Fourth Sunday after Trinity 2021, 10.30 a.m. service

Lectionary readings: 2 Corinthians 8:7-24 and Mark 5:21-43

You may recall that I spoke recently about the Church of England’s desire to explore ‘Christian teaching and learning about identity, sexuality, relationships and marriage,’ under the banner heading Living in Love and Faith, and that this would inform my preaching over the summer months, and that we would be running the five-session Living in Love and Faith course as a way of considering these issues together. Well, the Prime Minister’s announcement pushing back a full lifting of current Covid-19 restrictions deep into July has meant that we will now have to look to the early autumn to run the course; but the rest still stands. And this morning I want to draw on our texts to consider the complex nature of the quality of our relationships.

I want to begin with the Gospel, where we meet a woman who has bled from her womb for twelve years, not in menstrual cycles, but continuously and without ceasing. Nobody knew why. The physicians did not understand her body. They acted upon her, some perhaps with great sympathy and care, others, perhaps, with coldness; but not least because they acted upon her rather than with her, her investment resulted in no profit, only greater loss. Her condition is not simply physical, but one of social isolation. She is not welcome within the wider community, for fear that they will be contaminated by her presence, that they or their daughters might catch her disease. And after twelve years of unwelcome, this freak is now also penniless. No husband, no children, no prospects. And then, she heard that Jesus was in town. And hearing, she risks everything, pushing her way through the crowd that has come out in welcome—not of her, never for her—to touch the hem of his cloak. That, she knows, is enough for her, to be made well.

What happens next transforms everything. Firstly, we are told that immediately, the ‘fountain of her blood’ was ‘parched.’ That is, her most painful experience, the cause of her rejection by the community, is transformed into a foretelling of, and mystical communion with, Jesus on the cross, the Son of Man and Son of God who cried out “I thirst!” as his blood flowed for the healing of the world. And secondly, we are told, that she ‘came to know,’ ‘in the body’ [that was hers], ‘that she was healed of her affliction.’ The word for ‘body’ is used both for the physical body and for the Church as mystical body of Christ. The word for ‘disease’ is taken from the scourge of leather thongs embedded with pieces of metal used to punish criminals, used to describe the kinds of condition that carry a tortuous level of pain, and public humiliation. In other words, what is revealed to us by and with and in this woman is that healing is (meant) to be found through participation in the life of the Church. When Jesus declares back to the woman what has taken place, he replaces a word for healing with a word for salvation, for being brought into divine safety from the penalty and power of sin. Through her faith—her active trust, even at personal cost, demonstrating great vulnerability—this woman is seen, for who see is, a Daughter of Abraham, a full member of the family, for the first time in many long years. If the Church is not a place of such finding wholeness, whatever else it might be, it is not the Church.

This story is juxtaposed with that of Jairus’ daughter, a little girl of twelve years old, who dies before Jesus can get to her. And the crowd gathered at her home laugh when Jesus says that she is only sleeping. For they know that things are simply the way that they are, and that you cannot change them, however hard and sad that might be, however much you wish it were different—for there is no doubt that there is considerable and deep-felt emotion going on here, commotion, weeping and wailing. And Jesus responds, We’ll see. Life is given back, relationship restored, not a continuation of what was previously, but a transformation for all involved. And this made-new family is constituted around a table, in the sharing of a meal. Again, the Church, hidden in plain sight in the text, as (mistaken) potential custodians of a lost past or (taken) potential witnesses to the inbreaking future.

With all that in mind, I want to turn to Paul’s exhortation to the church in Corinth. The original context is concerned with the raising of financial support for distribution as there was need. And that in itself is a challenge for us today, who, as a congregation, contribute around half of what we have been asked to contribute towards supporting our sisters and brothers in local churches across our Diocese. But our lens over this summer relates to ‘Christian teaching and learning about identity, sexuality, relationships and marriage,’ under the banner heading Living in Love and Faith, and there are principles that can be applied.

Firstly, we are neither self-sufficient nor solely self-determining, as an identifiable gathered community or as individuals. It is not what we say about ourselves, the narratives we tell, that matters, so much as how we are experienced by other people in relationship. This is true of those who say, ‘I am generous,’ but do not actually give generously. It is true of those who say, ‘I chose how I will identify, and be identified publicly’—and it is true of those who dismiss those who make such claims. Within the Church, we are invited and challenged to recognise that we find our truest self, and our healed relationship with others, in Jesus, and as part of his broken body.

To this end, we must be open to one another, in as much as we are able, and not accusing one another over the extent to which we are unable. But self-sufficiency and self-determinism are so embedded in us, and we are all less wise, more easily deceived, than we care to acknowledge. This is why our hearts—‘the genuineness of your love’—must be tested, again and again. This is also why our life must be seen, not hidden—open, proved—just as Jesus insisted that the woman who touched his cloak be seen by the crowd, and by his disciples, and that their own assumptions and prejudices also be seen, for what they are, in the light of her faith.

‘All around us we see changing understandings of human identity, changing patterns of relationships and families, changing sexual attitudes and activity. What does it mean for followers of Jesus to walk in love, faith and holiness today?’ (from the Welcome to the Living in Love and Faith course). As proof of our love, and following the self-giving example of our Lord Jesus Christ, and Paul’s advice to the church in Corinth, let us not only exercise generosity, according to our means, but also administer generosity, according to the needs of different communities, different people. May we be eager for the wellbeing and full participation of others, as Titus was; and may we become known for proclaiming good news.

 

Fourth Sunday after Trinity 2021, 8.00 a.m. service

Lectionary readings: 2 Samuel 1:1, 17-27 and Mark 5:21-43

You may recall that I spoke recently about the Church of England’s desire to explore ‘Christian teaching and learning about identity, sexuality, relationships and marriage,’ under the banner heading Living in Love and Faith, and that this would inform my preaching over the summer months, and that we would be running the five-session Living in Love and Faith course as a way of considering these issues together. Well, the Prime Minister’s announcement pushing back a full lifting of current Covid-19 restrictions deep into July has meant that we will now have to look to the early autumn to run the course; but the rest still stands. And this morning I want to draw on our texts to consider the complex nature of the quality of our relationships.

I want to begin with the Gospel, where we meet a woman who has bled from her womb for twelve years, not in menstrual cycles, but continuously and without ceasing. Nobody knew why. The physicians did not understand her body. They acted upon her, some perhaps with great sympathy and care, others, perhaps, with coldness; but not least because they acted upon her rather than with her, her investment resulted in no profit, only greater loss. Her condition is not simply physical, but one of social isolation. She is not welcome within the wider community, for fear that they will be contaminated by her presence, that they or their daughters might catch her disease. And after twelve years of unwelcome, this freak is now also penniless. No husband, no children, no prospects. And then, she heard that Jesus was in town. And hearing, she risks everything, pushing her way through the crowd that has come out in welcome—not of her, never for her—to touch the hem of his cloak. That, she knows, is enough for her, to be made well.

What happens next transforms everything. Firstly, we are told that immediately, the ‘fountain of her blood’ was ‘parched.’ That is, her most painful experience, the cause of her rejection by the community, is transformed into a foretelling of, and mystical communion with, Jesus on the cross, the Son of Man and Son of God who cried out “I thirst!” as his blood flowed for the healing of the world. And secondly, we are told, that she ‘came to know,’ ‘in the body’ [that was hers], ‘that she was healed of her affliction.’ The word for ‘body’ is used both for the physical body and for the Church as mystical body of Christ. The word for ‘disease’ is taken from the scourge of leather thongs embedded with pieces of metal used to punish criminals, used to describe the kinds of condition that carry a tortuous level of pain, and public humiliation. In other words, what is revealed to us by and with and in this woman is that healing is (meant) to be found through participation in the life of the Church. When Jesus declares back to the woman what has taken place, he replaces a word for healing with a word for salvation, for being brought into divine safety from the penalty and power of sin. Through her faith—her active trust, even at personal cost, demonstrating great vulnerability—this woman is seen, for who see is, a Daughter of Abraham, a full member of the family, for the first time in many long years. If the Church is not a place of such finding wholeness, whatever else it might be, it is not the Church.

This story is juxtaposed with that of Jairus’ daughter, a little girl of twelve years old, who dies before Jesus can get to her. And the crowd gathered at her home laugh when Jesus says that she is only sleeping. For they know that things are simply the way that they are, and that you cannot change them, however hard and sad that might be, however much you wish it were different—for there is no doubt that there is considerable and deep-felt emotion going on here, commotion, weeping and wailing. And Jesus responds, We’ll see. Life is given back, relationship restored, not a continuation of what was previously, but a transformation for all involved. And this made-new family is constituted around a table, in the sharing of a meal. Again, the Church, hidden in plain sight in the text, as (mistaken) potential custodians of a lost past or (taken) potential witnesses to the inbreaking future.

With all of that in mind, I want to turn to David’s lament for Saul and Jonathan, The Song of the Bow (or, possibly, ‘difficult things’: so, the text can be read, ‘He ordered that The Song of the Bow be taught to the people of Judah; it is written in the Book of Jashar’ or ‘He ordered that difficult things be taught to the people of Judah; it is written in the Book of Jashar’ and of course, bow skill requires mastery of a difficult thing, as does lament). Here, also, is a blood-soaked text, women clothed with flowing crimson, and a lost child, a community in mourning. Here, too, are professional mourners ordered to be silent, and a mystery to be handed on. David sings, ‘Saul and Jonathan, beloved and lovely! In life and in death they were not divided;’ Saul, who sought to kill David, on more than one occasion. Saul and Jonathan, who were all-but-estranged, the father having tried to kill his own son on more than one occasion.

And yet, David is not ashamed to own Saul, as much as his friend Jonathan. Those whom we love, in a variety of ways, give themselves to us, complete with complex family histories. Those of us who help families navigate funerals know just how much diplomacy can be required, how much pain held inside, as much as shared before onlookers. And yet, there is more than diplomacy going on here; there is at least the potential for the relationships between David and Saul and Jonathan to be transformed, in the next world if not in this—and for others to embrace healing before it is too late. Jonathan’s bow and the sword of Saul might yet pierce our hard hearts for good.

David exposes his own heart, his anguish over Jonathan’s death: ‘I am distressed for you, my brother Jonathan; greatly beloved were you to me; your love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women.’ Concerning complex relationships, some have argued that this verse reveals a homoerotic relationship between the two men. I find that unconvincing, and, indeed, unnecessary to the case for affirming same-sex relationships. What I do see in David’s history is the complexity of sexual relationships between men and women; and of friendship—including its limits and its betrayals—between men. As we reflect on the quality of relationships within (or, indeed, outside of) the life of the Church, can we say that we have friendships of the depth and intimacy of that between David and Jonathan? Or do we shy away?

It is, David laments, death that defiles, and scorns a place as well as a people; and love that covers over a multitude of sins, of shortcomings and compromise and even wilful hostility. In the midst of battle, even the mighty end up fallen, no longer anointed by God (words worth heeding before we march into culture wars). But as the mightiest Prince of all, and Lover of our Soul, lay slain, the weapons of war perished! And in teaching this song, there is hope.

So, may we learn to lament, and, through our tears, to see Jesus, to see one another, to see ourselves, anew.

 

Second Sunday after Trinity 2021

 

Second Sunday after Trinity 2021

Lectionary readings: 1 Samuel 15:34-16:13; 2 Corinthians 5:6-10, 14-17; Mark 4:26-34.

If I am honest, I don’t think I have ever felt entirely at home in my body. Not because I do not believe the body matters; I do. I hold no truck with a pseudo-spirituality that views the body as of less value than the soul. Nor is it that I feel trapped in the wrong body; though I appreciate that that is the experience of some, including people I know. Rather, it is in part because, in my body, I live with dyspraxia—it is hard to be at ease in/with a body when that body has to work so damn hard to process things that neurotypical bodies take for granted. And it is in part because my body is not mine alone. My shared DNA, in particular as it shapes the contours of my face, is an embodied reminder of a web of relationships, past and present, storied with pain as well as joy and wonder, open wounds as well as old familiar scars. When I look in the mirror, I see too many ghosts, of the living as well as the dead, bodies I am apart from in the body.

There is, then, a longing, not for a day when I shall be freed from the body, but for a day when every wound shall be glorious, in the likeness of the wounds of my risen Lord. Every scar, a history of unfolding, enfolding, grace. But for now, in those ways I rejoice over my body and in those ways I weep over my body, I make it my aim to please him.

It comes down to a matter of heart, the seat of our desire to know God as we are well known to God, and of the will to present my body, on a daily basis, in God’s service. My body, as it is: its strength and weaknesses, in sickness and in health. ‘For the Lord does not see as mortals see; they look on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.’ (1 Samuel 16:7b; cf. 2 Cor 5:12)

In our Gospel reading, we hear again two parables of physical transformation, culminating in fruitfulness and purpose. The seed that sprouts, producing first a stalk, then the head, then the full grain to be harvested. And the smallest seed, that grows up to be the largest—and most vigorous—of shrubs. The one to the farmer’s joy; the other, to the farmer’s consternation.

The seed was not made by God to remain in the form of a seed, but to pursue its response to the gift of life. The sower observes the mystery of life, transformed; and also the wider mystery of creation. Day and night do not so much follow one another in an endless dance as change their outward form through unfolding stages of dawn and dusk.

All bodies change through time, whether they simply age from baby to child to youth to adult to maturity and the fading grandeur of decline and eventual decay, or whether the process involves multiple medical procedures, shaping the body to better the purposes of its heart. Whether my body, or bodies with more complex histories, each as well known to God.

The Church has understood itself in bodily terms, as the body of Christ, and lives with the tension of being a body, not wholly at ease in her own skin. But we are seeking to be more at home in the body, by faith, until we see Christ face to face. More at home with our various constituent bodies, both our own—as it transforms—and those of our sisters and brothers, cisgender and transgender, presently able-bodied (enabled bodies) and for now dis-abled. We are seeking to boast about, and enable, one another's hearts, not pass judgement on outward appearances. And in this, we shall need the grace of God, and forgiveness.

Over the course of this year, the national Church has asked that, in our local and regional expressions, we think more deeply about what it means to be human and how to live in love and faith. ‘All around us we see changing understandings of human identity, changing patterns of relationships and families, changing sexual attitudes and activity. What does it mean for followers of Jesus to walk in love, faith and holiness today?’ (from the Welcome to the Living in love and Faith course). Under the banner ‘Living in Love and Faith’ we are being invited to explore: what does it mean to learn together as followers of Jesus Christ?; how does our identity in Christ relate to sex and gender?; what kinds of relationships does God call us to?; where do our bodies and sex fit in to all of this?; and, how do diversity and difference affect our life together as a church?

These are not academic debates, let alone political correctness—or, conversely, a railing against society—but issues that deeply affect the lives of our neighbours, our families, and friends—our own lives—and that have a profound impact on the witness and welcome of the Church. Who is excluded and overlooked? What values we hold to be self-evident or dear might God reject? Where might the Spirit of God want to pour healing oil on troubled hearts and minds? How might we pursue that for which God has created us?

Over the course of the summer months, I shall be touching on these issues—of what it means to be human and how to live in love and faith—in our sermons; and plans are coming together to run the Living in Love and Faith course, as a safe space to explore them further. To watch, and to wonder. To undergo transformation, together. Perhaps, as we saw the prophet Samuel do in our Old Testament reading, to grieve things lost. Perhaps, as we also saw Samuel do, to prophetically anoint the future. Look out for further information and how to take part over the coming weeks. Or get a head start here:

https://www.churchofengland.org/resources/living-love-and-faith

 

‘But the Lord said to Samuel, ‘Do not look on his appearance or on the height of his stature, because I have rejected him; for the Lord does not see as mortals see; they look on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.’’ (1 Sam 16:7)

 

‘From now on, therefore, we regard no one from a human point of view; even though we once knew Christ from a human point of view [Greek: according to the flesh], we know him no longer in that way. So if anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation: everything old has passed away; see, everything has become new!’ (2 Cor 5:16, 17)

 

‘He also said, ‘The kingdom of God is as if someone would scatter seed on the ground, and would sleep and rise night and day, and the seed would sprout and grow, he does not know how. The earth produces of itself, first the stalk, then the head, then the full grain in the head. But when the grain is ripe, at once he goes in with his sickle, because the harvest has come.’

‘He also said, ‘With what can we compare the kingdom of God, or what parable will we use for it? It is like a mustard seed, which, when sown upon the ground, is the smallest of all the seeds on earth; yet when it is sown it grows up and becomes the greatest of all shrubs, and puts forth large branches, so that the birds of the air can make nests in its shade.’

‘With many such parables he spoke the word to them, as they were able to hear it; he did not speak to them except in parables, but he explained everything in private to his disciples.’ (Mark 4:26-34)

 

 

Trinity Sunday 2021

Trinity Sunday 2021

It turns out that this is a windswept corner. When the wind blows gently from the south, the leaves on the drooping branches of the big old silver birch out on the front lawn dance on the breeze. When the wind blows with more force, the windows of the church—and of the vicarage next door—rattle and thump, and the louvres on the tower whistle, in happy if tuneless praise. “The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is, with everyone who is born of the Spirit.” (John 3:8)

As many of you know, Jo and I go running. At times, especially when we run up and back down along the coast, we find ourselves running into a headwind, or with the wind at our back. To run against the wind saps your strength; to run with the wind is to be carried along, not effortless but with your effort blessed. We all experience the wind—its power, and impact on the weather—but we do so as a mystery, that even professional weather forecasters cannot predict entirely accurately, but only in broad familiar patterns.

There is a pattern, throughout the Bible, that moves from revelation to greater participation in mystery. In Genesis chapter one, we hear a detailed account of God’s work bringing life and harmonious order out of chaos, that finds its completion in God resting, and inviting the human beings into that rest. We have no idea what they did, that day. With me, God might have a lie-in, read a novel, kick back in a hammock, or go for a run. With you, God might enjoy rest in different ways.

Then there is Moses, who first meets God in the light of a burning bush at the bottom of the mountain, but is later drawn up the mountain to meet with God in thick darkness. Or Isaiah, who has a vision of God in the temple and is sent out, by God and for God, to speak to a people who will not listen, until the land is desolate. Or Nicodemus, who has seen something of God revealed in the signs done by Jesus, and comes seeking greater understanding, but instead is invited to participate in the life of the Spirit. And that is what lies at the heart of Trinity Sunday. Not an explanation of the mystery that our God is one God in three persons, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, but the deep truth that God sends Jesus to draw us into the life of the Spirit.

I love the way this mystery has wooed and won the hearts of women and men down the centuries. Saints and Martyrs. Adventurers and visionaries, storytellers, healers, and teachers of the faith. One of the things I have appreciated most over the past year has been the stories of some of those men and women that Brenda has shared with us week by week by email. In the past week, the Church has remembered John and Charles Wesley, evangelists and hymn writers; the Venerable Bede, monk, scholar, historian; Aldhelm, Bishop of Sherborne; Augustine, first Archbishop of Canterbury; John Calvin, Reformer; Philip Neri, founder of the Oratorians, spiritual guide; and Lanfranc, Prior of Le Bec, Archbishop of Canterbury, scholar. This week, the Church remembers Josephine Butler, social reformer; Joan of Arc, visionary; Apolo Kivebulaya, priest, evangelist in Central Africa; Justin, Martyr at Rome; the Martyrs of Uganda; Petroc, Abbot of Padstow; and Boniface of Crediton, Bishop, Apostle to Germany.

As I was preparing for today, I spilled out a mound of long ribbons, pale blue and white, on the floor of my study. Jayne had given them to me, for our Christmas baubles, but they were too wide for that purpose, and I have held on to them, knowing they would be useful at some other point. The swirling ribbons reminded me of the wind, and of the Spirit of God. The white ribbons, mixed in with the blue, reminded me of Nicodemus, who first came to Jesus by night and later, with his friend Joseph of Arimathea, claimed Jesus’ dead body, wrapped it in strips of linen, and laid it in a tomb. A second womb, from which he would break forth in new life three days later.

And then I also looked out the small compasses that we had used in one of the prayer stations set up for Lent last year, to mark the Year of Pilgrimage. The first lockdown put a premature end to that. Sometimes the path ahead appears to be blocked, as we seek to follow the Spirit, yet we press in, even when we cannot press on. “For all who are led by the Spirit of God are children of God.” (Romans 8:14) Those led to write hymns; record history; campaign for women’s rights to vote and to an education, and for the abolition of sex trafficking of women and children. Those led to England, or Central Africa, or Germany. Children of God, sons and daughters, on whom the Spirit was poured out that they may have visions and prophesy, or proclaim the things they have heard from God. People like Floyd McClung, the gentle giant who died yesterday, and his wife Sally, who together, for many years, ministered to drug addicts in Amsterdam’s red-light district.

Last Sunday, I gave everyone an origami grasshopper, that tipped on end like a Pentecost flame, to remind us of God’s disruptive grace. This week, as you go from here, I shall—with sanitised hands—offer you a ribbon and a compass. Take them; play with them in your hands over the coming days; and to ask the Spirit of God to fill your sails and set your course, and carry you deeper into the mystery of the love of God.

Pentecost 2021

Pentecost 2021

‘When the day of Pentecost had come, they were all together in one place. And suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the rush of a violent wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting. Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, and a tongue rested on each of them. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability.

‘Now there were devout Jews from every nation under heaven living in Jerusalem. And at this sound the crowd gathered and was bewildered, because each one heard them speaking in the native language of each. Amazed and astonished, they asked, ‘Are not all these who are speaking Galileans? And how is it that we hear, each of us, in our own native language? Parthians, Medes, Elamites, and residents of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of Libya belonging to Cyrene, and visitors from Rome, both Jews and proselytes, Cretans and Arabs—in our own languages we hear them speaking about God’s deeds of power.’ All were amazed and perplexed, saying to one another, ‘What does this mean?’ But others sneered and said, ‘They are filled with new wine.’

‘But Peter, standing with the eleven, raised his voice and addressed them: ‘Men of Judea and all who live in Jerusalem, let this be known to you, and listen to what I say. Indeed, these are not drunk, as you suppose, for it is only nine o’clock in the morning. No, this is what was spoken through the prophet Joel:

“In the last days it will be, God declares,
that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh,
and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy,
and your young men shall see visions,
and your old men shall dream dreams.
Even upon my slaves, both men and women,
in those days I will pour out my Spirit;
and they shall prophesy.
And I will show portents in the heaven above
and signs on the earth below,
blood, and fire, and smoky mist.
The sun shall be turned to darkness
and the moon to blood,
before the coming of the Lord’s great and glorious day.
Then everyone who calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved.”’

Acts 2:1-21

 

‘When the Advocate comes, whom I will send to you from the Father, the Spirit of truth who comes from the Father, he will testify on my behalf. You also are to testify because you have been with me from the beginning.

‘I did not say these things to you from the beginning, because I was with you. But now I am going to him who sent me; yet none of you asks me, “Where are you going?” But because I have said these things to you, sorrow has filled your hearts. Nevertheless, I tell you the truth: it is to your advantage that I go away, for if I do not go away, the Advocate will not come to you; but if I go, I will send him to you. And when he comes, he will prove the world wrong about sin and righteousness and judgement: about sin, because they do not believe in me; about righteousness, because I am going to the Father and you will see me no longer; about judgement, because the ruler of this world has been condemned.

‘I still have many things to say to you, but you cannot bear them now. When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth; for he will not speak on his own, but will speak whatever he hears, and he will declare to you the things that are to come. He will glorify me, because he will take what is mine and declare it to you. All that the Father has is mine. For this reason I said that he will take what is mine and declare it to you.’

John 15:26,27; 16:4b-15

 

Today is Pentecost. But what is Pentecost? At its heart, it was a harvest festival. The ancient near east civilisations were built on grain. As such, they were vulnerable to famine, and the successful completion of a harvest was a cause for major celebration. In Israel, as in Egypt, there were two main grain crops: barley and wheat. The earlier barley harvest was celebrated at Passover; the wheat harvest, fifty days later, at Shavuot, or Pentecost. The Jewish people had tied two key events from their history to these harvest celebrations: at Passover, they celebrated God delivering this people from slavery in Egypt, parting the sea and leading them out into the wilderness of the Sinai Peninsula; at Pentecost, they celebrated God giving them the Commandments, through Moses, at Mount Sinai some several weeks later. Harvest festivals take on a deeper significance. As Jesus insisted, ‘One does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.’ (Matthew 4:4, citing Deuteronomy 8:3) For Christians, these Jewish celebrations take on yet another layer of meaning. Jesus’ crucifixion, and resurrection—his passing from death to life, taking us with him—take place around the Passover. The risen and ascended Jesus sends the Holy Spirit from heaven fifty days later, at Pentecost.

Some five hundred years before Jesus (give or take a century or two), Judah had experienced a particularly disastrous invasion of locusts, an utter catastrophe in the life of the nation. The grain crops, both barley and wheat, had been entirely wiped out before they could be harvested. The storehouses and granaries were empty, awaiting a refilling that would not now happen. The urban population of Jerusalem, fed by the surrounding territory of Judah, were facing starvation; relatively secure and prosperous lives, thrown into turmoil. And the prophet Joel asked, ‘does this remind anyone of anything?’

A thousand years earlier again, God had delivered this people from a hard-hearted Pharaoh, sending a succession of ten plagues on Egypt. The seventh plague had been hailstones, so large they had destroyed the barley crop before it was ready to harvest. The wheat was late in coming up that year, and survived untouched. It would, however, be devoured by the eighth plague, an invasion of locusts beyond number. Moses presented himself before Pharaoh, and demanded that his people, young and old, sons and daughters, be allowed to go out of Egypt to celebrate the Lord’s festival. Pharaoh would permit only the old men to go. A ninth plague followed—three days of dense darkness—and a tenth—the death of the firstborn of every household, even livestock.

‘Does this plague of locusts remind anyone of anything?’ asked Joel. Surely God’s hand is in this, for judgement, of God’s own people who have become as proud and hard-hearted as ever Pharaoh was? Surely, we must repent, and call on the Lord for mercy, lest we suffer what comes next? (Indeed, there was no lasting repentance, and ultimately the king in Jerusalem had his eyes gouged out—darkness—and his firstborn son killed, while he himself was carried off into the Babylonian exile…)

But Joel continues. We are being humbled, but God will restore, will not forget us forever, will repay what the locusts have devoured. And then, God promises, ‘I shall pour out my spirit on all flesh’ and after that the nations shall be summoned to gather in Jerusalem, and be judged for having scattered God’s people among them, for carrying God’s treasured possession away from the land. And in the Valley of Decision, all who call upon the name of the Lord will be saved.

‘This is that’ says Peter. This is the pouring out of God’s Spirit on all flesh—young and old, sons and daughters. This is the gathering of the nations for judgement. This is the Valley of Decision…

One way of thinking about this pattern—this revelation, by which we come into a deeper knowledge of the kind of world we live in, a deeper knowledge of the nature of God and humanity—is as disruptive grace. That is to say, sometimes God breaks into our hard-hearted indifference in shocking ways. It is grace, because it comes from out-with us, as divine initiative. And it is disruptive, because this untameable force seeks to break us free from the things that hold us captive. By our indifference towards animals and their habitats and towards other people, especially the poor, we brought a pandemic on ourselves; but God folds this judgement in on itself, like origami, transforming it into grace, troubling and starkly beautiful. What opens up in this space is the possibility of a new future, of hope, that is big enough to embrace young and old, sons and daughters, those close by and those far from us, a diversity of life experiences [1]. For those with eyes to see, God turns up, in the pressure and pain of a pandemic; half-hidden behind a mask and fogged glasses on the bus, or peeling a mask off at the end of a work shift. Grace is held out to us, but must be received; and the longer we resist, the more pain we bring upon ourselves and others. Still, I wonder how many people have experienced a fresh appreciation of the need for and/or presence of God in their lives, over the course of the past year? Perhaps more than we can imagine. Perhaps you have discovered this for yourself? Or perhaps I have drunk too much communion wine.

This Pentecost, may the place of our deep collective loss become the place of breakthrough, the very place we experience the transformation of the Holy Spirit drawing us from death to life. Come, Holy Spirit. Amen.

 

[1] When the Spirit of God, poured out on all flesh, moves to bring forth a new world from the ruins of a dying world, it is ushered in by the prophetic call of the young and the old, sons and daughters, from many nations and for the nations, empowered to speak to us concerning where we have gone astray, and leading the way in how we might life our lives better, according to God’s justice and mercy and love for all creation. I think of the partnership between Greta Thunberg and David Attenborough, calling out our death-cult attitude to our planet, the Swedish girl who is dismissed for being young and naïve and not understanding what she is talking about, and the English man put in a box labelled ‘national treasure’ so we can ignore him too. The Spirit of God cannot be contained in a box; but, if we want to know where that Spirit is blowing against us, in disruptive grace, and where that Spirit is heading, we need to listen to the children and young people among us, and, as older men and women, invest our dreams in the vision God has given to them. Do you hear the sound, like the rush of a violent wind?

 

Seventh Sunday of Easter 2021

 

Seventh Sunday of Easter 2021

In those days Peter stood up among the believers [Greek: ‘brothers’] (together the crowd numbered about one hundred and twenty people) and said, ‘Friends, [Greek: ‘men, brothers’] the scripture had to be fulfilled, which the Holy Spirit through David foretold concerning Judas, who became a guide for those who arrested Jesus—for he was numbered among us and was allotted his share in this ministry.’

So one of the men who have accompanied us throughout the time that the Lord Jesus went in and out among us, beginning from the baptism of John until the day when he was taken up from us—one of these must become a witness with us to his resurrection.’ So they proposed two, Joseph called Barsabbas, who was also known as Justus, and Matthias. Then they prayed and said, ‘Lord, you know everyone’s heart. Show us which one of these two you have chosen to take the place in this ministry and apostleship from which Judas turned aside to go to his own place.’ And they cast lots for them, and the lot fell on Matthias; and he was added to the eleven apostles.

Acts 1:15-17, 21-26

 

‘I have made your name known to those whom you gave me from the world. They were yours, and you gave them to me, and they have kept your word. Now they know that everything you have given me is from you; for the words that you gave to me I have given to them, and they have received them and know in truth that I came from you; and they have believed that you sent me. I am asking on their behalf; I am not asking on behalf of the world, but on behalf of those whom you gave me, because they are yours. All mine are yours, and yours are mine; and I have been glorified in them. And now I am no longer in the world, but they are in the world, and I am coming to you. Holy Father, protect them in your name that you have given me, so that they may be one, as we are one. While I was with them, I protected them in your name that you have given me. I guarded them, and not one of them was lost except the one destined to be lost, so that the scripture might be fulfilled. But now I am coming to you, and I speak these things in the world so that they may have my joy made complete in themselves. I have given them your word, and the world has hated them because they do not belong to the world, just as I do not belong to the world. I am not asking you to take them out of the world, but I ask you to protect them from the evil one. They do not belong to the world, just as I do not belong to the world. Sanctify them in the truth; your word is truth. As you have sent me into the world, so I have sent them into the world. And for their sakes I sanctify myself, so that they also may be sanctified in truth.

John 17:6-19

 

This coming Wednesday is our Annual Church Parochial Meeting, at which, among other things, we reflect on the past year and elect people to certain oversight roles, to serve as Church Wardens or as members of the Parochial Church Council (PCC). Such roles are important to the healthy functioning of the local church—of this local church. Just as our participation in Holy Communion, to serve in such a way is, or should be, a duty and a joy. It matters, how we go about this business. And so, today, I want to reflect on how our readings, from Acts and from John, might help us.

Jesus had appointed twelve of his followers to be his ekklesia, his council of representatives. Although his disciples included both women and men, these were all men, it would appear echoing the twelve sons of Jacob, symbolising the ordering of a new or renewed people of God. They had served together for three years, with some notable highpoints and low points, perceived successes, and devastating failures. And in time, it came to light that the treasurer had been embezzling, and, perhaps in greed or desperation or disillusion, had betrayed Jesus and then, perhaps in remorse, had taken his own life. Hardly the news one would want to bring in the Annual Report. And yet, these twelve or so men formed the council members Jesus had worked with, without whom—including Judas and the role he played in how he fulfilled his role—God’s will would not have been done on earth as in heaven.

But now, Judas’ place was vacant, and needed to be filled. As we, also, need to fill some places, albeit for happier reasons. One of our Wardens, Christine, is stepping down this year, because she has served, wonderfully, for quite some time, and together with her we have discerned that it is right that, for now at least, she should lay down that role, allowing for someone else to take it up—and, indeed, for Christine herself to take up other ways of serving, of being a blessing.

There was a place of oversight within the church that needed filling. And so, the church gathered together, and prayed about who should fill that role. And after prayerful deliberation, Peter proposed that it should be someone who had been with Jesus from the beginning, who had shared in his ministry and been a witness to the resurrection. They prayed some more, and two names were put forward. It is interesting to note that, in the four Gospels, or proclamations of the good news of Jesus Christ, we have never come across either of these candidates. They have been there for quite some time, but quietly, on the edges perhaps. And now one of them, at least, will be asked to step up, to step into a new-to-them role.

I want to say that I think Peter got it wrong when he determined that it had to be a man. I appreciate the symbolic reasons why Jesus appointed twelve men, looking back to the sons of Jacob, the heads of the tribes of Israel. But Jesus appointed Mary Magdalene to be the apostle to the apostles, the first witness to the resurrection. Mary the mother of Jesus had been with him even longer, from the very beginning, and both Marys were part of the church. As the church grew, and expanded to embrace Gentiles, a great many women were included in oversight roles in local churches, and in apostolic teams working across churches: women such as Phoebe and Prisca and Junia; Tryphena and Tryphosa and Persis; Euodia and Syntyche; Apphia and Nympha. The church in Jerusalem, however, remained a more strongly, narrowly, Jewish male-led environment. I do believe that Peter got that wrong, and I lament the impact it has had on the valuing of women in the church ever since. And yet, I am cautiously glad that God chose to work with their partial and compromised discernment, allowing other opportunities to arise in other places, because I know that all our prayerful deliberations will also be partial and compromised. God does not wait until we get it all right, but works with us where we are, to move us on. We need to see the whole church freed to serve, in ways that allow expression for their gifting and personality, bringing the resources of the full family of God to address the challenges we face.

So, it seemed good to the church to hold an election, and trust that God would work with and through whatever the outcome, just as God had done through Judas, despite everything, despite the obvious compromise. A ballot is held, and one candidate is selected. I wonder how he felt? The other candidate is not selected. I wonder how he felt? It seems to do with their hearts. I think it fair to say that either candidate was an appropriate candidate—it was not that one was pure of heart and the other harboured some secret sin they need God to reveal—but that taking up this particular role would, in some way, bring fulfilment to the person Matthias was made to be, and not the person Justus was made to be. I hope both felt relieved at the outcome, at the very least. We are not called to serve others in self-serving ways, but, if we offer ourselves to serve the needs of the church, and together we pray for discernment, our prayer is that each might serve in ways that are fulfilling for them—that are not only a duty but also a joy, made more complete.

 

There are opportunities, here, to serve in a variety of ways: as Church Wardens and deputy wardens; as PCC members, including deanery representatives, secretary, and, potentially, treasurer; but, also, as voices to read the scriptures aloud, or lead us in our prayers of intercession when we come together. And then, there are the ways to serve as our Care and Share lunches, our afternoon teas, and other ways of blessing the wider community start up again after the long disruption of the pandemic. For a variety of reasons, it will be right that some people who have served in particular ways need to step back or stand aside, and that others should step into the vacated space. And it may be that there are entirely new things that God the Holy Spirit wills to do in and through us, in this new season as our communities emerge from lockdown, calling some to roles we have not needed before. But in all this, our discernment should be prayerful; and corporate; and expectant that, in the very real challenges we face, God will continue to save and protect us from the evil one, will continue to call us deeper into holiness, and will continue to send us out into the world with joy.

And so, I commend the process of the APCM to you, inviting us all to prayerfully consider our hearts, and God’s call on our lives. Amen.

 

Sixth Sunday of Easter 2021

 

Sixth Sunday of Easter 2021

Acts 10:44-48

‘While Peter was still speaking, the Holy Spirit fell upon all who heard the word. The circumcised believers who had come with Peter were astounded that the gift of the Holy Spirit had been poured out even on the Gentiles, for they heard them speaking in tongues and extolling God. Then Peter said, ‘Can anyone withhold the water for baptizing these people who have received the Holy Spirit just as we have?’ So he ordered them to be baptized in the name of Jesus Christ. Then they invited him to stay for several days.’

John 15:9-17

‘As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abide in my love. If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father’s commandments and abide in his love. I have said these things to you so that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be complete.

‘This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you. No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. You are my friends if you do what I command you. I do not call you servants any longer, because the servant does not know what the master is doing; but I have called you friends, because I have made known to you everything that I have heard from my Father. You did not choose me but I chose you. And I appointed you to go and bear fruit, fruit that will last, so that the Father will give you whatever you ask him in my name. I am giving you these commands so that you may love one another.’

 

At the heart of Christian faith is the invitation and challenge to love the Lord our God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind, and with all your strength; and to love your neighbour as yourself. We do not come to this table without reminding ourselves of this truth, that our participation in love ought to shape our shared reality. And then we go on to acknowledge that our failure to participate in love also and profoundly shapes our shared reality. We confess our turning away from love: because it is too costly, too unimaginable, too unrealistic; and, if we are sincere, we are, nonetheless, received again by the love that will not let us go.

In our Gospel reading we hear again Jesus, speaking, repeatedly, of love: as the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abide in my love…abide in my love, just as I…abide in his love…love one another as I have loved you…I am giving you these commands so that you may love one another.

As he emphasises the love that flows between the Father and the Son and his friends, Jesus is fully aware that he will die within hours. I have loved you; abide in my love. Moreover, he is fully aware that, for the most part, these friends will fail to love him to the end, will desert him, unable to bear it. Abide in my love.

We are in that painful season of first anniversaries of those members of our church family who we lost, with or without Covid-19, during the first lockdown. We were not then, and are yet to be able, to mark those deaths as we would choose. But dying goes hand-in-hand with living, inseparable; and raises for all of us the questions:

how might we die well, loving those we will leave behind to the end? and,

how might we who remain, for now, continue in love—in the love of the one we have lost, and in the love of Jesus?

Of course, a sermon cannot do justice to these questions. That takes a community. But perhaps a sermon can offer some pointers. As well underlining love, Jesus emphasises four other themes, each rooted in himself, that help us to understand what love might look like: Jesus’ commandments, joy, friendship, and fruitfulness.

Commandments. There is something reciprocal, relational, about love shaped by commands and commands shaped by love, but also something that roots us in a bigger story. We learn how to love, how to live, how to die well as we ground our lives in that story, which reaches outward to bless, and reassures us that death is not the end. Where does the story of God and God’s people comfort you? challenge you? Is there a particular passage that you want spoken aloud at your funeral, or shared with family and friends in preparation for that day? And how might hymns, and other music, play their part?

Joy. Joy is a deep undercurrent of delight in those with whom God has joined us. Deeper than happiness, which is an appropriate response to certain moments and not others; deeper than sorrow, or anger, or confusion, all of which we shall know from time to time. Joy often bubbles to the surface at wakes, but its completeness is to be found in Jesus. How might you point others to him, by your example?

Friendship. Friends of Jesus speak to one another of what they have heard from God through him. Friends help one another do deeper into mystery, union with God, a present reality brought to completion, consummated, in death. Friends rejoice for friends who die in Christ, even while holding one another in our loss as those who still await that glory. In a culture that fears and lives in denial of death, how might we help one another rediscover that hope?

Fruitfulness. “Blessed are you, Lord God of all creation. Through your goodness we have this wine to offer, fruit of the vine and work of human hands. It will become for us the cup of salvation.” I love a good grape, especially a fermented one, which speak of God bringing us through death to life. Most commonly when I sit with the next of kin to put together a tribute, that divine activity is a theme that has been present in the person’s life, but which needs to be drawn out, so that it can be seen. How might we lay down a wine-cellar, so to speak, of testimony to God’s goodness that our children and grandchildren can draw from in discovering God’s salvation for themselves?

Fruit, friends, joy, commandments, love. These intertwine in the life of faith, to form a rich tapestry. Or, perhaps more fittingly, combine to form a baptismal gown / shroud / wedding dress, made for us by God who first clothed Adam and Eve, made to be worn not just admired.

Today, may you know God’s love poured out upon you, drenching you more fully than the rain, yet enveloping you to shield you from all harm. And in all things, and especially in the face of death, whose sting has been drawn, may you know that love endures, victorious. Love wins.