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.

Seventh Sunday of Easter 2022

 

Suddenly there was an earthquake, so violent that the foundations of the prison were shaken; and immediately all the doors were opened and everyone’s chains were unfastened.

The Acts of the Apostles 16:26

‘Father, I desire that those also, whom you have given me, may be with me where I am, to see my glory, which you have given me because you loved me before the foundation of the world.’

Jesus, The Gospel According to John 17:24

Every life is built on foundations. That is, of course, a metaphor; but every life is built on things we trust to be dependable, to bear the weight of living. And, I would suggest, those metaphorical foundations are laid not in stone and mortar but in story. Often those foundational stories are as invisible to us as are physical foundations. There’s the narrative of science, often proclaimed as fact but nonetheless presented as a story, or stories that will one day be woven together into one grand unifying story. There are the tall tales of economics, such as the great myth of the free market, which bestows ever-increasing wealth on each successive generation, and to any given individual if they are prepared to work hard and—myth of the lone hero—pull themselves up by their own bootstraps. We see the myth of the free market shaken and exposed in our reading from Acts, wealthy and powerful men exploiting a vulnerable woman, stirring up mob violence, and exploiting the legal system to injustice. What happened two thousand years ago still happens today. And, of course, there are alternative economic stories, such as the end of history in the liberation of the working classes. There are the stories of family, of blood being stronger than water, except, of course, when family stabs us in the back. So many foundations, so many events that shake them, from mortality to recession to betrayal. A life built on faith in Jesus as our Lord and God, the one who shall return to judge the living and the dead, is also built on a foundation laid down in story. The question is not, what remains when all the stories we tell are taken away, but which story will I build my life on? Which is the most compelling?

This place, the Minster Church of St Michael & All Angels with St Benedict Biscop, is a case in point. There has been a place of Christian worship on this site, at the heart of Bishopwearmouth, since 930AD. The structure has been taken apart and rebuilt many times, reimagined, come back from the dead. The tower was set on fire by Vikings, rebuilt, set on fire by Scots, rebuilt again. The Georgian church, that had partially replaced the Mediaeval one, was sinking, its foundations undermined by excavating coal; the nave was reordered, floating foundations under our feet, the stone pillars and timber roof you are sitting within raised up towards the heavens in the years between the Great and the Second twentieth-century Wars. Why? Because the stones are only an outward expression of a story.

We might tell the story like this [with debt to Samuel Wells]: that God is full, unending, undiminishing relationship—the Three who are One; the One who is Three—and of God’s own fullness desired to enjoy that same relationship with us. That creation is the expression of this desire that is God’s by nature, the groundwork for God entering the world to be with us in Jesus, the one who was God and with God in the beginning and who came to us, sharing the divine glory with those who did not turn away in fear but welcomed him as their own. That glory is the visible manifestation of love, the love of the Father for the Son, from before the foundation of the world. Indeed, that love is the foundation on which the world was created, into which the Son was sent—for God so loved the world. This foundation, alone of all foundations, cannot be shaken by anything within all creation, for it exists before and beyond all that is limited by time and space. And Jesus’ desire is to be with the Father, and that his disciples be with him, with the Father. Not removed from the world, but in it, within time and space as well as beyond time and space.

So, we might encounter the love that is God’s glory in this place, and in the lives of the people whom God has given Jesus in this place, who are both the body and the bride of Christ.

Every other foundation will experience its earthquake, the birth-contractions of a new reality. So, the Philippian gaoler comes into being with God, and with Jesus’ friends Paul and Silas, when his life is shaken to the core, to the extent that he prepares suicide before Paul holds out hope. Paul himself, of course, has had his foundations—the Law, and Jewish heritage—shaken to the core on the road to Damascus, some years earlier. And when foundations are shaken, chains are broken, and we are set free by love, to love. To be with God and with our neighbour. At the Minster, where the people have reimagined the building over and over, we are open to every foundation that can be shaken, being shaken, in order that the foundation that cannot be shaken be revealed. That will inevitably include things that are very dear to us, and stories we have built on as self-evident that, increasingly, look shaky. That is why our mission statement is ‘Open to God, Open to All.’

Immediately after this service, we will be holding our Annual Church Parochial Meeting. There are many people to thank for their service, built on the sure foundation of the love that was before there was anything else. They have built well, and with the precious material of God-given gifts, things that will last. They have also built provisionally, in temporary measures, things that are for a season. Inevitably, they have also built with some materials that won’t survive the earthquake: our motives are always mixed, and our insecurities will be shaken, so that the familiar cells and chains that hold us might be unlocked and unfastened.

Along with people to thank, there are also challenges to be faced, building on that same sure foundation, perhaps dismantling certain things to create space for the new things God is doing, safe in the knowledge that the foundations will hold. As we emerge from the rubble left by the earthquakes of Brexit and Covid and the present war in Ukraine, may we see the glory of the risen, ascended Lord Jesus, and may we respond with generous hearts, serving Christ encountered in the most vulnerable.

Here, then, are some questions our readings from Acts and John might cause us to ponder:

Is this a compelling story? And, if so, how will you/we build your/our life on it?

Is this a disturbing story? And, if so, what foundations does it shake?

Where have you/we known love unlock doors and unfasten chains that have kept you/us bound?

What does Jesus’ glory look like? How is it manifest in your/our world?

 

Fifth Sunday of Easter 2022

 

Lectionary readings: John 13:31-35 and Acts 11:1-18

‘You will look for [zéteó] me…Where I am going, you cannot come.’ Jesus

‘…when Peter went up to Jerusalem, the circumcised believers criticized [diakrinó] him, saying, ‘Why did you go to uncircumcised men and eat with them?’’ Acts 11:2, 3

In our Gospel reading, Jesus tells his disciples that they will seek for him, by careful inquiry, but will discover that where he has gone ahead of them, they are not able to follow. In our reading from the Acts of the Apostles, the gathered church investigates Peter’s actions thoroughly, with the intention of separating themselves from him, and certainly from the Gentiles he had eaten with.

Peter had gone to the home of the Roman, Cornelius. A man in dazzling white had appeared to Cornelius; Cornelius had taken him to be an angel, a messenger from God. And certainly, we meet angels in bright white at the empty tomb; but we have also seen Jesus in dazzling white at his transfiguration. Directly or indirectly, Jesus has gone ahead of Peter to the home of a Gentile.

But Jesus must help Peter overcome that which stops him from following, from going where Jesus has gone. Peter is unable to step beyond the laws that separate Jews from Gentiles. Jesus is firm, and gracious, and Peter gets there in the end. But now he is being judged harshly for it.

When Jesus tells his disciples that where he is going, they cannot follow, he is setting out the pattern for the Church: that Jesus goes ahead of us, where we are not yet able to go. Beyond our comfort zone. Beyond our identity markers. Beyond things that matter deeply to us. Jesus is the pioneer of our faith. But he is also the perfector of our faith, and Jesus gives his disciples the means to follow him: love one another. Put the other before yourself. Desire their flourishing.

There is no love on display among the gathered church, for Peter, or for Cornelius—whom, of course, they have not met. It is easier to not love people you haven’t met. [‘The Jewish philosopher Emmanuel Levinas said the only thing that really converts people at a deep level is seeing “the face of the other”. Welcoming and empathizing with the other leads to transformation of the whole person. This interchange is prepared to transform both persons—the seer and the seen. In a sense, we need the stranger for our own conversion from our individualism, self-centeredness and our tendencies towards self-preservation and exclusion.’ Brad Brisco, Facebook 15 May 2018] Peter addresses their concerns, point by point, and even then they fail to grasp Peter’s conversion. It isn’t long before they are insisting that these new Gentile believers must adopt their Jewish identity markers.

We haven’t moved beyond this tension between love and criticism, and we never shall. We get it right, we get it wrong. We get it right again, and wrong again. We get it right, we get it wrong, we get it wrong, we get it wrong, and by God’s grace, through repentance, we get it right again. We get it wrong again, we get it right, we get it right, we get it right, and, just as we are feeling we are getting the hang of this, we get it wrong again. We don’t grow beyond this pattern, because we never arrive at the full extent of God’s love, but Jesus never stops drawing us deeper into it.

Where do we discern Jesus, in our neighbourhood, gone ahead of us to others, to whom we cannot yet follow him?

What does it feel like to get to know strangers with the intention of becoming friends?

 

Second Sunday of Easter 2022

 

Second Sunday of Easter 2022

John 20:19-31

[1] Twice in this passage we are told that the doors were shut closed. The word door is not only a literal description but was also used as a metaphor for an opportunity. The disciples have missed the opportunity to encounter the risen Jesus. Mary Magdalene alone has seen the Lord. Simon Peter and the other disciple who ran with him to the empty tomb missed it because they went home. The other disciples didn’t even go. And now Thomas has missed the opportunity yet again. He has really blown it.

[2] We are told that the doors were locked because of fear. These Galileans were afraid of the Judeans who had handed Jesus over to the Romans. The Judeans had done so out of fear of the Galileans. Not long before, some ill-prepared Galileans had revolted against Rome, and the Romans had crucified thousands all along the road to Jerusalem. Not just the rebels themselves, but innocent civilians, a show of military might. And now, again, Galileans were stirring, filling Jerusalem with dangerous talk. Better that one man die and the people be spared. But what can break this crushing cycle?

[3] Jesus stands among them and gives them the key that unlocks fear. That key is forgiveness: If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained. The word translated sins is that term from archery of missing the mark, a metaphor for failings. The contrasting words to forgive and to retain are taken from the ownership of slaves: to release a slave and send them away free, or to hold on to control over their lives. How often do we seek to control the lives of others out of fear that they might let us down?

[4] Thomas has missed the opportunity, again. And he insists that he will not believe unless he is able to send out his arm, his hand, his outstretched finger, and find the mark made by the nails, the mark made by the spear. Unless he literally find the mark. Thomas is not prepared to believe unless he can do so perfectly, without failure. Note that Jesus does not tell him that this is unnecessary, indeed impossible. Jesus meets Thomas where Thomas is, gives him the opportunity—that he thought he had missed—to hit the mark; and it is in this grace-filled moment that Thomas realizes that he does not need to perform, to achieve. All he needs is Jesus.

[5] The person or persons writing it down add this: it is not possible to record everything that Jesus did. It is not possible to hit the mark every time. We had to accept that a lot fell short. But our hope is that what we did manage to write down might serve this purpose: that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Son whom the Father sent into the world, and that as you believe you may know life in all its fullness, in him.

Are you living with regret, believing that you have missed your opportunity?

What fears constrain your life? Whom, or what circumstances, do you need to exercise control over? Whom, or what circumstances, do you find hard to let go of?

Do you, like Thomas, need to be beyond reproach, putting on a perfect mask in front of others, overcompensating for failures in the past?

Jesus comes and stands in our midst, here, in this room, and says, Peace be with you. Peace be with you. Receive the Holy Spirit. Peace be with you.

 

Seventh Sunday of Easter 2021

 

Seventh Sunday of Easter 2021

In those days Peter stood up among the believers [Greek: ‘brothers’] (together the crowd numbered about one hundred and twenty people) and said, ‘Friends, [Greek: ‘men, brothers’] the scripture had to be fulfilled, which the Holy Spirit through David foretold concerning Judas, who became a guide for those who arrested Jesus—for he was numbered among us and was allotted his share in this ministry.’

So one of the men who have accompanied us throughout the time that the Lord Jesus went in and out among us, beginning from the baptism of John until the day when he was taken up from us—one of these must become a witness with us to his resurrection.’ So they proposed two, Joseph called Barsabbas, who was also known as Justus, and Matthias. Then they prayed and said, ‘Lord, you know everyone’s heart. Show us which one of these two you have chosen to take the place in this ministry and apostleship from which Judas turned aside to go to his own place.’ And they cast lots for them, and the lot fell on Matthias; and he was added to the eleven apostles.

Acts 1:15-17, 21-26

 

‘I have made your name known to those whom you gave me from the world. They were yours, and you gave them to me, and they have kept your word. Now they know that everything you have given me is from you; for the words that you gave to me I have given to them, and they have received them and know in truth that I came from you; and they have believed that you sent me. I am asking on their behalf; I am not asking on behalf of the world, but on behalf of those whom you gave me, because they are yours. All mine are yours, and yours are mine; and I have been glorified in them. And now I am no longer in the world, but they are in the world, and I am coming to you. Holy Father, protect them in your name that you have given me, so that they may be one, as we are one. While I was with them, I protected them in your name that you have given me. I guarded them, and not one of them was lost except the one destined to be lost, so that the scripture might be fulfilled. But now I am coming to you, and I speak these things in the world so that they may have my joy made complete in themselves. I have given them your word, and the world has hated them because they do not belong to the world, just as I do not belong to the world. I am not asking you to take them out of the world, but I ask you to protect them from the evil one. They do not belong to the world, just as I do not belong to the world. Sanctify them in the truth; your word is truth. As you have sent me into the world, so I have sent them into the world. And for their sakes I sanctify myself, so that they also may be sanctified in truth.

John 17:6-19

 

This coming Wednesday is our Annual Church Parochial Meeting, at which, among other things, we reflect on the past year and elect people to certain oversight roles, to serve as Church Wardens or as members of the Parochial Church Council (PCC). Such roles are important to the healthy functioning of the local church—of this local church. Just as our participation in Holy Communion, to serve in such a way is, or should be, a duty and a joy. It matters, how we go about this business. And so, today, I want to reflect on how our readings, from Acts and from John, might help us.

Jesus had appointed twelve of his followers to be his ekklesia, his council of representatives. Although his disciples included both women and men, these were all men, it would appear echoing the twelve sons of Jacob, symbolising the ordering of a new or renewed people of God. They had served together for three years, with some notable highpoints and low points, perceived successes, and devastating failures. And in time, it came to light that the treasurer had been embezzling, and, perhaps in greed or desperation or disillusion, had betrayed Jesus and then, perhaps in remorse, had taken his own life. Hardly the news one would want to bring in the Annual Report. And yet, these twelve or so men formed the council members Jesus had worked with, without whom—including Judas and the role he played in how he fulfilled his role—God’s will would not have been done on earth as in heaven.

But now, Judas’ place was vacant, and needed to be filled. As we, also, need to fill some places, albeit for happier reasons. One of our Wardens, Christine, is stepping down this year, because she has served, wonderfully, for quite some time, and together with her we have discerned that it is right that, for now at least, she should lay down that role, allowing for someone else to take it up—and, indeed, for Christine herself to take up other ways of serving, of being a blessing.

There was a place of oversight within the church that needed filling. And so, the church gathered together, and prayed about who should fill that role. And after prayerful deliberation, Peter proposed that it should be someone who had been with Jesus from the beginning, who had shared in his ministry and been a witness to the resurrection. They prayed some more, and two names were put forward. It is interesting to note that, in the four Gospels, or proclamations of the good news of Jesus Christ, we have never come across either of these candidates. They have been there for quite some time, but quietly, on the edges perhaps. And now one of them, at least, will be asked to step up, to step into a new-to-them role.

I want to say that I think Peter got it wrong when he determined that it had to be a man. I appreciate the symbolic reasons why Jesus appointed twelve men, looking back to the sons of Jacob, the heads of the tribes of Israel. But Jesus appointed Mary Magdalene to be the apostle to the apostles, the first witness to the resurrection. Mary the mother of Jesus had been with him even longer, from the very beginning, and both Marys were part of the church. As the church grew, and expanded to embrace Gentiles, a great many women were included in oversight roles in local churches, and in apostolic teams working across churches: women such as Phoebe and Prisca and Junia; Tryphena and Tryphosa and Persis; Euodia and Syntyche; Apphia and Nympha. The church in Jerusalem, however, remained a more strongly, narrowly, Jewish male-led environment. I do believe that Peter got that wrong, and I lament the impact it has had on the valuing of women in the church ever since. And yet, I am cautiously glad that God chose to work with their partial and compromised discernment, allowing other opportunities to arise in other places, because I know that all our prayerful deliberations will also be partial and compromised. God does not wait until we get it all right, but works with us where we are, to move us on. We need to see the whole church freed to serve, in ways that allow expression for their gifting and personality, bringing the resources of the full family of God to address the challenges we face.

So, it seemed good to the church to hold an election, and trust that God would work with and through whatever the outcome, just as God had done through Judas, despite everything, despite the obvious compromise. A ballot is held, and one candidate is selected. I wonder how he felt? The other candidate is not selected. I wonder how he felt? It seems to do with their hearts. I think it fair to say that either candidate was an appropriate candidate—it was not that one was pure of heart and the other harboured some secret sin they need God to reveal—but that taking up this particular role would, in some way, bring fulfilment to the person Matthias was made to be, and not the person Justus was made to be. I hope both felt relieved at the outcome, at the very least. We are not called to serve others in self-serving ways, but, if we offer ourselves to serve the needs of the church, and together we pray for discernment, our prayer is that each might serve in ways that are fulfilling for them—that are not only a duty but also a joy, made more complete.

 

There are opportunities, here, to serve in a variety of ways: as Church Wardens and deputy wardens; as PCC members, including deanery representatives, secretary, and, potentially, treasurer; but, also, as voices to read the scriptures aloud, or lead us in our prayers of intercession when we come together. And then, there are the ways to serve as our Care and Share lunches, our afternoon teas, and other ways of blessing the wider community start up again after the long disruption of the pandemic. For a variety of reasons, it will be right that some people who have served in particular ways need to step back or stand aside, and that others should step into the vacated space. And it may be that there are entirely new things that God the Holy Spirit wills to do in and through us, in this new season as our communities emerge from lockdown, calling some to roles we have not needed before. But in all this, our discernment should be prayerful; and corporate; and expectant that, in the very real challenges we face, God will continue to save and protect us from the evil one, will continue to call us deeper into holiness, and will continue to send us out into the world with joy.

And so, I commend the process of the APCM to you, inviting us all to prayerfully consider our hearts, and God’s call on our lives. Amen.

 

Sixth Sunday of Easter 2021

 

Sixth Sunday of Easter 2021

Acts 10:44-48

‘While Peter was still speaking, the Holy Spirit fell upon all who heard the word. The circumcised believers who had come with Peter were astounded that the gift of the Holy Spirit had been poured out even on the Gentiles, for they heard them speaking in tongues and extolling God. Then Peter said, ‘Can anyone withhold the water for baptizing these people who have received the Holy Spirit just as we have?’ So he ordered them to be baptized in the name of Jesus Christ. Then they invited him to stay for several days.’

John 15:9-17

‘As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abide in my love. If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father’s commandments and abide in his love. I have said these things to you so that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be complete.

‘This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you. No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. You are my friends if you do what I command you. I do not call you servants any longer, because the servant does not know what the master is doing; but I have called you friends, because I have made known to you everything that I have heard from my Father. You did not choose me but I chose you. And I appointed you to go and bear fruit, fruit that will last, so that the Father will give you whatever you ask him in my name. I am giving you these commands so that you may love one another.’

 

At the heart of Christian faith is the invitation and challenge to love the Lord our God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind, and with all your strength; and to love your neighbour as yourself. We do not come to this table without reminding ourselves of this truth, that our participation in love ought to shape our shared reality. And then we go on to acknowledge that our failure to participate in love also and profoundly shapes our shared reality. We confess our turning away from love: because it is too costly, too unimaginable, too unrealistic; and, if we are sincere, we are, nonetheless, received again by the love that will not let us go.

In our Gospel reading we hear again Jesus, speaking, repeatedly, of love: as the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abide in my love…abide in my love, just as I…abide in his love…love one another as I have loved you…I am giving you these commands so that you may love one another.

As he emphasises the love that flows between the Father and the Son and his friends, Jesus is fully aware that he will die within hours. I have loved you; abide in my love. Moreover, he is fully aware that, for the most part, these friends will fail to love him to the end, will desert him, unable to bear it. Abide in my love.

We are in that painful season of first anniversaries of those members of our church family who we lost, with or without Covid-19, during the first lockdown. We were not then, and are yet to be able, to mark those deaths as we would choose. But dying goes hand-in-hand with living, inseparable; and raises for all of us the questions:

how might we die well, loving those we will leave behind to the end? and,

how might we who remain, for now, continue in love—in the love of the one we have lost, and in the love of Jesus?

Of course, a sermon cannot do justice to these questions. That takes a community. But perhaps a sermon can offer some pointers. As well underlining love, Jesus emphasises four other themes, each rooted in himself, that help us to understand what love might look like: Jesus’ commandments, joy, friendship, and fruitfulness.

Commandments. There is something reciprocal, relational, about love shaped by commands and commands shaped by love, but also something that roots us in a bigger story. We learn how to love, how to live, how to die well as we ground our lives in that story, which reaches outward to bless, and reassures us that death is not the end. Where does the story of God and God’s people comfort you? challenge you? Is there a particular passage that you want spoken aloud at your funeral, or shared with family and friends in preparation for that day? And how might hymns, and other music, play their part?

Joy. Joy is a deep undercurrent of delight in those with whom God has joined us. Deeper than happiness, which is an appropriate response to certain moments and not others; deeper than sorrow, or anger, or confusion, all of which we shall know from time to time. Joy often bubbles to the surface at wakes, but its completeness is to be found in Jesus. How might you point others to him, by your example?

Friendship. Friends of Jesus speak to one another of what they have heard from God through him. Friends help one another do deeper into mystery, union with God, a present reality brought to completion, consummated, in death. Friends rejoice for friends who die in Christ, even while holding one another in our loss as those who still await that glory. In a culture that fears and lives in denial of death, how might we help one another rediscover that hope?

Fruitfulness. “Blessed are you, Lord God of all creation. Through your goodness we have this wine to offer, fruit of the vine and work of human hands. It will become for us the cup of salvation.” I love a good grape, especially a fermented one, which speak of God bringing us through death to life. Most commonly when I sit with the next of kin to put together a tribute, that divine activity is a theme that has been present in the person’s life, but which needs to be drawn out, so that it can be seen. How might we lay down a wine-cellar, so to speak, of testimony to God’s goodness that our children and grandchildren can draw from in discovering God’s salvation for themselves?

Fruit, friends, joy, commandments, love. These intertwine in the life of faith, to form a rich tapestry. Or, perhaps more fittingly, combine to form a baptismal gown / shroud / wedding dress, made for us by God who first clothed Adam and Eve, made to be worn not just admired.

Today, may you know God’s love poured out upon you, drenching you more fully than the rain, yet enveloping you to shield you from all harm. And in all things, and especially in the face of death, whose sting has been drawn, may you know that love endures, victorious. Love wins.

 

Fifth Sunday of Easter 2021

 

Fifth Sunday of Easter 2021

‘Then an angel of the Lord said to Philip, ‘Get up and go towards the south to the road that goes down from Jerusalem to Gaza.’ (This is a wilderness road.) So he got up and went. Now there was an Ethiopian eunuch, a court official of the Candace, queen of the Ethiopians, in charge of her entire treasury. He had come to Jerusalem to worship and was returning home; seated in his chariot, he was reading the prophet Isaiah. Then the Spirit said to Philip, ‘Go over to this chariot and join it.’ So Philip ran up to it and heard him reading the prophet Isaiah. He asked, ‘Do you understand what you are reading?’ He replied, ‘How can I, unless someone guides me?’ And he invited Philip to get in and sit beside him. Now the passage of the scripture that he was reading was this:

‘Like a sheep he was led to the slaughter,
and like a lamb silent before its shearer,
so he does not open his mouth.
In his humiliation justice was denied him.
Who can describe his generation?
For his life is taken away from the earth.’

‘The eunuch asked Philip, ‘About whom, may I ask you, does the prophet say this, about himself or about someone else?’ Then Philip began to speak, and starting with this scripture, he proclaimed to him the good news about Jesus. As they were going along the road, they came to some water; and the eunuch said, ‘Look, here is water! What is to prevent me from being baptized?’ He commanded the chariot to stop, and both of them, Philip and the eunuch, went down into the water, and Philip baptized him. When they came up out of the water, the Spirit of the Lord snatched Philip away; the eunuch saw him no more, and went on his way rejoicing. But Philip found himself at Azotus, and as he was passing through the region, he proclaimed the good news to all the towns until he came to Caesarea.’

Acts 8:26-40

 

‘I am the true vine, and my Father is the vine-grower. He removes every branch in me that bears no fruit. Every branch that bears fruit he prunes to make it bear more fruit. You have already been cleansed by the word that I have spoken to you. Abide in me as I abide in you. Just as the branch cannot bear fruit by itself unless it abides in the vine, neither can you unless you abide in me. I am the vine, you are the branches. Those who abide in me and I in them bear much fruit, because apart from me you can do nothing. Whoever does not abide in me is thrown away like a branch and withers; such branches are gathered, thrown into the fire, and burned. If you abide in me, and my words abide in you, ask for whatever you wish, and it will be done for you. My Father is glorified by this, that you bear much fruit and become my disciples.’

John 15:1-8

 

We are still in the season of Easter, still reading through the Book of Acts paying close attention to the aftermath of Jesus’ resurrection, and this Sunday we come to a most amazing story. It concerns a court official from Ethiopia, not modern-day Ethiopia but the Aethiopia of antiquity, the Nubian kingdom of Kush. This was an advanced, cosmopolitan, urban society, to the south of Egypt, a major trade power exporting highly prized goods from the sub-Saharan continental interior across the Arabian Peninsula and the Mediterranean basin, and, in exchange, importing goods from those regions and beyond. Over many centuries, the kingdoms of Egypt and Kush had co-existed, at one time Egypt ruling over Kush and, later, a century of Kushite Pharaohs ruling over Egypt, their cultures overlapping while retaining their own distinctive features. Kush had its own writing systems, architecture, civil engineering technology, even advances in medicine. They had pyramids—smaller and steeper and many more of them than in Egypt, protected now as the world’s heritage. Moreover, theirs was a matrilineal society, and women played a prominent role in public life. The Kandake (kandaakey: Latinised, Candace) was the honorific title given to royal women, who at times were Queen Mother, at times queen co-regent, and at times ruled in their own name outright. The Kandake were the power behind the throne, kingmakers: it is claimed that they could even order their son, the king, to complete suicide—and that he would have to obey—if she decided to appoint another king, or take the throne for themselves. They were also warrior queens, leading armies into battle as well as bearing sons. The Candace referred to in Acts chapter 8 may have been Amantitere, who exercised some form of rule for over twenty years in the mid first century AD. At this point in history, Kush was independent of Egypt, independent of Rome, and centred on its third capital city, Moroë, half-way between the fifth and sixth Cataracts of the Nile.

Eunuchs played key roles in many civilisations in the ancient world, including the personal servants to royal households. They were castrated men, neither male nor female, but overlapping both genders in their distinctive features, sometimes considered a third sex. Their various duties included washing and dressing their master or mistresses, making their bed, cutting their hair, intimate moments giving them the ear to the crown. Castration was considered a necessary precaution, engineering a cutting off, or diverting, of their sexual desire. Not only were they, figuratively-speaking, seedless and fruitless, unable to insert a claimant to the throne; but, without household of their own, they were impotent to instigate a coup. They were simultaneously honoured and humiliated; the cost of being venerated, to be vilified; in order to be unquestionably depended upon, they were disposable without question. They were neither one thing nor another, but formed a different category of being altogether.

We meet this person because they have been to Jerusalem to worship a foreign god at a foreign temple. They have undertaken a journey of over 1,000 miles to do so, following the course of the Nile—past Thebes, and Memphis, sites where black Pharaohs from Kush had expanded earlier Egyptian temple complexes—opting, perhaps on account of physical size, for the Egyptian preference for a chariot over the Nubian preference for horseback. And now they are making the thousand-plus mile journey home again.

The text is as sparse as the wilderness, but we get the impression that this is a journey they have undertaken perhaps many times before. A habitual pilgrimage. And this, in turn, suggests a certain seniority within their court, even for a eunuch, to have the freedom, and the resource, to do so. Yet in the temple, their presence would have caused a certain level of anxiety, even in the outermost court of the Gentiles: a large, soft, effeminate, dark-skinned, queer body. Quite separate from their actions, they would be objectified, by some as ‘exotic’ and ‘alluring,’ by others as a defiling threat. Quite likely, they experienced open verbal aggression from some; the shame of parents pulling their children close as the eunuch passed by; the pain of being studiously ignored by others.

They have probably been here before, have probably bought home scrolls before, and this time, the treasurer who understands the value of trade has invested in the scroll of the prophet Isaiah. And this queer librarian is the one whom the Holy Spirit decides will make the perfect parent for sub-Saharan African Christianity. And so, the Spirit sends them Philip.

Why Philip? In its earliest days, the church was almost entirely Jewish, but it was composed of two overlapping but distinct groups: the Hebrews, who kept themselves as separate as possible from their Gentile neighbours; and the Hellenists, who assimilated as much of Greek culture as they could without losing their own identity. One of the earliest challenges the church faced was that, in the distribution of food to the widows among them—a serious obligation—the Hellenist widows were being overlooked. This was exposed as a systemic issue, not simply an unfortunate oversight. The apostles determined to appoint stewards to administer the distribution fairly. Had they been Anglicans, they would probably have sought to have the Hellenists represented on the task group, perhaps even aimed at (eventually) 50% (in all things, the middle way). But they were not Anglicans, and they felt prompted by the Holy Spirit that the way to secure a fair distribution for all was to appoint the task group entirely from among the wronged group, the Hellenists. The appointees included Philip, a Jewish man with a Greek name. In fact, the name Philip means ‘fond of horses,’ and suggests that the Holy Spirit is not only attentive to justice but also has a sense of humour, for, ‘Some take pride in chariots, and some in horses, but our pride is in the name of the Lord our God.’ (Psalm 20:7). Moreover, Philip had four unmarried daughters who exercised the gift of prophecy within the expanding Christian community: clearly a man at home with women exercising a prominent public role. Why does the Holy Spirit send Philip? Who else is better placed!

Philip approaches the eunuch’s chariot, and engages them in conversation. They are reading from Isaiah (chapter 53), a song of a servant who is familiar with suffering, who knows the stinging humiliation of justice denied, whose life is cut off, such that they can have no children, can leave behind no descendants on the face of the earth. Does the writer speak of himself, or of someone else, they ask—for as they read, they see themselves, seen, noted, recorded in the story of this foreign (to them) god and their people. And just a little further on, as they continue reading, with Philip, in the intimate space of their chariot, they are plunged into this life-changing hope:

‘Do not let the foreigner joined to the Lord say, ‘The Lord will surely separate me from his people’; and do not let the eunuch say, ‘I am just a dry tree.’ For thus says the Lord: To the eunuchs who keep my sabbaths, who choose the things that please me and hold fast my covenant, I will give, in my house and within my walls, a monument and a name better than sons and daughters; I will give them an everlasting name that shall not be cut off. And the foreigners who join themselves to the Lord, to minister to him, to love the name of the Lord, and to be his servants, all who keep the sabbath, and do not profane it, and hold fast my covenant—these I will bring to my holy mountain, and make them joyful in my house of prayer; their burnt-offerings and their sacrifices will be accepted on my altar; for my house shall be called a house of prayer for all peoples. Thus says the Lord God, who gathers the outcasts of Israel, I will gather others to them besides those already gathered.’ (Isaiah 56:3-8)

And so, the eunuch is undressed, washed, and dressed again, in white linen—the servant becoming the master; the man who fathered four daughters becoming unsexed, a fruitful vine, pruned—and then Philip is removed without question or explanation, and the eunuch goes on their way, rejoicing. Much fruit will be born, to the Father’s glory, as is the way with the Spirit and the Son.

I wonder how the eunuch was received, on their return home?

I wonder how they were received, on their return to Jerusalem, searching for their place among the disciples of Jesus, now to be found in every corner of the known world?

I wonder whether, in subsequent years, they often broke their journey, and bread, with Philip and his daughters in Caesarea, part of the family; or whether their paths never crossed again?

And I wonder where the Spirit would direct us, today?

How the life coursing through the true vine might burst apart our cherished mausoleums?

Where the vine-grower might wield the knife to prune our hearts and minds and strength and will, that we might love our liberating Lord, and our neighbour as ourselves?

 

Fourth Sunday of Easter 2021 (Vocations Sunday)

 

Fourth Sunday of Easter 2021

‘The next day their rulers, elders, and scribes assembled in Jerusalem, with Annas the high priest, Caiaphas, John, and Alexander, and all who were of the high-priestly family. When they had made the prisoners stand in their midst, they inquired, ‘By what power or by what name did you do this?’ Then Peter, filled with the Holy Spirit, said to them, ‘Rulers of the people and elders, if we are questioned today because of a good deed done to someone who was sick and are asked how this man has been healed, let it be known to all of you, and to all the people of Israel, that this man is standing before you in good health by the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, whom you crucified, whom God raised from the dead. This Jesus is

“the stone that was rejected by you, the builders;

it has become the cornerstone.”

There is salvation in no one else, for there is no other name under heaven given among mortals by which we must be saved.’

Acts 4:5-12

‘I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep. The hired hand, who is not the shepherd and does not own the sheep, sees the wolf coming and leaves the sheep and runs away—and the wolf snatches them and scatters them. The hired hand runs away because a hired hand does not care for the sheep. I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me, just as the Father knows me and I know the Father. And I lay down my life for the sheep. 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. For this reason the Father loves me, because I lay down my life in order to take it up again. No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord. I have power to lay it down, and I have power to take it up again. I have received this command from my Father.’

John 10:11-18

‘There is salvation in no one else, for there is no other name under heaven given among mortals by which we must be saved.’

 

In the ancient world, a name was more than a label by which to identify one person from another, though it did do that, often rooted in lineage or place of origin. To declare someone’s name before others was to speak of their reputation, to reveal their character. To invoke a name was understood as the manifestation of that person’s character, as if it were that person themselves who was speaking or acting through another. Our reading from Acts chapter 4 begins with several names: Annas the high priest, Caiaphas, John, and Alexander. We will return to them; but first, some other names.

Aided by powerful Roman allies, Herod the Great had deposed the Hasmonean dynasty and established himself as Rome’s client king in Jerusalem. On his death, in AD 4, his will provided for his kingdom to be divided between his sister Salome I (the west), and three of his sons: Archelaus (the south), Herod Antipas (the north, and the east), and Philip (the far north-east). Although this was not in Herod’s gift to give, the emperor Augustus chose to respect the will. However, Augustus quickly judged Archelaus—whose portion had been disputed by his brothers from the outset—to be incompetent, removing him and imposing direct Roman rule on Jerusalem only two years later.

In AD 6 Quirinius, the Roman governor of Syria, appointed an ambitious twenty-six-year-old named Annas the first High Priest of the newly created Province of Judea. A decade later, in AD 15, a newly arrived Roman prefect, Valerius Gratus, seeking to establish himself, removed Annas from office, and appointed someone else. Historically, the role of high priest had been a position for life; hence, Annas would always bear that title if no longer officially the role. Having lost none of his ambition, he would become Jerusalem’s eminence grise, despised by the populace for the greed and violence of his household.

A year after removing Annas, Gratus removed the successor, and appointed Annas’ son Eleazar high priest. One year later, he removed Eleazar. Eleazar’s successor held the post for less than a year, before Gratus removed him, appointing Annas’ son-in-law Caiaphas high priest in AD 18. Caiaphas was, apparently, a particularly adroit ally to Rome, retaining his position when Gratus was replaced by Pontius Pilate and remaining high priest until Pilate’s departure in AD 36. Over the following thirty years, four more of Annas’ sons would serve as high priest: Jonathan (AD 36-37, and 44) (this might possibly be the John mentioned in Acts 4; of Alexander, there is no other record), Theophilus (AD 37-41), Matthias (AD 43), and Annas the Younger (AD 63-66) who was assassinated for calling for peace with Rome, in the early stages of the First Jewish-Roman War, a war which would eventually see the destruction of the temple in AD 70.

For sixty years, from AD 6-66, the household of Annas exercised their influence over Jerusalem, trusting in the power of their name to bounce back every time their rivals succeeded, temporarily, in displacing them. And at the very mid-point, they make the prisoners stand in their midst (Greek: mid-point), and Peter declares to them the name of Jesus.

These were the same men who, just weeks before, had made Jesus stand in their midst and had named him ‘blasphemer’ on account of assuming the title Son of God. Of course, this was not blasphemy at all, but the title claimed (Psalm 2) for David, and the Davidic line of kings, many of whom proved to be unfaithful sons, the dynasty abruptly ending at the deportation to Babylon (it is interesting to note that Peter quotes Psalm 2 on their release, see Acts 4:23-31). The clear message of the title Son of God is that Jesus’ followers saw him, not as a Rome-appointed Herodian king, nor even a previously Roman-recognised Hasmonean king, but as a God-appointed Davidic king. Jerusalem was swollen by tens, perhaps hundreds of thousands of pilgrims looking for just such a restoration, to overthrow Roman rule. In such an uprising, the entire, widely despised household of Annas would surely be put to death as collaborators: they had no choice but to act decisively to ensure their interests.

Jesus, for his part, named the house of Annas ‘hired hands.’ They were supposed to be the shepherds of Israel, but, instead, these Rome-appointed hired hands—in league with the wolf—looked to their own good. Before them, Jesus would lay down his life in order to take it up again.

The writer of the New Testament Letter to the Hebrews tells us (that is, those for whom the New Testament forms part of our community library) that Jesus is our high priest, and that we are his household. There is, therefore, a direct parallel between Caiaphas, operating in the name of Annas, and Peter, operating in the name of Jesus. Peter, who would end his days, at around the same time the dynasty of Annas came to an end, as bishop of Rome. Each holds up a mirror to the other.

Like Caiaphas, Peter belonged to a family of privilege, enjoying the patronage of Rome. Dried fish from the inland Sea of Galilee was a delicacy on the most refined of Roman tables. Jonah and Zebedee were partners in a fish export business successful enough to employ workers beyond the extended family: hired hands. Between the two families, four sons—Andrew and Peter, James and John—were disciples of a rabbi, an honour reserved for those students with the greatest aptitude, and economic freedom to study. These were not uneducated men, even if the ruling elite of the nation’s capital saw them as such. But Peter embraces what Caiaphas rejects. Note that even as a re-directed fisher-of-people, Peter continues to oversee workers and export the new family business as far as Rome; whereas Caiaphas, the hired hand who does not care, is left behind as the story of salvation unfolds.

Peter, however, is not only an historical figure, like the rest, but also the representative figure for the Church. And the Church designates today, the Fourth Sunday of Easter, as Vocations Sunday. Vocation is often understood narrowly, to describe a call to ordained ministry, as deacons, priests, and bishops, or a life set apart, as a monk or a nun. But vocation refers to the call of God on our lives, and everybody has one. Vocation catches up our background, our family history and place of origin, along with our gifts and skills, our opportunities, and our constraints, and calls us to put all this into loving the Lord our God with all our heart and mind and soul and strength, and loving our neighbour as ourselves.

Your vocation may be as a teacher, or an ambulance driver; a hairdresser, furniture-maker, shopkeeper, pint-puller; working in a lab developing vaccines, or being a foster parent; leading the gathered congregation in our prayers of intercession, or decorating the church to the glory of God; serving as treasurer on the Parochial Church Council, or creating space for teenagers to discover themselves. Your vocation will overlap, and engage with, various spheres of life and influence: paid and unpaid roles, in domestic, ecclesial, and societal settings. Not simply what we do, but how we inhabit that. At times set aside for others, and taken up again, for others. Often, we try to hold on too tightly, too long—like Annas—disempowering others, instead of laying our lives down in order that they might be raised up.

To step into our vocation is to learn to know and respond to the voice of the good shepherd, who knows us more intimately than we know ourselves, and seeks us out and draws us close. It is to find our place, as a living stone, in the rebuilt temple, space and form held together by Jesus, the cornerstone. It is to be set free, not only from that which holds us captive but for the good we were created to do, as God works to make the world new in and through and with Jesus Christ his Son our Saviour. It is to renounce the way of Annas, and to proclaim, instead, in thought and word and deed, the name of Jesus.

It is to be and do, in and with our lives, what Jesus would be and do, if he were me, or you.

As we emerge from the profound dismantling of the past year, Vocations Sunday takes on a fresh significance. It may be that this Eastertide the Holy Spirit is prompting your spirit, to respond to the call of God on your life: to step into a new season; or to lay down some role that has been undertaken for so long that it has become mistaken for your identity; or to take up your laid-down life once again. If so, I would love to talk with you about that.

But for each one of you, know this: you are known, you are loved, you are called, you are saved—not least, from yourself—you have been given a voice, and empowered to fulfil your vocation. Where the Church has sought to silence you, or been complicit in that silence, on behalf of the Church, I apologise; may God give us the grace to repent and believe anew, for the kingdom of heaven has drawn near. And may we all, together, filled with the Holy Spirit, press into our vocation—neither resisting nor running away—today and every day. Amen.