Christ the King, 2017

Ezekiel 34:11-16, 20-24 and Ephesians 1:15-23 and Matthew 25:31-46

Today is the Feast of Christ the King, the culmination of the Church year. Today we celebrate that God has raised Jesus from the dead, and set him over all rule and authority and power and dominion—and that God has done this for us, the Church.

But what does that mean? What sort of a king is this Christ, depicted on the throne of heaven in the stained-glass window behind me? How does he exercise his rule? And how does it benefit us, his people? Or what does it mean for those who are not part of the Church?

Ezekiel was a priest, but he did not serve in the temple in Jerusalem. He was one of the generation of his people who were carried off into exile in Babylon. There, they wept, and tried to make sense of what had happened to them. Why had God allowed this to happen? When would God restore their fortunes? How ought they to live in the meantime?

Ezekiel painted a picture for the people. In it, he asked them to imagine themselves as a flock of sheep, dispersed among several other flocks. In time, God himself will come to them as a shepherd, to seek out the scattered sheep, and vindicate the weak and the lean sheep.

Jesus draws on this imagery in his discourse on the sheep and the goats. The context is this: within days, he will be executed. Among his final teaching, Jesus seeks to prepare his disciples for what is to come. In Matthew 23 we see Jesus weeping over the city of Jerusalem, because in rejecting him and his message, the imminent destruction of the city—yet again—will not be averted. In Matthew 24, Jesus goes on to predict the destruction of the temple. While some will see this as the sign of an imminent end to history, Jesus declares that this is not the case: there will be wars and rumours of wars, the rising and falling of nations, the persecution of his followers. He is speaking of history, as we experience it in every generation. And into this history—not after it—Jesus introduces the power and authority of the Son of Man, or Mortal: the term—also borrowed from Ezekiel—by which Jesus referred to himself.

In the light of this, Jesus’ advice is to be watchful of unfolding events while investing our lives in the places where we find ourselves (Jesus uses several parables to convey this teaching, in Matthew 24 and 25). This block of collected teaching culminates with a discourse on the judging of the nations, by the Son of Man, that references the sheep and the goats.

Now, this is one of Jesus’ most misunderstood teachings. It is routinely told to convey the idea that the genuine nature of the faith of those who claim to follow Jesus will be determined based on how they have treated the poor. I have even known Christians who worry whether they will be welcomed by God, or rejected, because on occasion they have walked by a homeless person like the priest and the scribe walking by the man left for dead on the side of the road. But while it is clear throughout scripture that God has a heart for the poor and calls his people to reflect that, even allowing judgement to fall on the nation of Israel when they refuse to hear the cry of the poor, this is categorically not what Jesus is saying here.

Jesus is drawing on the imagery employed by the Old Testament prophets to convey the idea that God would use the Gentile nations to judge his people, but would also judge those empires based on how they treated God’s people. To give one example, Babylonian king Nebuchadnezzar appointed Daniel, Hannaniah, Mishael, and Azariah (given new names, Belteshazzar, Shadrah, Meshach, and Abednego) to positions of responsibility in his court. To give another example, Haman, an official in the court of Persian king Ahasuerus, attempted to have all the Jews annihilated (his plot ultimately foiled by Mordecai and Esther).

Jesus takes this imagery of the fortunes of the gentile nations rising and falling based on how they have treated the people of Israel and makes two developments. First, the basis is now not how they have treated the nation of Israel, but the new Israel: Jesus’ disciples, his brothers or new family. Second, it is Jesus himself who will be the judge.

Like the Old Testament prophets, Jesus uses apocalyptic language to describe that judgement. For those of us who are British, because of our cultural heritage of European art, we tend to think of apocalyptic language as describing the judgement of individuals at the end of time; but in scripture it routinely describes the judgement of nations through the unfolding of history.

We read these passages on the Feast of Christ the King because they inform our understanding of what sort of king Jesus is, and how he rules. And in this Gospel passage we see that Jesus exercises his rule through the deployment of angels, or spiritual beings, with responsibility for different nations. Where nations welcome the Church, they enter-into a share in the blessing of the kingdom of heaven. This is very much our vision in Durham Diocese, where we see our purpose as the church as being to serve our communities for the blessing and transformation of us all. Jesus is king over all for the Church, but the blessings of the kingdom of heaven are not restricted to the Church. They will come as a surprise to some—not at some future time, but today, for children, women and men of goodwill, Friends of the Minster and of all our churches throughout the diocese and beyond.

On the other hand, where nations persecute the Church, imprisoning disciples, or denying them fundamental rights or opportunities enjoyed by everyone else, Jesus will instruct his angels to withdraw their protection, leaving that nation vulnerable to the tendency nations have demonstrated throughout history to destroy one another. Empire after empire lies utterly burned to the point of no return to the unfolding pages of history.

What, then, might this discourse have to say to us today? Well, a third of our congregation is Iranian: men and women who have fled here because the Church is persecuted in Iran. As we listen to Jesus’ words, and celebrate that God has raised this Jesus from the dead and seated him over all rule and authority and power and dominion, for the Church, can we imagine a future in which the regime that has oppressed the Church is removed from power, and a new structure of government emerge made up of those who have seen the hidden-but-growing Christian community as being good for the nation as a whole? Can we imagine religious freedom in Iran, and our brothers and sisters going home, and us visiting them there? Perhaps an official link between our diocese and a province in Iran?

That is the hope Jesus holds out in this passage. Yes, there will be persecution: you need to prepare for that. But there will also be vindication! Hold fast! I will be at work to do this for you.

And what might this passage have to say to us about our own nation? As a society, we have been less-than-welcoming to those Christians who have fled to us seeking refuge. Might England experience something of divine judgement in however our history unfolds, post-Brexit, over the next decade? Many are hoping for a rosy future; others for a least-worst-case-scenario. Whatever unfolds, Christ the King is at work to vindicate his beloved Church, for the blessing of the wider nation.

In uncertain times, may our hope in that—our hope in him—be renewed.

Amen.

Remembrance Sunday 2017

Amos 5:18-24 (and 1 Thessalonians 4:13-18 and Matthew 25:1-13)

The record of the words of the prophet Amos begins with a list of divine judgement being declared against the nations surrounding Israel. Damascus. Gaza. Tyre. Edom. Ammon. Moab. Judah. It is quite a roll call. Denouncement follows denouncement, and with each one we might imagine the cheers of Amos’ audience getting louder and louder. Hah! Despite their impressive defences, the neighbouring peoples are about to get their comeuppance. That is, of course, deeply satisfying, because there is something in human nature that likes to nurse an ancient grudge against our neighbours. The English, for example, have fought both against and alongside every one of our neighbours, in continually-morphing alliances.

Amos builds the anticipation up to bursting-point, and then drops his bomb-shell. Israel will not be spared the judgement that will befall her neighbours. Indeed, God’s judgement on Israel will be even more damning, because they have known God in all God’s loving-kindness and enduring faithfulness, in his compassion and justice and forgiveness and mercy. And they have turned their back on God, exploiting the poor and revelling in obscene wealth, all the while imagining—indeed, regularly celebrating—that their history made them exceptional and that God was on their side.

Taking great pride in their identity, the people told one another stories of the day of the Lord, of how God would appear soon and pass judgement on the other nations. But for Amos, such sabre-rattling was a source of great sadness. ‘Why do you want the day of the Lord?’ he asks, ‘It is darkness, not light.’ In attempting to describe what God’s appearing would be like, he tries this: it will be like meeting a lion, and managing to outrun it…only to stop, exhausted, and be attacked by a bear. Terrifying. But no, that doesn’t quite manage to capture it. It will be more like running away from the lion and making it home, bolting the door behind you—elated—and leaning against the wall—take deep breaths now: in…out—only to step on a venomous snake and be bitten, your raised pulse pumping the poison around your body with heartless efficiency. The cruel irony!

God is not what they expected God to be like. Not because God is unpredictable, a monster who might at any moment turn on them like a lion or a bear or a snake. But, rather, because God is reliably predictable in his unwavering commitment to justice and righteousness—righteousness being what it looks like when we love God with all our heart and soul, and love our neighbour as ourselves—and they had simply chosen to forget. Perhaps God is not what we expect God to be like, either?

The earth was crying out for justice and righteousness like a dry land cries out for reliable water. It still does.

We need to hear Amos’ words on this Remembrance Day, because we remember wrongly. We remember all the grudges we bear against our neighbours, keeping the smouldering ashes of past conflicts from going out, the fire from going cold. We remember the cost to us, and we want them to pay reparations. We remember ourselves as heroes, to be forever held in high esteem; and the other side as villains, to be forever held, at best, in pity. And while we remember these things, we forget the God who is slow to get angry at our shortcomings, quick to forgive us our sin—and who expects us to extend the same forbearing and forgetting of past sins towards others. We forget that our lives are as fleeting as the flowers of the field—the poppies of the field—and that we are to lay the past to rest in peace and look forward to God’s future. Indeed, we are called to live as if that future were already here—acting justly, seeking to love our neighbour—even while recognising that the kingdom of God is both now and not yet, has come into the world and is delayed in its coming.

It was enormous good fortune to have been on the winning side of both World Wars; but it was also a great misfortune. It has made it hard for us to humble ourselves before God. In Germany, they do not commemorate Armistice Day, but on the Second Sunday before Advent they hold the People’s Day of Mourning. This year, that falls next Sunday, and it so happens that I shall be in Germany, along with a delegation from Durham Diocese taking part in a consultation on Confirmation practice. We shall be staying in host parishes over the weekend, ahead of a couple of days at a retreat centre, and we shall be taking part in their services and the acts of remembrance that follow them. I anticipate the tone will be very different from here, and that we have something to learn from them. In any case, I consider it a great privilege to be there, to mourn with those who mourn sin and cry out to God for healing.

Amos’ vision is uncompromising, but it is not a counsel of despair. Israel will be shaken in judgement for her refusal to build a just society in which all can share fully. But after the shaking comes the restoration: not restoring what was—a return to injustice—but restoring God’s vision for his people. Go and read Amos chapter 9, verses 11-15 to hear about that. You see, the day of the Lord comes on us, again and again, unexpectedly like a lion or a bear or a snake, leaving us mauled or poisoned, picture-language for talking of the consequences of our sin. But God promises to come to raise up and repair and rebuild; to heal and restore.

It seems to me that we might appropriately employ the language of violent shaking-up to describe what is going on in our own nation at this time. Austerity has proven to be deeply unjust towards to most vulnerable, and the rich continue to shore-up greater wealth while those who have the least find themselves with less and less. Against that backdrop, the electorate has thrown us out of the European Union, and into the deep and long-lasting uncertainty of Brexit. The House of Commons—all parties—appears to be in freefall, rocked by scandal and accusation. Our institutions are being shaken, from the Church to the BBC to social services to the police.

Might it be that we are being shaken? Might this be a time to lament, and repent, and look to restoration? I think we are in this time for the long haul, but might the outcome be—in God’s grace—a hopeful one? Each time we have passed through a long and dark night, eventually the bridegroom has arrived, and the time has come to celebrate.

Is it possible that Amos, who first spoke-out two-and-and-half millennia ago, might help us to respond to God in our day; and to be ready when Jesus, the bridegroom, comes to us in the night? I believe so, and encourage you to sit with his words, and the disturbing vision of God that he holds out to us, over the week ahead. Speak to us, Lord, through the words of your servant Amos. And come to us in due course, Lord Jesus.

All Saints 2017

Revelation 7:9-17 and 1 John 3:1-3 and Matthew 5:1-12

This morning at the Minster we celebrate All Saints. That is, we look back with thanksgiving for all those faithful men, women and children who have followed Jesus in this locality, and this region, and this nation, and this continent, and to the ends of the earth, and we find our place within that expansive and expanding story. We are the inheritors of their deposit of faith, to which we add our own for those who will come after us.

Sunderland folk have gathered to this hill above the River Wear, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, for over a thousand years. We are surrounded by the echoes of their stories, carved into stone, and wood, and metal plaques. The building is full of memorials: some bearing just a name, others containing a description of their character and deeds. We can see these as a monument to the past, and so-doing miss the point: or as testimonies to the partnership between God and God’s people, for the blessing of this city, across the generations.

This morning we have heard read out, again, the Beatitudes: Jesus’ proclamation of good news for certain kinds of people.

Those who are poor in their own resources: for whom the good news is that they have access to all the resources of the King of the Universe.

Those who live with the weight of bereavement: for whom the good news is the comforting that makes life bearable, one day at a time; even joyful, in time.

Those who remain teachable, when, overlooked, they get left behind or fall through the cracks in times of social upheaval: for whom the good news is a place of belonging and responsibility.

Those whose experience of injustice is such that can be fittingly described as an ache in their belly—who, indeed, may go hungry in a literal sense: for whom the good news is that their deep hunger will be satisfied.

Those who show mercy, in a world that bays for the blood of scapegoats: for whom the good news is a place where they themselves will be treated mercifully.

Those whose thoughts towards others are pure, in a world where powerful men exploit women and children, and make excuses when eventually called to account: for whom the good news is that they do not have to fear meeting God face-to-face.

Those who actively wage peace, non-violent protest and community-making in a world of racial and other expressions of violence: for whom the good news is that they will be recognised as being children of God.

Those who suffer because of their commitment to these things, who are rejected and mistreated by their own kin: for whom the good news is to be received with honour within a new community.

This proclamation of good news comes at the opening of the Sermon on the Mount. Jesus is holding out to his disciples the vision of a counter-cultural community, that exists to proclaim and enact good news specifically for these kinds of people.

Read some of the testimonies written around this building, and you will see that down through many years these kinds of people have heard good news proclaimed from this place.

Have glimpsed sight of it.

Have smelt its aroma.

Have tasted its bitter-sweetness.

Have touched it and felt its touch, at times a firm hold and at times a fleeting brush.

And the same is true in our day. Every day of the week, people who have been bereaved slip in and out of this place, finding it to be a place of refuge and sanctuary, of comfort, of encountering God. Sunday by Sunday, and several times throughout the week, our Iranian brothers and sisters do the same.

Four weeks from today is Advent Sunday, the start of the new Church year. Advent is a Season of looking forward, of making ready for Jesus’ return. He has promised that he will come again. We don’t know when, and so each year we return to a time of renewing our expectation. This year, Advent Sunday falls on 3rd December, and on that day we will hold a celebration of the life of the Minster community, this gathering of unlikely saints who come in the guise of children and the elderly and the stranger. We will honour the many ways in which people give of their time and their talents and their resources to be a blessing to others—especially the kind of people Jesus describes. In addition to our morning services, there will be a praise service in the evening.

On that day, we will take up a Gift Day offering, as an expression of our thankfulness to God for all that this place has meant, and continues to mean. We will be asking for a financial gift, in support of the life and work of the Minister, over-and-above our regular committed financial giving.

So, this is what I would encourage you to do: Go away and think about All the Saints who have stood here before us, and to imagine yourself as having inherited the deposit of faith they invested: because that is what you are. Then, I want you to think of all the things that go on here, or that flow out from this place, all the ways in which good news is proclaimed and acted-out for the city of Sunderland—and to start giving thanks to God for everything that comes to mind. Think of the ways in which you have participated in the life of this community, and how you have grown as a result, perhaps doing things you would never have imagined yourself doing in the past.

And then ask, what financial gift might I offer in thanks? Think of an amount, and pray about it—have a conversation with Jesus about it. Some of us might be able to give larger sums, and some of us will only be able to bring a small amount. The size of the gift doesn’t matter. What matters is that it is an expression of a thankful heart, not given grudgingly or out of habit, but after careful and prayerful consideration. We haven’t set ourselves a target: whatever is gathered in by the end of the day will be more than we had at the start, and will be invested in the next chapter of the lives of the Saints at Sunderland Minster in the Diocese of Durham. The chapter that will record our part within a much bigger story.

As we look backward with thanksgiving, and forward with expectancy, may we discover once again who we are: people John describes as children of God. Children of a wonderful, generous, Father God who has been revealed to us in his loving-kindness and enduring faithfulness. People growing into that likeness, not there yet, but knowing that one day we will be like him.

And may we take the next step of faith into that future, which is both longed-for and beyond all that we could possibly imagine. Amen.