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.