. And while this is not an omnipotent God, any more than an omnipresent and omniscient God [those ideas come from Greek philosophy, not the Bible], God sets out the ways in which, out of divine mercy and compassion and determined commitment to humanity, those consequences will be moderated. But that is a story for another sermon.

Turn, if you will, to our Gospel reading. In it, Jesus is accused of representing a god: Beelzebul, the ruler of the demons. In refuting this, Jesus gives this god not a name but a title, the Satan, or Accuser: the (possibly self-appointed) Counsel for the Prosecution in the court of heaven. Jesus makes it clear that he comes, according to the character of his God, to oppose and utterly defeat the Accuser. He goes on to clearly identify himself as being with and for the offspring of the woman, in enmity with the offspring of the serpent. For those of us who are Jesus’ disciples, Jesus’ family, this also speaks to how we hear the voices of God and of the man and of the woman: what we believe, and so what we speak.

Finally, let us revisit Paul, who tells us that the God who went looking for his friends in the garden will not let even death get in the way of bringing us into his presence (verse 14). Not even death, the ultimate consequence. And not just us, but – through what we believe and so speak – more and more people (verse 15). We have been caught-up in a story of being searched-out and found and reconciled. Reconciled, not only with God, and with one another, but within ourselves. Remember the fear, of being naked, of not being at home in our own skin? The glory we had from the beginning was too much to bear; but God is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all measure – that will not crush us, but provide us with an eternal home, or body to inhabit. For now, perhaps, we stand at the door and look in, unable to comprehend. But this hope wells up to fill all of time and space, and beyond: it is uncontainable.

That is the glorious God whose Spirit speaks to our spirit, who draws us out from our hiding-places, from start to finish. The God who frees and restores us. And that is truly, and in so many ways, good news.

Choral Evensong, Pentecost 2018

Psalm 139 and Ezekiel 36:22-28 and Acts 2:22-38

One day back in April 2015 I was taking the lunchtime Communion service when I felt a pain in my chest. It was severe enough to take my breath, and to prompt me to pay a visit to my GP. She got out her stethoscope and her blood-pressure cuff and reassured me that everything was fine…but went on to say that, at my age, I really ought to consider doing some regular exercise. And that is how I got into running.

There is a theme to our readings this evening, and it is the heart.

‘Search me out, O God, and know my heart; try me and examine my thoughts. See if there is any way of wickedness in me and lead me in the way everlasting.’ (Psalm 139:23, 24)

‘A new heart I will give you, and a new spirit I will put within you; and I will remove from your body the heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh. I will put my spirit within you, and make you follow my statutes and be careful to observe my ordinances. Then you shall live in the land that I gave to your ancestors; and you shall be my people, and I will be your God.’ (Ezekiel 36:26-28)

‘…therefore my heart was glad, and my tongue rejoiced; moreover my flesh will live in hope.’ (Acts 2:26)

‘Now when they heard this, they were cut to the heart and said to Peter and to the other apostles, “Brothers, what should we do?” Peter said to them, “Repent, and be baptised every one of you in the name of Jesus Christ so that your sins may be forgiven; and you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit.”’ (Acts 2:37, 38)

In Scripture, the heart is the seat of the will: the place from where we exercise our will; we make choices. Those choices might be informed by our mind—the seat of both thoughts and emotions, for the two go hand-in-hand, whatever pop-psych personality tests might claim—and might be informed by our strength, our physical bodies—that experience hunger or fatigue. But it is our heart that moves us, closer towards or further away from God and neighbour. What should we do, the crowd asks Peter. What the heart was made for: choose; repent and choose life.

God gives us a will of our own in order that we are free; and life-giving, life-enabling wisdom, in statutes and ordinances: the distilled life-lessons of an entire community. But all of us have had our heart broken, one way or another, and on many occasions. You see, a broken heart has to do with our will. The child whose fledgling will is crushed—most likely, quite unintentionally, and to their own mortification—by their parent. The young- or not-so young-adult whose will is squashed by unrequited love. The marriage-partners whose twice-shy wills must find courage to yield in mutual submission. The parent whose child is making choices that do not lead deeper into life in all its fullness, or at least, not as far as the parent who loves them can see.

With the best will in the world, our hearts become calcified over time, as we try to protect them, only to discover that we are going through the motions, existing rather than living.

Ezekiel’s vision is millennia ahead of its time, for he foresees the heart transplant. Spiritually-speaking, that is what God has done for us: removing a heart that can no longer beat and giving us a new lease of life. Removing a will so calcified it struggles to choose right from wrong and replacing it with a will that is sensitive to the prompting of the Holy Spirit—who, in Ezekiel’s incredible vision is both internal pace-maker supporting our heart and physiotherapist training us back to full mobility.

So come, all those who need healing of heart.

Let your heart be glad, and your flesh live in hope.