Christ the King, 2017

Ezekiel 34:11-16, 20-24 and Ephesians 1:15-23 and Matthew 25:31-46

Today is the Feast of Christ the King, the culmination of the Church year. Today we celebrate that God has raised Jesus from the dead, and set him over all rule and authority and power and dominion—and that God has done this for us, the Church.

But what does that mean? What sort of a king is this Christ, depicted on the throne of heaven in the stained-glass window behind me? How does he exercise his rule? And how does it benefit us, his people? Or what does it mean for those who are not part of the Church?

Ezekiel was a priest, but he did not serve in the temple in Jerusalem. He was one of the generation of his people who were carried off into exile in Babylon. There, they wept, and tried to make sense of what had happened to them. Why had God allowed this to happen? When would God restore their fortunes? How ought they to live in the meantime?

Ezekiel painted a picture for the people. In it, he asked them to imagine themselves as a flock of sheep, dispersed among several other flocks. In time, God himself will come to them as a shepherd, to seek out the scattered sheep, and vindicate the weak and the lean sheep.

Jesus draws on this imagery in his discourse on the sheep and the goats. The context is this: within days, he will be executed. Among his final teaching, Jesus seeks to prepare his disciples for what is to come. In Matthew 23 we see Jesus weeping over the city of Jerusalem, because in rejecting him and his message, the imminent destruction of the city—yet again—will not be averted. In Matthew 24, Jesus goes on to predict the destruction of the temple. While some will see this as the sign of an imminent end to history, Jesus declares that this is not the case: there will be wars and rumours of wars, the rising and falling of nations, the persecution of his followers. He is speaking of history, as we experience it in every generation. And into this history—not after it—Jesus introduces the power and authority of the Son of Man, or Mortal: the term—also borrowed from Ezekiel—by which Jesus referred to himself.

In the light of this, Jesus’ advice is to be watchful of unfolding events while investing our lives in the places where we find ourselves (Jesus uses several parables to convey this teaching, in Matthew 24 and 25). This block of collected teaching culminates with a discourse on the judging of the nations, by the Son of Man, that references the sheep and the goats.

Now, this is one of Jesus’ most misunderstood teachings. It is routinely told to convey the idea that the genuine nature of the faith of those who claim to follow Jesus will be determined based on how they have treated the poor. I have even known Christians who worry whether they will be welcomed by God, or rejected, because on occasion they have walked by a homeless person like the priest and the scribe walking by the man left for dead on the side of the road. But while it is clear throughout scripture that God has a heart for the poor and calls his people to reflect that, even allowing judgement to fall on the nation of Israel when they refuse to hear the cry of the poor, this is categorically not what Jesus is saying here.

Jesus is drawing on the imagery employed by the Old Testament prophets to convey the idea that God would use the Gentile nations to judge his people, but would also judge those empires based on how they treated God’s people. To give one example, Babylonian king Nebuchadnezzar appointed Daniel, Hannaniah, Mishael, and Azariah (given new names, Belteshazzar, Shadrah, Meshach, and Abednego) to positions of responsibility in his court. To give another example, Haman, an official in the court of Persian king Ahasuerus, attempted to have all the Jews annihilated (his plot ultimately foiled by Mordecai and Esther).

Jesus takes this imagery of the fortunes of the gentile nations rising and falling based on how they have treated the people of Israel and makes two developments. First, the basis is now not how they have treated the nation of Israel, but the new Israel: Jesus’ disciples, his brothers or new family. Second, it is Jesus himself who will be the judge.

Like the Old Testament prophets, Jesus uses apocalyptic language to describe that judgement. For those of us who are British, because of our cultural heritage of European art, we tend to think of apocalyptic language as describing the judgement of individuals at the end of time; but in scripture it routinely describes the judgement of nations through the unfolding of history.

We read these passages on the Feast of Christ the King because they inform our understanding of what sort of king Jesus is, and how he rules. And in this Gospel passage we see that Jesus exercises his rule through the deployment of angels, or spiritual beings, with responsibility for different nations. Where nations welcome the Church, they enter-into a share in the blessing of the kingdom of heaven. This is very much our vision in Durham Diocese, where we see our purpose as the church as being to serve our communities for the blessing and transformation of us all. Jesus is king over all for the Church, but the blessings of the kingdom of heaven are not restricted to the Church. They will come as a surprise to some—not at some future time, but today, for children, women and men of goodwill, Friends of the Minster and of all our churches throughout the diocese and beyond.

On the other hand, where nations persecute the Church, imprisoning disciples, or denying them fundamental rights or opportunities enjoyed by everyone else, Jesus will instruct his angels to withdraw their protection, leaving that nation vulnerable to the tendency nations have demonstrated throughout history to destroy one another. Empire after empire lies utterly burned to the point of no return to the unfolding pages of history.

What, then, might this discourse have to say to us today? Well, a third of our congregation is Iranian: men and women who have fled here because the Church is persecuted in Iran. As we listen to Jesus’ words, and celebrate that God has raised this Jesus from the dead and seated him over all rule and authority and power and dominion, for the Church, can we imagine a future in which the regime that has oppressed the Church is removed from power, and a new structure of government emerge made up of those who have seen the hidden-but-growing Christian community as being good for the nation as a whole? Can we imagine religious freedom in Iran, and our brothers and sisters going home, and us visiting them there? Perhaps an official link between our diocese and a province in Iran?

That is the hope Jesus holds out in this passage. Yes, there will be persecution: you need to prepare for that. But there will also be vindication! Hold fast! I will be at work to do this for you.

And what might this passage have to say to us about our own nation? As a society, we have been less-than-welcoming to those Christians who have fled to us seeking refuge. Might England experience something of divine judgement in however our history unfolds, post-Brexit, over the next decade? Many are hoping for a rosy future; others for a least-worst-case-scenario. Whatever unfolds, Christ the King is at work to vindicate his beloved Church, for the blessing of the wider nation.

In uncertain times, may our hope in that—our hope in him—be renewed.

Amen.

Remembrance Sunday 2017

Amos 5:18-24 (and 1 Thessalonians 4:13-18 and Matthew 25:1-13)

The record of the words of the prophet Amos begins with a list of divine judgement being declared against the nations surrounding Israel. Damascus. Gaza. Tyre. Edom. Ammon. Moab. Judah. It is quite a roll call. Denouncement follows denouncement, and with each one we might imagine the cheers of Amos’ audience getting louder and louder. Hah! Despite their impressive defences, the neighbouring peoples are about to get their comeuppance. That is, of course, deeply satisfying, because there is something in human nature that likes to nurse an ancient grudge against our neighbours. The English, for example, have fought both against and alongside every one of our neighbours, in continually-morphing alliances.

Amos builds the anticipation up to bursting-point, and then drops his bomb-shell. Israel will not be spared the judgement that will befall her neighbours. Indeed, God’s judgement on Israel will be even more damning, because they have known God in all God’s loving-kindness and enduring faithfulness, in his compassion and justice and forgiveness and mercy. And they have turned their back on God, exploiting the poor and revelling in obscene wealth, all the while imagining—indeed, regularly celebrating—that their history made them exceptional and that God was on their side.

Taking great pride in their identity, the people told one another stories of the day of the Lord, of how God would appear soon and pass judgement on the other nations. But for Amos, such sabre-rattling was a source of great sadness. ‘Why do you want the day of the Lord?’ he asks, ‘It is darkness, not light.’ In attempting to describe what God’s appearing would be like, he tries this: it will be like meeting a lion, and managing to outrun it…only to stop, exhausted, and be attacked by a bear. Terrifying. But no, that doesn’t quite manage to capture it. It will be more like running away from the lion and making it home, bolting the door behind you—elated—and leaning against the wall—take deep breaths now: in…out—only to step on a venomous snake and be bitten, your raised pulse pumping the poison around your body with heartless efficiency. The cruel irony!

God is not what they expected God to be like. Not because God is unpredictable, a monster who might at any moment turn on them like a lion or a bear or a snake. But, rather, because God is reliably predictable in his unwavering commitment to justice and righteousness—righteousness being what it looks like when we love God with all our heart and soul, and love our neighbour as ourselves—and they had simply chosen to forget. Perhaps God is not what we expect God to be like, either?

The earth was crying out for justice and righteousness like a dry land cries out for reliable water. It still does.

We need to hear Amos’ words on this Remembrance Day, because we remember wrongly. We remember all the grudges we bear against our neighbours, keeping the smouldering ashes of past conflicts from going out, the fire from going cold. We remember the cost to us, and we want them to pay reparations. We remember ourselves as heroes, to be forever held in high esteem; and the other side as villains, to be forever held, at best, in pity. And while we remember these things, we forget the God who is slow to get angry at our shortcomings, quick to forgive us our sin—and who expects us to extend the same forbearing and forgetting of past sins towards others. We forget that our lives are as fleeting as the flowers of the field—the poppies of the field—and that we are to lay the past to rest in peace and look forward to God’s future. Indeed, we are called to live as if that future were already here—acting justly, seeking to love our neighbour—even while recognising that the kingdom of God is both now and not yet, has come into the world and is delayed in its coming.

It was enormous good fortune to have been on the winning side of both World Wars; but it was also a great misfortune. It has made it hard for us to humble ourselves before God. In Germany, they do not commemorate Armistice Day, but on the Second Sunday before Advent they hold the People’s Day of Mourning. This year, that falls next Sunday, and it so happens that I shall be in Germany, along with a delegation from Durham Diocese taking part in a consultation on Confirmation practice. We shall be staying in host parishes over the weekend, ahead of a couple of days at a retreat centre, and we shall be taking part in their services and the acts of remembrance that follow them. I anticipate the tone will be very different from here, and that we have something to learn from them. In any case, I consider it a great privilege to be there, to mourn with those who mourn sin and cry out to God for healing.

Amos’ vision is uncompromising, but it is not a counsel of despair. Israel will be shaken in judgement for her refusal to build a just society in which all can share fully. But after the shaking comes the restoration: not restoring what was—a return to injustice—but restoring God’s vision for his people. Go and read Amos chapter 9, verses 11-15 to hear about that. You see, the day of the Lord comes on us, again and again, unexpectedly like a lion or a bear or a snake, leaving us mauled or poisoned, picture-language for talking of the consequences of our sin. But God promises to come to raise up and repair and rebuild; to heal and restore.

It seems to me that we might appropriately employ the language of violent shaking-up to describe what is going on in our own nation at this time. Austerity has proven to be deeply unjust towards to most vulnerable, and the rich continue to shore-up greater wealth while those who have the least find themselves with less and less. Against that backdrop, the electorate has thrown us out of the European Union, and into the deep and long-lasting uncertainty of Brexit. The House of Commons—all parties—appears to be in freefall, rocked by scandal and accusation. Our institutions are being shaken, from the Church to the BBC to social services to the police.

Might it be that we are being shaken? Might this be a time to lament, and repent, and look to restoration? I think we are in this time for the long haul, but might the outcome be—in God’s grace—a hopeful one? Each time we have passed through a long and dark night, eventually the bridegroom has arrived, and the time has come to celebrate.

Is it possible that Amos, who first spoke-out two-and-and-half millennia ago, might help us to respond to God in our day; and to be ready when Jesus, the bridegroom, comes to us in the night? I believe so, and encourage you to sit with his words, and the disturbing vision of God that he holds out to us, over the week ahead. Speak to us, Lord, through the words of your servant Amos. And come to us in due course, Lord Jesus.

All Saints 2017

Revelation 7:9-17 and 1 John 3:1-3 and Matthew 5:1-12

This morning at the Minster we celebrate All Saints. That is, we look back with thanksgiving for all those faithful men, women and children who have followed Jesus in this locality, and this region, and this nation, and this continent, and to the ends of the earth, and we find our place within that expansive and expanding story. We are the inheritors of their deposit of faith, to which we add our own for those who will come after us.

Sunderland folk have gathered to this hill above the River Wear, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, for over a thousand years. We are surrounded by the echoes of their stories, carved into stone, and wood, and metal plaques. The building is full of memorials: some bearing just a name, others containing a description of their character and deeds. We can see these as a monument to the past, and so-doing miss the point: or as testimonies to the partnership between God and God’s people, for the blessing of this city, across the generations.

This morning we have heard read out, again, the Beatitudes: Jesus’ proclamation of good news for certain kinds of people.

Those who are poor in their own resources: for whom the good news is that they have access to all the resources of the King of the Universe.

Those who live with the weight of bereavement: for whom the good news is the comforting that makes life bearable, one day at a time; even joyful, in time.

Those who remain teachable, when, overlooked, they get left behind or fall through the cracks in times of social upheaval: for whom the good news is a place of belonging and responsibility.

Those whose experience of injustice is such that can be fittingly described as an ache in their belly—who, indeed, may go hungry in a literal sense: for whom the good news is that their deep hunger will be satisfied.

Those who show mercy, in a world that bays for the blood of scapegoats: for whom the good news is a place where they themselves will be treated mercifully.

Those whose thoughts towards others are pure, in a world where powerful men exploit women and children, and make excuses when eventually called to account: for whom the good news is that they do not have to fear meeting God face-to-face.

Those who actively wage peace, non-violent protest and community-making in a world of racial and other expressions of violence: for whom the good news is that they will be recognised as being children of God.

Those who suffer because of their commitment to these things, who are rejected and mistreated by their own kin: for whom the good news is to be received with honour within a new community.

This proclamation of good news comes at the opening of the Sermon on the Mount. Jesus is holding out to his disciples the vision of a counter-cultural community, that exists to proclaim and enact good news specifically for these kinds of people.

Read some of the testimonies written around this building, and you will see that down through many years these kinds of people have heard good news proclaimed from this place.

Have glimpsed sight of it.

Have smelt its aroma.

Have tasted its bitter-sweetness.

Have touched it and felt its touch, at times a firm hold and at times a fleeting brush.

And the same is true in our day. Every day of the week, people who have been bereaved slip in and out of this place, finding it to be a place of refuge and sanctuary, of comfort, of encountering God. Sunday by Sunday, and several times throughout the week, our Iranian brothers and sisters do the same.

Four weeks from today is Advent Sunday, the start of the new Church year. Advent is a Season of looking forward, of making ready for Jesus’ return. He has promised that he will come again. We don’t know when, and so each year we return to a time of renewing our expectation. This year, Advent Sunday falls on 3rd December, and on that day we will hold a celebration of the life of the Minster community, this gathering of unlikely saints who come in the guise of children and the elderly and the stranger. We will honour the many ways in which people give of their time and their talents and their resources to be a blessing to others—especially the kind of people Jesus describes. In addition to our morning services, there will be a praise service in the evening.

On that day, we will take up a Gift Day offering, as an expression of our thankfulness to God for all that this place has meant, and continues to mean. We will be asking for a financial gift, in support of the life and work of the Minister, over-and-above our regular committed financial giving.

So, this is what I would encourage you to do: Go away and think about All the Saints who have stood here before us, and to imagine yourself as having inherited the deposit of faith they invested: because that is what you are. Then, I want you to think of all the things that go on here, or that flow out from this place, all the ways in which good news is proclaimed and acted-out for the city of Sunderland—and to start giving thanks to God for everything that comes to mind. Think of the ways in which you have participated in the life of this community, and how you have grown as a result, perhaps doing things you would never have imagined yourself doing in the past.

And then ask, what financial gift might I offer in thanks? Think of an amount, and pray about it—have a conversation with Jesus about it. Some of us might be able to give larger sums, and some of us will only be able to bring a small amount. The size of the gift doesn’t matter. What matters is that it is an expression of a thankful heart, not given grudgingly or out of habit, but after careful and prayerful consideration. We haven’t set ourselves a target: whatever is gathered in by the end of the day will be more than we had at the start, and will be invested in the next chapter of the lives of the Saints at Sunderland Minster in the Diocese of Durham. The chapter that will record our part within a much bigger story.

As we look backward with thanksgiving, and forward with expectancy, may we discover once again who we are: people John describes as children of God. Children of a wonderful, generous, Father God who has been revealed to us in his loving-kindness and enduring faithfulness. People growing into that likeness, not there yet, but knowing that one day we will be like him.

And may we take the next step of faith into that future, which is both longed-for and beyond all that we could possibly imagine. Amen.

Harvest Thanksgiving 2017

Deuteronomy 8:7-18 and 2 Corinthians 9:6-15 and Luke 12:16-30

Today is our Harvest Thanksgiving. Today, we come bringing food for the foodbank, recognising that the good gifts God gives us are for the relief of those in need as well as our own well-being; and recognising the injustice that results when, as a society, we choose not to look beyond ourselves. As we come, I want to draw out some principles from our readings that might help us to go deeper.

Turn with me to our reading from Deuteronomy. Moses has led the people through the wilderness, but will not be the one to lead them into the land that God had promised to their ancestors. So, Moses gives them his final words of wisdom. The first thing I want to draw out is the idea that the land God is giving them has within it everything they need, either directly or through resources to trade. Of course, it will require effort—God will no longer drop manna and quail into their laps; they will need to sow and reap, mill and bake; they will need to mine and smelt and forge—but the land itself contains everything they need. And I wonder whether we believe that the same is true of the ‘land’ God has settled us in, Sunderland, in the north east of England? Are the resources we need, if we are to flourish in this place, to be found in this city, this region, this nation? What do you think? Is what being true then and there also true here and now? Is this a good land too, or a scorched earth?

The second thing I want to draw out relates to the experience of plenty and the experience of need. Moses goes on to tell the people that the resources of the land will multiply. If you have a male goat and a few female goats, you will get a flock of goats. In an agricultural society and a trade-based society, resources tend to multiply, at least in the long-term. And Moses understood that there was an inherent danger in that: the danger that when we have plenty, we attribute it to ourselves. We believe that we deserve it, that we have earned it through our effort. And because we attribute plenty to ourselves, we must equally attribute lack or need as earned or deserved. Moreover, we must believe that the earth is not fruitful as abundant gift, and so we must compete for resources: which in turn casts those in need as a threat to our plenty. Moses confronts such a tendency head-on: all we have is a gift from God. At times we might need to lose everything to rediscover that in our inability to meet our own needs, God provides: and, in his mercy, the times that humble and test us may turn out, in the end, to do us good. We may be invited by God to experience such times, and may discover them to do us good. We do not, however, get to discover that for anyone else: we do not get to decide that having to rely on a foodbank will do other people good.

Where, then, do we experience multiplication? And where do we experience the humbling of vulnerability and need? Perhaps we experience both in our Iranian brothers and sisters, a community that has grown from one person to many. Their faith has greatly encouraged many of us in our faith. But their lack of resources has also become our lack of resources, our shared need: and our shared opportunity to experience God’s provision.

Turn with me to our reading from 2 Corinthians. The context of this passage is this: the church in Jerusalem is experiencing the hardship of a local famine, and Paul is mobilising the churches he has planted in Greece to send financial support. They have been blessed—spiritually—by the church in Jerusalem; now they can bless them—materially, in this instance—in return. The church in Corinth had committed to give a certain amount, but were now struggling to raise it. Paul encourages them to give as they have made up their mind to give, not reluctantly or under compulsion, but cheerfully and as a way of entering-into God’s abundant provision.

Each year, the Bishop of Durham writes to the parish churches of the Diocese asking them to prayerfully consider what they will contribute to the shared cost of providing ministry across our communities. The Parochial Church Council has agreed that we will give £30,000 this year, and the same amount next year. In fact, we would like to give more, but in considering our circumstances as a congregation, this is the amount that we believe is enough beyond our financial resources to require faith while not being beyond the faith we have at present.

This is, indeed, where we find ourselves. Financially, we are behind on our target; but we have faith that it is what God would have us give, and that God will provide. Indeed, I know that this is a congregation that knows God’s generosity and has been set free to be generous ourselves, because again and again I am blown away by the generosity of the Minster congregation. But we need to talk about our financial commitments and needs, because we have a turnover of committed givers who move on, or have died, and new people joining our community.

Even as we bring generous gifts to help those in need of food, this passage from 2 Corinthians gives us the opportunity to think about our committed financial giving. There are two things you can do. The first is, if you do not at present give a regular, committed donation—that is, giving that enables us to plan a budget—then please consider doing so, and talk to Sandra. If you already give, thank you. Please review your giving regularly. You may be able to increase it, cheerfully; you may need to reduce it, if you are to remain cheerful, in order that it doesn’t become burdensome: what matters is that it is an active decision you can act on.

The second thing is this. On Sunday 3^rd December—Advent Sunday—we will be holding a Gift Day, on which we will celebrate the generosity of this place and this people, expressed in the giving of our time, our skills, our money. We will take up a collection towards our Parish Share, and I invite you to prayerfully consider what God might be asking you to contribute, over-and-above your regular, committed giving, and to bring your gift that day. More on that to come.

Finally, turn with me to our Gospel passage, from Luke. The famous parable of the rich fool, who hoarded his wealth for himself instead of blessing others; contrasted with God’s abundance on display in the goodness of the land. I am struck by God’s words to the man whose land produced abundantly: ‘You fool! This very night your life is being demanded of you. And the things you have prepared, whose will they be?’

I think we assume that God says this because the man will die that night—and indeed, that is implied. But I wonder whether his demise is incidental, or, rather, simply becomes the point at which it is too late to change? I wonder whether the point of the story is this: that our life is demanded of us by God continually—not as slaves, but as covenant partners in creating a society marked by loving-kindness and steadfast fidelity and mercy and justice. And that, therefore, all the resources we have been given are always to be shared: so, we are to continually ask, who else will benefit, who will share in what we have? In this way—all that we are and all that we have freely given to God—we discover ourselves to be truly rich. And discovering this may we increasingly be known for ‘blessing our communities in the name of Jesus for the transformation of us all.’*

*this, from the Durham Diocese mission statement.

Seventeenth Sunday after Trinity 2017

Isaiah 5:1-7 and Philippians 3:4b-14 and Matthew 21:33-46

I’ve been sitting with our reading from Isaiah this week. In it, the prophet sings a song of the love of God for his vineyard. The song tells of how God chose his site, on a very fertile hill, taking into account aspect and drainage; of how he turned over the soil, and got earth under his fingernails clearing out the stones; of how he selected the best vines, and planted them; built a watch-tower to protect them; and then, while the grapes grew, how he hewed-out a wine-vat from a large rock, a basin in which to tread the grapes, with a channel cut for the juice to flow out from, to be collected in wineskins to ferment. It is a horticulturally-slow labour of love, that conjures up the image of a hard patch of skin on the ball of the thumb from the rub of a tool handle, and the deep satisfaction of tired limbs at the end of the day, when God looks at what he has done and declares it good. Very good. But when the grapes have grown, they are small and bitter.

The prophet turns from singing of God to giving voice to God, asking his listeners, ‘What did I do wrong? Was there anything more I should have done and failed to do?’ And the audience surely responds, ‘No, you’re good.’

God continues: ‘This, then, is what I plan to do: I shall take my cultivated vineyard and return it to the wild. I will no longer prune or hoe or irrigate, no longer tend the garden. If my vines choose to bear wild grapes, then wild let them be.’ And the audience, listening to the song, must surely agree that this is an entirely reasonable course of action. And then comes the sting in the tail: you are the vineyard, o listeners, o divided kingdoms of Israel and Judah. God expected fruitful lives, a celebration of his goodness; but instead all he found was the bitterness of injustice.

Alongside listening to Isaiah’s song—and wondering whether we celebrate all that God has done for us, or blame God for the bitterness of life—I have been thinking about our second reading, from Paul’s letter to the church in Philippi, where he lists the ways in which God had prepared his life with good things in hope of fruitfulness, and in response longs to be fruitful, to offer something precious back to God just as grapes, when crushed—their skins now a waste product—offer up wine to the owner of the vineyard.

And I have been thinking about the ways in which God has invested in me, within the context of a ‘vineyard’ or community of his people, or, church.

The first church I can remember being part of was a city-centre Church of Scotland. There, I drew-in a love for scripture, in a place where being allowed to go out to the evening service as well as the morning one, at around the same age as starting secondary school, was held as a real rite-of-passage into adulthood by the youth.

In time, we moved from there to a more local church. That community had come out of a Brethren Assembly. The Brethren don’t have clergy, but allow any adult man to share whatever God had spoken to him that week in his personal devotions; and this group came out because they felt that women should be empowered to share on an equal footing. This was a church that both valued and questioned their tradition. Others joined, from other backgrounds; and this community studied the Bible and Church History together to determine what they believed on a wide range of issues. So, for example, Brethren and Baptists dedicated their children and practiced adult baptism, while families who had joined from Presbyterian or Episcopalian backgrounds baptised their children. In this and other matters, the members of West Glasgow New Church considered their own practice, consolidating or changing their view, but seeking to create room for those whose conscience led them to uphold a different practice.

When I went to university, in England, I discovered both the Church of England and the charismatic movement. In Sheffield, we experienced services where, in response to hearing God’s word, scores of people would come forward for prayer, week after week, deeply aware of God’s holiness and of their need for God’s healing touch or simply life-giving presence in their lives. It was like those accounts in the Gospels of whole towns turning out for Jesus to heal their sick. Or the crowds who followed him from place to place; for this was a community that engaged not only with getting healed-up but with the lifelong process of becoming more like Jesus.

For my curacy, we moved to a church in north Liverpool. In a similar way to how a significant part of our congregation here in Sunderland is made up of asylum-seekers and refugees, a significant part of the congregation there was made up of people in Recovery [Alcoholics Anonymous, Narcotics Anonymous]. Their lives were messy. Their relationships were messy. Their lives were being transformed by Jesus, but that is a lifelong process—with lots of set-backs along the way. In fact, the kind of process we are talking about in such broken lives takes several generations, because our brokenness has a big impact on our children: the good news is that God works to save not only us, but our children and our children’s children. In many ways, the church was dysfunctional; but it was a community being transformed by the difficult, costly love of Jesus—and it held out hope to the wider community through its foodbank and debt advice and playgroup and community breakfasts.

From inner-city Liverpool we moved to the suburban village of Birkdale, where I continued my curacy in two churches that were wrestling with the concerns of growing old. Both congregations wanted to grow younger, and this too was a third-age issue: many of them were grandparents who lived far [in some cases, across the globe] from their grandchildren, and needed more children in their lives. They were also worried that, as more of their peers died, their story would be lost, because our stories are held collectively on trust for one another, and our stories matter. I guess at times they felt like grapes crushed underfoot, and certainly as with pressed grapes there was a certain amount of rubbish to be strained out, but by-and-large the fruitfulness of their lives was sweet, when it could so easily have been bitter.

All of which brings me to this place, this vineyard, with all that has gone before in the past. The past is a hillside, or several hillsides, I am thankful to have been planted in; but I don’t want to live in the past. The questions that concern me are, how has God shown his faithful loving-kindness to us, here? Will we sing a love-song for the Lord, our beloved, concerning our lives, our community—or will we withhold our song and so be bitter to the taste? And if we sing, what story would our love-song tell?

I think it might tell stories of sharing in the sufferings and death and resurrection life of Christ. Of Mackem men and women who have known bereavement, from the death of a parent or partner to the empty-nest of children leaving home. Of Iranians who have lost everything. All discovering that they are loved into new life by God, slowly, patiently, at great cost. Learning to embrace our fragile life and offer it back in fruitful thanks and praise, in taking a stand against injustice and rejoicing when the cry of the orphan and widow and alien is heard. Failing and falling, and finding in the end of the world as we have known it the anticipation of the one to come.

At times, our song might be led by the choir and the organ, but also resound in the clanging of tins for the foodbank, and the slap of feet at our ceilidhs, and the dancing of children at the summer specials. Or in the silent prayers raised heavenward every day in this place, and the splash of colour of the flowers, and the stained-glass projected onto the white wall of the chancel. In the register that records every child and adult baptised here, and in the eulogies spoken at funerals. And in the bringing forward of bread and wine, broken, poured-out, and shared together.

So, let us sing a new song to the Lord, songs of sufferings and death and resurrection. And in the words of the Choristers’ Prayer: ‘Grant that what we sing with our lips we may believe in our hearts, and what we believe in our hearts we may show forth in our lives. Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.’

Fifteenth Sunday after Trinity 2017

Jonah 3:10-4:11 (and Philippians 1:21-30 and Matthew 20:1-16)

When the great prophet Moses asked God to show him what he was really like, ‘The LORD passed before him, and proclaimed,

“The LORD, the LORD [that is, Yahweh—a name, not a title; repeated, for emphasis], a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness, keeping steadfast love for the thousandth generation, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin, yet by no means clearing the guilty, but visiting the iniquity of the parents upon the children and the children’s children, to the third and fourth generation.”’ (Exodus 34:6, 7)

This is the fundamental revelation of who God is and what God is like, and these verses are quoted over and over, about God, and back to God, more than any other in the Bible. Jonah throws them back in God’s face in our first reading, disgusted that God should be gracious and merciful, slow to anger, abounding in steadfast love, ready to forgive. Of course, he wants this for himself, and for his own people: but not for the enemies of his people. That is unacceptable. If this is what God is really like, Jonah would rather be dead.

The Book of Jonah is like one of those sets of Russian nesting dolls. In fact, it is like one of those sets of nesting dolls, inside another, larger, set of nesting dolls.

The backdrop is this: God chose one people from among the nations, through whom to bless all nations; but the people he chose were serially unfaithful. Eventually, God appoints David as king; and David’s son Solomon is king after him; but under Solomon’s son, the kingdom divides, north and south—Israel and Judah—sometimes in uneasy alliance, sometimes in open conflict. In the north, there is an unbroken line of kings who lead the people away from God, until eventually Israel is swallowed-up by the Assyrians (whose capital is Nineveh).

Assyria, in turn, is swallowed-up by the Babylonians.

In the south, the line of kings who lead the people away from God is occasionally interrupted by a king who calls them back to covenant faithfulness. It is never lasting, but it does delay the fall of Jerusalem by 135 years. Assyria fails to swallow them up; but Babylon succeeds, and carries the people of God off into exile.

Babylon, in turn, is swallowed-up by the Persians. And at this point, the king over the Persian empire sends the people of God back to Jerusalem, in three waves. They are, so to speak, vomited up out of the belly of a great fish.

Persia, in turn, is swallowed-up by the Greeks. Greece, in turn, is swallowed-up by the Romans. And Rome, in turn, is swallowed-up by the triumph of Jesus, by the conversion of the Roman empire, which brings this biblical sequence—although not history, and not the ultimate purposes of God in Christ Jesus—to an end.

The prophets understood the rise and fall of nations to be appointed by God, in exercising his slow-but-sure judgement on injustice. The Book of Jonah sits within that worldview. Jonah was a prophet who lived in the northern kingdom of Israel at a time when it felt relatively secure, under its longest-reigning king (by quite some distance), Jeroboam II. Nonetheless, Israel was rotten: God sent prophets, but would they listen? Meanwhile, Assyria was on the rise, a definite threat, notoriously violent: would God intervene?

We don’t know when the story of the prophet who was sent to take the message of impending judgement to Nineveh first began to circulate by word-of-mouth, or when it was first written down. But we do know that, unlike the people of Nineveh in the story, God’s people didn’t repent. We do know that they were swallowed-up, and eventually vomited up again; and we also know that they kept telling the story, in trying to make sense of their experience: even Jesus, living eight centuries later and in the Roman empire, refers to it.

All of which brings us to our second set of Russian dolls. God instructs Jonah to go to Nineveh. When Jonah runs away, in the opposite direction and to the ends of the earth, God appoints a storm to surround him, and then a great fish to swallow him, and then a plant to shelter him, and then a worm to attack the plant, and then a hot east wind to beat down on Jonah’s head. God, we are told, appoints these things—a storm and a fish and a plant and a worm and a wind—to fulfil his purposes, just as he appoints kings and empires.

In other words, the story of Jonah is the story of the people of God, over and over: the iniquity of the parents being visited on the children, until it is dealt with, until they might truly be set free.

The iniquity is in wanting to keep God’s goodness for ourselves, while demanding his judgement on others. Jesus addresses a variation on the theme in our Gospel reading, where the hired labourers grumble against the landowner, failing to share his compassion—his insistence that those without security of employment do not go hungry—envious because he is generous.

If we are honest, I think this is still a work in progress.

The Book of Jonah ends with God restating what Jonah has thrown back in his face: that who God is, is who God is, in relation to all people, everywhere. God is concerned about Nineveh. God’s fundamental attitude towards her hundred and twenty thousand citizens is mercy [the word comes from the root, to carry in the womb] and grace. God longs to show steadfast love and faithfulness. This love is expressed in great patience; but at the same time, this love will not turn a blind eye to injustice—for how can genuine love do that? The cry against wickedness will not be ignored; but God is also quick to respond when the wicked repent. This is the scope of God’s concern for Nineveh, that great city.

Might God say to us today, should I not be concerned with Sunderland, that great city, in which there are almost two hundred and ninety thousand persons who do not know my concern for them?

The motto of our city is Nil desperandum auspice Deo: ‘Do not despair, but put your trust in God.’ This is, of course, the advice of the king of Nineveh to his people, when confronted with their own wickedness. It is more often shortened to Nil desperandum, which is, at best, a whistling in the dark.

What might happen, were we to share God’s concern for the people of our city?

What might happen, were we to proclaim that concern—a concern in which even the bad news is good news, and the good news is very good indeed—to all we meet?

The day is far gone, but it is not yet too late. The landowner comes looking again and again, calling labourers into his vineyard.

Twelfth Sunday after Trinity 2017

Jeremiah 15:15-21 and Romans 12:9-21 and Matthew 16:21-28

This morning I want to speak about the wrath of God. The wrath of God has fallen out of fashion. It is something we are uncomfortable with, and so we focus on the love of God, the compassion and faithfulness of God, the wide sweeping inclusivity of God. We might even seek to differentiate between a wrathful God of the Old Testament—and the apostle Paul—and a loving Jesus. That would be a tragic mistake. God’s love demands the wrath of God, as an expression of that love. The Bible speaks of the wrath of God over 600 times; so, it is important that we understand what we mean by the wrath of God—and why it is a good thing.

Listen to how God reveals his glory—that is, his character, or nature—to Moses:

‘Yahweh, Yahweh, the compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness, maintaining love to thousands, and forgiving wickedness, rebellion and sin. Yet he does not leave the guilty unpunished; he punishes the children and their children for the sin of the parents to the third and fourth generation.’

This passage, from Exodus, is perhaps the passage from the Bible most quoted across the rest of the Bible. In addition to direct quotes, it is alluded to countless times. It is the foundational passage for how we are to understand what God is like—and, by extension, how we are called to be as God’s people.

I don’t have time to unpack this passage today, but to summarise: God’s fundamental stance towards us is an active, intervening, engaged, enduring, unchanging, love; a love that, whenever we are estranged, will always move to be reconciled. This love is slow to anger, and utterly opposed to all that separates us from each other. Why? Because the opposite of love is not hate—as we are so often told—but indifference. He will root-out that which separates us, even if doing so takes several generations, because mercy is unimaginably greater than judgement.

God, then, is slow to anger. This means two things: one, that God gets angry; and two, that God is slow to act on his anger. Me, I am quick to anger. And my anger is most often an unhealthy reaction to my ego being bruised. I get angry when, emptying the dishwasher, I want to put bowls away in a cupboard and my wife has the effrontery to sit on the chair right in front of the cupboard door when there are four other identical chairs around the kitchen table. I get angry when we must wait while four cars go past before we can turn out of a junction because they are all too selfish to let us in (and I’m not even driving the car). I get angry when I lose mobile phone signal passing through the underground sections of the Metro.

I have a long way to go in being conformed to the likeness of Jesus. He got angry about dehumanising lust and bloodlust. When a mob came to him seeking to stone an adulterous woman, he took time to process his response. When he eventually spoke, it was with such compassion and grace that it turned the men from their bloodlust, and the woman from her lust.

Jesus got angry about people being afflicted by demons, driving the demons out, forcefully. He got angry at the temple authorities giving over the space that was intended to be set apart as a house of prayer for all nations for other purposes; and—having gone to the temple countless other times and not done this—overturned the tables.

I believe that God gets angry about child abuse, sexual assault, human trafficking, the rich maximising their profit margin by cladding the homes of the poor in a death-trap, zero-hours contracts, the arms trade, racism, the West’s overconsumption of the resources of the natural world, global poverty, and our sheer indifference towards most of these things, to name but a few.

A god who, like me, is quick to anger would be hellish, literally. A god who did not get angry, even more so. How God’s slow anger works out is what we mean by the wrath of God. Both our quick anger and our resigned indifference need to be conformed to it.

The book of Jeremiah, from which our first reading this morning is taken, is all about God’s wrath. It is a testimony that shows us that God allows a people to reap the consequences of turning away, handing them over to their choices, withdrawing his protection: but that he does so incredibly reluctantly, in the hope that they will turn back to him as a result, before disaster strikes. Indeed, Jeremiah is not alone among God’s friends in being frustrated by how much opportunity God gives the people to pull back from the brink of disaster, how patient his love is. Jeremiah calls on God to bring down retribution for him on his persecutors—even accusing God of being unfaithful for having not yet done so: truly, you are to me like a deceitful brook, like waters that fail.

But God responds by declaring that the way in which he will bring retribution on Jeremiah’s persecutors for him is this: that if Jeremiah will turn back to God, God will strengthen him to continue to speak for the God who longs for reconciliation, until his persecutors turn back to God, and are reconciled to Jeremiah. This is how God will deliver Jeremiah from the wicked and redeem him from the grasp of the ruthless: by the wicked repenting and being transformed into the righteous.

It is this principle of hopeful forbearance, of allowing rebellion against God to play itself out until it over-extends itself, and of—even then—embracing those who turn back in a new beginning that plays out in the agreement of the persons of the Trinity that the Son should be handed over to his persecutors, suffer death and be buried, rise again, and ascend to the right hand of the Father, where he intercedes for us and from where he will come again to judge the living and the dead, taking his place over a kingdom that shall have no end. It is breath-takingly good.

How, then, are we to live in faithful relationship with such a God? Well, Paul also wrote at length about the wrath of God to the church in Rome: about how God had handed us all over to the consequences of our rebellion, in the hope that all might be saved. You can read about that in the first eleven chapters of his letter. But in chapter twelve he shifts from how we are saved and what we are saved from, to what we are saved for. And in our second reading this morning he exhorts his hearers to:

“Rejoice in hope, be patient in suffering, persevere in prayer…Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse them…Do not repay anyone evil for evil…Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave room for the wrath of God; for it is written, ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.’ No, ‘if your enemies are hungry, feed them; if they are thirsty, give them something to drink; for by doing this you will heap burning coals on their heads.’ Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.”

When you are wronged—genuinely wronged, not simply nursing a bruised ego—know that God has not abandoned you, but is playing the long game. When we are wronged, we need to remind one another of that hope, keep it before us, encourage one another to join in the long game, by praying, blessing, serving. In this way, we ‘leave room for’ the wrath of God.

Where we see others wronged, allow our anger to be conformed to God’s slow anger, by praying, blessing, serving.

Where we see others wronged so very many times that we grow numb, allow our indifference to be conformed to God’s slow anger, by praying, blessing, serving.

This is an outrageous way to be asked to respond. Some would call it naïvely idealistic; others, condoning injustice. And if we are quite mistaken in believing in this God revealed to Moses on Mount Sinai, and fleshed-out in Jesus of Nazareth, then it is quite possibly both these things. Almost certainly so, in fact.

But if the story we confess is true, it just might change everything.