Fourth Sunday of Easter 2024

 

Lectionary readings: Acts 4.5-12 and John 10.11-18

Around 12,000 years ago the world was emerging from the most recent Ice Age. Humans had spread through every continent. There were in total around 1 million of them, and they were all hunter gatherers. If they were going to develop beyond that, they would need to develop farming. And that required several factors (such as significant rivers) but two things in particular: indigenous cereals, to produce a food surplus freeing up some of the community to do other things; and the kind of animals you can put to work, of which there are surprisingly few. Australia had no natural advantages. Africa and the Americas, both lying north-south through several distinct climate zones, had limited cereals (sorghum, millet; maize, quinoa) or suitable animals (camel, donkey; llama, alpaca). With a temperate climate stretching from the Atlantic to the Pacific, producing wheat, barley, millet, and rice, and home to the sheep, goat, pig, cow, and horse, Eurasian farmers had a distinct advantage [see A. Wilson, Remaking the World]. This is why we see the early rise of so many major civilisations—and empires—in this part of the world, growing around the Tigris and Euphrates, the Indus, the Yellow and Yangtze rivers, as well as the Nile. These are not the only major civilisations, of course, but they are the earliest.

Across this zone, settled communities developed houses: and, across the many diverse cultures of this zone those houses—from humble homes to royal palaces—took form around an internal, or interior, courtyard. Why? In part because it was easier for humans (as well as for grains and other animals) to move east-west, learning from one another. And in part because the internal courtyard offered several advantages:

it invites natural light, while maintaining privacy—walls also storing the sun’s heat for nighttime warmth (passive heating).

it encourages air movement, providing a welcome cooling breeze in warmer regions and helping to maintain thermal equilibrium (passive cooling).

It collects and stores rainwater, typically in a shallow pool, for use in drier times.

it creates relaxing space, a safe place to enjoy company, eat and drink together, discuss ideas.

The internal courtyard is a key indicator of having moved beyond surviving into flourishing.

Which is all very interesting (or perhaps not) but what has it to do with our readings from the Bible (Acts 4.5-12 and John 10.11-18)? Well, our readings bring together an image from the world of agriculture and an image from the world of architecture.

Let’s start with Jesus, and his words, ‘I have other sheep that do not belong to this fold. I must bring them also, and they will listen to my voice.’ The word translated ‘fold’ is the word for an internal courtyard. It can mean sheepfold (its primary meaning in the metaphor of sheep and shepherd) but it also refers to the interior courtyard of a house or palace. Jesus brings those who come to him into his internal courtyard, where we see by his beautiful light; experience the breeze of the Holy Spirit; are cleansed and renewed in baptism, fed in holy communion; and can relax knowing that we are safe from harm. In him, there is, simply put, a rightness to the world.

Now let’s turn to Peter. Filled with the Holy Spirit, Peter quotes Psalm 118: “the stone that was rejected by you, the builders; it has become the cornerstone.” Literally, it has become ‘the head of the corner.’ The cornerstone is the architrave (the ‘chief beam’) that sits on top of, and holds together, the columns that support the roof, so that the roof—having a large hole in it to let in light and air and water, doesn’t collapse.

Peter’s experience of the church is of a dwelling—a family home, a royal palace—being built for all people around an internal courtyard: around a space that lets the light of Christ illumine our lives; a space where we can feel, and benefit from, the movement of the life-giving Spirit; a space defined by repentance and baptism, and by a common meal; a safe space where we can enjoy one another’s company in fellowship. It is certainly a place of goodness and healing, of restoration of health.

This, then, is the ‘ideal model’ of the Church, for Jesus and for Peter. Indeed, many of the earliest churches met in the internal courtyard of the homes of their hosts. This was the main and semi-public room, around a pool where baptisms took place (Paul baptises the household of a Roman army veteran in Philippi, establishing a second church in the city) and a dining table. And when Christians first began to build dedicated places of worship, they built them around an atrium (the Latin name for the internal courtyard). The shape of our buildings has evolved over the centuries, but we still see that form in the cloisters of our own Durham cathedral.

We don’t have an internal courtyard, but the metaphor stands. And, just as we have covered over the interior courtyard of our buildings, so we see patterns of behaviour at play within the Church of God that try to shut out the light of Christ, keep out the wind of the Holy Spirit, detach baptism and communion from discipleship, and lord over an unsafe place where people experience spiritual abuse.

Even as we get work done to replace the physical roof above the south aisle, let us attend to maintaining the metaphorical opening over our heads, that we may be a flourishing community within the courts of the Lord. The measure might be to ask:

Is our worship focused on Jesus, welcoming his light, and responding in repentance and joy?

Is our worship open to the Holy Spirit, the giver and sustainer of life?

Do we prepare people of all ages for baptism and to receive communion—and to live the life that flows from these sacraments—well?

Do we nurture a safe environment where people of various ages, abilities and needs can get to know one another and flourish together?

If the answer to any of these questions is ‘not really,’ how might we attend to that?

And one final thing. Jesus says, ‘I have other sheep that do not belong to this fold. I must bring them also, and they will listen to my voice. So there will be one flock, one shepherd.’  Jesus goes out into the world to bring others back, with him, into his fold. We are called to follow him, where he leads, and to do the things he does. If we have found, in this place, an internal courtyard in the world, who do we know who might also find a welcome here? Whom might we invite to come with us? Whom might we speak to, whom Jesus might speak to through us, who might hear his voice and respond?

Don’t think of the fold as being tight for space, but as a gracious space, a hospitable space, an inviting space. A blessing you would want to let others in on, that they might be blessed too.

 

Third Sunday of Easter 2024

 

Third Sunday of Easter

Lectionary readings: Acts 3.12-19 and Luke 24.36b-48

Why do we have this frankly improbable story? Well, the Church proclaims that, improbable though it may sound, Jesus was raised from the dead, and that his resurrection was bodily. But I don’t think that is why we have this story. That is why the world has this story, to know that Jesus has triumphed over the forces of death. But we—the Church—have this story to train us to meet the risen Jesus in our own lives, now.

In this story, of the risen Jesus appearing to his disciples, we learn several things.

We learn that our bodies matter: that we are not simply souls, temporarily residing in a body; but that body and soul belong together.

We learn that we meet Jesus in food: in the fellowship of eating together, in the people we eat with; not restricted to (but in a special way in) the bread and the wine of communion.

We learn that our thoughts and feelings and experiences and emotions matter. The disciples are startled, and experience terror, fear, rising doubt, joy, disbelief, and wonder, all smushed together. It is A Lot. The disciples in the upper room are like chrysalises inside protective cocoons, that life-stage between caterpillar and butterfly where the insect is being utterly undone and made anew.

Our thoughts and feelings, and our experiences and emotions, can lead us towards God and our neighbour, our fellow human beings. But they can be intense, confusing, painful; and we so often seek to deaden intensity, impose order on our confusion, and numb our pain. We may self-medicate with alcohol, or use our television as an avoidance strategy, or even inflict pain on others in doomed attempts to protect ourselves from pain. Such responses to our bodies cause us to move further away from God and others.

Jesus responds by speaking peace and proclaiming repentance and forgiveness of sins.

The peace Jesus speaks is wholeness. It is not the absence or repression of thoughts, feelings, experiences, and emotions, but their harmonious integration; the experience of life in all its fullness; our whole being—our souls and bodies—at home in its own skin, and secure in our connection to others.

Repentance is a change of mind, a turning towards the other, an alignment with God and others. And it goes hand-in-hand with forgiveness of sins, with addressing and dealing with the ways in which we have responded to our thoughts and feelings and experiences and emotions that have caused us to turn away from God and others, where we have colluded with the forces of death rather than participated in the life of the very Author of Life.

So how might we respond to this good news story today? I’d like to offer three options.

First, if you know that you need that peace that Jesus offers, you are invited to come to the front where I will anoint people with the oil of healing that was blessed at the Cathedral in Holy Week. You might come seeking healing of body or soul; for yourself, or on behalf of someone else. I won’t enquire as to why you come; I shall simply anoint your head and hands and ask Jesus to bring wholeness where it is needed.

Second, at the back of the church you will see a representation of the tree of life. And you will find many heart-shaped leaves, of different colours; most have different colours on their front and on their underside. The invitation here is to notice the thoughts and feelings our bodies bear today—there may be several—and to choose a colour that represents each feeling; and to add those leaves to the tree. For example, grief might be purple, like a bruise. Sadness might be silver. What colour is jealousy, or disappointment, or contentment, or joy? To clarify, the aim is not to add all the leaves to the tree, but to create a representation of who we, as the body of Christ, are today—and to recognise that Jesus comes to bring life however he finds us.

Third, if you are more cerebral, or perhaps less mobile, you might just want to sit where you are and pay attention to your thoughts and feelings and listen for whatever Jesus might want to say to you about them. For he comes to bring us life. He comes to empower us to love God with our whole being; and to have self-compassion and love for others (which go hand-in-hand, the extent of the former being the limit of the later). And his Spirit speaks to our spirit.

To summarise, come to the front for anointing; go to the back for leaves; and stay where you are for listening. You may, of course, do all three. You have ten minutes. Over to you.

 

Second Sunday of Easter 2024

 

Second Sunday of Easter

Lectionary readings: Acts 4.32-35 and John 20.19-31

Easter is not a day, or even a long weekend. Easter is a Season, lasting seven weeks (which is longer than the Season of Lent, the season of preparation for Easter). It is a Season of learning what it means to be a people, a community, defined by resurrection. And our reading today from the Acts of the Apostles invites us to engage with how the resurrection empowers us to overcome one of the key forces of death in the world: the hold that wealth has over us.

In the Gospels, Jesus speaks about our relationship to money more than anything else. In the Sermon on the Mount, he explicitly says, ‘You cannot serve both God and mammon’ (Matthew 6.24). Mammon translates as riches, money, possessions, or property; and Jesus describes this as operating like a rival god: either we find ourselves serving mammon, and the claim it asserts over our lives; or we choose to serve God. Either way, we are not the masters of our own lives. Mammon asserts its claim over humanity in every age and society. In our context, we swim in the sea of neoliberal free market fundamentalism, that holds so many in the captivity of poverty, and a few in the captivity of wealth—and we tend to assume that, at worst, this is the best of all possible alternatives. This is how Mammon rules over us.

In light of the resurrection, Jesus’ followers recognised that their financial resources were not theirs alone but were given for the common good. They didn’t erase ownership, or pool all their resources into a common purse; but they did release and redistribute capital to meet need.

Of course, these first to follow Jesus believed that he would return within their lifetimes. Our situation is very different; but then, the circumstances of Christians have varied from context to context around the world and through the ages. We are not given an ideology to subscribe to (e.g. Capitalism, Communism) but a principle to bring to bear, in creative ways. In our context, the influence of Christendom has shaped both taxation as contribution to a common purse and charitable giving as a non-governmental form of organised redistribution according to need.

But we likely assume that our money is our own; resent taxation as government taking what is ours; believe that this money is wasted through mismanagement, whether by local or national government or by institutions funded in this way; and think that those who are supported by the Welfare State are sponging off society. This is how Mammon holds us captive.

We at St Nicholas’ are a Christian community whose life incurs financial liability: primarily, the cost of ministry to the parish; the cost of maintaining our buildings [some of these costs are large and can be partially offset by grants]; and the cost of utilities, of heating of buildings so that they are inviting spaces for hospitality and welcome. These are largely our costs to bear. And again, Mammon raises its head.

The Church of England, of which we are a part, does have access to an in-perpetuity endowment fund. The Church Commissioners support the Church of England’s ministry in various ways, particularly in areas of need and opportunity. At the end of 2022, the Church Commissioners’ investment fund held assets valued at £10.3bn. The Commissioners committed to distributing £1.2bn to the Church of England over the three-year period 2023-25. Their support meets around 20% of the annual running costs of the Church of England, including statutory commitments such as pension obligations. They fund mission and ministry in the poorest parts of the country; initiatives such as racial and social justice interventions, engaging with young people, short-term funding for new initiatives, and supporting the Church to become carbon-net zero by 2030; they support chaplaincy, ordinands, bishops and archbishops, cathedrals. They don’t, as a rule, support the ongoing costs of parish churches—although they did distribute money right across the Church of England to offset the fuel bill crisis: we received money, which, being on a fixed-rate contract, we felt that we did not need, and so our Parochial Church Council voted to pass that support on to Sunderland Minster, whose need was greater.

But whenever the Church Commissioners allocate money, others complain: ‘Why don’t we get any of this money?’ This, too, is Mammon, the resentment of others receiving to our supposed cost.

In 2023, the Church Commissioners created a new in-perpetuity endowment fund to address the sin of racial injustice. They determined to allocate a sum large enough to have meaningful impact, without harming their existing commitments, and decided to set apart £100m over a nine-year period. This might sound like a large sum of money, but it is approximately 1% of their current assets. The intention is that the interest on this fund be used to support projects and initiatives among communities who to this day experience the lasting negative impact of the chattel slave trade. A year in, they have invited other institutions and private families, beyond the Church, who benefitted from the chattel slave trade to contribute to the fund, with the aim of raising a total endowment of £1bn.

The backlash has been vocal—this, too, is Mammon. ‘We weren’t personally responsible for the slave trade; why should we take responsibility for addressing it’s lasting impact?’ ‘African kings sold their own or neighbouring people; and the Muslims sold more slaves than the Christians did.’ ‘It is our money, and it is wrong to give it away, when we have needs of our own.’ ‘I shall be withholding my giving to the Church until it reverses this policy.’ All these sentiments—which you can read in angry Letters to the Editor—are simply ways of choosing to ignore need. The scandal is not that the Church of England is committing 1% of her resources to address racial injustice. The scandal is that anyone within the Church should think that this is a scandal. It is a scandal to the servants of Mammon, not the servants of God. But every one of us is vulnerable to such thinking: we may have thrown ourselves on the mercy of God, but Mammon wants us back.

At the national and international level, and at the local level, the Church must wrestle with what God is asking us to do with our money. And we are called to live as people of the resurrection: as if we believe that the forces of death have been defeated.

If you give, financially, to St Nicholas’ Church, I want to say, ‘Thank you!’ And I want to invite you to take this opportunity to review your giving. Our circumstances change. You may need to reduce your giving at this time, and if so, thank you for what you have given and for whatever you are able to continue to give. You may be able to increase your giving at this time, in which case, thank you: it will make a difference. It may be appropriate to maintain your current level of giving, though, please, not by habit or default.

If you consider this to be your church community, and you don’t, at present, give financially, I want to invite you to do so. To contribute to the meeting of our needs, at a level that is honest about your own personal circumstances. Not long back, the Church of England guideline was that 10% of our disposable income should be charitable giving, with 5% going to our local church and the other 5% to whatever charities matter to you. This raises questions such as, is disposable income whatever is left after tax, or after tax and bills? Today, the Church speaks, instead, of encouraging generosity in giving, whatever that looks like for any of us in our circumstances. I think it is up to us to decide what we are able to give; but I would commend to you the practice of making your giving to your local church 50% of your total charitable giving. Why? Because other charities are able to pay fundraisers, have access to advertising, whereas we do not, and are primarily dependent on one another. Yes, our overall costs are smaller than those of national and international charities; but our contributors are also far fewer.

If you do not currently give, and would like to, may I highlight the Parish Giving Scheme as an excellent means to do so? If you are a UK taxpayer, this enables us to claim Gift Aid in real time throughout the year; and also allows you to review and increase or decrease your giving annually. You’ll find information packs by the door.

And if you are unable to contribute financially to our common life, know that you are welcome here. We share what we can, not what we do not have. Thank you for whatever ways you are able to give of yourself for the common good. May we each receive what we need.

We read that ‘the whole group of those who believed were of one heart and soul’ (Acts 4.32). That their lives were knitted-together as one. The account continues, introducing Joseph, known by the nickname Barnabas, which means ‘son of encouragement,’ whose giving was an encouragement to all. We also meet Ananias and Sapphira. They also sell property, and bring the proceeds, but they keep some back for themselves while being dishonest about that. They have been captured by Mammon—whom Peter associates with Satan. For they did not have to sell their property; and, having sold it, they did not have to contribute it all to the common fund; but they chose to give a deceptive impression. Convicted of this, they both drop dead, one after the other.

We give, not out of compulsion, but in love for one another, in the power of the Holy Spirit, and to address practical needs. Most of all, our giving is a testimony to the resurrection of the Lord Jesus—to the grace it releases among us. May we know that grace in our common life. Amen.

Second Sunday of Lent 2024

 

Second Sunday of Lent 2024

Lectionary readings: Genesis 17.1-7, 15-16 and Mark 8.31-38

My family likes to watch Marvel Cinematic Universe movies. They are full of comic book superheroes, and many of the characters have aliases by which they are known:

Tony Stark is known as Iron Man;
Steve Rogers is the original Captain America;
Sam Wilson is the Falcon, and later takes on the mantle of Captain America;
Hank Pym was the original Ant Man, a mantle later taken on by Scott Lang;
Natasha Romanoff is Black Widow;
Peter Parker is Spiderman.
T’Challa, prince and later king of Wakanda is Black Panther, a mantle later taken on by his sister Shuri.

The most recent film, The Marvels, has three female – and multi-ethnic – leads:

Carol Danvers, known as Captain Marvel;
Kamala Khan – the first superhero role-model for Muslim girls – who goes by the name Ms. Marvel, as a tribute to Danvers;
and Monica Rambeau, who does not have an alias, and rejects various suggestions proposed by Kamala.

One of the interesting things about the MCU, and the Marvel comics it draws on, is the way they re-imagine characters and storylines, exploring different possibilities. The heroes are also flawed, trying to make sense of things that have been done to them, sometimes misunderstood, usually trying their best, often making things worse as an unintended consequence of their actions, willing to make sacrifices, holding on to hope. All these things are recognisable in our own lives, and in the stories we read in the Bible.

We all have a name, and our name is woven and at times unpicked throughout the story of our lives. This week, I conducted a funeral. The name on the coffin-plate read ‘Robert,’ but as a congregation we knew him by his middle-name, Earnest (his father having also been Robert Earnest Kerr) while his family knew him as Earn. Some of you will have gone by various names over the years, or in different contexts.

Give me a wave if your surname has changed at some point.

Give me a wave if you go by a middle name, or a shortened or nickname.

Give me a wave if you have names in more than one language.

In our reading this morning from Genesis, Abram (‘exalted father’) becomes Abraham, and Sarai (‘princess’) becomes Sarah. What we see here is a shift in dialect. Their names will sound different in the mouths of those whom God will lead them to live alongside. Their names will change because of geography, because they have walked with God and walking with God will take them somewhere they have never been before. Those members of our congregation from Nigeria, or Kenya, or India, will know what it is to hear your names spoken back to you in a way you have never heard them spoken before!

 

In our story this morning, God is also given two names: the personal name, Yahweh, and the known-as name, or alias, El Shaddai.

 

There are names in our Gospel reading, too. There is Peter. In Mark’s Gospel, we first meet him as Simon (Mark 1.16) and are later told that Jesus renamed him Peter (Mark 3.16). It may be that Peter was already one of Simon’s given-names and that Jesus felt it was more fitting – Simon means ‘to hear’ or ‘listening’ and Simon wasn’t the best listener! But in our Gospel reading today, Jesus gives Peter yet another name, Satan or ‘accuser’! Wow!

Jesus has been speaking about the life he has been given – under the alias ‘the Son of Man’ or the mortal one – which will involve great suffering, rejection by those who seek positions of power over others, and even being killed – though this will not be the end of his story. And Peter takes him aside and tries to persuade him to trade-up this life for a better one, one that does not include suffering or rejection or being killed. And Jesus’ response is unambiguous: you are thinking like a human who does not trust your Creator; I will not reject my life in exchange for a different life; and you should not seek to reject being Peter in favour for being Satan. That would be a gamble that cannot pay off, whatever permutations unfold.

Jesus goes on to say to those gathered around him, you cannot trade-up your God-given life for something better – even if you possessed the entire universe to borrow against, your life is worth more. And even if that life is taken from you, by those who trust in violence to save them, it will not be lost, for you belong to God, who can raise the dead.

To be clear: I am not saying that you should ‘accept your lot in life,’ however unjust the distribution of resources has been. I am not suggesting that you should ‘know – and remain in – your place,’ in the unjust structures of society, where humans inflict great suffering on other humans because they believe life to be a competition, in which we fear that any gain for ‘them’ must mean less for ‘us.’ Such an interpretation of Jesus’ words would be thinking in human ways that are set against God’s good will.

Such an interpretation multiplies the tears of the world that God will tenderly wipe away when every wrong is made right.

What I am saying is this: that God knows you by name. That God, who goes by many aliases –

God Almighty;
the God who Sees;
the Lord who Heals;
the Lord will Provide;
the Lord our Righteousness;
the Lord my Banner;
the Lord of Angel Armies;
the Lord is Present;
the Lord my Shepherd;
the Lord my Rock;
and more besides –

that God says to each one of us, ‘Walk with me, walk close with me, that I may be all you need in any given moment, that I might bring you to a place of blessing, that you may be a blessing to others.’

And over time, that will change you; you will grow; your voice will change – whether your dialect changes or not; you will become less who the world tells you that you should be, and more fully whom God has made you to be. And however long you live, it doesn’t come to an end. And however long we live, we don’t get to see the full story. But we get to play our part, a part no one else in all the universe can play for us – or play at all, if we refuse.

You don’t have to be a superhero. In fact, that would get in the way. God invites us to lay down our armour and our weapons and slow our pace to a walk with a friend. This Lent, may we rediscover the sheer relief of that grace.

 

First Sunday of Lent 2024

 

Lectionary readings: Genesis 9.8-17 and Mark 1.9-15

And so, we find ourselves, again, in the season of Lent, and I wonder what you make of this annual pilgrimage into the wilderness?

As an author, Mark has a sparse style. Every word counts. Every word is good news.

A voice from heaven tells Jesus, ‘You are my son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.’ And immediately, the Holy Spirit banishes Jesus to the wilderness, to the place far away from distractions. Not as a punishment, but as the gift of a loving parent who knows what we need. This is the invitation of Lent, to get away from the hustle and bustle, from the demands on our lives, to draw breath, to simply be. That is where we discover who we really are – and that who we really are is deeply loved and affirmed by God. We may not be able to take forty days away from those demands, but we can seek to make such space day by day, throughout these forty days.

In the wilderness, Jesus’ character is revealed, as he is tested, as he faces up to the voice of accusation. And in the wilderness, he finds himself with the wild creatures, and ministered to by angels. We join him there. For we are wild creatures, created in the image of the free Spirit, who has joined themselves by covenant with every creature. Wild animals are often timid or cautious and sometimes aggressive when not valued for who they are. We are invited to face down the voice that tells us we must be a good girl, seen and not heard, following the rules, domesticated, if we are really to know God’s approval. God works to bring creation from chaos to harmony, but harmony is glorious freedom, not anxious adherence.

And ministered to by angels. We are invited to face down the voice that tells us that we must be self-sufficient, must serve others – more important than us, or less-fortunate – but deflect those who would minister to our needs, would share our burdens. Jesus, who emptied himself, taking the form of a servant, nonetheless received the care of others. Mark doesn’t get much further into his story before he tells of Simon’s mother-in-law ministering to Jesus and his friends, just as the angels had done (Mark 1.13 and 31).

Over the six weeks of Lent, I am inviting us to study the scriptures together using the BBC tv programme ‘Call the Midwife’ as a lens to explore various themes. As most of you will know, this period drama is about nurse midwives working in London’s East End from the late Fifties and through the Sixties and is centred on a community of Anglican nuns.

As an introduction, I am going to show you a clip from the first series. As you watch, think about how the character Jenny is a wild animal; and think about the ways in which different characters minister to one another – including how the nuns minister to one another by stepping away from the 24/7 demands of community nursing and midwifery, to pray seven times each day, so that whoever is on call at any time during the day or the night knows that they are supported in prayer.

Watch clip [series 1, episode 3, 50:00-57.12].

We are wild animals, with Jesus in the wilderness. With him, we are ministered-to.

When Jesus returns from the wilderness, he proclaims, ‘This is the perfect moment; God is right here; change your mind about how you live, and step into this good story.’ May we find this Lent to be the perfect moment, and may it be life to us. Amen.

 

Ash Wednesday 2024

 

The Feast of Booths was one of the three great pilgrim festivals, where everyone who could went up to Jerusalem. One year, Jesus went in secret, knowing there would be people there looking to have him killed. For the first couple of days of the week-long festival, he kept a low profile, getting a feel for the mood. At some point in the middle of the week, he began to engage the crowd in Solomon’s Portico, which was a bit like Speakers’ Corner in Hyde Park. The clergy kept sending the [equivalent of the] churchwardens to evict him [use churchwardens’ wands as visual aid] but the crowds found him engaging, which made it too awkward.

One of the highlights of the festival was the water ceremony. Each morning during the Feast, the high priest would process to the Pool of Siloam and fill a golden pitcher with ‘living water’ from the spring that fed the pool [use baptismal jug as visual aid]. Then he would process back to the temple, where he would pour the water out into a bowl on the altar. Everybody would join the procession with joyful singing, and shout instructions to the high priest to ensure he didn’t get it wrong. One time, a high priest who didn’t approve of the ceremony, because it was a tradition from the Oral Law and not the written Law, deliberately spilled the water on the ground, and the crowd pelted him with lemons. [Fortunately, you used your lemons on your pancakes yesterday, so have none to pelt me with today.]

On the last day of the Feast, Jesus stood up and declared, “Let anyone who is thirsty come to me, and let the one who believes in me drink. As the scripture has said, ‘Out of the believer’s heart shall flow rivers of living water.’” Again, the wardens tried and failed to remove him.

But the next day, there he was, back again, still at it. They hatch a hurried plan and bring before him a woman allegedly caught in the very act of committing adultery – you’d think that would take two, but there we are – and ask his judgement. Would he side against the Law given through Moses, which called for death by stoning, or against the Roman governor, who reserved for Rome the right to pass and act on the death penalty?

Jesus bent down and began to write on the ground with his finger [bend down, write]. When they kept pressing him, he straightened up and said, “Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.” Then he bent down again and continued writing.

Wouldn’t you love to know what he wrote!?

We’re not told; but I think that the accusers, being expertly acquainted with the Law and the Prophets, knew just what he was doing. There’s a passage in the scroll of Jeremiah (chapter 17) that speaks of the sin of Judah, that will cost them their territory; of the deceit of the heart; and where the prophet cries to the Lord to save him from those who refuse to listen and seek to shame him. And in the middle of the passage, we read:

‘O hope of Israel! O Lord! All who forsake you shall be put to shame; those who turn away from you shall be recorded in the ground, for they have forsaken the fountain of living water, the Lord.’ (Jeremiah 17.13)

“What on earth is he playing at?”

“He’s evoking the prophecy of Jeremiah against us. Naming this woman ‘Judah’ – naming her as ourselves. If we stone her, we will be enacting G-d’s judgement on us all.”

As the prophets do again and again, Jesus deconstructs our understanding of how to live faithful lives according to the Law. Condemnation is cancelled, and the woman is now free to live fully restored within the community of the faithful, a community of hope and healing.

And what of us? Where do we find ourselves in the story?

Perhaps we are scribes and Pharisees. How often do those we consider rejected by God expose the very sin within us that offends the Lord!?

Perhaps we are the woman. Do we believe we have no place at the table? Do we burn with shame, having internalised the message that we are not acceptable?

Perhaps we are called to be Jesus, to one another. To model trust in God and hold out hope.

I’d like to conclude with a poem I wrote this morning:

You have heard it said that you are too little, or too much, to be accepted;
and, taking those words to heart, you have been consumed by their flames.

You have heard it said that you are more deserving than others;
and, internalising that mantra, you have been razed by its fire.

But I say to you, rise up:
by the grace of God
arise from the ashes,
O Phoenix,
dust stirred to life by the kiss of love,
by the breath of God
that gives life to the dead.

You are the phoenix of Christ,
given new beginning in his name.
Neither too little nor too much,
nor deserving nor undeserving,
simply loved to life,
again and again.

Do not fear returning to dust.
Receive this mark upon your head,
a sign of hope, and trust.
And by the grace of God,
arise.

 

Presentation of Christ in the Temple

 

As many of you will know, Jo and I are members of the Sunderland Strollers running club. At the start of each year, the club runs a Beginners’ group, for anyone who wants to get into running. It is, obviously, a self-selecting group—not everyone is interested in running—but some come only able to run 100 yards. We tell them that if they stick with it, over 12 weeks, we will get them to the point where they can run for 5 miles without stopping. It won’t necessarily be fast—we will focus on stamina, not speed, which some will choose to work on later—but it is achievable. By increasing the distance little by little, and how often they go for a run, they will become a runner—perhaps to their own amazement.

We—the congregation of St Nicholas,’ here this morning—are also a self-selecting group (called by God; drawn-in by others; but you choose to be here). Along with congregations across Durham Diocese, we are called to a life of ‘Blessing our communities in Jesus’ name’. Not those who run, but those who bless—in how we think and what we say and do. And perhaps you might say, “I couldn’t pronounce a blessing, I wouldn’t know the right words to use”—as if it depended on getting the words right, like some sort of magic spell. But think of anything that you do know how to do—speak, or walk, or read. You weren’t born able to do that, you learnt: by repetitive practice, by trial and error, and by example.

Accompanied by her husband, a young mother brings her firstborn son to public worship for the first time, at forty days old. As they come into the space and look around, an older man approaches, takes the child in his arms (always ask for, and be given, permission before doing this; and don’t take offence if permission is not forthcoming) and sings a song of praise. First, he honours God; then, he blesses the father and mother, and their child. As he does so, an older woman joins them, takes up the theme, and extends it to include others who had gathered in that place.

Simeon was not a priest, not the public face of the faith. Anna was recognised as a prophet, an oracle who spoke words of godly wisdom; but she had no official role or office. They were simply human beings who were well-soaked in the ways of God. And uttering blessings is central to such a life—not something reserved for vicars. You don’t even need to be Christian.

To bless something—whether a person, or some other part of creation, or a place, or a tool, or a circumstance—is to affirm its essential goodness. From our faith perspective, that essential goodness is God-given.

Jewish blessings always begin, ‘Blessed are you, Lord our God, King of the Universe …’

Christian blessings, which derive from Jewish blessings, are similarly framed, ‘Blessed are you, Lord God of all creation …’

If we are to bless, we first need to meet what we find, where we find it, and then pay it attention. Simeon meets Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus in the temple court, takes the child in his arms, and pays close attention. Then, he speaks out what he sees.

My back door faces east, and I can stand there a while and watch the sunrise. ‘Blessed are you, Lord God of all creation, giver of light and love. And blessed be you, O dawn, that paints the sky in pink and orange to welcome the day.’

Then, as I stand there, I become aware of the dawn chorus. ‘Blessed are you, Lord God of all creation, who feeds the birds of the air. And blessed be you, garden bird, who fills the sky with your song.’

Or perhaps this morning it is raining, and I can choose to be grumpy about that or I can choose to bless the rain. ‘Blessed are you, Lord God of all creation, who gives the water of life. And blessed be you, rain, that refreshes the earth.’

If we can get into the habit of blessing, it will form us over time, so that we meet all things open to the goodness hidden within them—even if that goodness is not immediately apparent. So, for example, if you fall and break your leg, ‘Blessed are you, Lord God of all creation, who has fashioned our flesh and bone. And blessed be you, O femur, who have borne my weight all these years, and who now calls me to rest and to heal.’

So, let us have a go, and together learn how to bless. Who, or what, might you bless today?