Evensong : Second Sunday of Lent

Numbers 21:4-9

Luke 14:27-33

The account of the people, the poisonous serpents and the serpent of bronze is a strange tale to our ears. The serpent wrapped around a pole is known to us as a symbol of medicine and healing, but this comes to us from Greek mythology, the symbol of the demi-god Asclepius; and while the Greek tale is much younger, it does not appear to draw on this event in the story of Moses.

It seems primitive to us: a God who strikes down his own people, before relenting and instructing his prophet to create a symbol which he will bestow with healing properties. And yet these ancient myths - these stories that transcend the time and place where they are set - persist because they reveal something of ourselves to us that we would be foolish to believe we have outgrown the need for hearing.

In the grumbling of the people, in their becoming numb to the gift of life God has graciously given them, a subtle but highly toxic poison is already abroad in the camp. In sending poisonous serpents among the people to bite them, God externalises what is already present in such a way that it is exposed, that the invisible is made visible. The people do not merely cry out to be rescued from the serpents, but come to their senses in relation to the internal poison, to their self-inflicted wounds.

God’s response is not the provision of a medicine to counter the snake venom; but, rather, to take that external visualisation one step further: if they would be healed, the people must gaze upon a representation of the serpent, which is itself a representation of their folly. They must confront their own rebellion, must gaze upon their sin. But they must do so in the way God has prescribed: for to do so is not to despair, but to dare to hope; for in the very place where we confront our sin, we are confronted by God’s mercy.

Moreover, God does not remove the serpents. They continue to be present in that place, and continue to bite people; but now the consequence no longer has to be death. In the serpents and the bronze serpent the people are continually reminded - and we with them - of our own toxicity.

This strange tale reappears in the New Testament, in the Gospel According to John, where Jesus tells Nicodemus that the serpent lifted up on a pole is how he understands his own destiny: to be looked upon by those who recognise their own sinfulness, and to be the means of healing for them. This, perhaps, in his years of ministry as well as in his hours on the cross.

But this is not our Gospel reading today. Today we have some other sayings of Jesus and these too concern our theme. The monumental folly of an unfinished tower, and history littered with predictable military humiliations, are both examples of internal attitude externalised. The unwise builder and the unwise king both seek to make a name for themselves without self-knowledge, without recognising their limitations, their falling-short of their aim. As we gaze on their ruin, we are meant to recognise ourselves reflected back at us. And yet, again, in the place of confronting our folly, we are confronted with God’s mercy. For as we give up all we possess - in its abundant lack - to God, in Jesus, he takes our identity upon himself and in exchange we are healed as the poverty of our nature is transformed by the riches of his grace (if I may be allowed to let Epiphany break into Lent).

Those things about ourselves which we cannot face - nor yet change, even if we could - we project onto someone or something other. Left to our own devices, we project them in violent ways - against those on benefits, or immigrants, or those of another religion; the most vulnerable groups being the most easily demonised. But in his great love, God has not left us to our own devices: instead, he has declared, ‘Project yourselves on me, project yourselves upon me raised up on an execution scaffold; for as you do, you will be healed.’

How, we cannot know, any more than we can fathom how Moses’ serpent could be used by God. Yet, if we dare to trust that this is somehow truth revealed, then gaze with me upon the cross - which is both ours and Christ’s. Amen.

Ash Wednesday

John 8:1-11

Here we are, once again, at the start of Lent. I wonder what your expectations of Lent are. Perhaps you see it as an austere season, even a severe season? Perhaps you see it as an endurance test? Perhaps you see it as a strange observance belonging to another time? Perhaps you have no idea what Lent is all about?

Might I suggest that Lent is a season of intimacy with the God who created you, and whose declared intentions for you are life in its fullness?

In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. And God drew out the land from the waters of the sea. And God drew out the dustling from the dust of the ground, impressing it with God’s own stamp and seal, and breathing God’s own life into it. And God drew out all kinds of trees from the ground. And God placed the dustling he had drawn out from the ground in a garden, to take care of the ground and of the trees that grew from the ground: to help the ground to fulfil God’s intention for it, and to help that which sprang forth from the ground to fulfil God’s intention for it too.

And God took the dustling and drew out male and female; woman to correspond to man, two halves of one whole; the woman to be a warrior-deliverer for the man just as God would declare himself to be a warrior-deliver to humanity.

And God said, walk with me. But the serpent said, “God is hiding himself from you, is keeping all that you could be from you: don’t settle for that!” And the dustling was deceived, and tried to take what had already been given – a share in God’s identity. This catastrophic event cast a long shadow between God and the dustling; between male and female within the dustling; between the dustling and the ground from which they were taken, and the plants that also sprang up from the ground.

And yet, God sets clear limits on the consequences. The serpent is cursed, to eat dust. The ground is cursed. But the dustling is not cursed. Death will come as a release, not as the final word on the matter. In death, the dustling and the dust would be reunited. And from the woman would come life; a son who would avenge her, crushing the serpent’s head.

These ancient foundational stories of our humanity provide a backdrop as we turn our eyes to Jesus in the temple. He has been here since celebrating the Feast of Tabernacles, the annual act of remembering that God had drawn his people out of slavery in Egypt and met with them in the wilderness, where he had provided living water from the rock, and had shaped a broken rabble into a nation to be a light to the nations. Jesus is causing quite a stir, and while the people are drawn to him, the chief priests and the Pharisees are increasingly hardening their hearts towards him.

It is early in the morning, and Jesus is sitting in the temple courts, teaching, when he is rudely interrupted. The self-righteous drag a woman before him, a woman caught in the very act of committing adultery. It is a trap. In the Law, Moses commanded them to stone ‘such women,’ they say: will Jesus dismiss the Law?

Of course, they care little for the Law. The Law commands that both parties guilty of adultery, the man and the woman, be put to death. This woman is not suspected of promiscuity; she is, allegedly, caught in the very act of committing adultery. If these men were concerned about the Law, they would be bringing the man before Jesus too. The woman – reduced to an object – is merely a pawn: entrapped. For how would a gang of men happen to be at hand if not waiting? And if entrapped, possibly raped – in which case, the Law might require only the death of the man. But there is no man brought for judgement. Or rather, the man being accused is Jesus. God who said, ‘Do not commit adultery’ also said, ‘Do not bring false testimony against your neighbour’ – and in seeking to entrap Jesus, they are playing one commandment off against another.

Jesus ignores them. Instead, he writes on the ground with his finger – a common teaching tool. Perhaps he is going back to his teaching, bringing to mind his interrupted train of thought. The more the religious thugs demand a response, the more he carries on ignoring them, refusing to be drawn into their game – their game of pretending to be more righteous than the woman; their game of pretending to be more righteous than Jesus.

Until at last, the trap springs shut: but Jesus has sidestepped it, and rescued the woman with him; the fowlers caught in their own snare. “Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.”

Jesus was without sin. And yet he chose to so fully identify with sinners that he sides with those who do not dare throw the first stone. He chose to identify with the very men seeking to trap him, as well as with the woman who happened to find herself caught up in their hatred. He chose not to stone the woman, but to crush the serpent’s head. He chose to point his finger not in accusation, but to point towards freedom.

This is a story about creation, un-creation, and new creation. We are all dustlings, drawn from the ground, sharing a common humanity, made for unity, made to fight for one another not against one another. Stoning someone to death is the ultimate act of un-creation: taking stones from the ground to return a dustling to dust. Jesus is not looking for un-creation, but new creation. He is stirring something in the dust, writing a new story. Yes, the woman was entrapped, but it is likely that something about how she lived her life made her vulnerable to such a trap: perhaps she would not dare to speak out the truth of this situation, because her accusers held some other secret over her. Jesus does not condemn her, but neither does he say it does not matter. It matters greatly; enough to put his own life on the line. “Go your way, and from now on do not sin again” he tells her...and not only her, but those still close enough to overhear. Don’t collude with the treating of people as objects.

The season of Lent is an invitation to reacquaint ourselves with dust...

To rediscover our connectedness within God’s creation, where we have become disconnected...

To see our fellow dustlings with solidarity and compassion, where we have viewed them with suspicion and contempt, where we have viewed ourselves as above others...

To allow Jesus to draw patterns in the dust, our lives not set in stone but something altogether more dynamic, able to adapt.

It is a season to humble ourselves, but also to learn to love ourselves in yet another year of our decaying dustiness, our frailty and wretchedness; and to love our dusty neighbour as ourselves; as we are made new, not by our own efforts but by the One who loves us.

This Lent, may you find yourself in the dust at Jesus’ feet;

and may you wait there:

wait while he ignores the accusations brought against you, brought against him;

wait until the voices fall silent and the accusers turn away;

wait, until transformed by his grace, you are set free to go your way, and from now on do not sin again…

Author’s confession: due to other contraints, this sermon is a re-working of my Ash Wednesday sermon from last year.

Sunday Next Before Lent : Giving Sunday

Matthew 17:1-9 (Matthew 16:13-28)

Today we give thanks for the generosity of many people – a generosity of their time, their skill, their money - that enables the life and mission of this Minster community. As we think about being church in this place, I want to set the scene by looking at the events leading up to the Transfiguration.

In the previous chapter, Matthew tells us that Jesus took his disciples to Caesarea Philippi, a city built in honour of Rome, on the site of Banias, an earlier Greek city and major shrine to the nature god Pan, who had, it was believed, died and descended into the underworld. Indeed, the shrine was located at the mouth of a large cave known as THE GATE OF HADES; and the worship was reputed to involve the wildest of orgies. It was not the sort of place good Jewish boys would frequent. If the disciples’ mothers had known that this was where Jesus was taking them, they would have intervened.

As they approached this place of competing ideas, Jesus asked them, ‘Who do people say that I am?’ Several theories are put forward. And then he asks, ‘And what of you? Who do you say that I am?’ And Simon responds, ‘You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.’ You’re the one who will rescue us from...all this.

Jesus replies, ‘You are blessed, because this has been revealed to you by my heavenly Father. You are known as Simon – as “Listen!” - the fisherman’s son; but I’m re-naming you Peter – “Rocky” - and on this rock I will build my church, and these intimidating Gates of Hades will not prevail against you.’ This place, the most inappropriate of places imaginable to be in, is the place Jesus chooses to introduce the very idea of his church.

From then, Jesus starts to tell his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem, suffer and die, and three days later rise again. And Peter - Rocky - takes him aside and rebukes him. Jesus responds with strong words: ‘You’re speaking as the Adversary, not for God! You are the rock, but rather than being a foundation on which I can build, right now you are a stumbling block for me.’ Peter goes from being affirmed to being rebuked, from feeling good about himself to feeling small, from Rocky back to Listen!, pay attention!

If Jesus is going to build his church, it will be built Jesus’ way. In this moment, where Peter goes from foundation to stumbling block, Jesus speaks about investing in what he is doing. He says that whoever invests all that they have in order to secure their own life will ultimately lose everything; but that whoever invests all that they have in what Jesus is doing will receive a great return on their investment. Jesus says that whatever we choose to invest in - fame, fortune - will cost us everything we have; but that the return in investing in what he is doing turns out to be the richest experience of life.

While the disciples are still pondering that, Jesus takes Peter and James and John, and goes up a mountain to meet with Moses and Elijah. Moses, the great prophet through whom God led his people out of slavery in Egypt and gave them the Law, the framework for becoming a nation. Elijah, the greatest prophet to call the people back to that covenant relationship with their God. Can you imagine?!

Peter has some making up to do. He steps forward and suggests that he might build three shelters, for Jesus, Moses and Elijah. After all, he’s a builder now, the one chosen to build the church. This time, God speaks from heaven, declaring his love for Jesus and telling the disciples to listen to him. And then, in a moment, Moses and Elijah are gone.

What has any of this to do with how we give of ourselves within the church? I want to suggest three things.

Firstly, we need to be reminded that it is Jesus who builds his church. It seems to me that Peter runs into trouble because he hadn’t quite heard what Jesus said, because he thought that he was being commissioned to build the church. The church in this place will not be built because of me, or because of our Church Wardens - wonderful though they are - or because of you. And that is good news: it takes a lot of pressure off! It doesn’t depend on us.

Secondly, Jesus challenges us, as a group of his disciples, to invest our lives in what Jesus is doing. I want to thank you for the different ways in which you give of yourselves to invest in what he is doing among us.

Some of you invest financially, towards our running costs.

Some of you invest your expertise, particular skills you have learnt.

Some of you invest your being present, serving on groups of one kind or another, when you could be somewhere else.

Some of you invest relationally in this community, as we care for one another pastorally.

Some of you invest your prayer - perhaps all the more so as you feel less able to invest in other ways.

Many of you have invested in several or even all of these different ways. Again, thank you. I know that at the point of making the investment - being present at a meeting, for example - it can feel like you have lost something of your life that you won’t ever get back...but, I hope, that overall our experience is that Jesus gives us a generous return on our investment. This church is full of life, full of people on journeys of faith together. This is a place of living stones being built together: among the parents and toddlers, and the six adults currently preparing for Baptism and Confirmation, to give just two examples.

I want to encourage each one of us to look at everything God has given us and to ask, ‘How can I invest my life in something that will last?’ As a guideline, the Church of England invites members to invest 5% of their disposable income in their own church community, and a further 5% to support other things Jesus is working through, such as charitable organisations. That might be a challenge to work towards, or to discuss further.

And might what applies to our money apply to other things we can invest? Perhaps you might consider joining us here for Morning Prayer on one or more mornings during the week, for half an hour from 9.00 a.m. Or, as my seven-year-old son has done, you might consider joining the Welcome team on a Sunday morning, investing friendliness.

Thirdly and finally, I want to return to the Transfiguration. Jesus, Moses and Elijah. Jesus, who takes Peter and James and John along with him, to learn from him. Moses, who took Joshua when he went up a mountain to meet with God, raising up his successor. Elijah, who raised up Elisha to take his place when Elijah was taken up to heaven. You see, Peter missed the point. He wanted to build a monument to the past. But God gives Moses and Elijah, two great prophets who invested in the next generation, the privilege of seeing the future, of seeing Jesus.

One of the things that can happen when we invest our lives in what Jesus is doing through his church is that we come to see our value as being found in what we do. The idea that someone else might help, let alone replace us, becomes threatening: as if we are no longer valued. I want to say this: you are not valued here for what you do, though what you do is appreciated. You are valued here because you are loved, because you are members of God’s family and our family. Old, young, and those in the middle: you are loved. You cannot be loved more or loved less, cannot earn it or lose it: you are loved.

To those who give in any way, I want to thank you. But I also want to challenge you to ask yourself, ‘Who can I invite to do this alongside me? Who can I invest in, who can I train up, to whom can I pass on the baton?’ That way, you won’t only be giving for now, but creating a legacy.

And as we invest our lives in what Jesus is doing, with attention to those who will be here after we are gone, the gates of hell in Sunderland are shaken, and we may glimpse Jesus’ glory as he builds his church.

Evensong : Third Sunday Before Lent

Amos 3:1-8

Ephesians 5:1-17

Do you know Amos? He was a farmer who lived at a time when the Land God had given his people had been divided in two. You see, living in the Land was part of the covenant agreement between God and his people, and as such was conditional, on holding faithfully to that covenant agreement. God had established David as king, and his descendants. But David’s son Solomon did not remain faithful to God, despite having had profound experiences of encountering God himself. So God told Solomon that he would tear the kingdom from his family, although, out of love for David, God would not do that in Solomon’s time but in the time of his son; and God would not tear away the whole kingdom, but leave one tribe plus the city of Jerusalem, which did not belong to any of the tribes.

And so the kingdom was divided: Israel in the north, ruled from Samaria; and Judah in the south, ruled from Jerusalem. Two lines of kings. One after another, the kings in Samaria led the people away from God, until God's patience ran out, and Israel was carried off into exile in Assyria. The kings in Jerusalem were not much better – there were a couple of revivals, and Judah is spared for a longer time, but eventually God’s patience ran out with the southern kingdom too, and they were carried off into exile in Babylon.

But again and again, God sent prophets to call his people to repent and believe, to turn away from corruption and embrace God’s pattern for a just society.

Amos was an unlikely prophet – a farmer, the son of a farmer, no history of prophets - those sent by God to proclaim a message, to hold out potential futures and call the people to choose life not death - no history of prophets in his family history. But God calls this southern farmer and sends him to speak to the urban ruling elite of the northern kingdom...who tell him to take the next train back south and not come back again.

But he will not. God has placed a word within him that must be given voice, whether the people respond or not. And the word is this: your kingdom is rotten to the core. The wealthy have become obscenely rich; the poor, a scandal. A scandal not of their own making, through a stubborn refusal to become rich; rather, they are exploited, by a political system that exploits them, stealing their land so that most of the resources are in the hands of a very few, and a corrupt judicial system that refuses to stand up for them and deliver justice. Moreover, the ruling elite have become utterly immoral in their private lives - for the public and the private are inseparable - while displaying a public piety that might fool some, but certainly doesn't fool God.

The problem with the Bible is that it was written so long ago and in such a very different culture from our own that it is hard to see what relevance it has to our day...No, despite the constant temptation to adopt a positivist view of human history, this sounds frighteningly current.

The message Amos brought was this: you have not been faithful to the covenant agreement with God. A society built on injustice cannot stand indefinitely. That you are enjoying the fruits of darkness for now is testimony to God’s patience, not his approval. Though you are unfaithful, he is faithful, and that is why he keeps calling you back. But if you will not return, if you will not repent and change your ways, your world will collapse, will come to an end. And because God is faithful, he will, in time, restore those you have exploited. In time, they will prosper; but in order for that to happen, you will have been removed.

The elite of Samaria did not repent, and sometime later were swept away, never to return. So much for then. What does Amos have to say to us, today?

Firstly, as part of the family of faith, Amos is our ancestor, a prophet in our family line. We, too, are sent to address the ruling elite, to remind them of the burden placed upon them to administer justice, to defend the widow, the orphan and the resident alien, to protect the poor from the rich. We are sent to remind them of God's patience, but also that a corrupt society sows its own destruction.

But our speaking out does not guarantee that hearts will turn away from the fruits of darkness. It may well be that we will be called, as some of the prophets were called, to live through the end of the world as we have known it. To play our part in being faithful in a ruined land. And to play our part in rebuilding communities after the waters have subsided.

Salt Of The Earth

Matthew 5:13-20

We have left the Season of Epiphany behind, and the Season of Lent is as yet a little way off. For now, we find ourselves in Ordinary Time: every-day, common-or-garden, run-of-the-mill, life-goes-on time. Most-of-the-time Time.

Jesus has begun his public ministry. He has left Nazareth and relocated to Capernaum, at the bottom of the hill, on the shore of the lake. He has called his first disciples to follow him, to learn from him and to join-in with what he is doing. His method is to do something – to teach or to heal - and then to process with his disciples what it is that they have just experienced. But as his reputation as a teacher and healer grows, it gets harder to get away from the crowds. So here we find him half-way up a hill, talking with his disciples, with a following crowd of extras listening in.

Capernaum is a fishing community, and Jesus’ first disciples were fishermen. The entire local economy was built on fish. The lake was full of good fish, and it was positioned right on a major trade route. Fishing communities stretched right around the shoreline and the fish they caught was shipped out throughout the known world.

Among the fishing families of Capernaum were business-partners Jonah and Zebedee. Their respective sons, Simon Peter and Andrew, and James and John, worked the boats with them, heading out on the water at night, repairing the nets by day. In addition, Jonah and Zebedee employ other men. But this is a family business: their wives and daughters and daughters-in-law would also be involved. The men caught the fish; the women salted them. The fish needed to be dried in the sun, and coated in salt. Over several days, the salt drew out water from the fish, so that bacteria couldn’t grow, couldn’t ruin the product. Salted fish had a long life, up to three or four years if need be. They could be traded and carried long distances. Fish from this lake were considered a delicacy at the finest tables in Rome - an interesting moral question, given that the Romans were the occupying oppressors...

Fish swam in the lake, minding their own business, until they were ripped from their watery world by a fisherman’s net; and then further transformed by the fisher-wife’s salt. Salt was as much a part of these families’ lives as were boats.

So when Jesus addresses fishing folk whom he has recently ripped from their everyday lives to become fishers of men, and adds the further information ‘You are the salt of the earth,’ what would they have understood?

I would suggest this: that the work Jesus has set out on, in which he has called them to take part, is one that will not only change people’s lives forever (the net), but will prepare them to be sent out in every direction in order to nourish others, friend and enemy alike (the salt).

There is no point catching people up in the Kingdom of Heaven unless we also preserve them and send them out. If we merely scoop people up, bring people in, the Minster will become a shed full of rotting fish. The salt of our lives (You are the salt of the earth) needs to be rubbed in to them, to coat them, and to do so over an extended time. That is what it means to make disciples: to give people such access to our lives, every day, that they see the difference following Jesus makes; that their lives are slowly but radically transformed, just as ours have been transformed.

Jesus points out that salt that has lost its saltiness is useless. Indeed, it is worse than that: it jeopardises the entire catch. You can go to all the effort of salting the fish, without the salt having any preservative effect. How might we lose our saltiness? On several occasions Jesus points out a spiritual truth: that whoever tries to hold on to life will lose it, but whoever gives up their life for the sake of the gospel will receive it back, and more. In other words, the way to keep salty is to keep salting fish. Or, the way to see lives transformed is to commit your life to transforming the lives of others.

Who are you spending significant amounts of time with? And, is your conversation seasoned with salt, with the things you are learning from Jesus?

Jesus gives his disciples another everyday illustration. A city on a hill, as visible by night as by day. There is irony here. These fishermen, who have embraced Jesus, live in a city at the bottom of the hill, on the lake shore. Jesus has moved there from Nazareth, a city on a hill, up the hill, where those among whom he had lived most of his life had recently rejected him. Matthew has already told us that Jesus moved to Capernaum in order to fulfil Isaiah’s prophecy of light dawning on those living in darkness. And so Jesus moves in, describing something closer to home.

Jesus says to his disciples, ‘You are the light of the world,’ and conveys what that means by calling to mind a lamp in a house – like salt, a thing of daily use, in this case before the sun rises and after it sets. The sun still exists, of course, but in those times when it is hidden from our view, a lamp gives light to everyone in the house – if it is positioned where all can see its light.

Some years ago I visited Nazareth and Capernaum, and was given a lamp of the kind Jesus describes. The lamp has three components: [1] a fragile pottery vessel with a spout, through which [2] a cord wick is drawn, which must be filled and refilled with [3] olive oil. Archaeological excavations have unearthed countless examples. Jesus’ example calls to mind scriptural images: God as a potter, and men and women as the work of his hands; and olive oil, as a fuel-source, symbolising God’s empowering Spirit in our midst.

As we gather together week by week at the Eucharist, our lamp is cleaned, the wick trimmed or renewed, the oil replenished, and our hearts are set on fire, to God’s glory. But he does not intend to hide us under the basket of this building: no, once lit, we are carried out into the dark places, to bring light. We shine before others, giving light to those in darkness, when we are taken in God’s hands and placed where he chooses. What will take place here this morning will be continued in and through us, across Sunderland and the surrounding region, in the days ahead. Where will you be prominently set? Whose lives will you bring light to?

Again and again in the Gospels we see Jesus take hold of the ordinary things of ordinary life in Ordinary Time, bless them, break them open and give them to us to give to others. In this Ordinary Time, may we discover afresh what it looks like to journey through life with Jesus, and may our ordinary lives take on extraordinary significance.

All Desires Known

BCP Holy Communion: 1 John 3:1-8, and Matthew 24:23-31

Both our readings this morning explore themes of how we are to live as children of God as we wait, in testing times, for Jesus to return. Both our readings recognise the pressure of unfulfilled longing, and the danger of being deceived, of grasping for an apparent fulfilment of our longing that is held out to us but is ultimately false because our longings and our desires are met and fulfilled in the love of God demonstrated to us in Jesus.

Jesus speaks to John and the other disciples, and John writes to those who follow after. Both warn us to expect the life of faith to be hard, and speak to encourage us - to increase our courage - in our struggle.

When we come together, daring to call God ‘Father’ with thankful hearts, to remember how Jesus gave himself for us, and to be made members of his body, we say these words:

‘Almighty God, unto whom all hearts be open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid: Cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of thy Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love thee, and worthily magnify thy holy Name; through Christ our Lord. Amen.’

In other words, we recognise that we have, hidden within our hearts, great desire; desires that are not acknowledged by those who belong to the world. This is not the evil desires of the flesh, but the deepest heart-longing of the children of God, a desire too deep to be expressed in words. All we can do is present our deepest self to Almighty God. And as we do this, we acknowledge the struggle, the temptation we face again and again to satisfy our desire with bread that does not last. So we ask that the thoughts of our hearts by cleansed, that the paths we follow might lead us home not far from home.

John speaks to our hearts: we are children of God. We are children of God. And when the Son who was revealed in great suffering is revealed in great glory, we who share in his passion will be transformed: we will be like him. Stand firm.

And so we come, again, to remember the one for whom we wait, to remember the story we have been caught up in, to remember ourselves, and - so encouraged - to wait for the completion for which the Son of God was once and will one day be revealed: the final end to all that steals and kills and destroys the desires of our hearts.

Benedict Biscop

Matthew 13:44-52

I wonder what you make of Jesus' parables? Some of us will be very familiar with them; some of us, coming to them for the first time. Some of us, I imagine, find them confusing; may even have given up attempting to understand them: as if they were a treasure chest left unopened. Others of us, I imagine, are so sure that we know their meaning, they no longer surprise and delight us: as if they were a treasure chest of old treasure but not treasures old and new.

I love Jesus' parables. They are brilliant, like bright light that reveals one moment and blinds the next. And how else to describe something that is beyond description; that cannot be contained by our understanding? Let us look, then, at these parables of the Kingdom of Heaven, of the nature of God's reign in the world.

Our first parable describes the Kingdom of Heaven as being like treasure hidden in a field. Who would have such treasure? A king. Why do kings hide treasure? For fear that it might be taken, when the kingdom is under threat. When David flees Jerusalem before Absalom's rebellion, perhaps; or when Sennacherib threatens Jerusalem during Hezekiah's reign; or when Nebuchadnezzar carried Zedekiah's court into Exile, taking whatever treasure he could find.

In any event, a king has fallen, his treasure has not been reclaimed, and appears to have been forgotten...until at a later time it is discovered. By whom? A treasure-hunter? Someone who had heard rumours of a buried treasure? Or entirely by chance? Either way, they have received what had been intended for someone else, for the king's heir. That might be considered great luck. It might, of course, make them subject to great envy, the resentment of others. Still, it costs them everything to buy the field; and there will be no going back to their old life.

Our second parable describes the Kingdom of Heaven as being like a merchant. Not, the Kingdom of Heaven is a fine pearl. This is not a different version of the first parable: it is the absolute opposite. This time, the Kingdom is the one searching. And the Kingdom finds something that it does not possess, but values. The merchant gives everything to have it, vast resources for one thing. Now he has nothing left to trade: his life as a merchant is over. Does this perhaps reveal the way God views us, our incomparable worth in his eyes?

Our third parable describes the Kingdom of Heaven as a fisherman's net. Fish are caught in it, pulled from their lives with violence, and those not fit for consumption are thrown on a fire. The temptation is to read this parable as describing judgement for the 'bad' and reward for the 'good.' But, what happens to the good fish? They get put on a fire too: they are cooked, and eaten - for breakfast on the shore, or kept aside for a small boy's packed lunch...

This is not a parable of judgement and reward. It is a parable that reveals to us that it is a cataclysmic event to be caught up in the Kingdom of Heaven. Whatever the outcome, there is no going back to life as it has been up to this point. That life is over. The fish caught in the net cannot return to swimming in the lake.

Jesus asks his disciples, "Do you understand?" And they reply, "Yes." But, do we?

The Kingdom of Heaven is too big to contain, to pin down. Its breaking-in puts an end to one life: whether that of the person who finds treasure, or of the merchant who finds a pearl, or of the fish. Everything changes.

Today we remember the life of Benedict Biscop, patron saint of Sunderland. Benedict grew up in privilege, his life as an Anglo-Saxon nobleman within the Northumbrian court mapped out for him. But at some point, he is caught up in the Kingdom of Heaven, and from that moment, that life is over and he cannot go back. Instead, he goes on a great and challenging adventure, collecting treasures old and new - not to keep for himself, but with which to bless others.

Benedict brings back from his journeys a new, choral, form of music; architecture; coloured glass. He establishes the Great Library. Within his monastery a new form of art will be developed: the Illuminated Medieval style, a fusion of several earlier styles - treasures old and new.

And then it is completely destroyed by Viking raiders. Anything that survived did so by being 'hidden,' either intentionally by the monks or, as with the Wearmouth Bibles, because they had been sent elsewhere as gifts. All is forgotten. The Codex Amiatinus, the oldest complete Latin Bible in existence, made here in Sunderland, was rediscovered eleven centuries later.

What does this tell us of what God has done?

There are those who live as if God does not exist. Fish in the lake, oblivious of the net. A pearl, unknowing of the merchant. They simply do not know. Yet God moves to find them: discovers their ways, pursues them. Will spend all night out on the dark lake, will search every corner of the marketplace to claim them from another owner.

There are those who live in hostility towards God. Kings assaulting his Kingdom, to topple God's reputation and obliterate his name from history. Yet God moves to confound them: hides evidence in unexpected places, allows his riches to fall into the hands of those who do not try to prise his hands open.

The Kingdom of Heaven breaks in to our lives in longed for and un-looked for ways, in welcome and unwelcome ways. It breaks in, relentlessly. And when it does, once we have been caught up by it, there is no going back. Only a new going forward, according to the ways of the Kingdom.