Feast of St Augustine of Hippo
How different the one who devotes himself
to the study of the law of the Most High!
He seeks out the wisdom of all the ancients,
and is concerned with prophecies;
he preserves the sayings of the famous
and penetrates the subtleties of parables;
he seeks out the hidden meanings of proverbs
and is at home with the obscurities of parables.
He serves among the great
and appears before rulers;
he travels in foreign lands
and learns what is good and evil in the human lot.
He sets his heart to rise early
to seek the Lord who made him,
and to petition the Most High;
he opens his mouth in prayer
and asks pardon for his sins.
If the great Lord is willing,
he will be filled with the spirit of understanding;
he will pour forth words of wisdom of his own
and give thanks to the Lord in prayer.
The Lord will direct his counsel and knowledge,
as he meditates on his mysteries.
He will show the wisdom of what he has learned,
and will glory in the law of the Lord’s covenant.
Many will praise his understanding;
it will never be blotted out.
His memory will not disappear,
and his name will live through all generations.
Nations will speak of his wisdom,
and the congregation will proclaim his praise.
Matthew 23.8–12
Jesus said to his disciples, ‘But you are not to be called rabbi, for you have one teacher, and you are all students. And call no one your father on earth, for you have one Father—the one in heaven. Nor are you to be called instructors, for you have one instructor, the Messiah. The greatest among you will be your servant. All who exalt themselves will be humbled, and all who humble themselves will be exalted.’
Sermon
It’s always a bit awkward when today’s Gospel gets read in church. Jesus says, “Call no one Father on earth, for you have one Father in heaven.” And then we look around at a church stuffed with Fathers, Mothers, Reverends, Very Reverends, Venerables, Right Reverends, Canons, Deans, Bishops, and Archbishops – called Most Reverend, or ‘Your Grace’! Honestly, it sounds less like a church and more like an episode of Downton Abbey.
And I say this as someone who occasionally gets called “Father.” Personally, I prefer Tom. Or Rector, or Canon if you must. But “Father” always makes me twitch a little, because of this very reading. Titles aren’t evil, but they are dangerous. They can puff us up, and Jesus says, “Don’t.”
Now, part of it is just human awkwardness, isn’t it? We’re not very good with titles in this country. You meet a doctor at a party — do you call them “Doctor” all night, or just “Colin”? Is a judge always “Your Honour” at the pub? And have you noticed how some people can’t bring themselves to use “Father” in church at all, so they end up saying things like “Excuse me… er… Vicar… sir… Reverend… thingy?” Titles are a minefield.
My own Dad had a row with a new Vicar once, at our home church. The new chap insisted that everyone should call him ‘Father’. My dad, who was never shy of telling people exactly what he thought, decided to leave the church saying ‘I only call one man Father, and he’s dead’.
But Jesus’ point is simple. Titles don’t make you wise. Wisdom is not about where you sit at the table, or what people call you. Wisdom is about humility.
And that’s where Ecclesiasticus comes in. He talks about those who work with their hands — the smiths, the potters, the ploughmen — and then those who spend their time searching for wisdom, pondering the hidden meaning of things. Both roles matter. But those who seek wisdom, he says, will be remembered for generations.
Now, that doesn’t mean only philosophers and bishops count. Wisdom is not a monopoly of the clever. It’s something all of us are called to. Which is why I love that image from a book on philosophy by Jostein Gaarder, called Sophie’s World. Gaarder says: imagine the world is a rabbit being pulled out of a magician’s hat. Most of us live buried deep in the rabbit’s fur. Nice and cosy, caught up in the shopping lists and GP appointments. But a few scramble up through the fur, right to the tips of the hairs, and they peer out. They look into the magician’s eyes, trying to work out how the trick is done. That, says Gaarder, is philosophy: asking the big questions. Who am I? Why am I here? What is the world for?
And if you want to see that in action, just watch a child. Children are natural philosophers. They don’t live down in the fur. They climb. They ask. They prod. They question. My seven-year-old grandson Lucas is a perfect example. Spend half an hour with him and you’ll be interrogated like a suspect on Line of Duty. “Why’s the sky blue? Why do dogs bark? Why can’t I have another biscuit? Why do you wear those funny clothes at church? And — the killer — why are you so old?” Children don’t stop asking questions, because they haven’t yet accepted the fur as their permanent home.
We, on the other hand, get comfortable. We stop asking. And that’s dangerous, because the big questions don’t go away. They just lurk beneath the surface.
Let me put it another way: most of us live life like it’s Tesco. We go in, grab a trolley, get what we need, and get out. Milk, bread, petrol points. Done. But every now and again, someone stops in aisle five and says, “Hang on a minute… who built Tesco? And why are we all wandering round this fluorescent cathedral with our plastic baskets? Is this a new kind of church, where we make our offering at the altar of the checkout, and receive blessings in the form of groceries. And come to think of it, who am I? And why do I need twelve tins of beans when I only came in for milk?”
That’s what philosophy does. It’s Tesco-shopping with your eyes open. Augustine of Hippo knew all about that. He had all the titles, the swagger, the career. But he was restless. Deep down, he was asking those childlike questions. And eventually, he scrambled up through the fur and glimpsed the Magician’s eyes. And from then on, he never stopped reminding people: wisdom is not about cleverness, it’s about humility. He once said: “The first thing in religion is humility. The second thing is humility. The third thing is humility.” He realised that only when we approach life humbly, like children, do we start to see clearly.
And that’s exactly what Jesus is getting at when he says, “You are all siblings.” Titles don’t matter half as much as whether we’re humble enough to keep asking questions, to keep seeking God’s wisdom.
So here’s the challenge. Don’t just live buried in the fur. Don’t just do the shopping, pay the bills, watch Strictly, and call it a week. Ask the big questions. Who am I? Why am I here? What is this world for? And don’t just ask them in the pub, because you’ll get someone telling you aliens built the pyramids. Ask them in prayer. Ask them with humility. Because then you might just glimpse the Magician’s eyes.
So yes, you can call me Rector, Canon, Tom — or even “Oi, you” if you catch me dithering in the biscuit aisle. But the real question is whether you and I are willing to climb together, to be as curious as children, and to let that wonder reshape the way we live.
That is wisdom. Not pomposity, not titles — but humility, curiosity, and the courage to keep climbing. Amen.
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