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.