Sixteenth Sunday after Trinity

Lectionary readings: Exodus 17:1-7 and Philippians 2:1-13 and Matthew 21:23-32

We are fully six months into our experience of a global pandemic. And while, earlier in the year, we may well have hoped that we would be through this and out the other side by Christmas, it is becoming clearer that, at best, we are only a third of the way through this crisis. We have made it through the first stage, not without loss of life and considerable toll on the mental and emotional and financial resources of those of us who are still here; but now, from this weakened starting point, we need to face the next stage. And whereas we saw an initial coming together of communities, that has proved hard to sustain and has, increasingly, fractured into personal survival instincts. Indeed, we may be able to relate to the Israelites in Exodus 17, who found themselves some way into a testing time, descending into quarrelling and questioning whether Moses or God or anyone else had their welfare at heart. Alongside that, we might also note Jesus’ short parable in our reading from Matthew 21, contrasting a father and son whose initially opposed wills converge, with the father and his other son, whose wills, initially and perhaps superficially in agreement, diverge. And that is all that I want to say about those readings, before turning to the reading from Philippians 2, and focusing on the first two verses:

‘If then there is any encouragement in Christ, any consolation from love, any sharing in the Spirit, any compassion and sympathy, make my joy complete: be of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind.’ (Philippians 2:1-2)

It is, perhaps, worth taking a moment to set the context. Paul is writing, from prison, to the church in Philippi, a Roman colony city in Macedonia, largely populated by retired army veterans, and with an historic association to the elite Praetorium guard. Paul wants them to know that what has happened to him—being under house arrest, or, we might say, under a personal form of lockdown restrictions—has actually helped to spread the gospel, in particular among serving members of the Praetorium guard. And Paul urges the believers in Philippi to, likewise, live in a manner worthy of the gospel of Christ, in the context of hardship.

In keeping with the life experience of the Philippian church, and indeed of the people in Rome with whom he is having daily conversations about the gospel, Paul employs military images. He speaks of encouragement in Christ, literally, Jesus coming alongside us and, through his actions, strengthening our courage at the very point where it is draining away. He speaks of being consoled, which, from a civilian perspective may seem soft, but, when you listen to veterans who have seen and lived through traumatic events, there is something deep there that they can testify to experiencing from one another or to be in need of experiencing and often not receiving from society at large. To encouragement and consolation, Paul adds sharing or fellowship, the sense of mutual help; along with gut-level compassion, and deep empathy for someone else’s difficult circumstances. These very ideas, I would suggest, provide motivation and underpinning for veterans’ charity organisations, and perhaps especially some of the newer ones.

But, for Paul, these things are rooted in the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Spirit.

And if we have known this encouragement, this consolation, this sharing, this compassion, this sympathy, then, Paul exhorts us, we have everything that we need in order to experience joy, to be aware of God’s favour upon our lives, whatever our circumstances. And being so aware of God’s favour, we are empowered to be channels of that favour upon the lives of others, as we live out—again, in terms readily grasped by those of a military background—a common (united) mind of service, a common love, a common identity; specifically, all centred on Christ Jesus. Or, at least, we are empowered to work towards those goals, the convergence of our lives, personally and communally, with the mind of Christ, the love of Christ, the Body of Christ.

How, then, might these verses help us, who for the main part are not veterans, face months 7-12 of pandemic? Here are some questions to reflect on, alongside Paul’s words:

[1] Through whom is Jesus coming alongside you and encouraging you at present? And, how?

[2] Conversely, what voices are causing you feelings of anxiety or enmity towards others, and how might you reduce their influence?

[3] In line with the capacity you have at the moment (which may be small, and may even be non-existent for now), how might you console someone else today? (it could be as simple as sending them a text message)

[4] How might the local church model a sense of belonging to one another for the wider community? And vice versa.

(Think in terms of concrete practices, as much as possible. These might include ways of listening to people’s different experiences, patterns of prayer, practical support or projects, advocacy, re-organising how we do what we do…think also how we might build on the community goodwill of earlier this year, rather than just attempt to recover it: what is needed now, and moving forward? Recognise that we might not be able to answer this question yet, and that answers might emerge organically in time, but also that this will not happen in a sustainable manner without regular reflection.)

 

 

Fifteenth Sunday after Trinity

Lectionary readings: [Philippians 1:21-30 and] Matthew 20:1-16

[In our first reading, we hear Paul reflect on absence and presence, departing and remaining, fruitful labour, sharing abundantly in what Christ Jesus has done, and, included in all that, the call to suffer with Christ and not be intimidated by opponents. I do not intend to focus on these verses, but instead to view them as a lens through which to look at the Gospel.]

Our reading from Matthew is, properly, an unbroken continuation of the preceding verses. To back up a little further still, a rich young man had come to Jesus and asked what good thing he needed to make happen in order to hold on to a lasting sense of being alive that so far eluded him. We might say that, like many people today, this young man saw himself as a good person, trying to be the best version of himself; but Jesus deconstructs his assumptions around what it is to be ‘good.’ Goodness, just as much as life, is a share in what God gives to us; that is, to others. Jesus invited him to be free of the hold things had over him

(the man is literally possessed)

by surrendering his prosperity to God, in exchange for God’s greater riches. The young man, who already owned much property

(though hardly the whole world, to trade for his soul),

weighs up the proposition, and walks away in anguish; and Jesus observes how hard it will be for the rich to enter the kingdom of heaven.

Peter—who always represents the Church—points out that, in contrast to the rich young man, he and the others with him have left everything and followed Jesus; yet, betraying the same concerns as that young man, asks, “What then will we have?” In response, Jesus declares a coming renewal of how things are, in which the Church will model God’s justice for the watching world [1]. It is in this context that Jesus employs this parable.

It is a parable that makes use of familiar tropes, and unfamiliar suspects:

the landowner is (a relentless) God;

the vine and the vineyard, the descendants of Israel planted in the promised Land;

the labourers, those who do the will and work of God (which implies that being part of God’s chosen people—whether the Jews or the Church—is not, in itself, the same as being one who does the will of God); note: no-one else wants or values them;

the manager, one entrusted with oversight and service (presbyter and deacon?), a role the religious establishment saw as theirs, but which, arguably, Jesus claimed as his own in his parables.

And at the culmination of the day, this landowner ensures that every day labourer has received the day’s wages, that all have what they need to live. There is, here, concern for equity over equality. There is a plentiful harvest, within which all can find fruitful labour, and all can share in the abundance.

And at the end of the day, there is a confrontation, in which the landowner asks, “Or are you envious because I am generous?” Or, in the Greek, are you giving me the evil eye, since I am intrinsically good? [2]

And here, Jesus the storyteller is referring to the Jewish folk belief in the ‘good eye’ and the ‘evil eye’ [3]. The ‘good eye’ looks at what it has with contentment and at what others have with modest celebration, recognising that God has blessed that person in this way. To give the ‘evil eye’ means to look at another, motivated by jealousy, in such a way as to unleash a magical power against them. Its biblical roots are found in the way Sarah looked at Hagar and despised her; or in the jealousy of Joseph’s brothers towards him. Such was the concern about the ‘evil eye’ that you needed to know how to deal with it. Ideally, one ought to live so as not to attract its attention in the first place—this was Jacob’s folly in singling-out one son with preferential honour. Thou shalt not be too extravagant. Thou shalt not, for example, pay a day’s wage for an hour’s labour. But once the ‘evil eye’ had been deployed against you, you could still counteract it by a variety of means: bouncing it back with a mirror; wearing a magical amulet; reciting the correct formulary; distracting the demonic angel summoned against you with some bright colour. In Jesus’ parable, the landowner’s ‘good eye’ is enough to protect him—and his short-day labourers—from the ‘evil eye’ [4].

Surely, we no longer believe in such superstitious nonsense as the ‘evil eye’? Well, Jesus acknowledged it as an issue, the malevolent power unleashed by jealousy. It is telling that the ‘evil eye’ appears in this parable in response to the seeds of envy Peter has for the rich young man who chose to keep his possessions, however much pain they brought him [5]. Do not multiply woe by adding your own curse to the pain he has brought upon himself. And, surely, we are not so naïve as to believe that coveting what others have for ourselves isn’t a driver of tragedy on a global scale?

But a parable is not information to file under ‘Things Jesus Said’; it is a story Jesus gives to inform our formation.

There is a disciplined rhythm to this parable. The landowner is up while it is still dark, and out to the labour exchange. Throughout the day we see him move between his vineyard and the labour exchange, towards the end of every three-hour shift, at nine, and noon, and three; and then, because he believes that he can get in one more visit before the end of the working day, again at five in the afternoon. Back and forth, absent, present. His concern is not exploitation of unprotected workers, but reaching agreement: on what they need; on a just reward; on a stake in the vision; with the aim of bringing as many as possible into the joy of his generosity, of goodness, reimagined.

What might it look like for us to be shaped by such a parable, as we gather, present, in this place, and disperse, absent to one another, following the heavenly landowner?

How might it shape our disciplined engagement in the public square, as it relates to equity of access to material resources, to wage security, especially in Covid 19 times? [6]

Or how about, as the public square pertains to spiritual hunger? [7]

Or to the complexities of human sexuality? [7]

Or geo-politics? [7]

How might the disciplined rhythm of the landowner shape our patterns of prayer, throughout the day?

Or how we look back over the day, with its burden and its gift, and build celebration into our lives, thanksgiving for what God has done for us and for what God has given others?

How might that train us away from greed and envy, and how, accumulatively, might that enable liberation for the natural environment we are so intent on destroying?

This is not simply a parable for our time (and every time), but a parable of the kingdom of heaven that speaks to every arena of our lives. There are so many ways we could discern how to live it out, personally and communally.

Let me suggest one concrete example. The run-down space in front of the Minster has been reimagined and newly opened as Minster Park. This week, I have spent time sitting in that space, praying, dreaming, having spatially distanced conversations with other people enjoying this public park. Residents of the tower blocks, who have no garden of their own. Students. City centre workers reading a book on their lunch hour. Friends meeting up—though for now, the local lockdown restricts that. Skateboarders (I am aware that there have been some skaters who have been inconsiderate towards others, including residents of the Alms Houses; but, also, that there have been friendlier, considerate skaters too). Various people who are making the space their own, as is right. A neighbouring space (or, neighbouring-space) we do not have possessive rights over, but in which we have a public stake. And I am aware that God has brought these various neighbours near to us, to bless—and as a blessing (rather than a curse). I am aware that various interested parties could become Us v. Them stories; or, could become an expanded Us, to the benefit of us all, depending on how we choose to respond. Might we, as a Minster community, commit to going out into Minster Park at regular times of the day, (once lockdown is lifted) to seek agreement with whomever we find there, both young and old and everything in between? Might that be the place to start discovering in what way the kingdom of heaven is like this parable that Jesus told?

 

[1] It could be argued that this is fulfilled in the victory of Christianity over the pagan gods of the Greco-Roman world, and the consolidation of Christendom; though alongside this we would have to speak of the seduction of wealth and power, of apostasy and judgement on the Church, and of our living, today, on the far side of the rule Jesus depicted.

[2] Intrinsic goodness being the matter in hand.

[3] As he has done before, in the Sermon on the Mount, Matthew 6:22, 23.

[4] Ultimately, God’s ‘good eye’ will counteract the effect of the ‘evil eye’ by raising Jesus from the dead, and with him, those who believe in his name.

[5] It is salutary to reflect that the Church, once seated to administer justice, became ensnared by entitlement—and still is, in many ways, despite loss of status.

[6] For example, for me, this parable provides theological rootedness for my belief that, as a society, we should replace most present welfare benefits with an unconditional Universal Basic Income, or citizen’s income.

[7] Or anything else for which there is a market place. And what does it mean, in practice, to be—as we proclaim—‘Open to God, open to all?’

 

Fourteenth Sunday after Trinity 2020

Lectionary Gospel reading: Matthew 18:21-35

In the Gospel reading set for this Sunday, Peter (representing the Church) tries to assert his moral superiority. Jesus responds with a parable that reveals God’s nature as merciful, and calls on God’s people to make that mercy manifest in the world. In this parable, everyone is equal before God; they are all slaves of the king. And this parable of the merciless slave has particular relevance in a year in which we have seen the international rise—and backlash against—the Black Lives Matter movement; and, closer to home, the toppling of statues honouring slave traders. Because, you see, Jesus tells a story, and invites the Church to the work of discerning how to apply it within our community in any given historical context. But as with the preceding verses (indeed, as with so many of Jesus’ parables) those who believe they are more wronged than in the wrong, more sinned against than sinning, are being led into a trap.

Into the story, Jesus introduces a certain slave who is summoned to an audience with the king. On can presume that this slave appears before the king with a certain degree of confidence. After all, to date the king has lent this slave ten thousand talents. A talent was worth more than fifteen years’ wages of a labourer; and so, we can say that this sum was the equivalent of fifteen years’ unpaid labour by 10,000 slaves. This man is, himself, a slave—he is no different, inherently, to anyone else—and yet he is living a life that is unimaginably removed from his fellow slaves. Indeed, as we shall see, he believes himself to be de facto king over them. But the actual king has summoned him to ask that the loan be re-payed.

The slave protests that this is quite impossible. And so, the king determines that the slave be sold, along with his wife and children and all his possessions, and payment be made. This clearly implies a broader redistribution of concentrated wealth and power; and has consequences for successive generations. And as the king in this parable represents God, such a solution should be understood to be perfectly just. But the slave pleads for patience to repay—apparently it is only hard, not in fact impossible—and the king, motivated by compassion, moves to write off the man’s debt entirely.

No sooner had the slave departed, but he meets a fellow slave who owes him a hundred denarii, the equivalent of three-and-a-half month’s unpaid labour by one slave (contrasted with fifteen years’ unpaid labour by 10,000 slaves). There is a power dynamic at play. For the slave who lent the money, it is a trivial sum; but not for the one who borrowed. He cannot pay off the outstanding debt in one go—who can survive for three-and-a-half months on no money at all?—and this slave is doubly enslaved paying back the interest on his loan. Now, because the first slave has neither compassion nor empathy, he is about to be triply enslaved, thrown into debtor’s prison, with some physical violence and psychological terror thrown in for good measure.

When his fellow slaves saw what happened, they were greatly distressed. They went before the king and reported the injustice, and, because the king was just, he acted justly. Because the slave who had known the king’s mercy had not participated in the king’s mercy, he would now know the king’s justice. His participation in the king’s justice would be to experience torture until he would pay his entire debt. This, then, Jesus concluded, is what it will be like for those who do not participate in mercy.

In 1791, the French-owned Haitian slaves revolted. In order to prevent territorial loss to the British, the French Republic abolished slavery in 1794, restoring it in 1802. Throughout the 1790s, Britain, who had recently lost her American colonies, fought to capture French territory in the Caribbean and re-establish slavery there, while also crushing slave revolts on her own islands (including the genocide of men, women and children), spending £4 million and losing between 50,000-100,00 men in battle or to yellow fever. In 1804, two years after Napoleon reinstated slavery in French colonies, the Haitians declared independence and abolished slavery. Three years later, in 1807, a bruised British parliament passed the Abolition of the Slave Trade Act. Not until 1833, and after ongoing slave rebellions, was this followed by the Slavery Abolition Act. As part of this process, the 1837 Slave Compensation Act paid out £20 million (an estimated £17 billion in today’s money) to former slave owners “compensating the Persons at present entitled to the Services of the Slaves to be manumitted and set free by virtue of this Act for the Loss of such Services”. Freed slaves did not receive any compensation.

The British government—or, the British taxpayers; including the descendants of the slaves—finally ‘paid off’ the loan in 2015. The families of slave owners and the families of investment bankers have been benefitting from slavery from its abolition until the present. Meanwhile, France extorted a debt of 91 million gold francs for the loss of property which Haiti finally paid off in 1947; and Britain systematically exploited her colonies and former colonies; and has treated those we asked to fight for us in two world wars and then to come and help rebuild the motherland after the Second World War utterly shamefully, to this day. This is not history, separate from current affairs.

If I were to announce that, this year, we will not be marking Remembrance Sunday, there would be uproar. If I were to suggest that ‘it all happened a long time ago, and we just need to move on,’ angry letters would be written to my bishop and I would be the subject of hostile articles in the press. But ‘it all happened a long time ago, and we just need to move on’ is the argument I hear again and again (not seven times but seventy times seven) in relation to slavery, despite the legitimate calls of Caribbean Heads of State for a program of reparations there, and of Black British voices calling for justice here. It strikes me as ironic that, despite the fact that no one alive today fought in the First World War we habitually claim that ‘we’ won the war; but that when it comes to the reckoning of debts relating to slavery, we cannot be held responsible as it all took place before we were born.

But the consequent injustice is ongoing; and for that, we are called to take responsibility. We cannot move on, until justice is done. Regardless of whether wider British society can accept this, the Church of England should. The thing that strikes me most about Jesus’ parable of the merciless servant is the line, ‘When his fellow slaves saw what had happened, they were greatly distressed.’ They were greatly distressed at the injustice they witnessed. I wonder whether we are even capable of such a response, to the pain of injustice felt by our Black sisters and brothers.

We don’t remember the First World War because ‘if we forget we will repeat the mistakes of the past’—our government hosts the world’s largest arms fair and we profit economically from ensuring instability across the world, while refusing to take responsibility for the lives ruined, let alone for our own veterans. No, we remember the First World War to recognise a communal trauma, passed down the generations; and, increasingly over recent years, to reassert ourselves over others. And, before you write to my bishop, we shall mark Remembrance Sunday. But we are called to recognise the communal trauma, passed down the generations, of our fellow slaves; and to recognise that we are not inherently superior but inherently equal: and to repent of sin and make material redress for injustice, though it be to our cost. Black Lives Matter because our society repeatedly demonstrates that they do not matter, dismissing justice by labelling people Marxists, looters, terrorists, criminals, lazy, disruptive—and allies as naïve self-haters.

The alternative is that we find ourselves tortured until we pay off our entire debt, not to the enslavers and their descendants but to the wrongly imprisoned and their descendants. We do not torture ourselves, but we do bring it upon ourselves. Where we reject mercy, justice demands it. As with all of Jesus’ parables, we ought rightly to be troubled.

 

Thirteenth Sunday after Trinity 2020

Lectionary Gospel reading: Matthew 18:15-20

As we continue on our journey—our pilgrimage—through Matthew’s Gospel, this Sunday morning we find ourselves in chapter 18. The context is Jesus, not for the first time, teaching on the nature of the kingdom of heaven, or what it looks like to live under the kingship of God in this world. And in verses 15-20, Jesus talks about discerning and participating in the will of our heavenly Father. The presenting issue is one of separation between brothers in need of reconciliation, and there is a process—a sequence of practices—that will help us get from where we find ourselves to where we need to be.

“If another member of the church sins against you, go and point out the fault when the two of you are alone. If the member listens to you, you have regained that one.” In other words, if someone has acted wrongly [and some of the ancient manuscripts include ‘against you’ while others omit ‘against you’ which suggests to me that this applies whether the wrong is directed towards me or not] arrange a time to speak with them face-to-face in private. Not in the heat of the moment of being wronged; not in (self-) righteous anger vented across (anti-) social media. This is the first step, and, if it works, it works: the matter is resolved.

“But if you are not listened to, take one or two others along with you, so that every word may be confirmed by the evidence of two or three witnesses.” In other words, if at first you don’t succeed in reconciliation, bring in a couple of mediators who can help you. Remember, the goal is not that I am vindicated in my sense of having been wronged, but that we are reconciled, and so the primary role of these witnesses to every word is making sure we have heard and understood one another.

“If the member refuses to listen to them, tell it to the church;” In other words, if reconciliation cannot be reached through mediation, the next stage in the process is to attempt to reach reconciliation communally, the whole church community seeking to discern what needs to happen.

“and if the offender refuses to listen even to the church, let such a one be to you as a Gentile and a tax-collector.”

At this point we had better pause and reflect on what Jesus has been teaching his disciples, his apprentices, about how they should relate to Gentiles and tax collectors. We should ask, what has Matthew—whose livelihood was collecting taxes within the administrative structures of the Roman (Gentile) empire—wanted the community for whom he writes to understand here? Let us look back over the Gospel.

In chapter 4:12-17, Matthew quotes the prophet Isaiah, to locate Jesus’ light-bringing vocation in ‘Galilee of the Gentiles,’ and, in this context, Jesus summarises his mission by proclaiming, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.”

In chapter 12:15-21, Matthew again quotes Isaiah to describe Jesus’ activity as proclaiming justice to the Gentiles, thus being the one in whom the Gentiles will hope.

In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus confronts the self-righteousness of those who saw themselves as being a divinely chosen and special people, pointing out that they are no different to—and certainly no better than—the Gentiles and tax collectors they looked down on (Matthew 5:43-48).

In chapter 9:9-13, we hear about Jesus calling Matthew the tax collector to follow him, and see Jesus eating in the house [as guest, as host?] with tax collectors. When asked why he is doing something so scandalous, his response is, I am practicing mercy.

In chapter 10:1-4, Matthew the tax collector—that is, not to distinguish him from Matthew the fisherman, but, rather, to underline and circle and highlighter pen that he was a tax collector—is one of the twelve apostles, or sent ones.

In chapter 11:7-19, Jesus reminds the crowds that he has been derided as a glutton and drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners—and yet, wisdom is vindicated by her deeds.

All this, we have already come across before arriving at chapter 18. And, just to bring the point home, in chapter 21:2346, Jesus tells a hostile assembly of chief priests and elders of the people, “Truly I tell you, the tax collectors and prostitutes are going into the kingdom of heaven ahead of you. For John [the baptiser] came to you in the way of righteousness and you did not believe him, but the tax collectors and the prostitutes believed him; and even after you saw it, you did not change your minds and believe him.”

“and if the offender refuses to listen even to the church, let such a one be to you as a Gentile and a tax-collector.” In other words, if you have spoken with them face-to-face, and with mediators, and, ultimately, the counsel of the church has not persuaded your brother or sister that they have wronged you, perhaps you are the one who is in the wrong.

I’ll say that again: if it has got this far, and they have stood their ground, perhaps you are the one who is in the wrong. Maybe you are the one—indeed, by this stage, the community—who needs to repent. Because maybe, just maybe, the brother you think has wronged you has gone ahead of you into the kingdom of God while you refuse.

If, at no point in the process of discernment they have come to see things as you do.

Jesus continues:

“Truly I tell you, whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven. Again, truly I tell you, if two of you agree on earth about anything you ask, it will be done for you by my Father in heaven. For where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them.”

The goal is to be free of the things that prevent us from entering the kingdom of heaven. The warning is that Jesus takes our agency seriously enough to allow us the chains we bind ourselves in. The good news is that Jesus takes our agency seriously enough to allow us to free one another. And that, whether in chains or free, he is with us.

Where the church has chained herself—to those who promise earthly power, to patriotism, to institutional racism, to any dogma opposed to the kingdom of heaven—Jesus shares our chains. He has been here before, a light dawning on those who sit in darkness and the shadow of death, proclaiming justice, keeping hope alive, practicing mercy.

That is, I think, what Matthew would have us realise today.