Feast of St Luke 2020

 

Lectionary readings: 2 Timothy 4:5-17 and Luke 10:1-9

This Sunday we are marking the Feast of St Luke. Luke was a travel-companion of the apostle Paul, and his own lasting gift to the Church was his biography of Jesus (the Gospel According to Luke) and biography of the early Church (the Acts of the Apostles). The book of Acts (chapters 13-28) gives us a record, or timeline, of Paul’s missionary journeys, into which Paul’s own letters to churches and personal friends might be dropped. There are three sections of Acts where Luke the biographer switches from third person narration (he, they) to first person narration (we), indicating that he was one of Paul’s travel-companions at these three times; and all three (Acts 16; 20, 21; 27, 28) relate specifically to times when Paul was travelling by sea.

In our first reading we hear an extract from Paul’s second letter to Timothy. Timothy was another of Paul’s travel-companions, co-workers, and co-author of several letters to churches. Paul appears to have met Timothy at around about the same time as he met Luke. But at the point where Paul is writing these words, he is in Rome, wrestling with a sense of coming to the end of his life; and Timothy is in Ephesus, where he is Paul’s successor as overseer of the church; and Paul longs to see Timothy one last time. Do your best to come to me, he writes. Of all my companions and partners in mission, only Luke is with me now.

I am struck by this great man, this pioneer who has carried the gospel all around the eastern Mediterranean, planting churches, mentoring leaders of churches, overseeing a growing network of partnership in the gospel. At the end, he is essentially alone; even speaks of having been deserted; his experience mirroring that of Jesus, abandoned and betrayed and denied. And yet, like Jesus, he does not come across as bitter or resentful. His former companions have scattered, sent out, moving the unfolding story on, like those sent out by Jesus in Luke chapter 10. True, Paul describes Demas as being in love with this present world; but the context is that Paul has largely come to terms with his own imminent death, and in this context, I think Paul is implying that Demas still feels that there is more for him to do before his own end: yes, Paul feels deserted, and I don’t want to dismiss that pain, but Demas has gone to one of the churches they planted, to look for Jesus among the living rather than the dead, to borrow a phrase; he hasn’t abandoned the faith. Likewise, Crescens has gone, possibly to the Galatian churches, possibly carrying the gospel further west than Paul had gone, to Gaul (geographically, opposite ends of the Mediterranean, but connected ethnically by migration). Titus, also, is carrying the gospel onwards, west, last spotted (sorry) in Dalmatia. Only Luke is with Paul, for now. Paul longs for Timothy to join them, and to bring with him Mark, who at an earlier time had deserted Paul and been the cause of the great dividing of the ways between Paul and his first closest colleague, Barnabas. At some point in the intervening years, Paul and Mark have been reconciled, and found a way to work together again. Bring him with you, Timothy. (Mark does, indeed, end up in Rome, where he will write down the memoir of the apostle Peter, also on trial and soon to be executed; the result being the Gospel According to Mark.) Do not worry about leaving the church in Ephesus, Timothy; I am sending Tychicus to fill in for you while you are away. First, though, head north to Troas, and reclaim the cloak I left with Carpus, and my books and parchments.

And then, Paul mentions Alexander, the one person in this list who has truly harmed him; but even here, Paul leaves Alexander’s fate in God’s hands. Beware him, Timothy, steer clear; do not seek to avenge me.

I am struck by Paul, who has faithfully followed Jesus from Jerusalem to Rome, in life and soon enough now in death, in companionship and disciple-making and desertion. Paul, aware of the presence of Jesus, who has been through it all before him, standing by him and giving him strength, to face his own suffering and to forgive those who were not brave enough to face it with him. Paul, aware that Jesus will rescue him in this life to the very end, and then rescue him in death so that though he will die, he will not perish.

But this occasion is the Feast of St Luke, and I am struck that Luke is there with Paul. Traditionally, the Church has identified Luke as a physician. Personally, I believe that to be a case of mistaken identity, a conflation of Luke the biographer and another Luke, the physician. Regardless, I am sure that Luke being there with Paul was healing for him; that Luke ministered to him, both in body and soul. But I also think that it is far more likely, based on the depth of expert knowledge Luke brings to his accounts of Paul’s sea journeys, that Luke was an experienced merchant sailor. That he was an expert guide on those transitions between one destination and another, a broker who advised Paul on ships and captains, and who on occasion gave better advice than the captain was willing to take. And I am struck that it is Luke who remains with Paul as he contemplates his next and last journey, to another shore. No doubt recording Paul’s biography, that would in time make up so much of the Acts of the Apostles, but, also, perhaps, helping Paul put his estate in order. We need to get Timothy here now, before it is too late. We need to cement the reconciliation with Mark, so that he knows he has your approval. We need to gather the few possessions that really matter, and determine who to leave them to.

This year has been marked by journeys into the unknown. As well as our own personal and communal raw grief at the death of loved ones, we are buffeted by extended uncertainty and constantly and rapidly changing rules. We were made aware of the crisis-conditions facing frontline NHS workers earlier in the year; conditions that may well be even worse over the coming winter months. These are professionals, working in unfamiliar conditions. We ourselves, as a church community, have had to navigate whole new ways of being and doing church. Perhaps, at first, we thought of these things as a stop gap, a holding of things together until we could return to the familiar. It is becoming increasingly obvious that, at least for many churches, there will be no going back, only a pressing on, through an uncertain sea to an as yet unknown land.

How should we mark the Feast of St Luke this year, and how might it help us? Might it help us sustain prayer and our response to human need, to imagine our physicians—our doctors and nurses and all who work on the frontline of the NHS—as sailors on a stormy sea, under a dark and rainbow-less sky?

What would happen if we were to imagine Luke as a guide on the journey we face, to pray with him and perhaps through the lens of his story? How might the idea of short hops between safe harbours, or even shipwreck and loss, help us reimagine church, and, as church, contribute to a reimagining of wider society?

What would happen if we were to imagine Luke not as the physician who restores Paul to health but as the expert guide who assists him in dying well, by putting his affairs in order? How might that help us in forming our response to the death that awaits us all, in supporting our neighbours and our communities in this essential task and act of life?

Might Luke hold out for us the possibility of being, for one another, the still, centred place in the face of the gale force hurricane, simply by being present?

What do you need to do, in response, to prayerfully participate in the Feast of St Luke? What do you need to put in order? Who do you need to call, or forgive, or ask for help?

One small suggestion: why not write your response to the Feast of St Luke—it might be in the form of a prayer—on a sheet of paper, fold it into a paper boat, and set it sail on a stream through one of the local parks, or even, if you can get to the bank safely, the river Wear? Then watch as it is carried downstream. Note where it gets stuck in an eddy, or runs aground, or even capsizes, or perhaps until it disappears from view. Continue to pray, thanking God for faithful presence and companions in the past, and bringing to God your hopes and dreams and fears in the present.

And may the God of St Luke be beside you, giving you strength, and guiding you with wisdom…

 

Eighteenth Sunday after Trinity 2020

Lectionary readings: Exodus 32:1-14 and Philippians 4:1-9 and Matthew 22:1-14

One of the things that I love about Jesus’ parables is that they, quite deliberately, mess with your head. Today’s parable, of the Wedding Banquet, is a case in point. Jesus says, the kingdom of heaven may be compared to a king who gave a wedding banquet for his son. In other words, we are invited to draw similarities and differences. There are at least two ways in which this parable might be viewed, and each will undermine our worldview. Here is a tale of an unpopular king, egocentric, a megalomaniac who, when slighted, has a city wiped off the face of the earth. Here is a Herod. Here is a populist ruler, snubbed by the elites, calling out crowds in support. Here is Donald Trump. And here is one man who refuses to play the game, and who ends up humiliated and discarded in the municipal rubbish tip. Here is Jesus.

And yet, at the same time, here is the heavenly King, planning the wedding banquet of his Son and the Bride. Here is a foretaste of the union between Christ and the Church. Here is a familiar response, of people turning away from that invitation, into themselves, into their own pursuit of a meaningful life, whether family or place or money, and in some cases prepared to turn to violence in order to protect their self-interests. Here is a God who gives them over to the destruction they crave. Here is a man who is set against gratitude, who has set himself against entering into the joy of a fellow human being, who makes the unsubtle statement ‘I am here under duress’ and who finds themselves in the ultimate destination of self-centredness, which is to say bound in darkness, tormented by the weeping and animal aggression of others in the same beached boat.

As I said, the parables mess with our heads. They trick us into thinking of ourselves as the hero, the plucky under-dog defying all that is wrong in the world, only to reveal our nakedness, the reality that we are entirely complicit in the ways of the world. In the kingdom of heaven, the radical new way of life Jesus invites us into, we see a God who identifies with the victims and survivors, and who extends forgiveness to the truly penitent. For the truth that shines on our lives reveals that we are, all, a little bit of each: the potential for good and evil running through us, and made manifest in our lives, in various ways, according to the habitual choices we make. We are all saints and sinners, if not equally so.

In the reading from Exodus 32, we see creativity, skill, and community leadership all employed to the bending of people away from the God who has freed them from slavery. They make the image of a calf from gold, and declare, ‘Here are your gods.’ In the worldview of the Egyptians, who had enslaved this people for generations, the Apis bull calf was the herald of the local god, and intermediary between the gods and mortals. With Moses missing in action, they sought a new intermediary, one that was familiar, and that took them back towards captivity to forces that sought to destroy them. In this passage we also see Moses interceding on behalf of the people, acting as a true intermediary, very much not missing in action. And we see that God takes that deeply ingrained tendency of human beings to turn towards death and destruction very seriously; but that his justice is tempered with mercy. Justice and mercy are rooted in God’s nature and reputation, and it matters that God’s reputation, whether positive or negative in the eyes of others, should accurately reflect God’s nature.

Elsewhere, of course, we see the Israelites turn towards Yahweh, and elsewhere, Moses entertain their destruction. The potential for good and for evil run through us all; and God acts with justice and mercy, holding out restitution where we are sinned against, restoration where we have sinned against others, and reconciliation between our divided lives—and the challenging invitation to work these gifts out in the complex reality of our communities, our congregations.

In our reading from Philippians, we hear Paul’s closing remarks, his last words, his advice for building lives that work against self-centredness. Stand firm in the self-giving love of the Lord Jesus Christ. Be reconciled to one another, where division has got between us. Rejoice. Really learn what it means to enter into one another’s joy. Handle one other with care. Instead of cultivating worry, attend to prayer, cultivating gratitude. Look for, and meditate on, the good in all things. Keep on going on in this manner.

It is, of course, a summary list. A reminder of the way of life that Paul himself had modelled for them, imperfectly but committedly. A series of disciplines that, like any pursuit, is hard at first but comes with practice. We love because love has set us free to love. We practice reconciliation because we have been reconciled to God. We rejoice, because this world, this life is such a wonderful gift. We seek to embody gentleness, because we know that we are all wounded, and that we have all wounded others; and because we know that God is at work to heal our wounds, and to forgive our guilt and cleanse our shame at wounding others. We learn to say ‘no’ to worry and ‘yes’ to gratitude, because life is not a competition. We look for God, because all things are made good, and yet all things have been marred. We keep going, together. We fail, and are reminded and encouraged, and get up again, one day at a time.

This week, the Independent Inquiry into Child Sexual Abuse (IICSA) has published its Report on the Anglican Church in England and Wales. It makes for salutary reading. In the Executive Summary, the Inquiry notes (p. vi) ‘As we have said in other reports, faith organisations such as the Anglican Church are marked out by their explicit moral purpose, in teaching right from wrong. In the context of child sexual abuse, the Church’s neglect of the physical, emotional and spiritual well-being of children and young people in favour of protecting its reputation was in conflict with its mission of love and care for the innocent and the vulnerable.’ We have failed the victims and survivors of abuse, and done so in ways that have multiplied their wounds.

And this week, we read again the parable of the wedding banquet. A parable first told to a religious elite, weighing them and finding them wanting. A parable in which a man at the pinnacle of privilege, and his protegee, court praise and support; aided and abetted by the troops at their disposal, and the tendency of others—perhaps deeply genuine people, who desire nothing more than to go about their business—to make light of the scheming. A parable in which those who are perceived to have slighted the Establishment are silenced and disposed of; and a patronage within which good and bad are tightly interwoven. A parable in which the whistle-blower is humiliated and rejected and excluded, and weeping and anger are all that is left in the darkness. In the darkness where Jesus is, with the ostracized. A parable where the heavenly king prepares to celebrate the wonderful union between his Son and the Church, where those who will respond are welcome—those who know themselves to be both saints and sinners, dependent on God for favour and forgiveness—but where those who had previously known status, and those who resist entering into the king’s joy, are excluded. Where the golden calves are thrown down, a tragic and salutary episode in the life of God’s people.

Who, and where, we find ourselves in the parable is relative, dependant on our choices and on the actions of others towards us. But the Church is called to live as if the banquet was already in full swing. Presenting self-conscious victims and survivors with special garments of honour, and expelling wolves in sheep’s clothing. Interceding with Moses, exhorting with Paul. May God grant us true repentance, and the time to amend our lives, so that all may be glad, to the glory of God. Amen.

 

Harvest Thanksgiving 2020

 

Harvest Thanksgiving 2020

Lectionary readings: Deuteronomy 8:7-18, 2 Corinthians 9:6-15 and Luke 12:16-30

Today is our Harvest Thanksgiving. Our Old Testament reading from the Law of Moses, and our New Testament reading from the letters of Paul, both remind us of God’s goodness. Both stand as an invitation to participate fully in divine generosity. Both stand in contrast to the fool, who, in the parable Jesus told in our Gospel reading, sought to keep abundance for himself instead of sharing it with others. I am struck by the words God said to him: This very night your life is being demanded of you. These are, I would suggest, the words that God says to every one of us, not only at the hour of our death but every day of our lives: your life is being demanded of you. By God, by our neighbours and all creation, by our own deepest being. Not to be consumed by many demands, but set free by this sole demand: that we turn up, not as spectators, and give our lives away in love, in response to Love. As Isaac Watts put it, were the whole realm of nature mine, that were an offering far too small; love so amazing, so divine, demands my soul, my life, my all.

Although today we are celebrating Harvest, I want to talk about Christmas. This has been a hard year, not only for those for whom we are stocking up the food bank shelves ahead of winter, but for all of us. This Christmas will be a strange one, in which Covid-19 restrictions will prevent us from gathering as extended families, prevent us from joining together with neighbours at carol services, nativities and Christingles as in previous years. This Christmas, we will live with the strange mix of the numbness of loss and the longing for the sort of celebration that strengthens our bones to get through the cold, dark months. And this year, with this tension in mind, the Church of England’s Christmas theme is Comfort and Joy.

Jo and I decided that we would try something, to share some comfort and joy. Jo had the original idea of putting a Christmas decoration through every letterbox in the parish, to create a community-wide Christmas tree; and to invite people to take a photo of their bauble, on their tree or hanging in their window, and post them on the church Facebook page, to curate a record. I asked around, and approached a local business, who made up some samples, and on Friday we placed an order for 7,000 laser-cut baubles that each say Comfort and Joy.

The cost is underwritten. But the idea does not stop there. We wanted to find ways in which we might invite other people into the fun of spreading hope, bringing good news, proclaiming tidings of comfort and joy. We started to tell our friends the story of what we hoped to do, and how they could get involved.

Could they donate towards the production costs (£1,750, for 7,000 baubles at 25p each), through the Just Giving page I had set up? The link is:

https://www.justgiving.com/crowdfunding/comfort-and-joy

Did they have any ribbon in their craft boxes, for which they had no use? Our baubles would need ribbon to hang them from: 7,000 strips, 15-20cm long and 3mm-(max.)10mm wide; of any colour.

And, nearer the time, could any local friends help us deliver these gifts across the parish?

Straight away, people started responding. Within one day, they had already donated almost £300; while others had let us know that they would go through their craft or sewing boxes in search of ribbon we could have, which they would either drop round or post to us. Simply in response to telling a story and asking for help to tell it wider.

Writing to the church in Corinth, Paul observed that God loves a cheerful giver. The Greek is the word from which we derive our word hilarious: it is the joyful giving of one who is already persuaded, won over. God loves to see a joyful giver, because God is a joyful giver, and we are created to bear God’s image. A joyful giver is someone who is living and moving in the love of God, a person fully alive. And, being made in God’s likeness, people love to give, generously; and do so whenever they are won over, whenever a cause sparks joy. They sow the seed of joy, and it bears a plentiful harvest of joy. Out there, across our parish, and far beyond. Indeed, right around the world.

God knows the needs of our souls and bodies, what is needful for our comfort in mourning and in order to share in the joy that revives us, spiritual and material provision. The fool said to his soul, ‘Soul, you have ample goods laid up for many years; relax, eat, drink, be merry.’ But God, alone, is the Giver of true rest and re-creation; of true food and drink, for our earthly pilgrimage and our heavenly banquet; of true victory over the trials of life. Everything that the fool looked for elsewhere: which, of course, is what made him a fool. That is not to say that life is easy, but that, whatever comes, God is so, so good.

Christmas and Harvest might look different this year, but perhaps this is because God is at work to pull down our barns, in order to build bigger ones, not for ourselves alone but to share an abundance with more of our neighbours? And the things we have prepared, whose will they be? Might we dare to imagine?