Fourth Sunday after Trinity 2017

Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30

On any term-time Tuesday morning in the Minster, you will find the Minstrels, our playgroup for pre-schoolers and their grown-ups. From an early age, the children play with dolls, with a kitchen, with cars and other vehicles. They play because they will grow up to be adults who have babies of their own, who must cook, who might drive. The play of infants—whether cubs or kittens or children—is a rehearsal for adulthood. It always has been.

It was no different in Jesus’ culture. He was clearly familiar with the games children played in the marketplaces—of course he was: as a child, he would have taken part in such games on many occasions.

In the culture in which Jesus grew up, the men of the community took the lead in orchestrating celebrations, such as weddings. A band of musicians would head the parade, with everyone else joining-in and following them from the bridegroom’s home to the home of the parents of the bride, and back again. Likewise, the women of the community took the lead in times of mourning, such as funerals. Their rising and falling ululation both honoured the dead and gave voice to the grief of the living. In our Gospel reading today, Jesus refers to the game in which the boys and the girls have taken turns, the boys drawing the girls into a wedding dance, the girls drawing the boys into a funeral march, the dance and the march flowing back and forth, perhaps for hours on end as the amused market-sellers look on with half an eye.

But something has gone wrong. The children aren’t playing together now. And it isn’t simply that they have grown tired, or bored of this game; that they are resting, or have gone on to something else. The boys and the girls sit in two groups, on opposite sides of the square, at an impasse. Each group is blaming the other for the breakdown of their play. We started up the wedding dance again, shout the boys, and you didn’t join in: why, then, should we join in with your funeral march?

We only refused to join in because you had first refused to join in with our funeral march, the girls retort! Each group blames the other: you wronged me before I wronged you!

The context of Jesus’ childish tale is this. John, the baptiser, had been put in prison. He would, eventually, be executed. But for now, he is imprisoned, and had sent messengers to Jesus in search of answers to doubts that troubled him. You see, Jesus was so different from John, as different as a wedding from a funeral. Had John got it all wrong? Or was it Jesus that had got it wrong: had John served God faithfully, only for Jesus to let it all fall away again? Jesus sends back his reply to John, and then turns to the crowd around him, asking them, what did they make of John’s ministry?

John and Jesus were so different from one another, at least on the surface. John was aesthetic, extreme. Many had been drawn to his call to repent. Others had found it all too much: this man was clearly under the influence of a demon; those drawn to his cult, themselves demonic. Jesus, on the other hand, was all about having a party, eating and drinking with sinners. Jesus was not religious enough for the Pharisees who passed judgement on those who had gone to John; and, ironically, not religious enough for those who had gone to John, who had repented of their sins.

Here’s the situation:

Those who had followed John were wailing repentance, and the good religious people wouldn’t join in: it was tawdry and excessive and beneath them.

The good religious people were proclaiming the wedding celebration of God and his people, but needed to keep the people—the bride—pure: sinners must be excluded.

Those who had followed John in the funeral march didn’t want to follow Jesus in the wedding dance, because it was too joyful.

And those who wanted a wedding dance didn’t want Jesus in it, because he brought sinners with him.

Things have reached an impasse: and Jesus starts to tell a story about children playing in the marketplace, a scenario everyone would recognise. They, too, have reached an impasse. But both groups bring something that the other needs. Lament, repentance, is not an end in and of itself: there is no point in repentance if it does not lead into participation in celebration [Confession and Absolution leads into the Gloria]. But there is no celebration, no inclusion, without repentance. You can’t have either one without the other!

Oh, and it doesn’t matter whether you joined the game when it was a wedding dance or when it was a funeral march. Neither one is better than the other. The point to the game is not to move from one to the other as you mature—journeying from celebration to mourning, or from lament to rejoicing. The point of the game is that we become increasingly attuned to what is needful in the given moment, and increasingly confident and competent in our participation.

Jesus says: John leads to me; his ministry flows into mine.

And Jesus continues: Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.

Some of us have found our way here with an inclination—whether nature, or nurture, or both—to noticing what is wrong (as we perceive it) with the world, to judging people—including ourselves—quickly and harshly, to setting ourselves standards we can never live up to. And we find it quite disconcerting that there are other people here who frankly don’t seem that bothered about it all; who are all about love and acceptance and inclusivity and letting God sort the rest of it out.

And, if we are honest, we are weary from being good, and feeling bad; we are weighed down by the burden of it—and affronted that others won’t share the load.

And Jesus says to us: Let me come alongside you; allow yourself to be yoked to me, as a young ox is yoked to an experienced ox at the plough. Let me be the other ox, and let me train you in the art of celebration, of thankfulness, of enjoying God’s good gifts and sharing them with others.

On the other side of the marketplace, some of us have found our way here with an inclination—whether in our upbringing, or in rebellion against our upbringing—to self-justification, to believing that who we are—and who others are—is already the full realisation of God’s plan for us. We are already seated at the wedding banquet at the End of the Age, when God has wiped away every tear; but if we are honest we want to keep crying because of the other people here who keep calling us to repent, to change our outlook and direction, to become something other than what we are.

And we worry about the gap, between the banquet we proclaim and the joylessness displayed by some Christians: it makes us look like hypocrites—and who would be drawn to that anyway? We, too, are weary.

And Jesus says to us: Let me come alongside you. Let me be the other ox, and let me train you in the art of lament, of repentance; of dying to self, in order that you be transformed from the person God accepts as you are, into the person God hopes and dreams you might be.

Presumably the children find a way to move beyond their impasse, if only that they slope off home and reconvene again the next day, leaving yesterday’s quarrel to yesterday, where it belongs. I say presumably because Jesus holds them up as our model and invites us to learn from them. Today is a new day. If you are weary, come: come to Jesus, whatever your burden.

Come, together with the boys with their flutes and the girls who wail. Come and join in the game, that together we might learn, that together we might grow into maturity, the fullness of Christ. Amen.

Third Sunday after Trinity 2017

‘Whoever welcomes you welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me. Whoever welcomes a prophet in the name of a prophet will receive a prophet’s reward; and whoever welcomes a righteous person in the name of a righteous person will receive the reward of the righteous; and whoever gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones in the name of a disciple—truly I tell you, none of these will lose their reward.’

Matthew 10:40-42

Welcome.

To welcome means to receive gladly. To receive a person, gladly. To receive the news they bring, the gifts they offer, gladly. Welcome is more than a word of greeting: welcome is a shared experience two or more people actively participate in.

Last week I said that there are two great themes that run, entwined, through the Bible from beginning to end. One is the theme of covenant: of God coming to us, in search of a welcome, in hope of relationship. In the words of Jesus, ‘Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.’ And the other great theme is that of kingdom: of God sending us out, in search of welcome, finding outposts and potential-outposts of the reign of God in a fearful and hostile world. In the words of Jesus, ‘Go on your way. See, I am sending you out like lambs into the midst of wolves.’ Covenant and kingdom, coming together and being sent out, go hand-in-hand. Whoever welcomes you welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me.

Whoever welcomes you welcomes your covenant-partner, Jesus. And whoever welcomes Jesus welcomes the one who has made him king.

Let us consider just a few examples of Jesus’ experience of welcome.

Consider his birth. Our English translations have not served us well here. You will recall that Joseph brought his wife to his hometown. The most natural interpretation of Luke’s account is that at the time of Jesus’ birth, they were staying with Joseph’s family, in an ordinary home. Immediately inside the door is the space where animals were kept at night; then, at a raised level with a hollow in the floor forming a manger, the one main room the family shared by day and night; and beyond that, furthest from the animals, a small guest room. The guest room Joseph and Mary are staying in is not big enough for Mary to give birth in—no room in the inn—attended as she would be by the village midwives and Joseph’ female relatives, including any young girls, in order that giving birth might not be a terrifying mystery to them; and so Mary gives birth to Jesus in the family room, at the heart of the home, displacing male relatives and animals alike.

Consider the flight to Egypt. Joseph—we are told by Matthew that he is a righteous man—fleeing with his wife and young son by night, turning up as refugees seeking asylum among the Jewish community that has dispersed and established itself perhaps in cosmopolitan Alexandria.

Consider the wedding at Cana. Jesus and his disciples have been invited, along with his mother. They have celebrated well, and now the wine has ran out. That would be the sign that it was time to go home, to return to normality, to get up in the morning nursing a hangover and drag your weary bones out of bed and off to work. But Jesus, prompted by his mother, turns the occasion into a different sign. Taking jars of water that symbolised being made clean, being accepted by God, he transformed the water into wine, symbolising the great banquet at the End of the Age, when, having healed the nations, God will sit down with humanity to celebrate without end—without a return to the old normal of Jesus the builder constructing homes for Roman colonials and Peter the fisherman catching fish to export them to dining tables in Rome, the heart of the Empire. In a hot land, even a cup of cold water could be enough to point to such hope.

Consider the disreputable sinners and tax-collectors who invited Jesus to eat at their tables—people who knew that they were sick, unable to cure themselves of their malady, hoping for a doctor.

Consider the Pharisees, worried that they might offend God even unintentionally, also inviting Jesus—so hungry and thirsty for righteousness that they forget to meet the conventions of welcoming him at all; and—ironically—find themselves participating in welcome, however poorly, more fully than ever before.

The more you think about it, the more welcome is the heart of the gospel—and its reward.

Some questions to ponder:

Where have you experienced welcome?

What did that look like?

How did it make you feel?

What grew—what flourished—in that space?

Trinity Sunday, 2017

Isaiah 40:12-17, 27-31 and 2 Corinthians 13:11-13 and Matthew 28:16-20

Sermon preached when visiting St Nicholas’ Bishopwearmouth, Trinity Sunday 2017.

In our reading from Isaiah, we heard that even youths will faint and be weary, and the young will fall exhausted; but those who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint. And I wonder, what is the means by which the Lord does this, as we wait—as we choose to be receptive to our God?

Today is Trinity Sunday, and this morning I’d like us to spend a little while with some very familiar words, often referred to as ‘the Grace’. I don’t know what your practice is here at St Nicholas’, but at the Minster, where I am based, we say these words together often, as the conclusion of many of our meetings: ‘The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit, be with us all evermore. Amen.’ And it seems to me that these three great truths—these three beautiful insights—are the answer to the question I posed: how does God renew us? So let us consider each phrase in turn.

The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ is, quite simply, his walking alongside us: it is the freely-offered gift of his presence. Jesus said, “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” (Matthew 11:28-30). It’s the image of an experienced ox training an inexperienced ox to plough; of being accompanied in life, even if at times we resist our circumstances, to the point of wearing ourselves out. We all have burdens, whether of duty or care or anxiety or pain or the arc of a lifespan. Some are lifelong, others are from time-to-time. Some we find easier to embrace than others. The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ is that we do not carry them alone.

We take a moment to become aware of his presence with us, to thank him, to receive his grace…

What, then, of the love of God? The love of God. The primary experience of God we are invited into is love. When your thoughts and feelings turn to God, is that what you find? Or do you suspect that God’s thoughts and feelings towards you are something other than love? Disapproval, perhaps? Or disappointment? Or even anger? No, writes Paul to the church at Corinth: God’s disposition towards you is love. Will you allow that truth to re-form you, to inform and transform you?

We take a moment to become aware of God’s love for us, to let go of the lies we have settled for, to unfurl in its warmth…

And finally, the communion—or fellowship—of the Holy Spirit. ‘Communion’ is a word of deep intimacy, a word that speaks of recognition, of truly recognising one another. The communion of the Holy Spirit refers to God’s Spirit recognising our spirit, to God recognising us—each one of us, and us as a community—as persons of immeasurable worth; and to the enabling of us to recognise God in the same way. Here’s the thing: we hardly recognise each other, we barely recognise ourselves; we settle for caricatures, and for being absent to one another rather than present to one another. Our neighbours are mediated to us through newspaper headlines. Our children are growing up so fast right under our noses, and we miss it, our gaze held captive by little digital screens. But the God who brought all creation into being sees and delights in you. More: the Bible describes us, human beings, as being the coming-together of dust and divine breath—heaven committing to earth, God animating us. This is partnership at its most intimate, most trusting, most creatively powerful.

We take a moment to become aware of our breath, and of the Holy Spirit, present within us and around us, stirring the air currents…

Grace, love, communion: three words to describe the Trinity at work in our lives. May this be our prayer for one another, and may we be drawn ever onward and upward into this boundless mystery. The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit, be with us all evermore. Amen.

Pentecost 2017

Acts 2:1-21 and 1 Corinthians 12:3-13 and John 20:19-23

Today is Pentecost. And I would like to talk about the person of the Holy Spirit. There is so much that could be said, far more than any sermon can cover. The Holy Spirit is active in the world, and in the life of every person you meet, to bring hope out of despair and harmony out of chaos. Indeed, the fruit of the Spirit—love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control (Galatians 5:22, 23)—can be evidenced in the lives of those who are Christians and those who are not. But the Holy Spirit is also active in a distinctive way in the lives of the baptised—those who are the Church—and I want to focus on one aspect of this today.

In our reading from Paul’s first letter to the church in Corinth, he writes about the gifts that the Holy Spirit distributes among the Church. Paul begins by making a connection between gifts, service, and activity. These are gifts from God to equip us for acts of service; and servant activity is our response to receiving the gifts. Moreover, Paul describes these gifts as manifestations of the Spirit: that is, making the invisible, visible. These gifts tell us something of the giver—what God is like—and they are the evidence that God exists and is actively involved in the world. When people say, ‘If God exists why doesn’t he reveal himself to us?’ this is (part of) God’s answer, ‘I do.’

Paul writes, ‘to each is given the manifestation of the Spirit for the common good.’ ‘To each’ means that every member of the baptised is included—the many, not just the few. ‘For the common good’ indicates that they are given to the Church for the benefit of the wider community beyond the Church—the common good being ‘the sum of those conditions of social life which allow social groups and their individual members relatively thorough and ready access to their own fulfilment’ (Gaudium et Spes, #26, 1965).

So let us consider the gifts Paul lists as examples; and as we do so, let us ask:

do we have, between us, experience of any of these?

and, are we in need of any of these gifts at this present time?

the utterance of wisdom: like all the gifts that follow, this is a supernatural gift; it goes beyond the acquired wisdom of age and experience. There are times when we are faced with complex situations, where we desire to do the right thing but where it is not necessarily apparent what the right thing to do is. Seeking the common good is not simple. We have recently appointed a new PCC. Though I hope we will conduct all our business prayerfully, there will be times when we get stuck and will need to stop and pray and ask the Holy Spirit to give us wisdom that gives clear direction—even if only a next step. That word might come through any one of us—not just the clergy—and be weighed by all of us. And whereas natural wisdom shows us that God is wise and loves to share wisdom, these moments remind us that God loves to set his people free when we find ourselves captive.

the utterance of knowledge: I wonder whether you’ve ever had a sudden and clear sense of the Holy Spirit telling you something about another person, something that you would have no other means of knowing? That’s a word of knowledge. We all carry secrets in our hearts: hopes, dreams, disappointments, fears we have not shared with anybody. But God knows the secrets of our hearts; and wants us to know that we are known and that we are loved. Sometimes the Holy Spirit prompts us to take a specific and very personal message to someone else, to reveal that care to them. It’s also a sign that God trusts us to care for one another.

faith: again, we’re talking about faith in a specific context, rather than the general sense. Jesus spoke of faith that throws mountains into the sea. In the Bible, mountains signify encounters with God, and the sea signifies chaos. To move a mountain into the sea is to transfer an experience of God’s presence in the past into a present experience that threatens to overwhelm us, giving us somewhere firm to stand. Like God calling dry land out of the waters in the beginning, the gift of faith is the ability to call out what will be from what is. If you have ever felt faith rising in the most challenging of circumstances, you’ll recognise this gift, that sees difficulties as opportunities for God to provide. Where have you known God’s faithfulness in the past? What do you have faith for, today?

gifts of healing: our experience of life includes wounding and falling apart, whether that be a broken part of our physical body or a hurt inflicted on our spirit by the actions of another, or ourselves. God loves to heal. All healing comes from God, including the limited but powerful ability of our bodies to self-heal, and the vocational work of doctors, nurses, and counsellors. But sometimes the Holy Spirit brings supernatural healing, as a sign that points to the day when all things will be healed. It is our present practice to set aside opportunity for prayer and anointing for healing on the second Sunday of every month—but the Holy Spirit is not confined to one day a month, or to certain individuals. Can I encourage you to be open to the possibility that the Holy Spirit might prompt you to pray for healing (perhaps through a word of knowledge) at any time? Be bold (if necessary, ask for the gift of faith).

the working of miracles: God is king of the universe. He has established laws by which creation is governable, laws that allow the possibility for life to not only exist but flourish. God is reliable, and good. But God is also free, and there are times when the Holy Spirit exercises that freedom, through the lives of God’s people, in ways we describe as miraculous. Some miracles have scientific explanations, and describe a sense of wonder and gratitude: the miracle of birth, for example. Other miracles defy our explanation. Just as much as observable laws, miracles point to a good God. And sometimes, we get to join in. My parents were missionaries in the Philippines. At one time, my mother was in a coma in the hospital, and the doctors told my dad (though, indeed, he was not yet a father) that he needed to prepare himself for being a widower. When my mother came out of the coma, she said that she knew she was going to recover, because the white doctor had come into her room, looked at her chart, and told her everything would be alright. But according to the medical staff, there were no white doctors working in the hospital. It must have been an angel. Not, directly, a member of the church: but, I am sure, God answering their prayers. Perhaps you have your own stories?

prophecy: refers to hearing and speaking-out words from God, words for a group or an individual, spoken for their upbuilding and encouragement and consolation (see 1 Corinthians 14:3). In a world that is full of voices tearing people down, saying discouraging things, and inflicting loss, everyone is in want of being built up, encouraged, and consoled. This is a work of the Holy Spirit, through us, the Church. Let’s be known for it, among our neighbours, in our city.

the discernment of spirits: there are many voices in the world, calling to us. The book of Proverbs speaks of wisdom and folly both calling out in the marketplace, competing for our attention. There is the voice of the Good Shepherd, and the voice of the Satan—the Accuser. Human voices are influenced by both. Sometimes a message that originates from God seems foolish. Sometimes a message that seems wise originates from the Accuser. Do you remember, Peter declared that Jesus is the Messiah; and Jesus said that this was revealed to Peter by God. And then, almost immediately after, Peter rebuked Jesus; and Jesus responded, ‘Get behind me, Satan.’ Sometimes we need divine discernment to understand what is going on beneath the surface in our city or nation.

Finally, in this list, various kinds of tongues and the interpretation of tongues: again, let me tell you a story about my mother. Once, in her younger days, she was at a conference for Christian students, in Norway. She had been having a conversation with a Norwegian girl, and asked where the girl had learnt to speak English so well. The young woman didn’t speak any English, and wanted to know where my mother had learnt Norwegian. My mother didn’t know any Norwegian; and yet, each heard the other in their own tongue and were able to conduct a meaningful conversation. God is a god who communicates, who speaks and who listens. Beyond the God-given gift of natural ability to translate languages—which we are so blessed with in our multi-cultural church family—the Holy Spirit enables us to express what we cannot express—in heavenly tongues, and earthly ones—and to understand what we do not understand. In a divided world, that is freedom.

The things I have been talking about are distributed and activated by the Holy Spirit, not our own ability or training. Paul speaks of these gifts being exercised in a complex, interdependent system that can be described as a body—as the body of Christ—and which are to be exercised in love, honouring and delighting in one another. There is truth and beauty in our formal liturgy; and God-given gifting in our choir; and may be the Holy Spirit even speaks through the sermon. There are selfless acts of service in preparing the building for our worship, in serving refreshments, and washing the linen. These are good and faithful. But, what of the supernatural gifts of the Holy Spirit, made manifest in our midst, day by day? What stories do we have, that we can share? What gifts have you experienced? What gifts would you like to experience? How might our young men and women grow in confidence in exercising the gifts; and our old men and women remain active?

Today is Pentecost. Come, Holy Spirit. Come and be made manifest in your people, for the common good. Come and move among us, as you see fit.

Fifth Sunday of Easter 2017

Acts 7:55-60 and 1 Peter 2:2-10 and John 14:1-14

Six centuries before Jesus’ birth, Jerusalem had been swallowed-up by the Babylonian Empire [centred on modern-day Iraq] and the population eventually taken off into exile. In time, Babylon was swallowed-up by the Persian Empire [centred on modern-day Iran] and the Jews began to return home, in a succession of waves. The Persian Empire was in turn swallowed-up by the Greek Empire of Alexander the Great, which was divided in two upon his death. Under Grecian rule, many Jewish families dispersed around the eastern end of the Mediterranean. Some went south, to Egypt. Others spread north, through what today is Turkey. By the time of Jesus’ birth, the Greeks had been swallowed-up by the Roman Empire.

Within thirty years of Jesus’ death and resurrection, the good news had spread far and wide. Churches had been established across the Roman provinces that made up what we know as Turkey. Many of the new Christians were of a Jewish background, part of the Jewish Diaspora or dispersal (those carrying the message of good news always went to the Jewish communities first). Others were of Gentile background, from the peoples among whom they had found a new home. At some point in the AD60s, not long before being executed in Rome, Peter wrote a letter that circulated among these ‘exiles of the Dispersion,’ those living as ‘aliens and exiles’. To people far removed from the temple and priests in Jerusalem, he wrote that they were called to be built into a spiritual house, to be a holy priesthood.

Within a few years – time enough for the letter to become well-established within these communities – the population of Jerusalem had rebelled against Rome, and the Roman army had destroyed the temple [AD70] – just as Jesus had predicted would happen. Now there was no temple in Jerusalem. And that must have changed the context in which this letter was understood. There could be no going back to how things were in the past. Now they really were the house of prayer for all nations.

Two thousand years later, we still read Peter’s words. We do so as a community that includes those who are living in a foreign land as aliens and exiles. But in another sense, this is our common identity. These are not just words on a page. This is the story of our family. This is our story.

And God is still committed to building us into a spiritual house. What might that look like for us, for the church at Sunderland Minster? How might we submit ourselves, enter-into the process? Because if we won’t do that, we may find ourselves like the religiously-motivated crowd who used their stones to bring life to an end.

‘While they were stoning Stephen, he prayed…’ Acts 7:59

‘like living stones, let yourselves be built into a spiritual house, to be a holy priesthood…’ 1 Peter 2:5

“I will do whatever you ask in my name, so that the Father may be glorified in the Son. If in my name you ask me for anything, I will do it.” Jesus, John 14:13, 14

It seems to me that the mechanism by which God will build us, and by which we will allow ourselves to be built, is in our coming together to pray. And we are not good at that. Yes, many of us pray; but as individual stones, lying around here and there. It could not be said of us that we are a spiritual house whose floors and walls and ceilings are constructed of prayer, and continually maintained by prayer.

God has sent us a great many Iranians. Can we imagine coming together to pray for Iran, on a regular basis? To pray, until our brothers and sisters are free to return home without fear, and some of us get to go with them, to visit their homes and meet their loved ones?

As a church community, we have ongoing financial needs. Can we imagine coming together on a regular basis to ask God to provide what is needed?

There are many families who come to us asking that their children be christened. Can we imagine coming together on a regular basis to pray for those families, those children? Can we imagine there being an opportunity of gathered prayer going on in the Minster at the same time as the toddler group, perhaps drawing-in some of the parents or grandparents or at least gathering prayer requests?

Can we imagine a spiritual house being built within the shelter of this physical building, where the city of Sunderland is held in prayer morning by morning, or the needs of the world are held in prayer evening by evening?

Can we imagine a vision of being built into a holy priesthood – not just the few with collars who have been set aside as servants, but all of us who have been called out from the people and set apart to proclaim the mighty things that God has done?

Can we imagine our being changed as we pray? Our being built into something that could be truly described as a spiritual heart, or heartbeat, for the city? Can we imagine our meeting together to pray, our learning together how to pray, our belonging to a household of prayer, our getting to celebrate answers to our prayer? That would make us a spiritual house of meeting, learning, belonging, and celebrating – four words that we chose to describe the Minster – and not just a place of social or cultural meeting, learning, belonging, and celebrating (good though those things might be).

This is not something that I can make happen. It isn’t even something that we can make happen. It is something that only God can do, and that we might join-in with. And it would probably mean stopping certain things and starting others. It could mean stopping Morning Prayer at 9am, and starting an earlier time some could get to on their way to work in the city centre; and a later time because, let’s face it, why would you come into the city centre for 9am if you aren’t working there? It might mean discerning a pattern of prayer that we could join-in with even if we couldn’t get to the physical building.

But it begins with coming to Jesus, seeking to know the blueprint he is working to, what space he wants to give form to. With Thomas, we might ask, ‘How can we know the way?’ And Jesus reminds us that he is the way, and the truth, and the life. What is the way-revealing, truth-revealing, life-revealing word that he is speaking to us – and how will we respond?

Second Sunday of Easter 2017

Acts 2:14a, 22-32 and 1 Peter 1:3-9 and John 20:19-31

This sermon was given as visiting preacher at St Nicholas’ Church, Hedworth.

I wonder whether you have ever felt that you have been misrepresented? And if so, I wonder how that felt? I would suggest that many of the characters we meet in the Gospels have been misrepresented by assumptions made about them down the centuries, and this is certainly true of Thomas. Thomas has been saddled with the title, Doubting Thomas. In fact, the Gospels tell us that all of the disciples doubted: that they doubted the testimony of the women; that they doubted the reliability of their own eyes when presented with the risen Jesus; that their joy was mixed with understandable disbelief at the too-good-to-be-true; that their tentative steps towards worshipping Jesus had to negotiate their doubt that this is what God would want of monotheists. But nowhere do the Gospels single Thomas out as capital-letter-D Doubting.

Instead, the gospel names him Thomas, the Hebrew for ‘Twin’ – and translates the name into Greek – Didymus – for the benefit of Gentile hearers. What is unclear is whether Thomas is his name, or, like the Peter of Simon Peter, a nickname. After all, why would the parents of twins name one of them, Twin? There is a school of thought that claims he was called the Twin because he so closely reflected the person and actions of Jesus. You may remember the moment when Jesus decides to go to Lazarus, and his disciples question his sanity: we came away from there because the religious leaders were trying to stone you; and you’re going back? But Thomas declares, Let us go with him, that we may die too. Or, I’d rather be dead with Jesus than alive without him. Thomas is loyal, and brave.

When Jesus first appears to his disciples, Thomas is not present. And he is not prepared to settle for a second-hand account, to be around on the grounds of other people’s faith. He needs to know that Jesus is risen for himself. A week later, Jesus answers his prayer. And Jesus invites Thomas to move from a place of doubting to a place of believing something new. I don’t think Jesus has a one-time step in mind: rather, I think that Jesus is showing us the process we are being invited into. Doubt is the necessary starting-point in order to believe something new. Unless we have doubts about where we are, we will never go anywhere; unless we doubt our perspective, we’ll never see the world from a different point-of-view.

In fact, this process has already been demonstrated by Thomas, so we might say that – far from chastising him – Jesus is affirming him. Of all the disciples hiding behind a locked door, Thomas was not there. Thomas doubted that they would get very far unless someone was prepared to go out, to contact friends, to return with bread, and wine. Perhaps he doubted that any of the others would be the one to go: after all, it will involve genuine risk, and Thomas has shown that he is not afraid to die. At some point, his doubts are enough to move him beyond the door.

It is doubt that opens us up to move beyond the known, and belief that opens up a whole new territory to us. When he puts his hand in Jesus’ spear-torn side, Thomas steps into a newly-opened space, understanding for the first time that Jesus is his Lord and his God. This same process will carry him beyond the familiar, all the way to the south of India, taking the good news of Jesus Christ to the very end of the world.

And these things are written in order that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.

In order that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah – the one sent by God to save us – and the Son of God – and therefore our Lord. That you may believe that Jesus is your Saviour and your Lord: the one who has set you free, and the one whom you have been set free to live for. Because it is in knowing that Jesus is both our Saviour and our Lord that we enter-into, and continue to move further and further into, the fullness of life God hopes for you to know.

The starting place is doubt: is coming to doubt the story of your self-sufficiency, the story in which you are the heroic centre-of-the-universe, the story in which you are the Author of your own Destiny. Such doubt is not the same thing as believing that you, beloved child of God, are worthless: Jesus embraced and defeated death because of your infinite worth in God’s eyes. But it is doubt that moves us to long to see Jesus, if not bodily, in Scripture and prayer, in the bread and the wine; to know him more fully than we have known him before. Doubt, opening into belief; and doubt, opening into belief; and doubt, opening into belief; until the day when, with Thomas, we do see Jesus face-to-face. Indeed, it is this faith-full doubting that you have exercised and continue to exercise in seeing what might come of Messy Church and Café Church. So come: don’t let your doubts hold you back; but, instead, let them take you on an adventure with Jesus. Who knows where you might go together?

Fifth Sunday of Lent 2017

(Ezekiel 37:1-14 and Romans 8:6-11 and) John 11:1-45

Today is the start of Passiontide. It marks a turning-point in the Season of Lent, from following Jesus into the wilderness to walking in his footsteps towards Jerusalem. From here we will journey to Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Holy Saturday, and, at last, Easter Day: triumphal entry, last supper, trials and crucifixion, burial, rest, and resurrection. Today is the turning-point.

We’ve been asking ourselves, through Lent, who is Jesus to me? And today, I want to ask again, who is this Jesus? Who was he to those who first met him?

Today, the Gospel – or, good news – begins with a family, a brother and two sisters, Lazarus, Martha, and Mary. I love the way in which they are introduced into the story, because it is clear that this family is well-known to, and well-loved by, the community John is writing for. You know Mary, he writes; the one who anointed Jesus feet with perfume. That hasn’t happened yet, in the story. John doesn’t recount that event until the next chapter. But the people he wrote for, the first hearers of his telling of the good news, know exactly who he is speaking of. Why? Because this family are so close to Jesus, so loved by him. This family who had opened their home to Jesus when he passed through Bethany, when he visited neighbouring Jerusalem. A love for one another so deep that the sisters do not even need to name Lazarus: he, and they, are known by their identity as those whom Jesus loved. And in their hour of need, they send to Jesus.

We find Jesus himself in a very low place – geographically and emotionally. He has gone from Jerusalem, up in the hills, down to River Jordan near where it empties into the Dead Sea, the lowest place on the surface of the Earth. He has gone to the region where David hid, centuries earlier, when King Saul was searching for him to kill him; and he has gone for the same reason. In Jerusalem, very recently, an influential lobby had feared him so much that they had been willing to risk the wrath of Rome by carrying out the death penalty, stoning Jesus to death. He has made a strategic retreat. Almost certainly the Psalms of David penned in similar circumstances will be on his lips. And in this place of grief, he hears news that a dear, an oh-so-loved, friend is seriously ill.

I wonder how he felt. I wonder whether you can relate: that sense of kicking-a-man-when-he-is-down; that sense of it-never-rains-but-it-pours; that sense of is-there-really-any-need-for-so-much-sorrow-at-once? Through the storm, he hears the still, small voice: wait, rest in me.

He waits. He rests. And then he turns his face towards Jerusalem. And the disciples ask, Are you out of your mind? Don’t you remember why we left there? If you go back, they will kill you. But Jesus is going back, is going to be with his grieving friends. And Thomas makes a decision: Let us also go, that we may die with him. I’d rather be dead with Jesus than alive without him. Come what may, being where he is, is where I need to be. (That, by the way, is why Thomas struggles so much when he alone of the disciples, brave enough to go out in search of supplies when they are hiding behind a locked door in fear for their lives, misses being there when Jesus, risen from the dead, stands in their midst.) In this place, where the world as we have known it has already come to an end, what we need is Jesus.

When Martha hears that Jesus is on his way, she goes out to meet him. He is the hope that she is holding on to: had he been present, Lazarus would not have died; and now that he is present, even now God will give him whatever he asks. Yes, she knows that there will be a Day when God makes all things right; but Jesus makes all the difference in the here-and-now, whatever comes, because he is God come to be with us, come to lead us into tomorrow.

Jesus wants to see Mary, also; here, privately, away from the crowds. She comes to him; but others follow. Mary comes to Jesus, kneels in front of him, and washes his feet with her tears. She’ll do the same again, at a later time, a dinner given in their home in his honour. Undone by emotion: grief now; thankfulness mingled with fearful anticipation then. She does not hold back in his presence, and he can take it. He is not embarrassed; does not feel awkward; will accept no apology from her, as those who weep often feel pressure to offer. Jesus is deeply moved. And so are those who look on. And this is messy: for John tells us that those who came to comfort Mary ad Martha were ‘the Jews’ which is his shorthand for the influential group centred on the life of the temple, many of whom wanted Jesus dead. In other words, his friends’ friends were his enemies. How does that feel?

Jesus asks to be taken to his friend’s tomb, and as they tell him, ‘Come and see’ – echoing the words with which he invited two of John the Baptist’s disciples to follow him right back at the beginning of the Gospel – something inside him breaks. Jesus began to weep. To weep for his loss. To weep for his friends’ loss. To weep because of the complexity of a world in which among those good enough to care for Mary and Martha were those evil enough to want him dead – some of whom will be transformed from enemies to friends in what will unfold; others of whom will double their enmity, seeking not only to kill Jesus but to kill Lazarus, to put his sisters through pain-upon-pain. Jesus began to weep, with those who weep and those who were angry or cynical or perplexed. Jesus was greatly disturbed and deeply moved, in solidarity with us all.

A tomb – a cave, with a stone covering the entrance. Take away the stone. God’s glory is not seen in keeping death behind a closed door, in Moving On or Getting Over It. Jesus calls Lazarus out, gives instruction for him to be unbound. And I believe. I believe that this took place, that Jesus raised Lazarus from the grave; that this was a miracle that helped prepare us for his own death and burial and resurrection. But I also know that this is the exception, not the rule. That in time Lazarus did die again. That everyone we love must die. That grief is common to all humanity. That this is the context in which we listen to this good news.

When we find ourselves where Mary, Martha, Jesus, Thomas found themselves, the good news we need is Jesus coming to us: Jesus, who brings God’s glory to the most unpromising of circumstances; Jesus bringing something of the future into the present; Jesus, who rescues us; Jesus unashamedly letting us wash his feet with our tears; Jesus weeping with us; Jesus unafraid to have us take out our loved one – even if we are afraid of what we might find – and unwrap their memory, and set them free, over and over again. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.

Some of us know this; and some of us are yet to know it; and some of us need to know it today. That is why we return here, together, year on year. That is why we wait, and weep, and help one another to believe, and step into the light, and bind up broken hearts and unbind the constriction of unhelpful expectations, in the precious name of our Saviour, Jesus, and to the glory of God. Amen.