Second Sunday of Easter 2019

Lectionary reading: Acts 5:27-32

Let me begin by saying, happy Easter! I say that, in part, of course, because I was not with you on Easter Day; but, also, because today is the second Sunday of Easter. There are in total seven Sundays of Easter, and as the church gathers on these occasions, we will hear a selection of passages from the Acts of the Apostles, the sequel to the Gospel According to Luke. Why these particular passages? Because they invite us into the ‘so what?’ of the resurrection, discovering how Jesus’ disciples, led by the Holy Spirit, came to understand the significance of this incredible event.

There is a recurring pattern in the early chapters of Acts: Peter preaches in the temple, is arrested, imprisoned, brought to trial, gives his defence; is later re-arrested, imprisoned, escapes prison with angelic help, preaches in the temple, is brought to trial again, and gives his defence. And this is where we find him in our reading from Acts this morning. And the crux of his defence is this: that God has exalted Jesus as Leader and Saviour.

The word our Bibles translates as ‘Leader’ is the Greek word archēgon. It is a word that means founder, or author; the first in a long procession, the captain who pioneers the way for others to follow. It is used in the Greek translation of the Old Testament—the translation Luke and the community he wrote for would have used—to speak of the heads of the families of the tribes of Israel; to refer to men held in high esteem, with this same word often translated into English as ‘princes’ of the people. They are the men who give a lead that others follow. When God sends Moses to lead his people out from slavery in Egypt, it is these princes he must first persuade, because the people will follow them. When there are gifts to be brought, as for the rebuilding of the fallen walls of Jerusalem, it is these princes who go first.

The irony would not have been lost on Luke’s audience that Peter has been brought to trial before the senate of the sons of Israel [NRSVA ‘the council and whole body of the elders of Israel’], who demand to know why Peter and the other apostles have not followed their lead when they had, at the previous trial, ordered the apostles not to speak or teach at all in the name of Jesus (Acts 4:18)? After all, they are the princes, and where they lead—with strict orders, no less—others should follow.

Peter, however, does not recognise their authority in this matter. Why not? Well, we need to remember that Acts is the continuation of Luke’s account of the gospel, the good news about Jesus. Towards the end of Part One, at the last supper, Luke records Jesus as saying to his disciples:

‘“You are those who have stood by me in my trials; and I confer on you, as my Father has conferred on me, a kingdom, so that you may eat and drink at my table in my kingdom, and you will sit on thrones judging the twelve tribes of Israel.’”

(Luke 22:28-30)

Moreover, we recall that in his account of the crucifixion, Luke records:

‘And the people stood by, watching; but the leaders [archontes: rulers, or princes] scoffed at him, saying, “He saved others; let him save himself if he is the Messiah of God, his chosen one!” The soldiers also mocked him, coming up and offering him sour wine, and saying, “If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!” There was also an inscription over him, “This is the King of the Jews.”’

(Luke 23:35-38)

Though the leaders of the people refuse to acknowledge it, Jesus is the Prince, appointed by God; and he, in turn, has appointed Peter and the other apostles to be princes. But Jesus’ rule is made manifest on the cross. The nature of his lead, the lead he called Peter to follow, bringing others with him, is through trial and suffering.

Peter declares that God has exalted Jesus as Leader and Saviour. That is, Jesus is the one, raised up by God, who goes first leading a long procession of followers through trial and suffering; saving them from sin and death by delivering them beyond suffering to freedom and glory. First death, then resurrection. First suffering, then glory. As the one who has gone first, Jesus is able to give repentance to Israel and forgiveness of sins ...

... and this ties-in with another theme of Peter’s early sermons. Peter, and his companions, see the Psalms as pointing to the kind of Leader and Saviour Jesus is. They cite psalms 16, and 110, and 2, psalms that speak of a leader set on the throne of David by God, through whom the nations that surround and threaten Jerusalem will be judged. Peter’s message is this: the resurrection of Jesus gives the people of Israel a second-chance to turn back to the God of their ancestors—to accept the gift of repentance—and so to experience forgiveness of sins, or, having their debts wiped clean by the prince seated at the right hand of God. Judgement over-ruled. Consequences, transmuted from death to life. The implication, of course, is that if the leaders of the people persist in fighting against God, those surrounding and threatening nations would overthrow Jerusalem.

The council were enraged, and wanted to kill the apostles, to silence them once and for all. But one of their number, the Pharisee Gamaliel, stood up and cautioned that they do nothing, in case they find themselves fighting against God; and, instead, simply wait and see what would unfold. Tragically, doing nothing was not enough. Repentance was what was necessary. Within the lifetime of many of them, the Romans besieged Jerusalem and destroyed the temple. And what survived The End Of The World as they knew it? The community that confessed Jesus as Leader and Saviour was well-placed to pass through suffering to glory. In time, after much more suffering, the emperor in Rome would bow the knee.

What, then, does his have to do with us, two-thousand years later? Everything, as it happens. As our sisters and brothers around the world celebrated Jesus’ rising from the dead last Sunday, churches in Sri Lanka were torn apart. When the dust settled, and the bodies had been counted, whole villages processed out to new mass graves. Unimaginable horror; and yet, this is the Way on which we walk, following Jesus, trusting that The End is not the end.

Here at the Minster, our brother Abbas is detained at an immigration Removal Centre, awaiting deportation. If you are Iranian, and you convert from a Muslim upbringing to Christianity, and refuse to recant, you face imprisonment and the real threat of the death penalty. Like Jesus. Like Peter and the other apostles—almost all of whom were eventually martyred for their faith, walking in procession behind Jesus, the Way made possible because he had pioneered it. It is not scaremongering but sober reality that some of our sisters and brothers in this international congregation may experience unjust trial and punishment, imprisonment, and even execution because of their baptism. And if so, that is normative Christianity. If we are comfortable, here in Sunderland, we are the aberration.

Peter’s message was to the elders of Israel. They did not listen, and died in debt before God. History has moved on. What ought our Easter message be? That Jesus is still Leader and Saviour, in order that he might give repentance not only to Israel but—as we shall see as we continue reading through Acts—to the Gentiles also, cancelling the debts we have incurred against God and our neighbour.

For now, we find ourselves in England, surrounded by other nations, some of which are hostile, including fragile peace agreements between uneasy allies. And we find ourselves in the Church of England, a community that is, in some ways, a shadow of its former days, once at the very heart of society but now on the margins, surrounded by other worldviews, some of which are hostile. Nations rise and fall. Local and even national churches are planted, grow old, and die. We live in precarious times, for the nation, for the church, indeed for the future of civilisation as we know it and the planet on which we live. We have amassed unpayable debts, to those we have wronged in the past, to future generations, to global ecosystems. Some elders advise caution, that we wait and see. Other voices advise us to rise up and overthrow our oppressors—whoever they might be.

And what of us? “God ... raised up Jesus [and] exalted him as Leader and Saviour that he might give repentance ... and forgiveness of sins. And we are witnesses to these things, and so is the Holy Spirit whom God has given to those who obey him.”

So, go, Church, and bear witness to these things. Jesus is Leader and Saviour: join us as we follow him on the Way of Suffering and, on its far side, Glory.

Fifth Sunday of Lent 2019

Gospel: John 12:1-8

This is a transcript, written after the event, of a sensory sermon preached at St Nicholas’ church. It is too hard, today, to come by ethical, sustainable spikenard; so, I have used patchouli essential oil as a near-enough substitute.

It had become apparent to all that time was running out.

And so, Jesus embarked on a series of last suppers; the first of which with his dear friends Martha and Mary and Lazarus. Ironically, it was the raising of Lazarus that had sealed Jesus’ fate: he was now simply too dangerous to live. Rumours had circulated. Well-meaning neighbours offered hushed advice, that the family distance themselves from Jesus. Instead—and, of course, I speculate a little here—Mary went from door-to-door raising a collection; then to the market, where she bought an alabaster jar of perfume from an Egyptian merchant. A jar to open in Jesus’ tomb, to mask the stench of decomposition.

Now they were gathered. Martha, serving—just as she had done the first time that we met her, the first time they met Jesus. But Martha is no longer burdened by anxiety that all be perfect or else shame would fall on the family; no longer resentful of her sister. Martha has encountered Love, and responds now with love of her own.

Lazarus is at the table with Jesus, side-by-side. Can you imagine the conversation? If you knew that days from now you would be dead, and you were at a dinner party seated next to someone who had come back from the dead, what would you ask?

In the ancient world, at a formal meal, you did not sit on high-backed chairs as we would do; but reclined, lying on your side, elbow propped up on a low table, feet stretching out behind you. Mary assumes the role of a servant, approaches Jesus and washes his feet. As she does so, her tears mingle with the water. And then she stops; fetches the jar of perfume; pours it out.

Judas is horrified. He, too, knows that time is running out. He hopes that at these farewell dinners, the common purse will swell; that, when it comes to the end, he will be able to get away with the lot. He is from the south; the other disciples, from the north: their paths need never cross again.

Why does Mary change her mind? She had bought the perfume for the day of Jesus’ burial: so, why pour it out now, ahead of time? Did she panic? Or…had the penny dropped? As she listened-in on the conversation between Jesus and her brother, had she realised what Jesus had told the men three times now, without their comprehension? Had she realised that Jesus would be walking out of the tomb?

Was this act her secret way of letting Jesus know, ‘I know’? Or, at least, ‘I have an inkling’? ‘I have a hope!’

Second Sunday of Lent 2019: Choral Evensong

Jeremiah 22:1-9, 13-17 and Luke 14:27-33

“Whoever does not carry the cross and follow me cannot be my disciple.”

Jesus (Luke 14:27)

I spoke this morning about the deep and terrifying darkness. I do not know what your deep and terrifying darkness, that descends upon you when the sun has set and you are lying in your bed, is; and, unless you choose to tell me, it is none of my business. I do not need to know. But I do know that none of us gets through life untouched by deep and terrifying darkness.

Jesus’ cross was literal, the instrument of execution by the Roman state. Our cross is metaphorical; but I suspect that it is the thing that is our own deep and terrifying darkness, whatever that may be. Jesus cites fear of ridicule, defeat, and loss of possessions as examples; but the deep and terrifying darkness contains many terrors. And Jesus invites us to meet him there, not so that he can lead us by another way that circumvents the deep and terrifying darkness, but in order to lead us through death to life.

Second Sunday of Lent 2019

Genesis 15:1-12, 17-18 and Philippians 3:17-4:1 and Luke 13:31-35

I don’t know whether you’ve ever had the experience of reading the Bible and being stopped in your tracks? We are in the Season of Lent, the season of entering-into the wilderness with Jesus, the season of echoes of the forty years the Israelites spent in the wilderness. God journeyed with them in the form of a pillar of cloud by day, and a pillar of fire by night. When God moved, the people moved; and when God stopped, they pitched camp. Sometimes God stopped for a night, sometimes for months. Perhaps that is something like what I experienced this week, as I wandered through Genesis chapter 15. I got as far as verse 12—As the sun was going down, a deep sleep fell upon Abram, and a deep and terrifying darkness descended upon him—and the Holy Spirit stopped, and in effect said, this is where we camp out a while.

A deep and terrifying darkness descended upon him. This is a psychological darkness. It is not the night. Abram was a tent-dweller. He lived without light pollution. The night was familiar to him. Indeed, for Abram, the day begins at nightfall. The day begins with telling stories around the campfire, followed by sleep, before rising from rest to work. Moreover, not long ago, God had stood under the stars with Abram and challenged him to count them, if that were possible, adding, so shall your descendants be. The dark is good, and God employs it. But tonight, even though sleep comes, a different darkness falls.

What does Abram know of such darkness? Abram has so much others would envy. He was a successful businessman, with many employees and a large turnover and profit-margin. He had strong personal relationships with the local kings, the political leaders—a man of influence and power. He had a deep and loving relationship with his wife: he has neither dismissed her when she was too old to bear him an heir, nor, in a polygamous society, taken other wives; he would do anything for her happiness, at great personal cost. But he cannot give her a child. He has believed God for a child, but that child has not come along.

Abram is haunted—taunted—by the ghosts of all the children he never had. The stars have gone out. There is a deep and terrifying darkness.

He is haunted by the ghosts of all the children he never had.

Into this darkness steps God.

For most people we read about in the Bible, God has needed to come hidden in either inaccessible light or inaccessible darkness: for it is too much for us to see God and live. But not so with Abram, with whom God walked, and ate, as a friend. This darkness is not brought by God; but God steps into it, to face the terrors hidden within.

God does so in the form of a covenant. The corridor of blood we read about seems strange to us, but in Abram’s time it was the familiar ritual by which two kings entered into a covenant agreement, a sharing of identity. What can you give me? Abram had asked God. To borrow words from the marriage service, the only form of covenant many of us are familiar with today, ‘All that I am I give to you; and all that I have, I share with you.’

What changes? Nothing. At least, nothing outwardly. Nothing for a long time. But God’s promise to Abram is that his descendants will possess the land framed by the Nile and the Euphrates. By Egypt and Babylon. By exodus and exile. Framed by covenant: made between God and Abram’s descendants when God brought them out from slavery in Egypt; broken, repeatedly, habitually by them, resulting in exile; but, even then, restored, renewed. Within the deep and terrifying darkness of slavery, of exile, God promises to make room for a blessed life. Not that the deep and terrifying darkness is banished; but that, within it, there is yet a promise to be received.

So, what is your deep and terrifying darkness?

No one gets through life untouched, unscathed, by deep and terrifying darkness. But the God of Abram, the God of Abram’s descendants—and, by the way, that is you, and me; that is us*—comes to us. Amen.

*that is Jews and Christians and Muslims; and, perhaps, all of any tradition who seek to journey deeper into truth.

First Sunday of Lent 2019

Deuteronomy 26:1-11 and Romans 10:8b-13 and Luke 4:1-13

This morning, I want to speak about confession. I think we are familiar with confessing our sins, the ways in which through negligence, through weakness, and through our own deliberate fault we have failed to love God and our neighbour as ourselves; the times when we have put ourselves at the centre, and viewed others as objects. But I suspect that we are far less familiar with confessing our salvation, of rehearsing the story of what God has done, and locating ourselves firmly within it. We have become detached from our story, our identity as those God has saved.

Our reading from Deuteronomy this morning centred on a confession of salvation. Did you notice how, in confessing what God has done, the words root the confessor within the people of God, and speak of the past in the present tense? In four verses, the confession employs ‘us’ six times; ‘we’ once; and ‘our’ four times (five if you include ‘our ancestors’—but that is speaking of the past as the past, not as the present). Only in the light of this does the confession continue, ‘I’ and ‘me’: grounded.

Listen again: ‘... When the Egyptians treated us harshly and afflicted us, by imposing hard labour on us, we cried to the Lord, the God of our ancestors; the Lord heard our voice and saw our affliction, our toil, and our oppression. The Lord brought us out of Egypt ... and he brought us to this place and gave us this land ... So now I bring the first of the fruit of the ground that you, O Lord, have given me.’

The confessor is to fully identify themselves with events that took place long before they were born, to find themselves inside the salvation God has wrought. Centuries later, Jesus was one of the people whose lives were formed by this confession. This morning, our readings invite us to consider the temptations he faced against that backdrop.

First, the temptation to turn stones into bread—contrasted with experiencing ‘the harvest from the land that the Lord your God is giving you’. We can strive to meet our own needs, or discover God to be our provider; but not both. And we can shape society in such a way that work involves dignity, or desperation. In what ways does this part of the story resonate with you?

Next, the temptation to receive all the kingdoms of the world—contrasted with ‘the land that the Lord your God is giving you as an inheritance to possess’. The history of God’s people is one of seasons of journeying beyond the known, and seasons of settling and being settled. Both are meant to be experienced with God. In what ways does this part of the story resonate with you?

And then, the temptation to ‘throw yourself down’ from the pinnacle of the temple—contrasted with the instruction, ‘you shall set [the basket] down before the Lord your God and bow down before the Lord your God’. Worship that is grounded in the rhythms of our lives and on the human scale, not in seeking to make an impression. Humbling ourselves, experiencing gratitude. In what ways does this part of the story resonate with you?

Thirty years or so after the resurrection, the church had spread across the Roman empire. There were several congregations in Rome itself, the very centre of all the kingdoms of the world. Moreover, the church had reached beyond the Jewish diaspora and embraced gentile believers. Rome was a mega-city, cut-off from farmland, in which grain was doled-out to every citizen. The emperor was the Lord, who provided bread to keep hoi poloi from revolting. Bread, and circuses: spectacular entertainment to distract and sate, and so control.

Paul wrote to those Roman congregations about what it meant to declare that Jesus was Lord. For the Jewish believers, it meant recognising that God willed this to be. For the gentile believers, it meant that Caesar was not lord after all. Moreover, believing and confessing are meant to be inseparable, working together as do breathing in and breathing out.

Some of us have been holding our breath for a long time. We took a big gulp of Jesus once, and hope that will get us over the finishing line. But it isn’t meant to be like that. The gift of the season of Lent is the opportunity to learn to breathe again. To release our breath, in confessing Jesus is Lord: the one who blesses, and settles, and receives us. And so, to be able to oxygenate every fibre of our being again, with fresh vision of the risen Jesus; fresh experience of being blessed, settled, and received. Breathe out. Breathe in. Confess salvation, receive salvation. Amen.

Ash Wednesday 2019

Isaiah 58:1-12 and John 8:1-11

Jesus is in Jerusalem for the festival of Booths, or Sukkot. Sukkot was one of the Three Pilgrimage Festivals, when the whole people went to the temple. These were Pesach/Passover, celebrating the exodus from slavery in Egypt; Shavuot/Pentecost, celebrating the giving of the Law at Sinai 49 days later; and Sukkot/Tabernacles, or Booths. This week-long festival recalls the forty years the Israelites lived in tents in the wilderness, between the exodus from slavery in Egypt and entering the land they were to settle; and celebrates the ingathering of the harvest in that settled land, as for the duration pilgrims slept in the kind of temporary shelters farmers lived in while gathering-in the harvest.

As part of the celebrations, and unique to Sukkot, water was carried from the Pool of Siloam—fed by the Gihon spring—up to the Temple, and poured out as a libation on the altar. (It was the Gihon spring that made it possible to inhabit Jerusalem, and establish a settlement there.) At Passover and Pentecost, wine was poured out; but at the festival of Booths, both wine and water were poured out.

And so, we might say that it is a festival that celebrates the soil, and our dependence on God, in whose mercy life springs forth from the dry ground. In the words of Isaiah, the conditional promise that if the people will ‘loose the bonds of injustice’ and ‘let the oppressed go free,’ then ‘the Lord…will satisfy your needs in parched places, and make your bones strong; and you shall be like a watered garden, like a spring of water, whose waters never fail.’

On the last day of the festival, Jesus stood up and cried out, “Let anyone who is thirsty come to me, and let the one who believes in me drink. As the scripture has said, ‘Out of the believer’s heart shall flow rivers of living water.’” (John 7:37-39) The crowd is divided in their opinion of him (John 7:40-44), as are the authorities and the Pharisees (albeit that Nicodemus appears to be in a minority of one, John 7:45-52).

(Interestingly, it is John who records Jesus attending Sukkot, and it is John who tells us the detail that, when the crucified Jesus’ side is pierced, blood and water came out, John 19:34-35.)

It is against this backdrop that the scribes and Pharisees drag before Jesus a woman caught in the very act of adultery. It is against this backdrop that Jesus bent down and wrote with his finger on the ground. They come, in the words of Isaiah, asking of the Lord a righteous judgement; and are given one, albeit not what they expect. And they come fasting only to quarrel and to fight and to strike with a wicked fist; whereas Jesus stoops to loose the bonds of injustice, undo the thongs of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke: ‘Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.’ … ‘Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?’ … ‘Neither do I condemn you. Go your way, and from now on do not sin again.’

Our stories are not set in stone, but written in dust. In dust, animated by the wind or breath of the Spirit; dust, watered by the Spirit, the River of Life, with the purpose that our lives might be fruitful. We are co-authors of our stories with Jesus, in whom every dead-end, arrived at through negligence, through weakness or through our own deliberate fault, may be redeemed, to God’s glory.

Jesus comes to lead us (corporately, not only personally) out from slavery to sin into the wilderness—the place of encounter with God—and there to train us for hope and a future; for belonging and rootedness, in place and community; for fruitful living.

We cannot do this on our own. We are the dust, he is the source of living water.

But dust, soil, earth, matters deeply to God. Deeply enough to have its own celebration, its own pilgrim festival.

So, come. Come to your senses. Return to your true self. Return to your God.

Come and receive the sign of the cross, written by a finger in ash on your forehead. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust: in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ, who will transform our frail bodies that they may be conformed to his glorious body, who died, was buried, and rose again for us. To him be glory for ever. Amen.

Fourth Sunday before Lent 2019

Isaiah 6:1-13 and I Corinthians 15:1-11 and Luke 5:1-11

‘Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts; the whole earth is full of his glory.’

The whole earth is full of his glory. The whole earth. Full of his glory.

The first people to hear Isaiah’s account of his call, written down and read out, were far from Jerusalem. Indeed, the temple, in which Isaiah had encountered God’s glory, had been destroyed. The first people to hear the song of the seraphs were living in exile in Babylon. Babylon might have had a lot going for it, but it wasn’t home, it didn’t have their best interests at heart. And what they heard, perhaps as an echo, a rumour, was, the whole earth is full of God’s glory.

Isaiah’s ministry covered a span of forty turbulent years, the rising and falling of nations. The blessing and destruction and destruction and blessing of all the nations surrounding Judah. The siege and deliverance and siege and exile of Jerusalem. And the glory of the Lord of hosts is, according to Isaiah, made visible in all of this. And within it all, hope of deliverance and restoration. This is a story about death and resurrection. Let the listener understand where they find themselves in this story: they are in the grave, dead, but awaiting resurrection.

The whole earth is full of his glory, in the breadth of its political geography, and the depth of Sheol where dust returns to dust.

There was a man by the name of Luke, who wrote an account of the life of Jesus and his first followers. He wrote against the backdrop of the Jewish War, that ended with another siege and destruction of Jerusalem, this time at the hands of the Romans. The first witnesses to the events Luke records were already dying, but the community on the Way had begun to spread throughout the Roman empire. This, too, is a story of death and resurrection. Of a coarse fisherman and his partners in their joint family business, who laid down their nets and followed Jesus to catch-up men and women instead.

Simon Peter’s call echoes that of Isaiah: a revelation of the holiness of the Lord, revealed in the person of Jesus and in the response of creation to her Lord; a recognition of personal unworthiness; the tools of his trade— Simon Peter’s net, like Isaiah’s incense burner—repurposed.

Before the Gospels were written down, Paul was engaged in correspondence back and forth between himself and his co-workers and the churches they were planting. We see him wrestling with the saints in Corinth as they struggle to live out their calling. He reminds them that he himself was unfit to be called, and yet, touched by grace, his life was repurposed and transformed. This, too, is a story of death and resurrection. Indeed, the big Story is grounded in death and resurrection, rooted in the death and resurrection of Jesus, in which we have a share.

This resurrection business, it isn’t to do with something ethereal and other-worldly. It has flesh and blood, earthiness. It is to do with the world we know, but not as we currently know it. It is the grounds of hope, as we face the present reality of death. And we are reminded at this time of year that we cannot avoid death.

People die. So do congregations, communities, cities, nations. Indeed, we die a thousand times before our death, and, indeed, as followers of Jesus we are called to take up our cross and die to self every day of our lives. That is profoundly counter-cultural: we expend enormous amounts of energy in denial of death, and, where it cannot be denied, we look for a scapegoat to blame. Our whole current national discourse is consumed with blame and fanciful speculation. But the whole earth is full of the glory of the holy, holy, holy Lord of hosts. Rising, and falling, and rising again are in God’s hands, and the glory of the Lord of hosts is revealed in it all—in drawn-out agonising death and in the emergence of new life from under the rubble.

That is what Isaiah and Luke and Paul want to train us to see, and understand: ‘Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts; the whole earth is full of his glory.’ Can you see that glory, touch it, smell it, taste it, hear it here in Sunderland in February 2019?

This past week, I saw God’s glory at a funeral, in conversations with strangers and friends, in the privilege of preparing a group of Iranian asylum-seekers for baptism, and in the life-broken men and women fed by an army of servers here yesterday and the local businesses that contributed to the meal. I saw God’s glory in the manner of my godfather’s death on Wednesday, 88 years old and taking the opportunity of being confined to a hospital bed to tell nurses and doctors about Jesus, right to the end. I felt the awesome weight of holiness among the grieving, including those living in literal exile from their own land.

How about you?