Tenth Sunday after Trinity 2019

Lectionary reading: Luke 13:10-17

In our Gospel reading today we meet a woman who had a physical condition, a long-term infirmity, that was the result of a spiritual malaise.

A word of caution: not every physical infirmity is caused by a spiritual malaise; and not every spiritual malaise causes physical infirmity. Nonetheless, the Bible presents us with a world in which the spiritual and the physical are both alike created, and compromised; are equally disordered, and liberated; and in which the two are integrally entwined.

There is an old, old story in which the Lord God took dust from the earth and fashioned from it a man, and breathed the breath of life into the man’s nostrils, God’s breath, in our lungs. We are, according to this story, dust and wind, flesh and spirit, held together in God’s hand. We are animated earth. We are created to participate in the life of the Creator. Every breath God gives us, as pure gift, we in turn give back to him: in, out, in, out. From dust you were taken, and to dust you shall return.

In our Gospel reading today we hear a new story, of a woman. Like all the daughters of Eve, she is animated by the breath of God. That is a given. But that life-giving spirit has, for the past eighteen years, been cancelled-out by another spirit, a spirit that, according to the literal sense of the Greek words Luke chose to tell the story, cancelled-out her strength. As a result, she is bowed down, pressed towards the earth, back to dust as yet awaiting wind.

When Jesus sets her free, what Luke presents us with is nothing short of a new creation story.

The leader of the synagogue is indignant. He, too, draws on an old, old story, one that comes even before the story of the Lord God animating the dust. No, he cites the story of God liberating the cosmos from chaos, in six great liberating acts. Those acts were followed by the sabbath, a day for joy, for rejoicing at all that God had done. Six days for work, and one for rejoicing. Had Jesus healed the woman on any of the previous six days, we would be rejoicing at that today...

Jesus has something to say in response; but at this point in the story, Luke does not refer to him as ‘Jesus’ but as ‘the Lord’: ‘But the Lord answered him and said...’

This is not coincidental. This is not junior school English, where the teacher presents you with a thesaurus and pushes you to use a more varied vocabulary. This is making a deliberate theological point. These are the very words of God, set in a story about God.

Jesus calls the woman, ‘a daughter of Abraham.’ Abraham, the friend of God, who was bold enough to contend with God on behalf of others. Abraham, the father of all who walk by faith rather than by sight. Abraham, who lived before the giving of the law. The law, of course, was given to those who had been set free from captivity in Egypt, to instruct them in how to live out their freedom.

Don’t cite the law over this woman who was still a captive, bound by the Satan, the Accuser. Don’t be the Satan, the voice of accusation.

When Jesus sets her free, what Luke presents us with is nothing short of a new exodus story (which is, itself, a new creation story).

When God speaks, his opponents are put to shame. Note this: Jesus always sides with those who are ashamed, with those who know shame, whether as a result of their own actions or as a result of the accusations of others. So, when, at the end of this story, Jesus’ opponents are put to shame, Jesus has triumphed over them by turning enemies into friends, or at least, potential friends. It is the best place they can be, for now; and a necessary step on their journey.

When God breathes life, and contrary to the fear of the leader of the synagogue, there is a great multiplication of rejoicing. This is not just sabbath, this is abundant sabbath.

Jesus calls the indignant ones ‘hypocrites,’ actors. He says they are play-acting sabbath, not living it. They know the stories, but they don’t know them to be their story. So, what about us? Are we play-acting church, play-acting Eucharist? Or is Jesus setting people free in our midst, causing us to rejoice at all the wonderful things he is doing? Is today’s Gospel an old story fashioned on a couple of really, really old stories; or is it our story, the good news for us, today?

In short, what spiritual malaise is crippling you, crippling me, today? What unseen spiritual reality is pushing us to our knees? And if we are pushed to our knees, might we find ourselves at the feet of the one who can set us free?

It may be the recurring temptation to pleasure, to gratify our self, to avoid pain through subtle distractions or hidden addictions;

it may be loneliness, that taunts us for our embodied limitations, our inability to be enough for everyone, for anyone for ever, for ourselves;

it may be resentment of those closest to us, resentment of duty to those we profess to love, resentment that steals our joy and stokes anger in its place;

it may be the workaholism that cuts us off from relationship, at first as an escape, eventually as a prison;

it may be that depression for which there is no apparent cause;

it may be the ongoing struggle to forgive someone, or to forgive ourselves, for pains inflicted long ago.

And like the leader of the synagogue, we can justify our position, indignantly if pushed.

It is unlikely that you have never wrestled with such demons, unlikely that you are unscathed by any of these, as they are temptations that are common to humanity.

It may be that you have known Jesus set you free from one or other, or even all, of these spirits that come against the life-giving Spirit. But the wonderful thing with Jesus is that he sets us free by degrees, as much freedom as we are able to take hold of for now, a step on our journey. And the stories warn us that freedom given can be lost, ground taken can be surrendered to a future assault; yet Jesus is still teaching in our midst and setting us free.

Today, be the woman in the story. Today, feel Jesus’ hands laid upon you, gentle, sure, affirming. Today, stand up straight and begin praising God. And keep praising, in the face of indignation, until the entire crowd joins in.

Ninth Sunday after Trinity, 18 August 2019

Lectionary readings: Jeremiah 23:23-29 and Hebrews 11:29-12:2 and Luke 12:49-56

“Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus the pioneer and perfecter of our faith, who for the sake of the joy that was set before him endured the cross, disregarding its shame, and has taken his seat at the right hand of the throne of God.”

So great a crowd of witnesses. What manner of witnesses are they, and to what do they bear witness? They are those who saw the kingdom of God, albeit at a distance, and who bear witness to the nature of that kingdom that has now been brought into being in and through the person of Jesus.

There is the Song of Moses, and the song of his sister Miriam, declaring the triumph of God over the army of Egypt (Exodus 15). Moses, the man who grew up in Pharaoh’s household and lost it all in a moment of madness, becoming a fugitive so broken in the middle of nowhere that he could not speak without a stammer (Exodus 2-4), singing. Miriam, the fearless, outrageously brilliant saviour (Exodus 2:1-10), who became jealous of her younger brother and bore the shame of exclusion from the people for seven days (Numbers 12).

There is Rahab, living in Jericho (Joshua 2, and 6). Jericho was, at that time, little more than a military outpost, and where there are army bases you will always find women supporting their children by selling their body for sex. Rahab, the prostitute, whom Jesus is unashamed to name as his ancestor, a mother in the faith (Matthew 1, where she is named along with Tamar, who is forced, by patriarchal injustice, to catch her father-in-law in a sex-trap; Ruth, a foreigner belonging to a hated neighbouring people; ‘the wife of Uriah’—that is, Bathsheba, not even named, with whom David committed adultery; and Mary, whose pregnancy had the potential to expose her to shame).

There is Gideon, a man we meet hiding in a hole in the ground; whom the Lord raised up as an unlikely saviour; whose latter days were marked with self-importance (Judges 6-8). There is Barak, a man who is called to lead the people to victory but who won’t go unless Deborah—the woman raised up by God to speak the words of God to the people of God—goes with him, to hold his hand; and whose glory is therefore given by God to another woman, Jael (Judges 4-5). There is Samson, set apart by God from before birth, who comes to believe himself entitled; follows a trajectory of self-destruction; and dies a prisoner to the very people he was supposed to liberate his people from, in chains, his eyes gouged out (Judges 13-16). There is Jephthah, driven away by his half-brothers, an outlaw, turned to only when all other options are exhausted; a hothead who has his daughter executed rather than lose face (Judges 11).

There is David, the boy whose heart longed to be true to God’s heart, yet who abandoned his wife Michal after she saved his life, and later shamed her when she called-out his inappropriate behaviour; David, who took the wife of one of his most loyal friends for his own gratification, and then, when she was found to be pregnant as a consequence, had that loyal friend killed in a staged tragic accident of battle; David, whose own children warred against each other, one son raping his half-sister, to be killed by her brother, who later also died, having tried to usurp his father’s throne, forcing David to flee before him (the whole book of 2 Samuel).

There is Samuel, a son longed for by a childless woman shamed by her childlessness and the many sons and daughters of her husband’s other wife; a woman deeply distressed, and in this state wrongly accused of drunkenness by Eli the priest; Samuel, the answer to prayer, given back to the Lord, growing up to become to greatest prophet-judge in living memory, yet knowing the shame of greedy, dishonest, sons who perverted justice for gain (the whole book of 1 Samuel).

Still others are alluded to, as those who conquered kingdoms, administered justice, obtained promises, shut the mouths of lions. Men, such as Daniel, carried away into exile. Women, such as Deborah and Jael, Naomi and Ruth, Hannah, Huldah, Esther, Mary, Martha and Mary. And others. Jesus is not the first man in this story to be publicly executed in the most humiliating manner imaginable; Mary and the women at the cross, not the first to be made to look on.

What do these witnesses have in common? They bear witness to a kingdom in which shame is washed away. Shame, that weighs us down and trips us up. They bear witness to a king who is glorified, who is honoured by God, in the very act of being shamed by the world, hanging naked from an execution scaffold.

In our rather strange and difficult Gospel reading, Jesus declares that he has not come to bring peace but division within households. What are we to make of that, of this divisive figure in our midst?

There is a false peace that is imposed by the world, through the honour-shame structure. To behave in the ‘right’ way results in honour; while to behave in the ‘wrong’ way brings shame. We see this in the hierarchies of the world Jesus entered. At first, the Pharisees, who were genuinely concerned with helping ordinary people to live lives acceptable to God, saw Jesus as an ally. But he kept insisting on associating with the wrong sort of people, disreputable women and men, notorious sinners. He brought shame upon himself, and, by extension, on those pharisees who had hosted him. These hierarchies existed in Jewish culture, and in Greco-Roman culture, and were broken down in the church where the barriers between Jews and Gentiles, citizens and slaves, men and women, were removed in the pioneer and perfecter of our faith, who disregarded worldly honour and shame. And who calls us to do likewise. And who brings a great cloud of witnesses to bear witness to the claim.

This is utterly counter-cultural in our own context too. We are steeped in honour-shame culture, expending huge amounts of energy to keep ourselves from shame, and, often, to shame others. If you are of the opinion that it is a mistake to leave the EU, you are a Remoaner. If you believe it is the right thing to do, you are a Little Englander, and a racist. According to many, it is a matter of national shame that Boris Johnson (‘buffoon’) is Prime Minister; while according to many others, the deeper shame would be to see Jeremy Corbyn (‘repulsive little man’) in Number 10.

Greta Thunberg speaks out on the urgent need to address climate change…and is shamed, for being a child, and for being on the Autism Spectrum; for speaking out of turn about things she is ‘too young’ and ‘too autistic’ ‘to possibly understand.’

If you take a stand for equality, you will be targeted by trolls wanting to know when we will see an International Men’s Day (it already exists) or a Straight Pride. If, on the other hand, you have any reservations about any part of the sprawling LGBTQIA+ umbrella, you will increasingly likely fear being publicly shamed as Homophobic. But note this: extremists expertly exploit shame to nurture anger; and, tragically, where more liberal-minded people employ shame as a corrective, this plays into the extremists’ hands. You cannot fight shame with shame.

And it is not just in the contentious issues that honour-shame is at rampant play. The most common lie in our culture is “Fine, thanks.” in response to the question, “How are you?” Women will sometimes use lipstick as a mask, to put their face on. Men tend not to wear lipstick, but are no strangers to wearing a mask in public: it is a shameful thing to let slip any vulnerability in public; an honourable thing to be strong. And suicide is the number one cause of death for men under the age of 50—a cause of action that, ironically, brings shame upon surviving family and friends.

Or, if we dare to put our head above the parapet and admit to struggling with life, you can guarantee that friends will rush to tell us how wonderful we are, and that we must not be so hard on ourselves. It sounds well-meaning, but it betrays a fear that if one person breaks rank, stops playing the “I’m fine” game, we will all lose our hard-fought position of honour as those who are Winning at Life. So, we shut that down, hard.

Wherever we have known shame, Jesus chooses to stand alongside us, to own us as members of his family. Whether it is shame we have brought upon ourselves, and others, or shame that others have poured on us.

You were not made for shame. If you want proof, consider this: that we were all born doubly incontinent, totally dependent on the care of another to feed us and attend to every need; and this is also how we will likely end our life. Yet, dependent on love, we are honoured, by love, in our dependency. We are not made for shame, nor for honour based on our competency, but for love, and for honour based on God’s gracious initiative towards us all. Yet shame has entered-into the universal human experience. It is insidious. It weighs heavy on us, ties us in knots. Slowly, slowly, it makes us forget our God-given dignity.

And yet, Jesus. The author and perfecter of our faith. The one who has disarmed the power shame has over us. The one who calls us his family, now; his mother and sisters and brothers. The one who calls us to sit with him at the right hand of the throne of God. Today, will you hear his voice? Follow his example? Run with perseverance? Today, will you let him set you free, again?

Third Sunday of Trinity 2019

Lectionary reading: Luke 10:1-11, 16-20

The question that I am asked more than any other is this:

How can we get more people to come to church?

It is the wrong question.

The question we ought to be asking, as my friend Keld recently asked me, is:

How many people do we expect to see come to faith in the next six months?

Now, that is a question we tend to shy away from, in the Church of England. It sounds presumptuous. People coming to faith is God’s business, not ours. Okay, leaving aside what Jesus says for a moment, how is God doing? How many people have we seen come to faith in the last six months? Or the six months before that? Indeed, when was the last time that we saw someone come to faith?

Jesus said, ‘The harvest is plentiful, but the labourers are few; therefore, ask the Lord of the harvest to send out labourers into his harvest.’ Indeed, Jesus said this more than once, sending out first twelve more labourers and then seventy-two more (Matthew 9:37-38 and Luke 10:2). He even challenged them that they were in the habit of saying that the harvest was four months away—that is, always just out of reach, never actually arriving—but, in fact, they are to pay attention as he corrects them, declaring that the harvest is ripe now (John 4:35-38). There is always a harvest.

Note that Jesus doesn’t say, pray for a harvest. He says, pray for labourers. And he says that to those who are about to find themselves labourers. It isn’t a division of labour, where some are called to pray, and others are sent to harvest.

I shared some of these thoughts recently, and the question came back:

So how do we do that? How do we bring in a harvest?

How do we see people come to faith?

Well, it just so happens that Jesus has some instructions for just that scenario. Let’s take a look at them.

First, Jesus says, go in pairs. Now, I’m sure we’re all familiar with pairs turning up unannounced on our doorstep, perhaps wanting to speak to us about Jesus, perhaps collecting for Christian Aid Week. And you’ll breathe a sigh of relief to hear that I’m not going to ask you to go door-to-door, or even about the neighbourhood, in pairs. But each of us does go about the neighbourhood, sometimes in pairs, as spouses or good friends, and speak with people we meet. We listen to their stories, their struggles and joys right now. So, if we are moving, and meeting, why not offer to pray, there and then? Just a simple prayer, asking for God’s blessing, in the struggle or the joy. People are more open to that than you might think; and, if they decline, that’s fine too. No need to press them.

Of course, there are also those times when we are on our own. Perhaps much of the time. And that’s okay, too. But even then, I’d encourage you: is there a friend you meet up with regularly for coffee, Or, for those of us who are married, is there a time in the day when we might review our day together? To be accountable to one another about how our labouring is going. Not how busy we are doing things at church or for the community, but, having God-conversations. How might we creatively go in pairs?

Next, Jesus says, look for the person of peace. That is, look out for the person who is open to peace. They’re easy enough to spot, because they stand out from the angry people. Look out for the peacemakers. You see, anyone who is open to peace is evidencing the Holy Spirit already at work in their lives. They are reaping a harvest of peace, they are sowing peace into the lives around them, and they are ripe to know God more fully.

Then, Jesus says, say, the kingdom of God has come near to you. We’re not bringing the kingdom of God, where it was not until we arrived; we’re naming what is already there. We’re celebrating what God is doing in the world, and inviting people to join in. That concern for justice you clearly have, that care for creation, your ability to see the stranger as a person, or to recognise evil in the world, that love you know and share—these are signs that the kingdom of God has come near to you. And that kingdom has a king, and he’d like for you to know him. In fact, he’d like for you to know that you are his daughter, his son; that you are loved, yes, and commissioned. That this king has a purpose for your life, and can empower you to make a difference, for good, in the world.

And then, Jesus says, return with joy. Celebrate the harvest. When we come together as gathered church, tell the stories of where we have seen God at work this week. Joy changes our entire perspective.

This is our 80^th year, at St Nicholas’ and later in the year we will hold a flower festival under the banner 80 fruitful years. But the measure of fruitfulness is not flowers. The measure of fruitfulness is women and men, boys and girls, coming to faith and growing in faith and passing faith on. The flowers are the celebration of fruitfulness.

Allow me to return to the question: How many people do we expect to see come to faith in the next six months? These are, as it happens, the final six months of this decade. How many people do we expect to come to faith by Christmas, as we go out looking for people of peace, proclaiming that the kingdom of God has drawn near, and return here with joy?

It isn’t a rhetorical question. It is a commissioning to the mission field of our parish.

When you came in, you were given two pieces of card. Here is what we are going to do. You need to answer the question, How many people do we expect to see come to faith in the next six months? That will give you a number. I’d like you to write that number on both pieces of card. And then I’d like you to put one of those cards in your pocket or handbag and take it home and put it somewhere where you will see it every day. And I want you to pray that the Lord of the harvest would send you out into his harvest field. If your honest number is 0, God can work with honesty. Pray that your expectation would be exceeded, and that you would be surprised by joy. The other piece of card—on which you have written the same number—I’d like us to collect up in the bowl that will pass around, so that we can know what our expectation is, and how it might grow.

Let us pray: Lord Jesus, send us out, in the power of the Holy Spirit, as labourers in the harvest field, to love and serve you to the glory of God the Father. Amen.

Trinity Sunday 2019

Lectionary readings: Proverbs 8:1-4, 22-31 and Romans 5:1-5 and John 16:12-15

“Therefore, since we are justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have obtained access to this grace in which we stand; and we boast in our hope of sharing the glory of God. And not only that, but we also boast in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us.” Romans 5:1-5

What is God like?

For some, that is an unanswerable question, because there are so many ideas out there that it is impossible to know which is right, or because their experience of the world leads them to conclude that no such being exists. Others tell me that they do believe in God, which interests me: which god, I am curious to find out, do they believe in? What is your god like?

For some, we come face-to-face with our god in the awesome wonder of the physical cosmos—whether our god is the creative King of the Universe, or sheer chance within big-enough probability.

For some, we come face-to-face with our god in the place of suffering. If God is omnipotent and loving, why does he stand by? Is God indifferent, and therefore not loving? Or impotent, and therefore a liability? Or, what?

It strikes me that many of us want, or think we want, an interventionalist God. But what would that look like? I’ve been struck, in this week when the world has remembered the D-Day landings, of the gulf between the rhetoric of the First World War and the testimony of those now-few remaining veterans of the Second World War. The rhetoric of the First World War is all king and country: ‘Your Country Needs You!’ But the veterans of D-Day don’t speak of fighting for king and country: they speak of acting for Europe and our shared freedom, our inextricably linked future. D-Day was an invasion, but it wasn’t an intervention. In contrast, the US invasion of Vietnam or of Iraq were interventions. British colonialism was intervention.

The God I see revealed in the Bible is a god who chooses not to pursue intervention, but who instead chooses to be with us and for us. A god who invades our world to be counted as one of us. To suffer with us, to endure with us, to demonstrate character in the midst of life, to hope alongside us. A god who shares peace and access and glory and love with us.

And this, in contrast with ‘the god of this world,’ whom the Scriptures call the Satan or Accuser, the head of legions that do intervene, promising to bring about an end to suffering by destroying all those who threaten our way of life. Once we are rid of the poor, or the immigrants, the Muslims, the gays—the parasites—we shall be free. Except, of course, we won’t be. For the Nazis in the 1930s and ’40s, the Jews, gypsies, communists and homosexuals were only the soft starting-point for the intended total ‘cleansing’ of the entire population of eastern Europe. Intervention is never satisfied until all are destroyed. No, God does not intervene in the world; God has invaded the world: first becoming one-with-us in the person of Jesus, the divine Word-made-flesh; and then, as we celebrated at Pentecost, by pouring out the Holy Spirit on all flesh.

The doctrine of the Trinity is not a big idea to be more fully understood, or a data set to be more fully interpreted, but a mystery to be more fully entered-into. The mystery of a relational being who goes to extravagant and self-sacrificial lengths to delight in the flourishing of others, to whom they have chosen to be inextricably linked.

This is what we are called into, to experience, to discover what God is like.

Seventh Sunday of Easter 2019

Lectionary reading: Acts 16:16-34

Notes:

There are five functions of human society, as given by God:

move—we are sent into the world, to bless;

listen—hear, O Israel;

share—the gospel, or good news;

care—the Lord is compassionate in nature;

learn—gain wisdom.

[The biblical terms for these five functions are apostolic, prophetic, evangelistic, shepherding, and teaching.]

Every time we gather, every time we reflect on scripture together, we are going to attend to these five functions, in order that we might learn how to live more authentically human lives, as a community of faith.

How does this passage move the story on?

Paul and his companions have planted the first church in Europe, the household of Lydia, whom they had met at the ‘place of prayer’ outside Philippi. Now we see them returning to the place of prayer for many days: probably to meet with Lydia’s network of like-minded friends.

Where do you regularly or habitually go during the week? Who do you meet? Crucially, what do you see?

‘Thy Kingdom Come’ is a call to every Christian to pray every day for ten days for five friends, by name, that they might come to know the love of Jesus, and his call on their lives. Who are your five?

Who speaks? Who listens?

A girl who is a slave, exploited by her owners for their profit. She sees Paul and his companions as also slaves of a god—a higher god than the being who controls her—and as offering a way of salvation. It is a relative gospel: choose the path that works for you. But, in fact, Paul holds out not a way, but the way—the only way—of salvation; and demonstrates it by liberating the girl from captivity.

Her owners also speak, motivated by the loss of hope of making money; and they whip up a crowd into hostility against a scapegoat.

Human trafficking and modern-day slavery are rife, including children forced to grow cannabis or sell drugs in our region. This passage could not be more contemporary or relevant!

Paul and Silas sing hymns in prison—focus on God, not circumstances—and God hears and answers.

The conversation between Paul and the jailer…

Is there any good news to share?

Yes, for the slave girl: freedom from captivity to a demon.

‘More than 200 years after the abolition of the slave trade there are still an estimated 40.3 million men, women and children trapped in modern slavery, and up to 136,000 potential victims in the UK alone.’ theclewerinitiative.org

see the ‘safe car wash’ app from the archbishops’ Council and the Clewer Initiative.

Yes, for the jailer: rescue from suicide—from a twisted honour code.

suicide the number 1 cause of death in men under the age of 50: further info at National Suicide Prevention alliance, nspa.org.uk

Yes, for his household: hope of a change of character?

How is the community nurtured?

The jailer washing Paul and Silas’ wounds; bringing them into his household; eating together. Reminiscent of the Last Supper. ‘New family’ formed around a shared meal. A second household of faith now planted in Philippi, building the church there.

How does this passage connect with what we already know?

It connects with Luke 4:18-19—Jesus’ ‘manifesto’—which in turn connects with Isaiah 61:1-2ff. “the Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight o the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favour.” What might that look like in our parish?

Change of pattern of worship at St Nicholas’: second and fifth Sundays of the month to be more participative, built around listening to one another in relation to these five functions.