Second Sunday after Trinity: BCP

1 John 3:13-24 and Luke 14:16-24

The genius of the parable as a form of teaching is that parables can be adapted to suit different contexts. Matthew and Luke both recount Jesus telling the parable of a great banquet, but telling it in different ways.

Matthew frames Jesus’ whole ministry in terms of proclaiming impending crisis: the call to ‘repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near’ (Matthew 4:17). That is to say, turn back, return to God, in the light of an imminent day of judgement! In the same way that the immediate prophetic horizon of the Old Testament prophets was the destruction of Jerusalem by the Babylonian Empire (which took place in 587/586BC), so the immediate prophetic horizon for Jesus was the destruction of Jerusalem by the Roman Empire (which would take place in AD70).

Luke frames Jesus’ whole ministry in terms of proclaiming Jubilee: God’s favour expressed as good news for the poor, freedom for captives and the oppressed (Luke 4:16-21, where Jesus reads from Isaiah 61:1-2. For more on what Jubilee meant, see Leviticus 25 and 27). That is to say, Matthew and Luke focus on different dimensions of Jesus’ message, Matthew looking to an event in the near future (the now-and-not-yet kingdom of heaven is coming), and Luke to an event in the now (the now-and-not-yet kingdom of God has come).

So Matthew records Jesus telling the parable of the great banquet as a parable of God’s judgement on unrighteous Israel, culminating in the destruction of Jerusalem. Behind the action of the false god Caesar, in which those who currently enjoyed power and prestige would suffer horrific death, stands the judgement of the true King of heaven. In contrast, Luke records Jesus telling the same parable as a parable of Jubilee, in which those who had been pushed to the margins found themselves included. While the powerful experience a marginalisation they have not previously known, there are no gory deaths: the focus is justice, not bloody overthrow.

Someone gave a great dinner and invited many. But they all alike began to make excuses. If the excuses sound at all reasonable to us, that should be a warning to us of just how far we have accommodated worldly power in our own lives. The first has just bought land, without even seeing it. This is a clear violation of the Jubilee, where all ancestral land that had been mortgaged to a creditor had to be returned, liberating families from the burden of debt and the captivity of poverty. This restoration took place only twice every century, and so to take property in this particular moment was effectively to hold others captive for a full fifty years.

Another invited guest has just bought five yoke of oxen, and wants to try them out. Again, this is a clear violation of the Jubilee, in which the land was to lie fallow for a year. It is not only the tenants of God’s land who are to experience release: Jubilee extends to the land itself. Of course, to embrace a fallow year requires trust in God’s provision. To buy oxen and put them to work in this particular moment is to disregard and dishonour God.

Yet another invited guest has just married. Surely this is not a violation of the Jubilee? Don’t rich and poor alike marry? Well, in Numbers 36, Moses is called upon to settle a dispute. It has already been established that daughters can inherit land; the concern is that if unmarried daughters inherit land and then marry into another Israelite tribe, and if the land is subsequently mortgaged to a creditor, then at the Jubilee redemption it will be restored to that tribe and not her ancestral tribe. The concern is that marriage can result in the permanent loss of connection to the land, which was the inheritance of the people. In this version of the parable, where the first two excuses reveal violation of the Jubilee, Jesus’ listeners would have understood marrying in this particular moment as an attempted land-grab in violation of the Jubilee.

The RSVPs come in, and none of the invited guests are attending. So the owner of the house instructs his slave to bring in the poor, the crippled, the blind, and the lame. This is done, but the slave reports back that ‘there is still room.’ The master sends his slave out again, to compel people to come in, that his house may be filled. As far as Jubilee is concerned, once you have fulfilled the letter of the Law, there is still room to go further, to bring more people in to the experience of justice and freedom.

How might this parable of the Jubilee relate to us, in Sunderland, today? Our reading from 1 John instructs us to love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action. Love is expressed in providing help to those in need. This week has seen the publication of the Cinnamon Faith Action Audit, which has found that in Sunderland, faith communities – overwhelmingly churches – run over 400 projects serving the community. These include work with children, young adults, the elderly, the isolated, those in financial crisis, asylum seekers, those with addiction, those trapped in trafficking or prostitution, alleviating homelessness, skills and employment, and creating safer communities. More than 2,000 volunteers reached almost 80,000 beneficiaries in 2014, delivering services of a total financial value calculated at over £3.5 million. On average, each church or faith group was delivering 7 social action projects; with 4 paid staff working 1,939 hours; and 39 volunteers giving 5,553 hours; providing support for 1,395 beneficiaries; at a financial worth of £62,666 (paid staff hours, plus volunteer hours calculated using the living wage of £7.85 and a small supplement for management time).

The poor, the crippled, the blind, and the lame are being brought in. And there is still room. The Jubilee that Jesus proclaimed is alive and well in Sunderland, because it is still, and always will be, needed.

We return to this place, to the house and presence of our Lord and master, in order to receive his word. First, he feeds us, nourishes us – but this is not the banquet itself. Then he says, go out…and bring in... Let us be strengthened in our duty, and serve with joy.

First Sunday After Trinity

Genesis 3:8-15 | 2 Corinthians 4:13-5:1 | Mark 3:20-35

On our dining room wall there are photos of our children, including one of each of them on their first days at school, which happened to be in three different cities, Sheffield, where they were all born, Nottingham, where I was at theological college, and Liverpool, during my curacy. What can be seen is temporary. Who I was at birth, at seven, at fourteen, at twenty-one, at twenty-eight, at thirty-five, at forty-two – or, at least, who I understood myself to be, and who others took me to be – differs one from the other. Like icebergs, only a small and melting part of who we are is visible; most of our selves are interior, hidden as much to us as to others, buoying us up in an eternal sea.

Today I want to consider the temporary outer nature, which is [beautiful in its many stages of] wasting away; the eternal inner nature, which is being renewed day by day; and the crucial role hiding plays at the meeting-point of the two.

Let me set the scene for the reading from Genesis. The human family, embodied in our first parents Adam and Eve, were given three gifts by God: firstly, the gift of a vocation, to enable harmony within God’s creation, characterised by fruitfulness and rest; secondly, the gift of abundant provision, which is what fruitfulness looks like; and thirdly the gift of limit-setting, which is actually what rest looks like, given in order to spare us from being overwhelmed by the wonder and mystery of life. But we, again embodied in our first parents, ate of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil; our eyes were opened to our nakedness; we were afraid, and hid. As embodied persons this surely includes physical nakedness, but actually describes being overwhelmed by a glimpse into the enormous, mysterious life we were created for, terrifyingly desired and just as terrifyingly costly.

We are made to be a particular person who stands in the presence of other particular persons, including God; and who enjoy ourselves and the other as gift. (This is what it means to be made in the likeness of the Trinity.) This being present in the presence of another is easy in innocence, when we have no idea that it will cost us everything – just this week, I watched a baby interact with every adult in a café – but is overwhelming when our eyes are opened to the enormity of our own possibility and that of every other person. When I was fourteen, all I wanted to become in time was a husband and a father. When I became a real husband to a real wife, and a real father to three real children – all of whom change through time – I discovered that I hoped for something far beyond the ability of the person I have become.

The man and the woman hide. Now, the instinct to hide is a reflex common to all animals God has created, and learning to hide well is an essential skill. Hiding gives us the space we need in order to closely observe, to observe ourselves as well as others; a place where we will be safe until we are ready to step into the presence of another person, not as an innocent who knows not what we are doing but as one created for real relationship with real others. Indeed, hiding, done well, is good – as we will see in Jesus. But when we fail to hide well, we fall back on hiding badly, because we have presented ourselves too soon.

The first place the man and woman hide is among the trees of the garden. The calling to fill the earth [provision; fruitfulness; including relationships] and subdue it – that is, calm its raging storms [limit-setting; rest; involving struggles] – has become overwhelming to them; and so they hide in that part of their vocation they can see in the present – as gardeners of the Garden. And here they hide well, by which I mean that from their hiding place they carefully observe God, and what they observe enables them to overcome fear and step out from the trees.

But in this beautiful story we also see what hiding badly does to us. The thought of filling the earth is overwhelming. Adam hides within the immediate relationship he can see in the present - ‘the woman you gave me’. But he does so badly, the encounter defined by blame and not delight. Fruitfulness is frustrated. The thought of subduing the earth is also overwhelming. Eve hides within the immediate struggle she can see in the present, represented by the serpent. She also hides badly, the encounter defined by deceit and not honesty. In shifting blame [movement, with false intent] rather than owning responsibility, rest is frustrated.

Both male and female hide from what is invisible, or too large to see, in what is visible: the temporary, passing, wasting-away outer edge of our vocation and relationships and struggles. Even though this edge is falling away, it provides the place from which we can see the next step emerge, the place from where we can step into our ‘being renewed’ selves rather than being pushed unprepared.

Jesus also hid and watched, but always hid well. He hid within his vocation: for thirty years of obscurity as a builder, forty days in the wilderness, at the festival of Booths, in the tomb. He hid within his relationships: observing others with compassion before stepping from hiding to respond to a woman ostracised by her neighbours, a woman longing for her child to be healed, sisters weeping for their dead brother, a woman in a garden weeping for her lord. And he hid within his struggles: asleep in the bottom of the boat while his friends wrestle the storm that rises within them as much as about, until he is ready to step forward and restore calm with a word.

Hiding is an essential skill; and God is so gracious in recognising this. Eavesdropping as two guilty children are being questioned, can we glimpse the knowing gaze and loving smile of a wise parent? God’s response is to re-state the vocation of humanity to enable harmony in creation; and, in parallel promises, to re-affirm first to the woman and then to the man that, though their labour will be hard, they will ultimately know both fruitfulness [met desire] and rest [under the protection of human relationship, in life; under the protection of the earth, in death]. In three successive declarations, the eternal perspective on vocation, on relationships, and on struggles are revealed, beneath the surface of what is presently visible.*

We hide, holding on to a role in the community that has, in part, defined us, before we let it go and step into the next chapter in the story of our inner nature. We hide, holding on to our children as, well, children, before we know them, and are known by them, as adults. We hide, holding on to perceived enemies [including ourselves], before we dare to meet them as potential friends.

Letting go of what is temporary and stepping into the next temporary season has its own timing. This is a mystery; and mystery is not meant to be understood but, rather, to be experienced. Wherever you are hiding today, whatever immediate past you must let go of, whatever immediate future you must take hold of, God comes, looking for you, wanting to know you and to be known by you in that intimate moment where we disappear and appear. Parent and child, caught up in a game of hide-and-seek. It is a beautiful encounter – and it can be yours today.

[*By such steps, the man and the woman are able to move out from the Garden into the world that must be tamed. Finally, God sets an angel to prevent them going back, for hiding is instinctive to us, and while it stops us from charging ahead too soon, it can also prevent us from stepping out at all. We can never hide in the same place twice, for once a hiding place has served its necessary purpose, it is lost to us forever.]

Pentecost (sermon 2: preached at Sunderland Minster)

John 16:4b-15

Listen.

What do you hear? Can you hear the sound of the Spirit moving in our midst?

Moving in the midst of men and women, young and old, people gathered together from diverse countries and cultures? Each with their own God-breathed vision and dream of what we long to see birthed in our midst? Visions and dreams that, on the surface, can seem to pull in different directions. One comes in search of breathing space, a precious retreat in order to return to demanding families and workplaces refreshed, renewed; another, in search of human connection, an oasis in a desert of disconnection from our neighbours. One comes looking for us to be stretched beyond our comfort zones; another, looking for the comfort of the familiar. To borrow a Pentecost-al image, we come from different places and speak different native tongues, or first languages.

Listen, again. What do you hear? Can we hear one another? Or are we so excited to share our vision, our dream, that we drown one another out?

I want to suggest that the primary work of the congregation is to listen. To attend carefully to God’s voice. To listen deeply to one another, in order to hear what we are really saying when we say what we think we are saying. Hear, O Israel…

In our Gospel reading today, Jesus says that the Holy Spirit, as our Advocate, ‘will prove the world wrong about sin and righteousness and judgement: about sin, because they do not believe in me; about righteousness, because I am going to the Father and you will see me no longer; about judgement, because the ruler of the world has been condemned.’ (John 16:8-10) What does that even mean? And how might it help us to hear one another?

Firstly, sin. The world says that sin needs to be punished – and so usually encourages us to believe that ‘I am not a sinner’ or, at the least, ‘I am more sinned against than sinning’ (though sometimes, when we are vulnerable, tells us instead that we are the worst of sinners and deserve punishment). The world says, ‘Your actions have made me feel smaller, in relation to you; and so I must counter-act to make you smaller, in order to redress the balance.’ But the world is wrong. Jesus says, sin needs to be forgiven. Only those who recognise themselves as sinners can receive the forgiveness that is in him.

Sin; then, righteousness. The world says, ‘I justify my actions, I determine that I am in the right’ – and, by extension, whether you are in the right or in the wrong. Jesus says, I do not need to get my own way for the Father to be glorified. Being in right relationship with others flows from going to our Father, day by day, in the hidden place no one else sees, not the public arena. Are we doing that?

Sin; righteousness; and lastly, judgement. The world says, ‘Who is God to judge me?’ or, perhaps, ‘God judges in my favour, and against you.’ Jesus says, who is the one who has usurped humanity’s position under God as ruler of this world to judge you? For the Father sent the Son into the world not to condemn but to save; and the Father and the Son have sent the Spirit into the world, poured out on all flesh, as our Advocate. As Paul also writes, God is for us, corporately, and nothing can now separate us from God’s love (Romans 8).

When the Spirit comes, the perspective that I must pursue my vision at all costs is proved wrong. Instead, we find ourselves speaking in new languages – in the native tongues of others. We discover vocabularies of praise we had not known; and we come to recognise that our own native vocabulary of praise is inadequate for enabling others to join in. And in this encounter – which is nothing less than a sign and wonder revealing that God is in our midst – we discover that there is unity in our diversity, and that God is able to do more than we can ask or imagine.

Look around.

What do you see? A company of sinners, come in need of forgiveness? Sisters and brothers, beloved children of God? Those for whom the Spirit advocates? If we can see these things, as we are gathered together in this place, then our visions and dreams are being woven together, to the glory of God.

Come, Holy Spirit!

Pentecost (Sermon 1: published, but not preached)

In England today there is a marked divide between those who live on the land – who tend to vote Blue – and those who live in the cities – who tend to vote Red. Perhaps this divide is universal; it certainly features in the Bible. But however badly the city-dwellers and the rural peasants related to each other in practice, the Jews lived-into their Story through a bringing-together of the Land and the Temple. Jesus, his disciples, and everyone we read about in the Gospels, would have known and in some form taken part in three annual pilgrim festivals. Each one told part of the foundational Story of God’s people; and each one was tied to a particular harvest.

The land they lived in was famous for bearing two grain crops – barley, and wheat – and five fruit crops – grapes, figs, pomegranates, olives, and dates. The first two festivals belong together, marking the seven week period over which the grains ripened, from the bringing-in of the barley at Passover to the bringing-in of the wheat at Pentecost. In other words, Pentecost marks the completion of something begun at Passover. The third festival, the festival of Tabernacles, took place later in the year, marking the bringing-in of the fruits.

Here, then, is the story that unfolds from Passover to Pentecost:

A long time ago, the brothers from whom the tribes of Israel would descend sold one of their number, Joseph, into slavery in Egypt. They meant it for evil, but God meant it for good. Through this Joseph, God saved the Egyptian Empire from a catastrophic seven-year long famine. But, far from gratitude, the Egyptians enslaved all of Joseph’s family for four hundred and fifty years. Then God sent Moses, to proclaim judgement on Egypt if they did not repent, and to rescue his people. Pharaoh and all Egypt hardened their hearts; and their world came to an end when they awoke to find every first-born son had died in one night. Those Israelites who listened to Moses – and not all of them did – were led out of slavery on that night. Seven weeks later, the refugees now camped in the wilderness at the foot of Mount Sinai, God spoke with Moses, giving the Law that constituted them into a new people.

(Like the Egyptians, they turned out to be an ungrateful people. God allowed them to wander the wilderness for forty years; living in tents; the whole generation he had led out of Egypt – with the exception of one man, Joshua – dying, before their children inherited the land God had promised to give to Abraham’s descendants. This is why they needed the third festival – but that is not our concern today.)

Seven weeks ago, Passover. Jerusalem was full of pilgrims, gathered to give thanks for another harvest; gathered to eat roast lamb and unleavened bread, and to remember that God had brought them up out of slavery in Egypt; gathered, wondering when God would set them free from the Roman Empire. A potent mix of past and present and future; of celebration and lament. And Jesus, re-interpreting the Passover. Jesus, sent to Israel as Joseph and Moses had been sent to Egypt; rejected, by those who in rejecting him had sealed their own judgement; believed in, by those who in believing in him had secured their deliverance, their survival of the end of the world.

Seven weeks later, and Jerusalem is once again full of pilgrims, gathered to give thanks for the harvest; gathered to hear the Law of Moses being read out, and to remember that, at Sinai, God had constituted them into a people. Still asking, when, O Lord, will you overthrow Rome and restore David’s kingdom? Except that this is not going to happen – at least, not obviously, not any time soon. Within the lifetime of many of those pilgrims, Israel would rise up against Rome and be utterly destroyed, the very stones of the temple thrown down on to the pavement below. The end of the world is coming. What Jesus and his first followers are acting out is this: that God has rescued a remnant from the coming destruction; and that God is fashioning them into a new community.

In the first act, a hundred and twenty are rescued. In the second act, the Church explodes from Jerusalem to every corner of the Roman Empire, from where she will grow until Rome is overthrown not by might nor by power but by the Spirit of God.

The end of the world happens all of the time. Ask any member of our congregation who has sought asylum in the past twelve months. Ask any member of our congregation who has been bereaved in the past twelve months. Ask any member of our congregation who has received a life-changing diagnosis in the past twelve months. No wonder post-apocalyptic dystopias are so prevalent a theme in young adult fiction at present. In the midst of life, we are in death.

Pentecost says, the end of the world is real; but it is not The End. Pentecost is the Spirit of God giving birth to a community that will survive the end of the world: and not a community that can survive the end of the world once, just about limping along; but a community that can survive the end of the world over and over again, and give rise to the world reborn; a community that carries within itself the seed of the world made new. Jesus said, unless a seed falls to the ground and dies, it remains but one seed; but if it falls to the ground and dies, it bears a harvest. Pentecost is our carrying to God the first-fruits of that harvest, with great celebration.

Pentecost is where we gather together – old folk and younger folk; men, women, and children; from England, and West Africa, from the Middle East, from the Indian sub-continent, and South East Asia – and start dreaming God-inspired, God-empowered dreams of what life after death looks like, here in our midst, at Sunderland Minster. Visions of a new world for the asylum seekers – and everyone who steps inside this building is seeking asylum from this world, within the world that is coming among us.

We all get to play: the young in faith, and the elders among us; the women and the men. It doesn’t happen overnight; happens, mostly, by tiny almost imperceptible degrees; but it changes everything.

So go: Go, and have visions and dreams. Go, but gather again, often; and when we gather, share those visions, those dreams. Speak them out for others to hear. And together we will see what God will do with us, and for us, and through us. Amen.

160th (Wearside) Brigade

We have come here today to dedicate a memorial Standard in honour of those who served King and Country in the 160^th (Wearside) Brigade. It is a new Standard, and it bears the motto of the Royal Field Artillery, which translates from the Latin UBIQUE QUO FAS ET GLORIA DUCUNT as ‘Everywhere sacred duty and glory lead’. But in your order of service you will also find a coat of arms drawn up and adopted by those men themselves. On the shield we read the Morse code for the letters ‘I’ and ‘D’ which stand for ‘the Idle and Dissolute’. Above the shield there is a very large bottle of port. The shield’s supporters are a horse, symbol of the gambler; and a woman wearing only stockings and a diaphanous negligee, standing on a money bag, and holding a glass and a tiny captive man in her hands. Between the stallion and the prostitute we read the Greek motto KLEPTO – ‘I steal’.

Which representation is true? By which ought we to remember those Wearside men? By which would we want to be remembered ourselves?

The truth is to be found not in one or the other symbol, nor even somewhere in between, but in holding these two images in tension.

According to Saint John, the first sign by which Jesus reveals his glory is providing the equivalent of 800 bottles of wine, give or take, to keep a village-wide wedding celebration going. This, a sign of heaven breaking into earth. As his ministry unfolds, we see Jesus call fishermen and tax collectors alike from their employment, to join him at so many tables that he was widely accused of being a glutton and a drunkard. Jesus and his disciples are the original Idle and Dissolute brigade. He surrounds himself with the company of publicans – a term that refers to those who had bought into the privatisation of the tax system in hope of making a profit, the ultimate gamblers of their time – and prostitutes. Indeed, he is so at home in the company of disreputable women that even women of good reputation were wrongly accused: on no evidence in the Gospels whatsoever, no less a figure than a Pope would later proclaim that Mary Magdalene was a prostitute. And while stealing is generally frowned upon in the Bible, Jesus describes himself as having tied up a strong man in order to steal from him: referring to stealing back from the devil what this shadowy figure had stolen from men, women, and children, including health and hope and a future.

Jesus, I think, would have been happy to operate under the coat of arms of the 160^th (Wearside) Brigade. And yet he is clear that he went wherever the Father sent him, doing only what he saw the Father doing, with the result that people glorified God. In other words, Jesus holds UBIQUE QUO FAS ET GLORIA DUCUNT and KLEPTO in dynamic tension, and it is within that tension that heaven invades earth and claims it back for us.

We see this, too, in our servicemen and women at their best, giving of themselves in order to steal back a stolen future for the most desperate women, children, and men, whose lives have been oppressed by self-proclaimed ‘strong men’ today. And, for all that was disastrous and tragic about the First World War, we see it in the service rendered by those we honour today.

We have come here today because in one way or another we are the heirs of the 160^th (Wearside) Brigade. And while we come to dedicate a memorial Standard, we also come to dedicate ourselves before God, to live within the tension: to respond to the call of sacred duty and glory, to live a life that is both Idle and Dissolute. May you know the truth that is only found in that place, and may the truth set you free. Amen.

Ascension Day

Once there was a father who had two sons. The first-born son was dutiful, took the burden of responsibility that he felt upon his shoulders most seriously. As is so often the way with eldest children, he was not much given to celebrating life, and, truth-be-told, struggled with those who did. Working alongside him, his father would from time to time speak words of affirmation; but they felt more like a wound, because he could never live up to his own expectations. At the end of the day, his father would encourage him in to the circle sat around the fire, telling stories in the darkness; but he preferred his own company, or told himself as much.

The younger son was wild and free. From childhood, he had filled the estate with laughter and the slap of running feet. Both sons, in different ways, felt constrained by the boundary wall that marked their home – and they were meant to. Home is where we start out from, and return to; it is not the wideness of the world. But while the older brother conformed himself to that constraint, the younger son kicked against the walls until they broke and he burst free. Out, out he went, having secured his share of their father’s fortune, seed-money to seek a fortune of his own. He travelled to a far country, where he fell in with a crowd of other run-aways, and there he squandered his father’s wealth with revellers and gamblers, with prostitutes and conspirators. What his older brother would say, if he could see him now! And what would knowing do to his dear father?

The money – as I’m sure you can imagine – soon ran out, as money has a want to do; and with it, most of his new-found friends ran out on him too, except those so lost they had nowhere else to run. And then, of course, he took an inevitable beating, from those who prey over the weak, who refused to believe that there was nothing else to take from him, if he was who he claimed to be.

Then he set out for home. There was quite literally nowhere else to go. The journey took him forty days. Along the way, he had several adventures. He met several old friends who no longer even recognised him, at least not a first. With each encounter, each revelation, he came to himself – not the young man who had left home, but the man prepared to come home, his true self exposed.

At last, he arrived – his father running beyond the boundary to meet him. His brother, on the other hand, refused to recognise him at all. He could not, for he had never really recognised his own surroundings – his father, his home, his own self.

Why did the father embrace his lost son, I ask? Because he loved him, you reply. Yes, he did; but that is not the reason: after all, he loved his elder son just as much. No, the father embraced his younger son because he himself had gone on a similar journey long before. He had descended from heaven onto Mount Sinai, to befriend a broken rabble of outcasts; had descended even further, to tabernacle in their rebellious midst; and had then ascended Mount Zion, from where he established a wounded-but-healed people to bless all the surrounding wounded peoples from one horizon to the other, to the ends of the earth. The way home is down, down, up. Earth, hell, heaven.

The ascension is Jesus’ homecoming. It marks the end of a first journey, which takes us away from home in order to return home recognising home for the first time. Seeing home as we were never able to see it before. Those who have never left home can never see home in this way. And it is the beginning of a second journey – still unfolding – which sees Jesus widen the family to include all of humanity.

This is a journey we are called to walk too, as we follow after Jesus, as he does what the Father has done. We are called to return home; having first travelled far from home. That is why Adam and Eve always had to leave the Garden (and they had to be tricked into it, because few of us want to leave the security and comfort and provision of home – though in this we see another deep truth: that God transforms what was done with evil intent for good, includes the fall from grace in the triumph of grace). That is why scientists tell us that all matter is expanding outwards from a moment, to which all matter will eventually contract back: for all things come from God and will return to God.

I experienced something of this Eastertide, when we went up to Scotland to see my parents, my sister and brother-in-law, nephew and niece, and my brother. I left Scotland twenty-four years ago, and have never missed it. Don’t get me wrong, I love my family, but that is not quite the same thing. This visit, it felt like coming home. Not that I want, or need, to move to live in Scotland – I know that we are called to England – but that I had come home. That I am free to leave again, because it will always be there, in a way I had never known it before. A twenty-four year journey.

Our home is in God. This is where we start out from, and where we return to. Ascension-tide – from now until Pentecost – is a gift, an annual opportunity, to practice coming home. To learn how to return home, together. A time to tell stories of home, to awaken dreams, to stir up hope. A time to stumble towards love, and a time to be transformed more fully into our true selves as we live in the tension between Jesus’ departing and his return.

Fifth Sunday of Easter

Acts 8:26-40

Listen, and I will tell you a story. One day, long ago, God appeared to an old man named Abram. And God spoke to Abram and said, though you are old and you and your wife have no children, yet I will give you a son; I will give you descendants more numerous than the sand of the shore and the stars of the sky; and through them all the peoples shall be blessed. And God said, the descendants I give to you will suffer at the hands of those they serve, but after they have suffered I will raise them up.

Listen, and I will tell you a story. One night, long ago, God appeared to a young man named Joseph – Abraham’s great-grandson. And God gave Joseph dreams concerning his future, of being raised up; but Joseph misinterpreted the dreams, forgot the words that suffering must come first. So Joseph offended his brothers, and they sold him into slavery in Egypt. There, he was falsely accused and thrown into prison and forgotten about, until, when hope was all but lost, God raised him up and set him as Prime Minister and Chancellor of the Exchequer over Pharaohs’ kingdom. In this role, Joseph saved Egypt and all the surrounding peoples from famine, buying up cheap grain in years of plenty and controlling its distribution in years of crisis so that rich and poor alike had as they needed, and the rich could not exploit the poor.

Listen, and I will tell you a story. Joseph’s family joined him in Egypt and prospered. And like all immigrants they were welcomed with open arms when they could serve and help rebuild, only to be later demonised as a threat to the local way of life. And so Abraham’s descendants were enslaved, for four hundred years. Then Moses was born, and saved from genocide by the daughter of the Pharaoh, and grew up in the royal palace aware of his dark secret. One day when Moses had grown up, he saw an Egyptian overseer kill a Hebrew slave, and took revenge. The next day he came across two slaves arguing, and attempted to reason with them. But they rejected him, and threatened to expose him, and Moses fled, seeking asylum across the border. Forty years later, God appeared to Moses. And God spoke to Moses and said, I am sending you back to your people as their lord and rescuer.

Listen, and I will tell you a story. Moses led the people out of Egypt, and in the fullness of time they settled in the land God had promised he would give to them after they had passed through suffering. A land from where they could be a light to all the surrounding nations. And God exhorted them not to forget him and their calling, when they entered the land and enjoyed its goodness. But the people did forget. Over and over, God sent messengers to them, calling them back. But they would not listen, and eventually God allowed them to be carried off into exile in a distant land.

And there, far from home, they wondered why God would allow this to happen to his chosen people. And as they wondered, as they went back over their own story, some of them came to realise a pattern that had been there all along: that God was looking for a people who would serve their neighbours, even when their neighbours abuse them in return; that God would honour such an attitude; and that, having failed to live up to their calling, God’s chosen people needed such a servant as much as every other nation.

Listen, and I will tell you a story. Jerusalem was full of news, that the servant had come. His name was Jesus, and he had suffered at the hands of the leaders of God’s chosen people and of the surrounding peoples. He had been tortured and murdered for embracing the outcasts, for healing the sick, for bringing peace to those with troubled minds, for eating with men and women who lived inappropriate lives. And three days later, God had raised him from the dead, and vindicated him as lord and rescuer, according to the pattern revealed to Abraham and Isaiah, the pattern revealed through Joseph and Moses. But those who had Jesus murdered could not stand to hear this story told, so they had some of the story-tellers thrown in prison, or beheaded, or stoned to death, and others displaced from their homes, becoming refugees. And wherever they went, they kept telling the story.

Listen, and I will tell you a story. At this time, a man travelled from Ethiopia to Jerusalem. He was the Chancellor of the Exchequer, a prominent man but a servant. He must have heard about the God of Israel, have heard stories of this people called to be a light to the peoples, must surely have heard that even the other nations could enter the outer court of the great temple. And so he came. Perhaps only when he arrived did he discover that those who had been castrated, as he had been castrated, could not enter the temple at all. And so he looked around, and asked around, and bought some sacred scrolls, and turned around to go home, perhaps puzzled, perhaps disappointed. And God spoke to one of the refugees who had headed north from Jerusalem and said turn around (repent) and head south, for the road that runs through Gaza down into Egypt and beyond. So Philip set off, and on the way he came across the Ethiopian. He was sat in his chariot reading aloud (for in those days, no-one had learnt to read silently inside their head) from the scroll written by the exiles. Philip approached (the chariot was moving at walking pace) and asked him if he understood what he was reading. He did not, although he was intrigued, because he was reading about a man cut off, a man who could not have descendants, a servant. It was like looking in the mirror. Tell me, he asked, who is this man I can so identify with? And starting from there, Philip told him about Jesus, the suffering servant made lord and rescuer for a suffering and servant people. The story called for a response: repent and be baptised. Turn around, and be identified with Jesus by symbolically dying and rising with him. In this case, turn back from Jerusalem, head home, but now identified with a group of persecuted refugees who insisted on loving their neighbours whatever the cost.

Listen, and I will tell you a story. The Ethiopian decided to respond, to enter-into this story. Passing by water, he jumped in, through the door of baptism. Then he and Philip went their separate ways, and as far as we know never crossed paths again. But there is a Christian community in Ethiopia today that traces its family tree unbroken back two thousand years to that man who could not have children, to whom God gave countless descendants; that servant who suffered at the hands of others and was raised up by God.

This is our story, a story we share with our brothers and sisters across the world, some of whom have lost their homes, their families, their nationality, even their lives for the sake of the good news that in Jesus, our lord and rescuer, God has brought us into the great calling of being part of his purposes to bless the whole earth and all the peoples. Alleluia. Amen.