Thirteenth Sunday after Trinity 2023

 

How to stand on holy ground

Over the past couple of years, there has been a marked phenomenon, the rapid growth of numbers of people making a pilgrimage, whether walking [sections of] the Camino to Santiago de Compostella or, closer to home, St Cuthbert’s Way from Melrose to Lindisfarne. The reasons are many. In part, a reaction to the experience of lockdown, a sense of needing to make up for lost time, that has seen a strong bounce-back for all kinds of holiday abroad. In part, it ties in well with a popular interest in mental health and wellbeing, of the need to take time out for yourself. Pilgrimage has a long history within many of the world religions and also resonates with those who would claim ‘spiritual’ awareness—a sense of something more to life—and an appreciation of some of the structure of religious practice, without wanting to carry too much baggage, whether doctrines or debates or the demands of a permanent local congregation. But in truth there may be as many different reasons for going on pilgrimage as there are pilgrims.

For many, pilgrimage might be described as making a purposeful journey, and taking purposeful time away from everyday demands. But what difference does it make once you get home? What meaning does whatever we experienced there find back here? The book of Exodus records a life of pilgrimage, of learning how to stand on holy ground—wherever you happen to be stood. Our story begins with a man called Moses (Exodus 3.1-15).

‘Then Moses said, ‘I must turn aside and look at this great sight, and see why the bush is not burned up.’ (Exodus 3.3)

Moses is going about his everyday tasks—his responsibilities towards his family—within a life that is not the life he had imagined for himself. He has been rejected by both his adopted family (the Egyptians) and his family-of-origin (the Hebrews). He has lost status, identity, rootedness, belonging. Along the way, he has also been welcomed into a new family, has made a new life, has rebuilt his world after (childhood trauma and adult) bereavement. So, in some regards, his world is smaller than it once was; in other regards, he has grown larger, to create room around his grief for life to go on. This is what surviving bereavement does to us: we will never be the same, but, against all probability, we are not consumed by the flames.

In any event, Moses is going about his everyday tasks, and he becomes aware of something out-of-the-ordinary. And he responds, ‘I must turn aside and look,’ I must turn from what I am doing (the world won’t fall apart without me) to behold this thing of wonder, and to ask why it exists—and why it continues to exist.

‘When the Lord saw that he had turned aside to see, God called to him out of the bush, ‘Moses, Moses!’ And he said, ‘Here I am.’ (Exodus 3.4)

God sees that Moses is looking, and so God calls him by name. And Moses responds, ‘Here I am.’ We see that God knows us by name; and that where we are—the life we have, here and now—is the very place where we can meet God, if we are open to it. Not some other set of circumstances, some un-reality.

‘Then he said, ‘Come no closer! Remove the sandals from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground.’ (Exodus 3.5)

God wants Moses to know that the place he finds himself is holy ground. If he can learn that this place is holy ground, then, in time, Moses can learn that every place is holy ground, for every place is created by God, and God is glorified whenever this is recognised. This is true for any ground that we consider holy, any site of prayer or pilgrimage: finding ourselves there—and encountering God there—is practice for encountering God any- and everywhere.

God says to Moses, remove your sandals. Why? Because holiness is fragile and easily spoiled? I don’t think so—holiness burns like fire that does not go out. Perhaps it is because God does not want anything to come between us and holy ground, not even shoe-leather. Perhaps it is because the soles of our shoes cushion our sensitivity to the ground beneath our feet, allowing us to move quickly, too quickly to notice what God is doing, just to one side.

Learning how to stand on holy ground

Read  Exodus 3.1-15

 

Then Moses said, ‘I must turn aside and look at this great sight,
and see why the bush is not burned up.’
(Exodus 3.3)

Life is a miraculous gift, even if it is possible to lose sight of that. Where have you seen God’s presence in your life, perhaps out of the corner of your eye, perhaps through tear-filled eyes? Be still. Give thanks.

You might like to use the colouring sheet overleaf to slow down and have a conversation with God.

 

When the Lord saw that he had turned aside to see,
God called to him out of the bush, ‘Moses, Moses!’
And he said, ‘Here I am.’
(Exodus 3.4)

Your life is holy ground. Your life. The one you have, not the one you hoped to have. The same is true of every person you will ever meet.

Place a glass bead on the parish map to mark the places where you find yourself through the week. Pray for the people you meet there, that they would know God knows them by name and cares about them.

 

Then he said, ‘Come no closer! Remove the sandals from your feet,
for the place on which you are standing is holy ground.’
(Exodus 3.5)

Go outside, take off your shoes and socks, and walk around on the grass. Slowly. What do you feel?

We have two large lawns here at St Nicholas’ but if this feels a step too far why not try it in your own garden at home, or at the park. Or, if you prefer, walk barefoot on the beach. Pay attention to your body, to anything it may say to you, and to anything God may want to say to you through your body.

Twelfth Sunday after Trinity 2023

 

Lectionary reading: Romans 12.1-8

Recently, Jo and I, along with two of our three children, took a week staying at a self-catering holiday cottage. I say cottage; it was, in fact, an industrial building sitting over a drain.

Which doesn’t sound very appealing. Let me explain.

It was located on fenland, where farming land lies below sea-level. The fields have a network of drains, that feed into the Mother Drain, a waterwork the width of a canal but deeper and without narrow boat traffic—as such, it provides a key habitat for certain species, including the kingfisher. The building was a former pump house, in fact two, one on either side of the drain, formerly used to pump excess water from the drain into the river that runs alongside it at a slightly higher altitude. The buildings themselves had been converted into a beautiful home, one side occupied permanently by the owners and the other side let out to guests. The outside is industrial, the inside, full of natural light. It was in the middle of nowhere, with nothing to do except sit on the patio and read and keep an eye out for sight of a kingfisher, fishing from a perfect branch set on two iron prongs rising just above the water.

And finally, on the last morning, I saw one, flying down the canal towards its perch, but then—perhaps it saw me—turning in mid flight and flying off in the direction from which it came. It was fleeting. But it took my breath away.

 

The Anglican poet priest Gerard Manley Hopkins wrote As kingfishers catch fire:

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies dráw fláme;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell’s
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves—goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying Whát I do is me: for that I came.

Í say móre: the just man justices;
Kéeps gráce: thát keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God’s eye what in God’s eye he is—
Chríst—for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men’s faces.

All creation does as it was created to do, being itself, unique and precious, to the glory of God. The human, alone, struggles with this, or perhaps finds it too lowly; we seem hell-bent on making people conform to the spirit of the age. But the good news is that we are not abandoned to our fate or judged on our best efforts.

Paul, writing to the church in Rome, declares,

‘Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God—what is good and acceptable and perfect.’

Don’t allow yourself to be moulded from the outside in, by a fearful, hostile world that seeks to put wonder to death, but be transformed from the inside out, by Christ at work in us, and through us. Like an old industrial building being given a new life full of light and beauty and offered as a place of rest and recreation in the world.

When we offer ourselves to God—our bodies, as a living sacrifice—we become a place in the world where Christ plays, childlike, trusting, beloved. When we speak hope that brings life, when we serve others, when we teach wisdom, when we encourage the weary, when we are generous with our time or money or material possessions or words, when we model faithfulness in our relationships, when we respond to the hurting with compassion—it is Jesus himself doing these things, transforming us from the inside out, and the world through us.

For this we were made, and this we proclaim. May your eyes be opened to see how and where Christ is, and wants to be, at play among us, today and through the coming week.

 

Tenth Sunday after Trinity 2023

Old Testament reading: Genesis 37.1-4, 12-28

Jacob settled in the land where his father had lived as an alien, the land of Canaan. (37.1)

This account begins by noting the contrast between Jacob and his father Isaac—and, indeed, his grandfather, Abraham. Whereas Abraham and Isaac lived a life of pilgrimage, moving from place to place, Jacob has stopped moving. He has sat down, has settled. Perhaps he is weighed down by grief at the death of his father, Isaac. Perhaps he feels some need to compete with his bother Esau, whose descendants have established a network of cities while Jacob was living in exile. Whatever his motive or motives, even if his sons must travel significant distances with the flocks, Jacob is staying put, thank you. As far as Jacob is concerned, his days of living a provisional life are behind him. But life rarely, if ever, works out as we expect it to.

This is the story of the family of Jacob. Joseph, being seventeen years old, was shepherding the flock with his brothers; he was a helper to the sons of Bilhah and Zilpah, his father’s wives; and Joseph brought a bad report of them to their father. (37.2)

Joseph is a young man, second youngest of Jacob’s twelve sons. When we meet him, he is an apprentice shepherd, learning the skills of tending to the flock from his older brothers. And he brings a bad report concerning them to their father. We don’t know what the basis of the bad report was, but perhaps it was simply that they refused to train him. Perhaps they were unwilling to see themselves replaced by this younger person; after all, they knew what they were doing, and he didn’t; their experience meant that they did the job well, whereas it would take twice as long to train the young ’un, and even then, he wouldn’t do it as well as they did. Perhaps they had forgotten that once upon a time, someone older and more experienced had taken the time and effort to teach them.

In any case, they cannot even speak civilly with their younger brother. The lectionary reading skips over some of Joseph’s own immaturity in expressing his sense of sacred purpose; but who would he even have processed that with? When nurturing the young adult becomes too challenging, his father falls back on favouritism, which is not the same thing at all. Meanwhile, his brothers abandon any pretence of training him, and drive the flock north without their young apprentice. Jacob sends Joseph after them.

He came to Shechem, and a man found him wandering in the fields; the man asked him, ‘What are you seeking?’ ‘I am seeking my brothers,’ he said; ‘tell me, please, where they are pasturing the flock.’ (37.14c-16)

Joseph heads off after his brothers, but when we meet him again, he has gone completely astray. In contrast to the purposeful pilgrimage of previous generations, he is wandering around without direction. Eventually, somebody finds him and asks, what is it that you are seeking? What is it that you earnestly desire? What is the thing you are entreating God for in prayer? And Joseph responds, I am seeking my brothers. I am directionless and alone in the world, and I am seeking affinity, a tribe, a community I can be part of. I am seeking belonging. Tell me, please, where I can find my people, who will help me grow into the human being—or human becoming—I am created to become.

This is the cry of a generation of seventeen-year-olds living alongside us today. A cry that is arguably more acute than it has been for many generations.

And when we see them, a distance off, we have a choice. To throw them into a pit or make them someone else’s problem; or to create space for them to discover who they are, with all the inevitable missteps along the way.

Either way, God will bring about his purposes through them. The question is, are we too settled in our ways to welcome it?

 

 

 

Seventh Sunday after Trinity 2023

 

The Old Testament reading for this Sunday, Genesis 28:10-19a, continues the story of Jacob.

Last Sunday, we read the beginning of the Jacob story. Jacob is born gripping onto his twin brother Esau’s heel. Esau goes on to make a reputation for himself, but when he comes to the end of his resources he must surrender the life that is his by right, to receive life back from his brother as gift. I suggested that Esau is a type, or representative, for us and our desire to make a name for ourselves in the world; and that Jacob is a type for Jesus, the brother who will not let us go and who holds out his life in us as gift to all who will surrender the life they cannot keep.

This Sunday, we find Jacob in the wilderness, having left his family home. When night falls, he sleeps, and dreams, and in his dream he sees a ziggurat reaching to the heavens. This is the same structure known as the tower of Babel, the first concerted human effort to build a lasting renown. In his dream, the Lord comes and stands next to him and promises never to leave him, wherever he goes, and to bring him home, and to give him many descendants.

I want to suggest that this points us to the temptations of Jesus, where immediately after he is baptised in the river Jordan, Jesus goes into the wilderness and is tested by the satan, or counsel for the prosecution in the heavenly court. Jesus is offered the rule over all earthly kingdoms, but turns this down, choosing instead to trust the Lord God to be with him wherever he goes (even descending into hell) and give him hope of many descendants in the land of the living.

Jacob awakes from his dream and declares that the Lord was present in this place, and he had not known it. God is present in every place—and perhaps especially the places of our failure, our vulnerability, and our wrestling with our motives—but God is only known to us by divine self-revelation.

Where have you been surprised to encounter the living God?

Where do you need to encounter God today?

 

Sixth Sunday after Trinity 2023

Lectionary readings: Genesis 25:19-34 and Romans 8:1-11

The Old Testament reading this Sunday introduces the story of Father Abraham’s grandsons. Twin boys, they wrestled with one another even before they were born.

Esau was the first to break out from the confines of their mother’s womb, a man in a hurry to prove himself. But his brother Jacob refused to let go of him, arriving in the world gripping his brother’s heel.

As they grew up, Esau earned a public reputation as a skilful hunter, a man whose exploits fed bellies and hungry imaginations; while Jacob was a quiet man, a private person, easily overlooked by the wider community.

But the day came when Esau returned from the hunt exhausted and famished. Utterly at the end of himself, his strength, and his resources, to the point of believing he was about to die. Jacob was cooking a stew. Esau asked for some, to revive him. Jacob replied that it would cost Esau his birthright, as the firstborn. Esau responded that his birthright was of no use to him in this moment; but Jacob insisted, and Esau agreed. Then Jacob gave his brother bread and meat, and drink, because Esau had surrendered his right; and Esau was revived and went on his way.

Esau surrendered his life as right and received it back as gift.

And from that day on, whatever Esau did was attributed to Jacob in him.

This account points to Christ, and our relationship with him.

We are Esau, desperate for independence, to earn a reputation, to be master of our own life. “What do you do?” we ask one another, and “Where are you from?” How far have you come from where you started out?

This is the life we build.

Yet, quietly, God and life and circumstance trick us out of the independence we prize. Our bodies age, our strength fails us. As any parent will tell you, just as they have figured out how to parent a three-year old, she is six, or twelve, and the goal posts have moved and keep moving. One step ahead of us.

Saint Paul, writing to the church in Rome, called it living according to the flesh.

‘The flesh’ is a term the Scriptures employ to describe unaided human effort. The flesh is not inherently bad—we are made in the image of God, God’s good creation in whom God delights. But the flesh is inherently compromised—sin invades and affects us like long-Covid. It is perfectly possible to live according to the flesh, for a long time—perhaps even a lifetime—especially with the kinds of resources—the privileges—many of us have, as highly-educated middle-class professionals; and it isn’t a bad thing…but, sooner or later, it will kill you. Eventually, we will run out of ourselves.

Esau says to Jacob, the brother who would not let go of him, ‘Give to me of the food you have prepared.’ But Jacob will not be ignored, turned to only in crisis: “Oh, God, if you only do this one thing for me, I will go to church every week, for ever!” You cannot bargain with God. Jacob has what Esau needs, but for Esau to receive it will cost him his self-sufficiency.

This is the life we surrender.

Jesus is the brother who will not let us go, whose grasp on us will not be broken, though we pass from the womb to the world, or the womb of this world into the world to come. This Jesus possesses the food that revives both body and soul, and it is ours to have. This is both a free gift, and a prize that costs us everything. For though we cannot buy this food, it is ours when we surrender the life that is ours by right—

a life that is dying, and of no use to us—

in exchange for the life of God. The Spirit of God that raised Jesus from the dead—

when he laid down the life that was his by right—

living Christ’s life in us.

This is the life we receive.

That’s a hell of an heavenly exchange.

Until you run out of yourself, you will have no need for God. I don’t mean that until you run out of yourself, you won’t perceive your need for God. I mean, you won’t need God. God has built enough blessing into creation. But when you come to the end of yourself, you arrive home at last. To the aroma of home-cooking, and a choice to make.

Come and eat. Everything is ready. We were just waiting for you.

  

Third Sunday after Trinity 2023

 

I have been sitting with this verse over the past week:

‘Those who find their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.’

Jesus (Matthew 10:39)

It seems to me that this verse is key to understanding the gift of life, the purpose of life, and the redemption of life.

Life, here, is the vital breath. That gift both given to you, and that you are to the world; a gift never given before, or again. The God who created the universe, who holds all of time and space, did not want a universe that you were not part of.

The first invitation of life is to find your life, to discover the unique nature of the gift you have been given. This takes time, learning, searching. Trial and error. Having a go. Missteps, and retracing our steps.

We discover that we are good at cricket. Or that we are terrible at cricket, but good at playing the cello. One member of our congregation found something of his life crawling through potholes. Not for me. We are all unique.

Perhaps we get married. Perhaps we have children. Perhaps we are the first person in our family to go to university or join the army and see the world. Perhaps we move from one workplace to another.

It is tempting to think that the invitation to find our life is an invitation for youth, but no. If you are still alive, life is still holding out that invitation. Indeed, it is essential, for life to be renewed, just as the seasons and cycles of nature renew the earth. It is never too late to discover a love for something new, something life-giving, revealing, or sustaining. The invitation to find life is not time-limited (indeed, I have a hunch we will carry on finding our life for all eternity). But the things we find are time limited.

If to find means to learn or discover, especially after searching, to lose means to utterly destroy. And this, too, is part of the experience of life. A time to search and find, and a time to lose; a time to be born and a time to die. Both/and. Neither one without the other.

Everything we find, we shall lose. Perhaps all of our peers have married, and we are not married. Perhaps all our peers have children, and we have not had children. Or we have had a child with profound medical needs. Or we had a child who died. Perhaps we went for a promotion or another job and didn’t get it. Perhaps we were good at sport, but injury forced us to stop playing. Perhaps we have retired, and who are we now, without the structure and status of work? Perhaps our children have left the nest. Perhaps we have been widowed. The life we had, or the life we had hoped to have, utterly destroyed.

Just yesterday someone said to me, ‘Life can feel very unfair at times.’ And I suppose that it can. Though I wonder whether our sense of un/fairness is skewed, towards those we know personally, or by a sense of entitlement, or by God’s refusal to conform to our expectations of what a god should be and do. In any case, I know it to be true that the more firmly we try to grasp what we can never hold on to, the more pain we inflict upon ourselves, and others.

Jesus says, those who lose their life for my sake shall find it. What does that mean? ‘For Jesus’ sake’ means that we set Jesus as the end of our life, not the means to some other end. Not the ticket to heaven so we can be reunited with our family. Not the escape from fear of hell. Not the guarantee that God will spare us the suffering common to all life. Not the means to any other end. Jesus, the all-in-all, with us and for us, sharing our joys and our sorrows.

Jesus meets us where we are. This is good news for those who are finding their life, because finding your life is difficult. It takes effort, commitment to searching. Steps, missteps, repentance (turning around, retracing steps, trying again) and forgiveness (of ourselves, of others). Finding life can be hard work, and sometimes it is tempting to give up, to settle for less, for existing but not living, to breathing but not the vital breath. But Jesus draws near, and in his presence there is healing, rest, a lifting of those burdens that can be lifted and a sharing of those burdens that cannot. In his presence there is power to keep going, and someone to share the joy with.

And this is good news for those who are losing their life, too, which is all of us. Jesus does not shy away from suffering but embraces our humanity—and in so doing saves us from our inhumanity—drawing us to God and neighbour, so we can say, with the apostle Paul, ‘I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.’ (Romans 8:38)

Where are you finding your life today? Take a moment to give thanks, and share the joy, with Jesus.

Where are you losing life today? Take courage. Bring your fears to Jesus, and love will rescue you, bring you to well-being. Glory follows suffering, resurrection life follows the surrendering of our life. Those who lose their life for Jesus’ sake will find it.

First Sunday after Trinity 2023

 

Gospel: Matthew 9:9-13, 18-26

Have you ever felt ‘really alive’? Or do you have days when you feel you are merely existing? Of course, in a material sense this doesn’t make any sense: the very fact that you can feel more, or less, alive is because you are alive, not dead. And yet, we can probably all relate. There is more to the world God made than what can be seen or understood logically.

Again and again in the Bible, we are implored to choose life. Jesus said that he was sent into the world that people might experience fulness of life. Another word for life is holiness, or union with God, the Maker and Preserver of all things, visible and invisible.

For Jesus’ people, the material world that God has created points beyond, to the invisible dimension of the world. So, certain things were considered more holy—fuller of life, and the potential for life—than other things. For example, the Sabbath is more holy than the other days God as made: the week flows from it and builds towards it again. Conversely, certain conditions, that spoke of absence of life, made a person ritually impure (not morally evil) and thus temporarily excluded them from holiness, considered unable to receive or transmit the divine presence. For example, a woman is ritually impure following menstruation or childbirth, not because these things are ‘unclean’ or defiling, physically or morally, but because women are like God in the ability to create life, and the empty womb points to the potential of absence of life—of holiness—as the contrast. Anyone who touched her, or anything she had touched while ritually impure, became ritually impure themselves.

In the Gospel set for today we see Jesus in three situations where people are ritually impure. The first is Matthew and his syndicate of tax gatherers, who would at least be suspected of breaking the ritual pure/impure dietary regulations on account of their partnership with gentiles. The second is a man who is temporarily excluded from the synagogue where he has responsibilities as an elder of the community by the death of his daughter, and of course the daughter herself, for a corpse and whoever touched a corpse (and he would have both held her and overseen her being washed) was ritually impure. The third was a woman who had bled, not on a monthly cycle but continuously, for twelve years—as such she would have been excluded from the life of the community for that entire time—and the crowd she moved through—for anyone who had any physical contact with her would have been excluded, temporarily, on each occasion.

Three situations where the received wisdom, where the way in which the material world pointed to greater invisible realities—the choice between life and death; holiness, and separation from God—meant it was understood that the blessing of God’s presence could not be received or passed on to others.

And in these three situations, Jesus—the embodied Word of God, having become human, one of us, the very epitome of the material pointing to the invisible—does something that is both ordinary and incredible. He willingly takes on ritual impurity in touching, and being touched by, those who are ritually impure. This is ordinary, he is not unique in the story in this regard, for humans know that it is impossible to keep ritually pure while having any kind of relationship or interaction, while being human. But in the very place where God’s presence had previously withdrawn—as the days of the week withdraw from the Sabbath, only to return; as the full moon wanes away, only to wax again—God’s presence returns with life in all its fullness. Jesus is the Sabbath. Jesus is the full moon.

Jesus is the life that pays life forward (in contrast to the tax gatherers who levied a retrospective charge).

Fully human, Jesus is routinely ritually impure. Fully God, he is life, and health, and community; he is wholeness.

In the days when I feel temporarily excluded from being alive—for we may have set aside ritual practices, but our bodies keep time with eternity, the material with the invisible—on such days Jesus draws near, bringing healing. And on the days when I feel fully alive—for life is not observed from the stands but played out on the pitch—on those days Jesus rejoices with me.

Either way, he is to be found and followed, leading us from death to life, always and everywhere.

Where will you encounter him today?