Christmas 2019 [Set I]

Lectionary readings: Isaiah 9:2-7 and Luke 2:1-20

And so, here we are. We have made it to Christmas. And I wonder, how are you? Really, how are you? Exhausted is a valid option.

The Church of England’s Christmas theme for last year, this year, and next year is ‘Follow the Star.’ It is taken, of course, from the journey of the Magi. And that journey was calculated, was navigated, was at least in part undertaken, by night. A learning to walk towards Jesus, wrong turns included, in the dark. Starlight falls on the earth continually, but we only see it in darkness.

I know almost nothing about the heavens, other than that they are beautiful. Earlier this year, Stuart and Angela lent their cottage in a dark sky forest to my family for a week’s holiday. Far away from city light pollution, the forest park promises the stars. But in the event, clouds blew in every evening, and in the whole of the time we were there, I did not see a solitary star. It was good to get away for a break, but I came home a little disappointed.

The prophet Isaiah declared, ‘The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness — on them light has shined.’ And in that light, joy takes the place of a burden. Joy like that of the harvesters. Harvest, of course, was a time of hard work, the whole community working together with common purpose. Joy, and hope: for in this light, something has not been completed but begun. The boots of the tramping warriors and all the garments rolled in blood shall be burned as fuel for the fire; but, for now, what we see is a baby, whose authority shall grow continually, extending well-being from that smallest of beginnings.

How are you, this Christmas? Chances are, for at least some of us this year, and all of us over time, that you are living in deep darkness. I’m thinking of the parents who have shared with me their concern for their children, because their children suffer from anxiety or anger, or have chosen to reject their family. I’m thinking of those young people, too, just as much in need of light to shine on them.

I’m thinking of those who in recent days have confided in me that they are nursing cancer or dementia, a deepening darkness within, as the light of this life slowly sets. And those who journey through life with them.

I’m wondering, what cruel warriors tramp their boots over your life in these days, splattering their garments with your blood?

Not every one of us will identify with that first-hand this Christmas, but we know darkness to be at the very centre of both our experience of life and also the Christmas story.

Yet also at the heart of the Christmas story is a homecoming. The child, descendant of David and heir to his throne, is found in the tiny village that proudly proclaims itself the city of David. Joseph has recently brought his wife Mary from her father’s home in Nazareth to his father’s home in Bethlehem — and incidentally, by cultural tradition the final stage of the journey in which a groom accompanied his bride from her parents’ home to his, was conducted at night [see Jesus’ parable of the wise and foolish virgins]. The shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night — heirs of David’s childhood task — see the glory of the Lord shining around them, and are sent into Bethlehem, to find a child in a manger.

These journeys by night are a homecoming, to the promises made by God. A homecoming to joy that gives us strength to face warriors in the present; and to a sign of hope for the future, a sign of God’s peace, that though it be not so right now, all shall be well.

The gift of Jesus, the one in whom God-is-with-us in the darkness, is given just when we needed it. That is why you are here. You have followed the star and found the Christ-child. His story, the story of the Magi, your story, our story does not end here. Like the Magi, the shepherds, the holy family, you do not need to walk alone. It takes a community to carry one another’s burdens, and to share the weightiness of star-lit wonder.

This Christmas, welcome home. Come in. We’re glad you made it.

Christmas 2019 [Set III]

Lectionary readings: Isaiah 52:7-10 and John 1:1-14

And so, here we are. We have made it to Christmas. And I wonder, how are you? Really, how are you? Exhausted is a valid option; as is excited: and they are not mutually exclusive.

The Church of England’s Christmas theme for last year, this year, and next year is ‘Follow the Star.’ It is taken, of course, from the journey of the Magi. And that journey was calculated, was navigated, was at least in part undertaken, by night. A learning to walk towards Jesus, wrong turns included, in the dark. Starlight falls on the earth continually, but we only see it in darkness.

I know almost nothing about the heavens, other than that they are beautiful. Earlier this year, Stuart and Angela lent their cottage in a dark sky forest to my family for a week’s holiday. Far away from city light pollution, the forest park promises the stars. But in the event, clouds blew in every evening, and in the whole of the time we were there, I did not see a solitary star. It was good to get away for a break, but I came home a little disappointed.

The prophet Isaiah speaks of a messenger who brings good news. A description of the angel who comes to the shepherds in Luke’s Gospel, or of John the Baptist preparing the way in the Prologue of the Gospel According to John. And Isaiah declares to God’s people, ‘Listen! Your sentinels lift up their voices, together they sing for joy.’ And while I have no doubt that the image Isaiah has in mind is of watchmen on the city walls, as I wonder at his words, I wonder whether the stars in the bright sky looking down might not also be joyful sentinels? Pinpricks of light in the darkness, of joy and hope in the night.

How are you, this Christmas? Chances are, for at least some of us this year, and all of us over time, that you are needing the Lord’s comfort. I’m thinking of the parents who have shared with me their concern for their children, because their children suffer from anxiety or anger, or have chosen to reject their family. I’m thinking of those young people, too, just as much living in need of good news.

I’m thinking of those who in recent days have confided in me that they are besieged by cancer or dementia, which will eventually bring their glory to ruins. And those who journey through life with them.

Life can feel under siege at times. But even ruins can break forth into singing, in response to the message of salvation.

Not every one of us will identify with that first-hand this Christmas, but we know darkness to be at the very centre of both our experience of life and also the Christmas story.

The words with which John begins his account of the Gospel are breath-taking. They echo the account of creation, and are universal in their scope, unmatched in their eloquence. And for me, in recent days, they were given a new dignity and authority as a friend who lives with terminal cancer read aloud:

‘What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.’

The gift of Jesus, the one in whom God-is-with-us in the darkness, is given just when we needed it. That is why you are here. You have followed the star and found the Christ-child. His story, the story of the Magi, your story, our story does not end here. Like the Magi, we learn to journey on together in light of the grace and truth we have received, in a world that desperately needs to be filled with witnesses to grace and truth. And though the world might not understand the weightiness of star-lit wonder, nor will it overcome the light.

This Christmas, may you hear again the joyful song of the sentinels. God comes to save, comforting those who mourn and setting the captives free. May this be medicine for your soul. And may you join the song, until the whole world hears it. The sound of singing in the night. Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace, good will to all people.

Fourth Sunday of Advent, 2019

Lectionary readings: Isaiah 7:10-16 [and Romans 1:1-7] and Matthew 1:18-25

The very first time my dad took me, along with my younger brother and sister, to the cinema, it was to see E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial. It came out, in the UK, the day before my brother’s eighth birthday. I was ten years old, the same age as Elliot, the boy at the heart of the film; our sister, slightly younger than his little sister, Gertie.

E.T. is a magical story of the friendship between a lost alien, accidentally left behind by his fellow extra-terrestrial botanists, and the boy who discovers him, and keeps him safe until he can be rescued and reunited with his family. It is also the story of a boy who is lost and alone in the wake of his parents’ divorce. And this story is inspired by that of the director, Steven Spielberg, whose parents divorced, perhaps also drawing on his disorienting, vulnerable experience of being a Jewish kid in a predominantly Christian community. And beyond all that, it is the story of anyone who has ever felt alone in the world and in need of a friend. Sitting in the dark theatre, we were all caught up in the swell of John Williams’ spellbinding score; we all rode our imaginary BMXs into the air and across the backdrop of a full moon.

At this time of year, the Big Thing is the Christmas advert. John Lewis, Sainsbury’s, and a starry host of other retailers invest cinematic sums in telling us a story that will tap deep into our collective memory, tug hard at our heartstrings, and pull us in. And this year, in the Christmas advert for Sky, E.T. returned, looking for Elliot. Who is the same age as me: no longer ten, but now forty-seven. Initially, E.T. mistakes Elliot’s son for Elliot — much to the boy’s terror — before his old friend, running to respond to the screams of his children, sweeps in. And, much to the bewilderment of my children, I and my whole peer-group cried unashamedly.

That’s the power of story; and the power of a trigger, whether it be the silhouette of a bike crossing the moon, a Christmas orange, or a young woman with child.

Permit me to tell you three seasonal short stories.

A teenage boy lies afraid in the dark, wiping away bitter tears. He is four-day’s-journey from home, sleeping in the guest room of his father-in-law’s house. Their families, his and Mary’s, had arranged the marriage — it had seemed good to them, too — and as they lived far apart, Joseph had left his father and mother, like the patriarchs of long ago, to serve for a season Mary’s family. There was always work for a builder. He could be happy enough here. He loved his wife, who, day by day, was becoming less of a stranger.

Husband and wife though they were, they had not yet, well, you know. As was the custom, marriage was contracted before the girl reached puberty; consummated then. But Mary had confided in him. She was with child. Alone, far from home, betrayed — Joseph was angry, and, beneath the anger, afraid. Afraid, and young though he was, he was a good man. He would not accuse Mary of adultery; instead, he’d pay the price to her father for divorcing her for not having found favour in his eyes. It was, after all, only money; he’d already lost something far more precious to him.

That night, in the dark, in fitful sleep, an angel came and told the boy a story, to give him courage, to think again. To rise, and step into God’s future. And the story went something like this.

Once there was a young woman, with child. A son, she was sure that she was having a boy. But she was afraid. Everyone said there was going to be a war. All Jerusalem was consumed with dread. The king in Samaria had joined forces with the king in Damascus to march against the king in Jerusalem, and the whole population wasted away for worry. Her husband, wise beyond his years they said of him, went to the king. Told him that snake-heads would be crushed — that, if king Ahaz didn’t believe him, he should look: should look and see the woman and her offspring, the sign of God’s ancient promise, being fulfilled again, in their days. That he really ought to look, because if he didn’t, what he feared now would be the least of his worries.

The king lay on his couch, turned to the wall, refusing to eat or drink, too weary even to long for the sleep that kept running away from him. Dread does that, withers the ability to make choices, to act on them. Even the choice to lift a spoon to the mouth. Even to pay more than half attention to whatever it was Isaiah was saying, whatever tale he was spinning, going on about his pregnant wife and ancient stories from Eden. How did it go again?

Once, long ago, there was a man and a woman, and a story of such depth, so many layers. When the man looked into the eyes of the woman, he saw the very image of God: and it was a warrior, come to deliver. When the woman looked back into the eyes of the man, she too saw the very image of God: a husband to her, and a king over creation. But there was more. When the man looked at his wife, he also saw in her the faithful covenant people of God, the bride of a groom. And when the woman looked at her husband, she also saw in him the faithful covenant people of God, whom God fights alongside, and delivers. And, wider still, when the man looked upon his wife, he saw all of humanity, for she was the mother of all the living; and when the woman looked upon her husband, she too saw all of humanity, for we are all made from the soil of the earth.

And in the days of their innocence, before they were ready to reject evil and choose good, they were defeated by an enemy. But God stepped in. In time, the offspring of the woman — brought forth in labour, in a muddle of pain and desire, and under protection or covering — would crush the head of the offspring of the dragon, who would, in turn, strike the child’s heel. The man, too, would labour, would water the ground with sweat and tears; would return, at the last, to the ground from which he was taken, leaving the story to continue after him.

The frightened king in his palace in Jerusalem did not heed the story when he heard it. The young woman did take the story to heart: she did have a son, and weaned him, in peace, war averted, for now.

And the teenage boy, afraid in the night? He also heard, remembered, was caught-up in the story, as triggered by the sign. In the morning, he got up, went to his wife, and held her close. In the days that followed, they journeyed together to the home of his parents, in Bethlehem. And there, the woman gave birth to her son.

The great English writer and Christian apologist G.K. Chesterton wrote, ‘Fairy tales do not tell children the dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children the dragons can be killed.’

And what of you? What dragons do you dread? What makes you afraid? Hear, again, the Christmas story.

Advent Sunday 2019

Lectionary readings: [Isaiah 2:1-5 and] Romans 13:11-14 and Matthew 24:36-44

Christmas jumpers

I don’t know about you, but I find it harder to get up in the mornings at this time of year. It is still dark outside when my alarm goes off at 6.30 a.m. and I know that it is cosy and warm beneath the duvet and noticeably colder out of bed. But the time has come to wake from sleep. And it is more than a counting of time, my watch having counted the seconds, minutes and hours since it was last 6.30 a.m. so as to set off the alarm once more. No, this is a time of opportunity: God has seen fit to give me this new day, filled with the promise that, whatever will come my way, we will meet it together. An invitation to experience more, and to embrace change. But my bed is so warm — even if lying in it for too long gives me back ache, even if my bladder and perhaps my rumbling tummy and maybe even my sense of adventure protest.

In our reading from Paul’s letter to the house churches of Rome, he urges them to shake-off sleepwalking through life. To do so now, not put it off until later. And he speaks of putting on the armour of light, and of putting on the Lord Jesus Christ. The word he uses suggests dressing someone else, or, that we do this to one another. I wonder whether anyone here has ever been given a Christmas jumper? Or Christmas socks? Or Christmas pyjamas? Or, perhaps someone gave you something tasteful to wear as a Christmas gift? That experience captures something of what Paul is wanting to convey, I think. It isn’t about doing it for ourselves, so much as clothing one another with dignity.

Paul contrasts this with feasting and drunkenness; with sexual promiscuity and deliberate indulgence in bad behaviour, to hell with the consequences; with a contentious spirit and boiling anger directed at others. In other words, he lists ‘any behaviour that a person finds temporary pleasure or relief in but suffers negative consequences as a result of’ which, if one ‘does not give up or cannot give up despite those negative consequences’ defines addiction, according to leading addiction expert Gabor Maté.

Maté’s thesis is that addiction is rife in our society and serves to numb emotional pain. The key question, he urges us, is not a judgemental ‘what is wrong with you?’ but a compassionate ‘what happened to you?’ That if we are to help people address the emotional pain that we all live with, we must begin by reverently listening to their story.

I don’t pretend to fully understand the parable Jesus tells in our Gospel reading for today, but it does seem to me to paint the picture of two people, indistinguishable in outward appearance or in a variety of common roles and work activity, where one is swept away in a moment and the other is left wondering what happened. It is a moment of crisis, where something that has been building towards this moment breaks. But the coming of the Son of Man, of the remnant community who have put on Christ, is just as unexpected.

The Old Testament reading for today, from Isaiah, looks to a day when God’s people will be ministers of reconciliation, peacemakers, enabling the nations to know true wellbeing.

And these readings come together in this season of Advent, in which our neighbours will come under great stress to spend money they can’t afford on Christmas, and drink to forget.

One of the things that delights me is that Alcoholics Anonymous have recently started meeting in our church hall, twice a week. Though not their usual nights, they’ll be meeting on Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve, because those are particularly dark nights, and they are a fellowship who know that they need each other to help each one to put on the armour of light.

But this is a hard time of year for many people, perhaps for you. It is also the season of longing and aching for the return of the king. As we wait, together — as we help one another to put on the Lord Jesus Christ — I’d like to play you a song, Until You Do. As we listen, and perhaps join in, may hope rise up within you, and give you strength to arise.

Feast of Christ the King 2019

Lectionary readings: Jeremiah 23:1-6 and Colossians 1:11-20 and Luke 23:33-43

The Feast of Christ the King, as the culmination of the Church year, is a recent occasion, instituted in 1925 by Pope Pius XI, against the backdrop of the rise of fascism. In the face of messianic posturing by Mussolini, and his many heirs, the Feast of Christ the King proclaims that Jesus is both our Lord and King of the Universe. And while nationalism pits us against our neighbours, through this man Jesus all things—all peoples, all communities, all structures of power and society—are completely reconciled to God. All communities are to be blessed in his name. Though the world is in deep darkness, all humanity can know what it is to be rescued from the power of darkness, and, in the kingdom the Father has conferred upon his beloved Son, may share in the inheritance of the saints in light. When the darkness seems deepest, the light shines brightest. And so, the Feast of Christ the King, which brings the Church year to completion, also sets us up to observe Advent, the season of longing for the return of the King.

Our reading from the prophet Jeremiah this morning was written at a time of national crisis. It employs the metaphor of shepherds and sheep, drawing on that great psalm of David, Psalm 23. But whereas there the sheep are led with care, here—in a time when unfaithful Israel has already been dispersed, and the unfaithfulness of their own leaders is set to scatter Judah also—the flock is described as having been driven away and neglected. Therefore, God will both judge the unjust shepherds and bring back his sheep along paths of righteousness. The context is perilous—the valley of the shadow of death—and the LORD, as shepherd, carries with him his rod and his staff: his club with which to drive back predators; and his shepherd’s crook with which to steer the sheep along the path, and pull them back on to it when they fall.

The metaphor transforms: the days are surely coming, says the LORD, when I will raise up for David a righteous Branch, and he shall reign as king and deal wisely, and shall execute justice and righteousness in the land. This king, then, is a Branch, is synonymous with [the rod of] justice and [staff of] righteousness.

And in our reading from Paul’s letter to the saints in Colossae, we see that this righteous Branch—whom Paul identifies as Jesus—has been raised up on an unrighteous branch, the cross. And yet, this is the means by which God is at work to reconcile all things to him. This king triumphs through self-sacrifice.

Our Gospel reading presents us with a fuller image of this King of the Jews on his throne, which is, in fact, the cross. It is from the cross that this king exercises his reign, deals wisely [in radical forgiveness], and executes justice and righteousness.

The shepherd-king carries a rod and a staff. This king is presented to us with a criminal on his right and on his left. One derides him, and is rebuked—albeit by his fellow criminal. A predator, driven back as it circles the innocent lamb. The other calls out for mercy, and receives the hope of being with Jesus in Paradise—a term that seems to speak of being brought back to the land of promise, steered there along a precarious but nonetheless well-established path beneath death’s shadow, by the just shepherd.

Shepherds, sheep, branches raised up. A cross that is a throne. How might reflection on these passages, set for this Feast day, shape our imagination and empower our living?

We are, of course, in the middle of a General Election campaign; one that, given the number of MPs not standing for re-election, will result in a very different parliament, whatever the outcome. And this General Election is itself set in the context of a time of great and prolonged economic uncertainty and environmental upheaval. As we not only cast our vote, but also hold out a vision for our communities, we might want to ask, of prospective candidates and parties—and of ourselves—how will you bring scattered people together again? How enable communities to flourish? Do the policies you stand for enable the lives of individuals and families and neighbourhoods to be fruitful, or trap them in a shadow existence? And what about the environment? Do our leaders, and prospective leaders, take the environmental crisis, and the impact of climate change, seriously? How committed are they to a green economy?

We might ask, are the proposals you advocate likely to result in those who are fearful being no longer fearful, or dismayed, or missing—invisible, having no voice at the table? Of course, no party has a monopoly on good or bad policy, and no parliament can please all of the people all of the time, but these are questions we ought to be asking. Are our leaders wise? Do they listen to people, seeking to hear their concerns and understand, and take them seriously; or simply to score points against enemies? Do they stand for justice, for the righting of wrongs, for restitution for those who have been exploited? Do they have a track-record of fostering neighbourliness, of helping people to live at peace with one another; or do they promote partisan antagonism?

It is not my place to tell you who to vote for. It is my duty to urge you to consider carefully, and to cast your vote, if you have one. It is also my joy to urge you not to despair, if the outcome of the Election is one you dread. Christ is King of the Universe, whoever sits in Number 10.

And what of us? For Paul, writing to the church in Colossae, his understanding is that we ought to be the locus of God’s life-giving presence. So, how are we doing, and what might need to change? How might the invisible God be made visible in our midst?

Paul’s prayer for those he loved and wrote to encourage was that they might be strengthened to endure with patience, sustained by joy. Not because all was good, but precisely because it wasn’t. Patience and joy are the fruit of the Holy Spirit. But thankfulness is the way we play our part. I know of at least one member of this congregation who has taken upon themselves the discipline of giving thanks to God for three things every day. Perhaps that is something more of us might adopt?

We might, also, pray for our politicians. Those who rule, Paul says, have been created through Jesus and for him. That doesn’t mean that they exercise Jesus’ reign of justice and righteous, but that this is what they were made for. So, pray that all of our Members of Parliament would come into that for which they were made. Pray that they might know what it is to be reconciled to our Father, not withered by the wrath. When we read the papers or watch debates, step back, and turn again to Jesus. If it helps, use a prompt. Hang a cross on the wall above your tv, or carry a holding cross in your pocket. That in the darkness of this world, we may look upon the glory of Christ the King, and renew our hope. Amen.

Second Sunday before Advent 2019

Lectionary reading: 2 Thessalonians 3:6-13

I want, this morning, to focus on the passage we heard read from Paul’s letter to the church in Thessalonica. It sounds, at first hearing, not dissimilar to an editorial you might read in one of our tabloid papers, not least in the midst of a General Election campaign: “Tax-payers’ money should not be spent propping up the lifestyle of those too idle to work! They deserve to go hungry!” But that is not what Paul is saying. We need to put in a little work of our own, if we are to be nourished as we gather around the table of our Lord.

Paul commands those he loves to keep away from believers who are living in idleness. The Greek translated living in idleness literally means walking in a disorderly manner. Not sitting around doing nothing, but walking around aimlessly. And in making a command, Paul is calling them from disorder to order. To walk, as one. The primary metaphor for being church here is one of pilgrimage.

And that is very interesting. The north east, where we live, is known for its saints and its pilgrimage routes. Look around. The lower windows along the north side of the nave depict four northern saints: Columba, Aidan, Bede, and Hild. The upper windows along the north and south sides of the nave depict, in sixteen images, the life of faith as a pilgrimage, begin in baptism and completed with the saints in heaven. The metaphor of pilgrimage is literally all around us. And for every church that makes up Durham Diocese, the coming year has been designated as a year of pilgrimage. Of setting out on a journey together, not knowing what we will experience, or discover, and discover about ourselves, along the way.

And as we contemplate that year of pilgrimage, our text today calls us to walk in an orderly manner. Together. Keeping one another company. At a slow pace. Indeed, Paul makes a point of challenging busybodies, literally those who overdo or waste their labour by running all around, meddling in this or that. Such people, Paul advises, should not be left unchallenged, or else they will consume all there is to eat, all that God has provided. You see, the busybody gets under foot, robbing other people of the opportunity to contribute according to their own skill, or, indeed, of the opportunity to discern calling and develop competency.

I’m a dreadful busybody when it comes to the dishwasher. No one else loads it correctly, and we’ve all learnt that it is easiest just to leave it to me. Easiest, but not necessarily best, for anyone. And there are plenty of busybodies in this congregation. I know, because there are plenty of busybodies in every congregation. But Paul calls us back to order, insisting that each one has a part to play, and should be able to get on with playing it.

But this brings us back to the metaphor of an orderly and shared common walk, a pilgrimage. Where we follow, together, in the footsteps of those who have gone before us. Columba, and Aidan, and Bede, and Hild, and the other saints, nearer in time to us, whose names adorn the other windows. Men, women, and children of faith, many of you remember.

And so, I would like to invite you to join with me in a year of pilgrimage. What might that look like, in practice? Let me offer three ways to take part.

Firstly, for those of you who enjoy a long walk, new Northern Saints Trails—the Way of Light, the Way of Life, the Way of Love, and the Way of Learning—are being launched, each converging on Durham cathedral. The Way of Learning will pass through Sunderland. Some of us might make a physical pilgrimage to the cathedral, on foot or taking transport to Durham and joining us there.

Secondly, we might make more of our own pilgrim way, opening this building more often during the week, inviting our friends and neighbours to come and enjoy the gift of journeying together. I know, from listening to several of you, that in the challenges of life you have found great support within this pilgrim people. Our neighbours have just as many challenges. Let’s make the most of what we’ve been given in this place, and this congregation, to connect with spiritual seekers.

Thirdly, I want to commend to you the Pilgrim course, an Anglican catechism that covers the terrain of our faith in a number of six-week-long sections. My intention is to be here on Tuesdays 2.00-3.00 p.m. and again 7.00-8.00 p.m. to cover the Creeds, the Lord’s Prayer, the Commandments, and the Beatitudes, reading and reflecting on passages of scripture together. Life is a journey, rooted in the Christian story even if the story has become increasingly unfamiliar to us. Join me as we renew ancient paths in our day.

Remembrance Sunday 2019

Lectionary readings: 2 Thessalonians 2:1-5, 13-17 and Luke 20:27-38

Lest we forget, they say, as we come together each year to lay wreaths and give thanks for those who laid down their lives for us and to commit ourselves to live as peacemakers in a violent world. Lest we forget, the old hand down to the young. Which is not a million miles removed from Paul’s injunction to the early community of Christians in Thessalonica, ‘stand firm and hold fast to the traditions that you were taught by us’...

Those words come from a letter written to a community made up of Jews and Gentiles, of former enemies now reconciled in Christ. A letter written by Paul and Silvanus and Timothy: a Jew, a Gentile, and the child of a mixed marriage. A letter that begins, ‘Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.’ The word ‘grace’ takes the common Gentile greeting, a salutation that you might find favour from the gods, and gives it a new twist: favour, from the Jewish creator god. The word ‘peace’ takes the common Jewish greeting, the invocation of rest from fear so essential for human flourishing, and gives it a new twist: rest from fear, because in Christ enemies have become friends.

A Gentile greeting and a Jewish greeting, brought together, both transformed. A new tradition, established.

And the amazing thing was the context. The Jews and their neighbours had always been enemies. Within the lifetime of the people who wrote, and received, this letter, the First Jewish Roman War broke out, as Judea tried and failed to declare independence from the Roman empire, resulting in the destruction of Jerusalem.

In other words, the focus of this letter was, how can we experience favour in profoundly unfavourable circumstances, and rest from fear in the very midst of fearful times?

For, to paraphrase Jesus’ response to the Sadducees, it has far less to do with God as insurance for after we die, and far more to do with whether or not we walk with God in this life.

There is a contrast between the man of lawlessness, the world leader who opposes and exalts himself above all else—Trump and Putin, and, dare I say it, political leaders closer to home who claim to be the one who will restore our place as the greatest nation on earth—a contrast between such warmongers and Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, who lived their whole lives as gers, that is well-respected resident aliens, whose presence in a host culture was seen as a blessing.

As we seek to learn from God’s word, and from our own past in the light of God’s word, lest we forget what we need to remember to live well in the present moment, what might we emphasise? Firstly, we need to recognise the violence in our own society, the deep and partisan divisions between the old and the young, Brexiters and Remainers, England and the rest of the United Kingdom. Then, we must insist on what we say we agree on, that we are leaving the EU, not turning our back on Europe and our European neighbours. And so, in the Church, we must proactively seek ways of bringing enemies together, of seeing and affirming good in what those we disagree with value, and of being open to being transformed by the experience. We will need grace and peace for this. The good news is that the favour and rest from fear we so desperately need are already ours, if we will receive them.

Furthermore, we must speak out against hate speech, and xenophobia; we must affirm and honour the resident aliens living among us, both EU citizens and those from further afield, recognising that they are a blessing to us and not a threat. We are all strangers in a strange land; we are all children of God. We must pursue active partnerships that model what salvation looks like, such as the link between Durham Diocese and the Lutheran Nordkirche. Over the past days, we have joined in consultation, learning from one another about how we might better engage with children and families; and we are honoured to have Pastor Björn Begas, who has been staying with us at the vicarage, with us today.

You see, God does not give us grace and favour as abstract ideas or warm feelings, but in the form of flesh-and-blood as we truly welcome one another. This is how we can experience favour in profoundly unfavourable circumstances, and rest from fear in the very midst of fearful times. This is the way of life we recommit ourselves to afresh today, even laying down our lives for others. Lest we forget. Amen.

All Saints & All Souls

Sunday 3 November 2019

Lectionary readings: Daniel 7:1-3, 15-18 and Ephesians 1:11-23 and Luke 6:20-31

This weekend we mark both All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day, or the Commemoration of the faithful departed. All Saints’ Day is the day when we remember all those who have walked with God before us, in every time and place. Some are so famous, we know them by name: Saint Francis, for example, or St Theresa. But the overwhelming majority, we cannot identify. In the course of the redevelopment of Town Green taking place at the moment, five bodies were unearthed. We have no way of identifying them, buried as they were in a time of communal and unmarked parish graves (if you were considered important enough, a plaque inside the church will record your name and the words, the grave is near) and so we reinterred them, respectfully, with prayers; because part of what we remember on All Saints’ Day is the reality that being human is bigger than even our collective memory. Being human is rooted in God, who knows us better than we know ourselves.

All Souls’ Day is the day when we remember those we knew, who have gone ahead of us. In the Roman Catholic tradition, it is a remembrance of those in purgatory, the Church penitent, those being purified for heaven. Officially, the Church of England rejects the notion of purgatory (see the Articles of Religion, number XXII) but there is something to be understood in the process of entrusting those we love to God, a process that is not done-and-dusted at the funeral service. And so this evening we will remember people before God, reading out their names and lighting a candle for each one, as we recognise the in-between space that needs to be navigated between this life and no longer remembered by anyone except the God who holds us safe until the resurrection.

I’m reading a novel at the moment, set in a sheltered housing community, in which the primary narrator is being disempowered by the staff (however well-meaning) and empowered by two friends. It is a fascinating exploration of our sense of self. And there are at least three selves we possess.

Self 1 is first-person self-awareness, the awareness that I exist in the world, that I am not you nor the world, that I experience the world in this present moment from my own perspective. This has begun to take shape before our first birthday, and we never lose it. Even if I cannot remember my name, or know where I am, or put a name to your face, we never lose this sense of self.

Self 2 relates to our attributes, and our opinions attached to those attributes; to our biographies, and our beliefs attached to them. I have brown hair, but am jealous of my peers who are already silver foxes. I am a husband, a father, a vicar of sorts. I am a Christian, a member of the church. Self 2 changes over the course of our lives: for twenty-three years, I was not a husband, and for twenty-three years, I have been. Self 2 changes when we marry, when we divorce, when we are widowed; when we are promoted at work, or made redundant, or retire; when we take a chance to fulfil a dream we long thought was beyond us, and when we realise that in chasing one dream we have missed out on something that mattered more to us. Self 2 changes, sometimes incrementally, sometimes suddenly, but we carry all of our previous Self 2s with us. Self 2 is storied: when we recall the past, it is not factual recall, but the crafting of an edited story that helps (and sometimes hinders) us in the present. And Self 2 is also impacted by those things we have pushed away into the corners of the room of our life, and try to ignore. Sometimes who we are is hidden from ourselves by the stories we tell and the memories we push away, even when we believe we know exactly who we are, for now.

Self 3 is and can only constructed with others. You can train to be a teacher, but you can’t be a teacher without pupils who recognise you. You can decide to be a good friend, but you cannot be a good friend without people who recognise you as such. As we get older, Self 3 can run into difficulties. Those who have known us well become fewer, as colleagues retire, as siblings die. We may find ourselves surrounded by those who do not know our history, nursing home staff who only see a little old woman struggling to adjust to changes to Self 2. A retired headmistress, frustrated by certain losses, further frustrated at being treated like a wilfully ignorant child. Elder isolation is as damaging to us as a lifetime of cigarettes. Self 3 is where the church has such a key role to play, as a community in the world, but also as a community that stretches beyond the present through All Souls to All Saints.

It is revealed to Daniel that empires rise, and empires fall, but that ‘the holy ones of the Most High shall receive the kingdom and possess the kingdom for ever.’ Paul writes of this kingdom to the saints in Ephesus, as participating in ‘the riches of [Christ’s] glorious inheritance among the saints.’ And in our Gospel reading, Jesus declares the contours of this kingdom, of this inheritance, where the experience of weakness opens up a state of blessed union with God that the powerful can neither imagine nor know.

The world sees progression from the peak of achievement, of fame, of influence, to the unravelling of these things that begins in old age and continues through our dying and, eventually, the death of everyone who knew us or even knew of us, as tragedy. As failure and injustice. For if our identity depends on Self 2—‘I think, therefore I am’—and my thinking is compromised, I am being erased. If our identity depends on a Self 3 self that is determined solely by other humans, who are themselves being erased, then, as what you think of me is compromised, I am being further erased, until we are forgotten.

But for the Christian, this is not how we see things. The Church tells another story. Our various traditions differ in the details, but we share one common hope. We dare to believe, together, that God has given us a spirit of wisdom and revelation, has opened the eyes of our heart, so that we can know that our identity is found in union with Christ and in the ongoing and immeasurably great power of God acting for us: to remember us, to raise Christ for us and set him over all things for us, to express the fullness of Life in and through us. We are moving from death to life; from independence from God to union with God. We are not being erased, but being saved by the grace of God.

This gives us great freedom, not only to not fear the process before us, but to support those who desperately fight against the ways in which God and nature and time and eternity conspire to save us from ourselves. This also has very practical implications for how we love one another, and love our neighbour as ourselves, as we, and they, have the layers we have built up stripped away. We are discovering this more and more together, often over food and in the guise of idle gossip that steps back and forth between the present and the past, and it is a gift. And these annual All Saints’ and All Souls’ Days remind us of the hope at the heart of our faith. So come, and share in Communion, in the communion of saints, in the body of Christ, in the hope of glory. Come, and receive sustenance for body and soul. Come, and find yourself, once again, remembered alongside your sisters and brothers in Christ. Come.

Eighteenth Sunday after Trinity 2019

Lectionary readings: Genesis 32:22-31 and 2 Timothy 3:14-4:5 and Luke 18:1-8

‘...be persistent whether the time is favourable or unfavourable; convince, rebuke, and encourage...’

‘Then Jesus told them a parable about their need to pray always and not to lose heart.’

The whole of torah, of biblical instruction for living, is expressed in the command that we should love the Lord our God with all of our heart (your ability to choose for yourself) and all of our mind (your ability to train thoughts and feelings) and all of our strength (your ability to act on your choices) and all of our soul (your deepest, truest being); and love our neighbour as ourselves. Everything else is commentary. But chief among the commentary is the repeated instruction to care for the widow, the orphan, and the alien living in our midst; the most vulnerable, who lack or risk losing a stake in the outworking of God’s promises.

And so, the parable Jesus tells in today’s Gospel reading is quite bleak. For here is a widow, who has an opponent; someone who, therefore, opposes the will of God. Moreover, the person appointed and recognised by the community to arbitrate between them is a man who not only does not actively love God or his neighbours; he does not care; indeed, he takes pride in his self-centredness. Note that by virtue of his position he represents an entire community that puts self-interest before justice. Yet this man, who embodies power, is bested by a woman who embodies powerlessness [in the Greek, though lost in translation into English, he is worried that she will give him a (very visible) black-eye]. And yet, Jesus asks, when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?

Have you ever wrestled with unanswered prayer? With why a God who, it is claimed, is perfect in love and power, stands by in the face of injustice?

Jacob was a wrestler. Before he was born, he wrestled with his twin brother in their mother’s womb. Esau was born first, with Jacob following, grasping his heel. Indeed, the name ‘Jacob’ means, ‘to grasp the heel.’ His whole life was defined by wrestling, with being unable to let go, unable to accept what had been given to him and what had been given to others. He cheated his brother out of the first-born’s birth-right, and ran away. He sets his sights on his cousin, his uncle’s younger daughter; but is cheated by his uncle, and ends up paying for two brides, two sisters drawn into his wrestling. They become opponents; seek to cheat in order to gain the advantage, to get what they want. Rachel is loved, but barren; Leah, unloved, and so God gives her sons. Rachel responds by exploiting one woman, her maid Bilhah, in order to hurt another woman, her sister. When Bilhah bears Jacob a son, Rachel declares, ‘God has judged in my favour, has vindicated me.’ (Really?) When Bilhah bears Jacob a second son, Rachel declares, ‘With mighty wrestlings I have wrestled with my sister, and have prevailed’ (Genesis 30:1-8). (Does that sound at all familiar?)

Eventually, Jacob has a large family, by four women, and, having cheated his uncle to wrestle great wealth from him, runs away again. He is met by the angels of God, those beings whom he had seen ascending and descending between earth and heaven years earlier, when God had promised to keep him and bring him back; and from there, he hopes to be reconciled with his brother. And on the eve of their reunion, Jacob finds himself alone, and confronted by a stranger. They wrestle all night, until the sun is about to break over the eastern horizon. Then, to break the stalemate, the stranger strikes Jacob’s hip socket with a major blow, and, as he continues to wrestle, the hip joint is dislocated, with permanent damage to muscle, ligaments, and nerves. But still, Jacob will not let go, unless the stranger first blesses him.

Of course, a blessing is a letting go, a setting free to be what you were made to be. Jacob will not let go of the stranger, until the stranger lets go of him. And the stranger’s blessing is a strange one; for he says, You shall no longer be called Jacob, but Israel; no longer ‘the wrestler who grasps the heel,’ but, ‘the wrestler who has wrestled with gods and humans, and has prevailed;’ has shown yourself to be able, to have power. In other words, the new name is not a new identity, but a fulfilment of his identity. Jacob’s wrestling is not over: in many ways, it has only just begun. His greatest challenges lie ahead of him. He’ll still get things wrong, but he’ll never again run away.

What, then, might we say regarding our need to pray always and not to lose heart?

First, that God’s will is resisted and opposed. That is, after all, why Jesus tells us to pray that God’s will should be done on earth as in heaven. Yet, as we pray and wait, we hold on to the truth that God remains on the side of justice until justice is accomplished. As we speak truth to power, we draw on God’s strength. As we refuse to give up in the face of hard-hearted self-interest, our own hearts need to remain soft and warm, and so we must draw on God’s love. And when it feels too hard, and God too distant—as will be our experience many times—we need to stand together; so that the Son of Man—that image of the faithful remnant, the community constituted around Jesus, the Body of Christ—will, together, find faith on earth, alive and active in the world.

Second, sometimes our will is not as fully aligned with God’s will as we like to think. We deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us. We seek, like Jacob and like Rachel, to bend the world towards us at the centre. Sometimes the wrestling in prayer confronts us with this until we cannot ignore it. Sometimes the wrestling in prayer brings us to a point of breakthrough, where God asks us to let go of whatever vindication we have been holding on to, and where we find ourselves willing to do so if God will only bless us first—and then, at last, God is able to do so, setting us free to be our fulfilled self.

Third, the wrestling makes us able, powerful. Unless we wrestle, we remain unskilled, unable to prevail. But each wrestling match prepares us for the bigger challenges that lie ahead. And, sometimes, redeems the sense of failure, the pain of past defeats. We hear in Genesis that the Lord God made us by breathing life into clay. Sometimes the wrestling is ongoing new creation, the laboured breath of a wrestling god breathed-out into clay being remoulded in his hands. You might look like a little old lady on the outside, but be a mighty warrior in the kingdom of God. But that comes with the discipline of repeated effort—which is why Paul writes to Timothy, start young, get into the habit: wrestle to convince, to rebuke, to encourage, when it is going well and when it isn’t. This is a life-long calling; and often, it is as our outer lives are diminishing that our inner lives break out in power.

As you wrestle for climate and environmental justice, as you wrestle for welfare justice and tax justice, as you wrestle for a future for your children and grandchildren—as you wrestle for God’s kingdom to come on earth as in heaven—let us pray always and not lose heart. Amen!