Presentation of Christ in the Temple, 2017

Luke 2:22-40

Last Sunday we reflected on the frequent experience of being overwhelmed. Today, I want us to focus on the Holy Spirit. Before we look to our Gospel reading, I want us to circle around it with reference to two other stories from the Bible.

The first is far older, from the early chapters of Genesis, and the account of the flood. The cradle of civilisation has been overwhelmed by floodwaters from horizon to horizon. Noah and his wife and their sons and daughters-in-law have been cooped-up in the ark for forty days of rain falling, and a further one hundred and fifty days of flood, and forty more days of floodwater receding. Noah sends out a raven, that flies to and fro, and a dove. The dove finds nowhere to land, and so returns to Noah, who waits another seven days and sends the dove out again. This time, the dove returns with an olive leaf in its beak. Noah waits yet another seven days and sends the dove out again. This time the dove does not return, and Noah understood that it was at last time to go out from the ark and for life to begin again.

The second story is set some thirty years after our Gospel reading. Jesus is now an adult, and comes to the Jordan to be baptised by his relative, John. As Jesus comes up out of the waters that have overwhelmed him, the heaven opened, and the Holy Spirit descended upon him in bodily form like a dove. And a voice came from heaven, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” The Spirit then led Jesus in the wilderness, and then through Galilee.

So now let us turn to our Gospel lesson, the account of Jesus’ parents bringing their recently-born son to the temple for the first time, in order to fulfil the requirements of the law. And here we are introduced first to Simeon, and then to Anna.

We are told that the Holy Spirit rested on Simeon, that the Holy Spirit revealed something to Simeon, and that the Holy Spirit guided Simeon. We are not explicitly told the same thing in the same words about Anna, and yet all of these acts of the Holy Spirit are implied in her story too.

Here is an old man who has lived through overwhelming, devastating events in the life of the people of Jerusalem; and an old woman who has experienced such things at a very personal level. They have both gone through the flood, as it were. And as the floodwaters begin to recede, God’s Holy Spirit searches for somewhere to land, somewhere to rest on the face of the earth – a resting-place – and finds Simeon, finds Anna. And the Holy Spirit rested on them, as on an olive branch, as – later – on Jesus. And the Holy Spirit reveals to them a word that speaks of Jesus, a word that brings forth peace within them, peace whatever happens, because God’s salvation has come. Come what may. And the Holy Spirit guides them to see that salvation for themselves, to experience it first-hand, and so to proclaim it to others.

Simeon and Anna. And elderly man, and an elderly woman. We have one or two of those in our midst. And you, like them, were created to be a resting-place for God’s Holy Spirit on the face of the earth. As it is, you are made from the dust of the earth and animated by the breath of the Spirit; you are sustained by the Spirit; but this was always intended to be a relationship, marked by resting and working together, by our being drawn deeper into the mystery of God – Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

So how might we invest in that relationship? What might we learn from Simeon and Anna? Their lives are shaped by devoting themselves to being in unbroken relationship, as far as it depended on them, with others, choosing to love God and their fellow human beings (righteous and devout; fasting and prayer and praise).

We are told that Simeon was ‘looking forward to the consolation of Israel.’ That is, even though – or perhaps because – things weren’t good, he held on to God, held on to hope, and pointed to that hope. Like an olive tree on the side of a submerged mountain. Perhaps, like the cross that is erected on Tunstall Hill each Easter, overlooking the city of Sunderland; a hill that was once under a prehistoric sea.

Simeon is looking forward, to the consolation of Israel. And when it comes, or rather when he comes, Jesus brings peace, even in the midst of turmoil and the face of opposition and the costly reality of soul-piercing pain. Jesus brings light in the dark places, that brings revelation to all peoples and glory to the people of God. And it may be as messy and perilous as life spilling out of the ark to flourish again, but this is how God has chosen to make all things new. As the Collect for the Season of Epiphany expresses it: ‘Almighty God, in Christ you make all things new: transform the poverty of our nature by the riches of your grace, and in the renewal of our lives make known your heavenly glory; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.’

What might it look like for the Holy Spirit to rest on us, to reveal things to us, to guide us? I think that if we are to discover the answer, the discovery begins in prayer. Prayer for the people of Sunderland, and beyond: that those who mourn might know consolation; that those who are facing the end of life might know a peaceful end; that those in darkness might see God’s glory reflected in our faces. Prayer that moves us to action, to console, to be peace-makers, to be light-bearers. And action that brings us back to prayer, because we cannot be any of these things apart from the animating power of the Holy Spirit.

At the beginning of Lent, over 2nd-5th March, bishops from all over the northern province are coming to Durham Diocese with the Archbishop of York to join us in a mission we are calling Talking Jesus. The Anglican churches across Sunderland will be hosting a wide range of regular activities and special events, as an opportunity to speak to people about Jesus, either informally or in more formal presentations. Activities we will be hosting include showing the film ‘I, Daniel Blake’ at the university media centre on the Friday evening, followed by a discussion on the issues the film addresses; taking the Archbishop of York on a city-centre walkabout on the Saturday – I’m sure he will drop in on our craft and vintage fair – and our Fairtrade Fortnight ceilidh on the Saturday evening; and our Sunday morning services, followed by a Lent lunch.

Between now and then, I’d invite you to pray for the mission, for all the different ways the churches of Wearmouth Deanery will be finding to listen to people speak about their lives – their losses and challenges and hopes – and to speak about our lives, and to talk about Jesus, God’s salvation. To pray every day between now and then, that is for four weeks.

And I’d invite you to come along, to one thing or another; and to ask the Holy Spirit who you might invite to come with you. Together, let’s learn how to share simple testimony about what we have seen and known – not answers to all the unanswerable questions life throws up! – so that like Simeon, like Anna, we might speak about Jesus to those who are in need to consolation, peace, and light. Amen.

Third Sunday of Epiphany

Isaiah 9:1-4 (and 1 Corinthians 1:10-18) and Matthew 4:12-23

Some years ago, Disney Pixar made a film about my life. As always with films that are “based on true events” there was some artistic licence employed. Yes, I lost (misplaced) my son. No, I am not a fish. No, my wife had not been brutally murdered; she was away at a conference. Be that as it may, yes, she does call me Marlin.

There is a scene in Finding Nemo where Marlin finds himself in a deep, dark trench. Disoriented, he moves from desperation to despair. And then, a light appears; but I’ll avoid any spoilers.

We all know that fish don’t talk. But we also know that Finding Nemo isn’t about fish. There are layers to the story, which is why it can engage children and adults. I’ve never been in a deep, dark trench at the bottom of the ocean; but then again, perhaps I have.

In the world of the Bible, everything has symbolic meaning as well as a literal one. You see, the purpose of scripture is not simply to enable us to see the world as it is, but as it really is, beneath the surface, behind the curtain. So, for example, in the Bible ‘the land’ symbolises order and blessing, and ‘the sea’ symbolises chaos and curse. ‘Light’ means more than just light, and ‘darkness’ means more than just darkness.

Isaiah describes the territory that had been allotted to the tribes of Zebulun and Naphtali after God’s people had crossed into the Promised Land as ‘the way of the sea, the land beyond the Jordan, Galilee of the nations.’

Isaiah declares that God has chosen to make this territory glorious. Many centuries later, Matthew takes up these words – ‘on the road by the sea, across the Jordan, Galilee of the Gentiles’ – and declares that God makes this place glorious in and through Jesus. But where is this place? These landmarks are features of a physical geography – Jesus moves to Capernaum on the shore of the Sea of Galilee – but they are also features of a spiritual geography.

The way of the sea, or the road by the sea, runs along the edge where the land and the sea meet. At the level of physical geography, Matthew makes it the shore of the lake. The Sea of Galilee is large enough to be tidal, and so this border is always shifting: the land and the sea taking turns in making marginal gains neither can hold. The road by the sea is that place where life is lived on the fine line between coping and being overwhelmed. You may have seen images on the news last week, of massive spring tide waves, and evacuated homes. That too is an outward illustration of an inner reality. If I can be honest with you, and if you can hear what I am saying, this is where I live. I’m not talking about Sunderland – though I suspect that I am not alone in living on the road by the sea.

The description continues: the land beyond, or across, the Jordan; Galilee of the nations, or Gentiles. Beyond or across the Jordan places it in the Promised Land. As the hymn has it: When I tread the verge of Jordan, bid my anxious fears subside; death of death, and hell’s destruction, land me safe on Canaan’s side. But, something has gone wrong. Galilee has been claimed by the nations, by the Gentiles, those who were not God’s chosen people. In Isaiah’s time, the Assyrian Empire swallowed it up, later followed by others. In the time of Jesus and Matthew, there are Greek towns and Roman towns there. Everything good that has been called out to flourish by God has been overwhelmed, or at least compromised. Things haven’t turned out as expected. Life is confusing, draining.

Isaiah addressed those who walked in darkness, who lived in a land of deep darkness. But by the time Matthew writes about, things have got even worse. In his retelling, ‘the people who sat in darkness have seen a great light, and for those who sat in the region and shadow of death light has dawned.’ They’re no longer walking, no longer moving around: they’ve given up and sat down. Because it is hard to move around in the dark. You can only do so very slowly, and only for so long.

And to the people who sat in darkness, Jesus comes doing something truly remarkable. He walked by the Sea of Galilee, and he saw two sets of brothers. At the surface level, there is nothing remarkable about seeing fishermen as you walk along the shore; but that is not the point. Here is one so glorious, so luminous, that he can walk confidently along the shifting border between blessing and chaos, and call people to follow him.

To underline the point, the first people he calls are fishermen, whose lives are lived right on the edge. They draw life out of chaos, in the sense of harvesting food from the water, but also in caring for the stock of fish in the lake, balancing the needs of today with the needs of tomorrow. They also know that the sea makes widows and orphans: it always has done. Jesus says, ‘Follow me, and I will make you fish for people.’

As the story unfolds, sometimes we find them on the beach, and sometimes we find them in their boats in the shallows. Some days we find ourselves more-or-less on solid ground, and some days we find ourselves just about keeping afloat. Sometimes Jesus takes the disciples further inland, and sometimes they are out-of-their-depth far from land on the middle of the lake. Some days we know ourselves to be blessed, and some days we feel like we are drowning. But for over half of the Gospel According to Matthew, the sea and its shore is the central setting we keep coming back to: the darkness where the light of Christ shines.

I am not a Christian because God has seen to it that my life is victorious, has moved me from being one of life’s losers to one of life’s winners. I am a Christian because I live on the road by the sea, because I live with rising and falling anxiety all the time, and depression some of the time, and in that place I find myself drawn to the light of Jesus. I am a Christian because some days I have only the strength to turn to face that light – that turning is what it means to repent – and some days I have the strength to walk in the light; and because I see in the stories about Jesus that he intends for these things to be done with other people, not on our own. I am a Christian because, with others before me and around me, I can testify that I need Jesus, I need his light, that I have no other hope, that he is glorious and his glory is enough. My testimony is that his light has dawned on me.

There are other reasons to be a Christian, of course. For you, it might be that in Jesus you have found forgiveness, or healing, or companionship, or direction and purpose. These are all aspects of his glory; and it is his glory that draws us to this place. Whatever your circumstances, whatever your story, let us rejoice in that glorious light today. And let us follow Jesus along the shore, and invite those we find there to turn towards him too.

Second Sunday of Epiphany 2017

Evensong, Second Sunday of Epiphany 2017

Ezekiel 2:1-3:4 and Galatians 1:11-24

John Swinton is Professor of Practical Theology and Pastoral Care in the University of Aberdeen. I’m currently reading Dementia: Living in the Memories of God, for which he won the 2016 Michael Ramsey Prize, which ‘celebrates the most promising contemporary theological writing from the global Church.’

At one point, Swinton suggests that ‘to be human is to be (1) dependent and contingent, (2) embodied, (3) relational, (4) broken and deeply lost, and (5) loved and profoundly purposeful. [and in what follows] The key underlying principle is that the experiences of people with dementia matter for the ways in which we understand humanness.’ (p. 161)

I think that it would be possible, and indeed beneficial, to re-read both our readings – from Ezekiel and Galatians – in the light of Swinton’s observations.

First, to be human is to be dependent and contingent. Ezekiel is dependent on God to stand up on his feet, he is dependent on God for his sustenance. In other words, he is dependent on God for his very life. In the same way, God is the source of Paul’s life, his beginning and his end. Such dependency does not strip us of dignity, but opens us to mystery.

Second, to be human is to be embodied. Swinton quotes the farmer, poet, novelist and essayist Wendell Berry, who writes:

‘The formula [for ‘man-making’] given in Genesis [2:7] is not man = body + soul; the formula there is soul = dust + breath … God did not make a body and put a soul into it, like a letter into an envelope. He formed man of dust; by breathing his breath into it, he made the dust live. Insofar as it lived, it was a soul. The dust, formed as man and made to live, did not embody a soul; it became a soul. “Soul” here refers to the whole creature. Humanity is thus presented to us, in Adam, not as a creature of two distinct parts temporarily glued together, but as a single mystery.’

(Wendell Berry, The Art of the Commonplace: The Agrarian Essays of Wendell Berry, p. 313, cited by Swinton, p. 167)

In relation to dementia, Swinton notes that loss of cognition does not equate to loss of humanness. We are not body stripped of soul, not zombies. We are animated earth which contains the very breath of God, in order that we might be with God. This is ongoing and life-long, as we see when God breathes his spirit into Ezekiel; and extends grace to Paul – a call, moreover, which has nothing to do with the supposed merits of his highly developed critical capacities, but which is expressed through the suffering of his body.

Third, to be human is to be relational. We are created to experience God’s love and to love one another like God does. Hence, God sends Ezekiel to his people, despite their long history of turning away from that love. Hence, Paul visits Peter – not to hear the gospel from him, but to share in the gospel with him – and why the churches of Judea glorified God because Paul had been brought from persecuting to proclaiming the faith. To be fully human is not to compete and triumph, but to love and to receive love – which, significantly, is not dependent on being known by sight.

Fourth, to be human is to be broken and deeply lost. We see this in the rebellion of the people Ezekiel is sent to, in the imagery of briers and thorns and scorpions, where the land should speak of God’s goodness. We see it in Paul’s striving, that leads him only to violence and to try to destroy others. We see – at least in moments of lucidity – that this is part of what it is to be human; but not the totality, not the final word.

Fifth, to be human is to be loved and profoundly purposeful. God will not abandon his people, whether they hear or refuse to hear. And God provides for Ezekiel, sustenance that is good, and sweet as honey, despite looking unpalatable. More than that, God shares his very words: gives himself, his love for us, his purpose for us. Word that ultimately becomes flesh, as Jesus. Jesus, who appears to Paul, who loves even one who persecutes him, who graciously reveals a purpose God had set Paul aside for before he was even born.

Swinton has sought to re-describe dementia, to tell a counter-story that, rather than being entirely negative – while acknowledging the losses and challenges dementia brings – equips us to see dementia both as a very particular expression of the calling to be human and as a reminder to us all of what it means to be human.

It seems to me that his insights resonate with those revealed through Ezekiel’s calling as a prophet, and Paul’s calling as an apostle. And that our calling is to come together, to remind one another and the people to whom we are sent what it means to be human, and to respond faithfully. As we discover our dependence and contingency; embrace our whole bodies rather than prioritise our mind; hold one another in relationship; face our brokenness and acknowledge our lost state; and find ourselves kept in the knowledge and love of God, that sends us out with profound purpose to love and to serve the Lord; may we be filled with the breath of God, and may he be glorified in and through our lives. Amen.

Midnight Eucharist for Christmas Eve

John 1:1-14

Let me begin by asking you a question. According to the song ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas,’ how many partridges in a pear tree did my true love send to me? One? Any advance on one? The answer is twelve: one on each of the twelve days of Christmas. My true love sent to me 12 partridges and drummers drumming, 22 turtle doves and pipers piping, 30 French hens and lords-a-leaping, 36 calling birds and ladies dancing, 40 gold rings and maids-a-milking, and 42 geese-a-laying and swans-a-swimming: 364 gifts in all. Thank god for eBay…

Now let me ask you another question. According to the Gospels, how many children of God are born at Christmas? One? Jesus, laid in a manger? Well, yes…and no. Listen again to what John wrote:

‘He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him. But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God, who were born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God.’

How many children of God are born at Christmas? We don’t know the exact number, but it was many, perhaps a whole town full.

We have misunderstood the Gospel story. We all know that there was no room in the inn – as John says, ‘He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him.’ But we have misunderstood. There is a word in Greek for a commercial inn – Luke uses it in recounting Jesus’ parable of the Good Samaritan. But the word we have translated as ‘inn’ at the nativity is another word, the word for a guest room, for lodging provided free-of-charge as hospitality to travellers. It is the word Luke will use later to describe the upper room Jesus and his disciples borrow to eat a meal on the night he will be arrested and tried and condemned to death: certainly, his own people, represented by the rulers and authorities, did not accept him. But John wants to tell us about all who did receive him, and though he does not tell us about Jesus’ birth in any detail, he is writing about his coming into the world.

The typical home in Bethlehem was essentially a one-room house, shared by the family, day and night. Almost every family kept a few animals, and these were brought into the house and penned-in at one end at night. This kept the animals safe, and their body-heat provided warmth for the humans. At the other end from the animals, or sometimes on the flat roof, there was a smaller room, provision for guests or travellers. Joseph and his pregnant wife Mary are staying in such a room, but it is too small - there was no room – for a woman to give birth, attended to by the women and girls of the house, and most likely a couple more women who acted as midwives to the entire community. So Mary gives birth to Jesus in the main room, the family room, and her baby is wrapped tightly and laid in a manger: in a confined space for comfort – the baby has been used to the womb – filled with straw, which is both an insulator and hypoallergenic: in other words, warm and clean. The manger is not making do with what is to hand; it is the best possible place there is.

And to all who received him – Mary, and Joseph, and their hosts (most likely relatives of Joseph, and quite possibly his immediate family), and the midwives, and the population of the City of David who had welcomed home this son of David and his wife and soon-to-be-born child – received power to become children of God, born of God.

To all who received him. And surely that includes you, who have come here this night precisely in order to welcome the birth of Jesus, to travel back through time and space to be present, to make sure that he is received. But what we find is not what we expected to find, for instead of a baby in the manger there is a whole nursery full of cribs, and one for us, newly born – again – in God’s house, room made for our birth, to receive us. We have been welcomed by God this night.

This is a story of being received. A true story, the truest story of all. So come, and receive Jesus in bread and wine on this most holy night, and find yourself received by God, through and with him. Welcome, honoured guest. Welcome home.

Second Sunday of Advent 2016

Isaiah 11:1-10 (and Romans 15:4-13 and Matthew 3:1-12)

Take a look around this place, where we have gathered today. We are surrounded by symbols. Our East Window is full of symbolism, including imagery from the Book of Revelation and images representing our city and region. On the pulpit, we have the symbols of the four evangelists: Matthew, the human: Mark, the lion; Luke, the ox; and John, the eagle. In the Bede Chapel, a miner’s lamp, that only ever goes out between Good Friday and Easter morning. Last week, we baptised thirteen new believers, using oil and water and candle-light. Every week, we bring and share bread and wine, asking that, by God’s Spirit, it would be for us the body and blood of Christ.

All around us, there are plants and animals and other objects: symbols that not only represent something, but invite us to imagine or understand that thing in a particular way. The lion and the unicorn on the tower, for example, make the claim that the English are brave without equal and the Scottish are fiercely proud and free. The people are embodied by their monarchs, and the coat-of-arms proclaims the Union of the two nations in the person of one king.

Our reading from Isaiah is also full of symbolism. Isaiah’s great symbol of the people of Israel was a vine, a giant grapevine planted by God, that spread out from the Tigris and Euphrates to the east to the Mediterranean Sea to the west, embodied in the descendants of David and their rule from Jerusalem. This particular symbol was so vivid that it became the national symbol of Israel, much as the oak tree is the symbol of England. Jesus lived some 800 years after this vision was first proclaimed. In his day, there was a great vine made of gold on the outside wall of the temple, visible to all the pilgrims as they approached their goal. Jesus himself used the symbol of the vineyard in several of his parables; and even described himself as the true vine, and his disciples as the branches.

As Isaiah’s use of the vine symbol unfolds, God, who planted the vineyard, is depicted as breaking down its walls and returning it to wilderness. The vine is cut down, and other trees grow great and tall, providing shelter for wildlife. It is a symbolic way of speaking of God bringing judgement on the kings in Jerusalem for their unfaithfulness, raising up another nation, whom God will eventually also judge.

Isaiah tells his story at a time when most of the territory once ruled from Jerusalem has been lost. First, the kingdom had been divided, with a line of separatist-kings establishing the northern kingdom of Israel, ruled from Samaria. Then, the Assyrians had swallowed-up Israel, and threatened to capture Jerusalem and swallow-up the southern kingdom of Judah. But, facing a new threat of their own – the rising powerhouse of Babylon – the Assyrians withdrew.

Now was a moment. A moment when history could go one way or another. And into this moment, Isaiah calls on the people to imagine a fresh shoot growing out from the cut-back vine-stock. A new king, in whom there is legitimising continuity with the past but also a new departure: the spirit of the Lord will anoint this king, and this king will revere God, and represent God’s reign on the earth.

This king will be a judge, to arbitrate for the community, to enable the whole community to flourish. In particular, his rule will be characterised by justice for the most vulnerable – which will necessarily include judgement exercised against the mighty. And here the symbolism changes from national plants to national animals. Echoing David’s origins as a shepherd of his father’s flock, this king will pass judgement on the surrounding predatory nations, the wolf, leopard, lion, bear, and asp, who pose a danger to God’s people, represented as lamb, kid, calf, and nursing child. And what might it look like, to imagine ourselves as such defenceless, dependent creatures, under the care of such a king?

More symbolism: this king will put on righteousness and faithfulness like a belt, as the things that hold everything together. Right relationship, defined by loving God, and our neighbour – especially the widow, orphan, and alien – just as much as ourselves. And faithfulness: enduring commitment to a community, whether it is reciprocated or not.

Our reading ended with the observation that such a place, such a kingdom, would be glorious. But no such king was found. In our Gospel reading, John the forerunner of Jesus proclaimed that Jesus would show the world what such a king and such a judge would look like. And in our reading from Paul’s letter to the Church in Rome, Paul takes up Isaiah’s prophecy, declaring it fulfilled in Jesus. His key words are steadfastness and encouragement, welcome, hope, joy, and peace.

What might all this mean for us? We live in a world that is in as much turmoil as the world Isaiah knew, with nations rising and falling, a complex web of wars and proxy wars, populations displaced and others fearing that they might be next. How are we to imagine ourselves in such a world as this?

Firstly, we are invited to understand this vision as speaking before all else of Jesus. We are invited to look on him, and see what true wisdom and understanding, counsel and (subversive) mightiness look like; what a true knowledge of God is like – which is an awesome thing.

Secondly, the world that we help create and perpetuate by our words and actions is not to be the world that is created and perpetuated by what we see and hear in the media, or social media: outpourings of hate and fear. Instead, we are to attend to those marginalised and demonised by the world – and we are to do so for the long-term, whatever is going on around us.

You see, we are called to become more like Jesus by embodying his message, in intentional, habitual ways – as habitual as putting on a belt, or getting dressed, each morning.

The Minster has been described as a spiritual heart-beat for the city of Sunderland, and a place of meeting, learning, belonging, and celebrating – these are simple practices – for all her people, of all faiths and none. In the Bible, the heart symbolises the will, or, our ability to choose to do right or wrong. If we are a spiritual heart-beat for the city, by our communal life we are to pose the questions: who are we willing to meet with? who are we willing to learn with, and from? who is welcome to belong here? and what will we celebrate? How we answer those questions is to be radically different from how the world around us answers those questions.

For me, the welcome that Mackems and Iranians share in this place is the clearest example – though by no means the only example – of how we are answering those questions at this moment in our history. And the wonderful thing about symbols is the way in which they transcend language barriers, and embrace cultural diversity.

Jesus is in our midst, as a signal to the peoples. The nations shall enquire of him, and his dwelling shall be glorious. Amen.

Remembrance Sunday 2016

‘See, the day is coming, burning like an oven, when all the arrogant and all evildoers will be stubble; the day that comes shall burn them up, says the Lord of hosts, so that it will leave them neither root nor branch. But for you who revere my name the sun of righteousness shall rise, with healing in its wings. You shall go out leaping like calves from the stall.’ (Malachi 4:1-2)

Malachi is a dreamer. He dreams of a day that is coming, when all who are arrogant and all who are evildoers are consumed like the stubble of a harvested field, that is set on fire. That day will be a new dawn for all those who revere God’s name, a day of restoration, a healing of all their hurts.

More than 400 years later, John the Baptist proclaimed that the day Malachi dreamed of had arrived, in the person of Jesus, whom John portrayed as coming with the tools of harvest and with fire, to gather the grain and burn up the chaff.

I don’t know how Malachi’s dream sits with you. It is, I think, a dream that echoes in the dream to Make Britain Great Again, or Make America Great Again. We’d all like to see a day when bad people get what is coming to them and good people are vindicated. But then, we tend to like to see ourselves as being, essentially, good people – at least in comparison with others. This is not the hypocrisy of religious people, as some make out, but the hypocrisy – literally, mask-wearing – of human beings.

The problem is, if I am honest, that I am arrogant, and an evildoer.

I am arrogant, in that I assume that my experience of life is the same as yours, indeed is normative, and that you can be measured against me. At least, this is my default assumption, which I might be helped to resist. This is what is called white privilege, or male privilege, or the privilege of any number of other things including my upbringing, my education, my sexuality, that it is so easy for me to take for granted. And we all have our assumptions: I am constantly talking with people who assume that I am familiar with the TV or music or football team or technology they love; or that I have the same knowledge of Sunderland they have, even though I have lived here for only three years and they have lived here their whole lives!

And I am an evildoer. In what I think and say and do – and fail to do, that ought to be done – I contribute to that which is wrong with the world. That isn’t the whole story – thank God! – but it is true, for me and for you. That is why when we come together, we begin by placing ourselves in the hands of a God who knows our hearts better than we do ourselves; confessing our sins; receiving pardon for, and deliverance from, our sins; and renewed hope of being kept, and strengthened, in all goodness.

These are important verses to hear on an occasion of public Remembrance, because of the strong tendency to view ‘us’ as liberators and guarantors of all that is good in the world, instead of recognising that we share fully in the folly and capacity for wickedness that is common to humanity. Fully human.

I need my arrogance and evildoing burnt up, rooted out, cut away.

God knows, it will need to be an extreme action. God knows, I need a Messiah.

But I don’t only need someone who will burn up what needs to be burned: I need someone who will then heal my wounds. I need that hope of a future, hope based not on my being right or good, or even on our being right or good, but on God’s righteousness: on God’s ability to relate to us – who were his enemies – rightly.

The verses we heard read out loud ended with an unusual image: those on whom the sun of righteousness dawns shall go out leaping like calves from the stall. I don’t keep a cow in my house, and I guess you don’t either. But in biblical times, many families kept a small cow – much smaller than our cows today – along with a few sheep and perhaps a donkey. At night, the animals were brought into the house, often a one-room home with the animals corralled at one end, their body heat keeping the family warm. One of the first jobs of the morning was to open the door and drive the animals out. But when the cow calved, it was even more crowded; and calves – like human children – are more ready than their parents to get up and out.

This is the image: being contained, in darkness; safe, but restrained; and, all-of-a-sudden, the door thrown open: light streaming in, a wider world beckoning.

Jesus has come. The day of the Lord is here. Not every wrong has been made right, not yet. But we can submit to being brought low by him (which turns out to be a necessary part of healthy, sustainable community; necessary for being a good society). And we can welcome a healing that is as dependable as the sunrise (even if some days the sunrise is hidden by clouds).

Last Sunday after Trinity

2 Timothy 4:6-8, 16-18

Recently the New Testament readings in the Lectionary have been from the pastoral epistles, and I have taken the opportunity to preach a mini-series which you may recall I introduced as letters from an older Christian to a younger Christian. Letters full of wisdom and encouragement, written with affection to friends wrestling with how their faith relates to their experience of life, with all its challenges. And today we come to the culmination, as Paul shares end-of-life wisdom.

We are so privileged to get to read over Timothy’s shoulder; for we are a congregation where many of us are living in the final years of life – a season, beautiful in its own time, towards which we all journey – alongside others who are both younger and younger in the faith.

The first thing I want us to note are these words: ‘As for me, I am already being poured out as a libation, and the time of my departure has come.’ (2 Timothy 4:6).

Paul describes the inevitable acceleration towards the end of life as being poured out, as an offering to God. For Paul, approaching death has meaning and purpose, in itself – as well as the hope that life does not end in death, hope that sustains us in our longing to see Jesus face-to-face. This last season is not a diminished experience of life, but a different one. One that comes with great loss, undoubtedly; but also with its own gift, its own calling. As the elderly mother of a friend of mine wrote recently:

‘I have moved to a different country of late: the country of old age, weakness, increasing helplessness, and grief. This is also a country with time for prayer and reflection; of deepening relationships, and increasing sensitivity to the beauty of the world around, to the kindness of others; a place of unexpected gifts, sometimes from what seem the most unlikely places.

‘As I travel around this country, I frequently experience fear, acute anxiety, depression, grief and at times panic.

‘It is also a place where I am trying to learn to trust; to trust that God is a God of love, who cares for us; to try to discern God’s love and care for us all, even though there are many times when I struggle to do so; to not close my eyes and my ears, or “harden my heart”, because if I do that, if I don’t try to trust, God cannot help me.’

The image of being poured out as a libation might call to mind Jesus’ first miracle, as recorded in John’s Gospel, turning water contained in large clay jars into wine, drawn out for a wedding banquet, a sign that revealed his glory (John 2:1-11).

It might call to mind Mary of Bethany, pouring out costly fragrant perfume over Jesus’ feet; in front of Judas, who, caught-up in himself, cannot understand why this is as necessary in its time as public works of service (John 12:1-8).

It might also call to mind Paul’s own imagery of our lives being like treasure contained in clay jars, ‘always carrying in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be made visible in our bodies. For while we live, we are always being given up to death for Jesus’ sake, so that the life of Jesus may be made visible in our mortal flesh.’ (2 Corinthians 4:7-12).

The wine is being poured out. It cannot defy gravity, and flow back into the vessel. Indeed, the clay jar that had contained it is soon to be broken, by careless hands. But not before it has been taken up by loving hands, nail-scarred hands, the life within blessed and transformed, a foretaste of glory.

We enact this Sunday by Sunday, as different members of the congregation bring the wine forward, and it is poured out into the chalice. Yes, we do this to remember Jesus’ blood poured out for us; but we are also offering ourselves, our souls and bodies as a living sacrifice of thanks and praise. The wine is ‘fruit of the earth and work of human hands’ … and it is also symbol of our lives poured out in response to the one who poured out his life for us. This returned love is a holy mystery, and one which surely becomes more poignant as we intentionally face death, whether through aging or illness.

The second thing I want us to note are these words: ‘But the Lord stood by me and gave me strength…’ (2 Timothy 4:17a). In his trial, Paul’s friends deserted him. On the surface, Paul is on trial before the authorities and his friends can’t face it, just as Jesus’ disciples deserted him, out of complex emotions of fear and sorrow. But I think that we can also quite legitimately read these verses beneath the surface: that Paul’s younger companions could not yet face what he had to face, could not go where he had to go – the end of life – and that Paul, while understanding and gracious, did not want Timothy to be so unprepared.

I have been a member of local churches that are made up predominantly of younger people, and I have been a member of local churches that are made up predominantly of older people. Those of us who are younger need those of us who are older, need to learn from you how to experience life in all its fullness even as outwardly we are wasting away. And those of us who are older need those of us who are younger, need your support in a society that withdraws from the elderly out of a pathological fear of aging and dying. One of the beautiful things about the Minster is multi-generational families. And my hope and prayer is that this is a community where the more frail our members become, the more valued they are. Not in false ways that resist the new thing that the Spirit is doing in any given moment, but in faithful ways that anticipate and respond to the Spirit, in prayerful trust and joy, as together we learn to stand with Jesus who unfailingly stands by us.

A week ago, I had the most profound spiritual encounter as I served the bread at Communion. I found myself mesmerised by the hands of each who came forward to receive Jesus, especially the older hands with fingers bent by age. Your hands are beautiful. They shine with future glory that has been seeping into the present over many years. As I ministered to you, you ministered to me; you showed me what it looks like to be poured out as a libation, lives reaching beyond themselves, beyond outward circumstance, reaching out for Jesus where the intangible is made tangible.

And I imagine that I will have a similarly holy goose-bump moment when the wine is brought forward and poured out in just a little while.

So if you are old, or if you are dying, may the Holy Spirit yet again transform the wine of your life, along with the wine in the chalice, that you might carry the presence of Jesus into the world.

And if you are young, and that season of being poured out lies many years ahead, may the Holy Spirit strengthen you again to stand alongside those being poured out, however painful that might be. Amen.