St Michael & All Angels

Lectionary readings: Genesis 28:10-17 and John 1:47-51

When John wrote his Gospel, he was an elderly man, bishop of Ephesus. The other Gospels were already in circulation, and he wrote because, reliable though they were, the full story hadn’t been told. To be fair, John himself ends saying that the world isn’t big enough to hold all the books that would be needed if the full story was told, but there were nonetheless some things he needed to add. One of the things this twinkly old gentleman adds is a great deal of playfulness on Jesus’ part. Another is that, whereas Mark and Matthew and Luke focus on scribes and Pharisees who essentially troll Jesus, John presents us with several characters who can hold their own in conversation with Jesus, something Jesus seems to really appreciate.

One such encounter is that between Jesus and Nathanael. Now, Nathanael has just been told by Philip that he, and Andrew, and Peter, think they have found the promised Messiah, Jesus, from Nazareth. And Nathanael responds, ‘Can anything good come from Nazareth?’ to which Philip replies, ‘Come and see.’

Nathanael does; and as he approaches, Jesus turns to those with him and says, of Nathanael, ‘Here is truly an Israelite in whom there is no deceit’ to which Nathanael responds, ‘Err, have we met?’

Jesus answers him, ‘I saw you under the fig tree before Philip called you.’ And this is where the playfulness starts. You see, Jesus is throwing out an image that would be familiar to Nathanael. To sit under your own fig tree is, in the Hebrew scriptures, a symbol of living in peace. Of its various references, the key ones are from the prophets Micah—‘but they shall all sit under their own vines and under their own fig trees, and no one shall make them afraid; for the mouth of the Lord of hosts has spoken’—and Zechariah—‘you shall invite each other to come under your vine and fig tree’.

In Micah chapter 4, a vision is presented of the peoples going up the mountain of the Lord to be taught by him his ways and to walk in his paths, and of instruction going forth from the Lord from Jerusalem to the surrounding nations. It is, in other words, a vision of ascending to and descending from God. A divine staircase.

Moreover, this leads on to chapter 5, in which we find first a promise of a ruler over Israel, from Bethlehem (a playful nod by John to Jesus’ birth, that addresses Nathanael’s misgivings about Nazareth), whose origin is from ancient days; and then a vision concerning the remnant of Jacob, through whom God will judge the nations, removing the means of violence, and idolatry.

Then, in Zechariah chapter 3, we have a vision of Joshua the high priest (in the second temple, the one built after the return from exile; it was later desecrated by the Greeks; the temple in Jesus’ time was the third temple, which was, in turn, destroyed by the Romans). Joshua is accused by Satan, but vindicated by the Lord, rescued as from death, restored, dressed in bright apparel. He is promised that he will rule the Lord’s house; and is given the promise that the Lord will send a servant, imagined as ‘the Branch,’ through whom God will remove the guilt of the nation in a single day, on which ‘you shall invite each other to come under your vine and fig tree’. In chapter 6, the Branch is revealed to be Joshua, and is crowned as royal ruler placed by the Lord on his throne.  (Joshua and Jesus are the same name, in Hebrew and in Greek; and Joshua the high priest is a ‘type’ who pre-figures Jesus.)

When Jesus says, ‘I saw you under the fig tree before Philip called you’ and Nathanael responds, ‘Rabbi, you are the Son of God! You are the King of Israel!’ Jesus is saying, ‘Micah chapter 4! Zechariah chapter 3!’ and Nathanael is responding, ‘Micah chapter 5! Zechariah chapter 6!’ (It may even be that, prompted by the branches overhead, Nathanael had been contemplating this very passage of scripture as he sat under the fig tree.)

Jesus goes on, this is only the beginning. ‘Very truly, I tell you, you will see heaven opened and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of Man.’ The playfulness continues. Jesus is clearly referencing Jacob’s dream, in Genesis 28:10-17, in which the house of God is identified, and God promises to bless all the families of the earth in Jacob and his offspring. But he is also still in Micah. Moreover, the Son of Man is a term Jesus takes from two other prophets, Daniel and Ezekiel where (especially in Daniel chapter 7) it refers to a faithful and restored community. That is, ‘Son of Man’ is coterminous with ‘remnant of Jacob’...but—yet more playfulness—whereas Jacob (whose name means ‘to seize by the heal) was a trickster, Nathaniel (whose name means, ‘God has given’) is ‘truly an Israelite in whom there is no deceit’.

In short, in this playful and personalised exchange, Jesus is inviting Nathanael to be part of the remnant, constituted around Jesus himself, in whom both Jacob’s dream and Micah’s vision will be (at least partially) fulfilled. Inviting him to be an ‘angel’—a messenger for God, a go-between between the nations of earth and the house of the God of Jacob.

But what has any of this to say to us?

Firstly, be like Jesus, and Nathanael. Get to know the Old Testament. Meditate on it. Soak your bones in it. Familiarise yourself with the promises of God you find there, and especially any promises that speak to your spirit in such a way that you respond, ‘Yes, I want to be part of the people who see those days!’ Find Jesus in those pages, the Word hidden in the word, waiting to become flesh.

Then pray them, hold on to them; even when, especially when, the gap between what we see in the world around us and what God wills to be done is a gulf. When, like Jacob, we are running away. Pray for that day when all will sit under their own fig trees, and no one shall make them afraid. Intercede for justice, for cessation of hostility, for the flourishing of dignity in a society where each has as each needs; pray against fear, against fear of the other, of scarcity, of whatever makes us afraid and causes people to act from a place of fear rather than a place of security.

And then, share, invite others into the story. Philip invited Nathanael to ‘Come and see,’ and then Jesus invited Nathanael to ‘see greater things than these,’ to ‘see heaven opened...’ It is an ongoing thing, an unfolding reality we inhabit together. In those ‘putting the world to rights’ conversations everyone seems to love so much, take opportunities to share God’s wisdom, to be an angel carrying concerns to God and messages from God.

And when you have done all that, keep doing it. Don’t give up. We meet Nathanael in the very first chapter of John’s Gospel, and he is there in the last chapter also (John 21:2), still witnessing to an open heaven.

Fourteenth Sunday after Trinity, 22 September 2019

Lectionary readings: Amos 8:4-7 and 1 Timothy 2:1-7 and Luke 16:1-13

Once upon a time there was a king, who was famed throughout the world for both his wisdom and his riches. No-one had ever seen anything like the days of Solomon before. But the king died, and his son came to the throne, and the people sent a delegation complaining that, for all his great reputation, the old king had exploited his people harshly. They hoped to see a different kind of wisdom, a more equitable sharing of blessing. But their hopes were dashed. The nation was torn in two. Surely, now, at least in the north with its new capital, Samaria, a fairer society would be built out of the rubble.

Sadly, it wasn’t to be. In Samaria, just as in Jerusalem, the rich turned their back on the LORD and exploited the poor. And so, the LORD sent prophets to call them to repent. One such prophet was Amos, sent to Samaria, to speak out against the complacency and self-centredness of the elite, who devoured the poor to fill their own bellies, and discarded whatever was left like so much chaff. Unless they repented, they themselves would be swept away. They refused to repent. Enter, Assyria.

Or take Haggai, whom we have been reading over recent days at Morning Prayer. Through Haggai, the word of the LORD came to those who had returned to Jerusalem from exile. But even that shaking had not taught them the lesson. The wealthy elite were back, had re-established themselves in panelled houses, while the house of the LORD lay in ruins. And so, the LORD censures them. When they come to their inventories, they expect to find twenty measures, but find only ten; they expect to draw fifty measures, but draw only twenty. Moreover, the LORD is about to shake the heavens and the earth; and will establish Zerubbabel, the governor, as his signet ring.

Generations later, Jesus stands in this same prophetic tradition, sent by God to call the people to repentance and to establish an equitable society that shines like a light to the surrounding nations.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus tells a parable, a story that is meant to disturb us, to make us question everything we think we know. The backdrop to this parable is a heightened confrontation with a group of Pharisees, who saw themselves as righteous before God and neighbour; and as wise interpreters of Torah, of the instruction given through Moses for the good society; and who enjoyed the material benefits befitting such persons.

In the parable, we meet a rich man and the manager of his household. And I want to suggest to you that we see the rich man as representing the nation and in particular the wealthy elite. For those of us who have been around church for a long time, it is tempting to assume that when we come across a rich man in parables, it must refer to God; but I want to suggest that that is problematic, especially given that in this parable Jesus repeatedly underlines that the wealth in question is the wealth of injustice, and draws an explicit incompatibility between such wealth and God.

Moreover, I want to suggest that we see Jesus as speaking of himself as the manager over the household. That is, as the one appointed manager over the household of Israel.

Now, charges were brought against the manager that he was squandering his master’s property. He has been subverting the rich man’s practice of hoarding for himself, at the expense of the poor. And the rich man demands that the manager gives an account of his actions.

The manager knows that he has been rejected. And so, he goes about the intention of being welcomed as manager over another household. He does so by writing-down the debts owed to the rich man. When he will go through the records, he will expect to find that he is owed a hundred jugs of oil, but will find that he is owed only fifty; he will expect to find that he is owed a hundred containers of wheat, but will find that he is only owed eighty. His ill-gotten gain is disappearing before his eyes.

Now, you need to imagine that Jesus is seated between his disciples and the Pharisees, and, in the hearing of the Pharisees, is instructing his disciples that they are not to be like them. But he is also pleading for any Pharisee who has ears to hear, to hear and repent. So, in the parable, the rich man does just that. He sees that the manager has acted against exploitation, and he praises him. Instead of a public dismissal, he is publicly commended.

Jesus continues, saying that those who claim to be the sons of light, a term that was in circulation with some currency as a way of claiming to be righteous in an unjust world, were not as wise as they made out. And so, it proves, when, far from repenting, the Pharisees ridicule him. Jesus, however, instructs his disciples to be like the manager, who subverts wealth, who subverts the injustice of wealth, to make friends with the poor, with those who will welcome us into what he calls the age-long tabernacle. That is, the enduring symbol of God’s presence in the midst of God’s people—whether the temple stands or not.

And then Jesus says that our attitude towards money reveals our attitude towards true riches.

The currency of maturity is forgiveness. Those who welcome Jesus into their lives as the manager of their household, over all their affairs, financial and otherwise, are those who know that their debts have been written-down, and written-down again, until they are written-off. But they also know that the debts they hold against others will be written-down and written-off: for that is the modus operandi of this manager. The one who taught his disciples to pray: ‘And forgive us our sins, for we ourselves forgive everyone indebted to us’ (Luke 11:4a). If you would be forgiven, you must also forgive.

Some thirty years after the elite conspired with the authorities to have Jesus executed, Paul wrote to Timothy urging that the new household of God, the church, ought to pray, for everyone, and for kings and all those in high positions. As in the times of Amos, and Haggai, and Jesus, and Paul, so in every age (and whether we remain in the EU or leave the EU) the rich exploit the poor, and those who have much exploit those who have little. And we are to subvert this, even though it cost us our reputation, even though we are ridiculed. But we are to do so, not as revolutionaries; but, rather, in the hope that all might be saved. The rich and the poor. The elite and the commoner. In hope, despite all evidence to the contrary, of the possibility of a more just world.

Where do our prayers begin? Praying with Jesus, the one mediator between God and humankind, who gave himself a ransom for all: Father, forgive. Father, forgive them.

Thirteenth Sunday after Trinity 2019

Lectionary readings: 1 Timothy 1:12-17 and Luke 15:1-10

[a sermon that I wrote but did not deliver]

The other day, I was having a coffee with my friend Steve, who was visiting Durham from New Zealand. I wanted to ask him about some research he had been doing on craftivism. Craftivism is the act of making craft, that is traditional domestic manufacturing, with the purpose of making the world a better place. One example would be knitting circles making hats for premature babies. In particular, Steve had been looking at the impact of Christmas Angels. You might have heard of Christmas Angels, or even come across one. They are knitted angels, that are left around the neighbourhood to be found, in an act sometimes called ‘yarn bombing.’ They have a tag, with a little message of blessing, an invitation to participate in the process, and social media tag to allow people to share their experience. People have responded with messages like, “I found this angel on my street, and took it to a friend who is going through a hard time. Thank you!”

Analysing hundreds of messages, Steve had noted four themes: [1] the significance of finding and being found; [2] a joy associated with that, and the need to share that joy with others; [3] a precise sense of place, where this happened; and [4] layers of creative interaction between makers and finders.

There is something of this going on in our Gospel reading today. Tax-collectors and sinners were finding Jesus, were finding a welcome in Jesus. They couldn’t keep it to themselves. One would bring a friend, until they were all coming. All those trying to get by. All those who had been made to feel unworthy by their neighbours. All coming to the table for a joyful celebration.

When the respectable people expressed their disapproval, Jesus told them stories. Of a man who lost one sheep in a hundred. Of a woman who lost one coin, of ten. Of a person who had become acutely aware that, for all they had, something was missing, life was incomplete. And so, they went searching, until they found what they were looking for, and when they did, they threw a party.

The first thing we might note is the significance of finding and being found. As Paul writes to Timothy, ‘Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.’ But he came, for the most part, hiding in plain sight, out in the neighbourhood, waiting to be found. And when people found Jesus—the lost sheep, the lost coin—and called all their friends to join in their rejoicing, they came to discover that they were the ones who had been found; and in inviting Jesus to their table, they found themselves invited by Jesus to God’s table.

The next thing we might note is the joy associated with being found, and the need to share that joy with others. We hear that joy as we listen-in on Paul writing to his young friend Timothy. He can’t keep it to himself. Neither could the tax-collectors and the sinners, and the angels in heaven!

We might note, too, a precise sense of place. For Paul, it is about an encounter with Jesus on the road to Damascus, an event in which he received mercy, and the grace of our Lord overflowed for him with the faith and love that are in Christ Jesus. For the tax-collectors and the sinners, Luke tells us that they were coming near to listen to Jesus. We can imagine one asking another, ‘Where were you when you first heard, when you first saw for yourself, when you first met Jesus?’ The irony is that Jesus also welcomed and ate with Pharisees and scribes, but instead of joy they responded with grumbling. You can be there, and miss it.

And, lastly, we might note the layers of creative interaction going on. Yes, as Paul puts it, ‘Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.’ But, again and again, it is the people who find Jesus who call their friends and neighbours to be found. Jesus is the lost sheep…and the shepherd; the coin…and the woman. The tax-collectors and sinners—and, potentially, the Pharisees and scribes—are the searching shepherd who becomes a found sheep; the woman, frantic and relieved, who becomes a found coin. And round and round it goes, in an ever-expanding cycle. Paul receives mercy, and all that overflows to him overflows through him.

The day before yesterday was the eightieth anniversary of this church [St Nicholas’ Bishopwearmouth]. Today, we celebrate eighty years of men and women, girls and boys, who have found Jesus and found themselves found by Jesus, in this neighbourhood; caught up in a joy they can’t help but share. Perhaps you have never known that for yourself. Perhaps today is the day you do.

Eleventh Sunday after Trinity, 1st September 2019

Lectionary readings: Hebrews 13:1-8, 15-16 and Luke 14:1, 7-14

Our readings today are concerned with table manners.

I remember, from my childhood, all manner of table manners. Don’t put your elbows on the table. The proper and highly improper way to hold and use a fork. That kind of thing.

Our Gospel reading recounts one occasion when Jesus went to eat at the house of a leading Pharisee. This is not the first time, in Luke’s Gospel, that Jesus has been a dinner guest in the home of a Pharisee. Moreover, we’ve encountered Pharisees among a large gathering in the home where Jesus was resident. But we’ve also seen Jesus eating in the homes of various other people—tax collectors; two adult and yet unmarried sisters—at least some of whom at least some Pharisees felt uncomfortable with.

The Pharisees were a grass-roots social movement that resisted the influence of Greco-Roman culture on Judaism, and emphasised the importance of interpreting the Torah—the Law given through Moses—for everyday Jewish life in their own day, prioritising that over the rituals of the temple in Jerusalem. They were sincere people, mature in faith. And they were of mixed opinion, in relation to Jesus. Some saw in him a natural ally, one of them even. Others saw him as a threat, a fifth columnist, as it were. Almost certainly, some Pharisees were, initially, supportive of Jesus, but later distanced themselves and even opposed him outright, both openly and clandestinely. In the passage immediately prior to today’s reading, a group of Pharisees seek to save Jesus’ life. In our passage today, Jesus encounters both invitation and close, critical examination. We need to resist viewing this group in simplistic and negative terms. Their motives are, for the most part, good; but good people can do terrible things; and they have yet to move from devout lives to lives totally surrendered to the will of God. Like many good people, they enjoy the rewards of goodness—they take their compensation for goodness—in material comfort and social standing.

Jesus goes to the house of a leading Pharisee, and observes how the guests chose the places of honour. A formal meal like this would have involved reclining at three couches around a table, one side kept open for serving from, with the host on the left-hand couch and guests arranged on the other couches in a strict order from most-to-least important. As Luke tells it, Jesus is watching a deliberate act of picking out the best positions at the table, perhaps even arguing over them. Ordinarily, the host would set the seating plan. This would suggest that either the host had chosen not to take part in this social convention, or that several of his guests were choosing to snub their host. Either would be shocking.

Jesus first addresses the other guests, telling them a parable of comedic exaggeration. Rather than fight over the best seat, he advises, head straight for the lowest place. At first, this sounds like a magnificent manipulation, to guarantee not only a better seat but a public commendation by the host, to boot. But on reflection, it exposes the whole system by throwing it into anxiety. To sit in the place not chosen for you is to dishonour your host, exposes them (and you) to shame, whether one sits up or down (hence the host must intervene to restore right social order). And those who buy-into the honour-shame economy experience a perpetual rising and falling, taking great pride in their humility: it is a classic Catch-22 situation.

Leaving the other guests trying to square the circle, Jesus turns to his host, with advice on how to conduct future dinner parties. Don’t invite the usual suspects, those guests whose presence will either cement your social standing or facilitate your social climbing. Instead, invite those who have no means to reciprocate, no means to repay a social debt. It is worth noting that, if this host has indeed chosen not to set out a seating plan, he is already well on the journey of renouncing worldly values in favour of the kingdom of heaven.

But Jesus’ instruction to him is not simply, ‘use your table as a means of social justice, not social status.’ The Pharisees were deeply committed to living according to the Torah. They were already deeply committed to social justice. Jesus has no doubt that his host is a righteous man, and will share in the resurrection of the righteous: nonetheless, Jesus invites him into a deeper-still experience of God’s reordered society. It is entirely possible to pursue social justice without compassion; to do what is right because it is right, while still lacking what Jesus elsewhere calls the perfection of compassion. Jesus is not rebuking his host—as he rebuked his fellow-guests—but inviting him to move beyond being good to being perfect*.

The only way to be exalted in the kingdom of heaven is at the freely given recommendation of the poor, who are the disguised messengers of God. In view of this status conferred upon them, we are wise to honour the humble, we are wise to hear the exhortation written to the Hebrews, those geographically-dispersed, culturally-Jewish converts to Christianity: do not neglect searching out the strangers in your community, ensuring that their needs are met; remember those in prison and those being tortured; honour the sanctity of your neighbours’ marriages; do not neglect doing good and sharing what you have. And yet, the moment we do these things without compassion, out of duty but lacking love, in hope of gain, Jesus takes us aside and points us to the lower place, which is a higher place.

Whenever we welcome Jesus to our table, we discover, sooner or later, that he is in fact the one who has welcomed us into the home of the Father, to our Father’s table. And if we are genuinely desirous of pleasing God, he will draw us aside and re-orientate us to love. To love of those who are not there—and to the love that does not draw back from the poverty and woundedness of those who are there with us, but reaches out to make each one whole.

We may, indeed, have known people who live such lives; and we do well to imitate their faith until, after much rehearsal and many performances, it may become second nature to us also.

Today, where are you in the story? Are you one of the guests, whose fault Jesus graciously exposes, in order to set you free from sin? Are you the host, whose desire to please God Jesus rewards with the invitation to experience and enjoy greater freedom yet? Are you the poor, the crippled, lame and blind, called to the banquet, to taste very God? Wherever you are in the story today, this story is for you; and it is good news. So come to the table, eat and drink.

*As Ronald Rolheiser points out in Sacred Fire, the Greek notion of perfection is one of flawless ideal which is unobtainable in reality, whereas the Hebrew understanding of perfection is robust compassion, to which we are called. Generally, we recoil from Jesus’ words because we have the Greek notion in mind—though, if we are honest, we might recoil further still if we held the Hebrew understanding instead.

Tenth Sunday after Trinity 2019

Lectionary reading: Luke 13:10-17

In our Gospel reading today we meet a woman who had a physical condition, a long-term infirmity, that was the result of a spiritual malaise.

A word of caution: not every physical infirmity is caused by a spiritual malaise; and not every spiritual malaise causes physical infirmity. Nonetheless, the Bible presents us with a world in which the spiritual and the physical are both alike created, and compromised; are equally disordered, and liberated; and in which the two are integrally entwined.

There is an old, old story in which the Lord God took dust from the earth and fashioned from it a man, and breathed the breath of life into the man’s nostrils, God’s breath, in our lungs. We are, according to this story, dust and wind, flesh and spirit, held together in God’s hand. We are animated earth. We are created to participate in the life of the Creator. Every breath God gives us, as pure gift, we in turn give back to him: in, out, in, out. From dust you were taken, and to dust you shall return.

In our Gospel reading today we hear a new story, of a woman. Like all the daughters of Eve, she is animated by the breath of God. That is a given. But that life-giving spirit has, for the past eighteen years, been cancelled-out by another spirit, a spirit that, according to the literal sense of the Greek words Luke chose to tell the story, cancelled-out her strength. As a result, she is bowed down, pressed towards the earth, back to dust as yet awaiting wind.

When Jesus sets her free, what Luke presents us with is nothing short of a new creation story.

The leader of the synagogue is indignant. He, too, draws on an old, old story, one that comes even before the story of the Lord God animating the dust. No, he cites the story of God liberating the cosmos from chaos, in six great liberating acts. Those acts were followed by the sabbath, a day for joy, for rejoicing at all that God had done. Six days for work, and one for rejoicing. Had Jesus healed the woman on any of the previous six days, we would be rejoicing at that today...

Jesus has something to say in response; but at this point in the story, Luke does not refer to him as ‘Jesus’ but as ‘the Lord’: ‘But the Lord answered him and said...’

This is not coincidental. This is not junior school English, where the teacher presents you with a thesaurus and pushes you to use a more varied vocabulary. This is making a deliberate theological point. These are the very words of God, set in a story about God.

Jesus calls the woman, ‘a daughter of Abraham.’ Abraham, the friend of God, who was bold enough to contend with God on behalf of others. Abraham, the father of all who walk by faith rather than by sight. Abraham, who lived before the giving of the law. The law, of course, was given to those who had been set free from captivity in Egypt, to instruct them in how to live out their freedom.

Don’t cite the law over this woman who was still a captive, bound by the Satan, the Accuser. Don’t be the Satan, the voice of accusation.

When Jesus sets her free, what Luke presents us with is nothing short of a new exodus story (which is, itself, a new creation story).

When God speaks, his opponents are put to shame. Note this: Jesus always sides with those who are ashamed, with those who know shame, whether as a result of their own actions or as a result of the accusations of others. So, when, at the end of this story, Jesus’ opponents are put to shame, Jesus has triumphed over them by turning enemies into friends, or at least, potential friends. It is the best place they can be, for now; and a necessary step on their journey.

When God breathes life, and contrary to the fear of the leader of the synagogue, there is a great multiplication of rejoicing. This is not just sabbath, this is abundant sabbath.

Jesus calls the indignant ones ‘hypocrites,’ actors. He says they are play-acting sabbath, not living it. They know the stories, but they don’t know them to be their story. So, what about us? Are we play-acting church, play-acting Eucharist? Or is Jesus setting people free in our midst, causing us to rejoice at all the wonderful things he is doing? Is today’s Gospel an old story fashioned on a couple of really, really old stories; or is it our story, the good news for us, today?

In short, what spiritual malaise is crippling you, crippling me, today? What unseen spiritual reality is pushing us to our knees? And if we are pushed to our knees, might we find ourselves at the feet of the one who can set us free?

It may be the recurring temptation to pleasure, to gratify our self, to avoid pain through subtle distractions or hidden addictions;

it may be loneliness, that taunts us for our embodied limitations, our inability to be enough for everyone, for anyone for ever, for ourselves;

it may be resentment of those closest to us, resentment of duty to those we profess to love, resentment that steals our joy and stokes anger in its place;

it may be the workaholism that cuts us off from relationship, at first as an escape, eventually as a prison;

it may be that depression for which there is no apparent cause;

it may be the ongoing struggle to forgive someone, or to forgive ourselves, for pains inflicted long ago.

And like the leader of the synagogue, we can justify our position, indignantly if pushed.

It is unlikely that you have never wrestled with such demons, unlikely that you are unscathed by any of these, as they are temptations that are common to humanity.

It may be that you have known Jesus set you free from one or other, or even all, of these spirits that come against the life-giving Spirit. But the wonderful thing with Jesus is that he sets us free by degrees, as much freedom as we are able to take hold of for now, a step on our journey. And the stories warn us that freedom given can be lost, ground taken can be surrendered to a future assault; yet Jesus is still teaching in our midst and setting us free.

Today, be the woman in the story. Today, feel Jesus’ hands laid upon you, gentle, sure, affirming. Today, stand up straight and begin praising God. And keep praising, in the face of indignation, until the entire crowd joins in.

Ninth Sunday after Trinity, 18 August 2019

Lectionary readings: Jeremiah 23:23-29 and Hebrews 11:29-12:2 and Luke 12:49-56

“Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus the pioneer and perfecter of our faith, who for the sake of the joy that was set before him endured the cross, disregarding its shame, and has taken his seat at the right hand of the throne of God.”

So great a crowd of witnesses. What manner of witnesses are they, and to what do they bear witness? They are those who saw the kingdom of God, albeit at a distance, and who bear witness to the nature of that kingdom that has now been brought into being in and through the person of Jesus.

There is the Song of Moses, and the song of his sister Miriam, declaring the triumph of God over the army of Egypt (Exodus 15). Moses, the man who grew up in Pharaoh’s household and lost it all in a moment of madness, becoming a fugitive so broken in the middle of nowhere that he could not speak without a stammer (Exodus 2-4), singing. Miriam, the fearless, outrageously brilliant saviour (Exodus 2:1-10), who became jealous of her younger brother and bore the shame of exclusion from the people for seven days (Numbers 12).

There is Rahab, living in Jericho (Joshua 2, and 6). Jericho was, at that time, little more than a military outpost, and where there are army bases you will always find women supporting their children by selling their body for sex. Rahab, the prostitute, whom Jesus is unashamed to name as his ancestor, a mother in the faith (Matthew 1, where she is named along with Tamar, who is forced, by patriarchal injustice, to catch her father-in-law in a sex-trap; Ruth, a foreigner belonging to a hated neighbouring people; ‘the wife of Uriah’—that is, Bathsheba, not even named, with whom David committed adultery; and Mary, whose pregnancy had the potential to expose her to shame).

There is Gideon, a man we meet hiding in a hole in the ground; whom the Lord raised up as an unlikely saviour; whose latter days were marked with self-importance (Judges 6-8). There is Barak, a man who is called to lead the people to victory but who won’t go unless Deborah—the woman raised up by God to speak the words of God to the people of God—goes with him, to hold his hand; and whose glory is therefore given by God to another woman, Jael (Judges 4-5). There is Samson, set apart by God from before birth, who comes to believe himself entitled; follows a trajectory of self-destruction; and dies a prisoner to the very people he was supposed to liberate his people from, in chains, his eyes gouged out (Judges 13-16). There is Jephthah, driven away by his half-brothers, an outlaw, turned to only when all other options are exhausted; a hothead who has his daughter executed rather than lose face (Judges 11).

There is David, the boy whose heart longed to be true to God’s heart, yet who abandoned his wife Michal after she saved his life, and later shamed her when she called-out his inappropriate behaviour; David, who took the wife of one of his most loyal friends for his own gratification, and then, when she was found to be pregnant as a consequence, had that loyal friend killed in a staged tragic accident of battle; David, whose own children warred against each other, one son raping his half-sister, to be killed by her brother, who later also died, having tried to usurp his father’s throne, forcing David to flee before him (the whole book of 2 Samuel).

There is Samuel, a son longed for by a childless woman shamed by her childlessness and the many sons and daughters of her husband’s other wife; a woman deeply distressed, and in this state wrongly accused of drunkenness by Eli the priest; Samuel, the answer to prayer, given back to the Lord, growing up to become to greatest prophet-judge in living memory, yet knowing the shame of greedy, dishonest, sons who perverted justice for gain (the whole book of 1 Samuel).

Still others are alluded to, as those who conquered kingdoms, administered justice, obtained promises, shut the mouths of lions. Men, such as Daniel, carried away into exile. Women, such as Deborah and Jael, Naomi and Ruth, Hannah, Huldah, Esther, Mary, Martha and Mary. And others. Jesus is not the first man in this story to be publicly executed in the most humiliating manner imaginable; Mary and the women at the cross, not the first to be made to look on.

What do these witnesses have in common? They bear witness to a kingdom in which shame is washed away. Shame, that weighs us down and trips us up. They bear witness to a king who is glorified, who is honoured by God, in the very act of being shamed by the world, hanging naked from an execution scaffold.

In our rather strange and difficult Gospel reading, Jesus declares that he has not come to bring peace but division within households. What are we to make of that, of this divisive figure in our midst?

There is a false peace that is imposed by the world, through the honour-shame structure. To behave in the ‘right’ way results in honour; while to behave in the ‘wrong’ way brings shame. We see this in the hierarchies of the world Jesus entered. At first, the Pharisees, who were genuinely concerned with helping ordinary people to live lives acceptable to God, saw Jesus as an ally. But he kept insisting on associating with the wrong sort of people, disreputable women and men, notorious sinners. He brought shame upon himself, and, by extension, on those pharisees who had hosted him. These hierarchies existed in Jewish culture, and in Greco-Roman culture, and were broken down in the church where the barriers between Jews and Gentiles, citizens and slaves, men and women, were removed in the pioneer and perfecter of our faith, who disregarded worldly honour and shame. And who calls us to do likewise. And who brings a great cloud of witnesses to bear witness to the claim.

This is utterly counter-cultural in our own context too. We are steeped in honour-shame culture, expending huge amounts of energy to keep ourselves from shame, and, often, to shame others. If you are of the opinion that it is a mistake to leave the EU, you are a Remoaner. If you believe it is the right thing to do, you are a Little Englander, and a racist. According to many, it is a matter of national shame that Boris Johnson (‘buffoon’) is Prime Minister; while according to many others, the deeper shame would be to see Jeremy Corbyn (‘repulsive little man’) in Number 10.

Greta Thunberg speaks out on the urgent need to address climate change…and is shamed, for being a child, and for being on the Autism Spectrum; for speaking out of turn about things she is ‘too young’ and ‘too autistic’ ‘to possibly understand.’

If you take a stand for equality, you will be targeted by trolls wanting to know when we will see an International Men’s Day (it already exists) or a Straight Pride. If, on the other hand, you have any reservations about any part of the sprawling LGBTQIA+ umbrella, you will increasingly likely fear being publicly shamed as Homophobic. But note this: extremists expertly exploit shame to nurture anger; and, tragically, where more liberal-minded people employ shame as a corrective, this plays into the extremists’ hands. You cannot fight shame with shame.

And it is not just in the contentious issues that honour-shame is at rampant play. The most common lie in our culture is “Fine, thanks.” in response to the question, “How are you?” Women will sometimes use lipstick as a mask, to put their face on. Men tend not to wear lipstick, but are no strangers to wearing a mask in public: it is a shameful thing to let slip any vulnerability in public; an honourable thing to be strong. And suicide is the number one cause of death for men under the age of 50—a cause of action that, ironically, brings shame upon surviving family and friends.

Or, if we dare to put our head above the parapet and admit to struggling with life, you can guarantee that friends will rush to tell us how wonderful we are, and that we must not be so hard on ourselves. It sounds well-meaning, but it betrays a fear that if one person breaks rank, stops playing the “I’m fine” game, we will all lose our hard-fought position of honour as those who are Winning at Life. So, we shut that down, hard.

Wherever we have known shame, Jesus chooses to stand alongside us, to own us as members of his family. Whether it is shame we have brought upon ourselves, and others, or shame that others have poured on us.

You were not made for shame. If you want proof, consider this: that we were all born doubly incontinent, totally dependent on the care of another to feed us and attend to every need; and this is also how we will likely end our life. Yet, dependent on love, we are honoured, by love, in our dependency. We are not made for shame, nor for honour based on our competency, but for love, and for honour based on God’s gracious initiative towards us all. Yet shame has entered-into the universal human experience. It is insidious. It weighs heavy on us, ties us in knots. Slowly, slowly, it makes us forget our God-given dignity.

And yet, Jesus. The author and perfecter of our faith. The one who has disarmed the power shame has over us. The one who calls us his family, now; his mother and sisters and brothers. The one who calls us to sit with him at the right hand of the throne of God. Today, will you hear his voice? Follow his example? Run with perseverance? Today, will you let him set you free, again?

Third Sunday of Trinity 2019

Lectionary reading: Luke 10:1-11, 16-20

The question that I am asked more than any other is this:

How can we get more people to come to church?

It is the wrong question.

The question we ought to be asking, as my friend Keld recently asked me, is:

How many people do we expect to see come to faith in the next six months?

Now, that is a question we tend to shy away from, in the Church of England. It sounds presumptuous. People coming to faith is God’s business, not ours. Okay, leaving aside what Jesus says for a moment, how is God doing? How many people have we seen come to faith in the last six months? Or the six months before that? Indeed, when was the last time that we saw someone come to faith?

Jesus said, ‘The harvest is plentiful, but the labourers are few; therefore, ask the Lord of the harvest to send out labourers into his harvest.’ Indeed, Jesus said this more than once, sending out first twelve more labourers and then seventy-two more (Matthew 9:37-38 and Luke 10:2). He even challenged them that they were in the habit of saying that the harvest was four months away—that is, always just out of reach, never actually arriving—but, in fact, they are to pay attention as he corrects them, declaring that the harvest is ripe now (John 4:35-38). There is always a harvest.

Note that Jesus doesn’t say, pray for a harvest. He says, pray for labourers. And he says that to those who are about to find themselves labourers. It isn’t a division of labour, where some are called to pray, and others are sent to harvest.

I shared some of these thoughts recently, and the question came back:

So how do we do that? How do we bring in a harvest?

How do we see people come to faith?

Well, it just so happens that Jesus has some instructions for just that scenario. Let’s take a look at them.

First, Jesus says, go in pairs. Now, I’m sure we’re all familiar with pairs turning up unannounced on our doorstep, perhaps wanting to speak to us about Jesus, perhaps collecting for Christian Aid Week. And you’ll breathe a sigh of relief to hear that I’m not going to ask you to go door-to-door, or even about the neighbourhood, in pairs. But each of us does go about the neighbourhood, sometimes in pairs, as spouses or good friends, and speak with people we meet. We listen to their stories, their struggles and joys right now. So, if we are moving, and meeting, why not offer to pray, there and then? Just a simple prayer, asking for God’s blessing, in the struggle or the joy. People are more open to that than you might think; and, if they decline, that’s fine too. No need to press them.

Of course, there are also those times when we are on our own. Perhaps much of the time. And that’s okay, too. But even then, I’d encourage you: is there a friend you meet up with regularly for coffee, Or, for those of us who are married, is there a time in the day when we might review our day together? To be accountable to one another about how our labouring is going. Not how busy we are doing things at church or for the community, but, having God-conversations. How might we creatively go in pairs?

Next, Jesus says, look for the person of peace. That is, look out for the person who is open to peace. They’re easy enough to spot, because they stand out from the angry people. Look out for the peacemakers. You see, anyone who is open to peace is evidencing the Holy Spirit already at work in their lives. They are reaping a harvest of peace, they are sowing peace into the lives around them, and they are ripe to know God more fully.

Then, Jesus says, say, the kingdom of God has come near to you. We’re not bringing the kingdom of God, where it was not until we arrived; we’re naming what is already there. We’re celebrating what God is doing in the world, and inviting people to join in. That concern for justice you clearly have, that care for creation, your ability to see the stranger as a person, or to recognise evil in the world, that love you know and share—these are signs that the kingdom of God has come near to you. And that kingdom has a king, and he’d like for you to know him. In fact, he’d like for you to know that you are his daughter, his son; that you are loved, yes, and commissioned. That this king has a purpose for your life, and can empower you to make a difference, for good, in the world.

And then, Jesus says, return with joy. Celebrate the harvest. When we come together as gathered church, tell the stories of where we have seen God at work this week. Joy changes our entire perspective.

This is our 80^th year, at St Nicholas’ and later in the year we will hold a flower festival under the banner 80 fruitful years. But the measure of fruitfulness is not flowers. The measure of fruitfulness is women and men, boys and girls, coming to faith and growing in faith and passing faith on. The flowers are the celebration of fruitfulness.

Allow me to return to the question: How many people do we expect to see come to faith in the next six months? These are, as it happens, the final six months of this decade. How many people do we expect to come to faith by Christmas, as we go out looking for people of peace, proclaiming that the kingdom of God has drawn near, and return here with joy?

It isn’t a rhetorical question. It is a commissioning to the mission field of our parish.

When you came in, you were given two pieces of card. Here is what we are going to do. You need to answer the question, How many people do we expect to see come to faith in the next six months? That will give you a number. I’d like you to write that number on both pieces of card. And then I’d like you to put one of those cards in your pocket or handbag and take it home and put it somewhere where you will see it every day. And I want you to pray that the Lord of the harvest would send you out into his harvest field. If your honest number is 0, God can work with honesty. Pray that your expectation would be exceeded, and that you would be surprised by joy. The other piece of card—on which you have written the same number—I’d like us to collect up in the bowl that will pass around, so that we can know what our expectation is, and how it might grow.

Let us pray: Lord Jesus, send us out, in the power of the Holy Spirit, as labourers in the harvest field, to love and serve you to the glory of God the Father. Amen.