Jesus
is walking in the temple, in the portico of Solomon. A portico is broadly
equivalent to a cloister – think of the cloisters at Durham cathedral – and was
used in much the same way, an open but sheltered space where study and teaching
took place. Solomon had built the first temple on this spot, a thousand years
earlier. That temple had been destroyed by the Babylonians, and the nobility
carried off into exile. When the Babylonian Empire fell to the Persians, the
Jewish exiles were allowed to return, and in time a second temple was built on
the site of the first. This temple was later expanded by Herod the Great, and
stood until it was destroyed by the Romans in AD70.
Some
say Solomon’s portico was a surviving structure from the first temple that had
been incorporated into the second. Whether that was factual or fictional truth,
it was an area within the temple associated with his legendary wisdom and the
body of Wisdom Literature his patronage made possible. And it had come to be
associated with Jesus. He taught there, addressing anyone who would stop and
listen, when he attended the great festivals; and this was carried on in the
practice of the early Church. From Pentecost, until the persecution following
the martyrdom of Stephen, the believers met within Solomon’s portico on a daily
basis.
Jesus
is walking in the temple, in the portico of Solomon. And those gathered around
him want him to speak to them plainly. To speak in unambiguous terms. But those
are not the terms on which Jesus spoke. He spoke in parables, in which his
hearers discover that they are characters in a great drama. He spoke in
proverbs, such as his lists of blessings – Beatitudes – and woes. He spoke in
metaphors, such as the ‘I am’ sayings John is so fond of recording. He spoke
through actions, such as weeping or touching untouchables. He spoke through
symbols, such as bread and wine.
Our
reading from Acts, or the story of
what Jesus continued to do acting through the Church after his bodily ascension
into heaven, presents us with just one example of those times when we do not
have the words we need to speak about what we need to speak of. Birth and death
and love and sex and beauty – these are just some of the moments that are holy,
that are set-apart from all the other moments to be sacred, handled with
the greatest reverence and wonder. They are mystery, to be entered-into.
I
ran a straw poll this week, asking ‘How do we speak about things for which we
have no words?’ These responses came back, some several times over:
tears;
empathetic touch; employing universally-understood words and actions; telling stories;
listening to songs, and music; by our actions; poetry; symbols; platitudes;
metaphors; silence; recognising our limitations before God and accepting – even
embracing – them; pictures (say a thousand words); making up new words;
euphemisms.
In
the face of her death, Tabitha’s friends need to show something of what she had
produced – her skill; her labours of love – to someone who had not known her;
as well as standing alongside one another, and allowing tears to flow.
There
are so many times when we just don’t have the words to express something that
has touched our very soul. Not just that we can’t adequately communicate it to
another person; there are times when we can’t articulate our thoughts and
feelings to ourselves, let alone anyone else. And this can leave us feeling
incompetent, unqualified, lacking confidence.
But
it is perfectly normal, because life
is bigger and more wonderful and altogether scarier than we can imagine. The
Eastern Orthodox bishop and theologian Kallistos Ware says of mystery: ‘In the
Christian context, we do not mean by a “mystery” merely that which is baffling
and mysterious, an enigma or insoluble problem. A mystery is, on the contrary,
something that is revealed for our understanding, but which we never understand
exhaustively because it leads into the depth or the darkness of God. The eyes
are closed—but they are also opened.’
To
return to the portico of Solomon, wisdom is not the same as gaining more
information, in ever greater detail, and being able to communicate it plainly.
It does not allow us to become an expert, to view ourselves more worthy – or
less worthy – than others in a hierarchy of status. No, wisdom is to do with
relationship with one another and with the fathomless giver of life-beyond-measure.
In
this Easter season, our Sunday readings come from Acts and Revelation. They
present us with What Jesus Did Next, from an earthly and from a heavenly
perspective. On the whole, Acts can
be told using plain words. With Revelation,
on the other hand, we are clearly presented with a narrator struggling to find
ways to express the vision he has been given. A fabulous fantasy of incredible
creatures, pointing not to a fairy-tale but, rather, expressing the deepest
reality.
And
this is where coming together as the gathered church equips and trains us for
the whole of life.
We
draw on stories – in which we might just find ourselves. We draw on the words
of others – not sound-bites, but words tried-and-tested in community, such as
the Creeds. We draw on music, and song. On dramatic movement and symbolic
action. On visual representation, such as the stained glass of the East Window
or the carvings on the pulpit – both of which express something of that vision
found in Revelation. We lean-into
silence. We don’t need to have all the answers, to our questions or anyone
else’s. Kallistos Ware again:
‘We see that it is
not the task of Christianity to provide easy answers to every question, but to
make us progressively aware of a mystery. God is not so much the object of our
knowledge as the cause of our wonder.’
In
relation to what experience do you ‘know that you don’t know’ today? That
place, right there, just might be the door that opens onto heaven…
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