Second Sunday before Advent 2019

Lectionary reading: 2 Thessalonians 3:6-13

I want, this morning, to focus on the passage we heard read from Paul’s letter to the church in Thessalonica. It sounds, at first hearing, not dissimilar to an editorial you might read in one of our tabloid papers, not least in the midst of a General Election campaign: “Tax-payers’ money should not be spent propping up the lifestyle of those too idle to work! They deserve to go hungry!” But that is not what Paul is saying. We need to put in a little work of our own, if we are to be nourished as we gather around the table of our Lord.

Paul commands those he loves to keep away from believers who are living in idleness. The Greek translated living in idleness literally means walking in a disorderly manner. Not sitting around doing nothing, but walking around aimlessly. And in making a command, Paul is calling them from disorder to order. To walk, as one. The primary metaphor for being church here is one of pilgrimage.

And that is very interesting. The north east, where we live, is known for its saints and its pilgrimage routes. Look around. The lower windows along the north side of the nave depict four northern saints: Columba, Aidan, Bede, and Hild. The upper windows along the north and south sides of the nave depict, in sixteen images, the life of faith as a pilgrimage, begin in baptism and completed with the saints in heaven. The metaphor of pilgrimage is literally all around us. And for every church that makes up Durham Diocese, the coming year has been designated as a year of pilgrimage. Of setting out on a journey together, not knowing what we will experience, or discover, and discover about ourselves, along the way.

And as we contemplate that year of pilgrimage, our text today calls us to walk in an orderly manner. Together. Keeping one another company. At a slow pace. Indeed, Paul makes a point of challenging busybodies, literally those who overdo or waste their labour by running all around, meddling in this or that. Such people, Paul advises, should not be left unchallenged, or else they will consume all there is to eat, all that God has provided. You see, the busybody gets under foot, robbing other people of the opportunity to contribute according to their own skill, or, indeed, of the opportunity to discern calling and develop competency.

I’m a dreadful busybody when it comes to the dishwasher. No one else loads it correctly, and we’ve all learnt that it is easiest just to leave it to me. Easiest, but not necessarily best, for anyone. And there are plenty of busybodies in this congregation. I know, because there are plenty of busybodies in every congregation. But Paul calls us back to order, insisting that each one has a part to play, and should be able to get on with playing it.

But this brings us back to the metaphor of an orderly and shared common walk, a pilgrimage. Where we follow, together, in the footsteps of those who have gone before us. Columba, and Aidan, and Bede, and Hild, and the other saints, nearer in time to us, whose names adorn the other windows. Men, women, and children of faith, many of you remember.

And so, I would like to invite you to join with me in a year of pilgrimage. What might that look like, in practice? Let me offer three ways to take part.

Firstly, for those of you who enjoy a long walk, new Northern Saints Trails—the Way of Light, the Way of Life, the Way of Love, and the Way of Learning—are being launched, each converging on Durham cathedral. The Way of Learning will pass through Sunderland. Some of us might make a physical pilgrimage to the cathedral, on foot or taking transport to Durham and joining us there.

Secondly, we might make more of our own pilgrim way, opening this building more often during the week, inviting our friends and neighbours to come and enjoy the gift of journeying together. I know, from listening to several of you, that in the challenges of life you have found great support within this pilgrim people. Our neighbours have just as many challenges. Let’s make the most of what we’ve been given in this place, and this congregation, to connect with spiritual seekers.

Thirdly, I want to commend to you the Pilgrim course, an Anglican catechism that covers the terrain of our faith in a number of six-week-long sections. My intention is to be here on Tuesdays 2.00-3.00 p.m. and again 7.00-8.00 p.m. to cover the Creeds, the Lord’s Prayer, the Commandments, and the Beatitudes, reading and reflecting on passages of scripture together. Life is a journey, rooted in the Christian story even if the story has become increasingly unfamiliar to us. Join me as we renew ancient paths in our day.

Remembrance Sunday 2019

Lectionary readings: 2 Thessalonians 2:1-5, 13-17 and Luke 20:27-38

Lest we forget, they say, as we come together each year to lay wreaths and give thanks for those who laid down their lives for us and to commit ourselves to live as peacemakers in a violent world. Lest we forget, the old hand down to the young. Which is not a million miles removed from Paul’s injunction to the early community of Christians in Thessalonica, ‘stand firm and hold fast to the traditions that you were taught by us’...

Those words come from a letter written to a community made up of Jews and Gentiles, of former enemies now reconciled in Christ. A letter written by Paul and Silvanus and Timothy: a Jew, a Gentile, and the child of a mixed marriage. A letter that begins, ‘Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.’ The word ‘grace’ takes the common Gentile greeting, a salutation that you might find favour from the gods, and gives it a new twist: favour, from the Jewish creator god. The word ‘peace’ takes the common Jewish greeting, the invocation of rest from fear so essential for human flourishing, and gives it a new twist: rest from fear, because in Christ enemies have become friends.

A Gentile greeting and a Jewish greeting, brought together, both transformed. A new tradition, established.

And the amazing thing was the context. The Jews and their neighbours had always been enemies. Within the lifetime of the people who wrote, and received, this letter, the First Jewish Roman War broke out, as Judea tried and failed to declare independence from the Roman empire, resulting in the destruction of Jerusalem.

In other words, the focus of this letter was, how can we experience favour in profoundly unfavourable circumstances, and rest from fear in the very midst of fearful times?

For, to paraphrase Jesus’ response to the Sadducees, it has far less to do with God as insurance for after we die, and far more to do with whether or not we walk with God in this life.

There is a contrast between the man of lawlessness, the world leader who opposes and exalts himself above all else—Trump and Putin, and, dare I say it, political leaders closer to home who claim to be the one who will restore our place as the greatest nation on earth—a contrast between such warmongers and Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, who lived their whole lives as gers, that is well-respected resident aliens, whose presence in a host culture was seen as a blessing.

As we seek to learn from God’s word, and from our own past in the light of God’s word, lest we forget what we need to remember to live well in the present moment, what might we emphasise? Firstly, we need to recognise the violence in our own society, the deep and partisan divisions between the old and the young, Brexiters and Remainers, England and the rest of the United Kingdom. Then, we must insist on what we say we agree on, that we are leaving the EU, not turning our back on Europe and our European neighbours. And so, in the Church, we must proactively seek ways of bringing enemies together, of seeing and affirming good in what those we disagree with value, and of being open to being transformed by the experience. We will need grace and peace for this. The good news is that the favour and rest from fear we so desperately need are already ours, if we will receive them.

Furthermore, we must speak out against hate speech, and xenophobia; we must affirm and honour the resident aliens living among us, both EU citizens and those from further afield, recognising that they are a blessing to us and not a threat. We are all strangers in a strange land; we are all children of God. We must pursue active partnerships that model what salvation looks like, such as the link between Durham Diocese and the Lutheran Nordkirche. Over the past days, we have joined in consultation, learning from one another about how we might better engage with children and families; and we are honoured to have Pastor Björn Begas, who has been staying with us at the vicarage, with us today.

You see, God does not give us grace and favour as abstract ideas or warm feelings, but in the form of flesh-and-blood as we truly welcome one another. This is how we can experience favour in profoundly unfavourable circumstances, and rest from fear in the very midst of fearful times. This is the way of life we recommit ourselves to afresh today, even laying down our lives for others. Lest we forget. Amen.

All Saints & All Souls

Sunday 3 November 2019

Lectionary readings: Daniel 7:1-3, 15-18 and Ephesians 1:11-23 and Luke 6:20-31

This weekend we mark both All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day, or the Commemoration of the faithful departed. All Saints’ Day is the day when we remember all those who have walked with God before us, in every time and place. Some are so famous, we know them by name: Saint Francis, for example, or St Theresa. But the overwhelming majority, we cannot identify. In the course of the redevelopment of Town Green taking place at the moment, five bodies were unearthed. We have no way of identifying them, buried as they were in a time of communal and unmarked parish graves (if you were considered important enough, a plaque inside the church will record your name and the words, the grave is near) and so we reinterred them, respectfully, with prayers; because part of what we remember on All Saints’ Day is the reality that being human is bigger than even our collective memory. Being human is rooted in God, who knows us better than we know ourselves.

All Souls’ Day is the day when we remember those we knew, who have gone ahead of us. In the Roman Catholic tradition, it is a remembrance of those in purgatory, the Church penitent, those being purified for heaven. Officially, the Church of England rejects the notion of purgatory (see the Articles of Religion, number XXII) but there is something to be understood in the process of entrusting those we love to God, a process that is not done-and-dusted at the funeral service. And so this evening we will remember people before God, reading out their names and lighting a candle for each one, as we recognise the in-between space that needs to be navigated between this life and no longer remembered by anyone except the God who holds us safe until the resurrection.

I’m reading a novel at the moment, set in a sheltered housing community, in which the primary narrator is being disempowered by the staff (however well-meaning) and empowered by two friends. It is a fascinating exploration of our sense of self. And there are at least three selves we possess.

Self 1 is first-person self-awareness, the awareness that I exist in the world, that I am not you nor the world, that I experience the world in this present moment from my own perspective. This has begun to take shape before our first birthday, and we never lose it. Even if I cannot remember my name, or know where I am, or put a name to your face, we never lose this sense of self.

Self 2 relates to our attributes, and our opinions attached to those attributes; to our biographies, and our beliefs attached to them. I have brown hair, but am jealous of my peers who are already silver foxes. I am a husband, a father, a vicar of sorts. I am a Christian, a member of the church. Self 2 changes over the course of our lives: for twenty-three years, I was not a husband, and for twenty-three years, I have been. Self 2 changes when we marry, when we divorce, when we are widowed; when we are promoted at work, or made redundant, or retire; when we take a chance to fulfil a dream we long thought was beyond us, and when we realise that in chasing one dream we have missed out on something that mattered more to us. Self 2 changes, sometimes incrementally, sometimes suddenly, but we carry all of our previous Self 2s with us. Self 2 is storied: when we recall the past, it is not factual recall, but the crafting of an edited story that helps (and sometimes hinders) us in the present. And Self 2 is also impacted by those things we have pushed away into the corners of the room of our life, and try to ignore. Sometimes who we are is hidden from ourselves by the stories we tell and the memories we push away, even when we believe we know exactly who we are, for now.

Self 3 is and can only constructed with others. You can train to be a teacher, but you can’t be a teacher without pupils who recognise you. You can decide to be a good friend, but you cannot be a good friend without people who recognise you as such. As we get older, Self 3 can run into difficulties. Those who have known us well become fewer, as colleagues retire, as siblings die. We may find ourselves surrounded by those who do not know our history, nursing home staff who only see a little old woman struggling to adjust to changes to Self 2. A retired headmistress, frustrated by certain losses, further frustrated at being treated like a wilfully ignorant child. Elder isolation is as damaging to us as a lifetime of cigarettes. Self 3 is where the church has such a key role to play, as a community in the world, but also as a community that stretches beyond the present through All Souls to All Saints.

It is revealed to Daniel that empires rise, and empires fall, but that ‘the holy ones of the Most High shall receive the kingdom and possess the kingdom for ever.’ Paul writes of this kingdom to the saints in Ephesus, as participating in ‘the riches of [Christ’s] glorious inheritance among the saints.’ And in our Gospel reading, Jesus declares the contours of this kingdom, of this inheritance, where the experience of weakness opens up a state of blessed union with God that the powerful can neither imagine nor know.

The world sees progression from the peak of achievement, of fame, of influence, to the unravelling of these things that begins in old age and continues through our dying and, eventually, the death of everyone who knew us or even knew of us, as tragedy. As failure and injustice. For if our identity depends on Self 2—‘I think, therefore I am’—and my thinking is compromised, I am being erased. If our identity depends on a Self 3 self that is determined solely by other humans, who are themselves being erased, then, as what you think of me is compromised, I am being further erased, until we are forgotten.

But for the Christian, this is not how we see things. The Church tells another story. Our various traditions differ in the details, but we share one common hope. We dare to believe, together, that God has given us a spirit of wisdom and revelation, has opened the eyes of our heart, so that we can know that our identity is found in union with Christ and in the ongoing and immeasurably great power of God acting for us: to remember us, to raise Christ for us and set him over all things for us, to express the fullness of Life in and through us. We are moving from death to life; from independence from God to union with God. We are not being erased, but being saved by the grace of God.

This gives us great freedom, not only to not fear the process before us, but to support those who desperately fight against the ways in which God and nature and time and eternity conspire to save us from ourselves. This also has very practical implications for how we love one another, and love our neighbour as ourselves, as we, and they, have the layers we have built up stripped away. We are discovering this more and more together, often over food and in the guise of idle gossip that steps back and forth between the present and the past, and it is a gift. And these annual All Saints’ and All Souls’ Days remind us of the hope at the heart of our faith. So come, and share in Communion, in the communion of saints, in the body of Christ, in the hope of glory. Come, and receive sustenance for body and soul. Come, and find yourself, once again, remembered alongside your sisters and brothers in Christ. Come.

Eighteenth Sunday after Trinity 2019

Lectionary readings: Genesis 32:22-31 and 2 Timothy 3:14-4:5 and Luke 18:1-8

‘...be persistent whether the time is favourable or unfavourable; convince, rebuke, and encourage...’

‘Then Jesus told them a parable about their need to pray always and not to lose heart.’

The whole of torah, of biblical instruction for living, is expressed in the command that we should love the Lord our God with all of our heart (your ability to choose for yourself) and all of our mind (your ability to train thoughts and feelings) and all of our strength (your ability to act on your choices) and all of our soul (your deepest, truest being); and love our neighbour as ourselves. Everything else is commentary. But chief among the commentary is the repeated instruction to care for the widow, the orphan, and the alien living in our midst; the most vulnerable, who lack or risk losing a stake in the outworking of God’s promises.

And so, the parable Jesus tells in today’s Gospel reading is quite bleak. For here is a widow, who has an opponent; someone who, therefore, opposes the will of God. Moreover, the person appointed and recognised by the community to arbitrate between them is a man who not only does not actively love God or his neighbours; he does not care; indeed, he takes pride in his self-centredness. Note that by virtue of his position he represents an entire community that puts self-interest before justice. Yet this man, who embodies power, is bested by a woman who embodies powerlessness [in the Greek, though lost in translation into English, he is worried that she will give him a (very visible) black-eye]. And yet, Jesus asks, when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?

Have you ever wrestled with unanswered prayer? With why a God who, it is claimed, is perfect in love and power, stands by in the face of injustice?

Jacob was a wrestler. Before he was born, he wrestled with his twin brother in their mother’s womb. Esau was born first, with Jacob following, grasping his heel. Indeed, the name ‘Jacob’ means, ‘to grasp the heel.’ His whole life was defined by wrestling, with being unable to let go, unable to accept what had been given to him and what had been given to others. He cheated his brother out of the first-born’s birth-right, and ran away. He sets his sights on his cousin, his uncle’s younger daughter; but is cheated by his uncle, and ends up paying for two brides, two sisters drawn into his wrestling. They become opponents; seek to cheat in order to gain the advantage, to get what they want. Rachel is loved, but barren; Leah, unloved, and so God gives her sons. Rachel responds by exploiting one woman, her maid Bilhah, in order to hurt another woman, her sister. When Bilhah bears Jacob a son, Rachel declares, ‘God has judged in my favour, has vindicated me.’ (Really?) When Bilhah bears Jacob a second son, Rachel declares, ‘With mighty wrestlings I have wrestled with my sister, and have prevailed’ (Genesis 30:1-8). (Does that sound at all familiar?)

Eventually, Jacob has a large family, by four women, and, having cheated his uncle to wrestle great wealth from him, runs away again. He is met by the angels of God, those beings whom he had seen ascending and descending between earth and heaven years earlier, when God had promised to keep him and bring him back; and from there, he hopes to be reconciled with his brother. And on the eve of their reunion, Jacob finds himself alone, and confronted by a stranger. They wrestle all night, until the sun is about to break over the eastern horizon. Then, to break the stalemate, the stranger strikes Jacob’s hip socket with a major blow, and, as he continues to wrestle, the hip joint is dislocated, with permanent damage to muscle, ligaments, and nerves. But still, Jacob will not let go, unless the stranger first blesses him.

Of course, a blessing is a letting go, a setting free to be what you were made to be. Jacob will not let go of the stranger, until the stranger lets go of him. And the stranger’s blessing is a strange one; for he says, You shall no longer be called Jacob, but Israel; no longer ‘the wrestler who grasps the heel,’ but, ‘the wrestler who has wrestled with gods and humans, and has prevailed;’ has shown yourself to be able, to have power. In other words, the new name is not a new identity, but a fulfilment of his identity. Jacob’s wrestling is not over: in many ways, it has only just begun. His greatest challenges lie ahead of him. He’ll still get things wrong, but he’ll never again run away.

What, then, might we say regarding our need to pray always and not to lose heart?

First, that God’s will is resisted and opposed. That is, after all, why Jesus tells us to pray that God’s will should be done on earth as in heaven. Yet, as we pray and wait, we hold on to the truth that God remains on the side of justice until justice is accomplished. As we speak truth to power, we draw on God’s strength. As we refuse to give up in the face of hard-hearted self-interest, our own hearts need to remain soft and warm, and so we must draw on God’s love. And when it feels too hard, and God too distant—as will be our experience many times—we need to stand together; so that the Son of Man—that image of the faithful remnant, the community constituted around Jesus, the Body of Christ—will, together, find faith on earth, alive and active in the world.

Second, sometimes our will is not as fully aligned with God’s will as we like to think. We deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us. We seek, like Jacob and like Rachel, to bend the world towards us at the centre. Sometimes the wrestling in prayer confronts us with this until we cannot ignore it. Sometimes the wrestling in prayer brings us to a point of breakthrough, where God asks us to let go of whatever vindication we have been holding on to, and where we find ourselves willing to do so if God will only bless us first—and then, at last, God is able to do so, setting us free to be our fulfilled self.

Third, the wrestling makes us able, powerful. Unless we wrestle, we remain unskilled, unable to prevail. But each wrestling match prepares us for the bigger challenges that lie ahead. And, sometimes, redeems the sense of failure, the pain of past defeats. We hear in Genesis that the Lord God made us by breathing life into clay. Sometimes the wrestling is ongoing new creation, the laboured breath of a wrestling god breathed-out into clay being remoulded in his hands. You might look like a little old lady on the outside, but be a mighty warrior in the kingdom of God. But that comes with the discipline of repeated effort—which is why Paul writes to Timothy, start young, get into the habit: wrestle to convince, to rebuke, to encourage, when it is going well and when it isn’t. This is a life-long calling; and often, it is as our outer lives are diminishing that our inner lives break out in power.

As you wrestle for climate and environmental justice, as you wrestle for welfare justice and tax justice, as you wrestle for a future for your children and grandchildren—as you wrestle for God’s kingdom to come on earth as in heaven—let us pray always and not lose heart. Amen!

St Michael & All Angels

Lectionary readings: Genesis 28:10-17 and John 1:47-51

When John wrote his Gospel, he was an elderly man, bishop of Ephesus. The other Gospels were already in circulation, and he wrote because, reliable though they were, the full story hadn’t been told. To be fair, John himself ends saying that the world isn’t big enough to hold all the books that would be needed if the full story was told, but there were nonetheless some things he needed to add. One of the things this twinkly old gentleman adds is a great deal of playfulness on Jesus’ part. Another is that, whereas Mark and Matthew and Luke focus on scribes and Pharisees who essentially troll Jesus, John presents us with several characters who can hold their own in conversation with Jesus, something Jesus seems to really appreciate.

One such encounter is that between Jesus and Nathanael. Now, Nathanael has just been told by Philip that he, and Andrew, and Peter, think they have found the promised Messiah, Jesus, from Nazareth. And Nathanael responds, ‘Can anything good come from Nazareth?’ to which Philip replies, ‘Come and see.’

Nathanael does; and as he approaches, Jesus turns to those with him and says, of Nathanael, ‘Here is truly an Israelite in whom there is no deceit’ to which Nathanael responds, ‘Err, have we met?’

Jesus answers him, ‘I saw you under the fig tree before Philip called you.’ And this is where the playfulness starts. You see, Jesus is throwing out an image that would be familiar to Nathanael. To sit under your own fig tree is, in the Hebrew scriptures, a symbol of living in peace. Of its various references, the key ones are from the prophets Micah—‘but they shall all sit under their own vines and under their own fig trees, and no one shall make them afraid; for the mouth of the Lord of hosts has spoken’—and Zechariah—‘you shall invite each other to come under your vine and fig tree’.

In Micah chapter 4, a vision is presented of the peoples going up the mountain of the Lord to be taught by him his ways and to walk in his paths, and of instruction going forth from the Lord from Jerusalem to the surrounding nations. It is, in other words, a vision of ascending to and descending from God. A divine staircase.

Moreover, this leads on to chapter 5, in which we find first a promise of a ruler over Israel, from Bethlehem (a playful nod by John to Jesus’ birth, that addresses Nathanael’s misgivings about Nazareth), whose origin is from ancient days; and then a vision concerning the remnant of Jacob, through whom God will judge the nations, removing the means of violence, and idolatry.

Then, in Zechariah chapter 3, we have a vision of Joshua the high priest (in the second temple, the one built after the return from exile; it was later desecrated by the Greeks; the temple in Jesus’ time was the third temple, which was, in turn, destroyed by the Romans). Joshua is accused by Satan, but vindicated by the Lord, rescued as from death, restored, dressed in bright apparel. He is promised that he will rule the Lord’s house; and is given the promise that the Lord will send a servant, imagined as ‘the Branch,’ through whom God will remove the guilt of the nation in a single day, on which ‘you shall invite each other to come under your vine and fig tree’. In chapter 6, the Branch is revealed to be Joshua, and is crowned as royal ruler placed by the Lord on his throne.  (Joshua and Jesus are the same name, in Hebrew and in Greek; and Joshua the high priest is a ‘type’ who pre-figures Jesus.)

When Jesus says, ‘I saw you under the fig tree before Philip called you’ and Nathanael responds, ‘Rabbi, you are the Son of God! You are the King of Israel!’ Jesus is saying, ‘Micah chapter 4! Zechariah chapter 3!’ and Nathanael is responding, ‘Micah chapter 5! Zechariah chapter 6!’ (It may even be that, prompted by the branches overhead, Nathanael had been contemplating this very passage of scripture as he sat under the fig tree.)

Jesus goes on, this is only the beginning. ‘Very truly, I tell you, you will see heaven opened and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of Man.’ The playfulness continues. Jesus is clearly referencing Jacob’s dream, in Genesis 28:10-17, in which the house of God is identified, and God promises to bless all the families of the earth in Jacob and his offspring. But he is also still in Micah. Moreover, the Son of Man is a term Jesus takes from two other prophets, Daniel and Ezekiel where (especially in Daniel chapter 7) it refers to a faithful and restored community. That is, ‘Son of Man’ is coterminous with ‘remnant of Jacob’...but—yet more playfulness—whereas Jacob (whose name means ‘to seize by the heal) was a trickster, Nathaniel (whose name means, ‘God has given’) is ‘truly an Israelite in whom there is no deceit’.

In short, in this playful and personalised exchange, Jesus is inviting Nathanael to be part of the remnant, constituted around Jesus himself, in whom both Jacob’s dream and Micah’s vision will be (at least partially) fulfilled. Inviting him to be an ‘angel’—a messenger for God, a go-between between the nations of earth and the house of the God of Jacob.

But what has any of this to say to us?

Firstly, be like Jesus, and Nathanael. Get to know the Old Testament. Meditate on it. Soak your bones in it. Familiarise yourself with the promises of God you find there, and especially any promises that speak to your spirit in such a way that you respond, ‘Yes, I want to be part of the people who see those days!’ Find Jesus in those pages, the Word hidden in the word, waiting to become flesh.

Then pray them, hold on to them; even when, especially when, the gap between what we see in the world around us and what God wills to be done is a gulf. When, like Jacob, we are running away. Pray for that day when all will sit under their own fig trees, and no one shall make them afraid. Intercede for justice, for cessation of hostility, for the flourishing of dignity in a society where each has as each needs; pray against fear, against fear of the other, of scarcity, of whatever makes us afraid and causes people to act from a place of fear rather than a place of security.

And then, share, invite others into the story. Philip invited Nathanael to ‘Come and see,’ and then Jesus invited Nathanael to ‘see greater things than these,’ to ‘see heaven opened...’ It is an ongoing thing, an unfolding reality we inhabit together. In those ‘putting the world to rights’ conversations everyone seems to love so much, take opportunities to share God’s wisdom, to be an angel carrying concerns to God and messages from God.

And when you have done all that, keep doing it. Don’t give up. We meet Nathanael in the very first chapter of John’s Gospel, and he is there in the last chapter also (John 21:2), still witnessing to an open heaven.

Fourteenth Sunday after Trinity, 22 September 2019

Lectionary readings: Amos 8:4-7 and 1 Timothy 2:1-7 and Luke 16:1-13

Once upon a time there was a king, who was famed throughout the world for both his wisdom and his riches. No-one had ever seen anything like the days of Solomon before. But the king died, and his son came to the throne, and the people sent a delegation complaining that, for all his great reputation, the old king had exploited his people harshly. They hoped to see a different kind of wisdom, a more equitable sharing of blessing. But their hopes were dashed. The nation was torn in two. Surely, now, at least in the north with its new capital, Samaria, a fairer society would be built out of the rubble.

Sadly, it wasn’t to be. In Samaria, just as in Jerusalem, the rich turned their back on the LORD and exploited the poor. And so, the LORD sent prophets to call them to repent. One such prophet was Amos, sent to Samaria, to speak out against the complacency and self-centredness of the elite, who devoured the poor to fill their own bellies, and discarded whatever was left like so much chaff. Unless they repented, they themselves would be swept away. They refused to repent. Enter, Assyria.

Or take Haggai, whom we have been reading over recent days at Morning Prayer. Through Haggai, the word of the LORD came to those who had returned to Jerusalem from exile. But even that shaking had not taught them the lesson. The wealthy elite were back, had re-established themselves in panelled houses, while the house of the LORD lay in ruins. And so, the LORD censures them. When they come to their inventories, they expect to find twenty measures, but find only ten; they expect to draw fifty measures, but draw only twenty. Moreover, the LORD is about to shake the heavens and the earth; and will establish Zerubbabel, the governor, as his signet ring.

Generations later, Jesus stands in this same prophetic tradition, sent by God to call the people to repentance and to establish an equitable society that shines like a light to the surrounding nations.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus tells a parable, a story that is meant to disturb us, to make us question everything we think we know. The backdrop to this parable is a heightened confrontation with a group of Pharisees, who saw themselves as righteous before God and neighbour; and as wise interpreters of Torah, of the instruction given through Moses for the good society; and who enjoyed the material benefits befitting such persons.

In the parable, we meet a rich man and the manager of his household. And I want to suggest to you that we see the rich man as representing the nation and in particular the wealthy elite. For those of us who have been around church for a long time, it is tempting to assume that when we come across a rich man in parables, it must refer to God; but I want to suggest that that is problematic, especially given that in this parable Jesus repeatedly underlines that the wealth in question is the wealth of injustice, and draws an explicit incompatibility between such wealth and God.

Moreover, I want to suggest that we see Jesus as speaking of himself as the manager over the household. That is, as the one appointed manager over the household of Israel.

Now, charges were brought against the manager that he was squandering his master’s property. He has been subverting the rich man’s practice of hoarding for himself, at the expense of the poor. And the rich man demands that the manager gives an account of his actions.

The manager knows that he has been rejected. And so, he goes about the intention of being welcomed as manager over another household. He does so by writing-down the debts owed to the rich man. When he will go through the records, he will expect to find that he is owed a hundred jugs of oil, but will find that he is owed only fifty; he will expect to find that he is owed a hundred containers of wheat, but will find that he is only owed eighty. His ill-gotten gain is disappearing before his eyes.

Now, you need to imagine that Jesus is seated between his disciples and the Pharisees, and, in the hearing of the Pharisees, is instructing his disciples that they are not to be like them. But he is also pleading for any Pharisee who has ears to hear, to hear and repent. So, in the parable, the rich man does just that. He sees that the manager has acted against exploitation, and he praises him. Instead of a public dismissal, he is publicly commended.

Jesus continues, saying that those who claim to be the sons of light, a term that was in circulation with some currency as a way of claiming to be righteous in an unjust world, were not as wise as they made out. And so, it proves, when, far from repenting, the Pharisees ridicule him. Jesus, however, instructs his disciples to be like the manager, who subverts wealth, who subverts the injustice of wealth, to make friends with the poor, with those who will welcome us into what he calls the age-long tabernacle. That is, the enduring symbol of God’s presence in the midst of God’s people—whether the temple stands or not.

And then Jesus says that our attitude towards money reveals our attitude towards true riches.

The currency of maturity is forgiveness. Those who welcome Jesus into their lives as the manager of their household, over all their affairs, financial and otherwise, are those who know that their debts have been written-down, and written-down again, until they are written-off. But they also know that the debts they hold against others will be written-down and written-off: for that is the modus operandi of this manager. The one who taught his disciples to pray: ‘And forgive us our sins, for we ourselves forgive everyone indebted to us’ (Luke 11:4a). If you would be forgiven, you must also forgive.

Some thirty years after the elite conspired with the authorities to have Jesus executed, Paul wrote to Timothy urging that the new household of God, the church, ought to pray, for everyone, and for kings and all those in high positions. As in the times of Amos, and Haggai, and Jesus, and Paul, so in every age (and whether we remain in the EU or leave the EU) the rich exploit the poor, and those who have much exploit those who have little. And we are to subvert this, even though it cost us our reputation, even though we are ridiculed. But we are to do so, not as revolutionaries; but, rather, in the hope that all might be saved. The rich and the poor. The elite and the commoner. In hope, despite all evidence to the contrary, of the possibility of a more just world.

Where do our prayers begin? Praying with Jesus, the one mediator between God and humankind, who gave himself a ransom for all: Father, forgive. Father, forgive them.

Thirteenth Sunday after Trinity 2019

Lectionary readings: 1 Timothy 1:12-17 and Luke 15:1-10

[a sermon that I wrote but did not deliver]

The other day, I was having a coffee with my friend Steve, who was visiting Durham from New Zealand. I wanted to ask him about some research he had been doing on craftivism. Craftivism is the act of making craft, that is traditional domestic manufacturing, with the purpose of making the world a better place. One example would be knitting circles making hats for premature babies. In particular, Steve had been looking at the impact of Christmas Angels. You might have heard of Christmas Angels, or even come across one. They are knitted angels, that are left around the neighbourhood to be found, in an act sometimes called ‘yarn bombing.’ They have a tag, with a little message of blessing, an invitation to participate in the process, and social media tag to allow people to share their experience. People have responded with messages like, “I found this angel on my street, and took it to a friend who is going through a hard time. Thank you!”

Analysing hundreds of messages, Steve had noted four themes: [1] the significance of finding and being found; [2] a joy associated with that, and the need to share that joy with others; [3] a precise sense of place, where this happened; and [4] layers of creative interaction between makers and finders.

There is something of this going on in our Gospel reading today. Tax-collectors and sinners were finding Jesus, were finding a welcome in Jesus. They couldn’t keep it to themselves. One would bring a friend, until they were all coming. All those trying to get by. All those who had been made to feel unworthy by their neighbours. All coming to the table for a joyful celebration.

When the respectable people expressed their disapproval, Jesus told them stories. Of a man who lost one sheep in a hundred. Of a woman who lost one coin, of ten. Of a person who had become acutely aware that, for all they had, something was missing, life was incomplete. And so, they went searching, until they found what they were looking for, and when they did, they threw a party.

The first thing we might note is the significance of finding and being found. As Paul writes to Timothy, ‘Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.’ But he came, for the most part, hiding in plain sight, out in the neighbourhood, waiting to be found. And when people found Jesus—the lost sheep, the lost coin—and called all their friends to join in their rejoicing, they came to discover that they were the ones who had been found; and in inviting Jesus to their table, they found themselves invited by Jesus to God’s table.

The next thing we might note is the joy associated with being found, and the need to share that joy with others. We hear that joy as we listen-in on Paul writing to his young friend Timothy. He can’t keep it to himself. Neither could the tax-collectors and the sinners, and the angels in heaven!

We might note, too, a precise sense of place. For Paul, it is about an encounter with Jesus on the road to Damascus, an event in which he received mercy, and the grace of our Lord overflowed for him with the faith and love that are in Christ Jesus. For the tax-collectors and the sinners, Luke tells us that they were coming near to listen to Jesus. We can imagine one asking another, ‘Where were you when you first heard, when you first saw for yourself, when you first met Jesus?’ The irony is that Jesus also welcomed and ate with Pharisees and scribes, but instead of joy they responded with grumbling. You can be there, and miss it.

And, lastly, we might note the layers of creative interaction going on. Yes, as Paul puts it, ‘Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.’ But, again and again, it is the people who find Jesus who call their friends and neighbours to be found. Jesus is the lost sheep…and the shepherd; the coin…and the woman. The tax-collectors and sinners—and, potentially, the Pharisees and scribes—are the searching shepherd who becomes a found sheep; the woman, frantic and relieved, who becomes a found coin. And round and round it goes, in an ever-expanding cycle. Paul receives mercy, and all that overflows to him overflows through him.

The day before yesterday was the eightieth anniversary of this church [St Nicholas’ Bishopwearmouth]. Today, we celebrate eighty years of men and women, girls and boys, who have found Jesus and found themselves found by Jesus, in this neighbourhood; caught up in a joy they can’t help but share. Perhaps you have never known that for yourself. Perhaps today is the day you do.