Sixteenth Sunday after Trinity 2023

 

Lectionary texts: Exodus 16.2-15 and Matthew 20.1-16

There’s a moment in the Common Worship liturgy for Holy Communion where the gathered-up financial gifts brought by the people are brought to the altar, and the priest takes the plate and holds it up and leads the whole people in a prayer, saying,

Yours, Lord, is the greatness, the power,
the glory, the splendour, and the majesty;
for everything is heaven and on earth is yours.

All          All things come from you,
and of your own do we give you.

This prayer [Supplementary Texts: Prayers at Preparation of Table] is an acknowledgement of God’s generosity—that God’s glory is revealed not in lavish possessing but in lavish generosity. And it is a response that acknowledges that the people of a generous God are set free to be a generous people.

Today is the start of Generosity Week, which runs from 24 September to 1 October. It is a week in which we are invited to reflect on our giving in support of the church, as well as other charities or voluntary organisations that strengthen our community, and to think about our own response to the needs we hear about.

Today, our journey through the book of Exodus finds us in the wilderness, about two months after leaving Egypt. Then, the people had cried out to God on account of the harsh treatment they experienced at the hands of their Egyptian masters. But now, only two months later, the people are expressing resentment at their freedom. ‘Those who lead us are incompetent, and so we are going to starve to death. If only God had killed us back in Egypt—at least then we would have died with our stomachs full! There, we ate our fill of bread.’

It is amazing how quickly nostalgia sets in, the past viewed through rose-tinted spectacles. Remember the good old days? Here’s the thing: these people are shepherds, and they have left Egypt taking their large flocks with them. But they are not willing to eat into their reserves. They are saving those for a rainy day. Meanwhile, they are resentful of the circumstances they find themselves in.

God’s response to their murmurs of complaint is to pour down generosity. To open the flood gates of heaven, so that their resentment might drown and their truest identity as God’s people might be rescued. Like the Flood in the days of Noah, like the drowning of the Egyptian army in the sea of reeds, this is imagery depicting our need to die to self-sufficiency in order to walk in the freedom God desires for us. This is baptism stuff, being joined to God’s people.

And God says, I shall provide your daily bread. God sends quail in the evenings and manna in the mornings—a ‘bread’ they have never known before. Day after day, enough for all, whether you are a family of two or of twelve. But just as God gave our first parents every fruit bearing tree for food and instructed them not to eat from one tree alone, so, again, God holds out gift and restriction. If we are to be generous, as God is generous, we must discover the goodness of gift and the goodness of restraint. So, if anyone sought to hoard more than they needed for that day, the manna turned rotten, full of maggots. But God also wanted to teach the people gift and restraint in relation to work—for they were no longer slaves. So, on the sixth day, God provided double, and the people were to gather double; for on the sabbath, God and the people would rest together: no miracle, no gathering-up food. Those who didn’t trust God, who didn’t gather double that first sabbath-eve, went hungry.

One-and-a-half millennia later, Jesus declared, ‘I am the bread that came down from heaven’ (see John 6). This whole episode looks forward, finds its fulfilment in him. The one who taught his disciples to pray, Give us today our daily bread. To look to our Father in heaven as generous provider, the one who gives us his Son, and with Jesus, everything we need. Lord, give us Jesus. Give us your presence, today. ‘As we eat and drink these holy things in your presence, form us in the likeness of Christ’ [from Eucharistic Prayer G].

In our Gospel reading, Jesus describes the kingdom of heaven—that is, God’s rule on God’s earth, which God chooses to exercise through human beings—as a way of being where everyone is given what they need in order to live. God’s vision is deeply offensive to our opinion that some people (including us) are deserving of more than other people. But we are called to be generous. To trust that God will give us our daily wage, and to rejoice that God gives the same daily wage to others.

One of the ways we seek to live this out, as the Church of England, is through the Parish Pledge. The Parish Pledge is the framework by which we consider God’s generosity towards us, and the needs of others, and decide what we will give in response, so that God’s gifts are redistributed according to means and need. The Parish Pledge is the mechanism by which parishes that have gathered more than they need are able to support parishes that have not been able to gather as much as they need, without any of God’s provision turning rotten. And for a while now, we at St Nicholas have been net receivers of the generosity of other parishes. While I’m thankful for their generosity towards us, I’m praying for the day when we might be able to reciprocate. Join me.

If you give of your finances to St Nicholas,’ thank you. If you give of your time, thank you. If you give of your skills, thank you. If you haven’t taken the opportunity to reflect on what you give for a while, can I encourage you to do so? Blessing our community, in Jesus’ name, is a commitment to generosity; it doesn’t happen by accident or as an afterthought, but through prayerful observation of need, reflection on how we might best respond, by planning, putting those plans into action, and assessing the outcomes. What are we doing well? And what could we do better?

We need to make it easier for people to give, including occasional visitors and those moving from being a regular visitor to a committed member of our congregation. Earlier this year, we signed up to the Parish Giving Scheme, which offers an alternative (and, indeed, several advantages) to giving by Standing Order. Information packs are available at the main door. We can already make online donations at our services, using a smart phone, as well as cash in the collection plates, and from November, we’ll also be equipped with a CollecTin® More, a Contactless Point of Donation. This is not about disenfranchising existing and older givers, but about extending franchise to others. Not consigning the past to the rubbish heap but securing a future that will continue to honour the generosity of our older members.

I am very aware that many of us have (or will have) increasing personal care costs. As part of a regular review of our giving, we may need to reduce our donations. Generosity is about giving what we can with a glad heart; there should be no guilt over what we cannot give. If you need to reduce what you give, thank you for continuing to give. Please pray that God would continue to meet our needs, to give us our daily bread. And lastly, on giving, can I encourage you to consider including the church in your will? It helps if legacies are made without restriction, allowing the PCC to determine how best to use these gifts.

We need to tell stories of the impact of our giving and celebrate the ways in which generosity is expressed among us. Our regular Afternoon Teas and Soup Lunches add ‘thickness’ to a stretched-thin community, enabling those who may live predominantly alone to meet with their neighbours. Our Care & Share lunches do the same for those who are vulnerably housed, while our support of Basis and of the food bank run by Elim, provide a lifeline for individuals and families in crisis. Thank you, all who give of your time to make this possible.

These regular activities provide opportunity for church members to give of their time, and in other ways, such as baking for others. We celebrate that practical expression of loving our neighbour. Many of us have been brought up to keep quiet about our volunteering in the community—it feels like bragging—but telling the stories of our experience is how we invite others to join in. As you may have already discovered, volunteering is good for mental and emotional health. So, let’s invite others to join us!

There are other opportunities that we are not at present able to engage with. Since being licensed here on a full-time basis, I have been able to connect with Richard Avenue Primary School, in addition to Barbara Priestman Academy. Both are looking to establish strong connections with us, with pupils visiting here and a team from the church going into the schools. I’d love to build a team of people who might be trained to help me tell Bible stories in engaging ways. I’d love to have a schools’ budget stream in our church accounts. I’d love to have people commit to pray week-by-week for our schools. If that could be you, come and speak to me.

When I agreed to give St Nicholas’ part of my time, back in 2019, that is what I gave, as best as I was able. My financial giving remained at the Minster, supporting their ministry, not least among asylum seekers who are not permitted to work, not permitted to contribute to society through their work, who have to find other ways to express generosity. When I was licenced here in July, Jo and I transferred our committed giving to St Nicholas.’ We’re also prayerfully thinking through how we best give our time, which will probably be in new areas that stimulate new growth rather than existing ones. This Generosity Week, may I invite you to take the opportunity to make your own review?

Finally, thank you, for all that you have so generously given, and all that you will give in the year to come. Together, may we be amazed by God’s generous initiative towards us.

 

Fifteenth Sunday after Trinity 2023

 

Lectionary readings: Exodus 14.19-31 and Matthew 18.21-35

There’s a story in the Bible of God parting the sea so that the Israelites can escape the Egyptian army. It is, in fact, a foundational story—perhaps the foundational story—for Jewish identity, and by extension (though seeking to avoid appropriation) Christian identity.

The Israelites had been a minority within Egypt for generations, first welcome, later looked down upon by the majority culture. Within living memory, they had survived attempted genocide. One of the child survivors grew up to be a liberator, sent by God to confront Pharaoh. An increasingly bitter stand-off ensues, open warfare between the gods of Egypt and the Creator God who, through Moses as messenger, marshals the lived environment against oppression in a series of plagues. Eventually, the Egyptians drive their Hebrew neighbours out of the land, Pharaoh even demanding a blessing upon himself as they go. Be careful what you ask for.

God then leads the Israelites on a bit of a wander around the northern edge of Egypt, going round in circles, until Pharaoh is convinced that the sea of humanity that has sought to be free of him—his supply of cheap labour—are lost. Seizing the moment, he mobilises his entire army—the elite divisions and the regulars—and sets out to surround the Israelites, who find themselves trapped at the marshes, with no escape route. But it is the Egyptians who are heading into a trap.

As the Egyptians circle the Israelites, hemming them in, God’s imminent presence with them, made visible in a pillar of cloud by day and fire by night, moves from in front of them to behind, standing between them and the Egyptians. As night falls, water moves, parting to the right and to the left, to leave a dry passage through the wetland. At the darkest point in the night, Moses instructs the people to cross over. They are literally stepping into the dark (the fire that has led them over recent nights is now behind them) navigating unfamiliar marshes blind.

But the marsh is merciful. Water parts and dry land rises, to make a way where there was no way.

With the pillar of fire as rearguard, they retreat to safety, the Egyptians following. And when the Egyptian army is surrounded by the marsh, the dry land welcomes the waters back, mud grasping at chariot wheels, waters swirling in, until, to a man, the oppressing army is drowned.

The marsh is merciful. Creation is merciful.

By which I do not mean to say that every natural disaster is an act of mercy. That would be a crass extrapolation in a complex world. Even in this instance, the mercy of creation left Egyptian wives and mothers lamenting the loss of their husbands and sons. That should be enough to disturb us in any rush to pass judgement on others.

And yet, God, who does not rush and is not rushed, does pass judgement on those who choose, and persist in choosing, to withhold mercy. To the merciless, God allows them to be trapped by their own ruthlessness, and eventually grants them the blessing of rest from their insatiable pursuit of injustice. A very public humbling.

Of course, when we think of this story (if we think of it at all) we like to cast ourselves as numbered with the Israelites, more sinned against than sinning, longing for our enemies to drown. And, in fairness, we may share some Israelite traits: a lack of trust, a quickness to complain. But, in truth, we are the Egyptians, and our mercilessness needs to drown beneath the rising waves. Which is precisely the symbolism (and efficacy) of baptism, in which we die to sin—trusting that death is not the final word. Egypt is not wiped off the map, just relieved of her militarism. In baptism, we die…and rise to new life in Christ—a life marked by mercy, hidden in the one through whom all creation is being reconciled, brought home to its Creator (Christ being the one through and for whom God created all things).

The crossing of the sea of reeds (also known as the Sea at the End of the World) is the culmination of the exodus from captivity in Egypt. But the book of Exodus is only getting going. The book of Exodus records for us how to live a lifelong pilgrimage, learning what it means to find not only moments or mountains but every place we may find ourselves to be holy ground. To stand on holy ground is to stand on mercy. To take a stand for mercy.

In our world, where there is an exodus on an unprecedented scale of men, women and children fleeing persecution at great personal risk, how might we live out this story today? With regard to our own fears, and prejudices, how might we live out this story today?

 

St Nicholas' Church Dedication Festival (1939)

 Lectionary readings: 1 Kings 8.22-30 and Matthew 21.12-16

There’s a story in the Gospels of Jesus going to the Temple at Jerusalem, and, finding it filled with money changers, drives them out so forcibly that it is presented as an exorcism.

It helps to know some things about the Temple.

Firstly, the Temple was a deeply symbolic architecture, a representation on earth of the ordering of the cosmos. The Temple was a series of concentric spaces around the Holy of Holies, God’s house on earth, not because God needed or could be contained within a house, but for people’s sake, a visual representation. Around this was, first, space for the priests, mediators between God and humanity. Then space for Jewish men, representatives of their families. Then space for Jewish women. It should be noted that distance from the centre does not imply that most men are less holy or important or valued than priests, or that women are any less holy or important or valued than men, and more than Earth is less holy or important or valued than Mercury or Venus for being further from the sun at the centre of our solar system. While misogyny twists what is good, in our rightful calling out of misogyny we should not fall into the error of antisemitism. The Jewish women surround the Jewish men because they are the mothers who birth the community into existence, and the warriors given by God to deliver the people from their enemies. Beyond the space for the women was space for the Gentiles, non-Jews who chose to worship the Jewish God, and whose presence at the outer edge of the Temple was prophetically symbolic of a time when all the surrounding nations would come to worship.

Just as many people come to church today, people came to the Temple to mark significant moments in their personal or communal lives. And when they came, they brought an offering, usually an animal or a crop. This was blessed by the priest, killed (if an animal), prepared, and eaten, sometimes as a family, sometimes as a wider community, sometimes including the priests, in much the same way that those who come to church for a funeral, christening or wedding go on to a wake or reception, to which the vicar is often invited. What people brought was weighted according to means, but at the heart of coming to the Temple was coming to celebrate God’s goodness, and the principle was that all who participated, contributed.

Over the centuries, Jewish communities spread out beyond the boundaries of Israel. This resulted in a logistical problem for pilgrims. If you are travelling to Jerusalem from, say, Alexandria, it isn’t easy to bring a sheep along. And so, at some point, animals were made available on arrival. At some point, someone also decided that pilgrims couldn’t buy these animals with common currency but would have to exchange their money for Temple currency. This is understandable when you recall that the Greeks had desecrated the Temple. Those who operated the bureau de change may well have added a small commission, but there is no evidence that they were exploiting pilgrims. They had, however, spilled into the court of the Gentiles. When Jesus declares to the money changers and sellers of doves—the poor person’s offering—that, ‘It is written, “My house shall be called a house of prayer [for all nations]”; but you are making it a den of robbers’ it is likely his objection was that they had stolen the house of prayer from the nations.

Jesus says that they are making the house of prayer into a den of robbers, or cave of bandits. This is an interesting choice of words. It was king David who had first wanted to build a Temple at Jerusalem for God. But before he was king in Jerusalem, David had been king of outlaws or bandits hiding in a cave; and God told him that he had too much blood on his hands; instead, his son Solomon would be the one to build the first Temple. That had been destroyed, a second Temple built, and later significantly extended; even so, space was at a premium, and it was the nations who were missing out. Perhaps the import of Jesus’ words was that, like David, their heart was in the right place, but they weren’t going about it in God’s way.

The immediate effect of the exorcism is that the blind and the lame receive healing, and children shout for joy.

When we come to God’s house to thank God for his goodness, the grace and mercy we have received, the blessings we enjoy, everyone is meant to bring their contribution. God’s house, wherever it may be, is a house of prayer, for all nations. We come bringing not sheep or doves or grain but—first and foremost—prayer. And the space in which we do that can be stolen, encroached upon. What might Jesus want to exorcise from his Church today?

One of the things that often needs to be exorcised is our perfectionism, which has little to do with doing all things well and much to do with our own narrow view of how things should be done. Too often people have had the confidence to pray in public stolen from them by church leaders or fellow members who have passed judgement on their offering, as not being acceptable: ‘Those prayers were lame!’ Too often people have been disabled, rather than enabled. Too often those who are inexperienced—those who are children in what they bring, who have not yet learnt the sober and at times sombre ways of Getting It Right—are overly-corrected, told what to say, made to read out prayers written by someone else. This, too, is a disabling and not an enabling.

But when Jesus comes into the Temple, he turns over tables. He disrupts business as usual. He sees with fresh eyes and acts with strong limbs, in such a way that others are empowered to praise, to bring their previously silenced contribution to the party.

Exorcisms are concerned with restoring things to their rightful place in order that no one is trespassed upon by anyone else. In Jesus, there is room for all. Sometimes we just need things to be shaken up to rediscover it. Sometimes, we resent it, as if leaving room for others will mean less room for ourselves. But it doesn’t work like that. And Jesus will exorcise us until we discover him to be true.

 

Thirteenth Sunday after Trinity 2023

 

How to stand on holy ground

Over the past couple of years, there has been a marked phenomenon, the rapid growth of numbers of people making a pilgrimage, whether walking [sections of] the Camino to Santiago de Compostella or, closer to home, St Cuthbert’s Way from Melrose to Lindisfarne. The reasons are many. In part, a reaction to the experience of lockdown, a sense of needing to make up for lost time, that has seen a strong bounce-back for all kinds of holiday abroad. In part, it ties in well with a popular interest in mental health and wellbeing, of the need to take time out for yourself. Pilgrimage has a long history within many of the world religions and also resonates with those who would claim ‘spiritual’ awareness—a sense of something more to life—and an appreciation of some of the structure of religious practice, without wanting to carry too much baggage, whether doctrines or debates or the demands of a permanent local congregation. But in truth there may be as many different reasons for going on pilgrimage as there are pilgrims.

For many, pilgrimage might be described as making a purposeful journey, and taking purposeful time away from everyday demands. But what difference does it make once you get home? What meaning does whatever we experienced there find back here? The book of Exodus records a life of pilgrimage, of learning how to stand on holy ground—wherever you happen to be stood. Our story begins with a man called Moses (Exodus 3.1-15).

‘Then Moses said, ‘I must turn aside and look at this great sight, and see why the bush is not burned up.’ (Exodus 3.3)

Moses is going about his everyday tasks—his responsibilities towards his family—within a life that is not the life he had imagined for himself. He has been rejected by both his adopted family (the Egyptians) and his family-of-origin (the Hebrews). He has lost status, identity, rootedness, belonging. Along the way, he has also been welcomed into a new family, has made a new life, has rebuilt his world after (childhood trauma and adult) bereavement. So, in some regards, his world is smaller than it once was; in other regards, he has grown larger, to create room around his grief for life to go on. This is what surviving bereavement does to us: we will never be the same, but, against all probability, we are not consumed by the flames.

In any event, Moses is going about his everyday tasks, and he becomes aware of something out-of-the-ordinary. And he responds, ‘I must turn aside and look,’ I must turn from what I am doing (the world won’t fall apart without me) to behold this thing of wonder, and to ask why it exists—and why it continues to exist.

‘When the Lord saw that he had turned aside to see, God called to him out of the bush, ‘Moses, Moses!’ And he said, ‘Here I am.’ (Exodus 3.4)

God sees that Moses is looking, and so God calls him by name. And Moses responds, ‘Here I am.’ We see that God knows us by name; and that where we are—the life we have, here and now—is the very place where we can meet God, if we are open to it. Not some other set of circumstances, some un-reality.

‘Then he said, ‘Come no closer! Remove the sandals from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground.’ (Exodus 3.5)

God wants Moses to know that the place he finds himself is holy ground. If he can learn that this place is holy ground, then, in time, Moses can learn that every place is holy ground, for every place is created by God, and God is glorified whenever this is recognised. This is true for any ground that we consider holy, any site of prayer or pilgrimage: finding ourselves there—and encountering God there—is practice for encountering God any- and everywhere.

God says to Moses, remove your sandals. Why? Because holiness is fragile and easily spoiled? I don’t think so—holiness burns like fire that does not go out. Perhaps it is because God does not want anything to come between us and holy ground, not even shoe-leather. Perhaps it is because the soles of our shoes cushion our sensitivity to the ground beneath our feet, allowing us to move quickly, too quickly to notice what God is doing, just to one side.

Learning how to stand on holy ground

Read  Exodus 3.1-15

 

Then Moses said, ‘I must turn aside and look at this great sight,
and see why the bush is not burned up.’
(Exodus 3.3)

Life is a miraculous gift, even if it is possible to lose sight of that. Where have you seen God’s presence in your life, perhaps out of the corner of your eye, perhaps through tear-filled eyes? Be still. Give thanks.

You might like to use the colouring sheet overleaf to slow down and have a conversation with God.

 

When the Lord saw that he had turned aside to see,
God called to him out of the bush, ‘Moses, Moses!’
And he said, ‘Here I am.’
(Exodus 3.4)

Your life is holy ground. Your life. The one you have, not the one you hoped to have. The same is true of every person you will ever meet.

Place a glass bead on the parish map to mark the places where you find yourself through the week. Pray for the people you meet there, that they would know God knows them by name and cares about them.

 

Then he said, ‘Come no closer! Remove the sandals from your feet,
for the place on which you are standing is holy ground.’
(Exodus 3.5)

Go outside, take off your shoes and socks, and walk around on the grass. Slowly. What do you feel?

We have two large lawns here at St Nicholas’ but if this feels a step too far why not try it in your own garden at home, or at the park. Or, if you prefer, walk barefoot on the beach. Pay attention to your body, to anything it may say to you, and to anything God may want to say to you through your body.