Sixth Sunday of Easter

Acts 17:22-31

Last Sunday in our Gospel reading we heard Jesus say that he would do whatever his disciples ask in his name, so that the Father may be glorified in the Son. That is, Jesus will do anything that those who seek to follow and learn from and join in with what he is doing – his disciples – ask that will represent him – in his name – with the result that God our Father might be given glory. “If in my name you ask me for anything, I will do it.”

And we saw that Stephen, while being murdered by a crowd of zealots, asks Jesus to receive his spirit and to forgive those who were putting him to death, not holding this sin against them. A disciple of Jesus, in a situation Jesus had found himself in, responding in the way Jesus responded.

This week we see the evidence that Jesus did, indeed, do what Stephen asked, and that the Father was glorified in the Son. For the young man who held the coats of Stephen’s murderers and approved of his death would go on to have a change of heart, becoming the church-planter and letter-writer Paul, through whom the good news was - and continues to be – proclaimed across the world. On Paul’s first missionary journey, he too was stoned and left for dead by an angry mob who had pursued him from place to place. That took place in Lystra, in what is today Turkey. Unlike Stephen, Paul survived, and – incredibly – returned to Lystra on his second missionary journey, where he added to his team a young man called Timothy who would become like a son to him. Paul and his co-workers, Silas and Timothy, continue on their journey and are led by the Holy Spirit to cross into northern Greece, adding Luke to the team on the way. Their reception in Greece, as everywhere else, is mixed. Paul is again pursued from city to city and for his own safety is eventually taken as far as Athens, en route to the port of Corinth, travelling ahead of his team.

But Paul is a committed team player. When Silas and Timothy are delayed in joining him, Paul carries on to Corinth, looking for people to team up with. There he meets Aquila and Priscilla, who become his latest co-workers. But now we are ahead of ourselves.

For now, we are in Athens with Paul, and – cut off from his companions – Paul takes the opportunity to do a little sight-seeing. This is Athens, after all – the birthplace of Western culture!

But Paul doesn’t look at the world through the same lens as the locals. He looks at the world asking, what is God up to here? What are the connection-points I can use to help people move from a vague belief in the existence of a god they don’t know to a saving knowledge of the God who created the world and everything in it; who is at work behind the scenes in human history - both at the level of nations and at the level of each one of us; who moves towards us in the hope that we might move towards him; and who has appointed Jesus as the one who will arbitrate between the peoples and teach them to live together in peace?

Viewing the city with this lens, Paul looked carefully at the things they worshipped, at the things they produced as a response to the things they worshipped, and at the stories they told about themselves.

So, what is God up to in Sunderland? What are the connection-points we might make between the things people are worshipping, or the things that are produced as a result, or the stories they tell about themselves, and Jesus the one appointed by God to arbitrate between the peoples and teach them to live together in peace?

We’ve just had the outcome of the local elections and we await the results of the European elections, but I would suggest that there are some who worship nationalism, who produce fear and contempt, and who tell stories of being English that edit out the immigration that formed us. They are perhaps a minority, but they are putting forward their case with passion, and winning a hearing.

Rather than dismissing them, don’t we have something to say about the changing fortunes, boundaries and alliances of nations, or political groups – their being raised up, and being brought low? How might we speak of God being at work behind the scenes? We might ask whether the best goal of a people is to protect their own interests; or whether we might entrust our interests to God, and seek to work with other nations to see them blessed? We might tell the story of how God made all nationalities from one common ancestor – that we are all one family. We might tell the story of another ancestor, Abraham, the father of Jews and Christians and Muslims; a man who was an economically prosperous immigrant, through whom his host community was not undermined but blessed; a man whose descendants were economic refugees in a major power, who were dehumanised by their hosts, and rescued by God.

We might ask whether we are most truly described in terms of what we produce – which will always set us in competition with others, and enslave us to the god of Money – or whether we are more truly understood as works of art crafted by God?

We might ask whether we are rightly the judge over the motives of others, or whether we will willingly allow Jesus to judge our hearts now – before the day when he will do so whether we are willing or not?

But of course there are other things the people of Sunderland worship, other things they produce, other stories they tell – some of them weird and wonderful – from the Stadium of Light to the Lambton Worm!

Over June and July, I would like to work with you – as co-workers together – in two particular areas. The first is this: I would like to spend a day with members of the Minster family in the places where you spend the week. I would like to spend time with you, discovering what God is up to in Sunderland. And I would like to photograph you, on your own or with others, in that setting; and afterwards to display all the pictures as an exhibition in this setting – as a celebration of the life of Sunderland Minster beyond these walls and throughout the week.

I’m asking for invitations from young and old, to spend a day (it need not be a whole day) with you in your workplace; in the place where you study, or volunteer; with the people you play bowls or go out to lunch with; in your home: anywhere where you are during the week.

My hope is that this will help us to build up a picture of what God is up to, and the ways in which we are joining in; and a better idea of how we might support one another in that. If you would like to take part, I would love to hear from you.

The second area is this: we are hosting a civic service on Monday 4^th August to commemorate the outbreak of the First World War. This is not a Remembrance Service, when we mark the cost of conflict; but an opportunity to tell stories of Sunderland and the War, and to make connections between then and now. Let me give you an example. In Sunderland, as well as the battalions that were raised, many men served the duration of the War in the shipyards. Among other things, they built landing craft that played a crucial part in the very successful withdrawal from the disastrous Gallipoli campaign. But these men were targeted by patriotic young women forcing white feathers on men who would not serve their king and country, until special badges had to be made identifying them as making a vital contribution to the war effort. Is it possible that we might misrepresent the contribution of others to the life of our city today?

Many of you will have family stories relating to the First World War, and not only concerning those who went off to fight but also those who stayed behind. If any of you would like to share those stories with me, so that they can be told – if not on the fourth of August, at some point over the next four years – I would be very interested in hearing them.

Two opportunities: a project recording our lives today; and a project commemorating our past – both of which might help us imagine our future. Together, as co-workers for the sake of the gospel, let us explore the breadth and depth of Sunderland, in order that the people of this great city might hear of the breadth and depth of God’s love for them.

Fifth Sunday of Easter

John 14:1-14

Acts 7:55-60

Jesus, Lord of our imagination, would you take us to the table where, as Death stalked you, you tell your friends that anyone who has seen you has seen the Father; to the table where you tell your friends that those who believe in you will do the works that you do and, in fact, will do greater works than these, because you are going to the Father and will do whatever is asked in your name [that is, in accordance with his character] so that the Father may be glorified in the Son?

Jesus, Lord of our imagination, would you take us [in Jesus’ footsteps] to the courtyard of the high priest’s house, where Stephen sees you, and in seeing you sees the Father’s glory? Would you take us to the place outside the city walls where as he lays down his life Stephen [echoing Jesus’ request on the cross] asks that those who put him to death be forgiven? [Saul’s unexpected future will be the evidence that Jesus has done what Stephen asks, and indeed more than he could ask or imagine.]

Jesus, Lord of our imagination, in the fear and the confusion, would we find ourselves in you...

This week we have heard the report that an inspirational young man called Stephen had his life cut prematurely short in the most traumatic of circumstances – circumstances that mark all of us with death, forcing itself upon us. Despite all the stories we tell ourselves to the contrary, Death itself refuses to die at the hands of human progress or ingenuity. We try to control Death (that is why we so love the contained experience of homicide fiction), but it comes for us all, and not only once, at our end, but over and over in countless anticipations.

Again and again, the question is asked, “Why him?” or, “Why me?” Again and again, the questioner falls back silent, under the morphine of distraction and entertainment, of going along with the crowd, or of telling ourselves that we stand alone observing something that happens to other people but won’t come for us.

And so we bury God, as we go about our lives as if we were super-human, when at best we are children wearing our underpants outside our trousers, with a tea-towel tied around our neck for a cape. Children, who can’t really fly. Children, beloved.

If God brings life out of death – which is the Easter assertion – then our deaths become places where God is found, where God enters in, where God transforms the world. Not just our physical death, but all the little deaths that foreshadow that death. The thief comes to kill and to steal and to destroy, and this is the context within which Jesus comes that we might know life in its fullest sense. Every time a relationship between a husband and wife or a parent and child is put to death by a thousand subtle acts of carefully planned robbery or mindless opportunistic vandalism. Every time our confidence is put to death by failure or humiliation or disappointment. Every gainful employment terminated by redundancy, by being ‘surplus to requirements’. Death runs right through life.

And God is right there. A worldly – horizontal, flat earth – perspective won’t see him. We need a heavenly perspective: we need to look up; to look up, and to point others to Jesus.

Our Easter hope is not that Death is of no consequence, but that the very thing that so terrifies us has been turned inside-out. Not that Jesus died so that we don’t have to face Death, but that Jesus died because we have to. That the thing that announces The Ultimate Separation from God has been turned, against its will, into the way along which Jesus leads us, rejoicing, into the Father’s presence.

We see it in Stephen’s martyrdom, which results in the Church being released into mission; but we also see it earlier, when he dies to a rising reputation in order to accept a menial task, submitting his spirit to God and receiving from God the Spirit of grace and power that works great wonders and signs through flesh and blood.

We see it afresh this week in the life of a young man whose dying, by degrees, opened a gate for God to move in and through those who looked on; and whose death, when it came, opened a floodgate of grace and power he could never have imagined.

Ironically, every time we deny or fight Death in our lives we unintentionally resist the God who longs to bring life out of death; we resist the Holy Spirit who filled Stephen to the full. This message is counter-cultural and counter-intuitive, because we fight so hard to keep Death at bay. But it is good news, because Death is universal.

So, where are you facing Death today?

And, what will you ask Jesus to do, in or through your present situation, by which the Father might be glorified?

For those who want to take things further:

Jesus calls us to repent and believe. Repentance means taking on a new perspective, embracing the perspective of heaven rather than that of the world. It involves initial observation, deeper reflection and lively discussion. Believing means living out heaven’s perspective in the world. It involves making a new plan, putting in place those who will help us to live this way, and then stepping out in faith...

Observation: Where are you facing Death today? It might be in big and obvious ways, or small ways.

Reflection: Can you think of anyone whose story is recorded in the Bible who had a similar experience of Death? Or someone known to you, whose faith you admire?

Discussion: In what ways have you experienced God bringing life out of death in the past? What did that new life look like? What has Jesus revealed to you through these times?

Making a Plan: What will it look like to embrace Death? For example, it might mean laying down a role you have served in – or taking up a role you have resisted. And, what will you ask Jesus to do, in or through your present situation, by which the Father might be glorified?

Being Accountable: Who will help you to stick to your resolve in the face of Death? Who will be there to weep with you over the pain of death...and there to rejoice with you over the new life God will bring to birth?

Taking Action: Depart in peace, having seen the Lord.

Third Sunday of Easter

Luke 24:13-35

We are still in the Season of Easter, the season of getting to grips with what this life-out-of-death means – or rather, the season of life-out-of-death getting a grip on us. Today we find ourselves walking away from Jerusalem towards Emmaus, walking in the company of two disciples, part of the wider circle beyond the eleven apostles, walking from the highs and lows of recent days back towards the security of the familiar, of home. And as we walk, a fellow-traveller comes alongside us.

That in itself is also familiar. After all, if you are alone it is always safer to travel in proximity to others. Sitting on the Metro, taking in the people sat across from you – but not looking too closely, so as not to make them feel uncomfortable, so as not to attract confrontation. Glance up, and look away again. Slowly, though: too fast and you’ll look shifty. But you can’t help listening in to their conversation; laughing at the puzzling lines…

The man asks, ‘What are you discussing?’ Don’t you know? Haven’t you heard? It’s on everybody’s lips.

The man listens. This thing they are discussing, they don’t really seem to understand. It is clear that Jesus is somehow important to them, but how following him relates to their life is harder to work out. They are familiar with certain stories, but the relevance eludes them.

The man listens. Hears them out, until their words run dry. Only then does he speak. And when he does, he shapes their history, their culture, around the person of Jesus. Not pulling out proof texts to argue a point-of-view, but showing how it all comes together in him. And more than that, showing them where they found a place within that story – “opening the scriptures to us,” they would later say; making room for us within his story.

And now it is time to part company. But it is getting late. If we are hungry, and tired, he must be too. As we reach the door to a house, we are invited in. However fragile their beliefs, there is openness here. The man accepts the invitation; and so shall we. Companionship – literally, the sharing of bread around the table. And as the man reaches out to take the bread, his wrists extend from within his sleeves. The pink rawness of newly-healed skin, not yet darkened by the sun.

And in this familiar action, our eyes are opened. The dramatic testimony of others – even women known well to them – was not enough. Neither was the most helpful Bible exposition ever given, even if it was deeply engaging. But in a simple act of hospitality shown towards a stranger, received with gratitude towards God and reciprocal service, a moment of revelation breaks in. Just a moment, mind you; and then he vanished from their sight. But a moment of revelation is all that is needed; is enough to respond to.

They thought that they had arrived at their destination for the night; but in response they get up and set out back to the very place they had walked away from, with new hope. Will we go too?

Some thoughts to ponder:

Are we learning to be a listener? If yes, what has proven helpful in this? Who might we ask, ‘What are you discussing?’

Are we open to change our plans for others? Are we learning to accept invitations? Who is open to us?

What is Jesus showing you? Where have your eyes been opened, perhaps through testimony, or teaching, or studying the Bible, or fellowship with others, or through simple everyday activities given a new light?

What are you going to do in response?

Easter Sunday

This morning I want to tell you a story. An old, old story, written in an ancient book. As we open the book, the story begins – with [draw out] a handkerchief.

“Why are you weeping?” the man asks Mary.

Why is Mary weeping? Not because Jesus is dead. She has wept for that for forty hours straight, and, for now at least, her tears have run dry. No, Mary is not weeping because Jesus has died. These fresh tears are because someone has carried his body off, she knows not where.

It reminds me of the time when the Israelites were defeated in battle and the ark of the covenant was carried off by the Philistines…

[draw out a wooden box]

It reminds me of the time when the treasures from the temple and the royal palace in Jerusalem were carried off by the king of Babylon…

[draw out the gold rings]

It reminds me of the time when Jerusalem failed in rebelling against the Babylonians, fell, and the royal court was carried off into exile…

[draw out paper chain of people and then fold them together again]

When something or someone is carried off, it is as if defeat were not enough. As if there is something even worse. As if it were God’s way of saying, “I meant for that to happen. It didn’t just happen: it happened as my passing judgement on my people.” Adding insult to injury.

Most of all, it reminds me of the time when Joseph was thrown into a pit by his brothers. Reuben goes off, and when he returns, expecting to find Joseph in the pit, he discovers that the boy is no longer there. The other brothers have sold him to passing traders, [draw out play money] who carried him off to Egypt. Reuben is distraught.

Many, many years later, Joseph – now ruling Egypt on behalf of the Pharaoh – is reunited with his brothers, and tells them, “You meant it for evil, but God meant it for good.” God took hold of a heartless action…and from it wrought the saving of the Egyptian Empire, and the descendants of Abraham, from famine.

“Why are you weeping?” the man asks Mary. And then, once the reason is out in the open, he speaks her name. And in that moment, Mary knows that yes, God claims Jesus’ death, that it stands as an act of judgement. But that while men meant it for evil (so passing judgement on themselves), God meant it for good (passing a judgement in favour of life, out of death).

Even if the outworking of that plan might still lie years in the future.

A promise, if you will.

Perhaps that is why Easter is not a day, but a season lasting fifty days. Because Day One is full-to-bursting, with panic and adrenalin and trepidation and boldness and belief and failure to understand and despair and joy and trying-to-hold-on-too-tightly-in-case-it-all-falls-apart-again and fear and doubts and failing to recognise Jesus. Since the stone was removed the future is leaking into the present and the breach cannot be plugged. But it will take us fifty days a year, year after year, to learn how to live into this new reality.

[Close the book]

So, why are you weeping?

What hasn’t worked out the way you hoped as you have followed Jesus?

Where has your hope ended in defeat…only for something even worse to follow?

Sooner or later, we all find ourselves weeping with Mary.

But then he speaks our name.

And if the word spoken on Good Friday is, “It is finished!” the word spoken at sunrise on Easter morning is, “I’ve not finished yet…in fact, I’ve only just begun…”

Evensong : Second Sunday of Lent

Numbers 21:4-9

Luke 14:27-33

The account of the people, the poisonous serpents and the serpent of bronze is a strange tale to our ears. The serpent wrapped around a pole is known to us as a symbol of medicine and healing, but this comes to us from Greek mythology, the symbol of the demi-god Asclepius; and while the Greek tale is much younger, it does not appear to draw on this event in the story of Moses.

It seems primitive to us: a God who strikes down his own people, before relenting and instructing his prophet to create a symbol which he will bestow with healing properties. And yet these ancient myths - these stories that transcend the time and place where they are set - persist because they reveal something of ourselves to us that we would be foolish to believe we have outgrown the need for hearing.

In the grumbling of the people, in their becoming numb to the gift of life God has graciously given them, a subtle but highly toxic poison is already abroad in the camp. In sending poisonous serpents among the people to bite them, God externalises what is already present in such a way that it is exposed, that the invisible is made visible. The people do not merely cry out to be rescued from the serpents, but come to their senses in relation to the internal poison, to their self-inflicted wounds.

God’s response is not the provision of a medicine to counter the snake venom; but, rather, to take that external visualisation one step further: if they would be healed, the people must gaze upon a representation of the serpent, which is itself a representation of their folly. They must confront their own rebellion, must gaze upon their sin. But they must do so in the way God has prescribed: for to do so is not to despair, but to dare to hope; for in the very place where we confront our sin, we are confronted by God’s mercy.

Moreover, God does not remove the serpents. They continue to be present in that place, and continue to bite people; but now the consequence no longer has to be death. In the serpents and the bronze serpent the people are continually reminded - and we with them - of our own toxicity.

This strange tale reappears in the New Testament, in the Gospel According to John, where Jesus tells Nicodemus that the serpent lifted up on a pole is how he understands his own destiny: to be looked upon by those who recognise their own sinfulness, and to be the means of healing for them. This, perhaps, in his years of ministry as well as in his hours on the cross.

But this is not our Gospel reading today. Today we have some other sayings of Jesus and these too concern our theme. The monumental folly of an unfinished tower, and history littered with predictable military humiliations, are both examples of internal attitude externalised. The unwise builder and the unwise king both seek to make a name for themselves without self-knowledge, without recognising their limitations, their falling-short of their aim. As we gaze on their ruin, we are meant to recognise ourselves reflected back at us. And yet, again, in the place of confronting our folly, we are confronted with God’s mercy. For as we give up all we possess - in its abundant lack - to God, in Jesus, he takes our identity upon himself and in exchange we are healed as the poverty of our nature is transformed by the riches of his grace (if I may be allowed to let Epiphany break into Lent).

Those things about ourselves which we cannot face - nor yet change, even if we could - we project onto someone or something other. Left to our own devices, we project them in violent ways - against those on benefits, or immigrants, or those of another religion; the most vulnerable groups being the most easily demonised. But in his great love, God has not left us to our own devices: instead, he has declared, ‘Project yourselves on me, project yourselves upon me raised up on an execution scaffold; for as you do, you will be healed.’

How, we cannot know, any more than we can fathom how Moses’ serpent could be used by God. Yet, if we dare to trust that this is somehow truth revealed, then gaze with me upon the cross - which is both ours and Christ’s. Amen.

Ash Wednesday

John 8:1-11

Here we are, once again, at the start of Lent. I wonder what your expectations of Lent are. Perhaps you see it as an austere season, even a severe season? Perhaps you see it as an endurance test? Perhaps you see it as a strange observance belonging to another time? Perhaps you have no idea what Lent is all about?

Might I suggest that Lent is a season of intimacy with the God who created you, and whose declared intentions for you are life in its fullness?

In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. And God drew out the land from the waters of the sea. And God drew out the dustling from the dust of the ground, impressing it with God’s own stamp and seal, and breathing God’s own life into it. And God drew out all kinds of trees from the ground. And God placed the dustling he had drawn out from the ground in a garden, to take care of the ground and of the trees that grew from the ground: to help the ground to fulfil God’s intention for it, and to help that which sprang forth from the ground to fulfil God’s intention for it too.

And God took the dustling and drew out male and female; woman to correspond to man, two halves of one whole; the woman to be a warrior-deliverer for the man just as God would declare himself to be a warrior-deliver to humanity.

And God said, walk with me. But the serpent said, “God is hiding himself from you, is keeping all that you could be from you: don’t settle for that!” And the dustling was deceived, and tried to take what had already been given – a share in God’s identity. This catastrophic event cast a long shadow between God and the dustling; between male and female within the dustling; between the dustling and the ground from which they were taken, and the plants that also sprang up from the ground.

And yet, God sets clear limits on the consequences. The serpent is cursed, to eat dust. The ground is cursed. But the dustling is not cursed. Death will come as a release, not as the final word on the matter. In death, the dustling and the dust would be reunited. And from the woman would come life; a son who would avenge her, crushing the serpent’s head.

These ancient foundational stories of our humanity provide a backdrop as we turn our eyes to Jesus in the temple. He has been here since celebrating the Feast of Tabernacles, the annual act of remembering that God had drawn his people out of slavery in Egypt and met with them in the wilderness, where he had provided living water from the rock, and had shaped a broken rabble into a nation to be a light to the nations. Jesus is causing quite a stir, and while the people are drawn to him, the chief priests and the Pharisees are increasingly hardening their hearts towards him.

It is early in the morning, and Jesus is sitting in the temple courts, teaching, when he is rudely interrupted. The self-righteous drag a woman before him, a woman caught in the very act of committing adultery. It is a trap. In the Law, Moses commanded them to stone ‘such women,’ they say: will Jesus dismiss the Law?

Of course, they care little for the Law. The Law commands that both parties guilty of adultery, the man and the woman, be put to death. This woman is not suspected of promiscuity; she is, allegedly, caught in the very act of committing adultery. If these men were concerned about the Law, they would be bringing the man before Jesus too. The woman – reduced to an object – is merely a pawn: entrapped. For how would a gang of men happen to be at hand if not waiting? And if entrapped, possibly raped – in which case, the Law might require only the death of the man. But there is no man brought for judgement. Or rather, the man being accused is Jesus. God who said, ‘Do not commit adultery’ also said, ‘Do not bring false testimony against your neighbour’ – and in seeking to entrap Jesus, they are playing one commandment off against another.

Jesus ignores them. Instead, he writes on the ground with his finger – a common teaching tool. Perhaps he is going back to his teaching, bringing to mind his interrupted train of thought. The more the religious thugs demand a response, the more he carries on ignoring them, refusing to be drawn into their game – their game of pretending to be more righteous than the woman; their game of pretending to be more righteous than Jesus.

Until at last, the trap springs shut: but Jesus has sidestepped it, and rescued the woman with him; the fowlers caught in their own snare. “Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.”

Jesus was without sin. And yet he chose to so fully identify with sinners that he sides with those who do not dare throw the first stone. He chose to identify with the very men seeking to trap him, as well as with the woman who happened to find herself caught up in their hatred. He chose not to stone the woman, but to crush the serpent’s head. He chose to point his finger not in accusation, but to point towards freedom.

This is a story about creation, un-creation, and new creation. We are all dustlings, drawn from the ground, sharing a common humanity, made for unity, made to fight for one another not against one another. Stoning someone to death is the ultimate act of un-creation: taking stones from the ground to return a dustling to dust. Jesus is not looking for un-creation, but new creation. He is stirring something in the dust, writing a new story. Yes, the woman was entrapped, but it is likely that something about how she lived her life made her vulnerable to such a trap: perhaps she would not dare to speak out the truth of this situation, because her accusers held some other secret over her. Jesus does not condemn her, but neither does he say it does not matter. It matters greatly; enough to put his own life on the line. “Go your way, and from now on do not sin again” he tells her...and not only her, but those still close enough to overhear. Don’t collude with the treating of people as objects.

The season of Lent is an invitation to reacquaint ourselves with dust...

To rediscover our connectedness within God’s creation, where we have become disconnected...

To see our fellow dustlings with solidarity and compassion, where we have viewed them with suspicion and contempt, where we have viewed ourselves as above others...

To allow Jesus to draw patterns in the dust, our lives not set in stone but something altogether more dynamic, able to adapt.

It is a season to humble ourselves, but also to learn to love ourselves in yet another year of our decaying dustiness, our frailty and wretchedness; and to love our dusty neighbour as ourselves; as we are made new, not by our own efforts but by the One who loves us.

This Lent, may you find yourself in the dust at Jesus’ feet;

and may you wait there:

wait while he ignores the accusations brought against you, brought against him;

wait until the voices fall silent and the accusers turn away;

wait, until transformed by his grace, you are set free to go your way, and from now on do not sin again…

Author’s confession: due to other contraints, this sermon is a re-working of my Ash Wednesday sermon from last year.

Sunday Next Before Lent : Giving Sunday

Matthew 17:1-9 (Matthew 16:13-28)

Today we give thanks for the generosity of many people – a generosity of their time, their skill, their money - that enables the life and mission of this Minster community. As we think about being church in this place, I want to set the scene by looking at the events leading up to the Transfiguration.

In the previous chapter, Matthew tells us that Jesus took his disciples to Caesarea Philippi, a city built in honour of Rome, on the site of Banias, an earlier Greek city and major shrine to the nature god Pan, who had, it was believed, died and descended into the underworld. Indeed, the shrine was located at the mouth of a large cave known as THE GATE OF HADES; and the worship was reputed to involve the wildest of orgies. It was not the sort of place good Jewish boys would frequent. If the disciples’ mothers had known that this was where Jesus was taking them, they would have intervened.

As they approached this place of competing ideas, Jesus asked them, ‘Who do people say that I am?’ Several theories are put forward. And then he asks, ‘And what of you? Who do you say that I am?’ And Simon responds, ‘You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.’ You’re the one who will rescue us from...all this.

Jesus replies, ‘You are blessed, because this has been revealed to you by my heavenly Father. You are known as Simon – as “Listen!” - the fisherman’s son; but I’m re-naming you Peter – “Rocky” - and on this rock I will build my church, and these intimidating Gates of Hades will not prevail against you.’ This place, the most inappropriate of places imaginable to be in, is the place Jesus chooses to introduce the very idea of his church.

From then, Jesus starts to tell his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem, suffer and die, and three days later rise again. And Peter - Rocky - takes him aside and rebukes him. Jesus responds with strong words: ‘You’re speaking as the Adversary, not for God! You are the rock, but rather than being a foundation on which I can build, right now you are a stumbling block for me.’ Peter goes from being affirmed to being rebuked, from feeling good about himself to feeling small, from Rocky back to Listen!, pay attention!

If Jesus is going to build his church, it will be built Jesus’ way. In this moment, where Peter goes from foundation to stumbling block, Jesus speaks about investing in what he is doing. He says that whoever invests all that they have in order to secure their own life will ultimately lose everything; but that whoever invests all that they have in what Jesus is doing will receive a great return on their investment. Jesus says that whatever we choose to invest in - fame, fortune - will cost us everything we have; but that the return in investing in what he is doing turns out to be the richest experience of life.

While the disciples are still pondering that, Jesus takes Peter and James and John, and goes up a mountain to meet with Moses and Elijah. Moses, the great prophet through whom God led his people out of slavery in Egypt and gave them the Law, the framework for becoming a nation. Elijah, the greatest prophet to call the people back to that covenant relationship with their God. Can you imagine?!

Peter has some making up to do. He steps forward and suggests that he might build three shelters, for Jesus, Moses and Elijah. After all, he’s a builder now, the one chosen to build the church. This time, God speaks from heaven, declaring his love for Jesus and telling the disciples to listen to him. And then, in a moment, Moses and Elijah are gone.

What has any of this to do with how we give of ourselves within the church? I want to suggest three things.

Firstly, we need to be reminded that it is Jesus who builds his church. It seems to me that Peter runs into trouble because he hadn’t quite heard what Jesus said, because he thought that he was being commissioned to build the church. The church in this place will not be built because of me, or because of our Church Wardens - wonderful though they are - or because of you. And that is good news: it takes a lot of pressure off! It doesn’t depend on us.

Secondly, Jesus challenges us, as a group of his disciples, to invest our lives in what Jesus is doing. I want to thank you for the different ways in which you give of yourselves to invest in what he is doing among us.

Some of you invest financially, towards our running costs.

Some of you invest your expertise, particular skills you have learnt.

Some of you invest your being present, serving on groups of one kind or another, when you could be somewhere else.

Some of you invest relationally in this community, as we care for one another pastorally.

Some of you invest your prayer - perhaps all the more so as you feel less able to invest in other ways.

Many of you have invested in several or even all of these different ways. Again, thank you. I know that at the point of making the investment - being present at a meeting, for example - it can feel like you have lost something of your life that you won’t ever get back...but, I hope, that overall our experience is that Jesus gives us a generous return on our investment. This church is full of life, full of people on journeys of faith together. This is a place of living stones being built together: among the parents and toddlers, and the six adults currently preparing for Baptism and Confirmation, to give just two examples.

I want to encourage each one of us to look at everything God has given us and to ask, ‘How can I invest my life in something that will last?’ As a guideline, the Church of England invites members to invest 5% of their disposable income in their own church community, and a further 5% to support other things Jesus is working through, such as charitable organisations. That might be a challenge to work towards, or to discuss further.

And might what applies to our money apply to other things we can invest? Perhaps you might consider joining us here for Morning Prayer on one or more mornings during the week, for half an hour from 9.00 a.m. Or, as my seven-year-old son has done, you might consider joining the Welcome team on a Sunday morning, investing friendliness.

Thirdly and finally, I want to return to the Transfiguration. Jesus, Moses and Elijah. Jesus, who takes Peter and James and John along with him, to learn from him. Moses, who took Joshua when he went up a mountain to meet with God, raising up his successor. Elijah, who raised up Elisha to take his place when Elijah was taken up to heaven. You see, Peter missed the point. He wanted to build a monument to the past. But God gives Moses and Elijah, two great prophets who invested in the next generation, the privilege of seeing the future, of seeing Jesus.

One of the things that can happen when we invest our lives in what Jesus is doing through his church is that we come to see our value as being found in what we do. The idea that someone else might help, let alone replace us, becomes threatening: as if we are no longer valued. I want to say this: you are not valued here for what you do, though what you do is appreciated. You are valued here because you are loved, because you are members of God’s family and our family. Old, young, and those in the middle: you are loved. You cannot be loved more or loved less, cannot earn it or lose it: you are loved.

To those who give in any way, I want to thank you. But I also want to challenge you to ask yourself, ‘Who can I invite to do this alongside me? Who can I invest in, who can I train up, to whom can I pass on the baton?’ That way, you won’t only be giving for now, but creating a legacy.

And as we invest our lives in what Jesus is doing, with attention to those who will be here after we are gone, the gates of hell in Sunderland are shaken, and we may glimpse Jesus’ glory as he builds his church.