Fifth Sunday of Lent 2020

Sunday 29 March 2020: Fifth Sunday of Lent,

Passiontide begins

Today, we meet from our own homes, at 10.30 a.m. via Zoom meeting ID: 664-485-330. Don’t forget that the clocks sprung forward an hour to British Summer Time during the night.

As we come to worship at a familiar time, if not a familiar building, you might like to light a candle, a reminder that Christ the light of the world is with us. Take a moment to still yourself. We then begin with the Prayer of Preparation, which reminds us that God knows our desires—to join with others today, if we could; to receive bread and wine, which, physically, we cannot; to be of service to our neighbour…

Prayer of Preparation

Almighty God,

to whom all hearts are open,

all desires known,

and from whom no secrets are hidden:

cleanse the thoughts of our hearts

by the inspiration of your Holy Spirit,

that we may perfectly love you,

and worthily magnify your holy name;

through Christ our Lord.

Amen.

Now we come to Confession, confessing our need for God. We confess for ourselves, and on behalf of our neighbours; and receive God’s mercy. Doing so is the antidote to judging others in anger.

‘Kyrie’ Confession

God be gracious to us and bless us,

and make your face shine upon us:

Lord, have mercy.

May your ways be known on the earth,

your saving power among the nations:

Christ, have mercy.

You, Lord, have made known your salvation,

and reveal your justice in the sight of the nations:

Lord, have mercy.

Absolution

The Lord enrich us with his grace, and nourish us with his blessing;

the Lord defend us in trouble and keep us from all evil;

the Lord accept our prayers, and absolve us from our offences,

for the sake of Jesus Christ, our Saviour.

Amen.

Now we pray the Collect, the prayer for this Sunday.

Collect prayer for today

Gracious Father,

you gave up your Son out of love for the world:

Lead us to ponder the mysteries of his passion,

that we may know eternal peace

through the shedding of our Saviour’s blood,

Jesus Christ our Lord.

Having prepared ourselves, we listen to God’s word to us. You’ll find both readings in full below, along with a pastoral letter from the Bishop of Durham, and some questions to reflect on together.

Reading          Romans 8:6-11

To set the mind on the flesh is death, but to set the mind on the Spirit is life and peace. For this reason the mind that is set on the flesh is hostile to God; it does not submit to God’s law—indeed it cannot, and those who are in the flesh cannot please God.

But you are not in the flesh; you are in the Spirit, since the Spirit of God dwells in you. Anyone who does not have the Spirit of Christ does not belong to him. But if Christ is in you, though the body is dead because of sin, the Spirit is life because of righteousness. If the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, he who raised Christ from the dead will give life to your mortal bodies also through his Spirit that dwells in you.

Gospel reading           John 11:1-45

Now a certain man was ill, Lazarus of Bethany, the village of Mary and her sister Martha. Mary was the one who anointed the Lord with perfume and wiped his feet with her hair; her brother Lazarus was ill. So the sisters sent a message to Jesus, ‘Lord, he whom you love is ill.’ But when Jesus heard it, he said, ‘This illness does not lead to death; rather it is for God’s glory, so that the Son of God may be glorified through it.’ Accordingly, though Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus, after having heard that Lazarus was ill, he stayed two days longer in the place where he was.

Then after this he said to the disciples, ‘Let us go to Judea again.’ The disciples said to him, ‘Rabbi, the Jews were just now trying to stone you, and are you going there again?’ Jesus answered, ‘Are there not twelve hours of daylight? Those who walk during the day do not stumble, because they see the light of this world. But those who walk at night stumble, because the light is not in them.’ After saying this, he told them, ‘Our friend Lazarus has fallen asleep, but I am going there to awaken him.’ The disciples said to him, ‘Lord, if he has fallen asleep, he will be all right.’ Jesus, however, had been speaking about his death, but they thought that he was referring merely to sleep. Then Jesus told them plainly, ‘Lazarus is dead. For your sake I am glad I was not there, so that you may believe. But let us go to him.’ Thomas, who was called the Twin, said to his fellow-disciples, ‘Let us also go, that we may die with him.’

When Jesus arrived, he found that Lazarus had already been in the tomb for four days. Now Bethany was near Jerusalem, some two miles away, and many of the Jews had come to Martha and Mary to console them about their brother. When Martha heard that Jesus was coming, she went and met him, while Mary stayed at home. Martha said to Jesus, ‘Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask of him.’ Jesus said to her, ‘Your brother will rise again.’ Martha said to him, ‘I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.’ Jesus said to her, ‘I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?’ She said to him, ‘Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world.’

When she had said this, she went back and called her sister Mary, and told her privately, ‘The Teacher is here and is calling for you.’ And when she heard it, she got up quickly and went to him. Now Jesus had not yet come to the village, but was still at the place where Martha had met him. The Jews who were with her in the house, consoling her, saw Mary get up quickly and go out. They followed her because they thought that she was going to the tomb to weep there. When Mary came where Jesus was and saw him, she knelt at his feet and said to him, ‘Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.’ When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who came with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved. He said, ‘Where have you laid him?’ They said to him, ‘Lord, come and see.’ Jesus began to weep. So the Jews said, ‘See how he loved him!’ But some of them said, ‘Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?’

Then Jesus, again greatly disturbed, came to the tomb. It was a cave, and a stone was lying against it. Jesus said, ‘Take away the stone.’ Martha, the sister of the dead man, said to him, ‘Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead for four days.’ Jesus said to her, ‘Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?’ So they took away the stone. And Jesus looked upwards and said, ‘Father, I thank you for having heard me. I knew that you always hear me, but I have said this for the sake of the crowd standing here, so that they may believe that you sent me.’ When he had said this, he cried with a loud voice, ‘Lazarus, come out!’ The dead man came out, his hands and feet bound with strips of cloth, and his face wrapped in a cloth. Jesus said to them, ‘Unbind him, and let him go.’

Many of the Jews therefore, who had come with Mary and had seen what Jesus did, believed in him.

A pastoral letter from the Bishop of Durham

‘Dear Sisters & Brothers,
‘Today is Passion Sunday, the gateway to Passiontide where our focus turns towards the suffering of our Lord Jesus as we journey with him towards Holy Week and the cross and, in time, to the Resurrection.  In all honesty, something of the rhythm of Lent has been lost for me over the past two weeks. So much has happened in our nation, and we as the Church of England have had to play our full part in helping others as much as we can to respond wisely to the very hard situation that we all face. We are in this together, as a nation and around the globe. So there has been much work taking place, locally and nationally, happening at a fast rate and changing by the day.

‘There is a lot of emotion surfacing at the moment and I feel it too. The first is fear; that natural fear of what is happening and lies ahead; fear for our own families and friends; fear for ourselves. Then there is sadness; sadness for those whose loved one’s funerals and their own grieving have been disrupted; sadness for those who have had to postpone weddings and baptisms; sadness that our schools have had to close; sadness at not being able to visit people as we long to do.  For many of us, there has also been the more uncomfortable sense of anger; anger at the virus; anger at those ignoring guidance and stripping shelves bare needlessly. There is also pity; pity for those who are suffering badly; pity for those who are dying and those bereaved. Finally, there is pride; pride in our NHS and the amazing staff; pride in our Emergency Services and Armed Services; pride in all those working in Government and the civil service to handle this at breakneck speed. I am immensely proud of the clergy, lay leaders and others who have responded so amazingly quickly and adapted in a whole host of ways to keep the church worshipping and praying in our homes. I am proud of the way you are praying, caring, supporting, volunteering and seeking to be the body of Christ in ways we have never experienced before so broadly.

‘Thank you for all you have done, are doing and will continue to do.

‘I recognise that the coming weeks will be very difficult indeed. There is much more sadness ahead before we begin to come through the other side of this pandemic. So pray honestly; lament, rage, cry out, thank, intercede and keep looking to our Lord who will keep saying to us, ‘Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.’ (Isaiah 43v1)

‘The gospel reading for today from John 11 begins with the reality of death. It includes the fear of death. It has Thomas rather bravely, and yet grimly, committing to die with Jesus if that is what following him means. It then goes into the extraordinary story of how Jesus responds to both Mary and Martha’s grief at the loss of their beloved brother Lazarus. Jesus then raises Lazarus from the dead. In the midst of this we have Jesus declaration, ‘I am the resurrection and the life’, that hope that lies at the heart of our faith’. In the weeks ahead there will be sadness at loss. There will be a need to be like Thomas, sticking with Jesus even though the outlook looks grim. There will be a need to comfort those who have lost loved ones. There will be suffering and pain. Most who catch the virus (and it is likely to be most of us at some point in the coming months) will recover; we might not even be that ill ourselves. But we already know that it will be a very tough battle for a significant number, and it will end in death for some. So just as Passiontide begins with this story of Jesus bringing hope so too we will need to travel this road knowing that God travels it with us. We will need to hold onto our Easter hope and the truth of the resurrection. There will be much Good Friday and Holy Saturday but Easter is coming and beyond the great day of resurrection that is yet to be.

‘My sisters and brothers you are in Bishop Sarah and my prayers. Thank you for being faithful to Jesus. Hold fast to God. Fear not. Trust in the one who is the resurrection and the life.’

+Paul

‘I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.’

Are you anxious about the virus, and its potential impact—physical, emotional, financial—on you or on those you love?

What might it mean, to set the mind on the Spirit?

How might we share the peace of Christ with those who are anxious?

Having heard and received God’s word to us, we join in affirming our shared faith.

Affirmation of Faith

Let us declare our faith in God.

We believe in God the Father,

from whom every family in heaven and on earth is named.

We believe in God the Son,

who lives in our hearts through faith, and fills us with his love.

We believe in God the Holy Spirit,

who strengthens us with power from on high.

We believe in one God;

Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

Amen.

Prayers of Intercession

We take time to pray for the needs of the world, the life of the Church, our community, and all those on our hearts this day.

Today, we are not able to receive bread and wine physically, but we receive them spiritually, if we desire to do so (remember the Prayer of Preparation). And so we take a moment to do so, saying the Post Communion Prayer.

Post Communion Prayer

Lord Jesus Christ,

you have taught us that what we do for the least of

our brothers and sisters

we do also for you:

give us the will to be the servant of others

as you were the servant of all,

and gave up your life and died for us,

but are alive and reign, now and for ever.

As we conclude, receive this blessing:

Christ crucified draw you to himself,

to find in him a sure ground for faith,

a firm support for hope,

and the assurance of sins forgiven;

and the blessing of God almighty,

the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,

be among you and remain with you always.

Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.

In the name of Christ. Amen.

Common Worship: Services and Prayers for the Church of England, material from which is included in this service, is copyright © The Archbishops’ Council 2000.

Common Worship: Times and Seasons, material from which is included in this service, is copyright © The Archbishops’ Council 2006.

Mothering Sunday 2020

Sunday 22 March 2020: Fourth Sunday of Lent,

Mothering Sunday

Today we give thanks and pray for our mother church, for the parish of St Nicholas’ and for the Church of England.

We also pray for mothers—our own, and those in our community who face additional challenges at this time.

As we come to worship at a familiar time, if not a familiar building, you might like to light a candle, a reminder that Christ the light of the world is with us. Take a moment to still yourself. We then begin with the Prayer of Preparation, which reminds us that God knows our desires—to be with our mothers today, if we could; to receive bread and wine, which, physically, we cannot; to be of service to our neighbour…

Prayer of Preparation

Almighty God,

to whom all hearts are open,

all desires known,

and from whom no secrets are hidden:

cleanse the thoughts of our hearts

by the inspiration of your Holy Spirit,

that we may perfectly love you,

and worthily magnify your holy name;

through Christ our Lord.

Amen.

Now we come to Confession, confessing our need for God. We confess for ourselves, and on behalf of our neighbours; and receive God’s mercy. Doing so is the antidote to judging others in anger.

‘Kyrie’ Confession

God be gracious to us and bless us,

and make your face shine upon us:

Lord, have mercy.

May your ways be known on the earth,

your saving power among the nations:

Christ, have mercy.

You, Lord, have made known your salvation,

and reveal your justice in the sight of the nations:

Lord, have mercy.

Absolution

The Lord enrich us with his grace, and nourish us with his blessing;

the Lord defend us in trouble and keep us from all evil;

the Lord accept our prayers, and absolve us from our offences,

for the sake of Jesus Christ, our Saviour.

Amen.

Now we pray the Collect, the prayer for this Sunday.

Collect prayer for today

God of love,

passionate and strong, tender and careful:

watch over us and hold us all the days of our life;

through Jesus Christ our Lord.

Having prepared ourselves, we listen to God’s word to us. You’ll find one reading in full, and the reference for the Gospel reading, along with some questions to reflect on. I’ll post the readings and questions separately on the St Nicholas Church facebook page, and encourage people to post their reflections in the comments, to enable conversation.

Reading

2 Corinthians 1:3-7

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and the God of all consolation, who consoles us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to console those who are in any affliction with the consolation with which we ourselves are consoled by God. For just as the sufferings of Christ are abundant for us, so also our consolation is abundant through Christ. If we are being afflicted, it is for your consolation and salvation; if we are being consoled, it is for your consolation, which you experience when you patiently endure the same sufferings that we are also suffering. Our hope for you is unshaken; for we know that as you share in our sufferings, so also you share in our consolation.

Gospel reading

John 19:25b-27

‘And from that hour the disciple [John] took her [Mary, the mother of Jesus] into his own home.’

When have you needed consoling, and how did it feel to be consoled?

Is there a mother you might call today?

What makes for a home? How do you feel about being taken into your home in this time of national distress?

Having heard and received God’s word to us, we join in affirming our shared faith.

Affirmation of Faith

Let us declare our faith in God.

We believe in God the Father,

from whom every family in heaven and on earth is named.

We believe in God the Son,

who lives in our hearts through faith, and fills us with his love.

We believe in God the Holy Spirit,

who strengthens us with power from on high.

We believe in one God;

Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

Amen.

Prayers of Intercession

We take time to pray for the needs of the world, the life of the Church, our community, and all those on our hearts this day.

Today, we are not able to receive bread and wine physically, but we receive them spiritually, if we desire to do so (remember the Prayer of Preparation). And so we take a moment to do so, saying the Post Communion Prayer.

Post Communion Prayer

Loving God,

as a mother feeds her children at the breast

you feed us in this sacrament

with the food and drink of eternal life:

help us who have tasted your goodness

to grow in grace within the household of faith;

through Jesus Christ our Lord.

As we conclude, receive this blessing:

Christ give you grace to grow in holiness,

to deny yourselves, take up your cross, and follow him;

and the blessing of God almighty,

the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,

be among you and remain with you always.

Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.

In the name of Christ. Amen.

Common Worship: Services and Prayers for the Church of England, material from which is included in this service, is copyright © The Archbishops’ Council 2000.

Third Sunday of Lent 2020

Lectionary readings: Romans 5:1-11 and John 4:5-42

Our Gospel reading today is timely. The woman at the well experiences the personal impact of social distancing; of, quite likely, self-isolating herself. She is also someone who becomes a viral carrier, spreading, in this case, hope throughout her community. What might we learn from her, today?

First, it will help to understand the context, because that is quite different from our own. In her culture, it was of real importance that families did not lose their ancestral share in the land that God had given to them. It was also of paramount concern that widows were provided for. The Law of Moses provided a solution to address both the long-term need for sustainable communities and the personal need of widows for security, at least under one particular circumstance. Where a man died without leaving an heir, his closest kin was obliged to marry his widow. Their first child would be counted as the heir of the dead man, with subsequent children counting as their own. It is a solution that seems very strange to us in our culture, which focuses on romantic love and finding ‘the one,’ but it made sense in their very different culture. Indeed, it was common enough to warrant a place in case law. Jesus was asked a question about this very practice, which you can read about in Matthew 22:23-33, Mark 12:18-27 and Luke 20:27-40.

This particular woman had had five husbands, and was now living under the protection, if hardly security, of a man who was nonetheless unwilling to marry her. For this reason, she is often understood to be a serial adulteress; but, in a small and conservative community, while adultery undoubtedly occurred, you simply would not have men queueing up to marry such a woman: it would be social suicide. No, this is a woman who has lost five husbands.

Today, we would be screening those brothers or close male relatives for a hereditary life-limiting condition. But they had no such knowledge. For them, the woman is an obvious common denominator. Perhaps she has been ostracised in case whatever curse she lives under rubs off on the other women. Perhaps, for this reason, men, worried for their own lives, have put pressure on their wives to avoid her. Or, it is possible that she has self-isolated in order to avoid the burden of their sympathy, the pain of seeing their children grow up while she remains childless. But whether the driver is a community decision of social distancing, or a personal decision of self-isolation, her is a woman who is living with the consequences. In the division of labour, drawing water was women’s work, a burden made lighter by social interaction, the women of the community drawing water together in the early morning and early evening, in the cool of the day. But this woman comes to the well alone, at the hottest hour of the day, when she can almost guarantee that she will not come into contact with anyone else.

And there, she meets Jesus, and everything changes.

The Western Church will forget all about her, but the Eastern Church preserves her memory. She is baptised with the name Photini, the luminous one. The one who shares in God’s glory. Not only does she bring all her neighbours to meet Jesus, but she goes on to carry the gospel all around the Roman Empire. She leads so many to Christ that she becomes known as Saint Photini, Equal-to-the-Apostles. Like them, she doesn’t travel alone but with her five sisters, and the son whom God did, in the end, give her. Eventually, she journeys to Rome. And there she is brought before Nero, and imprisoned, and tortured in a variety of increasingly cruel ways, both before and after bringing Nero’s daughter and all her maidservants to profess faith in Christ. Among other punishments, she is thrown into a dry well. But what does it matter if the well is dry? At a well, on the day they first met, Jesus had said to her, ‘Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again, but those who drink of the water that I will give them will never be thirsty. The water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life.’ This woman, at the bottom of a well, as isolating and hemmed-in place as you can care to imagine, is Photini, the luminous one. And while Nero hardens his heart in an insatiable quest to offend the gods, God is fixed in his opposition to his actions. The stories of Photini’s suffering and endurance and character and hope are surely apocryphal, revealing an epic battle between darkness and light, manifest in an emperor driving himself insane and a woman of awe-inspiring confidence who learned long ago the lesson she needs to draw on now.

And this brings us to our other reading this morning, from Paul’s letter to the churches in Rome.

Paul contrasts ‘the glory of God’ and ‘the wrath of God’. The glory of God is the manifestation of God’s inherent goodness. The wrath of God is God’s fixed opposition to all that brings death rather than life, all that constrains us in the long term, rather than sets us free. Paul says that where God’s wrath is expressed, we shall be saved, our hope being in sharing in God’s glory.

Paul says, there is a process to this: suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, which will not put us to shame. The word he uses that is translated ‘suffering’ describes a narrow place that hems you in, so that you feel you are without options. That’s the literal meaning. Metaphorically, it describes that internal pressure where you feel that you have no way of escape. In our own language, we might say, ‘caught between a rock and a hard place’. And this produces endurance. The word translated ‘produces’ implies bringing something about by labour, through effort. And the word translated ‘endurance’ expresses the ability to remain in that place: to be willing to remain in the place from which you cannot escape. And this, in turn, produces character; and here the word refers to approval won through testing. Again, in our own language we might say, ‘tried and tested’. This leads to hope, or, a sure expectation.

The community that finds themselves caught between a rock and a hard place, labouring with the Holy Spirit, will find that they can endure, showing themselves to have been tried and tested, and possessing even greater confidence in their expectation of sharing in the glory of God. Note the communal aspect here: ‘we’ and ‘us’ and ‘our’ repeated over and over again. This is not about individual stoicism, but about a community facing adversity together, empowered by God, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

Today, we find ourselves in the middle of a pandemic, that will get worse before it gets better. We find ourselves wrestling with the need to respect spatial distancing, while rejecting social distancing: which might mean that, as we gather together less, we phone each other more; might mean, those who can run errands for those who can’t; might mean, we find new ways to resource prayer and worship at home, transforming the burden of isolation into the grace of a season of solitude in the wild places of Lent; must mean we resist viral fear and spread viral hope. Like Photini, may we shine as lights in the world, to the glory of God. Amen.

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.