Christmas Eve

Luke2:1-20

This Christmas will likely be a difficult one in parts of Cumbria, in the aftermath of the floods, and we remember those communities before God. But in Iceland, tonight is marked by a very different kind of flood, the jólabókaflóð, or ‘Christmas Book Flood’. There, between eighty and ninety percent of books are published for Christmas, with almost everyone being given a new book on Christmas Eve and staying up through the night to read it. A heart-warming, cosy tradition.

Christmas is a time for stories, including all those Christmas films that are repeated year after year on tv. We have favourite stories we can read or watch or listen to again and again, never tiring of them.

My wife and I have a tradition of watching the film Love, Actually. It is a film about love; but it is really a film about choices: good choices, poor choices, habitual choices, painful choices, risky choices, life-changing choices.

In one scene, a young girl is bursting to tell her mother which role she has been given in the school nativity. She proudly announces that she will play the part of the Lobster – indeed, First Lobster. Her mother doesn’t quite know how to respond, and somehow manages to form the question, ‘There was more than one lobster present at the birth of Jesus?’ – to which her daughter responds, ‘Duh!’ [lit. of course; everybody knows that!]

The humour lies in our knowing that there were no lobsters at the nativity alongside the shepherds and wise men, the angels and star, the cattle and sheep and donkey, Mary and Joseph and the innkeeper.

Except there was no innkeeper, and no over-full inn. You see, the phrase on which every traditional nativity play hangs, there being no room in the inn, is simply a very poor translation. In Luke’s Gospel, an inn and innkeeper appear in the parable of the Good Samaritan, but not in the account of Jesus’ birth. The word translated ‘inn’ in Luke chapter 2 is in fact ‘guest room’ – the same term Luke uses to describe the room in a house in Jerusalem where Jesus and his disciples ate the Passover meal we know as the Last Supper. But that was a sizeable guest room in a home in the capital city. At the time of Jesus’ birth, Joseph and Mary were guests in a home in Bethlehem. They were welcome and honoured guests – after all, Joseph could trace his ancestry to none other than Bethlehem’s most famous son, King David – but nonetheless they were guests in a smaller, provincial home, where the guest room was too small for Mary to give birth in, attended by the village midwives and the women of the household. So Mary gave birth to her son in the main room that served as bedroom to the family and shelter to their animals at night, and living room by day. Afterwards, Jesus was washed and wrapped in linen strips and laid to rest in one of the mangers, a confined and warm space, an ideal crib. And there the shepherds will find him, and all just as it ought to be.

I tell you this not to take away the wonder of Christmas, not to pour cold water on memories of childhood and children and grandchildren, not to throw out the carols, but because it is the stories we tell over and over that shape us.

We have told the story of Jesus’ birth as a story of rejection, of God coming into the world and being largely ignored at best. And the more we tell that story, the more it shapes us to expect of other people and of ourselves that they, that we, will reject or ignore God. It becomes something of a self-fulfilling prophecy, if you like.

But Luke tells us a story of welcome, a story of God’s long-awaited coming to his people, of God dwelling in the midst of his people, at the heart of ordinary lives. And when we start to tell this story, and to tell it again and again, the story shapes us for welcoming - welcoming one another, welcoming God – and for wonder, shared between us, at God’s sheer goodness.

So tonight let us stay up telling stories, as the shepherds did, of good news for all people. Stories of a God who has not abandoned us but who came to us, and who comes to us today; who is here in our midst, in the bread and the wine of this holy night, and in the gift-giving of the morning, and the gathering around the table for Christmas dinner and then falling asleep in front of the telly later on. God with us.

That is a story I never tire of hearing, or telling; of sharing with family and friends; of shouting from the rooftops. Happy Christmas! May it be filled with welcome and wonder, more and more, year upon year. And may it shape our rejoicing and our mourning, our treasured memories and our deepest pain; in joy and in peace, amen.

Second Sunday of Advent

Malachi 3:1-4 and Philippians 1:3-11 and Luke 3:1-6

Well here we are in the season of Advent, when, as we prepare to celebrate the salvation of God [that is, Jesus, whose name means ‘God saves!’] coming into the world as a human baby some two thousand years ago, we are reminded that the Spirit of God is at work in us, preparing us to receive that same salvation of God – Jesus Christ – on the day when he comes again.

We might be tempted to think that this work of the Holy Spirit within us is some great divine mystery which goes on without our awareness. After all, God is far beyond our comprehension. And yet, God’s ways are made known to us through self-revelation. Isaiah is given the insight, quoted by Luke, that this preparation goes on in the place where life is most marginal; where the ground falls away beneath our feet into a great depression; or circumstances tower over us like cliff faces crowding out our view of the sky. You see, in Isaiah’s vision, and in John the baptiser’s acting-out Isaiah’s vision, the exterior world mirrors – and so reveals to us – our interior landscape.

What, then, might we say?

Firstly, that the Spirit is found at work where we are most overwhelmed, most aware of our vulnerability and of our dependence both on God and on others (Luke 3:5).

Secondly, that the Spirit is at work through circumstances that are, in themselves, distressing, as is the process of refining silver (a process that involved fire) or of whitening cloth (a process that involved vigorous agitation with minerals and urine) (Malachi 3:2, 3), or painstakingly hard, as is moving earth (Luke 3:5).

Now, I am not saying that God sends us overwhelming circumstances for our own good, never giving us more than we can bear. Those are, in my opinion, misrepresentations of God and abusive to human beings. Life is overwhelming at times – indeed, much of the time – for a complex variety of reasons. What I am saying is that this is where the Spirit seems to have a preference to be at work – as has been true since the very first sentence of the Bible – which ought to be encouraging!

And thirdly, we might say that the Spirit is working in these places in order that together – as a community who need one another – we might journey out from all our grand achievements and self-confident hierarchies to meet Jesus arriving in our midst (Luke 3:1, 2, 6).

We see what it looks like for the Spirit to be at work in such places lived-out in the relationship between Paul, held in prison in Ephesus in Asia Minor, and the house churches in Philippi in Greece. They hold Paul in their heart, and together share in God’s grace. Prisoners did not receive food, or any other care, and were dependent on relatives or friends to visit each day to provide for their needs. Learning of Paul’s circumstances, the Philippians took up a relief fund and sent a few of their number to make sure that Paul had the practical support he needed. Paul responds to their gift with affirming words: not only has he been blessed, but through their choosing to bless the Philippian churches have experienced the kind of transformation Jesus will look for. Moreover, their actions both defend and confirm the gospel, to their neighbours in Philippi and Paul’s captors in Ephesus, who have surely wondered why a group of Greeks would go to such lengths to care for a Jew far away in Asia, who had visited their city for only a couple of weeks.

It turns out that not only do we get to see where and why – that is, to what end – the Spirit is at work; we also get to share in that work. We are empowered to be (at least part of) the how. So if we truly believed this, what difference might it make to how we live?

If the Spirit is habitually at work transforming interior landscapes, then our joining-in also needs to be a matter of cultivating habits, or core practices that help us to live into truth – even if we never see it fully realised. Two Australian friends of mine [Mandy Smith, who lives in the United States; and Michael Frost, who lives in Australia] have reminded me recently of the importance for discipleship of developing sustainable, communal core practices. One belongs to a local church that has adopted five habits, the first of which is to bless. To bless means to speak well of, to build up, to encourage. [In our particular tradition, there are those sacramental blessings declared by priests; but there is also that wider sense in which we are called to be a people through whom the world is blessed.] As a community, they have identified three simple ways to bless others – through speaking affirming words, through offering practical means of lightening their load, and through giving gifts (all of which we see in play in the account of Paul and the Philippians). But it is not enough to do these things haphazardly, or occasionally: if it is not my habit to bless my neighbour, then it is simply all too easy not bless them at all. So in order for blessing to become habitual, they have taken on the discipline of blessing someone three times a week. One of those people must be a member of their church – in this way, building one another up. One must not be a member of their church – in this way, ensuring that they look beyond themselves and blessing is released through the wider community. And the third blessing can be for either. Of course, the idea is not to restrict blessing to three times a week, but to establish a habit rather than an unsustainable goal that remains only an idea.

Everyone I know finds themselves overwhelmed, on a regular basis. Overwhelmed by bereavement, overwhelmed by the responsibility of parenting our children, overwhelmed by the challenges and pressures of work, overwhelmed by impossibly difficult decisions they have been called upon to make. And it is in precisely these places where the Spirit is at work, and invites us to join in – not as an additional burden on us, but as a means of sharing in God’s grace, or, generous gift.

And so I want to set a challenge this morning. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to bless three people this week – one, a member of this church; one, not a member of this church; one, your free choice. You might do so through speaking words that affirm them, or by doing something very practical for them that helps to lighten their load, or by giving them a gift for no reason other than to lift their day. And if you take up this challenge with me, let me know how you get on, and I will let you know how I get on.

Christ the King

Daniel 7:9-10, 13-14 and Revelation 1:4b-8 and John 18:33-37

Today is the last Sunday of the Church year. The seasons and feasts of the Church year enable us to enter-into the good news of the kingdom of God, and they culminate in the Feast of Christ the King: where we glimpse Christ enthroned over the Universe, reigning forever in justice and peace; and where we are empowered to live as citizens of that kingdom, to relate to others justly and peaceably, as if the is-to-come was already here.

In the heavenly courtroom, Daniel sees God, the Ancient One, take his throne as judge. He does not pass judgement unilaterally, but in conference with others, also sat on judgement thrones, while countless angelic beings serve the court in other roles. The defendant is brought in – one like a human being; traditionally, son of man; that is, a symbolic representative of humanity in general and of the people of God in particular [Daniel 7:27]. The case for the prosecution and the case for the defence are, presumably, heard; and at last the Ancient One passes down the judgement of the court: reign with me, over everything, for ever.

John also depicts a courtroom scene, in which Jesus is summoned to stand trial before Pilate. The matter to be decided is whether or not Jesus is king. Jesus testifies to belonging to a kingdom not of this world, though he himself makes no open claim to kingship over it. Instead he claims to testify to the truth, and to be credited with authority by those who belong to the truth.

It would appear to be the trial of Jesus before Pilate; but really it is the trial of Jesus before God and before the listener (remember those other thrones?). It would appear that the accusation is brought by the representatives of God’s people; but really they speak as representatives of the kingdoms of the world. The son of man is Jesus; but Jesus as true representative of God’s people; really, Jesus and his servants, those he now calls his friends. And God passes the verdict of those sat on the thrones: be glorified (that is, lifted up on the cross).

The Feast of Christ the King was instituted in 1925 by Pope Pius XI, in order to help Christians live out their allegiance to Christ in the context of Mussolini’s messianic claims to power. Ninety years on, we live in days that are no less dangerous; days in which terrorists and political leaders alike claim the right to pass judgement, elevating themselves and subjugating others. Days in which we are pressed to declare, where does our allegiance lie? As a citizen of the United Kingdom? Of the West? Wider, of the world? Or, first and foremost, not of this world?

Not of this world does not mean, not interested. The reign of Christ the King is not of some other realm; rather, in Christ heaven and earth, God and humanity, are reconciled. Not of this world means, not conforming to the pattern of this world, where violence gives birth to violence. In the kingdom over which Jesus reigns – in which we are invited to sit on the throne with him [Ephesians 2:6; Revelation 3:21] – forgiveness gives birth to forgiveness, justice gives birth to justice, peace gives birth to peace.

Today is the Feast of Christ the King. Eat and drink of him who stood trial for us and for all, on whom the Ancient one has passed judgement. Then go and celebrate by acting justly, showing mercy, and walking humbly with your God.

Second Sunday before Advent

[This sermon was given at a Deanery Evensong used as an opportunity to prepare for Advent – given that for any of us Advent is a busy time – and using lectionary readings set for the First Sunday of Advent.]

Anticipating Advent : Psalm 44 and Isaiah 51:4-11 and Romans 13:11-14.

When I was a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child, I watched children’s television. I was lucky enough to belong to that generation of children who grew up watching the Golden Age of children’s television, the days of the legendary Peter Firmin and Oliver Postgate, whose work included my personal favourite, Ivor the Engine, and also the much-loved Bagpuss.

Bagpuss – as you will remember if you were a child, or indeed a parent, in the 1970s and ’80s – was a stuffed toy, a cat, large and saggy with pink and off-white stripes, the favourite toy of Emily, a little girl who collected lost and broken things and displayed them in her window so that their owners, passing by, might see them and reclaim them. Each of the 13 episodes would begin with Emily singing to Bagpuss -

“Bagpuss, dear Bagpuss
Old Fat Furry Catpuss
Wake up and look at this thing that I bring
Wake up, be bright, be golden and light
Bagpuss, oh hear what I sing.”

- after which Emily would depart, at which point Bagpuss would wake up, or, come to life. And when Bagpuss woke up, all his friends woke up too, and went to work first identifying and celebrating the new item Emily had brought them and then mending whatever was broken.

“And so their work was done.
Bagpuss gave a big yawn and settled down to sleep
And, of course, when Bagpuss goes to sleep,
All his friends go to sleep too.
The mice were ornaments on the mouse organ.
Gabriel and Madeleine were just dolls.
And Professor Yaffle was a carved, wooden bookend in the shape of a woodpecker.
Even Bagpuss himself, once he was asleep, was just an old, saggy cloth cat,
Baggy, and a bit loose at the seams,
But Emily loved him.”

When Bagpuss wakes up, all his friends wake up. And when Bagpuss goes to sleep, all his friends go to sleep too. But what has this to do with anticipating Advent?

Psalm 44 and Isaiah 51 are both songs sung to cause God to awake. Both express something of the disorientation, distress, or yearning experienced when we are out-of-sync with God, when we are awake but he is asleep. And if the image of God being asleep suggests to us more the limitations of human experience and human language than the reality of the divine nature, then perhaps we need to appreciate afresh that human experience and human language is all we have. For God has made us human; to know him, as humans; and has revealed himself to us, as humans. So rather than being overly knowing, let us, with childlike acceptance and wonder, enter into the story.

Romans 13, on the other hand, holds us in a moment where God is just about to wake up, and depicts one of his friends urging his other friends to be ready to shake off sleep too. We are suspended in time with them in this very moment: for with God a thousand years is like a day, two-thousand like no time at all. So in our Lessons we have images of being out-of-sync and of being in-sync with the cycle of rest and work for which we were created and which we are meant to experience, to share with God.

Perhaps more than any other time of year, Advent is a time when it is easy to be out-of-sync. For Advent is given to us as a gift of sleep, and yet that sleep is threatened by Christmas-come-early with its round of lights and baubles and carol services.

In calling Advent a gift of sleep, I don’t mean to imply that we do nothing. Unlike Bagpuss and his friends, we are not ever inanimate objects. For us, sleep is a time when the body shuts down certain activities, such as being alert to the constant threat of attack, in order to turn our attention to making sense of the world, through the processing of our memories, the consolidation of our learnings, the mysterious deconstructing and constructing of our dreams. For us, sleep is when our beloved and treasured parts and our longing-to-be-loved and broken parts wake up. We cannot wake from sleep ready to face the coming day unless we also sleep well; unless we allow ourselves to become one with Jesus, who slept in the middle of a sea-storm; unless we use the night wisely, not as a cover for evil.

We know that December can be a mad time, and so we offer you the gift of this evening, to anticipate Advent. We offer you this time as a lullaby, to sing you asleep, to sing you alive to a deeper-than-surface reality.

Is there anyone here who, like the psalmist, feels that God has rejected us and brought us to shame, has scattered us and sold us for a pittance, has made us the taunt of our neighbours, the scorn and derision of those that are round about us?

Is there anyone here who, like those depicted in Isaiah 51, are troubled by injustice, long for deliverance from oppression, or are weighed down by sorrow? Is there anyone for whom the heavens are vanishing like smoke and the earth wearing-out like a garment – for whom life is unravelling?

Is there anyone here who, like the believers in Rome, is wrestling to take a stand against revelling and drunkenness, debauchery and licentiousness, quarrelling and jealousy? These words could be an advertiser’s strapline for Christmas and New Year, from the office party to family feuds. We may find ourselves wrestling with some or all of these temptations, whether wrestling within or without, against ourselves or against our society.

If our Psalm and our Lessons evoke fitfulness, they are juxtaposed with the Magnificat and the Nunc Dimittis, songs of hope and trust. There is much to be teased-out in sleep: a making-sense of complexity; lamenting our brokenness, and that of the world around us; a recognition of loss, and the hope of being reclaimed. There is even a mending that takes place as we sleep, as we rest, as we are cherished and sung-over.

Advent is a season of preparation: of our preparing to celebrate the first coming of the Christ, and of his preparing us to celebrate his return. The Christ-child is hidden in the womb. Christ the King is hidden in the heavens. God is asleep. But the child will be born, the King will appear, God will wake up – and we with him. For now, do not be troubled. Be at peace. Sleep. Dream. The day is near; and when it arrives, you shall be made new.

3rd Sunday before Advent

‘Now after John was arrested, Jesus came to Galilee, proclaiming the good news of God, and saying, “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news.”

‘As Jesus passed along the Sea of Galilee, he saw Simon and his brother Andrew casting a net into the lake—for they were fishermen. And Jesus said to them, “Follow me and I will make you fish for people.” And immediately they left their nets and followed him. As he went a little farther, he saw James son of Zebedee and his brother John, who were in their boat mending the nets. Immediately he called them; and they left their father Zebedee in the boat with the hired men, and followed him.’

Mark 1:14-20

Picture the scene. Once the world was established, God planted a garden, a place of royal splendour, a place of royal pleasure. And God created the human being, male and female, to share the garden with; to share in God’s work and to share in God’s rest. Day by day, the people took care of the garden, tended it, drew the very best out from it. And evening by evening, the king of the universe would come and walk in the garden with his friends.

But then one evening God arrived, and something was wrong. God’s friends were afraid to be in the presence of the king. They felt ashamed. They hid from God.

Now picture another scene. The fishermen of Capernaum work the lake by night, when the shadow of their boats passing overhead cannot be seen by the fish, who hide before their coming. The crew assemble on the shore in the evening, mending their nets before heading out onto the water; and return at daybreak, hanging out their linen nets to dry. It is early evening now. Simon and Andrew are already on the lake, setting their net; James and John won’t be far behind. And into the scene, in the cool of the evening, the king comes to walk with his friends.

More – if they will dare to walk with him, then others will be drawn out of hiding.

You see, the time is fulfilled. After centuries, millennia, of waiting, the moment has arrived. Cousin John had been sent to prepare the way for the king’s return; and when John was arrested, Jesus took that to indicate that his work of preparation was complete. The time is fulfilled, for the king to come in to his kingdom, to call men and women to share in his work and in his rest. And soon enough the fishermen will share in his work; but, just as the first humans, created in the sixth movement of God’s work, experienced the seventh movement – rest – before ever they worked in the garden, so these new companions of the king will go for a rest-full stroll in the cool of the evening before the work of fishing for people.

Today is Remembrance Sunday, and this is a story about remembrance, and about the end – or goal – of remembrance, which is reconciliation. This is a story about God having kept alive the memory of walking in the evening with his friends, and having persisted through all the convoluted twists and turns of human history to the end of walking with us again. This is a story about people passing the story on, down through the generations, metaphorically and at times literally sitting around a small fire in the dark, keeping hope alive in hopeless times. This is our story, and it is still unfolding. It is still needing to be told.

The time is fulfilled; the king is coming in to his kingdom; repent, and believe the good news.

‘Repent’ means change your perspective. Step back. Turn away. Leave your work, enter rest – in order to re-imagine life from heaven’s point-of-view. ‘Believe’ relates to activity, a new way of being, in the light of that new outlook.

We ought not to imagine that these sons and brothers walked away from the family business and never returned. As the good news unfolds, we see Jesus work with them around the edges of the day, on the Sabbath, at the festival holidays, or at times going away on short journeys and getaways, returning again and again to Capernaum. The fishing disciples remain part of the fishing community: families who, along with them, learn to see life from a different angle. God will provide, even as some of the workforce are released. Boats – primary assets – become pulpits and even literal vehicles to extend the kingdom beyond Galilee to the Ten Cities.

The good news of God is proclaimed to us, too, in these words: “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news.” The time is already fulfilled, whether the moment that enables us to hear the invitation is good news or not: the moment might look like a relative being arrested by a corrupt political regime, or a declaration of war; it might look like loss; it might look like gain, a new beginning, an exciting opportunity. But the king is on the move, walking through our lives, visiting the places where we live out our humanity, sometimes at the most inconvenient of times. And his invitation is always the same, whether in the Garden or by the Lake or on the banks of the River Wear, whether in familiar surroundings or unfamiliar, whether in triumph or despair: first, come apart from your activity and rest awhile with me; then, allow my presence alongside you to transform your work. Rest. Work. Repent and believe.

That is why we come apart to be with Jesus in this place, on this day, week by week, simply to spend time in his presence, enjoying his company – and being enjoyed by him – in order that we might return to the places where we spend the week, our homes and our workplaces, our places of leisure and our necessary places of tasks needing to be done, with a made-new and renewed perspective.

We live in a world that tells us we can rest once our work is done – and then keeps adding to the workload. We live in a world that tells us that we cannot possibly take time out from our work, because we are indispensable, or because those who don’t pull their weight are a burden to society. We live in a world that fights for territory and ideological dominance and the control of resources. We live in a world where Jesus walks along the shore as the nightshift is about to begin and says, the fish will keep, will still be there tomorrow; the hired men are perfectly capable of doing their job without you tonight: as for you, follow me. He isn’t laying off workers and requiring as much of more from less; he isn’t dismissing family or business or historical ties to place; but he is laying claim to priority over our lives and resources, over our experience of time, and he will not abandon us, however hard we try to hide. He is, as we will remember in two weeks’ time, Christ the King.

“The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news.”

Last after Trinity

Jeremiah 31:7-9 and Hebrews 7:23-28 and Mark 10:46-52

They came to Jericho. As he and his disciples and a large crowd were leaving Jericho, Bartimaeus son of Timaeus, a blind beggar, was sitting by the roadside. When he heard that it was Jesus of Nazareth, he began to shout out and say, ‘Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!’ Many sternly ordered him to be quiet, but he cried out even more loudly, ‘Son of David, have mercy on me!’ Jesus stood still and said, ‘Call him here.’ And they called the blind man, saying to him, ‘Take heart; get up, he is calling you.’ So throwing off his cloak, he sprang up and came to Jesus. Then Jesus said to him, ‘What do you want me to do for you?’ The blind man said to him, ‘My teacher, let me see again.’ Jesus said to him, ‘Go; your faith has made you well.’ Immediately he regained his sight and followed him on the way.

Mark 10:46-52

Jericho. The oldest walled city on earth. A place that knows what it is to wait, at times defeated, thrown down, waiting decades, even centuries, to be restored. In classical antiquity, it was the Las Vegas of its day, the playground of the rich and powerful; a city of mixed fortunes. Alexander the Great made Jericho his own private estate. Later, it came into the hands of Roman triumvir Mark Anthony, who gave it as a gift to his lover Cleopatra. When they were defeated by Mark Anthony’s fellow triumvir and former brother-in-law Octavian, Octavian, now styling himself Emperor Augustus, passed control of the city to Herod the Great, who spent his summers there, and had his brother-in-law drowned in the palace swimming pool during a party thrown by his mother-in-law. What happens in ‘the City of Palms’ – as they might say – stays in ‘the City of Palms’…

Sitting in the dust by the side of the road that leaves Jericho to climb up out of the lowest point on the surface of the earth, up, up to Jerusalem far above, a blind beggar. This man, too, knows what it is to wait. He is dependent on the fortunes of others. He waits, hoping that someone has been lucky at the gaming tables, and might share that good fortune with a beggar on his way home. ‘There but for the grace of God go I’, and all that. He waits, hoping that no one has had such a wretched visit that they might rob a blind man just in order not to go home empty handed. Bartimaus sits, and waits.

Who knows how many blind beggars there are out there in their own private darkness? This one has a name. Bartimeaus, son of Timeaus. That is Timaeus’ son, the son of Timaeus. As in, McGregor, the son of Gregor. Or, O’Connor, the son of Connor. Why name Bartimaeus twice? To what is our attention being drawn? ‘Bar’- is the Jewish ‘son of’. ‘Timaeus’ is a Greek name. Bartimaeus – the Jewish son of a Gentile father, or grandfather. The Jews had been called out, from all the peoples of the earth, in order that through them all the peoples might be blessed. This one man restates that call: the Jew, called out from the Gentiles, but remaining intimately connected to them. A child, a blessing to his father. And yet, at some point in his story, there has been the tragedy of losing his sight, of moving from the place where Bartimaeus can act to bless his father, to the place where Bartimaeus is dependent on the blessings bestowed on, and by, others.

In the dust by the road out of Jericho, Bartimaeus sits and waits, day after day. Then, one day, Jesus passes through the city gates. Jesus of Nazareth, they called him. But Bartimaeus calls him something different. The Son of Timaeus calls him Son of David. Why? Perhaps because a descendant of King David – whose grandmother and great-grandmother were both Gentiles; indeed, whose Gentile great-grandmother came from Jericho – might understand what it meant to be Bar-Timaeus? Or perhaps because a Son – an heir – of David knows what it is to wait. You see, David had waited. From when he was first anointed king by Samuel, he waited some seven years serving the king he would replace; then another seven-odd years on the run from that king, hiding from the insane wrath of Saul; and then yet another seven-or-so years between being crowned king of Judah, after the deaths of Saul and Jonathan, and being crowned king over all Israel.

David was king, but refused to take the throne from Saul; refused to depose the one whom the Lord had appointed, even if the same Lord had since rejected Saul for acting independently of revealed instruction. And now, here comes the Son of David, on his way to Jerusalem, where he will refuse to presume the throne by strength, refuse to depose either king or high priest…

Son of David, have mercy on me! You, who understand my waiting, enter-into it with me.

And then three words, three beautiful words: Jesus stood still. Jesus stood still.

Everything stops. You can almost see the camera pan round him, 360 degrees, as time itself is commanded to wait, is halted in its ceaseless motion, and Jesus enters-into Bartimaeus’ waiting.

Then – and only then – does the Son of David order those standing around to help the Son of Timaeus to come to him. Their eyes opened, they speak for Jesus, take heart! Take heart. The wait will soon be over.

The man throws off his tattered outer-garment, and rises from the dust to come to Jesus’ side. And Jesus asks him, ‘What do you want me to do for you?’ There is incredible tenderness in those words, a wonderful attention to this man’s dignity. ‘My teacher,’ he replies, ‘let me see again.’ My teacher. Let me see again. Not, you who goes around healing people, restore my sight; but, you from whom I have chosen to learn, let me see and understand in a way that I have never seen before.

Go, says Jesus. Go forth from this place, having been made whole, through faith.

Immediately, he regained his sight, and followed Jesus on his way. On his way to Jerusalem. On his way to die. Jesus, you see, is also waiting. Waiting to die. Knowing that his time has drawn near. Waiting, not with resignation, but that deliberate waiting that involves both making sure that everything that needs to be said and done is said and done, and yet at the same time letting go of being the one who does things for others and surrendering to being the one who has things done for, and to, them by others. The Gospels slow right down from here until their end. Days pass like years, decades even.

Ours is a society that can no longer bear to wait. We are conditioned to have everything in an instant, even though we feel the tyranny of that false god: even as it prevents us from giving ourselves to one another; even as it prevents us from beholding one another with mercy. But there are times when we have no choice but to wait; and it is in such moments that Jesus, the Son of David, steps into our waiting and stands still, in order that – together – we might take heart; in order that – together – we might hear him call us to him, and stand in his healing presence. Son of David, have mercy on us!

Bartimaeus passes from our sight, as the crowd carries on its way. But, up ahead, he still walks beside his teacher, with a renewed spring in his step. May we follow after in due course; but for now, it may be all-sufficient grace simply to hear those beautiful words: Jesus stood still.

18th Sunday after Trinity

Genesis 2:18-24; Hebrews 1:1-4, 2:5-12; Mark 10:2-16

I don’t know what you make of the early chapters of Genesis. Certainly, it matters what we make of them; and I am of the opinion that they have been misread in order to keep women in a secondary and subservient place to men. But the account itself is one that I find wonderful. It isn’t, of course, a scientific text. It isn’t concerned with the question ‘How?’ but, rather, with the question ‘So what?’

Our excerpt this morning begins with the human – not the male man, but the human. God has been creating, and has seen that his creation is good and ultimately very good. But now God identifies something that is not good: it is not good that the human being should be alone. Instead, God determines, the human being is in need of something our translation describes as a helper and a partner. Helper is best understood as one who will contend for the human, a warrior: it is a term that God will also use to describe him- or her-self in relation to the human beings. Partner is best understood as one who corresponds to the human, as one bank of a river corresponds to the other.

God presents before the human all the other creatures. Some, perhaps, fit the bill more closely than others: the dog, the horse; but none quite hits the mark. And so God brings from the human two humans, one now identifiably male and the other identifiably female. In the Hebrew, the image is not so much removing one rib as tearing apart two sides, two equal halves.

This pattern is repeated through the generations.

It is a very particular pattern, which describes for us what it means to be human.

First, the human is taken by God. Taken, from among all the other animals, with whom it shares a common origin, of being formed ‘out of the ground’.

Then, the human is blessed by God. Blessed, in no longer being alone. Blessed, in a special position in relation to all the other creatures.

Next, the human is broken by God. Broken, into two corresponding halves.

Finally, the human is given by God. Male and female presented to one another.

And repeat.

A man and a woman are taken, set apart to bring new life into the world. They are blessed, in having a son, or a daughter. In the fullness of time, they are broken – broken in birth, which tears male and female alike from their mother; and, perhaps, broken in marriage, which tears child – male, as much as female – from its parents (this taking a human from a human is not a matter of subservience; it is fundamental to our common nature). And they are given: given to another in marriage, given to the animals and the birds to contend together for the welfare of all creation.

This pattern defines what it means to be human, within God’s wider creation. The human is made to be taken, blessed, broken, given.

That pattern, at the heart of our humanity, is the pattern at the heart of our communal worship. When we take bread, bless it, break it, and give – and receive – it, we are enacting out what it means to be human.

First and foremost, we are remembering Jesus, the fully-human one, who took, blessed, broke, and gave; symbolising his own life, his own full embodiment of what it means to be human, taken hold of by the Spirit, blessed by the Father, broken in accordance with divine will – Father, Son, and Holy Spirit in agreement – and given for us all.

But as we do this, as we remember Jesus, he takes us – his Body – and having taken hold of us, he blesses us, breaks us, and gives us to the world. That is, for the sake of humanity and of all creation, he restores our humanity to its original pattern, over and over again.

In our Gospel reading, we saw how seriously Jesus takes our humanity. First, he opposes those men who send their wives away once they no longer find favour in their eyes – that is, who take and break, without blessing or giving. Then we see Jesus rebuking his disciples for seeking to break apart children from their parents too soon, and, in particular, before they had been blessed.

The pattern is not some combination of being taken, blessed, broken, and given; it is this pattern, repeated. It is right there from the beginning, and right there at the heart. And if that mystery doesn’t capture your imagination, I wonder whether you have a pulse.

So, as you come today, to share in the remembrance that Jesus was taken, blessed, broken, and given; and to enter-into that mystery as Jesus takes us, blesses us, breaks us, and gives us; which of these repeating actions strikes you afresh?

Perhaps you are struck by the realisation that you have been taken. That, in Jesus, God has taken hold of your life, and set you apart for a particular purpose. Perhaps you are experiencing a greater clarity in that purpose; or perhaps simply a greater desire for clarity.

Perhaps you are struck by the realisation that you have been blessed. That, whatever your condition, whether unmarried or married or widowed or divorced, you are not alone but blessed with relationships and blessed by the presence of Jesus. Or perhaps you are struck by that reminder that we are blessed in order to bring blessing to others, and the Holy Spirit is prompting you to offer a particular blessing, in word and/or in action.

Perhaps you are struck by the realisation that you have been broken. It may be that today you see the partings in life in a new light, and want to give thanks for those we have loved and no longer share our lives with. Or perhaps a particular breaking is still raw, and you come asking God to heal wounds and bind up a broken heart.

Perhaps you are struck by the realisation that you have been given. And today you want to give thanks for those you have been given to, whether family or neighbours – or a neighbourhood, an environment – or colleagues or even strangers and aliens, or to pray for them in their need.

Whatever it is that the Holy Spirit is stirring in you today, the invitation is this: come, offer yourself again to God, and in return God will create you afresh, forming you from the ground and breathing life into you.