Christmas Night 2018

Isaiah 62:6-12 and Titus 3:4-7 and Luke 2:1-20

Earlier this year I had the privilege of spending twelve days living at St George’s House within Windsor Castle. We were taking part in a series of conversations around how we speak of God in our contemporary context, engaging issues facing us as a society and making a positive contribution from a Christian perspective. Our days were structured around prayer, and worship; Bible study, and book review; lectures from, and questions asked of, expert witnesses; papers presented, and debate engaged, and an endless round of food and drinks. But each day we timed our mid-morning coffee-break so as to allow us to go and watch the changing of the guard.

The Windsor Castle Guard is normally provided by one of the five regiments of Foot Guards from the Household Division, who take turn being on duty for 24 or 48 hours. The New Guard march from Victoria Barracks through Windsor to the Castle, led by a Regimental Band, arriving at 11.00. Following a ceremonial handover of responsibility, the Old Guard march back to the barracks. Over the 24- or 48-hour period that their regiment is on duty, each guardsman will have two hours on sentry duty and then four hours off, repeated. While on sentry duty, the guardsman stands perfectly still. To the casual observer, he or she is doing nothing. But they are a highly-skilled infantry soldier, and should the need arise will spring into action. This is not a historical re-enactment by actors: it is a ritualised activity that guards the deep psychological need for order and meaning and identity and creative expression in the pragmatic activity of protection against terror.

Our reading from Isaiah began with a commanding officer posting sentinels on the city walls, all day and all night. A sentinel is a soldier or guard whose job is to stand and keep watch. To serve their two-hour sentry duty. And here we are, on the shift that crosses over midnight. Don’t nod off: you’re on duty.

We heard in our Gospel reading that ‘In that region there were shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flocks by night.’ The shepherds, then, are sentinels, alert to any predators approaching under the cover of darkness, taking turns to rest and to keep watch. And the angels who usher them to parade into Bethlehem are heaven’s Regimental band.

Isaiah tells us that, along with looking out for enemies, the purpose of the sentinels is to ‘remind the Lord’ of his promises to save his people. That is also, I think, why the shepherds are sentinels: their presence reminding the Lord of his promises to David, the shepherd-boy of Bethlehem. Why are we to remind the Lord? Has he forgotten his promises? Or is he in danger of forgetting? Is he stressed by too many other things on his mind? Or perhaps he is experiencing the ravages of dementia?

No, God has not forgotten us. But from our perspective, our brief human lives, it can certainly feel that way. Reminding God is the way given us to partner with God. In reminding God, we remind ourselves, and pass God’s promises on to the next generation. In calling the past into the present—as opposed to seeking to retreat to the past—we keep hope alive until what we hope for is manifest in our lives. In calling the past into the present, the salvation we long for may be born to us this day. In eating grain and wine, as Isaiah spoke of, we share in communion with the promise of God-with-us. We remind the Lord that we have not forgotten him; and are reminded that he has not forgotten us.

And when we are dismissed from our sentry duty, how will we use our hours off? During the night watch, sleep is perfectly appropriate. But when the morning comes, who will you tell? See, your salvation comes! Happy Christmas!

Fourth Sunday of Advent 2018

Luke 1:39-56

Today is the fourth Sunday of Advent. As we have journeyed towards Christmas, we have tracked God’s preparations through the patriarchs and matriarchs of the faith; through the prophets; through the fore-runner John known as the Baptiser; and now at last we come to the Virgin Mary, the Mother of our Lord.

Luke begins his account of the Good News with the miraculous birth stories of John and Jesus. We are introduced to Zechariah and Elizabeth, and to Joseph and Mary. Joseph is ‘of the house of David’ and to the child Mary shall bear ‘the Lord God will give…the throne of his ancestor David.’ But Joseph is not the child’s father; and one of the questions I am often asked at this time of year is, how, then, is Jesus to be considered a descendant of David? The first thing to say is that an adopted son is fully a son, and therefore Jesus is indeed a descendant or son of David through Joseph. But I want to argue, I think with Luke, that Jesus is doubly son of David, through his mother also. Let me explain why.

The story recounting Mary’s visit to Elizabeth is more than a factual record. Luke crafts it to resonate with the story of David bringing the ark of the Lord to Jerusalem (2 Samuel 6). Church tradition tells us that Mary was Luke’s direct source, and, judging by her song the Magnificat, I would suggest that Mary herself intentionally crafted the telling of her story to resonate with that old story.

In 2 Samuel 6, we hear that David sets out for the hill country of Judea (2); there is a celebration to honour the ark (5); and the Lord bursts forth against Uzzah (8). This occurs because they had not treated the ark with due respect; with the result that David is afraid to bring the ark of the Lord into his care (9). The ark therefore spends three months in the house of Obed-Edom, during which time the Lord blessed him and all his household (10-12). David then returns to carry out his intention to bring the ark to Jerusalem. This time, as well as rejoicing, he humbles himself (14). David then distributes food among all the people and sends them away full (18-19). However, he argues with his wife Michal, claiming that he will be held in honour, and sending her away empty, or, childless (20-23).

Compare this, then, with our Gospel reading. Mary sets out to a town in the Judean hill country (39), where there is a celebration (41: even the unborn child John joins in). The Lord bursts forth, not in anger this time but filling Elizabeth with the Holy Spirit (41). Elizabeth welcomes Mary into her home and recognises that this is a sharing in blessing; and Mary stays there for three months (39-56). Interestingly, this episode, mirroring David’s reluctance to bring the ark into his care, parallels Matthew’s explicit account of Joseph’s dilemma regarding whether to divorce Mary quietly or take her into his house.

And then there is Mary’s song. Mary humbles herself (41) even as she rejoices (46-47). She predicts that she will be honoured by all generations (48). She declares that God has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts (51) and brought the powerful down from their thrones (52)—compare Michal—and has filled the hungry with good things and sent the rich empty away (53)—compare David.

At the start of our Gospel reading, Mary is the new ark of the Lord; the created container that carries the uncontainable Creator. By the end of our reading, while remaining the new ark, Mary has also become the new David. Or David has become Mary. By taking upon herself the identity of David, Mary’s son will be the son of David through his mother, in addition to son of David through adoption by Joseph. And the new thing God is doing is revealed to be deeply and lovingly rooted in what has come before, the centuries-long careful building to this moment.

Now, there is a sense in which Mary is not only blessed among women but unique among human beings. She is the Mother of God, who bore the incarnate Son. But there is also a sense in which Mary is a model for the Church, for all Christian women and men. If we forget the former, we lose the latter; if we ignore the latter, we devalue the former.

Mary is the new ark of the Lord: and we are called to carry the presence of Christ into the world. With reverence, but also with haste, and with expectancy.

Mary is the new David: and we are called to respond to God’s call on our lives with joy and humility. With singing and serving.

Each year as Christmas draws near, we return to the story, to hear again, as for the first time, our heritage and our calling. And as we hear these well-worn words, at once so familiar and so strange, so comforting and disturbing, where do you find yourself in the story? Are you bursting with praise like Mary? Leaping for joy with John? Will you be filled with the Holy Spirit, like Elizabeth? Or perhaps you feel more like Joseph and Zechariah, troubled, mute, off to the side looking on from a distance? Brought down, or lifted up? Filled, or empty?

More than likely, where we find ourselves in the story varies from year to year. But like a womb, the story is elastic. There is room for us all. The Lord has spoken, and has, and will, fulfil his word. Blessed are we who have believed.

Third Sunday of Advent 2018

Zephaniah 3:14-20 and Philippians 4:4-7 and Luke 3:7-18

‘Sing aloud, O daughter Zion; shout, O Israel! Rejoice and exult with all your heart, O daughter Jerusalem! … The Lord, your God, is in your midst, a warrior who gives victory; he will rejoice over you with gladness, he will renew you in his love; he will exult over you with loud singing as on a day of festival.’ Zeph. 3:14, 17-18a

‘Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice.’ Phil. 4:4

Today is the Third Sunday of Advent. The moment of light relief in the season of aching and longing for Jesus to return. The week when, if we are using three purple and one pink candle in our Advent wreath, we light the pink candle: the lighter, brighter hue. Gaudete Sunday: the Sunday when our readings from the Old Testament and from the New Testament Epistles exhort us Rejoice, Rejoice, Rejoice! [Gaudete, gaudete, Christus est natus ex Maria virgine, gaudete: Rejoice, rejoice, Christ is born of the Virgin Mary, rejoice] And the Sunday when we hear, again, the good news as proclaimed by John the Baptist.

Our reading from the prophet Zephaniah is an incredible piece of poetry, that speaks of great and glorious reversal. The Lord has taken away the judgements against his people; their enemies have been turned away; the fear of disaster, ended; actual disaster, removed; reproach, spared; oppressors, dealt with; the lame saved; the outcast gathered-in; shame changed into praise and renown; exiles brought home; fortunes restored. Why would a community not rejoice at such a proclamation? And yet, at the very heart of it all, something even greater: that God’s people are invited to rejoice because to do so is to join in with the Lord who rejoices over them.

These words have an original historical context, but they have survived, passed down to us, because they still speak to us. In the context of Advent, they remind us that, at the second coming of our Lord Jesus Christ to judge the world we may be found an acceptable people in his sight—not through any merit of our own, but because God’s righteous and justified judgements against us have been taken away by the same Lord, through the victory over death of Christ who opened wide his arms for us on the cross. Who sings over us on a day of festival.

“Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice” writes Paul to his sisters and brothers in Philippi. Writing from prison. Writing, hoping to be released and reunited with them on this occasion, but understanding that sooner or later faithfulness to the Lord Jesus will mean that he, Paul, will die in a similar manner. Rejoice, in the face of trials, because the Lord is near. If you listen closely, we might even catch the strains of his singing.

“You brood of vipers!” said John to the crowds that came out to be baptised by him, “Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come?” Strong words. Can’t we just have Zephaniah? Well, if we take Zephaniah as a whole, there are plenty of words as strong and stronger there. His message begins, ‘I will utterly sweep away everything from the face of the earth, says the Lord,’ as he proclaims the coming judgement on Judah, first, followed by judgement on all the surrounding nations; on Jerusalem, and all of the peoples. This is a process of judgement, of purification and restoration. A process of separating the wheat from the chaff.

John doesn’t speak to exclude the crowds. He would spare them ruin. And the crowds understand, and respond, “What then should we do?” There is a necessary outworking of repentance, of this great reversal. As the Dutch priest Henri Nouwen put it, “You don’t think your way into a new kind of living. You live your way into a new kind of thinking.” There is a new dawn, a new day, to be lived into.

Today is a moment to raise our heads. A moment for the weary to find our strength renewed by the joy of the Lord. For those whose love has run out to find ourselves renewed in his love. For those who have been brought low to find ourselves raised up by his singing.

Why is this moment given? Because tomorrow we must return to the upheaval of the new thing the Lord is doing in our midst. We must attend once more to marking the fears of imagined disaster we need ended for us. We must attend to making room for the outcasts being gathered-in, and the exiles being brought home. We must attend to the removal of our mantles of shame—and we have a wardrobe full—and the putting-on of garments of praise. There are things to be done, in response, in order to live our way into a new kind of thinking. So today, we rejoice at the resources given us. Gaudete, gaudete, Christus est natus ex Maria virgine, Gaudete.

The work of the people, in response to these texts:

What reasons do we have to be joyful?

How do (or, how might) we as a community express joy?

As a society, we live with well-rehearsed and regularly renewed fear of disaster in relation to Brexit. How might we speak of the Lord’s declared intent to end fear of disaster?

What oppresses us today?

Who are the outcasts in our context, and how might we as a church live out the prophetic action of gathering them in?

Guilt refers to a sense that we have done something wrong. Shame refers to a sense that who we are is somehow wrong, that there is something fundamentally wrong with our identity. Where do we experience shame? And where have we experienced shame changed into praise?

First Sunday of Advent 2018

Jeremiah 33:14-16 and 1 Thessalonians 3:9-13 and Luke 21:25-36

I love stories. My favourite stories are detective fiction. And my favourite detective fiction stories are Louise Penny’s series of Chief Inspector Gamache mysteries, about the head of homicide in Quebec, his team, his family, and his friends. And about me, the reader; my complex humanity, in all its frailty and strength, its hopes and fears, its shabbiness and its glory.

We navigate life by telling stories. This is universal, among humans; and, as far as we can tell, it is not limited to humans but found more widely in the animal kingdom. Even bees tell one another stories, through the medium of dance.

We tell stories to reach out to one another. If you ask me where my accent comes from, I can only answer with a story: My parents are both English; but I was born and spent my early childhood in the Philippines. So, my formative years were in an Americano-English context, not a British-English context. Then, I did most of my schooling in Glasgow. The result is a mid-Atlantic accent that some place as Canadian, and others as Irish; while others still detect a Scandinavian lilt.

On the other hand, if you make me wary, if I do not know if I trust you, my answer will simply be, “It’s complicated”.

We tell stories to reach out to one another, but also to conceal ourselves, to hide. If you ask me a question, and I think that you will think less of me if I reply truthfully, I will construct a web of lies; stir-up a smokescreen between us, on the far side of which I am desperately seeking a doorway out of the conversation. That confession, from a priest, might shock you. But I am human through-and-through. I am written and re-written in complex stories, of which I am a co-author.

The Bible is a story of stories. Stories people co-authored with God in order to navigate life. Stories written and re-written, in times of weeping and of laughing, times of scattering and of gathering, times of keeping and of discarding, in times of silence and times to give voice, in times of war and time for peace. Words carefully chosen, skilfully woven. Stories to enter-into, at times cautiously and at other times, jumping feet first. And this morning I want to reflect on two particular and incredibly powerful genres of story that we find in the Bible: myth, and parable.

In the study of narrative, myth is a technical term. It doesn’t refer to a story that is ‘made up’ (all stories are made up) or a story about gods or heroes (though it might feature those) but to a story that is concerned with reconciliation. With opposites being united. Think of fairy-tales. Think Beauty & the Beast: wealth and poverty, innocence and monstrosity, love and malice, all resolved into happily-ever-after. Myths paint a picture in big, bold, recurring contrasts. Myths dare us to believe that the seemingly entrenched divisions we experience—the gross injustices of life—will be resolved, one day. Myths comfort us when the world is a frightening place.

A parable, on the other hand, is a story that disrupts us, that lures us in with the familiar only to discomfort us. A parable presents us with a tension that is unresolvable, and asks us to simply live with it, because maintaining the polarity is important, just as it is essential for the life of a battery to maintain the polarity between anode and cathode. The Book of Jonah is a parable. It ends with Jonah in an unresolved stand-off with both God and the people of Nineveh (Jonah 4:9-11). To this day, the tale rudely reminds us of our own prejudices. Whereas myths settle us, parables unsettle us, agitate us. Whereas myths empower us to rest in God, parables empower us to repent where we have wandered far from home.

We need both myth and parable—which is why the Bible gives us both. And in our gospel passage on this first Sunday of Advent, Jesus tells us a myth (Luke 21:25-28 and 21:34-36), with a parable inserted within it (Luke 21:29-33).

Speaking to people living under the rule of an occupying superpower, Jesus retells an earlier myth of God’s redemption—of God’s reclaiming what is his and restoring the fortunes of his people. This is a vision of opposites being united, or re-united: the bringing-together of the heavens and the earth, of God and humanity, of Israel and Judah, of the Jews and the gentile nations and peoples. Only myth can convey a vision expansive enough to keep hope alive in the darkest hours, when all around are overwhelmed by dismay or lose their heads in the chaos. And this is not a sop to placate those who hunger for justice, but a subversive feast for the soul, to strengthen us on our journey, in our struggle. Not wishful thinking, but hope-full thinking.

But into this vision of redemption, Jesus adds an element of discomfort for us, the parable of the fig tree coming into leaf. Why a fig tree? Well, you may remember that when our first parents, having disobeyed the Lord God, realised what they had done, ‘they sewed fig leaves together and made loincloths for themselves’ (Genesis 3:7). When God came looking for his own, they were afraid and hid. As the collection of stories grew, the fig tree came to be a symbol of the Jewish people. And in a deeply important touchstone we read that ‘During Solomon’s lifetime Judah and Israel lived in safety, from Dan even to Beer-sheba, all of them under their vines and fig trees’ (1 Kings 4:25). This is a parable that speaks of God’s coming being something we want to hide from…but also something we long for—an unresolvable tension we are asked to live with.

The vision of redemption has, within it, an element of discomfort for us because at the heart of the fulfilling of God’s promise is justice; and so, we need to name and confess and repent of the ways in which we have chosen, or settled-for, injustice instead. We are not sole authors of our stories (they simply wouldn’t be robust enough if we were), but we are co-authors, not least in the plot-twists of the next chapter.

Today is the start of Advent, the season of preparing our hearts for the coming of the Lord. It is a season of myth and of parable: of rejoicing that light shines in our darkness and of facing up to whatever that light might expose. It is a season of paying close attention to the tension between our being comforted where we long for God’s coming, where we cry out for justice; and our being discomforted where we need to repent, where we need to be shaken out of our unrighteous self-interest. Because that place of tension is where God and our fellow human beings (neighbours and strangers), as co-authors, are calling us to write what comes next.

This Advent, may we step deeper than ever before into the fulfilment of the Lord’s promise, given to us in Jesus. Amen.

Notes:

To be clear, I believe that Christ ‘will come again to judge the living and the dead’—I just believe that myth is the genre we need to speak of such a thing.

If you want to read more about myth and parable, I recommend Mighty Stories, Dangerous Rituals: Weaving Together the Human and the Divine, by Herbert Anderson and Edward Foley.

Louise Penny’s novels are so tightly constructed in terms of unfolding character development and narrative arc that, if you want to read them, it is absolutely essential to read them in order. And stick with them.

I think one of the reasons I so enjoy Louise Penny’s novels is because she brings together myth and parable: the comforting, healing, hidden village of Three Pines; and the hidden recesses of the human heart brought to light—unlocked by the four key confessions Gamache lives by: “I’m sorry” “I don’t know” “I need help” “I was wrong”.

In his letter to the church in Thessalonica, Paul also draws on both myth and parable. In our reading today, he weaves together night and day, being kept apart and being face-to-face, lack and restoration. These verses sit within the context of parable: these people are experiencing persecution that will not be resolved—at least not in the foreseeable future—and, moreover, and most disconcertingly, some of their number have died, and the Lord has not yet returned.

Christ the King, 2018

Daniel 7:9-10, 13-14 and Revelation 1:4b-8 and John 18:33-37

The Book of Daniel presents a series of apocalyptic visions. Apocalypse, as a genre, is concerned with the rise and fall of nations in the course of history, and where on earth God might be in it all. Daniel is set in the years of the Exile, when the civil service of Jerusalem found themselves as migrants offering their administrative gifts within the civil service of the Neo-Babylonian, Median, and Persian empires. But the scope of the book also takes in the return home, when Jerusalem and the temple were rebuilt, only to be desecrated by the Hellenistic Seleucids—and, later still, occupied by the Romans. Where is God in this mess?

In Daniel’s vision, God is revealed as an Ancient One, a wise old head judge taking his seat. He does not pass judgement unilaterally, but in conference with fellow-judges; while angels beyond number serve the court in various roles. The defendant is brought in: one like a human being, or, Son of Man. We can presume that the case for the prosecution and the case for the defence are both heard. And then God passes his surprising judgement: reign over the kingdoms of the world, for ever.

The term ‘Son of Man’ is one used of Jesus in the Gospels, along with another term, ‘Son of God’. ‘Son of God’ is a term that refers to the one appointed by God to be the king in Jerusalem (see, for example, Psalm 1). ‘Son of Man’ is a term that (from this vision in Daniel) refers to the one appointed by God to be king over the nations. They are intended to coincide in the same representative of the same community, the chosen people of God. But in Daniel’s vision, the Son of Man is appointed in exile. The interpretation of the vision is this: that though it looks to all the world that God has rejected his people for their unfaithfulness, they have served their sentence and, having themselves experienced judgement, are now restored to be the instrument of God’s rule in the world. It is a delicious irony that, all along, the exiles Daniel, Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah have been exercising rule over the territories of pagan kings.

In John’s vision in the apocalyptic Revelation, it is the Church that is the defendant. Jesus is the faithful witness (remaining the ruler of the kings of the earth).

In our Gospel reading, Jesus is brought into a court room. The question under consideration is this: Are you the king of the Jews? What is not clearly defined is, Son of God, or Son of Man? King of the Jews, only, or king over the nations? Throughout John’s Gospel, Jesus uses both terms of himself, as well as the catch-both ‘the Son’. It is a dangerous claim, one for which the Jewish authorities eventually throw him under the omnibus…

Today is the Feast of Christ the King. The final Sunday of the church year. The culmination of it all: of Advent and Christmas and Epiphany; of Lent and Easter and Pentecost; of the long months of Ordinary time, in which we live-out what it means to follow Jesus. It all points to the vision of Jesus as the One appointed by God to rule over the nations. To exercise a reign of peace and reconciliation, drawing all things back together again. Despite whatever it might look like on the surface. On the surface, it looks like Pilate is judge and Jesus is defendant; but, in truth, Jesus is witness to the truth: and, following his execution-reversing resurrection, he will be confirmed judge over Pilate and the chief priests, over Jew and Gentile. And his judgement will be to reconcile them in his body, the Church.

The Feast of Christ the King is, in fact, the most recent major occasion in the church year to take its throne. It was instituted by Pope Pius XI in 1925, in order to help Christians live out their allegiance to Christ in the context of Mussolini’s messianic claim to sovereignty. History was tumultuous between the wars; and it is tumultuous in our day, ninety-three years on.

Brexit is delivering for us a future no one wants. Not the Remainers, and not the Brexiteers: plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose. Can we imagine, confidently, that in all this turmoil behind-the-scenes Jesus is seated on the throne as the One in whom those who are estranged are being reconciled? Will we seek to live out that story?

Can we imagine that those who are migrants and exiles might contribute something good and beautiful; might be a key part of how Christ the King exercises his rule? Will we challenge society to see them as gift from God, not an evil to be exorcised from our home? [The Bishop of Durham spoke on this in his Presidential Address to the Diocesan Synod yesterday.]

Will we testify to the truth, as those whose citizenship is not primarily what is written on the cover of our passport, but what is written in the open books of God?

Today we are once again caught up in the apocalyptic vision, not to proclaim that the world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but to be reminded of our vocation to be the people of God. A kingdom of priests—not just those of us with dog-collars, but all of us, serving the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, our king.

We are caught up, not to be removed from the world, but to be strengthened to go back, back to the places where we are sent. With renewed hope. With eyes to see. With good news to proclaim. With stories to tell. With a king to serve, passing judgement on the nations in the form of reconciliation. The end of the world, as we have known it.

So come, gaze upon the Ancient One and on the Son of Man. Gaze upon the wonders of heaven’s court, set up upon the earth. Then, go in pace, to love and serve the Lord. In the name of Christ. Amen.

Evensong on the Second Sunday before Advent 2018

Daniel 3 and Matthew 13:24-30, 36-43

Jesus’ parable of the weeds in the field is not a parable of the end of history and a final reckoning of humanity in that distant future, but, rather, a parable concerning the times in which he and his listeners lived. It is a parable that sees, on its near horizon, the destruction of Jerusalem in 70AD, after which some of the Jews will find themselves excluded from the kingdom of heaven [1] resulting in their weeping and gnashing of teeth; while some of the Jews will find themselves shining like the sun in the kingdom of their Father [1]. It is a parable that points to the vindication of the suffering church. It is a parable, as the theologian Andrew Perriman has put it, that is concerned with a ‘crisis of Jewish religion and identity under threat from a blasphemous and brutal paganism’.

And in this regard, it is a parable that parallels our first reading, Daniel 3. (and, note, both include a fiery furnace). Whereas the Gospels are set under Roman occupation, Daniel is set in the earlier Babylonian exile. Taken away from Jerusalem, from the land and the temple, the Jewish exiles faced a crisis of religion and identity. To find ways of remaining faithful to God where everything has changed beyond recognition. The representative figures Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah [2] have been given new names: Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. Their Hebrew names declare the praises of God [3]; their new names, imposed upon them, attribute those praises to Babylonian gods [4]. They have been moved from the civil service of Judah to the civil service of the Babylonian empire. Some of their contemporaries likely entirely assimilated themselves to the new world order. Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah do the hard work of keeping faith not only with God’s revealed past but also with God’s preferred future. They are able to bless their neighbours—even a deranged king—to the glory of God.

And what of us? We live in times of crisis: of identity-crisis in what it (has been,) is now, and will be to be England; and in what it (has been,) is now, and will be to be the Church of England. We live in times where we need to discern what is God’s preferred future for our city, our nation, our world; and to live faithfully to that, in the hope that we are vindicated—and even if, as the three young men understood, we are not vindicated in our lifetime.

[1] That is, God’s reign, as it is experienced on earth.

[2] Hananiah, Mishael, and Abednego may be fictional or at least fictionalised persons; but even if we take them to be historical, they do not stand for themselves alone, but represent those Jews who remained faithful in exile.

[3] Hananiah = Yahweh is gracious. Mishael = Who is like God? Azariah = Yawheh has been my helper.

[4] Shadrach = (possibly) Command of Aku (the moon god). Meshach = Who is as Aku is? Abednego = Slave of the god Nebo/Nabu (or, perhaps, the god Nergal).

Second Sunday before Advent 2018 (at St Nicholas')

Daniel 12:1-3 and Hebrews 10:11-14, 19-25 and Mark 13:1-8

We are living in days of crisis. I don’t mean to be alarmist, but to be of sober judgement. We are in a painful process of re-imagining and renegotiating our relationship with our European neighbours, and, indeed, the rest of the world. And we are, simultaneously, in a painful process of identity-crisis: what on earth does it mean to be England? And, related to that, what does it mean and what should it look like to be the Church of England?

On a much more local scale, what does it mean and what should it look like to be the Church of England in Sunderland, to be Wearmouth Deanery [in the Diocese of Durham], to be the parish of Bishopwearmouth St Nicholas?

One of Jesus’ disciples was moved by the grandeur of the temple, as, indeed, we are impressed by the grandeur of our churches. The collection of Leonard Evetts stained glass in the building is equally remarkable. It is not simply a matter of stones and buildings, but of the certainty they suggest, and the familiarity of religious identity grounded in them. But Jesus can foresee the fast-approaching day when the Romans will lay siege to Jerusalem and destroy the temple. You can see the stones they threw down to this day. And they are, indeed, very large. All of this, Jesus says, is birth pangs, of the new thing being born in the midst of the old thing.

Here and elsewhere, Jesus is describing an impending moment of crisis in Jewish religion and identity, in which some of the Jews will find themselves outside of the kingdom, weeping and gnashing their teeth; and others will find themselves vindicated. Where, to borrow the language of Daniel, some will be raised from the dust thrown up by those falling stones to new life, and some to shame. The temple system, with all its privilege, will be brought to an inglorious end; and the suffering church, in all its vulnerability, will be vindicated.

This week the Bishop gathered all the clergy of the diocese together for our annual study day. We were challenged, by our key-note guest speaker, to be faithful not only to the past, to what God has done in Jesus, but also to God’s preferred future. To discern, together, what God’s preferred future is for this city, and to live our communal life in faithfulness to that future. In round-table conversation, we were reminded that [God is, and therefore] we are in the businesses of palliative care and midwifery — of enabling what has been to have a good death, to die with dignity; and to bring to birth what will be. Palliative care and midwifery are, of course, two different skills. But bearing witness to our communal deaths and births are both and equally holy moments.

What has been at St Nicholas’ is not what will be. But what will be will be just as beautiful in its time as what was beautiful was beautiful in its time.

How, then, might we navigate this crisis of our time? Our reading from the Letter to the Hebrews gives us three key insights: let us approach; let us hold fast; and let us consider how.

Let us approach Jesus, who waits for us not in the past but in the future breaking into the present. Let us approach, in assurance that we can trust him to go before us into the unknown, to protect and to purify.

Alongside this, let us hold fast to the confession of our hope, made in the past, in communion with those who have gone before us, and on the grounds of God’s faithfulness in the past, over all the years of our life through the generations. We can trust God for the future because, together, we have always found that we could trust God for the future.

And let us consider how to provoke one another to love and good deeds, discerned and performed together. For God’s preferred future, whatever it may be, will be brought into being by love and good deeds, or not at all. Let us find in each other the courage we need when we are afraid of the dark, as the future dawn fast approaches.

In this spirit, this Advent I’d like to extend the invitation to take part in a discipleship group, held here at St Nicholas’ for the congregations of St Nicholas’ and Sunderland Minster together. Over five Tuesday evenings, we will explore what it might mean to journey in hope [27/11], to be found ready and watching [4/12], to witness to him [Jesus] [11/12], to be renewed in Christ’s image [18/12], and (in early new year) to live lives of overflowing gladness and praise [8/1/19]. Talk to me for further details, or sign-up through your Church Wardens. Together may we be built into something beautiful, to the glory of God. Amen.

Third Sunday before Advent (Remembrance Sunday) 2018

Jonah 3:1-5, 10 and Hebrews 9:24-28 and Mark 1:14-20

The tale of Jonah is a satirical short story for our times. Like Jesus’ parables, it is a work of fiction, not reportage; and like Jesus’ parables — indeed, all good fiction — its purpose is to slip past our defences. The story covers a lot of ground, beginning in Israel before heading west across the Mediterranean Sea towards Spain, and then turning back on itself and heading east to Syria. But really it is a mapping-survey of the geography of the human heart, ahead of an invasion.

Jonah himself was a known historical figure, anchored in turbulent time. King David and then his son Solomon had between them ruled for eighty years of relative peace and prosperity, but following Solomon’s death the kingdom divided in two, Israel to the north declaring independence from Judah to the south. Israel was ruled from Samaria, and Judah from Jerusalem, by two parallel lines of kings in uneasy truce with each other. Meanwhile, off-stage, other empires were rising. Assyria would lay successful siege to Samaria, and unsuccessful siege to Jerusalem. Later, the Babylonians would swallow the Assyrians — like a great fish swallowing a man whole — and lay successful siege to Jerusalem. Later still, the Persian empire would swallow-up the Babylonians.

Jonah, as I said, was a known historical figure. He was a prophet, a messenger from Yahweh, the Lord God, sent to the northern kingdom of Israel to proclaim the message, ‘Repent, or you shall be overthrown!’ Turn back to the God who brought your ancestors out of slavery in Egypt, or you will find yourselves in captivity again! But the people did not listen. The line of kings sitting in their palace in Samaria kept leading the people away from God, not back to God. And in the end the Assyrian army came and led them in the direction they had so determinedly chosen: away.

At the time of Jonah, the Assyrians were the very worst sort of people imaginable. The term Ninevite refers to the residents of their capital Nineveh; but it was synonymous with cruelty. All of which makes Jonah the perfect candidate for our story, and Nineveh the perfect destination. The word of the Lord came to Jonah, saying, ‘Go at once to Nineveh, that great city, and cry out against it; for their wickedness has come up before me.’ But Jonah sets out in the opposite direction, to the nearest port, in search of passage to the furthest edge of the world, where the Mediterranean joins the Atlantic Ocean. Fair enough, one might surmise: why go kicking a hornets’ nest? But it will transpire that Jonah does not run away because he is afraid of the Ninevites. Rather, he runs away because he is afraid that God intends to show mercy on them.

Jonah runs away to sea. God hurls a great wind upon the sea, causing a mighty storm, which is only calmed when Jonah persuades the sailors to throw him overboard. But God does not want Jonah as a dead sacrifice. God wants him as a living sacrifice. So, God sends a large fish to swallow him up, and, after three days and three nights, spew him up on dry ground. Self-chosen exile, and divinely-ordered return.

This is where we picked the story up. The word of the Lord came to Jonah a second time, again calling him to go and proclaim the message he had been entrusted with to the people of Nineveh. And it is, essentially, the same message that Jonah had been entrusted with to proclaim to his own people. But here is the satirical irony [in verses the Lectionary misses out, for no good reason]: the king of Nineveh, of these the worst people imaginable, the great enemy, rose from his throne and led his citizens in repentance.

And so, God, too, repents — that is, changes his mind, in the light of new evidence, of new circumstances, and takes a different course of action. And this — to continue with the satire — was very displeasing to Jonah. How dare the enemy of his people be more-godly than his own people!? How dare God care for the people of Nineveh on an equal footing with the people of Samaria!? The mask slips, and Jonah admits that he ran away because he did not want God to be who God had always claimed to be: a gracious God and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love, and ready to relent from punishing. In this moment, in these circumstances, Jonah would rather die than serve such a God.

Jonah is not alone. He isn’t a bad guy, he is a human being. And in common with all of us he is a sinner. That is not a moral judgement — you can be a righteous sinner or a wicked sinner — but, rather, it is a theological statement meaning that we are separated from God, from our neighbour, and from ourselves; and need reconciliation. That separation is expressed in our running away from God, but it is also expressed in our running to keep up with God. When Jonah runs away, he experiences the wrath of God — more theology, not irrational anger, as some fear, but that felt weight of God resisting our plans. This is as much an aspect of divine mercy and grace as is rescue and shelter. No matter how far we run away from God, when we can go no farther, we discover that God is right there.

Now, Jesus was sent with the same message as Jonah: “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe the good news.” That is: this is a moment of crisis that demands an urgent decision, God is about to judge the nations; turn back to him, and embrace a way of relating to others that is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, abounding in steadfast love, ready to relent from punishing.

There is an urgency to the proclamation, and to the called-for response. In the verses we heard read, Mark uses the word ‘immediately’ in relation to both Jesus and his first disciples. But it isn’t rushed. There is deliberate intention at work. Mark emphasises this when he tells us that Simon and Andrew were casting a net into the sea ‘for they were fishermen’. They weren’t simply filling time, until something more interesting or exciting comes along; and their following Jesus is just as purposeful, to fish for people. In the following verses, we discover that those people were — as in the days of Jonah — the worst sort imaginable: the demonised, the sick, those considered unclean, those paralysed by their (withheld) need for forgiveness, tax collectors, sinners. And there are some upright religious people who are deeply perplexed that God should long to show mercy to people like that.

You see, in Jesus, God went to the end of the age in hope of reconciliation with humanity (Hebrews 9:26). That is, Jesus brought to its end the age of earthly empires and ushered-in the age of the kingdom of God. In his followers, sent to all peoples, Jesus goes to the ends of the earth to proclaim and act-out that reconciliation. There is something deeply poignant to the young men being called away from home, a Pal’s Battalion recruited in the cause of peace.

Here we are, once again, on Remembrance Sunday. We remember the cost of enmity in the cycle of friends-become-enemies-become-friends-again-become-enemies-once-more. We also come, as followers of Jesus, to help one another to remember ourselves, to turn from all that divides us from our neighbour, and to commit ourselves to work for peace. In this centenary of the 1918 cease-fire, the call is as urgent and clear as it was in the days of Jonah and of Jesus. Go in peace, to love and serve the Lord. In the name of Christ, amen.

All Saints' Day 2018

Isaiah 25:6-9

Whether or not it is to your personal taste, we are a nation obsessed with food programmes on tv. This week saw Ruby Bhogal, Rahul Mandal, and Kim-Joy Hewlett go head-to-head in the final of the Great British Bake-Off [no spoilers here as to who won]. And Bake-Off is the perfect example of the genre, because it is about so much more than the food. We come back, year after year, to consume the contestants. True, the haters, internet trolls, devour and spit back out. But the rest of us enjoy a leisurely feast, morsels of lives beyond the tent, titbits of interaction and unseen footage. We take the contestants to our hearts, to our bellies, to our bones, and we are nourished by the milk of their human kindness, in giving of themselves. Who couldn’t love innocent, neurotic Rahul, a fish so painfully out of chowder?

Our reading from Isaiah are among the most striking and surprising verses in the Bible. Imagine this: watching the BBC News Channel as report after report comes in from all around the Middle East: Tom Bateman reporting from Jerusalem; John Simpson reporting from Iraq; Lyse Doucet reporting from Jordan; Lyse Doucet reporting from Syria; Emmanuel Igunza reporting from Ethiopia; Orla Guerin reporting from Egypt; Lyse Doucet (again) reporting from Saudi Arabia; Jeremy Bowen reporting from Lebanon — and then, as if unable to stomach any more, suddenly switching to Channel 4, and Sandi Toksvig and Noel Fielding presenting Bake-Off.

The LORD is producing his show-stopper: making an exquisite feast for all the peoples, full of flavours, demonstrating great technical ability. Just hearing him describe what he is attempting is enough to make our mouths salivate in anticipation. And, of course, it’s all about the presentation, too. He spreads out a table-cloth, stretching out wide enough for all the surrounding nations to sit down together. A common-ground. The shared experience of death, the table cloth that becomes a shroud, or the shroud that becomes a table cloth. Because, you see, this imagery is not so different from what comes before after all: imagery of impending judgement followed by restoration for all the nations.

And then, in a most unexpected twist, God also eats, not the feast but the table cloth. Slowly, savouring every bitter mouthful, he swallows it up whole. Drawing it into himself. Drawing those sat at its edges closer together. And when all that is left is the size of a handkerchief, and the people are now drawn very near, he takes the corner and wipes away their tears, before the final gulp. And the people, amazed and astonished, will say, ‘we waited for the LORD, only to find out that it was the LORD who waited on us!’

This is not a vision of heaven as pie in the sky when you die. This is a vision of the kingdom of heaven grounded in the almost-upon-us; and in a thoroughly, corporate, bodily experience of tingling taste-buds, culinary triumph, award-winning wines; and of salty tears and gut-wrenching sense of never being good enough, wiped away. This is a vision of our being collectively judged and, potentially, rewarded in the here-and-now: where the challenge set is, will you humble yourself to be served by the LORD of hosts, or will you refuse? If you exalt yourself, you will be brought low; but if you humble yourself, you will be exalted.

This is a Bake-Off vision of the drama building and the tension mounting as the clock ticks down; of taste-testing the finished product; of Star-Bakers and Being-Sent-Home; of tears welling-up in Kim-Joy’s eyes before the judges; and Ruby’s determination to keep going, for tomorrow is another day, a fresh start; and Rahul, who seems unable to eat affirmation and assimilate its goodness into a healthy self-esteem — and an audience of 8 million viewers still keeping faith, holding on to the hope that eventually he’ll get it, the salvation we long for him. This is Rahul, and Ruby, and Kim-Joy, as representatives of the Great British public in 2018.

This is also Mary’s song, “He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts. He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly; he has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty” (Luke 1:51-53). And this is Jesus, sitting down with his disciples and a multitude on a mountain, and declaring, “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled” (Matthew 5:6).

The thing about prophetic revelation concerning the One who was, and is, and is to come, is that we are always in the moment. In the midst of international turmoil, the fall and rise of nations and displacement of peoples, the LORD is still preparing his table. Still baking the finest bread, still selecting the finest wine. Even now, spreading out — and swallowing — the table-cloth; even now, wiping away our tears and taking away our disgrace. Today, and every today, we might experience both the longing and the consummation. Each time we gather together with our neighbours, from far and near, around the Lord’s table we are given a taste of the kingdom — and then sent out to extend that table into every place, every encounter. Today, as we come, we give special thanks for all those women and men who have come before us, and by whose example we respond in our time. Let us be glad and rejoice in his salvation.