One Faith, two Understandings

Texts: Hebrews 11.29 – 12.2 and Luke 12.49-56

NOTE: This is an updated sermon, based on feedback from Facebook friends.

One Faith, Two Understandings

Last week, we talked about faith as something practical – a living trust in God that moves us to act. It shapes how we use our time, our lives and our money. Thank you, by the way, to those of you who responded positively to my call to review your giving. It’s not too late if you haven’t done so yet!

This week, Hebrews pushes us further. Faith, it says, is the reason the Israelites walked through the Red Sea when every sensible instinct told them to run the other way – run away! run away.  Faith is why Jericho’s walls fell, in that powerful myth. And it’s why so many saints, through the ages, have endured prison, mockery, and even death.

Faith, in other words, is not polite agreement. It’s courage. It’s commitment. It’s Maximilian Kolbe, at Auschwitz, stepping forward to die in another man’s place. For two weeks he led his fellow prisoners in song, until he was the last left alive. And even then – when he had nothing left but death – he gave it as a gift. That is faith, at the limits of what’s possible.

But Jesus warns us: faith like that comes with consequences. “Do you think I came to bring peace?” he says. “No – not peace, but division.” This is not because Jesus enjoys conflict.  Rather, it’s Jesus warning us that truly living by his teaching will sometimes put us at odds with the people we love most.  When we challenge cruelty, or refuse to laugh at that racist joke, or question hate dressed up as common sense… yes, sparks fly.

I found myself back in that uncomfortable space this week, while engaging in the national shouting match about migration. I was frustrated at the vote-chasing actions of our local MPs, and at the spittle-flecked faces of some of the protestors I saw in Waterlooville. Once again, I saw the words “England is a Christian country!” brandished online, often next to the flag of St George. And I thought: the same cross that flies from our church tower – above the open door of our church – is now being waved on screens as a banner for shutting the door on the outsider.

And that makes me uncomfortable. Not because I think it’s wrong to love one’s country. But because Christianity – real Christianity – has always been about opening the door.

Still, I want to be fair. There is fear in our country right now – deep, anxious fear. And not just in the headlines. Some of it is economic: how will we house everyone? What about our struggling schools and NHS? Some is just human: we’re tired, and change makes us, well,  tired-er.  Some of the fear is cultural: how much can a country change before it loses its sense of itself?

That last question deserves a proper answer. As an amateur student of history, I think the answer lies in our own story. The story of Britain is a story of waves of migration: Romans, Saxons, Vikings, Normans, Huguenots, Jews, Europeans, former colonials, Pakistanis, Ugandan Indians, West Indians, Ethiopians, Eritreans, Somalis – I even used to run a hostel for 300 of them in the 1980s.

Yes, each wave brought challenge. But over time, those shocks subsided. People got to know each other. They intermarried. They shared food, culture, music, humour. And a new, richer tapestry of English life emerged. So yes – change can feel frightening. But history tells us: we adapt. We grow. We become more than we were.  And history tells us that integration is never a black and white issue.  There are always nuances, and real people’s lives at stake – no matter how much certain politicians and newspapers try to whip up our hatred.

Of course, we mustn’t pretend that all public fears are imaginary. No – they are real. They are powerful. Some are even reasonable. But fear should never be the driver of Christian ethics. Love should be. Wisdom should be. Truth should be.

One person challenged me this week on the idea of the moral high ground. She asked, “Is our moral obligation really to the man arriving in Kent in a dinghy any greater than to the child starving in Yemen or Gaza?” And that’s a good question. Because both are our neighbour. And the Gospel doesn’t let us ignore either one.

But it also doesn’t let us turn one into a weapon against the other. The child in Gaza and the man in the dinghy are not your enemy. Your enemy is the narrative that says we must harden our hearts to survive. That fear must rule us. That compassion is a luxury we can’t afford.

So when someone says “We can’t take everyone!” I agree. We can’t. But we can take some. And how we treat the few who do make it to our shores – the 0.02% of the worldwide number of refugees - says everything about who we really are. Hospitality is not a British invention. It’s a Gospel command.

Today’s Gospel reminds is that two people can stand under the same flag, call themselves Christian, and mean completely different things by it. One hears Jesus say, “I was a stranger and you welcomed me,” and thinks, “Better put the kettle on.” Another hears the same words and says, “We need stronger borders.” It’s the same cross, but two completely different Gospels – and only one of them looks like Jesus.

So, when the difficult conversations come – the Sunday roast that turns awkward at Grandad’s xenophobic rant, or the Facebook discussion that descends into insult – remember: you’re in good company. You stand with the saints. You stand with Jesus, who endured hostility for the sake of joy.

And I’ll leave you with this thought: If your Christianity fits perfectly with your politics – of any stripe – it’s worth checking whether you’re following Jesus… or just yourself in a long robe. Are you, in fact, making God in YOUR image, rather than the other way round?

But for now, keep running the race. Keep fighting the good fight (as our last hymn encourages us today).  Not with shouting or bitterness, but with quiet, stubborn courage. With faith.  For, faith is not always about keeping the peace. Sometimes it’s about keeping the faith.