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.