Sermon for Third Sunday after Trinity 2020

On Thursday evening just gone, I attended a Black Lives Matter vigil in Keel Square. It had been organised at the request of community organisers within the BAME (Black, Asian and Minority-Ethnic) community in Sunderland. I went as their guest, and in response to their invitation to stand in solidarity with them at this time. I went to hear local Black and mixed-heritage speakers share something of their experience of living here, in the city where I live. About 200 people came to a well-organised and peaceful event, maintaining spatial distance, most wearing masks. Many local church leaders were present. As part of the vigil, we were invited to take the knee for 8 minutes and 46 seconds. A humble, prayerful posture that connects us to Martin Luther King, Jr, and the ongoing civil rights movement; and a length of time that remembers the murder of George Floyd by a police officer who knelt on his neck for that long.

 

Some say that it is humiliating for a White man to take the knee; which causes me to wonder why humbling ourselves should be seen as (is) humiliating by White people, and White men in particular? Some dismiss it is a token gesture, which causes me to ponder the difference between symbolic actions and token actions, and how action can sustain us and empower transformation or sedate us and disempower transformation. Some will undoubtedly dismiss it as ‘woke,’ which makes me wonder why alertness to injustice should be something to vilify people for, and whose interests that serves?

 

There was a small but vocal demonstration protesting the vigil. One man waved a Union flag. Now, to be clear, context is everything. Despite our colonial history, the flag is not inherently racist. Flanking a member of the Cabinet giving the daily Coronavirus briefing, not racist. Flying from public buildings, not racist. Waved at the Olympic Games, not racist. Fluttering as bunting at the village fete, or adorning tea towels and cushions, not racist. But held aloft in protest of a Black Lives Matter vigil, the point being made is, “If you are not White you don’t belong in this country: go back home where your people come from.”

 

Again and again, as Black and mixed-heritage speakers addressed those in the square, the protestors tried to drown out these not-White voices with chants of ‘All Lives Matter’. And yes, all lives do matter. But, again, context is everything. If your first response to Black Lives Matter is not to listen, to hear why it is that such a statement needs to be made; if your response is the paternalistic corrective, All lives matter, then what you are actually saying is, Black people need to get back in their box—and, they need to accept that it is a far better and more comfortable box than it used to be. And if your response is to stand on the pavement and attempt to drown out not-White voices, that reveals a desperate attempt to silence the Other, and, frankly, demonstrates just why we need to insist that Black Lives Matter. For if all lives truly matter, then by definition Black lives matter; and if Black lives matter, then we should listen to them. We should acknowledge the injustice people experience because of who they are, and, with them, seek to address it. And yes, if all lives matter, then White lives matter too; but no one in this nation experiences wearying prejudice on account of being White, just as no one experiences wearying prejudice on account of being ‘able-bodied’ or ‘straight’.

 

How incredibly apposite our readings this Sunday are to the upheavals we are living through! And what a gift to wrestle with these words, and the story they unfold, and our place within it.

 

Paul’s letter to the Christian community in Rome—Romans—was written to be circulated around multiple congregations. Some were predominantly of Jewish background, and others were Gentile-majority churches; and, while they were all Christians, the Jewish believers looked on the Gentile believers, and treated them, as second-class citizens in the kingdom of heaven. This was the issue Paul sought to address. And he did so with brilliant contextual theological reflection, which has often become problematic when read in other contexts.

 

Paul begins his letter by painting as black a picture of the Gentiles as is imaginable. He quickly focuses on sexual practices that, from a Jewish outlook were beyond the pale to the point of being unnatural in their desires and actions. He builds a caricature his Jewish audience would agree with whole-heartedly, until he springs a trap: the respectable Jewish Christians are by nature every bit as separated from God as the Gentiles. Indeed, Paul even ascribes unnatural desire and activity to God, saying that God has cut the Jewish people from the vine of their heritage, has grafted the Gentiles into that vine, and will graft Israel back onto the vine from which he had broken it. Throughout the letter, Paul labours the point that there is one new humanity, and seeks to deconstruct the divisions that exist in the minds of the believers, and to foster the construction of something new and mutually uplifting. A community that will ultimately subvert Roman civilisation not by revolt, but by a better alternative.

 

And in the passage before us today, Paul takes up the imagery of slavery, as an analogy that his audience would be familiar with. Around 90% of the population of the Roman Empire were slaves, owned by a master. This was not necessarily the most abject slavery the world has ever known, but all empires are built on the backs of slaves, on men, women and children seen as property. For the Jews, being a slave—certainly, being a slave to a Gentile—was especially demeaning. Even though they were a nation occupied by a foreign army, and ruled over by the Roman Empire’s local puppet king, they had won for themselves certain exemptions, and rejected the notion of being slaves. On one occasion, a group of Jewish community leaders, confronting Jesus, declared that as a people they had never been slaves to anyone. This is quite extraordinary, given how foundational the story of God liberating his people from over four centuries of slavery in Egypt was to Jewish identity. But then, when we are confronted with our present, we reframe our past to suit.

 

In this passage from Romans 6, Paul employs the language of sin exercising dominion over us, to make us obey those passions within us that separate us from God rather than the desire within us to please God. Paul goes on to state that, according to this analogy, we are all slaves to something, either to impurity or to righteousness. Recognising ourselves as enslaved to God does not imply that God is a tyrant, but that we are not masters of our own destiny. Even if we believed ourselves to be the ones who were free, we were only free in regard to righteousness: that is, our freedom was built on sin, on the breakdown of relationship with God and neighbour. A freedom that, pursued, ends in death, that is, in the very opposite of all that is life-giving in and to and for the world.

 

Paul also points out that the unexamined default of his audience was to present themselves—both personally, and as a deeply interconnected community—to sin as instruments of wickedness. That is, their unexamined way of being in the world was complicit and instrumental in wickedness. Instead, and in marked contrast, they were to present themselves—both personally, and as a deeply interconnected community—to God as instruments of righteousness. That is, by ongoing intentional choices and actions, they were to be instrumental in the mending of the world, the flourishing of human relationships.

 

And while Paul is addressing both Jewish and Gentile believers, the primary challenge in much of this letter is to the Jewish Christians regarding their view of their Gentile sisters and brothers—and, indeed, their overly-inflated view of themselves.

 

All this, as I say, feels very apposite, for a predominantly White Church of England needing to reconsider our relationship to BAME Christians, including Black Majority churches; and for White British Christians needing to relearn our history and its impact on the world as it is today, in terms of the sin of racism. For people needing to de-construct and re-construct our identity. Until and unless we face these things, we will be slaves of sin. We have nothing to lose except our chains.

 

In closing, let me return to our Gospel reading, those short verses from Matthew 10, the church sent out into the world. Jesus calls us to be prophetic—and to connect with other prophetic voices in the community—and to embody justice in our dealings—and to connect with others doing likewise—and not to be overwhelmed by the enormity of the task or to dismiss the significance of starting where we are, with even the smallest of actions. It is not enough to not be racist, we must be anti-racist. We are not only set free from something, but also for something. This is a matter of our Father’s kingdom continually breaking into the world, of his will being done on earth as it is in heaven—and of that will being resisted.

 

And perhaps for us the starting-point needs to be that we welcome Jesus come-to-us in the BAME prophets—whether nurses or students or professors or church (and other religious tradition) leaders or asylum seekers—whom he has sent to Sunderland? There is an ongoing work of learning to see people through Jesus’ eyes that needs to be done, of which the recent vigil in Keel Square was a part. It isn’t easy; and we will get it wrong, as the Church has been getting it wrong from the beginning. Yet in the hope that, as from the beginning, God is at work to redeem, I commend it to you.

 

Fifth Sunday of Lent

Hospitality from the margins – the art of empowering

1 Kings 17:1-16 and Philemon 1-16 and Luke 10:1-16 (again)

This morning I want us to think about hospitality from the margins, or, the art of empowering. And I want to do that by focusing on a small word, a word that it is easy to overlook, a word that you might not expect to have anything much to say, but a word on which the stories of our lives turn and turn again. I want us to think about the three-letter-word ‘but’.

But is an unwelcome ending, a falling short of what is required, a running out of resources. In a drought-stricken land, Elijah finds provision from the mouths of carrion birds, ‘But after a while the wadi dried up…’ There and then, the prophet whose word could command clouds discovers the limits of his ability to exert control in the world.

But is a hesitation, a qualification of what we can offer, of what we can do. The Lord comes to a widow living a marginal existence on the very margin of the Promised Land and commands her to feed one of the greatest figures in Israel’s history. Elijah comes to her for hospitality, ‘But she said, “As the Lord your God lives, I have nothing…only…a little…for myself and my son, that we may eat it, and die”’.

But is a dying to self in the wilderness…and the rumour that death is not the end. ‘Elijah said to her, “Do not be afraid; go and do as you have said; but first…and afterwards…”’ But is God’s intrusion into our lives: the daring hope that we might be empowered to do what he has called on us to do, first for the sake of others, and, in so daring, discovering renewed life for ourselves.

But is the fanfare announcement of redemption. Onesimus is a runaway slave, who runs from himself – his name means ‘Useful’ but he cannot believe that he can inhabit such an identity – and from his master’s god. Runs, only to run into Paul, himself a slave of God, and so to be set free, for ‘Formerly he was useless to you, but now he is indeed useful both to you and to me.’

But is consideration, a bond of partnership, with others, and indeed with God. Paul writes to Philemon, ‘I wanted to keep him with me…but I preferred to do nothing without your consent…’

And in our Gospel reading, but is an honest assessment of our circumstances, that calls us to pray – “The harvest is plentiful, but the labourers are few; therefore ask…” – and to go, as lambs in the midst of wolves, trusting that the Good Shepherd is not far off;

but (if not) is a guarantee, that peace will not be stolen from us, will not run out;

but (whenever) is wise instruction, for when disciples are not met with a welcome; and

but (at the judgement) is the reservation by God of the right to have the final word over every protesting ‘But…!’

We live in an uncertain world, a world that – from the most global to the most local of concerns – turns and turns again on that little word but, in all of its senses. And yet in the midst of our unknowable, unpredictable, uncertain lives, something knowable, predictable, and certain also turns and turns again: the revelation of Scripture, most fully manifest in the person of Jesus, that God comes looking for us in the wilderness to transform our lives beyond what we can possibly imagine.

I see that written most large in the small deeds of kindness offered by a widow, a man running from his past; and in the lives of those members of this congregation who have stepped up in this past week to respond to the Lord’s gracious command, and found themselves unlikely ambassadors of the kingdom of God.

But what about you? Where are you within the story today? Are you at an end, or a beginning? Or do you find yourself at the turning-point in-between? What do you need to hear from Jesus today? A word that gives courage, or wisdom? That sends you out, or calls you back to him? Lent is a time to take time to be found, to be loved, to be empowered. To discover that small can have enormous significance. You may feel small, but…

Fourth Sunday of Lent

Hospitality without borders – the art of generous giving

Romans 15:20-29 and John 12:1-8

Birth mothers, adoptive mothers, step-mothers, those who have been like-a-mother to us: everyone has had at least a mother, and quite possibly more than one.

Today, at least in our country, is Mothers’ Day. A day to express thanks to, and for, the mothers in our lives. And this can be complicated, because – despite what the card industry depicts – mothers are not perfect; and neither are their children. So we pour out the bitter-sweet perfume of love and regret and loss and a whole host of emotions at Jesus’ feet, in the hope that in his presence our complex lives might become something beautiful.

Today is also Mothering Sunday, an observance with a longer history, when we are invited to express thanks for our ‘mother church’, the local community of Christians who first nurtured our faith, perhaps before we were able to own it for ourselves. For some of us, that church is this church, Sunderland Minster. For others of us, we are able to call to mind other churches, perhaps more than one, communities that have been a mother to us, in different ways, at different stages of our journey of faith. And as with singular human mothers, churches are not perfect, and so, again, we pour out a heady mix at Jesus’ feet.

These two strands – mothers, and mother church – are woven together in the Mothers’ Union. Recently, I had the privilege of listening to the wife of the Archbishop of Burundi speak about the way in which the Mother’s Union there has been the vanguard for reconciliation in the wake of a troubled history; is a voice for unity in a very uncertain present; and will undoubtedly be mobilised for healing communities in a future as yet unmet.

This Lent we are exploring the great theme of Christian hospitality. Within the history of a distinctly (though not uniquely) Christian hospitality is hospitality extended to those on a journey, or a pilgrimage.

In our first reading, Paul, intending to visit the church in Rome on his way to carry the gospel to Spain, writes, ‘For I do hope to see you on my journey and to be sent on by you, once I have enjoyed your company for a little while’. Unlike his travels around the eastern Mediterranean, we have no written account of Paul’s journey to Spain; though that he did indeed fulfil his intention to go there is testified to by several writers of the Early Church.

In our reading from the Gospel, Mary is no doubt aware that Jesus’ life is in danger as a direct consequence of his having raised her brother Lazarus from the dead; and that Jesus is nonetheless on a journey to Jerusalem and inevitable death; and her response is to receive him for now as honoured guest and send him on his onward journey provided for, prepared for the day of his burial.

Two incredibly rich passages to mediate on, over the coming days.

At the heart of the vocation of motherhood is the receiving of another as if they were sent to us by God; making room for them for a season; and then sending them out again, on their onward journey, ultimately back to God who had sent them to us. In this great blessing is to be found, though at great cost. The receiving, the making room, the sending onward: any or each of these can leave their stretch marks on us.

One of our great bitter-sweet privileges here is the way in which God keeps sending us international students; and asylum seekers; and more local people who would describe themselves as being on a spiritual journey: people we welcome, enjoying one another’s company for a little while, and then have to send onward on a journey in which we have partnered with them but on which we cannot accompany them. But in another sense, this is true of every one of us, from the teenagers who spread their wings to the very oldest passing from time into eternity.

We are all pilgrims on the Way. Historically, monasteries sprang up along the way* offering shelter. As you may have already heard over the past few days, the Minster café, which has been operating as an external franchise, has come back to us this weekend. We were not looking for that to happen; the short-notice of it all is a massive challenge. Why this, God? Why now, God? Why, in the midst of a series exploring hospitality? Why, for a community placed by God on a busy pilgrim route, albeit not a traditional one? … We’re going to call the café Biscop’s@theMinster – Biscop’s – after the patron saint of Sunderland, who went on six long journeys, and found a welcome along the road. Would you pray that this opportunity being birthed in our midst would help us fulfil our call to be a place of hospitality on the Way?

*We tend to think of places like Iona and Lindisfarne and Monkwearmouth as being, deliberately, off-the-beaten-path. But, in fact, in a time when international travel was by shore-hugging boat, they were located at the ‘airport hubs’ of their day.

Third Sunday of Lent

Third Sunday of Lent: Living within God’s hospitality – the art of contentment

Ecclesiastes 3:9-15 and Philippians 4:10-23 and Matthew 6:25-34

Our Lenten journey together this year is into hospitality. Let’s review where we have been so far.

On Ash Wednesday we heard Jesus speak about prayer and giving and fasting, as disciplines that enable us to enter-into, and to share or extend, God’s hospitality. Then, Sunday by Sunday, we have reflected on different keys to hospitality.

On the First Sunday of Lent we looked at listening, which is, really, the discipline of prayer.

On the Second Sunday of Lent we considered ‘reverse hospitality’ – the experience of being guest, rather than host; and how we might be used by God through the giving or offering of ourselves into that position of vulnerability.

Today, the Third Sunday of Lent, we are looking at contentment: at the ability to say ‘no’ to the voices that tell us we never have quite enough, which is exercised by the discipline of fasting.

Listening, being guests, and contentment. Praying, giving, and fasting. Now, I must confess that when I planned-out this series, I didn’t tie the Sundays into Ash Wednesday, but it just so happens that they belong together. Call it a divine coincidence.

So today we are looking at living within God’s hospitality, or, the art of contentment. The timing feels pertinent, as it seems to me that so much of our public discourse at present is focused on exploiting discontent. Now, of course, being content in all circumstances is not at all the same as being content with all circumstances – Paul, who claimed to have found the secret of contentment, was a constant agitator for change on behalf of others – but our fundamental contentment or lack thereof will determine the nature of the change we want to see, whether it is outward-looking or self-centred. Better a frugal meal shared with love than the richest feast consumed with resentment.

This week I’ve been having lots of conversations with people around the idea of contentment, and have received much insight and grace from those who have responded. It would seem that what contentment looks like differs from person to person – though with common themes – and is often stumbled upon by happy accident – or at least through indirect effort.

In other words, one might describe the causes of contentment as a gift, and one tailored to the recipient…

Certainly, one ancient Teacher of wisdom thought so, declaring, ‘moreover, it is God’s gift that all should eat and drink and take pleasure in all their toil’ (Ecclesiastes 3:13).

Paul writes of having learned to be content with whatever he has – despite all manner of perils, deprivations, and loss – and considers the lesson to be a secret. It is a secret he is happy to share, but can’t share in words: the secret of being content is only uncovered by participating in the secret.

How, then, might we participate in the secret of being content? Let me suggest that contentment has various dimensions, and that we might engage with them through hospitable practices.

Firstly, contentment has a spiritual dimension. By ‘spiritual’ I mean ‘non-material’. There is something intangible and certainly unmeasurable but nonetheless recognised in many of the responses I have received this week as to people’s experience of contentment. And here, the hospitable practice is perhaps simply thankfulness – whether that thankfulness is directed towards ‘god’ or not.

Next, contentment has a relational dimension. Meals are important – they are at the heart of the ancient Teacher’s definition of contentment – not simply as nutrition for the body but as shared social experience that breaks down walls and builds bridges. Here, the hospitable practice is eating together, as we shall do a little later on.

Then, contentment has a physical dimension. God’s gift is that all should take pleasure in their toil – even though toil is inevitably hard, and at times frustrating. It is hard to be content when your experience of work, or workless-ness, is primarily denigrating. And as contentment is part of God’s social contract for us – it is his gift that all should experience it – then it is impossible for me to enter fully into God’s hospitality while I am aware that others are excluded and do nothing about it. So here, the hospitable practice might be acts of service, more of us taking a share in serving refreshments, or being with the children, so that these things are rewarding for many and do not become burdensome on a few.

Contentment also has an intellectual dimension. We nurture contentment when we reflect on those times – whether fleeting moments or familiar seasons – when we have experienced contentment; on where, and why, we are content and indeed lacking contentment at the present; and what adjustments we might need to make. That has been one of the real values of the intentional conversations I have had this week, and I’d encourage you to do likewise. As a place to begin, I want to commend to you our Tuesday evening conversation group running in parallel with this sermon series. Do come along, if you are able to – 7.00-8.00pm in the Minster lounge.

And lastly, contentment has a financial dimension. This is, in fact, the least important of all: it belongs at the end of the list – though in public discourse it is always first in the list – but it is on the list, and rightly so. It is hard to be content when we have less than we need – and harder still when we have more than we need. The hospitable practices of this dimension are those that help us to live simply in order that our neighbour can simply live: sharing resources through lending and borrowing, rather than duplicating everything; reframing ‘second-hand’ as a positive choice; paying a fair price to producers. And here I will give a plug to our monthly Craft & Vintage Fair, which takes place again next Saturday, as an example of where I think we are working to get this right, investing in entrepreneurial energy in the local and sustainable economy, and providing simple gifts that express love and can help refocus our attention on contentment.

These practices are simple, but not easy. They are expressions of the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and Jesus tells us that we must strive for such as this: a description not of casual agreement, but of ongoing effort leading to habitual behaviour. Lent is, after all, a journey into the wilderness, into the place of testing. But after the testing, this is the very place of grace.

Lent 1

Lent 1: hospitality and dignity - the art of listening

this is the first in our Lent 2016 series on hospitality

Deuteronomy 6:1-12 and Acts 9:32-43 and Luke 5:27-32

Spoken, at least, the word ‘hear’/’here’ has two meanings: ‘hear,’ [cups ear] to listen; and ‘here,’ [points to the ground] to be present. If this is coincidence, it is a happy one: for it is not possible to hear unless we are here; or, more significantly, it is not possible to be here unless we hear.* We can probably all relate to the familiar phrase, ‘Have you heard a word that I said?’ and its common response ‘Sorry, I was miles away…’

[*By the way, that is why I print out a copy of my sermon for Rita, so that she can ‘hear’ too, so that she is valued ‘here’; and if that would help anyone else, let me know – I’d be happy to print off other copies.]

This Lent, we are going to journey together on an exploration of hospitality; of what it might look and sound and taste and smell and feel like to share with Jesus who is both our welcome/unwelcome guest and our comforting/discomforting host. We caught a glimpse of this in our Gospel reading, and see it over and over in the Gospels. And if we are to rediscover Christian hospitality, our starting-point must be to listen attentively; for to ‘Hear, O Israel’ is the first and necessary impulse for loving God and, by extension, our neighbour.

In our reading from the Acts of the Apostles we see something of how complex and vulnerable and beautiful and healing true hospitality is. The women welcome Peter into their lives, sharing with him what they have shared together, what they have done and what they have lost. And in turn, Peter gives them the gift of attentiveness, taking time to listen to their stories. If the raising of Tabitha from the dead is a rare miracle, the attentive listening that comes first is no less so – and is at the heart of the restoration that takes place. Hospitality does not always result in visible transformation, but it certainly makes such transformation possible.

So I’d like to tell you about my experience of listening in this place over recent days, and to invite you into that experience.

Approach with a smile the man who takes time to sit in this space whenever he comes shopping in town. Acknowledge his visits as a gift to us; enquire of his general well-being; allow him to take the conversation onward.

Listen to the swing of the door, the footsteps crossing the floor to the candle-stand; two women come in to light a candle and pray – for a child in hospital? It might be their first time; suddenly shy, they ask for permission, to come forward: please, go ahead.

Listen to the art students scattered around the space – the nave, the chapel, the galleries – sketchbooks on laps, making tentative pencil marks and rubbing them out again. What do they make of this space, quite alien to them?

Listen to the asylum-seeker, who has worshipped with us for a year now – was baptised in this place – come seeking a letter of support because the Home Office has decided that those in the midst of this process should be moved from city to city to prevent them from finding stable community.

Hear the woman who suffers from anxiety, bright lipstick presenting a brave face, braver than she feels inside, speak of how she feels peace in this place; of how the peace that rests here calms her inner storm.

Accidentally over-hear, through the toilet cubicle door, the man living rough, grunting, wheezing, doubled-up with discomfort. Taking a hospitable stance is at times uncomfortable. Can we offer anything more than privacy, without exposing our guest to shame? [I loitered outside at a discreet distance to make sure he was alright; and afterwards, cleaned up behind him.]

And what might God want to say to any of the above? What words of healing, what call to repentance, might the Holy Spirit want to speak (to, and) through us, as through Jesus?

This is a living, breathing space, stone brought to life by the Spirit of God, people called to hear [cups ear], here [points to the ground].

Over Lent we are once again setting aside two hours each weekday, from 12.00-2.00pm, as protected listening space, where people can come in; and sit; and listen for the still, small voice of God; and be listened to.

As before, the clergy team are covering those times between us, but listening is a gift of the Body of Christ, and who is to say that the clergy alone are the ears? Indeed, we are not! But we are called out to help the whole Body grow in exercising our various gifts. So we want to encourage those who have a heart for listening, who are good listeners – or would like to be better listeners – to listen along with us. Here is an opportunity to ‘give it a go’, perhaps a couple of times, or even one day each week, between now and Easter.

If that sounds like something you might be able to offer, I’d love to hear [cups ear] from you, here [points to the ground], today.