Presentation of Christ in the Temple, 2017

Luke 2:22-40

Last Sunday we reflected on the frequent experience of being overwhelmed. Today, I want us to focus on the Holy Spirit. Before we look to our Gospel reading, I want us to circle around it with reference to two other stories from the Bible.

The first is far older, from the early chapters of Genesis, and the account of the flood. The cradle of civilisation has been overwhelmed by floodwaters from horizon to horizon. Noah and his wife and their sons and daughters-in-law have been cooped-up in the ark for forty days of rain falling, and a further one hundred and fifty days of flood, and forty more days of floodwater receding. Noah sends out a raven, that flies to and fro, and a dove. The dove finds nowhere to land, and so returns to Noah, who waits another seven days and sends the dove out again. This time, the dove returns with an olive leaf in its beak. Noah waits yet another seven days and sends the dove out again. This time the dove does not return, and Noah understood that it was at last time to go out from the ark and for life to begin again.

The second story is set some thirty years after our Gospel reading. Jesus is now an adult, and comes to the Jordan to be baptised by his relative, John. As Jesus comes up out of the waters that have overwhelmed him, the heaven opened, and the Holy Spirit descended upon him in bodily form like a dove. And a voice came from heaven, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” The Spirit then led Jesus in the wilderness, and then through Galilee.

So now let us turn to our Gospel lesson, the account of Jesus’ parents bringing their recently-born son to the temple for the first time, in order to fulfil the requirements of the law. And here we are introduced first to Simeon, and then to Anna.

We are told that the Holy Spirit rested on Simeon, that the Holy Spirit revealed something to Simeon, and that the Holy Spirit guided Simeon. We are not explicitly told the same thing in the same words about Anna, and yet all of these acts of the Holy Spirit are implied in her story too.

Here is an old man who has lived through overwhelming, devastating events in the life of the people of Jerusalem; and an old woman who has experienced such things at a very personal level. They have both gone through the flood, as it were. And as the floodwaters begin to recede, God’s Holy Spirit searches for somewhere to land, somewhere to rest on the face of the earth – a resting-place – and finds Simeon, finds Anna. And the Holy Spirit rested on them, as on an olive branch, as – later – on Jesus. And the Holy Spirit reveals to them a word that speaks of Jesus, a word that brings forth peace within them, peace whatever happens, because God’s salvation has come. Come what may. And the Holy Spirit guides them to see that salvation for themselves, to experience it first-hand, and so to proclaim it to others.

Simeon and Anna. And elderly man, and an elderly woman. We have one or two of those in our midst. And you, like them, were created to be a resting-place for God’s Holy Spirit on the face of the earth. As it is, you are made from the dust of the earth and animated by the breath of the Spirit; you are sustained by the Spirit; but this was always intended to be a relationship, marked by resting and working together, by our being drawn deeper into the mystery of God – Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

So how might we invest in that relationship? What might we learn from Simeon and Anna? Their lives are shaped by devoting themselves to being in unbroken relationship, as far as it depended on them, with others, choosing to love God and their fellow human beings (righteous and devout; fasting and prayer and praise).

We are told that Simeon was ‘looking forward to the consolation of Israel.’ That is, even though – or perhaps because – things weren’t good, he held on to God, held on to hope, and pointed to that hope. Like an olive tree on the side of a submerged mountain. Perhaps, like the cross that is erected on Tunstall Hill each Easter, overlooking the city of Sunderland; a hill that was once under a prehistoric sea.

Simeon is looking forward, to the consolation of Israel. And when it comes, or rather when he comes, Jesus brings peace, even in the midst of turmoil and the face of opposition and the costly reality of soul-piercing pain. Jesus brings light in the dark places, that brings revelation to all peoples and glory to the people of God. And it may be as messy and perilous as life spilling out of the ark to flourish again, but this is how God has chosen to make all things new. As the Collect for the Season of Epiphany expresses it: ‘Almighty God, in Christ you make all things new: transform the poverty of our nature by the riches of your grace, and in the renewal of our lives make known your heavenly glory; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.’

What might it look like for the Holy Spirit to rest on us, to reveal things to us, to guide us? I think that if we are to discover the answer, the discovery begins in prayer. Prayer for the people of Sunderland, and beyond: that those who mourn might know consolation; that those who are facing the end of life might know a peaceful end; that those in darkness might see God’s glory reflected in our faces. Prayer that moves us to action, to console, to be peace-makers, to be light-bearers. And action that brings us back to prayer, because we cannot be any of these things apart from the animating power of the Holy Spirit.

At the beginning of Lent, over 2nd-5th March, bishops from all over the northern province are coming to Durham Diocese with the Archbishop of York to join us in a mission we are calling Talking Jesus. The Anglican churches across Sunderland will be hosting a wide range of regular activities and special events, as an opportunity to speak to people about Jesus, either informally or in more formal presentations. Activities we will be hosting include showing the film ‘I, Daniel Blake’ at the university media centre on the Friday evening, followed by a discussion on the issues the film addresses; taking the Archbishop of York on a city-centre walkabout on the Saturday – I’m sure he will drop in on our craft and vintage fair – and our Fairtrade Fortnight ceilidh on the Saturday evening; and our Sunday morning services, followed by a Lent lunch.

Between now and then, I’d invite you to pray for the mission, for all the different ways the churches of Wearmouth Deanery will be finding to listen to people speak about their lives – their losses and challenges and hopes – and to speak about our lives, and to talk about Jesus, God’s salvation. To pray every day between now and then, that is for four weeks.

And I’d invite you to come along, to one thing or another; and to ask the Holy Spirit who you might invite to come with you. Together, let’s learn how to share simple testimony about what we have seen and known – not answers to all the unanswerable questions life throws up! – so that like Simeon, like Anna, we might speak about Jesus to those who are in need to consolation, peace, and light. Amen.

Third Sunday of Epiphany

Isaiah 9:1-4 (and 1 Corinthians 1:10-18) and Matthew 4:12-23

Some years ago, Disney Pixar made a film about my life. As always with films that are “based on true events” there was some artistic licence employed. Yes, I lost (misplaced) my son. No, I am not a fish. No, my wife had not been brutally murdered; she was away at a conference. Be that as it may, yes, she does call me Marlin.

There is a scene in Finding Nemo where Marlin finds himself in a deep, dark trench. Disoriented, he moves from desperation to despair. And then, a light appears; but I’ll avoid any spoilers.

We all know that fish don’t talk. But we also know that Finding Nemo isn’t about fish. There are layers to the story, which is why it can engage children and adults. I’ve never been in a deep, dark trench at the bottom of the ocean; but then again, perhaps I have.

In the world of the Bible, everything has symbolic meaning as well as a literal one. You see, the purpose of scripture is not simply to enable us to see the world as it is, but as it really is, beneath the surface, behind the curtain. So, for example, in the Bible ‘the land’ symbolises order and blessing, and ‘the sea’ symbolises chaos and curse. ‘Light’ means more than just light, and ‘darkness’ means more than just darkness.

Isaiah describes the territory that had been allotted to the tribes of Zebulun and Naphtali after God’s people had crossed into the Promised Land as ‘the way of the sea, the land beyond the Jordan, Galilee of the nations.’

Isaiah declares that God has chosen to make this territory glorious. Many centuries later, Matthew takes up these words – ‘on the road by the sea, across the Jordan, Galilee of the Gentiles’ – and declares that God makes this place glorious in and through Jesus. But where is this place? These landmarks are features of a physical geography – Jesus moves to Capernaum on the shore of the Sea of Galilee – but they are also features of a spiritual geography.

The way of the sea, or the road by the sea, runs along the edge where the land and the sea meet. At the level of physical geography, Matthew makes it the shore of the lake. The Sea of Galilee is large enough to be tidal, and so this border is always shifting: the land and the sea taking turns in making marginal gains neither can hold. The road by the sea is that place where life is lived on the fine line between coping and being overwhelmed. You may have seen images on the news last week, of massive spring tide waves, and evacuated homes. That too is an outward illustration of an inner reality. If I can be honest with you, and if you can hear what I am saying, this is where I live. I’m not talking about Sunderland – though I suspect that I am not alone in living on the road by the sea.

The description continues: the land beyond, or across, the Jordan; Galilee of the nations, or Gentiles. Beyond or across the Jordan places it in the Promised Land. As the hymn has it: When I tread the verge of Jordan, bid my anxious fears subside; death of death, and hell’s destruction, land me safe on Canaan’s side. But, something has gone wrong. Galilee has been claimed by the nations, by the Gentiles, those who were not God’s chosen people. In Isaiah’s time, the Assyrian Empire swallowed it up, later followed by others. In the time of Jesus and Matthew, there are Greek towns and Roman towns there. Everything good that has been called out to flourish by God has been overwhelmed, or at least compromised. Things haven’t turned out as expected. Life is confusing, draining.

Isaiah addressed those who walked in darkness, who lived in a land of deep darkness. But by the time Matthew writes about, things have got even worse. In his retelling, ‘the people who sat in darkness have seen a great light, and for those who sat in the region and shadow of death light has dawned.’ They’re no longer walking, no longer moving around: they’ve given up and sat down. Because it is hard to move around in the dark. You can only do so very slowly, and only for so long.

And to the people who sat in darkness, Jesus comes doing something truly remarkable. He walked by the Sea of Galilee, and he saw two sets of brothers. At the surface level, there is nothing remarkable about seeing fishermen as you walk along the shore; but that is not the point. Here is one so glorious, so luminous, that he can walk confidently along the shifting border between blessing and chaos, and call people to follow him.

To underline the point, the first people he calls are fishermen, whose lives are lived right on the edge. They draw life out of chaos, in the sense of harvesting food from the water, but also in caring for the stock of fish in the lake, balancing the needs of today with the needs of tomorrow. They also know that the sea makes widows and orphans: it always has done. Jesus says, ‘Follow me, and I will make you fish for people.’

As the story unfolds, sometimes we find them on the beach, and sometimes we find them in their boats in the shallows. Some days we find ourselves more-or-less on solid ground, and some days we find ourselves just about keeping afloat. Sometimes Jesus takes the disciples further inland, and sometimes they are out-of-their-depth far from land on the middle of the lake. Some days we know ourselves to be blessed, and some days we feel like we are drowning. But for over half of the Gospel According to Matthew, the sea and its shore is the central setting we keep coming back to: the darkness where the light of Christ shines.

I am not a Christian because God has seen to it that my life is victorious, has moved me from being one of life’s losers to one of life’s winners. I am a Christian because I live on the road by the sea, because I live with rising and falling anxiety all the time, and depression some of the time, and in that place I find myself drawn to the light of Jesus. I am a Christian because some days I have only the strength to turn to face that light – that turning is what it means to repent – and some days I have the strength to walk in the light; and because I see in the stories about Jesus that he intends for these things to be done with other people, not on our own. I am a Christian because, with others before me and around me, I can testify that I need Jesus, I need his light, that I have no other hope, that he is glorious and his glory is enough. My testimony is that his light has dawned on me.

There are other reasons to be a Christian, of course. For you, it might be that in Jesus you have found forgiveness, or healing, or companionship, or direction and purpose. These are all aspects of his glory; and it is his glory that draws us to this place. Whatever your circumstances, whatever your story, let us rejoice in that glorious light today. And let us follow Jesus along the shore, and invite those we find there to turn towards him too.

Second Sunday of Epiphany 2017

Evensong, Second Sunday of Epiphany 2017

Ezekiel 2:1-3:4 and Galatians 1:11-24

John Swinton is Professor of Practical Theology and Pastoral Care in the University of Aberdeen. I’m currently reading Dementia: Living in the Memories of God, for which he won the 2016 Michael Ramsey Prize, which ‘celebrates the most promising contemporary theological writing from the global Church.’

At one point, Swinton suggests that ‘to be human is to be (1) dependent and contingent, (2) embodied, (3) relational, (4) broken and deeply lost, and (5) loved and profoundly purposeful. [and in what follows] The key underlying principle is that the experiences of people with dementia matter for the ways in which we understand humanness.’ (p. 161)

I think that it would be possible, and indeed beneficial, to re-read both our readings – from Ezekiel and Galatians – in the light of Swinton’s observations.

First, to be human is to be dependent and contingent. Ezekiel is dependent on God to stand up on his feet, he is dependent on God for his sustenance. In other words, he is dependent on God for his very life. In the same way, God is the source of Paul’s life, his beginning and his end. Such dependency does not strip us of dignity, but opens us to mystery.

Second, to be human is to be embodied. Swinton quotes the farmer, poet, novelist and essayist Wendell Berry, who writes:

‘The formula [for ‘man-making’] given in Genesis [2:7] is not man = body + soul; the formula there is soul = dust + breath … God did not make a body and put a soul into it, like a letter into an envelope. He formed man of dust; by breathing his breath into it, he made the dust live. Insofar as it lived, it was a soul. The dust, formed as man and made to live, did not embody a soul; it became a soul. “Soul” here refers to the whole creature. Humanity is thus presented to us, in Adam, not as a creature of two distinct parts temporarily glued together, but as a single mystery.’

(Wendell Berry, The Art of the Commonplace: The Agrarian Essays of Wendell Berry, p. 313, cited by Swinton, p. 167)

In relation to dementia, Swinton notes that loss of cognition does not equate to loss of humanness. We are not body stripped of soul, not zombies. We are animated earth which contains the very breath of God, in order that we might be with God. This is ongoing and life-long, as we see when God breathes his spirit into Ezekiel; and extends grace to Paul – a call, moreover, which has nothing to do with the supposed merits of his highly developed critical capacities, but which is expressed through the suffering of his body.

Third, to be human is to be relational. We are created to experience God’s love and to love one another like God does. Hence, God sends Ezekiel to his people, despite their long history of turning away from that love. Hence, Paul visits Peter – not to hear the gospel from him, but to share in the gospel with him – and why the churches of Judea glorified God because Paul had been brought from persecuting to proclaiming the faith. To be fully human is not to compete and triumph, but to love and to receive love – which, significantly, is not dependent on being known by sight.

Fourth, to be human is to be broken and deeply lost. We see this in the rebellion of the people Ezekiel is sent to, in the imagery of briers and thorns and scorpions, where the land should speak of God’s goodness. We see it in Paul’s striving, that leads him only to violence and to try to destroy others. We see – at least in moments of lucidity – that this is part of what it is to be human; but not the totality, not the final word.

Fifth, to be human is to be loved and profoundly purposeful. God will not abandon his people, whether they hear or refuse to hear. And God provides for Ezekiel, sustenance that is good, and sweet as honey, despite looking unpalatable. More than that, God shares his very words: gives himself, his love for us, his purpose for us. Word that ultimately becomes flesh, as Jesus. Jesus, who appears to Paul, who loves even one who persecutes him, who graciously reveals a purpose God had set Paul aside for before he was even born.

Swinton has sought to re-describe dementia, to tell a counter-story that, rather than being entirely negative – while acknowledging the losses and challenges dementia brings – equips us to see dementia both as a very particular expression of the calling to be human and as a reminder to us all of what it means to be human.

It seems to me that his insights resonate with those revealed through Ezekiel’s calling as a prophet, and Paul’s calling as an apostle. And that our calling is to come together, to remind one another and the people to whom we are sent what it means to be human, and to respond faithfully. As we discover our dependence and contingency; embrace our whole bodies rather than prioritise our mind; hold one another in relationship; face our brokenness and acknowledge our lost state; and find ourselves kept in the knowledge and love of God, that sends us out with profound purpose to love and to serve the Lord; may we be filled with the breath of God, and may he be glorified in and through our lives. Amen.