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.