Maundy Thursday 2018

Exodus 12:1-14 and John 13:1-17, 31b-35

I’m struck by what Jesus does at the Last Supper; because it is the very opposite of what he is supposed to do. And I don’t mean a rabbi taking the role of a servant.

Did you catch the instructions for how to eat the Passover meal? “Grab your coat; tie your laces; get that grub down your neck! Come On!” It’s like breakfast on any given weekday in my house.

But what does Jesus do? Takes off his coat; gets everyone to take off their shoes. Waits while Peter has a little stand-off—that’s just like it is in my house, too—and slows the eating right down.

Why?

I want to suggest that Jesus isn’t (just) enacting the last meal before departure, but (also) the first meal after arrival at the destination. The meal that lies beyond the road through the Sea of Death that will give way to let God’s people through; that lies beyond the generation of eye-witnesses dying before they see the fulfilment of their hope. The meal that will be eaten in the Promised Land: the call to live differently from all the surrounding peoples, in such a way that God is glorified.

When you get there—when you arrive home—you hang your coat on the hook, kick off your shoes, and sit round the kitchen table drinking wine and telling stories late into the night. And you do the freely-engaged work of treating others with dignity, as those who are no longer slaves.

Jesus says, do what I have done. Remind one another of what you have been set free from—and of what you have been set free for. And then live as if we were already there. Live in such a way that pulls the future into the present.

Wednesday of Holy Week 2018

Isaiah 50:4-9a and Hebrews 12:1-3 and John 13:21-32

His father was dying, he told me, and his mother and sister had had such a strong disagreement over how best to assist him that they were no longer speaking to one another.

Most people wish to die free from pain. And we can go a long way towards freeing the dying from physical pain. Emotional suffering is a somewhat harder matter. It is not unusual for the dying to feel shame, at ‘failing’ their families not through what they have done (that would cause guilt, not shame) but because in their very being they are not ‘enough’ (whatever that might be) to keep living. It is also not unusual for those who are bereaved to feel shame, over their inability to ‘get over’ their loss (though no one ever gets over loss; but learns to inhabit a differently-shaped life) or sometimes because of broken relationships among the survivors. Sometimes we are left feeling shame, that stains deeper than guilt, because of how we acted towards a loved one in their final days, or because of shaming words spoken over us by others from the place of their own grief.

Isaiah knew the life-taking ways of shame, and shaming, and shouted-back into the gale, ‘and I know that I shall not be put to shame; he who vindicates me is near.’ The writer of the letter to the Hebrews (who may have been Priscilla, the only female author in the New Testament) had these words to say about shame: ‘let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus the pioneer and perfecter of our faith, who for the sake of the joy that was set before him endured the cross, disregarding its shame’.

Last night, I confessed to being arrested by the question, how does the way in which Jesus approaches his death help us to approach our own? Last night, we thought about something he did for himself, and tonight at something Jesus did for those closest to him. In our Gospel reading, we see Jesus put shame to shame. Did you notice how, in his dealing with Judas, the eye-witness John recalls, ‘Now no one at the table knew why he [Jesus] said this to him [Judas—or Satan, who had entered into him?]’? Jesus is concerned that none of his disciples will have to live with shame: not even his betrayer.

If the fast-working antidote to guilt is forgiveness, the life-long antidote to shame is honour, expressed through intimacy extended and freedom respected. Jesus honours us, by inviting us to his supper and by respecting our freedom to walk away. Whom might we need to honour, before it is too late, before we come to the hour of our death?

Tuesday of Holy Week 2018

Isaiah 49:1-7 and John 12:20-36

‘He made my mouth like a sharp sword, in the shadow of his hand he hid me; he made me a polished arrow, in his quiver he hid me away.’ (Isaiah)

‘After Jesus had said this, he departed and hid from them.’ (John)

Jesus knew that the time for him to die was drawing very near. Of course, as Christians we believe that his death has, somehow, resulted in spiritual life for us. But this year I have been struck by something else. I find myself arrested by the question, how does the way in which Jesus approaches his death help us to approach our own? Because we will all die; and death is always with us, however hard the society we live in tries to ignore that. Tomorrow, I want to consider something Jesus does for those closest to him. But tonight, I want to consider something Jesus does for himself. At the end of our Gospel reading we heard that Jesus hid himself away. He wasn’t hiding from death, or hiding from God, but hiding from the crowd. Hiding from all the people who wanted more from him, hiding from the distraction, hiding in preparation for the work that only he could do, the work of his death.

And while your death and mine will not result in the salvation of humankind, our death is also a work the Father has for us, through which he may be glorified. A work no one else can do for us, and in which they can accompany us only so far.

What does it feel like to withdraw, to pull away from family and friends—perhaps to pull away from this congregation—to turn from living to dying? In a sense, only those who have done so know. Some have drawn apart through serious illness, only to be given their life back again: their time to die had not yet come. Others have gone before us into the glory of God’s presence: you may call them to mind.

It is right and proper, of course, to visit the dying. There are other aspects of the work of death that must be attended to: giving and receiving forgiveness; expressing love, and thanks; saying good-bye. To enable the place of hiding is not the same as abandoning someone to face death alone. Yet, this being hidden in the shadow of God’s hand is part of the process by which our dying participates in the victory over death. Following Jesus, may we release one another into that mystery. And if we should find ourselves drawn by the Spirit to the hidden place, may we find Jesus there hiding with us, prized possession of our heavenly Father.

Evensong, Fifth Sunday of Lent 2018

Exodus 7:8-24 and Romans 5:12-21

This week saw the death of the world’s most eminent cosmologist, Professor Stephen Hawking. Hawking’s early work set out to prove, by the discipline of Physics, that the universe had a beginning. His later work set out to prove, by the same means, that it did not. My own study of cosmology lies within the discipline of Theology—the Queen of Sciences—and, theologically-speaking, we can also pursue both ends. If the universe is the outward expression of God’s creativity, creativity being an inherent quality of an eternal God, then the universe has source but may indeed have no beginning.

In the beginning was a story. A creation-story. But Genesis opens not with creation out of nothing, but, rather, with the creation of order and harmony out of chaos. A liberation-story. An exodus of creation, if you will. Later in the unfolding story, we get glimpses behind the beginning, to an angelic rebellion against the Creator God, with cosmic consequences [see the archangel Michael defeating the dragon, depicted in our East Window].

Exodus, the second book of the Bible, begins in much the same way as the first. God’s creation, the family of Israel, have been enslaved by chaos, personified by the Pharaoh, acting on behalf of the gods of Egypt, spiritual beings in rebellion against YHWH’s purposes for the universe. In the same way that YHWH had thrown-down the rebellious gods and set free the observable universe, so will YHWH overthrow the gods of Egypt and set free the Hebrew people.

Statement of intent is given when Aaron throws down his staff—the symbol of divinely-given authority—and it turns into a snake. Except it doesn’t. According to the Hebrew text, it turns into a sea-dragon, understood across the Ancient Near East as a symbol of chaos. The translators only put ‘snake’ because they don’t believe in dragons, which is foolish (and, in case you are wondering, no, it isn’t the same word as the serpent in the Garden). In modern Hebrew, the word means ‘crocodile’—but this was no Nile crocodile, either. It was a dragon. If you ask me whether I believe in creatures that are universally known to human culture, I will tell you, yes; and if you ask me for proof, I will reply, more proof than universal evidence?

Pharaoh summons the priests of his gods to respond. Instead of turning the sea-dragon into something harmless (which, by the way, wouldn’t be back into a powerful staff) they summon forth several more. But Aaron’s sea-dragon swallows all of theirs. This is incredibly important. What is being said is this: that Egypt (symbolised by the sorcerers’ dragons) has swallowed-up Israel, but that Egypt in turn is about to be swallowed-up. Chaos has engulfed YHWH’s people, but is about to be engulfed by something greater. This will come to pass when the Egyptian army is swallowed-up by the Red Sea (Sea of Reeds).

Notice has been given; but Pharaoh does not heed the warning. What follows is a series of hyper-natural events: nature escalating out of control. A series of ecological disasters, that point to something greater: these are the consequences of Pharaoh violating YHWH’s will for harmonious order, for inter-dependent freedom; violating this by persisting in holding people captive as slaves. Pharaoh’s actions express cosmic rebellion, and have cosmic consequence, in which the natural world and human lives within it are all caught-up.

We—people; not only Christian people—still talk about ecological disasters in a similar way today. We need to be careful how we do so; but we also need to recognise that such events do indeed call us to repentance, to stewardship of the earth, to concern for the wellbeing of the most vulnerable.

Aaron takes his staff and strikes the Nile, and the water turns to blood, or something like it. It is a clear sign that this will not end well for those who resist YHWH’s intention to oppose chaos and set creation free. But again, the magicians of Egypt escalate the problem they face, turning any water Aaron had missed to blood. Death spreads and spreads, touching every living thing. But God will bring about an exodus.

Writing to the church in Rome, Paul also speaks of slavery and exodus. It is, after all, the founding-story of his people—indeed, they’d since been swallowed-up by the Babylonians, and, most recently, by the Romans. But Paul expands its horizons: sin and death have swallowed-up everyone who has ever lived; yet, now, they face being swallowed-up by the grace of God, expressed through Jesus Christ. Those who hope in Christ, both Jew and Gentile, have been caught-up in a new exodus. Specifically, the gods of the Roman world were about to be judged, and the (remnant) people of God rescued through that judgement (though God would judge his own people first).

These exoduses have this-world historical consequences, as well as cosmic implications. God judged the gods of Egypt and of Rome, bringing a people out of captivity to proclaim his praise, and to establish a pattern of creation that reflected the divine will. First, the people of Israel; then, the Church. The question is, where do we find ourselves today?

Are we in need of a new exodus in our time?

Is the Church held captive to other gods?

Are the nations being judged?

Can we be faithful to our founding stories?

And might we declare that sea-dragons will be swallowed?

Fourth Sunday of Lent 2018

Exodus 2:1-10 and Colossians 3:12-17 and John 19:25b-27

Sweeping back-story: Polygamous Jacob—renamed Israel by God—has twelve sons and a daughter by four wives. Just imagine what Mothers’ Day would have been like in that household! Joseph—second-youngest son; daddy’s favourite; bit of an upstart—so angers his brothers that they throw him into a dry well and then sell him to human traffickers, who sell him on to a high-ranking Egyptian army-officer. Falsely accused of attempted rape, Joseph ends up in another tight spot, a celebrity prison for celebrity inmates. But his God-given ability to interpret dreams eventually gets him an audience with Pharaoh, and the job of heading-up Egypt’s disaster-relief organisation. As famine grips the wider region, Joseph is eventually reunited with his treacherous brothers, and—after letting them squirm awhile—is reconciled with his entire dysfunctional family. The whole of Egypt owes a debt of gratitude to Joseph—and is financially indebted to Pharaoh—and as a result, the family of Israel get to stay as refugee guests-of-honour—while the native-born Egyptians are, in effect, slaves to their ruler. So far, so Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice. But, for whatever reason, when things start to look up back home, the sons of Israel don’t go back.

Fast-forward: that Pharaoh is dead and buried under shifting sand. A new Pharaoh comes to the throne. He does not know the back-story. He is troubled by the Israelites. He believes that if opportunistic foreigners attack from outside, the opportunistic foreigners within their borders will side with those others, and All Would Be Lost. And so, he turns the tables, so that now it is the Israelites who are enslaved. Why did they allow it to happen? Perhaps, valuing their own history, they remembered that this was the move by which Egypt had provided for her citizens in the past. In any case, the more they were oppressed, the more they multiplied and spread. Pharaoh is forced to think again. This time he summons Shiprah and Puah, the Hebrew midwives, and orders them to kill any Hebrew boys at birth. But midwives are A Force To Be Reckoned With. These feisty women defy Pharaoh. Essentially, they tell him that Egyptian women are Too Posh To Push; whereas not so the Hebrew women: for when they Call The Midwife, well, by the time the midwife gets there, the child is already born and nursing. Forced back once more, Pharaoh commands the Egyptian people to spy on their Hebrew neighbours, to note all pregnancies, and to throw any boys born into the Nile.

This is where we pick the story up. A woman brings forth a son; and sees that he is good. We are expected to recall God looking on his creative acts and declaring the result good. Next, she makes a waterproof basket to float on the waters; but in Hebrew the word for the basket is the same one as that used for the ark, in which God sealed Noah. Again, we are expected to make the connection. We are being invited to see the actions of this woman as recalling and representing God’s activity, as continuing God’s actions in the present.

It is interesting to observe that, in this account, no one is named. Pharaoh is a title: when we attempt to grasp on to what passes for earthly power, when we become the oppressor, we dehumanise ourselves as much as those we oppress. The boy’s father and mother and sister all go un-named. The fact that all three are named later in the story tells us that they are un-named not because they don’t matter, but deliberately, to make a point. Pharaoh’s daughter is not named; nor her attendants or her maid. Finally, when the child grew up, he is given an adoptive name by Pharaoh’s daughter: an ambiguous name that works in both Egyptian and Hebrew. But as for whatever name his birth-mother called him, that remains hidden.

This is a story about two contrasting constructions of what it looks like to be powerful and powerless. Pharaoh is all-powerful, according to one. Yet he is powerless to prevent his power from being undermined by a woman who obeys his edict and casts her son into the Nile—dripping wet with irony—and a daughter of his own household who defies his edict and draws the baby boy out of the Nile.

The Pharaohs are long gone. But, with the pyramids, their traditional construction of power remains. Indeed, it remains the dominant one. From this world-view, we might consider the women of our first reading to be subversive—and we might view such subversion as needed. Better, I think, to perceive them as modelling for us a wholly-other construction of power—a God-endorsed pattern in which power is exercised not through control but through conferring and reaffirming life; through recognising the Other (albeit that such recognition can only ever be partial, on the basis of revelation, or, what the Other chooses to share and what they conceal—which is to say, such recognition is necessarily relational); through choosing freedom, for ourselves and others.

Such power-of-the-powerless is transformative. It risks self; fosters ingenuity; births creativity; all-but-bursts-its-banks with trust; waits with active patience to see what will unfold; is moved by pity; improvises boldly. It is also costly, over-and-over-again. Imagine yourself in their position.

This same power-of-the-powerless is displayed in our Gospel reading. Here, again, women take the lead in an act of defiance in the face of injustice; an act of bearing witness to truth, before the soldiers and chief-priests, the representatives of Pharaoh-style power (which always appeals to divine appointment). Here, again, the power-of-the-powerless is costly: a mother watching her son die a slow and agonising death under conditions of torture; a woman who will—miraculously—be given back her son, only to have to give him up again. Here, again, the power-of-the-powerless is relational: not only in the moment of protest, but afterward, in the living with consequences. A man and a woman, needing one another, so as not to be alone. To keep one another company, to work side-by-side. The power of the powerless brings men and women together.

Earlier this week, we marked International Women’s Day (8^th March). Today is both Mothers’ Day—a celebration of mothers, biological and otherwise—and Mothering Sunday—a day to return to our mother Church, the place where we were drawn from the waters of our baptism. In her short but insightful, and eminently readable, Women & Power: A Manifesto, Professor Mary Beard concludes:

‘You cannot easily fit women into a structure that is already coded as male; you have to change the structure. That means thinking about power differently. It means decoupling it from public prestige. It means thinking collaboratively, about the power of followers not just of leaders. It means, above all, thinking about power as an attribute or even a verb (‘to power’), not as a possession. What I have in mind is the ability to be effective, to make a difference in the world, and the right to be taken seriously, together as much as individually. It is power in that sense that many women feel they don’t have—and that they want.’ (Beard, 2017, pp. 86, 87)

The world is still in thrall to Pharaoh, and Caesar, and always will be. God consistently holds out an alternative way (often, watching evil implode in on itself); and though it is for men and women, again and again it is women who have shown the way. There is no irony in my publicly recognising that as a man. God—not the world, not political-correctness, nor indeed political corrective—calls us to exercise the very power Professor Beard speaks of. And though the Church falls short as much as anyone, we have the indwelling Holy Spirit. We have the mantle of compassion, kindness, humility, meekness (that is, having a teachable spirit), and patience. We have the tools of forgiveness, love, and peace; of thankfulness, and gratitude. And we have the most amazing treasury of stories to inspire us, and our daughters and sons, in the footsteps of Moses’ mother Jochebed and of Jesus’ mother Mary.

May we learn from them. And may we represent God as faithfully as they did.

Third Sunday of Lent 2018

Exodus 20:1-17 and 1 Corinthians 1:18-25 and John 2:13-22

Today, across Durham Diocese, the clergy have been asked to preach on the theme of vocation. I’ll come back to what ‘the clergy’ means; but first, what do we mean by ‘vocation’? Vocation refers to the call of God on someone’s life. It implies that we are neither the masters of our own destiny, nor slaves to fate. We might even learn to hear Jesus calling “follow me!” at many different times and in many different places over the course of our lives, but if we do, it is as commentary on our primary vocation, which we receive at our baptism. That vocation is to be a royal priesthood.

If you have been baptised, whether you were brought to baptism by your parents or came under your own volition, then, male or female, young or old, you have been ordained a priest by Jesus.

Peter puts it like this: ‘let yourselves be built into a spiritual house [household], to be a holy priesthood, to offer spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God through Jesus Christ…But you [in contrast to those who do not believe] are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s own people, in order that you may proclaim the mighty acts of him who called you out of darkness into his marvellous light.’ (1 Peter 2:5, 9).

If you have been baptised, you are a member of a holy and royal priesthood. If you are preparing for baptism, that is what you are being prepared for. That is your primary vocation: to offer spiritual sacrifices to God on behalf of the world, and to proclaim God’s mighty acts to the world.

Other than Jesus’ own priesthood, that is the only priesthood [Greek: hierateuma] the New Testament letters to and for the Church speaks of. So why do we refer to certain people as priests, and not others? Well, that has to do with the story of the church and the story of language. The Church is the people of God: in Greek, the laos, from which we get the word ‘laity’. For a long time, whenever the local church gathered around the Lord’s table, they drew lots to determine which one of them would preside. The Greek word for casting lots is kleros, from which we get the word ‘clergy’ for the one chosen by the casting of lots. In time, the pattern of practice became simplified and codified, and ‘the clergy’ became those members of ‘the laity’ set apart by the Church for a specific role, to facilitate the whole church in their offering of spiritual sacrifices and proclaiming of God’s mighty acts. Although this hadn’t yet happened when the New Testament was written, the trajectory is already there, where we find servants [Greek: diakonos], elders [Greek: presbuteros, of the council of elders, and pertaining to being a representative] and overseers or guardians [Greek: episkopos]. In time, these roles formalised as those of deacons, elders, and bishops; and in even longer time, through what can happen to words as they pass through different languages and cultures, elders became known as priests.

The simplest way that I can describe it is to say that Jesus ordains every member of his household to a priestly role; and that the household, the Church, ordains certain members to a very particular expression of that priestly role. That might sound complicated at first; but our lives are lived in a dynamic relationship with history, and language, and culture, and in partnership with God.

Let’s turn to our readings, and ask how they might help us think about vocation?

Our first reading today is familiar to us as the Ten Commandments. But what might be less familiar is that, from first to last—from not comparing our God against other gods, to not envying our neighbour’s lot—they frame the vocation to be a priestly people. [i] Proclaim the mighty acts of Yahweh, who delivered his people from slavery to the gods of Egypt. [ii] Acknowledge his authority, over gods and humans. [iii] Represent the Lord your God faithfully in the world. [iv] Rest from your work, as those who are no longer slaves; take time to recognise creation as holy. [v] Honour the elderly, and your heritage. [vi] Do not be like Cain, who of envy murdered his brother. [vii] Do not hold fidelity in contempt. [viii] Do not steal. [ix] Do not bear false witness in court. [x] Do not covet the blessings your neighbour has received from God’s hand. For you were called out of darkness, and the deeds of darkness do not befit you. They are not acceptable sacrifices, nor are they true proclamation.

Our second reading reminds us that this vocation does not depend on our wisdom or study or eloquence, for God has chosen foolishness and weakness to demonstrate his wisdom and power, in Christ, crucified.

Our Gospel reading reminds us that it is Jesus who is foundational, his actions that are foundational; and that human action, however glorious, however well-intended*, is always provisional, must remain open to his challenge and his invitation. (The Jewish elders set themselves against Jesus, which should serve as a salutary warning to all those called by the Church to be an elder, or presbyter, or, priest.)

So, on this Vocations Sunday, the question is not, ‘Are you called to be a priest?’ but, ‘What kind of a priest are you called to be?’ Are you called by Jesus (yes!) or are you called by Jesus and by the Church (perhaps)?

As a priestly people, we proclaim the story which is both God’s and ours. When we gather, different people take turns reading from the Bible; and then one of us—acting under the authority of the bishop—offers some thoughts on what the story we have heard might mean for us today. And then, we go out into the world, carrying that story with us to our homes and workplaces and leisure activities and social media pages; reflecting on it; reflecting it; seeking to live-into it. We make connections between our lives, and the lives of our neighbours, and the story that speaks to us of all the hopes and dreams and joys and sorrows and longings and frustrations and failings and miracle of human life.

As a priestly people, we gather around the Lord’s table. And one sets out bread and wine; and another brings the bread forward, and yet another brings forward the wine. And then one—acting under the authority of the bishop—asks God to bless what we have brought with thankful hearts; and distributes the bread; and others carry the wine to the people. And then, we go out to the world, taking-up other ordinary things like a farmer’s seed and a fisherman’s net and a merchant’s pearl and a baker’s dough—or a nurse’s blood pressure cuff and a teacher’s white board pen—asking God to bless them, for the blessing of others. We go, lifting to God our families, our neighbours, our colleagues and customers in prayer; seeking, somehow, to be part of the answer.

This is what we are called to. This is our vocation. All of us. And it may be that today the Holy Spirit is stirring your heart to see what you do and how you do it—and, indeed, who you are—in a new light. If so, I’d love to speak with you, because my time is set aside to walk with you in that commonplace wonder.

But it is just possible that your spirit is stirring at the possibility that the Church may be calling your priestly vocation to be expressed through a specific role or office: as a Reader (an authorised preaching and teaching ministry), or to ordination by the Church, or to the Religious life as a monk or nun (a communal life set apart for prayer: whether for a season of a year, or for life). If so, I’d love to speak with you, too.

You’d be surprised how often I have such conversations here, at the Minster. With women and men; younger than me, and older than me, and of a similar age to me. Some of those conversations get put on hold, to be returned to at a later time; some reach the conclusion that being ordained by Jesus at their baptism is call enough in the world; some go on to further conversations with representatives of the wider Church. All of them are conversations that involve other people one way or another, because it is through one another that the Church tests the call.

At the present, we are looking to encourage these calls among those aged 18-30; but we are actively open to those who are older, even those already of retirement age; and actively open to calling women and men from a variety of backgrounds. Some will be stipendiary, like me; some, self-supporting, like Jacqui; some in chaplaincy, like Chris.

Perhaps, in the future, it should be you stood here, or somewhere like here; preaching, or presiding. Perhaps wherever it is you live out your royal and holy priesthood right now is not the most appropriate location, after all.

May God build up his household in this place. And as we respond, may we, the Church, identify those we will call to reader training, ordained ministry, and the religious life. Amen.

*The selling of animals for sacrifice in the temple was motivated by the need to address the problem of how to help people, who were no longer nomadic farmers, bring the necessary offering before God. However, the marketplace was set up in the outer-most court of the temple complex, the Court of the Gentiles, or, the only part of the temple that non-Jews were permitted to enter. This action therefore robbed the ‘god-fearing’ (those Gentiles who recognised Yahweh as the supreme god) of the provision made for them to take part in public worship, or, prayer.

Appendix:

These words, taken from the Commission and Sending Out in the Baptism service (Common Worship), give shape to the priesthood of all believers.

Those who are baptised are called to worship and serve God.

Will you continue in the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of bread, and in the prayers?

With the help of God, I will.

Will you persevere in resisting evil, and, whenever you fall into sin, repent and return to the Lord?

With the help of God, I will.

Will you proclaim by word and example the good news of God in Christ?

With the help of God, I will.

Will you seek and serve Christ in all people, loving your neighbour as yourself?

With the help of God, I will.

Will you acknowledge Christ’s authority over human society, by prayer for the world and its leaders, by defending the weak, and by seeking peace and justice?

With the help of God, I will.

May Christ dwell in your hearts through faith, that you may be rooted and grounded in love and bring forth the fruit of the Spirit.

Amen.