Second Sunday of Lent 2024

 

Second Sunday of Lent 2024

Lectionary readings: Genesis 17.1-7, 15-16 and Mark 8.31-38

My family likes to watch Marvel Cinematic Universe movies. They are full of comic book superheroes, and many of the characters have aliases by which they are known:

Tony Stark is known as Iron Man;
Steve Rogers is the original Captain America;
Sam Wilson is the Falcon, and later takes on the mantle of Captain America;
Hank Pym was the original Ant Man, a mantle later taken on by Scott Lang;
Natasha Romanoff is Black Widow;
Peter Parker is Spiderman.
T’Challa, prince and later king of Wakanda is Black Panther, a mantle later taken on by his sister Shuri.

The most recent film, The Marvels, has three female – and multi-ethnic – leads:

Carol Danvers, known as Captain Marvel;
Kamala Khan – the first superhero role-model for Muslim girls – who goes by the name Ms. Marvel, as a tribute to Danvers;
and Monica Rambeau, who does not have an alias, and rejects various suggestions proposed by Kamala.

One of the interesting things about the MCU, and the Marvel comics it draws on, is the way they re-imagine characters and storylines, exploring different possibilities. The heroes are also flawed, trying to make sense of things that have been done to them, sometimes misunderstood, usually trying their best, often making things worse as an unintended consequence of their actions, willing to make sacrifices, holding on to hope. All these things are recognisable in our own lives, and in the stories we read in the Bible.

We all have a name, and our name is woven and at times unpicked throughout the story of our lives. This week, I conducted a funeral. The name on the coffin-plate read ‘Robert,’ but as a congregation we knew him by his middle-name, Earnest (his father having also been Robert Earnest Kerr) while his family knew him as Earn. Some of you will have gone by various names over the years, or in different contexts.

Give me a wave if your surname has changed at some point.

Give me a wave if you go by a middle name, or a shortened or nickname.

Give me a wave if you have names in more than one language.

In our reading this morning from Genesis, Abram (‘exalted father’) becomes Abraham, and Sarai (‘princess’) becomes Sarah. What we see here is a shift in dialect. Their names will sound different in the mouths of those whom God will lead them to live alongside. Their names will change because of geography, because they have walked with God and walking with God will take them somewhere they have never been before. Those members of our congregation from Nigeria, or Kenya, or India, will know what it is to hear your names spoken back to you in a way you have never heard them spoken before!

 

In our story this morning, God is also given two names: the personal name, Yahweh, and the known-as name, or alias, El Shaddai.

 

There are names in our Gospel reading, too. There is Peter. In Mark’s Gospel, we first meet him as Simon (Mark 1.16) and are later told that Jesus renamed him Peter (Mark 3.16). It may be that Peter was already one of Simon’s given-names and that Jesus felt it was more fitting – Simon means ‘to hear’ or ‘listening’ and Simon wasn’t the best listener! But in our Gospel reading today, Jesus gives Peter yet another name, Satan or ‘accuser’! Wow!

Jesus has been speaking about the life he has been given – under the alias ‘the Son of Man’ or the mortal one – which will involve great suffering, rejection by those who seek positions of power over others, and even being killed – though this will not be the end of his story. And Peter takes him aside and tries to persuade him to trade-up this life for a better one, one that does not include suffering or rejection or being killed. And Jesus’ response is unambiguous: you are thinking like a human who does not trust your Creator; I will not reject my life in exchange for a different life; and you should not seek to reject being Peter in favour for being Satan. That would be a gamble that cannot pay off, whatever permutations unfold.

Jesus goes on to say to those gathered around him, you cannot trade-up your God-given life for something better – even if you possessed the entire universe to borrow against, your life is worth more. And even if that life is taken from you, by those who trust in violence to save them, it will not be lost, for you belong to God, who can raise the dead.

To be clear: I am not saying that you should ‘accept your lot in life,’ however unjust the distribution of resources has been. I am not suggesting that you should ‘know – and remain in – your place,’ in the unjust structures of society, where humans inflict great suffering on other humans because they believe life to be a competition, in which we fear that any gain for ‘them’ must mean less for ‘us.’ Such an interpretation of Jesus’ words would be thinking in human ways that are set against God’s good will.

Such an interpretation multiplies the tears of the world that God will tenderly wipe away when every wrong is made right.

What I am saying is this: that God knows you by name. That God, who goes by many aliases –

God Almighty;
the God who Sees;
the Lord who Heals;
the Lord will Provide;
the Lord our Righteousness;
the Lord my Banner;
the Lord of Angel Armies;
the Lord is Present;
the Lord my Shepherd;
the Lord my Rock;
and more besides –

that God says to each one of us, ‘Walk with me, walk close with me, that I may be all you need in any given moment, that I might bring you to a place of blessing, that you may be a blessing to others.’

And over time, that will change you; you will grow; your voice will change – whether your dialect changes or not; you will become less who the world tells you that you should be, and more fully whom God has made you to be. And however long you live, it doesn’t come to an end. And however long we live, we don’t get to see the full story. But we get to play our part, a part no one else in all the universe can play for us – or play at all, if we refuse.

You don’t have to be a superhero. In fact, that would get in the way. God invites us to lay down our armour and our weapons and slow our pace to a walk with a friend. This Lent, may we rediscover the sheer relief of that grace.

 

First Sunday of Lent 2024

 

Lectionary readings: Genesis 9.8-17 and Mark 1.9-15

And so, we find ourselves, again, in the season of Lent, and I wonder what you make of this annual pilgrimage into the wilderness?

As an author, Mark has a sparse style. Every word counts. Every word is good news.

A voice from heaven tells Jesus, ‘You are my son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.’ And immediately, the Holy Spirit banishes Jesus to the wilderness, to the place far away from distractions. Not as a punishment, but as the gift of a loving parent who knows what we need. This is the invitation of Lent, to get away from the hustle and bustle, from the demands on our lives, to draw breath, to simply be. That is where we discover who we really are – and that who we really are is deeply loved and affirmed by God. We may not be able to take forty days away from those demands, but we can seek to make such space day by day, throughout these forty days.

In the wilderness, Jesus’ character is revealed, as he is tested, as he faces up to the voice of accusation. And in the wilderness, he finds himself with the wild creatures, and ministered to by angels. We join him there. For we are wild creatures, created in the image of the free Spirit, who has joined themselves by covenant with every creature. Wild animals are often timid or cautious and sometimes aggressive when not valued for who they are. We are invited to face down the voice that tells us we must be a good girl, seen and not heard, following the rules, domesticated, if we are really to know God’s approval. God works to bring creation from chaos to harmony, but harmony is glorious freedom, not anxious adherence.

And ministered to by angels. We are invited to face down the voice that tells us that we must be self-sufficient, must serve others – more important than us, or less-fortunate – but deflect those who would minister to our needs, would share our burdens. Jesus, who emptied himself, taking the form of a servant, nonetheless received the care of others. Mark doesn’t get much further into his story before he tells of Simon’s mother-in-law ministering to Jesus and his friends, just as the angels had done (Mark 1.13 and 31).

Over the six weeks of Lent, I am inviting us to study the scriptures together using the BBC tv programme ‘Call the Midwife’ as a lens to explore various themes. As most of you will know, this period drama is about nurse midwives working in London’s East End from the late Fifties and through the Sixties and is centred on a community of Anglican nuns.

As an introduction, I am going to show you a clip from the first series. As you watch, think about how the character Jenny is a wild animal; and think about the ways in which different characters minister to one another – including how the nuns minister to one another by stepping away from the 24/7 demands of community nursing and midwifery, to pray seven times each day, so that whoever is on call at any time during the day or the night knows that they are supported in prayer.

Watch clip [series 1, episode 3, 50:00-57.12].

We are wild animals, with Jesus in the wilderness. With him, we are ministered-to.

When Jesus returns from the wilderness, he proclaims, ‘This is the perfect moment; God is right here; change your mind about how you live, and step into this good story.’ May we find this Lent to be the perfect moment, and may it be life to us. Amen.

 

Ash Wednesday 2024

 

The Feast of Booths was one of the three great pilgrim festivals, where everyone who could went up to Jerusalem. One year, Jesus went in secret, knowing there would be people there looking to have him killed. For the first couple of days of the week-long festival, he kept a low profile, getting a feel for the mood. At some point in the middle of the week, he began to engage the crowd in Solomon’s Portico, which was a bit like Speakers’ Corner in Hyde Park. The clergy kept sending the [equivalent of the] churchwardens to evict him [use churchwardens’ wands as visual aid] but the crowds found him engaging, which made it too awkward.

One of the highlights of the festival was the water ceremony. Each morning during the Feast, the high priest would process to the Pool of Siloam and fill a golden pitcher with ‘living water’ from the spring that fed the pool [use baptismal jug as visual aid]. Then he would process back to the temple, where he would pour the water out into a bowl on the altar. Everybody would join the procession with joyful singing, and shout instructions to the high priest to ensure he didn’t get it wrong. One time, a high priest who didn’t approve of the ceremony, because it was a tradition from the Oral Law and not the written Law, deliberately spilled the water on the ground, and the crowd pelted him with lemons. [Fortunately, you used your lemons on your pancakes yesterday, so have none to pelt me with today.]

On the last day of the Feast, Jesus stood up and declared, “Let anyone who is thirsty come to me, and let the one who believes in me drink. As the scripture has said, ‘Out of the believer’s heart shall flow rivers of living water.’” Again, the wardens tried and failed to remove him.

But the next day, there he was, back again, still at it. They hatch a hurried plan and bring before him a woman allegedly caught in the very act of committing adultery – you’d think that would take two, but there we are – and ask his judgement. Would he side against the Law given through Moses, which called for death by stoning, or against the Roman governor, who reserved for Rome the right to pass and act on the death penalty?

Jesus bent down and began to write on the ground with his finger [bend down, write]. When they kept pressing him, he straightened up and said, “Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.” Then he bent down again and continued writing.

Wouldn’t you love to know what he wrote!?

We’re not told; but I think that the accusers, being expertly acquainted with the Law and the Prophets, knew just what he was doing. There’s a passage in the scroll of Jeremiah (chapter 17) that speaks of the sin of Judah, that will cost them their territory; of the deceit of the heart; and where the prophet cries to the Lord to save him from those who refuse to listen and seek to shame him. And in the middle of the passage, we read:

‘O hope of Israel! O Lord! All who forsake you shall be put to shame; those who turn away from you shall be recorded in the ground, for they have forsaken the fountain of living water, the Lord.’ (Jeremiah 17.13)

“What on earth is he playing at?”

“He’s evoking the prophecy of Jeremiah against us. Naming this woman ‘Judah’ – naming her as ourselves. If we stone her, we will be enacting G-d’s judgement on us all.”

As the prophets do again and again, Jesus deconstructs our understanding of how to live faithful lives according to the Law. Condemnation is cancelled, and the woman is now free to live fully restored within the community of the faithful, a community of hope and healing.

And what of us? Where do we find ourselves in the story?

Perhaps we are scribes and Pharisees. How often do those we consider rejected by God expose the very sin within us that offends the Lord!?

Perhaps we are the woman. Do we believe we have no place at the table? Do we burn with shame, having internalised the message that we are not acceptable?

Perhaps we are called to be Jesus, to one another. To model trust in God and hold out hope.

I’d like to conclude with a poem I wrote this morning:

You have heard it said that you are too little, or too much, to be accepted;
and, taking those words to heart, you have been consumed by their flames.

You have heard it said that you are more deserving than others;
and, internalising that mantra, you have been razed by its fire.

But I say to you, rise up:
by the grace of God
arise from the ashes,
O Phoenix,
dust stirred to life by the kiss of love,
by the breath of God
that gives life to the dead.

You are the phoenix of Christ,
given new beginning in his name.
Neither too little nor too much,
nor deserving nor undeserving,
simply loved to life,
again and again.

Do not fear returning to dust.
Receive this mark upon your head,
a sign of hope, and trust.
And by the grace of God,
arise.

 

Presentation of Christ in the Temple

 

As many of you will know, Jo and I are members of the Sunderland Strollers running club. At the start of each year, the club runs a Beginners’ group, for anyone who wants to get into running. It is, obviously, a self-selecting group—not everyone is interested in running—but some come only able to run 100 yards. We tell them that if they stick with it, over 12 weeks, we will get them to the point where they can run for 5 miles without stopping. It won’t necessarily be fast—we will focus on stamina, not speed, which some will choose to work on later—but it is achievable. By increasing the distance little by little, and how often they go for a run, they will become a runner—perhaps to their own amazement.

We—the congregation of St Nicholas,’ here this morning—are also a self-selecting group (called by God; drawn-in by others; but you choose to be here). Along with congregations across Durham Diocese, we are called to a life of ‘Blessing our communities in Jesus’ name’. Not those who run, but those who bless—in how we think and what we say and do. And perhaps you might say, “I couldn’t pronounce a blessing, I wouldn’t know the right words to use”—as if it depended on getting the words right, like some sort of magic spell. But think of anything that you do know how to do—speak, or walk, or read. You weren’t born able to do that, you learnt: by repetitive practice, by trial and error, and by example.

Accompanied by her husband, a young mother brings her firstborn son to public worship for the first time, at forty days old. As they come into the space and look around, an older man approaches, takes the child in his arms (always ask for, and be given, permission before doing this; and don’t take offence if permission is not forthcoming) and sings a song of praise. First, he honours God; then, he blesses the father and mother, and their child. As he does so, an older woman joins them, takes up the theme, and extends it to include others who had gathered in that place.

Simeon was not a priest, not the public face of the faith. Anna was recognised as a prophet, an oracle who spoke words of godly wisdom; but she had no official role or office. They were simply human beings who were well-soaked in the ways of God. And uttering blessings is central to such a life—not something reserved for vicars. You don’t even need to be Christian.

To bless something—whether a person, or some other part of creation, or a place, or a tool, or a circumstance—is to affirm its essential goodness. From our faith perspective, that essential goodness is God-given.

Jewish blessings always begin, ‘Blessed are you, Lord our God, King of the Universe …’

Christian blessings, which derive from Jewish blessings, are similarly framed, ‘Blessed are you, Lord God of all creation …’

If we are to bless, we first need to meet what we find, where we find it, and then pay it attention. Simeon meets Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus in the temple court, takes the child in his arms, and pays close attention. Then, he speaks out what he sees.

My back door faces east, and I can stand there a while and watch the sunrise. ‘Blessed are you, Lord God of all creation, giver of light and love. And blessed be you, O dawn, that paints the sky in pink and orange to welcome the day.’

Then, as I stand there, I become aware of the dawn chorus. ‘Blessed are you, Lord God of all creation, who feeds the birds of the air. And blessed be you, garden bird, who fills the sky with your song.’

Or perhaps this morning it is raining, and I can choose to be grumpy about that or I can choose to bless the rain. ‘Blessed are you, Lord God of all creation, who gives the water of life. And blessed be you, rain, that refreshes the earth.’

If we can get into the habit of blessing, it will form us over time, so that we meet all things open to the goodness hidden within them—even if that goodness is not immediately apparent. So, for example, if you fall and break your leg, ‘Blessed are you, Lord God of all creation, who has fashioned our flesh and bone. And blessed be you, O femur, who have borne my weight all these years, and who now calls me to rest and to heal.’

So, let us have a go, and together learn how to bless. Who, or what, might you bless today?

 

Third Sunday of Epiphany 2024

 

I wonder what the furthest distance is that you have travelled to attend a wedding. In the straw-poll conducted with our congregation this morning, the top 5 distances were: 5. Toronto, Canada. 4. Lexington, USA. 3. Chingola, Zambia. 2. Kochi, India. 1 Melbourne, Australia. In our Gospel reading today (John 2.1-11) Jesus and his disciples and his mother Mary had travelled 25 miles to attend a wedding, which isn’t far by car, but cars hadn’t been invented.

Weddings are a big deal, and they were a big deal then. The whole village would turn up, along with other guests from miles around.

If you’ve ever been on any journey, you’ll know that often the first thing you want to do on arrival is splash some water on your face. In Jesus’ time, guests would be welcomed by servants pouring water on their feet and hands and splashing water on their heads, as a way of saying, ‘You are welcome; we are so glad that you have come to us.’ At this wedding there were so many guests that they poured out the equivalent of 900 modern .75l bottles of spring water, or wine.

Weddings are a big deal, and they were a big deal then. The whole village would turn up, along with other guests from miles around, and they would stay for as long as it took to consume all the food and wine. When all the wine was drunk, that was the social cue to go home. And so, eventually, Mary turns to her son and says, ‘The wine has all been drunk; that’s our cue to leave; round up your friends, say goodbye to the bride and groom, it’s time to go.’

Jesus replies, ‘Woman,’ Woman. What a beautiful, tender moment. It resonates with the creation story. God had made a human from the soil and breathed life into it; but whereas everything else God had created was good, or very good, it was not good for this human creature to be alone. God saw that the human needed someone to stand alongside them, to sustain them, at times rescue them. So, God drew it into a deep sleep, took it up, broke it in two, and gave each part to the other. And the man cried out, in delight and relief, ‘Here at last, this one is bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh; this one shall be called Woman for she was drawn out from man.’ In my culture, to call your mother ‘Woman’ may seem dismissive, but when Jesus calls his mother ‘Woman’ that delight in their shared humanity, their intimate biological belonging to one another, and the sense that Mary is the one who stands alongside him and sustains him are all there.

‘Woman,’ says Jesus, ‘what has this social cue to do with us? My hour has not yet come.’ Other than the sense that he is not ready to leave, that is a rather enigmatic statement that will just hang there for the next ten chapters until, speaking of his imminent death and resurrection, Jesus reveals that his hour has come (John 12.27). Ah, now we recall the wedding at Cana, and see that it was the first sign pointing to this moment.

Mary tells the servants to do whatever Jesus asks of them. And what he asks them to do is something very ordinary. He asks them to refill the water-jars. Something they would have done many times. An ordinary task for a servant, involving a trip to the well; something they would undoubtedly have done later as part of the clearing up after the guests had gone. But instead, they do it now. And when Jesus asks them to draw out some water, it has been transformed into wine.

The master of ceremonies is livid. He calls the groom aside and gives him a dressing down: This might be your first wedding, but it can’t be the first time you’ve been to a wedding!? Everyone knows that you serve the best wine when the guests arrive and hold back the cheaper wine until they’ve had plenty to drink. You have totally messed up!

The master of ceremonies doesn’t understand what is going on. But what is going on?

The water of hospitality had run out. The wine of hospitality had run out. But this is not the end of the story, only a necessary moment within the story. Jesus demonstrates the principle of death and resurrection, of the new life that is only possible because the old life has come to an end. It is a principle we see at play in the world around us, in nature. It is winter, and the plants and animals have withdrawn deep into themselves. The trees look dead, but something profound and necessary is going on beneath the surface. Only we humans are hard-headed and hard-hearted enough to live as if every month, every season, were the same. It is winter, and yes, spring is coming; but we cannot force it to arrive before winter has done its work. The world is renewing itself.

Our youngest son is in his second (final) A-level year. And he is flying. He is excelling academically, he has an active social life, he is making hopeful plans for his future. But there was a time when, for over two years, he could not face leaving the house, didn’t leave the house. I can tell you, that was a long, hard winter. I don’t mean December, January, February.

Jesus is the God who became one of us, who entered-into the death and resurrection of creation. Who blesses the life that we cannot hold onto, and the life that we receive if only we let go of the life we had.

This happens to us over again. This coming Saturday, at a service at the cathedral, we will mark Bishop Paul’s ten years of service among us as our bishop, as he retires. And we will pray for Paul and Rosemary as they begin a new life, in a new place; a life that is only possible because this life and ministry is coming to an end.

Sometimes we have varying degrees of choice, sometimes not. No one chooses bereavement; but Jesus says, just as I was with you, just as I blessed, the life that has run out, so shall I be with you, and so shall I bless, the life that still lies ahead.

What Jesus does at the wedding in Cana is the first signpost on this road.

It is such a beautiful, tender, and hopeful gospel.

 

Here, then, are some questions for those who would consider following him:

Where have you experienced death? It could be the death of a dream, the death of a marriage, a literal bereavement. In what part of your life are you dying right now?

Where have you tried to resist death, or deny the reality of dying? It could be in resistance to change or by masking the natural process of aging.

Where have you known resurrection—new life, not necessarily better than what was before, but different, and hopeful? What did that awaken in you? Is there any part of your life where you are experiencing resurrection life right now?

 

First Sunday of Christmas 2023

 

Lectionary readings: Galatians 4.4-7 and Luke 2.15-21

I wonder what kind of gifts you received at Christmas—and whether you could tell what they were from the way in which they were wrapped? Some gifts are easy to wrap—books, for example—while others call for more creativity. Some gifts come in gift bags, you might set aside to use again, to give a gift to someone else. Some gifts come in boxes, which may have already been flattened and put out with the recycling. One gift I ordered for Jo didn’t arrive until yesterday, and didn’t get wrapped at all, other than the parcel it came in. But however it comes, unless you are a small child or a cat the packaging is likely less important than the content.

I wonder, also, what the strangest gift you received was? My sister gave me a little figure of Jesus, an-inch-and-a-half tall. If you submerge it in water, over three days it will grow up to 600% its original size.

In our readings this morning we are presented with five containers, each filled to overflowing, by God, with his Son: namely: time, Mary’s womb, the law, our hearts (these all recorded in our first reading, from Paul’s letter to the Galatians) and a manger (recorded in our Gospel reading, which also mentions Mary’s heart and womb).

Time, Mary’s womb, the law, our hearts, and a manger. All things that once contained Jesus; all things that could only contain him for so long before he filled them to overflowing.

That is the Christmas mystery, and the Christmas joy. That Jesus comes to fill our lives—our given days and hours and minutes (time); our potential to be life-giving to others (womb); our relationships with others (law); our desires and our free will (heart); our homes and livelihoods (manger)—he comes to bring fulfilment and fullness of life to all these aspects of our being. The infinite, pouring into the finite, that we who are finite might be drawn into the very Life and Love of God, and that the world might know that this gift is for them too, for all who will receive it. Not just for Christmas, but forever.

 

Christmas Morning 2023

 

Lectionary readings: Isaiah 62:6-12 and Luke 2:8-20

Our readings this morning resound with angels and humans praising God.

As we gather around the Lord’s table, to share bread and wine, we hear the words of the prophet Isaiah that no enemies shall eat the bread and no foreigners shall drink the wine. For in Christ all creation comes home to God: there are no enemies; there are no foreigners: we are one people, one family, one body. And in a world full of fear, that drives us to ‘other’ one another, to ‘Us and Them’ ourselves, to view the stranger with suspicion, this is miracle.

Isaiah’s word to us this morning culminates with these words:

‘You shall be called Sought Out, A City Not Forsaken.’

Look around. ‘You shall be called Sought Out, A City Not Forsaken.’ What does that look like? If God has anything to do with it, if God is at work here, it probably won’t look anything like our assumptions. But it might look like welcoming the stranger, it might look like people who have felt forsaken—by their neighbours, by the families, perhaps even by God—finding a home. Finding room at the table. Finding their lives being built up, given back to them; different to what was lost, but beautiful in the light of this new Day.

Like Mary, may we treasure these words, and ponder them in the days and weeks and months and years ahead. Like Mary, may we be open to what it is that God wants to do in us and for us and through us, united in Christ, empowered by the Holy Spirit, to the glory of God the Father. Amen.