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...
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