Feast of St Luke 2020

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Candlemas 2020

Gospel reading: Luke 2:22-40

Once upon a time in Pallion [here in Sunderland] there was born a boy called Joseph Swan, who would grow up to become a physicist, chemist and inventor. He was one of a number of independent pioneers of the incandescent lightbulb, and the first person to light both private homes and public buildings solely by electric light. And while, today, his successors are pioneering new ways to generate electricity, we can’t conceive of living in the world without such light.

There are times, however, when electric light doesn’t cut it. Birthday celebrations. Romantic dinners. The self-care of a deep bubble-bath. A family remembering a loved one who is no longer with us. A community keeping vigil in the wake of tragedy. Some moments cry out to be candle-lit.

Today is Candlemas, when people have traditionally brought candles to church to be blessed. As you arrived today, you were given a candle. You might even have brought one with you. We no longer depend on them for our day-to-day existence. But they still speak to us of the mystery of life. They point beyond themselves to those moments in which we are privileged to glimpse a revelation of the glory of a people who reflect God’s glory in the world.

Do you feel glorious? Do you feel glorious, on this cold February morning, on which you have struggled, with the circumstances of your life, to get here? Maybe, maybe not. Perhaps you feel as small as the unlit candle in your hand, in this artificially lit room.

Once upon a time in Jerusalem there was an old man called Simeon, and the Holy Spirit rested on him. The imagery of that statement recalls the dove sent out by Noah [whose name means Rest] after the Great Flood, who finds an olive tree standing amid the devastation, a place to land and rest, and return with a symbol of new beginning. [It is an image juxtaposed with the sacrifice of a pair of turtle doves, of new life and death hand-in-hand...]

Simeon knew that he was going to die, and walked towards that moment in the comfort and courage that comes from the Holy Spirit. Of course, he didn’t know when he would die; but he did know that there was something he needed to see first. And when he had seen it — when he had seen Jesus, the anointed One — nothing and everything changed. He still knew that he was going to die; he still didn’t know when — would it be that night? within days? or longer? — and he was still enabled by the comforting, encouraging Spirit: but now he describes himself as a slave who has been given his freedom by his master, in gratitude for his years of service. Now he steps into a new chapter, a new adventure, a new life.

And the first thing that Simeon does with this new-found freedom is to bless a young family. Though it may sound a strange blessing to our ears. First, he blesses the child as one destined for the falling and rising of many. The Greek words convey ruin and resurrection. This child will be a sign of life falling apart, and being given back, by God, demonstrating his justice and mercy. And then Simeon blesses Mary, saying, you too, young girl holding your baby, with life stretching ahead of you, will die; will know the breath of God cut free from the earth it now animates. That’s a blessing? Yes! Because to bless is to release something: and Simeon is releasing the consolation of God’s people; and releasing Mary from the fear of death.

Anna, likewise, is an elder among her people, soaked in prayer, waiting to welcome this liberation for the people of God, overflowing in celebration. She knows the blessings Simeon speaks of; she has lived them.

When a baby is brought to a place like this — into a community like that — the one thing we can know with absolute certainty is that they are going to die. We don’t know whether they will feel at home within, or estranged from, their community. We don’t even know whether they will feel at home within, or estranged from, themselves. We don’t know who will love them, and who will hurt them; or whom they will love, and whom they will hurt. We don’t know when they will die — whether their lives will be cut short like the baby boys of Bethlehem; or spared unto old age, like Simeon and Anna. We can say with some confidence but without precision that they will know ruin and resurrection, as Anna’s life story testifies. But the one thing we can say for sure is that they will die. We will die.

And yet, as a society, we live as if we are immortal. In absolute, terrified denial of death. It doesn’t matter if we live today in electric light, just passing the hours between yesterday and tomorrow, because there will always be tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, and we can get around to lighting the candles then.

But we do not know which birthday will be the last birthday. We do not know when we will find ourselves eating alone; or when it will become too laborious to lower ourselves into, and lift ourselves out of, the bath. We do not know how many losses we shall know, nor how many vigils we will be called upon to keep. So, don’t hold back. Light the candles, at every opportunity. Candles that have been blessed, to hallow our days, that we might live life in its fullness. For that is why Jesus, the Christ, came.

At the end of our service this morning, we shall light our candles and bless them, in celebration and remembrance of what God has done for his people, and in an act of rededicating ourselves to bear and to live in that light in the world. You’ll find the words* we will say on an insert at the back of your order of service. Take the insert home with you, use these words as a prayer over the coming days. Light your candle at home; or give it to someone who can’t be here, to say, ‘here is the light of hope.’

May you live in that light all the days of your life. And may you go from this place, into whatever adventure awaits, in the three-fold peace of the releasing Master, the raised Infant, and the resting Spirit. Amen.

*Alternative Candlemas Procession, Common Worship: Times and Seasons, p. 205

Blessed are you, Lord our God,

King of the universe.

Blessed be God for ever.

Your light shines on us

and all peoples shall see your glory.

Blessed be God for ever.

You gave us Jesus to be the light of the world;

he makes our darkness to be light.

Blessed be God for ever.

Through the Holy Spirit your love burns within us,

bearing witness to your truth.

Blessed be God for ever.

As we bear your light,

may our lips never cease to sing your praise.

Blessed be God for ever.

Blessed be God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

Blessed be God for ever.

Father, we have sung your praise with shepherds and angels:

may Christ be born in our hearts today.

Praise to Christ our light.

We have shared in the joy of Simeon and Anna;

help us, like them, to trust your word.

Praise to Christ our light.

We have greeted Jesus, the light of the world;

may we be filled with the light of your love.

Praise to Christ our light.

We stand near the place of new birth.

Let us shine with the light of your love.

We turn from the crib to the cross.

Let us shine with the light of your love.

We go to carry his light.

Let us shine with the light of your love.

Thanks be to God.

All Saints & All Souls

Sunday 3 November 2019

Lectionary readings: Daniel 7:1-3, 15-18 and Ephesians 1:11-23 and Luke 6:20-31

This weekend we mark both All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day, or the Commemoration of the faithful departed. All Saints’ Day is the day when we remember all those who have walked with God before us, in every time and place. Some are so famous, we know them by name: Saint Francis, for example, or St Theresa. But the overwhelming majority, we cannot identify. In the course of the redevelopment of Town Green taking place at the moment, five bodies were unearthed. We have no way of identifying them, buried as they were in a time of communal and unmarked parish graves (if you were considered important enough, a plaque inside the church will record your name and the words, the grave is near) and so we reinterred them, respectfully, with prayers; because part of what we remember on All Saints’ Day is the reality that being human is bigger than even our collective memory. Being human is rooted in God, who knows us better than we know ourselves.

All Souls’ Day is the day when we remember those we knew, who have gone ahead of us. In the Roman Catholic tradition, it is a remembrance of those in purgatory, the Church penitent, those being purified for heaven. Officially, the Church of England rejects the notion of purgatory (see the Articles of Religion, number XXII) but there is something to be understood in the process of entrusting those we love to God, a process that is not done-and-dusted at the funeral service. And so this evening we will remember people before God, reading out their names and lighting a candle for each one, as we recognise the in-between space that needs to be navigated between this life and no longer remembered by anyone except the God who holds us safe until the resurrection.

I’m reading a novel at the moment, set in a sheltered housing community, in which the primary narrator is being disempowered by the staff (however well-meaning) and empowered by two friends. It is a fascinating exploration of our sense of self. And there are at least three selves we possess.

Self 1 is first-person self-awareness, the awareness that I exist in the world, that I am not you nor the world, that I experience the world in this present moment from my own perspective. This has begun to take shape before our first birthday, and we never lose it. Even if I cannot remember my name, or know where I am, or put a name to your face, we never lose this sense of self.

Self 2 relates to our attributes, and our opinions attached to those attributes; to our biographies, and our beliefs attached to them. I have brown hair, but am jealous of my peers who are already silver foxes. I am a husband, a father, a vicar of sorts. I am a Christian, a member of the church. Self 2 changes over the course of our lives: for twenty-three years, I was not a husband, and for twenty-three years, I have been. Self 2 changes when we marry, when we divorce, when we are widowed; when we are promoted at work, or made redundant, or retire; when we take a chance to fulfil a dream we long thought was beyond us, and when we realise that in chasing one dream we have missed out on something that mattered more to us. Self 2 changes, sometimes incrementally, sometimes suddenly, but we carry all of our previous Self 2s with us. Self 2 is storied: when we recall the past, it is not factual recall, but the crafting of an edited story that helps (and sometimes hinders) us in the present. And Self 2 is also impacted by those things we have pushed away into the corners of the room of our life, and try to ignore. Sometimes who we are is hidden from ourselves by the stories we tell and the memories we push away, even when we believe we know exactly who we are, for now.

Self 3 is and can only constructed with others. You can train to be a teacher, but you can’t be a teacher without pupils who recognise you. You can decide to be a good friend, but you cannot be a good friend without people who recognise you as such. As we get older, Self 3 can run into difficulties. Those who have known us well become fewer, as colleagues retire, as siblings die. We may find ourselves surrounded by those who do not know our history, nursing home staff who only see a little old woman struggling to adjust to changes to Self 2. A retired headmistress, frustrated by certain losses, further frustrated at being treated like a wilfully ignorant child. Elder isolation is as damaging to us as a lifetime of cigarettes. Self 3 is where the church has such a key role to play, as a community in the world, but also as a community that stretches beyond the present through All Souls to All Saints.

It is revealed to Daniel that empires rise, and empires fall, but that ‘the holy ones of the Most High shall receive the kingdom and possess the kingdom for ever.’ Paul writes of this kingdom to the saints in Ephesus, as participating in ‘the riches of [Christ’s] glorious inheritance among the saints.’ And in our Gospel reading, Jesus declares the contours of this kingdom, of this inheritance, where the experience of weakness opens up a state of blessed union with God that the powerful can neither imagine nor know.

The world sees progression from the peak of achievement, of fame, of influence, to the unravelling of these things that begins in old age and continues through our dying and, eventually, the death of everyone who knew us or even knew of us, as tragedy. As failure and injustice. For if our identity depends on Self 2—‘I think, therefore I am’—and my thinking is compromised, I am being erased. If our identity depends on a Self 3 self that is determined solely by other humans, who are themselves being erased, then, as what you think of me is compromised, I am being further erased, until we are forgotten.

But for the Christian, this is not how we see things. The Church tells another story. Our various traditions differ in the details, but we share one common hope. We dare to believe, together, that God has given us a spirit of wisdom and revelation, has opened the eyes of our heart, so that we can know that our identity is found in union with Christ and in the ongoing and immeasurably great power of God acting for us: to remember us, to raise Christ for us and set him over all things for us, to express the fullness of Life in and through us. We are moving from death to life; from independence from God to union with God. We are not being erased, but being saved by the grace of God.

This gives us great freedom, not only to not fear the process before us, but to support those who desperately fight against the ways in which God and nature and time and eternity conspire to save us from ourselves. This also has very practical implications for how we love one another, and love our neighbour as ourselves, as we, and they, have the layers we have built up stripped away. We are discovering this more and more together, often over food and in the guise of idle gossip that steps back and forth between the present and the past, and it is a gift. And these annual All Saints’ and All Souls’ Days remind us of the hope at the heart of our faith. So come, and share in Communion, in the communion of saints, in the body of Christ, in the hope of glory. Come, and receive sustenance for body and soul. Come, and find yourself, once again, remembered alongside your sisters and brothers in Christ. Come.

Wednesday of Holy Week 2018

Isaiah 50:4-9a and Hebrews 12:1-3 and John 13:21-32

His father was dying, he told me, and his mother and sister had had such a strong disagreement over how best to assist him that they were no longer speaking to one another.

Most people wish to die free from pain. And we can go a long way towards freeing the dying from physical pain. Emotional suffering is a somewhat harder matter. It is not unusual for the dying to feel shame, at ‘failing’ their families not through what they have done (that would cause guilt, not shame) but because in their very being they are not ‘enough’ (whatever that might be) to keep living. It is also not unusual for those who are bereaved to feel shame, over their inability to ‘get over’ their loss (though no one ever gets over loss; but learns to inhabit a differently-shaped life) or sometimes because of broken relationships among the survivors. Sometimes we are left feeling shame, that stains deeper than guilt, because of how we acted towards a loved one in their final days, or because of shaming words spoken over us by others from the place of their own grief.

Isaiah knew the life-taking ways of shame, and shaming, and shouted-back into the gale, ‘and I know that I shall not be put to shame; he who vindicates me is near.’ The writer of the letter to the Hebrews (who may have been Priscilla, the only female author in the New Testament) had these words to say about shame: ‘let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus the pioneer and perfecter of our faith, who for the sake of the joy that was set before him endured the cross, disregarding its shame’.

Last night, I confessed to being arrested by the question, how does the way in which Jesus approaches his death help us to approach our own? Last night, we thought about something he did for himself, and tonight at something Jesus did for those closest to him. In our Gospel reading, we see Jesus put shame to shame. Did you notice how, in his dealing with Judas, the eye-witness John recalls, ‘Now no one at the table knew why he [Jesus] said this to him [Judas—or Satan, who had entered into him?]’? Jesus is concerned that none of his disciples will have to live with shame: not even his betrayer.

If the fast-working antidote to guilt is forgiveness, the life-long antidote to shame is honour, expressed through intimacy extended and freedom respected. Jesus honours us, by inviting us to his supper and by respecting our freedom to walk away. Whom might we need to honour, before it is too late, before we come to the hour of our death?

Tuesday of Holy Week 2018

Isaiah 49:1-7 and John 12:20-36

‘He made my mouth like a sharp sword, in the shadow of his hand he hid me; he made me a polished arrow, in his quiver he hid me away.’ (Isaiah)

‘After Jesus had said this, he departed and hid from them.’ (John)

Jesus knew that the time for him to die was drawing very near. Of course, as Christians we believe that his death has, somehow, resulted in spiritual life for us. But this year I have been struck by something else. I find myself arrested by the question, how does the way in which Jesus approaches his death help us to approach our own? Because we will all die; and death is always with us, however hard the society we live in tries to ignore that. Tomorrow, I want to consider something Jesus does for those closest to him. But tonight, I want to consider something Jesus does for himself. At the end of our Gospel reading we heard that Jesus hid himself away. He wasn’t hiding from death, or hiding from God, but hiding from the crowd. Hiding from all the people who wanted more from him, hiding from the distraction, hiding in preparation for the work that only he could do, the work of his death.

And while your death and mine will not result in the salvation of humankind, our death is also a work the Father has for us, through which he may be glorified. A work no one else can do for us, and in which they can accompany us only so far.

What does it feel like to withdraw, to pull away from family and friends—perhaps to pull away from this congregation—to turn from living to dying? In a sense, only those who have done so know. Some have drawn apart through serious illness, only to be given their life back again: their time to die had not yet come. Others have gone before us into the glory of God’s presence: you may call them to mind.

It is right and proper, of course, to visit the dying. There are other aspects of the work of death that must be attended to: giving and receiving forgiveness; expressing love, and thanks; saying good-bye. To enable the place of hiding is not the same as abandoning someone to face death alone. Yet, this being hidden in the shadow of God’s hand is part of the process by which our dying participates in the victory over death. Following Jesus, may we release one another into that mystery. And if we should find ourselves drawn by the Spirit to the hidden place, may we find Jesus there hiding with us, prized possession of our heavenly Father.