Ash Wednesday 2020

Lectionary reading: Joel 2:1-2, 12-17

One of the reasons that I enjoy watching Call the Midwife is that it is one of those rare programmes that takes seriously sin and the need for confession, absolution — the reassurance of God’s forgiveness — and the grace of the indwelling Holy Spirit empowering us to make amends and enter deeper into life.

In a recent episode, we met two sisters. The younger sister is blind, and expecting her first baby. She fears that, unless she and her husband can prove that they can look after the baby without any additional support, Social Services will take her child away from them. And she is consumed by a fierce pride that cuts her off from the help she needs. The more she resists, the more she leans into the false promise, the more likely she makes it that Social services will, indeed, take her child.

Meanwhile, her older sister must learn that, with appropriate support, her sister is more than capable of looking after a baby. Moreover, she must face her own sin. Despite longing for a child of her own, she has been using the pill to prevent herself from falling pregnant, for fear that the child might also be blind — this blindness is hereditary — and that, having raised her blind sister she might have to go through it all again. To be clear, the use of contraception is not, in itself, a sin; but capitulation to fear is — as, indeed, is capitulation to envy.

As the story unfolds, both sisters acknowledge their sin, are reconciled, and step into an unknown future without fear. There is deep wisdom at work here, the mystery of life.

Today is the start of Lent, the forty-day observance that sees us step into the forty days and nights Jesus spent in the wilderness. He, in turn, follows in the footsteps of Moses, who spent forty days and nights on Mount Sinai. Moses ascended Sinai several times to meet with God, whose presence descended on the mountain in thick darkness. A darkness that had nothing to do with nightfall, and everything to do with grace: a simultaneous revelation and concealment of God, who longs to be known by those who cannot see his face and live.

The time Moses spent forty days and nights on the mountain, in constant darkness, was when God was instructing him about how to build and furnish the tabernacle, the place of God’s presence not at a distance but in the very midst of the people, of their lives, from the cradle to the grave. These things are learnt in the dark.

The book of the prophet Joel we read from today concerns the descent upon the land of a plague of locusts so beyond number that it blacks out the sun. Gloom and a thick, perpetually moving, wing-filled, darkness. The worst thing imaginable for an agrarian society. And yet, even here, says Joel, we might meet God, simultaneously hidden and made known in such an event. Even here, we might experience Yahweh as the merciful and compassionate one, faithful in loving kindness; eventually visiting consequence on sin, but relenting from annihilation. Who knows but that such a God might even himself provide the means for sacrifice — the gift of thankfulness — when the land is unable to offer anything up?

And what of us? What darkness haunts your horizon? For many people I know these days, it is the relentless march of dementia, eventually devouring all in its path. And yet, even here, it is possible to encounter God, the god who is merciful and compassionate, forgiving and sustaining. For others, it is something else; but for each one of us it is there, if, as yet, half-seen from the corner of our eye, vanishing when we turn to confront it. And the temptation is always to hide — whether in pride or envy; whether in youth or experience or status or celebration; or even in the ritual of the Church. Yet the invitation is to acknowledge our frailty and fall into the outstretched arms of love.

In one scene, the midwife is teaching the blind expectant mother how to wash her baby, using a doll. As she enters the bathroom, the young mum reaches out her arm in search of a chair; but the midwife has moved it, in order to make it easier for the woman to get to the bath while carrying her baby. In fact, it has the opposite effect: the chair is not an obstacle but a familiar landmark making navigation possible, and must be returned to its place immediately. Well-meaning help is not enough: listening, understanding, wisdom is required.

There is no shortage of advice as to how to live your life, and much of it, no doubt, is well-intended. But the Season of Lent is founded on the deep, lived wisdom of generations. Lent is like familiar chairs in the dark, that help us to find our way around, and so, to live our lives as fully as possible, supported by others. Lent is the practice of pressing into the dark, unafraid, for here we might even encounter God. We might prefer the seasons that remind us that God cloaks himself in light; but he also cloaks himself in darkness, for our good.

But to do this will take all of us, and will involve tears. Tears that water the dust, bringing forth life out of death. May we keep a holy Lent, and may the Holy Spirit dwell in us, in our midst, to the glory of God and for our good and the good of our neighbours.

Sunday next before Lent 2020

Lectionary readings: Exodus 24:12-18 and 2 Peter 1:16-21 and Matthew 17:1-9

I don’t recall ever having taught a passage verse-by-verse before, but this Sunday’s Gospel lends itself to such an approach. It is, of course, the account of the transfiguration, and it begins:

Matthew 17:1 Six days later, Jesus took with him Peter and James and his brother John and led them up a high mountain, by themselves.

The word to lead up, anapherei, means to carry or lead something up in order to offer it as a sacrifice to God; to carry something to its goal or consummation. So, outwardly, Jesus is leading his disciples up a mountain to a scenic viewpoint; but inwardly, he is carrying them as an offering presented to God, and as a foretaste of their ultimate state.

17:2 And he was transfigured before them, and his face shone like the sun, and his clothes became dazzling white.

The word translated ‘transfigured’ is metemorphōthē, metamorphosis: the transformation of a thing, crucially in keeping with its own inner reality. It is the transformation of a caterpillar into a butterfly, an acorn into an oak. It is the carrying of something to its goal, through the ‘loss’ of its earlier state.

17:3 Suddenly there appeared to them Moses and Elijah, talking with him.

Moses, symbolising the Law, or foundational text for Israelite life. Elijah, symbolising the Prophets, who mediate that challenging text to the people as an ongoing calling.

17:4 Then Peter said to Jesus, ‘Lord, it is good for us to be here; if you wish, I will make three dwellings here, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.’

Peter speaks up. And so often when Peter speaks up, he looks foolish in our eyes. But Peter is the voice of the Church. And the first thing he says is, ‘Lord, it is good for us to be here;’ The word ‘good,’ kalos, means beautiful, as an outward and visible sign of an inward good. Attractive, praiseworthy, inspiring to others. Lord, our being here is a thing of beauty, and an inner reality revealed. It is a transfiguration, a foretaste of glory. Peter perceives rightly. And he goes on, ‘if you wish, I will make ...’ The word ‘wish’ conveys the sense, ‘if you desire,’ or, ‘if it is what you intend.’ Peter is seeking to know what Jesus wants, and ready to respond. Just days earlier, Jesus has declared that it is on Peter that he will build his church, his representative council. And now Jesus is taking counsel with these two representatives of the Law and the Prophets in a revelation of the glory of God’s people. Peter’s suggestion is reasonable, and offered reverently.

17:5 While he was still speaking, suddenly a bright cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud a voice said, ‘This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!’

Even as Peter positions himself as one who perceives rightly and offers himself to respond as his Lord desires, God’s presence, manifest in a bright cloud — that is, the One to whom Jesus has carried them — overshadowed them. Just as the Most High had done for Mary, overshadowing her. Just as this same God had settled on Mount Sinai, possessing it of all the mountains for his own, and for his purpose. Mary is the first disciple, and now Peter, James and John are caught-up in the same mystery, the proclamation of the Beloved Son. And the voice from heaven says, ‘listen to him!’

17:6 When the disciples heard this, they fell to the ground and were overcome by fear.

The word for ‘heard’ conveys hearing God’s voice that speaks life, and responding such that something is birthed within. Again, this is a parallel to Mary’s experience. And, awestruck, they fall prostrate on their faces in reverence, to venerate the Son. That is what the Greek says. And yes, fear is in the mix: for to come face-to-face with such love is a holy terror. But this is a description of total worship; it is the very purpose for which Jesus has carried his disciples to this place, as a living sacrifice.

17:7 But Jesus came and touched them, saying, ‘Get up and do not be afraid.’

The word for ‘touch’ conveys that he took hold of them in a way that changes, that transforms — as so often when Jesus’ touch brought healing. And he tells them to rise up, to be lifted up, and to not be afraid. Listen to him, the voice from heaven said; and this is what he says: be raised up, do not be afraid.

17:8 And when they looked up, they saw no one except Jesus himself alone.

And (repetition) their eyes are raised up, and they see no one except Jesus alone. There are not three representatives — of the Law and the Prophets and the Beloved — for love is the fulfilment of all that is found in the Law and the Prophets.

17:9 As they were coming down the mountain, Jesus ordered them, ‘Tell no one about the vision until after the Son of Man has been raised from the dead.’

And here is a third raising up: first, the disciples; and then their eyes; and then the Son of man from the dead. From beginning to end, this account is concerned with the disciples sharing in Jesus, the representative of a vindicated, faithful remnant community.

We refer to this passage as the Transfiguration. And we tend to think that it is Jesus who is transfigured — that is, after all, what is explicitly said in verse 2. But this is rightly the Transfiguration, not the Transfiguration of Christ, because the disciples are caught-up in it too. They are transfigured. Jesus carries them to a revelation of their goal, the consummation of our very being, as we are overshadowed by the glory of the Lord, and are changed into his likeness, from glory to glory, as we fall on our faces in worship and venerate the majestic king.

What, then, might this passage say to us today? Firstly, that our lives find their fulfilment in being offered up to God. Any other promise of fulfilment is an incandescent lightbulb compared to the sun ...

Secondly, that before our actions, before we do anything for God or for our neighbour, we are called to lose ourselves in worship, in adoration of Jesus. And it is this, more so even than our works, that will draw other people to God. Because we do not have a monopoly on good works, which do not necessarily point to Jesus. Regular adoration, however, will sustain those works that do point to him ...

Thirdly, relating to both sacrifice and losing ourselves, we are drawn into the mystery of falling and rising, of death and resurrection, of the chrysalis. Indeed, the Church is a chrysalis, both fragile and beautiful on the outside, and unmaking and remaking us within. Terrifying and awe-inspiring ...

Lastly, love. To participate in Christ is to come to know yourself and those around you as Beloved by God, and to live in that love, that casts out fear. Whatever fears you want to run away from today, may you know the transforming touch of Jesus, and may your eyes be raised up to meet his loving gaze ...

Second Sunday before Lent 2020

Lectionary readings: Genesis 1:1-2:3 and Romans 8:18-25 and Matthew 6:25-34

I wonder what things cause you to experience anxiety? I won’t ask you to share publicly. Noise makes me anxious, the radio on in the background, to the extent that it can sometimes register as pain. My wife and children not being in the house sometimes makes me anxious, even to the point of panic attacks; because I struggle to embrace the existence of people who aren’t present, and absence is too close to death. That’s irrational, I know, but there you are. You’ll note, I didn’t ask whether you ever experienced anxiety. I take that to be universal. So, it would appear, did Jesus.

Let’s be clear: when Jesus says, do not worry, he is not saying that those who worry simply lack enough faith, or aren’t doing faith right. Yes, he calls his disciples ‘you of little faith,’ but it isn’t a rebuke, it is an affectionate, diminutive nickname: faith-lets. Those whose faith is not brash, isn’t worn to say LOOK AT ME! Faith that is childlike. When Jesus says, do not worry — or, rather, do not be anxious — he is teaching his faith-lets how to address anxiety with faith.

The Greek word for anxiety is wonderfully descriptive. It means to be pulled apart. That is precisely what anxiety feels like, our lives, our constituent parts, being stretched to bursting. In biblical language, we are heart and mind and strength and soul. Heart refers to our will, to our God-given ability to choose, between right and wrong, good and evil; and the way in which our habitual choices shape our character. Mind refers to our God-given capacity for insight, informing our choices; and, again, over time, shaping our disposition. Strength refers to our God-given power, or force — in the sense used in Physics — to act on the basis of our informed choices. And soul refers to our God-given life-breath, that holds all these elements together as a living person. Here, in this teaching, the word translated ‘life’ — do not worry about your life — is in fact the word for soul, or life-breath. Anxiety attempts to pull the elements apart. It can even result in a panic attack, that breathlessness, or physical sensation of soul-disturbance.

Jesus also says, do not worry about your body. And here, the word refers to your physical body, flesh and bones, that we tend to think of as betraying us sooner or later; but also conveys, in a metaphorical sense, your community. As in later in the New Testament, where the body of Christ is used as a way of talking about the church. Between the bodies that will, eventually, carry us away, and the bodies we will leave behind, there’s plenty of scope for anxiety there.

So, Jesus is addressing anxiety in relation to our selves and our community, to the network of relationships that are an inextricable part of who we are. He is addressing my anxiety over background noise, and my anxiety over the absence of my wife and children. And Jesus’ concern is for wholeness, for shalom.

And the summary of Jesus’ advice is this: desire to know the reign of God over every area of your life, and to know his approval of the life he has given you, and you will find that all these elements that have been pulled apart by anxiety are brought back together. Wholeness.

Again, Jesus’ point is not that if you seek to obey God you will not experience anxiety, but, that if you desire to know God then this is how you can respond whenever you feel anxiety rearing its head. Which, in my case at least, is often.

To help us, Jesus invites us to look beyond ourselves, to notice the sovereignty of God, in creation and in history. I could unpack the verses about birds and lilies, but I won’t — I’ll let our hymn-writers do that for us instead. But, in short, if God is sovereign over our community, however it looks, and over our past or history or story; and if that sovereignty is expressed through delight, through approval and provision; then we can desire to know that in our lives too.

And so, we are invited, in all things, in the place of anxiety, the things we are anxious about, to imagine God’s reign in this place. To eagerly anticipate that this might be so, and soon, and to look for even the smallest signs of that breakthrough. We begin by praising God for who God is and for what God has done and for what we trust that God will do again.

When anxiety caused by noise threatens to overwhelm me, I can choose to give thanks for the gift of life, spilling out, reaching out to connect with others. Give thanks for the enthusiasm of the radio deejay, for the creativity of the guests being interviewed and the songs being played. Give thanks for the people coming in and out of the office at the Minster — an act of will, I can tell you, when every interruption causes me to have to re-route my day. Give thanks for the school children streaming along the pavement past my study, and for every act of goodness that will be worked to mend a broken world through them. Delight in the world God has made, and sustains. Recall the times when he has brought me into the gift of silence, of stillness — and the times when sound has been a gift to me, a blessing rather than a curse. Blessings last through all time; curses are time-limited constraints, and even that constraint is used by God ... and so I might even find myself anticipating the good purpose, as yet unknown to me, that might flow in due time from my present struggle.

When anxiety caused by my wife and children being somewhere else threatens to overwhelm me, I can imagine their workplace, their classroom, their college corridor; imagine God reigning over those places, in sovereign care, calling purpose out of chaos. I can imagine God’s Spirit hovering over my son as he walks home from school. I can anticipate that divine rule extending across all their days; and, yes, one day calling them home to eternity, where, even there, they are held in God’s care. And as I do, a limit is set on the waves. And as I press in, the waves subside. Something like ground appears beneath my feet, for now.

It is a work of the heart and the mind and the strength — our wills choose it, as an informed choice, on which we act, hard though it may be at first, until we find that, God delighting in the soul he has created, our whole being is brought back together. Anxiety is defeated, not once-and-for-all, but, over and over again, day by day.

And in those times when we are simply unable to fight this battle on our own, we are surrounded by our sisters and brothers, by the body of Christ, standing with us and for us; if indeed we are honest about our anxieties, if we do not worry about the body but submit to being tenderly dressed in Christ.

That is the way of faith-lets. And that is why we gather together, Sunday by Sunday, to praise God, to join with the worship of all heaven, eagerly waiting for what we do not yet see.

Candlemas 2020

Gospel reading: Luke 2:22-40

Once upon a time in Pallion [here in Sunderland] there was born a boy called Joseph Swan, who would grow up to become a physicist, chemist and inventor. He was one of a number of independent pioneers of the incandescent lightbulb, and the first person to light both private homes and public buildings solely by electric light. And while, today, his successors are pioneering new ways to generate electricity, we can’t conceive of living in the world without such light.

There are times, however, when electric light doesn’t cut it. Birthday celebrations. Romantic dinners. The self-care of a deep bubble-bath. A family remembering a loved one who is no longer with us. A community keeping vigil in the wake of tragedy. Some moments cry out to be candle-lit.

Today is Candlemas, when people have traditionally brought candles to church to be blessed. As you arrived today, you were given a candle. You might even have brought one with you. We no longer depend on them for our day-to-day existence. But they still speak to us of the mystery of life. They point beyond themselves to those moments in which we are privileged to glimpse a revelation of the glory of a people who reflect God’s glory in the world.

Do you feel glorious? Do you feel glorious, on this cold February morning, on which you have struggled, with the circumstances of your life, to get here? Maybe, maybe not. Perhaps you feel as small as the unlit candle in your hand, in this artificially lit room.

Once upon a time in Jerusalem there was an old man called Simeon, and the Holy Spirit rested on him. The imagery of that statement recalls the dove sent out by Noah [whose name means Rest] after the Great Flood, who finds an olive tree standing amid the devastation, a place to land and rest, and return with a symbol of new beginning. [It is an image juxtaposed with the sacrifice of a pair of turtle doves, of new life and death hand-in-hand...]

Simeon knew that he was going to die, and walked towards that moment in the comfort and courage that comes from the Holy Spirit. Of course, he didn’t know when he would die; but he did know that there was something he needed to see first. And when he had seen it — when he had seen Jesus, the anointed One — nothing and everything changed. He still knew that he was going to die; he still didn’t know when — would it be that night? within days? or longer? — and he was still enabled by the comforting, encouraging Spirit: but now he describes himself as a slave who has been given his freedom by his master, in gratitude for his years of service. Now he steps into a new chapter, a new adventure, a new life.

And the first thing that Simeon does with this new-found freedom is to bless a young family. Though it may sound a strange blessing to our ears. First, he blesses the child as one destined for the falling and rising of many. The Greek words convey ruin and resurrection. This child will be a sign of life falling apart, and being given back, by God, demonstrating his justice and mercy. And then Simeon blesses Mary, saying, you too, young girl holding your baby, with life stretching ahead of you, will die; will know the breath of God cut free from the earth it now animates. That’s a blessing? Yes! Because to bless is to release something: and Simeon is releasing the consolation of God’s people; and releasing Mary from the fear of death.

Anna, likewise, is an elder among her people, soaked in prayer, waiting to welcome this liberation for the people of God, overflowing in celebration. She knows the blessings Simeon speaks of; she has lived them.

When a baby is brought to a place like this — into a community like that — the one thing we can know with absolute certainty is that they are going to die. We don’t know whether they will feel at home within, or estranged from, their community. We don’t even know whether they will feel at home within, or estranged from, themselves. We don’t know who will love them, and who will hurt them; or whom they will love, and whom they will hurt. We don’t know when they will die — whether their lives will be cut short like the baby boys of Bethlehem; or spared unto old age, like Simeon and Anna. We can say with some confidence but without precision that they will know ruin and resurrection, as Anna’s life story testifies. But the one thing we can say for sure is that they will die. We will die.

And yet, as a society, we live as if we are immortal. In absolute, terrified denial of death. It doesn’t matter if we live today in electric light, just passing the hours between yesterday and tomorrow, because there will always be tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, and we can get around to lighting the candles then.

But we do not know which birthday will be the last birthday. We do not know when we will find ourselves eating alone; or when it will become too laborious to lower ourselves into, and lift ourselves out of, the bath. We do not know how many losses we shall know, nor how many vigils we will be called upon to keep. So, don’t hold back. Light the candles, at every opportunity. Candles that have been blessed, to hallow our days, that we might live life in its fullness. For that is why Jesus, the Christ, came.

At the end of our service this morning, we shall light our candles and bless them, in celebration and remembrance of what God has done for his people, and in an act of rededicating ourselves to bear and to live in that light in the world. You’ll find the words* we will say on an insert at the back of your order of service. Take the insert home with you, use these words as a prayer over the coming days. Light your candle at home; or give it to someone who can’t be here, to say, ‘here is the light of hope.’

May you live in that light all the days of your life. And may you go from this place, into whatever adventure awaits, in the three-fold peace of the releasing Master, the raised Infant, and the resting Spirit. Amen.

*Alternative Candlemas Procession, Common Worship: Times and Seasons, p. 205

Blessed are you, Lord our God,

King of the universe.

Blessed be God for ever.

Your light shines on us

and all peoples shall see your glory.

Blessed be God for ever.

You gave us Jesus to be the light of the world;

he makes our darkness to be light.

Blessed be God for ever.

Through the Holy Spirit your love burns within us,

bearing witness to your truth.

Blessed be God for ever.

As we bear your light,

may our lips never cease to sing your praise.

Blessed be God for ever.

Blessed be God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

Blessed be God for ever.

Father, we have sung your praise with shepherds and angels:

may Christ be born in our hearts today.

Praise to Christ our light.

We have shared in the joy of Simeon and Anna;

help us, like them, to trust your word.

Praise to Christ our light.

We have greeted Jesus, the light of the world;

may we be filled with the light of your love.

Praise to Christ our light.

We stand near the place of new birth.

Let us shine with the light of your love.

We turn from the crib to the cross.

Let us shine with the light of your love.

We go to carry his light.

Let us shine with the light of your love.

Thanks be to God.

Guest sermon, St Ignatius, Hendon

Scripture readings: Isaiah 8:23-9:3, 1 Corinthians 1:10-13, 17 and Matthew 4:12-23

The Way of the Sea, or Via Maris, was a well-worn trade route: an elongated S, that ran from Egypt, in the south, northward along the Mediterranean coast ...

before cutting inland, across the territory of Zebulun where you will find Nazareth; and on, northbound through the territory of Naphtali where you will find Capernaum ...

on, round the top of the Lake where Jesus would call his first disciples ...

heading northwest to Damascus. There, the Way of the Sea met the King’s Highway, coming up out of the wilderness to the east of the Promised Land, on its way round the fertile crescent, through Assyria and Babylonia, and Persia beyond.

The Way of the Sea begins in Egypt. Among a people who forgot their story; forgot that they had been saved by Joseph; forgot their debt of gratitude to his family. And where his family, too, the children of Israel, had forgotten their story — forgotten that Yahweh had promised to give them the land their forefather Abraham had sojourned in — and, tired of the nomadic life, had settled for the land of Goshen instead. And there, for a long time, they were captive to comfort. It took pain to remind them who, and whose, they were. When Moses led them out of Egypt, it was not along the Way of the Sea, but across Sinai towards the King’s Highway — though, even then, it took them a generation to learn the way.

Coming in from the wilderness, the twelve tribes settled the middle-section of the Way of the Sea. In time, they became a kingdom; then two kingdoms. By the time Isaiah spoke, a metaphorical sea had swept in from Assyria, sweeping Syria and Israel away. By the time Jesus called his disciples, Jerusalem had been breached by Babylon, another wave. After seventy years of exile, the people had returned, in three successive waves led by Ezra and Nehemiah and Zerubbabel, along the King’s Highway and the Way of the Sea. But then the Greeks had swept in, and, in the wake of Alexander the Great, had parted the Way of the Sea between two dynasties, at its southern and northern ends. And then came the mightiest wave of all, Rome.

By the time Matthew wrote, Jesus had lived and died, risen and ascended, and his disciples had started to spread out from Jerusalem, south along the Way of the Sea through Judea; north along the Way of the Sea through Samaria, and beyond, joining routes heading off to the ends of the earth. And at the northern-most staging-post on the Way of the Sea, a zealous young man named Saul was stopped in his tracks by a bright light, the glory of the Lord blazing on him.

The Way of the Sea cuts through the Holy Land — and through Holy Scripture. Travelling its length, we retrace our steps through the exodus and exile, the great defining moments in the history of God’s people. And in proclaiming the gospel of peace, Matthew records that Jesus moved from Nazareth to Capernaum — from Zebulun to Naphtali — to fulfil the promise spoken through Isaiah. It was a deliberate act, by a man who was familiar with scripture and who understood his own life in the light of it ...

... and not only his own life, but the lives of others, too. There on the shore of the Lake on the Way of the Sea, Jesus invites Simon and Andrew and James and John to step into a bigger understanding of life. At first glance, it looks like the disciples give up fishing to follow Jesus; but the more you read the Gospels, the more you see that it wasn’t a clean break, that the earthly business of catching fish and the heavenly business of catching-up men and women and children into the kingdom went hand-in-hand, in their vocation, their call. But they were invited to locate their story within the story of God’s mission in the world, to bring freedom to the captives and homecoming to the exiles, and to be a blessing to all peoples. And Jesus extends the same invitation to us, too.

Today has been designated, by Pope Francis, the first annual Sunday of the Word of God. A day devoted to “the celebration, study and dissemination of the Word of God”. A day to reflect on the gift of Holy Scripture, entrusted to us, and its place in our lives. And today, I would encourage you to read scripture, eagerly and diligently. Read it privately, asking, where are there parallels in my life? You see, trade routes such as the Way of the Sea and the King’s Highway weren’t single roads, like the M1; they were more like parallel routes running in broadly the same direction, like the M1 and the A19. It doesn’t matter that your life isn’t identical to that of Isaiah or Jesus or Paul. Learn to see how your life sits within the bigger story, by familiarising yourself with the big story. Read scripture privately, but in conversation with others who know your story and the big story, and can help you discern where they intersect.

And read scripture publicly, so that as a community we are caught-up in that story. Ask, where are we, as a congregation? Where is our wider community? Are we in Egypt, having settled for the familiar, having forgotten the promises God has made, in danger of forgetting our story? Or perhaps you are holding on to the promises of God, even though there is little to suggest that they might be fulfilled in this place imminently? If so, bless you for your faithfulness: you stand on the shoulders of giants. Then again, perhaps we are on the road to Damascus, utterly and graciously confronted by Jesus? Or is it time for us, like John, to lay our lives down; or, like Jesus, to embrace a new season of activity, and seek others to draw into that alongside us? I don’t know how your communal story intersects with scripture; but I know that they do intersect, and that the gift of scripture is map and compass for our journey.

More locally, the Bishop of Durham has designated 2020 a Year of Pilgrimage for the churches of Durham Diocese, of which our deanery is part. Four new pilgrim routes have been commissioned: one, the Way of Learning, passes through Sunderland on its route from Jarrow, via Monkwearmouth, to Durham Cathedral. Some of us might walk some or all of it together. Or find other ways to journey on the Way together, diverse in our expression of church but one in Christ Jesus — ways such as inviting me to preach here this morning.

May my words have been an encouragement to you. And, again and again through 2020, may you discover, afresh, the living Word revealed in the written Word.

Second Sunday of Epiphany 2020

Gospel reading: John 1:29-42

For the churches of Durham Diocese, 2020 will be a Year of Pilgrimage. A year to walk together, with God, with purpose and without hurry, and to discover what that experience might bring about in and through us.

At the diocesan Waymark conference back in October, our keynote guest speaker bishop Emma Ineson spoke about ambition and success. The Latin root of the word ‘ambition’ is ambulare, ‘to walk,’ from the Roman practice of canvassing for votes. The Latin root of the word ‘success’ is successus, meaning both ‘approach’ and ‘outcome,’ from which we also get ‘successors,’ or those who follow after. Ambition and success, then, are concerned with where and how we walk, and who and what follows.

Bishop Emma also noted the difference between counting and measuring. Counting is concerned with amount; measuring with change. Numbers matter, because people matter. We should count the number of people we have fed, body and soul, through the Care & Share lunches. We should measure the increases and decreases, attending to trends and patterns, to understand whether there is still a need, or when it is time to redirect our focus. Counting helps us give thanks for what God has done in us and through us. But we are called to be ambitious to proclaim the good news (Romans 15:20), to please God (2 Corinthians 5:9), and to live an unhurried non-anxious life (1 Thessalonians 4:11), and not to be anxious about numbers or timescales.

Our Gospel today is concerned with counting and measuring.

It is concerned with counting amounts:

John’s disciples decrease by two, or possibly three; while,

Jesus’ potential disciples increase by (the same) two or three.

And it is concerned with measuring change, or, recording outcomes:

John says that he did not know who he was looking for, until the Holy Spirit revealed it to him; and from then, he could say, I myself have seen;

the disciples go from following Jesus at a distance, to accompanying him and passing time with him;

Jesus sees something in Simon that is waiting to be affirmed and called out of him. ‘You are Simon son of John. You are to be called Cephas’ (which is translated Peter). You are Listen! Well, pay attention! You are to be called Rock.

Our Gospel today is also concerned with ambition and success.

For John the Baptist, his ambition is that somehow, through his activity, Jesus might be revealed to the people. Success looks like stepping back as Jesus steps forward; looks like giving away two of his disciples to become disciples of Jesus. For John, ambition takes him to the edge, to the people on the margins, to be misunderstood by the respectable professionals and powerholders. Success is turned on its head, as he recognises that the one who follows him was before him.

The disciples are also ambitious. They have literally gone on a purposeful walkabout, down the river, to canvas opinion on what it is that God is up to. That has successfully resulted in them having become disciples of John. They are ambitious to find the Messiah; and successful in starting to follow Jesus.

For Jesus, his ambition to please God has brought him to the moment where he has been proclaimed the Anointed one, in a muddy river on the edge of the lonely places. Success will look like taking upon himself the sin of the world and carrying it away. Being the scapegoat. Jesus is walking along, secure in his identity as the Son of God, the anointed king, not in fact needing to draw any attention to himself at all. And he turns and sees that there are two people following him; and he asks, ‘What are you looking for?’ And success, that day, looks like just spending time together. And as a result of the invitation to ‘Come and see’ one of them, Andrew, brings along his brother.

Note that the counting and the measuring relate to the ambition and the success.

Jesus asks, what are you looking for? We might be looking for an increase in the number of people who worship here on a Sunday morning. Certainly, that is easy to count, week by week, and easy to measure change. But our ambition could be godly or selfish: wanting more people to meet Jesus, or wanting to feel better about ourselves. And if our ambition is to see more people meet Jesus, success might not be measured in terms of more people here on Sunday morning. It could be measured by more of the people who are here on Sunday mornings being involved in Care & Share, or Messy Church; or in those who are already involved taking a next step and having conversations with the people who come.

In John’s case, the answer to the question, what are you looking for? would appear to be, I am looking for the beginning of the end of my role here. Perhaps your ambition should be to discern who to hand the baton on to; with success being the laying down of a faithful ministry and affirming the one who takes it up after you?

What about the disciples? The thing that intrigues them about Jesus, that scratches where they itch, is that John has described him as taking away the failure of the world to hit the mark. Dealing with the shortfall between ambition and success. But when Jesus asks them, what are you looking for? they express their answer in terms of a longing for companionship. Isolation is literally a killer for young, active men, in work, looking for direction in the challenges of life. Perhaps our ambition might be to engage with that; with success being measured by people seeing us as faithful friends, who don’t offer glib answers to life’s questions but draw on ancient wisdom to venture deeper into mystery and away from despair?

I don’t want us to rush to answers. This is a long walk, not a parkrun. But we will already have ambitions for the future of St Nicholas’ church, and they will spring from both godly and selfish motives. A mixed bag, or backpack, we would do well to unpack, examine, and repack carefully before we go too far.

As we set out on the diocesan Year of Pilgrimage, walking and following, let’s engage in honest, hopeful, meaningful conversation about our ambitions, and see what flows from that.

Epiphany 2020

Lectionary readings: Isaiah 60:1-6 and Ephesians 3:1-12 and Matthew 2:1-12

Matthew and Luke record events surrounding Jesus’ birth and infancy. Luke tells us about shepherds; and Mary treasuring the words they spoke in her heart, keeping them close together under guard in order to take them out at a later time. Matthew tells us that her son shall be a ruler who is to shepherd God’s people Israel; and about exotic visitors who opened their treasure-chest and offered up gold, frankincense and myrrh. Today we celebrate the Epiphany, the visit of the Magi. In our crib, the shepherds have returned to their flock, making room for the Gentiles; but there are wandering sheep and treasure-troves in both Matthew and Luke.

We don’t know how many men, potentially woman, perhaps even children followed the star. We don’t know the size of the delegation, or the community they represented, or with any precision the length of their journey. Some say they were Persians, carrying the weight of ancient empire; some, including the earliest Christian testimony, that they were nomadic tribesmen from the Arabian peninsula. Certainly, they were wealthy. They had the means to dream beneath a desert sky, to trade with merchants, and to travel along trade routes. They came, and returned home, carrying with them a portable storehouse for precious things. They gave tribute of gold, incense, and myrrh. Each of these gifts have symbolic value, but don’t imagine they were token gifts, souvenirs with no practical use. These are treasured resources for living in a world in thick darkness. Gifts that would have come into their own when, in the wake of these visitors, Herod would force Joseph to flee with his family, by night, seeking refuge among the Jewish diaspora in Alexandria, Egypt.

‘What can I give him, poor as I am? if I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb, if I were a wise man, I would do my part, yet what I can I give him, give my heart.’ So wrote Christina Rosetti, In the bleak mid-winter. But that heart, as Mary reminds us and as Jesus often taught, is a storehouse of treasure. And the treasure therein comes from God in the first place, given to equip us on our pilgrimage through life. That is why, when we gather together, we begin by acknowledging ‘Almighty God to whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hidden ...’

So, when we ask, What can I give him? we are really asking, What have I been given that I am withholding? Jesus taught that those who seek to hold on to their lives shall forfeit them, but those who lose their lives for the sake of the good news that is in him will find life in its fullness. Perhaps, this morning, we need to ask and receive, in order that we might bring our lives in tribute to the king? Or, is it possible that we have kept the storehouse of our heart locked tight so long that we have forgotten the treasures that lie within?

Gold symbolises purchasing power, our ability to acquire what we value. It includes privilege, the associations and investments-in-us that multiply our opportunities. It includes givens, such as natural abilities we might invest in, and more liquid currency such as the extent to which we might take risks or exercise caution. We are all traders, all give something of our gold to those we believe it will be advantageous to align ourselves with, the thing we worship whether that be the stock market or the Son of God.

Perhaps 2020 is the year you need to acquire something new, to you, and valuable. That might be new learning, through reading spiritual authors; or discovering the joy of loving your neighbour, through voluntary service. It might be embarking on an adventure — that thing you always said you would get around to doing some day — with eyes open to signs of God’s salvation in whatever you see and whomever you meet. The chances are that God has already given you the means to take at least the first steps — and who knows where that might take you? Sometimes we need to set out from the familiar, and return to it by another route, transformed by the journey.

Frankincense symbolises prayer, a recognition that, regardless of how much privilege we may enjoy, life involves chance, and forces — some benevolent, others malign — outside of and beyond our control. There is more to life than I can handle alone. We seek a covenant partner to stand alongside through thick and thin, and who will come to our aid; and we get to choose who that partner will be.

Perhaps 2020 will be the year you rediscover the art of praying with other people, fellow travellers on the road. The next six-week stage of the Pilgrim course, starting this Tuesday, will explore the Lord’s Prayer. But perhaps God has put a desire to pray on your heart, and we need to explore how we might gather those prayers up and offer them to God throughout the week, and record how they are answered? Or perhaps it is about trusting that we don’t earn or lose God’s approval by doing things the right or wrong way, but that God hears and responds to the cry of our hearts.

Myrrh symbolises romantic, erotic love. It was also used to embalm the dead. The desire to know love, to love and be loved in return, to give passionately of ourselves to another person or to a great consuming cause, is almost universal. Sooner or later, the experience of loss, of death and walking the valley of the shadow of death, is truly universal. Certainly, you cannot know the first without the second, for they go hand-in-hand.

Perhaps 2020 is the year you need to rediscover or experience for the first time a deep love for Jesus, that mystical union between Jesus the bridegroom and his bride the Church. Perhaps you believe that God exists, even that God loves you, but you have never or not recently known the intimacy of the presence of the Holy Spirit? Or perhaps 2020 will be for you a year of loss, touched by death, and needing to know the comfort Jesus promises to those who mourn. Hope in the dark night.

Gold, frankincense and myrrh represent the treasures that are locked away, kept close together and under guard, in all of our hearts. Gifts given, for living life well. We all make choices in relation to all three. And Jesus is the key that unlocks the storehouse, that enables us to share what we have received, and so find it to be true treasure: to find that we are enough, for others as well as for ourselves. Enough for God, however inadequate we might feel.

I would be happy to have a conversation and to pray with you about anything that has affected you today. But this Epiphany, may your heart be unlocked. And may you leave here for your own country — for the life that is yours — by another road, walking the Way that is Jesus. Amen.