Christmas Eve Midnight Eucharist

John 1:1-14

When you think about it, darkness is a gift.

In the beginning, God said, Let there be light! And light sprang forth.

Some of us believe that the creation account in Genesis isn't an account of creation at all, but, rather, an account of God liberating an already captive creation; of God releasing life and giving everything purpose.

God, who gave purpose to the day, also gave purpose to the night. Time for us to rest. Space, for nocturnal creatures to venture out into the world. And within the darkness, lights: the moon and the stars. Lights to mark seasons, as well as days. Lights by which people might navigate, long before sat nav.

The days have become shorter and the nights longer; and in this creeping way we have drawn closer and closer to Christmas; the magic, and our childlike awareness of the magic, growing throughout: until we come to this night. The midnight service, beginning on Christmas Eve and reaching its completion on Christmas Day. For me, as, I suspect, for many of you, the most magical night of the year.

Yes, the darkness is a gift, a good gift given by a good God.

And yet, as with every good gift that God gives, we have shown ourselves to have an incredible capacity to misuse the gift.

Under the cover of darkness - given equally to all - envious schemers plot to take for themselves what someone else currently holds.

Under the cover of darkness - given to those who seek meaning - a web of lies is spun to ensnare the innocent.

Under the cover of darkness - given freely - thieves break in and steal, and householders protect their possessions with increasingly elaborate security.

Under the cover of darkness - given to romantics - lovers betray lovers.

Under the cover of darkness - given to affirm and renew life - lives are cut short with violence.

Under cover of darkness - given to God's children - the elderly are ignored by those charged with their care.

Under cover of darkness - given to the weary - underpaid shift workers are forced to work for factory owners at ease in their beds.

Under the cover of darkness - given to those who wander - men and women curse God with bravado.

Under the cover of darkness - given to those who wonder - we worship the gods of pornography, of substance misuse, of eternal youth.

And under the cover of darkness - given equally to all - the God who refuses to leave us to our own devices, speaks to our hearts.

Speaks a word of peace, a word of joy, a word of reconciliation.

Speaks out to set his creation free once more, from all that has ensnared us.

Speaks, in the cry of a helpless baby.

A light, shining in the darkness. Not to end the darkness, but to do what light shining in the darkness has always done: to restore rightful purpose to the darkness.

To bless us with deep contentment.

To bless us with the perspective of the heavens.

To bless us with solidarity with the stranger.

To bless us with faithful constancy.

To bless us with camaraderie around the fire.

To bless us with dreams that will outlive us, and fuel the vision of the generation coming after.

To bless us with rest.

To bless us with a sense of direction.

To bless us with a sense of wonder.

To bless us with 'shalom,' with life-affirming relationship with God and neighbour.

And so tonight God invites us, once again, to come home.

Fourth Sunday of Advent

Isaiah 7:10-16

Romans 1:1-7

Matthew 1:18-25

Once upon a time, there was a king. His name was David, and his reign was a Golden Age. He was a great general, and a brilliant diplomatist, and he ruled not only over his own kingdom but also over a vast territory of vassal states. The nations knew that God was with him. But that was long ago.

Whatever hopes, whatever dreams, those loyal to David might have had, by the time of his grandson the kingdom tore itself apart; Israel, in the north, breaking-free from Judah to the south. Eleven generations later, the house of David and their capital Jerusalem were a shadow of their former self. Another Empire is on the rise: Assyria.

The kings of Aram and of Israel feel the heat, and so they come to Ahaz, king of Judah, hoping that he will join them in pre-emptive war. But Aram had been one of David's vassal states, and Israel, half his kingdom; so Ahaz is not inclined to help. Let judgement fall. And so, instead, Aram and Israel turn on him, intending to replace him with a puppet king who will agree to march to war with them. And though they fail at first, they do enough to shake him up - especially when they persuade another part of David's former kingdom to side with them.

And it is to this fearful royal court that Isaiah is sent; sent, to encourage Ahaz to stand firm, trusting in God; trusting that God has not abandoned his promises to David. I know, says Isaiah, that your faith is undermined by fear; and so God will graciously give you a sign, a sign to give you courage: ask for whatever sign you want. Anything: from the heavens above to the grave below. But Ahaz refuses. He couches it in words that come across as full of faith; and yet, God sees the heart. Ahaz turns his back on a sign that he would have to heed. He plans, instead, to save Jerusalem by offering himself as vassal to Assyria, if Assyria will overthrow his troublesome neighbours.

Nonetheless God gives Ahaz a sign, a sign that employs both life and death, God's heavenly reign on the one hand, and it's hellish opposite on the other. Isaiah points to a young, pregnant woman: her child will be a son, and when this turns out to be true, he is to be called God-is-with-us. By the time he is old enough to know the difference between what is right and what is wrong, and to choose what is right - to choose, perhaps unlike king Ahaz, to hold to God - Aram and Israel will have been laid waste by Assyria. But, if Ahaz will refuse to stand firm in faith, Assyria would sweep on and lay Judah to waste too. This boy, born in the royal capital, Jerusalem, would live like a peasant in a land turned back to nature; given over to wild bees; where there had been farms, now just one small cow and two goats.

There will be a turning-back to God, and Jerusalem itself will be spared, for now. But it is short-lived. In time, an even greater Empire will arise: the Babylonians will swallow-up Assyria, and more. Jerusalem will fall, and the house of David will be carried into Exile...

Come with me now six hundred years into the future. Perhaps enough time has passed, perhaps there will be enough longing in the hearts of God's people for a sign, that God can give the sign he hoped to give - this time in full. That is what Matthew tells us. Here is Joseph: a son of David, heir to a kingdom long since lost, a would-have-been-prince living as a peasant; but kingly in honour nonetheless. And here is Mary, his peasant-queen, a young woman, pregnant with a son. This son will be the sign God longs to give, that God-is-with-us. His growing up will be a sign that God will act decisively and very soon, to rescue his people, to restore his promise to king David. But more, this child will be both sign and the very thing the sign points to: fulfilling and fully-filling Isaiah's words. This child is both God-is-with-us and God-with-us; both God saves! and God, come to save!

For those who stand firm in faith, a sign of God's salvation, his coming to rescue the overwhelmed, the besieged, the fearful. But heed Isaiah's words to Ahaz: if you won't stand firm in faith, you will not stand at all. The sign of God's deliverance is also the sign that we really do need a Saviour; that if we look elsewhere for our salvation, the thing in which we place our hope - be it eternal youth, or wealth, or power - will, in time, turn out to be our destruction...Haven't we seen enough celebrity entertainers and sports-men and -women and politicians swept away by scandal to have learnt that by now? Haven't we known enough ordinary men and women crushed by the thing they pinned their hopes and dreams on? Perhaps ourselves.

Come with me once again, some sixty years forward, to eavesdrop on Paul writing to the church in Rome. He writes that he has been made a sign, a sign to the Gentiles, a sign that they have been included in this great restoration of the house of David. Not as vassal states, as slaves; but, in Christ, as members of the household, as heirs of God. And you, he writes - and us, who listen in - have been made signs too. Saints. Not people-who-are-better-than-the-rest, but those whose lives are signs that point to Jesus.

So what has this to do with us? Well, here we find ourselves, in a great city whose Golden Age is generations in the past...citizens for whom the immediate future looks bleak, threatened by rising bills and cut-off incomes; people facing January with dread, while false prophets proclaim, eat, drink and by merry! Here we are sent, as signs that God is still with us; that - despite all apparent evidence to the contrary - God is still coming to our aid. Every One for The Basket, a sign. Every One For The Wardbrobe, a sign. Every welcome for the asylum seeker, a sign. Every restoration of a broken-down life, a sign. Every act of hope and faith and love, in the face of fear and skepticism and self-interest, a sign. Every giving of grace and every waging of peace, a sign.

Here we find ourselves, proclaiming in word and deed, in carol service and in caring service, the greatest Sign of all: Jesus, the Christ-child, born of Mary. Maranatha! Come, Lord Jesus!

Second Sunday of Advent

Isaiah 11:1-10

Romans 15:4-13

Matthew 3:1-12

Throughout this week, I have been pondering what might be called the long walk to freedom. And of course, towards the end of the week, a giant stepped out of a frail and failing mortal body and into eternity: Rest In Peace, Nelson Mandela, and Rise In Glory.

But my thoughts began with John. John grew up knowing that he was special, loved, longed for; that he was a gift of God - that is what the name ‘John’ means. He grew up knowing that he had a particular call on his life that was different from those around him. But, coming from a line of priests on both sides of his family, he also grew up in one of the Cities of Refuge, in a place set apart by God for those in fear of their lives - in fear of mob vengeance - could find mercy and shelter, could receive a just hearing. John was raised in great privilege and in the great responsibility to “bend the arc of the moral universe towards justice,” as has been said of Nelson Mandela this week.

And John’s background caught my attention because of the way in which it connects with our story. The Minster is a special place, a gift of God to the city, having a particular calling which differs from that of the parish churches around us. And this too is a place of refuge, for asylum seekers and for many others seeking shelter and a home far from home.

But John is called out from that place, to prepare the way for Jesus’ coming. And the way is down. Down, from the Judean hill-country, into the wilderness, the precipice where the world plunges to the lowest point on the face of the earth. And if John is preparing the way for Jesus, who will come down from heaven, then of course the way is down. But John also prepares those who would welcome Jesus, and they must head down too: down, from Jerusalem; down, today. You see, it turns out that ‘the way that leads on high’ is downward.

The wilderness is steep, falling three-and-a-half thousand feet. You do not head down by a direct path. That would be madness. Instead, as John called out, you must repent. You must turn, must change your perspective, and step out in a new direction. Not once, but over and over again. Only in that way is the way that leads on high - which leads downward - made safe.

When you walk down a mountain, it is like this. You traverse across the face of the slope, until you reach a point where the path turns - where what lies directly ahead is closed off, and in ignoring that warning lies ‘the path to misery.’ And when you turn, a whole new viewpoint opens up before you. You pause, and look, and make a choice: if you set out, you will end up further away from where you were, from what is familiar, from home. We face a choice: to turn back, to stay put, or to carry on downward. Not once, but over and over again - giving thanks for each new viewpoint, but not mistaking any of them for the end of the journey.

When I was a child, we were told that Nelson Mandela was a terrorist, that he deserved not only imprisonment but execution. When I was a man, Mandela became an elder statesman, not only for his people but for the world. How did we go from demonising him to loving him? One repentant step at a time. He led us on a long walk to freedom, for, as we discovered, it was us who had been imprisoned. As he pursued reconciliation between those the world says cannot be reconciled - the wolf and the lamb, the leopard and the kid goat, the calf and the lion - we discovered our need to experience reconciliation.

As Isaiah painted a picture of infant children playing in safety with adders, because they had never learnt to fear the other, so Mandela reminded us that

“No one is born hating another person because of the colour of his skin, or his background, or his religion. People must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate, they can be taught to love, for love comes more naturally to the human heart than its opposite.”

It is thought that on our very best days, when we are most open to change, we can cope with changing our point-of-view in relation to 5% of what we hold to be true. And of course, we aren't at our most receptive all of the time. But Jesus came to transform our perspective in relation to everything we have a view on. Riches and poverty. Power and influence. Justice and reconciliation. What it means to be right with God, and neighbour. Everything. It is a long walk to freedom, and we will need to change our course many times over before we are done.

Often, we stumble on the temptation to look at others and say, “Oh. You're up there, are you? You need to be down here, where I am. The view is much better. Look, it isn't far - you can cut the corners and scramble down to me...” But on the mountainside, there are so many loose rocks between the safe paths, that such shortcuts are a danger: not only to the one attempting it, but also the risk of landslides that carry others away too.

For those who are cautious, the path is frightening enough as it is. For those who are adventurous, the progress is frustratingly slow. We are well reminded to welcome our fellow travellers along the way.

And so my role, as newly-appointed Minster Priest, is not to tell you where you need to turn, in relation to what you need to repent. Rather, my role is to help you identify the particular change-of-view the God of all hope is asking of you now, or next, and to help you to take that turn and to step out in joy and peace. To explore the path that leads to mercy for all peoples together, watching for the cairn stones left us by those who have gone before, and leaving our mark for those who will come after us.

Because the call of John, and indeed the call of Jesus whose coming John made ready, and this Advent again makes ready; their call to each and every one of us is this: in Jesus, God is drawing very near: if you would welcome him, repent, and believe...