Cuthbert: A Radical Call to Reclaim Lost Sheep

A sermon for the feast day of Cuthbert, Bishop of Lindisfarne, Missionary, d.687 (20 March)

Texts: 2 Corinthians 6.1–10 and Matthew 18.12–14

By any modern standards, Cuthbert is a very odd fellow indeed.  Picture him, the monk, the bishop, the hermit, alone on his windswept Inner Farne, puffins alone for companions, the wild North Sea a constant, rhythmic prayer. He remembers the sheep he tended as a boy, the visions that called him from the hills of his youth, the long, arduous journeys that led him to Lindisfarne, and then, finally, to this solitary refuge. He remembers the faces of those he served, his silent communion with the creatures of the shore.  He reflects on the unwavering call of a God that echoed in the crashing waves and the cries of the gulls. He is Saint Cuthbert, a soul forged in the crucible of wind and wave, a life etched in the stark beauty of the northern landscape, a testament to the power of a simple, radical faith.

We gather today, on this feast day of one of the greatest of Britain’s saints, not to merely recall a figure from a distant age, but to ignite within ourselves the spark of his radical spirit. We stand here, on the cusp of spring, a time of renewal, and we consider the life of a man who embodied that very renewal, a man whose life speaks to us with a startling clarity.  We’ll think about Cuthbert together, but through the lens of the readings we’ve just heard – through Paul's urgent plea to the Corinthians (2 Corinthians 6:1-10) and Jesus’ parable of the lost sheep. (Matthew 18:12-14.)

First Paul, who implores his readers, including us, “not to receive God’s grace in vain.” He lays bare the trials of ministry: affliction, hardships, calamities, beatings, imprisonments, riots, labours, sleepless nights, hunger.  And yet, amidst this litany of suffering, he proclaims the paradoxical reality of the Christian life: we are “sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; poor, yet making many rich; having nothing, and yet possessing everything.”

Cuthbert: the shepherd boy, like King David, who became a monk, a bishop, a hermit. He knew hardship. He knew the biting winds of the North Sea, the isolation of Inner Farne, the weight of leadership. Yet, in that very isolation, in that very simplicity, he found a profound connection with the divine. He knew the joy of communion with God in the wild, the solace of the sea birds, the quiet strength of the earth. And he made many rich in their hearts by the depth of his connection to the Divine, hard-won, on the stark North sea coast.

In this age of rampant consumerism and ecological devastation, we have so much to learn from Cuthbert’s reverence for creation. He understood the natural world as a sacred space, a testament to God’s boundless love, and not merely a resource to be exploited.  He lived a life of radical simplicity, a life that challenged the prevailing norms of his time, just as it challenges ours.

By complete contrast, we are bombarded with messages that tell us we are not enough, that we need more, that happiness lies in material possessions. But Cuthbert, like Paul, understood that true wealth lies not in what we possess, but in what we give. He gave his life to God, to his community, to the very land he walked upon.

Then let’s turn to Jesus’ parable of the lost sheep. He tells us that if a shepherd has a hundred sheep and one goes astray, he will leave the ninety-nine and go in search of the lost one. That is the radical, unrelenting love of God. A love that leaves the comfortable flock to seek out the marginalized, the forgotten, the broken.

Cuthbert, in his own way, embodied this relentless pursuit of the lost. He was a pastor who cared deeply for his flock, who sought out the spiritual well-being of every soul under his care. He was a leader who understood that true leadership is about service, not power.

Today, we are surrounded by lost sheep. We see them in the faces of the homeless, the refugees, the victims of injustice. We see them in the eyes of those who have been marginalized and excluded by the very institutions that claim to represent God.

The church, at times, has been guilty of neglecting these lost sheep. We have become too comfortable within our walls, too concerned with maintaining our own power and privilege. Too concerned about our internal battles for our traditions and for our particular ideas about God.  We have forgotten the radical call of Jesus to go out into the world and seek the lost.

Cuthbert’s life is a challenge to us. It is a call to reclaim the lost sheep, to stand in solidarity with the marginalized, to live lives of radical simplicity and ecological responsibility. It is a call to be, as Paul urges, “sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; poor, yet making many rich; having nothing, and yet possessing everything.”

This is not a call to passive piety. My friends, our faith calls us to more than just attending church.  Cuthbert, Paul and Jesus call us to action.  It is a call to be agents of change, to be beacons of hope in a world that is fast losing that hope.  It is a call to live our faith with courage and conviction, to embrace the paradox of the Christian life, to find joy in sorrow, strength in weakness, and abundance in simplicity.

So, on this feast of St Cuthbert, shall we commit ourselves anew to the radical path of following Jesus? Can we be inspired by his example of love, compassion, and unwavering trust in the Divine?  We are invited to reclaim the lost sheep; not just those outside the church, but those within, who have been wounded by our judgement and neglected by our indifference.   Shall we dare to live lives that reflect the beauty and simplicity of God’s creation.  And may we, like Cuthbert, find our true home in the Divine heart. Amen.

Understanding the Atonement

The campfire stories of our Christian journey, passed down through generations, centre on one pivotal concept: atonement. This uniquely English theological term, "at-one-ment," speaks to a reconciliation, a bridging of the chasm between humanity and God. While other faiths speak of divine forgiveness, only Christianity proclaims that this forgiveness was wrought by God's own agent, Jesus Christ. But what, precisely, transpired on that fateful day? For two millennia, we have grappled with this enigma. Even Jesus, in his earthly ministry, offered glimpses rather than explicit explanations. He spoke of the "necessity" of the Son of Man's suffering, of his body and blood "poured out for many, for the forgiveness of sins." Yet, the precise mechanism – exactly what, on a cosmic scale his death would achieve - remained shrouded in mystery.

The early Christians, seeking understanding, turned to the Hebrew Bible. They found, in the prophecies of Isaiah, the enigmatic figure of the "Servant of God," who "poured out his soul to death, and bore the sin of many." They read that "The LORD has laid on him the iniquity of us all." While Jewish interpretations varied, the early Christians discerned a powerful resonance between this servant and Jesus Christ. The Apostle Paul and other New Testament writers employed four key concepts to articulate this connection: sacrifice, propitiation, reconciliation, and ransom.

First, **sacrifice**. In the Jewish tradition, sacrifice was a ritual of atonement, a means of appeasing divine wrath. From humble offerings to grand oblations, the belief was that a precious offering could stem God's anger. This concept led to the second: **propitiation**. The early thinkers believed that Christ's death was a propitiation, an appeasement of God's wrath. Through his suffering, they asserted, Jesus satisfied divine justice.

Third, **reconciliation**. This propitiating sacrifice, they believed, brought about reconciliation, a restoration of fellowship between humanity and God. This is the very essence of atonement, the "at-one-ment" that unites us with our Creator. As Paul wrote, "God through Christ was reconciling the world to himself." Fourth, **ransom**. To further deepen the meaning of the cross, the early writers introduced the concept of ransom. Enslaved by sin, and thus by Satan, the father of sin, we required a redeemer, a ransom paid to liberate us. As Mark records, Jesus declared that he came "to give his life as a ransom to many."

Yet, these early interpretations were not without their critics. Questions arose, challenging the very foundations upon which these doctrines rested. Was God truly a God of wrath? After all, Jesus himself proclaimed, "God so loved the world..." He revealed a God of love, a Father, Abba, who understands and forgives. Could this loving Father truly harbour wrath? Some argue that love and anger are not mutually exclusive, that a loving parent can indeed experience both.

Another point of contention was the existence of Satan. Is he a literal being, or a metaphor for the pervasive evil in the world? How could an all-powerful God permit a demonic being to torment his children? If Satan is merely a metaphor, then what need for a ransom? These questions challenged the traditional understanding of the cross, prompting theologians to seek new interpretations.

One such interpretation, proposed by Peter Abelard in the 11th century, was the **moral example**. For Abelard, Christ's death was a profound demonstration of God's love, a love so great that he aligned himself with human suffering. This act of love, Abelard argued, elicits a grateful response from humanity, inspiring us to live according to God's will.

In the 16th century, Faustus Socinus offered another perspective: the **supreme example**. Socinus saw Christ's death as a model of perfect obedience, a testament to unwavering trust in God, even in the face of suffering and death. As Peter wrote, "Christ also suffered for you, leaving you an example, that you should follow in his steps."

In the 20th century, Rowan Williams, former Archbishop of Canterbury, introduced the concept of the **myth of redemptive violence**. Williams argued that Jesus' death was the ultimate consequence of his refusal to combat violence with violence. He exposed the fallacy of believing that greater violence can solve the world's problems. Christ is not a hero, in the tradition of Greek gods, or superman.  He doesn’t just use more violence to defeat the world’s violence.  Rather. he absorbed the world's violence, transforming it through love.  He even generates faith and hope in those around him at the moment of his death, such as the thief, the centurion, and in his dying care for his mother. Furthermore, Williams suggested that the cross is a stark illustration of what happens when we remove God from our lives, pushing him to the margins of society – literally outside the City - silencing his voice.

These interpretations, and countless others, offer diverse perspectives on the meaning of the cross. The symbolism of blood, the Day of Atonement, and many other theological concepts add further layers of complexity. But what, then, is the truth?

For me, the answer lies in embracing the totality of these interpretations. "All of the above!" I believe that each perspective holds a kernel of truth, even if that truth is metaphorical. Even if Satan is a metaphor, we still struggle against the forces of evil. If the metaphor of ransom helps us in this struggle, let us use it. If God is love, he is also capable of righteous anger. If the concept of propitiation helps us understand the transition from anger to forgiveness, let us embrace it.

Our task, on the journey of faith, is to continue exploring the depths of this mystery, peeling back the layers of meaning, discovering new insights with each passing Good Friday. The death of Jesus is an inexhaustible source of wonder, a canvas for our imaginations, a testament to the boundless love of God. Let us, then, embrace this mystery, and allow it to transform our lives, shaping us into the image of the one who died for us all.

Enemies of Christ

Texts: Philippians 3.17 – 4.1

Luke 13.31-35

Today’s readings invite us to wrestle with uncomfortable truths. Paul, that relentless apostle, writes to the Philippians, "Join together in following my example…for many live as enemies of the cross of Christ. Their destiny is destruction, their god is their stomach, and their glory is in their shame. Their minds are set on earthly things." And then, in contrast, a clarion call: "But our citizenship is in heaven. And we eagerly await a Saviour from there, the Lord Jesus Christ, who, by the power that enables him to bring everything under his control, will transform our lowly bodies so that they will be like his glorious body."   

Let us not shy away from the starkness of this language. "Enemies of the cross." It echoes, does it not, the chilling threat delivered to Jesus in Luke's gospel, "Get away from here, Herod wants to kill you." Herod, the puppet king, the embodiment of earthly power, fearful of a truth that threatened his fragile grasp on control. Herod, who sought to silence the voice of justice, the voice of love, the voice of God. We see then, the same desire to silence truth and love, in both readings.

But who are these "enemies of Christ" that Paul weeps over? Are they the Herods of our time: the tyrants and dictators? Yes, in part. But Paul's gaze is broader, more penetrating. He speaks of those whose "god is their stomach," (which is a challenge to me, very personally!) whose "glory is in their shame," whose "minds are set on earthly things." He speaks of those who prioritize material gain, power, and prestige over the radical love and self-sacrifice that Jesus embodied.

These "enemies of Christ" are not always those who openly reject Jesus. In fact, they very well might be those who claim to follow him, but whose actions betray their words. They might be those who use the language of faith to justify hatred, division, and exclusion. They might be those who cling to rigid doctrines and condemn those who dare to question, those who refuse to see the image of God in those who are different from them.

Think of the politicians who demonize immigrants, who build walls instead of bridges, who peddle fear and division for political gain. Think of the corporations that exploit workers and destroy the environment in the pursuit of profit. Think of the religious leaders who preach intolerance and condemn those who love differently, who live differently, who believe differently. These, friends, are the Herods and the "enemies of Christ" in our midst. (But let us also remember, that we do also see examples of politicians who champion justice, corporations that prioritize sustainability, and religious leaders who promote inclusivity.)

And how do we respond? Do we meet their hatred with hatred? Do we return their condemnation with condemnation? Paul, echoing the very heart of Jesus, calls us to a different path. He calls us to imitate Christ, to follow his example of love, compassion, and forgiveness. He calls us to remember that our citizenship is not in the kingdoms of this world, but in the kingdom of God, a kingdom where love reigns supreme.

Jesus, facing Herod's threat, wept over Jerusalem, lamenting, "Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you, how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, and you were not willing!" He wept not with anger, but with sorrow, with a deep and abiding love for those who rejected him. He saw their fear, their blindness, their self-destructive path, and his heart broke.   

We too must weep for those who are lost, for those who are blinded by power and greed, for those who are trapped in cycles of hatred and violence. We must weep, but we must also act. We must speak truth to power, challenge injustice, and stand in solidarity with the oppressed. We must be the hands and feet of Christ, extending love and compassion to all, even to those who seek to harm us.

Paul reminds us that we eagerly await a Saviour who will transform our lowly bodies into his glorious body. Notice this, though. It’s easy to read Paul’s words and to assume that he’s talking about a future heaven, in resurrected bodies. That’s the standard way that this verse is understood. But I want to offer a different take on Paul’s words. We can also read these words not as a promise of escape from the world, but a promise of transformation within the world. Some may interpret these verses as solely referring to a future resurrection. However, I believe that Paul's message also speaks to the transformative power of Christ in our present lives.

The life of a Christian is one of sacrifice, just as it was for Jesus. By offering our lowly, yes fat, unhealthy, maybe elderly, even sick bodies to the transforming work of Christ, we are promised that Christ will draw us into his body. We become caught up with others, in the work of Christ. Our individual acts of kindness, our struggles for justice, are not isolated events. They are woven together, creating a tapestry of love that transforms the world. We offer our weakness, and Christ transforms it into strength – by binding our feeble effort with the efforts of all the friends of Christ throughout the world. This, ultimately, is a resurrection promise. It is a promise that love will ultimately triumph over hate, that justice will prevail over injustice, that life will overcome death.

We are called to be agents of that transformation, to be living examples of the love of Christ in a world that desperately needs it. We are called to embody the radical inclusivity of Jesus, to welcome the stranger, to feed the hungry, to heal the sick, to comfort the broken hearted. We are called to be a community of love, a beacon of hope, a testament to the power of the gospel to transform lives and change the world.

So, let’s do it. Let’s follow Paul's exhortation. Let us join together in following the example of Christ, keeping our eyes on those who live as he did. We will not be afraid to challenge the "enemies of Christ" in our world and even in our community, but we will do so with love and compassion. We will remember that even they, like us, are children of God, worthy of redemption. We commit ourselves, however, to live as citizens of heaven, bringing the kingdom of God to earth, one act of love, one act of justice, one act of forgiveness at a time. Let us become the change we wish to see in the world, and in doing so, reflect the glorious image of Christ.

The Golden Rule

Isaiah 55:6-9

Seek the Lord while he may be found;

    call upon him while he is near;

let the wicked forsake their way

    and the unrighteous their thoughts;

let them return to the Lord, that he may have mercy on them,

    and to our God, for he will abundantly pardon.

For my thoughts are not your thoughts,

    nor are your ways my ways, says the Lord.

For as the heavens are higher than the earth,

    so are my ways higher than your ways

    and my thoughts than your thoughts.

Matthew 7:7-12

 “Ask, and it will be given to you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you. For everyone who asks receives, and everyone who searches finds, and for everyone who knocks, the door will be opened. Is there anyone among you who, if your child asked for bread, would give a stone? Or if the child asked for a fish, would give a snake? If you, then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good things to those who ask him!

“In everything do to others as you would have them do to you, for this is the Law and the Prophets.

______________________________________________________________________________

Today, in the middle of Lent, we turn our gaze to the words that have echoed through generations: words that, if we truly listen, can shake the very foundations of our understanding. Isaiah thunders, “Seek the Lord while he may be found; call on him while he is near. For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,” declares the Lord. “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.”

And then, a carpenter’s son, a radical preacher, echoes this sentiment in a way that cuts through the centuries: “Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; the one who seeks finds; and to the one who knocks, the door will be opened.” 

But let us be clear, lest we fall into the trap of a transactional faith, a divine vending machine where we insert prayers and receive material rewards. This is not the promise of a celestial Santa Claus dispensing trinkets and baubles. This is a promise of closeness. A promise of intimacy with the divine, a communion that transcends the fleeting desires of the flesh.

We have been sold a bill of goods, a distorted image of a God who micromanages our lives, who rewards the pious with worldly riches and punishes the “unbelievers” with earthly suffering. This is a cruel caricature, a grotesque distortion of the profound mystery that lies at the heart of existence. For if God’s ways are truly higher than our ways, if God’s thoughts are beyond our comprehension, then to presume we can predict or control the divine is the height of hubris.

And yet, we cling to this illusion, this comforting delusion that we know God’s mind, that we can manipulate the universe with our prayers. We build walls around our faith, excluding those who do not share our particular brand of piety, forgetting that the divine spark ignites in every heart, regardless of creed or dogma.

Jesus, in his wisdom, offers a simple, yet profound, guide: “So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you, for this sums up the Law and the Prophets.” This, my friends, is not a uniquely Christian principle. It is the golden thread that weaves through the tapestry of human wisdom. It echoes in the Hindu concept of ahimsa, non-violence, the Jain principle of anekantavada, respecting multiple viewpoints, the Buddhist emphasis on metta, loving-kindness, the Confucian principle of shu, reciprocity, and the Jewish teaching of “what is hateful to you, do not do to your neighbour.”

This is not a coincidence. This is the inherent truth, the universal language of compassion that transcends the boundaries of religion. It is the recognition that we are all interconnected, that our actions ripple outwards, affecting not only ourselves, but the entire web of existence. To harm another is to harm ourselves. To love another is to love ourselves.

We are not called to build walls, but to build bridges. We are not called to judge, but to understand. We are not called to hoard, but to share. We are not called to demand, but to seek. To seek not material possessions, but the very presence of the divine, the connection to the source of all being.

This seeking, this knocking, this asking, is not a passive endeavour. It requires courage, vulnerability, and a willingness to let go of our preconceived notions. It requires us to confront our own biases, our own prejudices, our own fears. It requires us to look beyond the surface, to see the humanity in every person, regardless of their background, their beliefs, or their circumstances.

For the kingdom of God, the realm of the divine, is not a place we arrive at, but a state of being we cultivate. It is a way of living, a way of interacting with the world, a way of loving. It is a recognition that the sacred resides within us, within each other, and within the very fabric of creation.

Let us, then, abandon our illusions of control and embrace the mystery of the divine. Let us open our hearts to the wisdom that flows through all traditions, all cultures, all beings. Let us live the golden rule, not as a mere platitude, but as a radical act of love, a testament to our shared humanity. Let us seek, not the fleeting comforts of this world, but the eternal embrace of the divine, the boundless love that transcends all understanding. For in that seeking, in that knocking, in that asking, we will find the true treasure, the true fulfilment, the true meaning of life.  Amen

Standing on the precipice of faith

Texts:  Exodus 34 and Luke 9

Friends, siblings in the journey, we stand here, perched on the precipice. Wednesday (or Thursday) comes the ashes, the stark reminder of our mortality, the call to introspection. But before we plunge into the Lenten wilderness, let us wrestle with two visions, two encounters that sear themselves into the very fabric of our faith.

First Exodus 34. Moses descends, face radiant, a reflection of divine glory. The people, they shrink back, terrified. They cannot bear the light. They demand a veil, a buffer, a distance. How familiar is this fear, this desire to shield ourselves from the raw, unfiltered presence of the divine? We build our theological walls, our doctrinal barricades, our sometimes stale religious worship, afraid of the unsettling truth that God’s glory might disrupt our comfortable certainties. We prefer our gods domesticated, predictable, fitting neatly into our pre-conceived boxes. We want a God who affirms our status quo, who blesses our comfortable lives, who reinforces our prejudices. But the light, the sheer, blinding light of God’s love, refuses to be contained. It spills over, it transforms, it demands a response.

Then, Luke 9. The mountaintop, a glimpse of the transfigured Christ. Peter, James, and John, overwhelmed, confused, wanting to build shrines, to freeze this moment of ecstatic revelation. They want to possess it, to control it, to turn it into a religious spectacle. But the voice, the thunderous, undeniable voice, shatters their carefully constructed illusions. “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!” Not build a shrine, not create a ritual, not cling to the past. Listen.

And therein lies the challenge, the radical, unsettling challenge of our faith. To listen. Not to the echo chambers of our own certainties, not to the voices of power and privilege, but to the voice of the one who embodies God’s love, God’s justice, God’s radical inclusivity. To listen to the one who challenges our assumptions, who overturns our tables, who calls us to love our enemies, to care for the marginalized, to dismantle the systems of oppression that perpetuate suffering.

The voice that booms from the cloud, it is a call to action, not passive adoration. It is a demand to engage with the world, to confront injustice, to embody the love that Jesus preached and lived. It is a call to dismantle the veils we construct, the veils of fear, of prejudice, of apathy, that keep us from seeing the face of God in every human being.

Some will say, “But the God of the Old Testament, the God of Moses, that’s a God of wrath, of judgment.” They cling to the old paradigms, the old hierarchies, the old power structures. They want to keep God confined to the pages of ancient texts, to the dusty halls of tradition. But the God revealed in Jesus, the God who speaks from the cloud, is a God of love, a God of liberation, a God who breaks down the walls that divide us.

The voice that commands us to listen is not a voice of authoritarian power, demanding blind obedience. It is a voice of invitation, a voice of love, a voice that calls us to participate in the ongoing work of creation, the ongoing work of redemption. It is a voice that empowers us to be agents of change, to be beacons of hope in a world shrouded in darkness.

This Lent, let us not retreat into self-denial for its own sake. Let us not engage in empty rituals or performative piety. Let us instead use this time to listen deeply, to listen to the still, small voice within, to listen to the cries of the oppressed, to listen to the whispers of the Spirit. Let us strip away the veils that obscure our vision, the veils of privilege, of complacency, of fear. Let us confront the darkness within ourselves and within our world.

The transfiguration, it is not a moment frozen in time. It is a glimpse of what is possible, a glimpse of the kingdom of God breaking through into our reality. It is a reminder that we are all called to be transfigured, to be transformed by the light of God’s love.

And that command, "listen to him," it is not a suggestion. It is a mandate. It is a call to action. It is a call to radical discipleship. It is a call to embody the love of Christ in our words, in our actions, in our very being.

Let us not shrink back from the light. Let us not build shrines to our own comfort. Let us instead embrace the challenge, embrace the transformation, embrace the radical love that calls us to be co-creators of a more just and compassionate world. Let us listen, truly listen, to the one who speaks from the cloud, the one who embodies the very essence of God’s love. And let that listening transform us, transform our communities, transform our world.  Amen.

What is wisdom?

Text:  Mark 9: 38-40

Brothers and sisters, seekers of truth, fellow travellers on this winding path of existence, today’s readings invite us to wrestle with the nature of wisdom, that elusive quarry that has captivated hearts and minds since the dawn of human consciousness. We are told, in the ancient wisdom of Ecclesiasticus, that wisdom exalts her children and cares for those who seek her. She walks with them, she holds them fast, she nourishes them with the bread of understanding and gives them the water of salvation. But what, precisely, is this wisdom? Is it a dusty tome locked away in a forgotten library? Is it a secret handshake reserved for the initiated? Or is it something far more radical, far more accessible, far more… human?

We find ourselves, as always, drawn to the story of Jesus, a man who, if nothing else, understood the profound absurdity of human arrogance. Consider the scene before us, as recounted by Mark. John, one of Jesus’ own disciples, puffed up with a sense of self-righteousness, reports that he has seen someone casting out demons in Jesus’ name, but because the man was not one of their inner circle, he was told to stop. This, my friends, is the very definition of spiritual gatekeeping, the kind of narrow-mindedness that has plagued religious institutions for centuries.

Jesus, with his characteristic blend of exasperation and compassion, cuts through the fog of pious delusion. “Do not stop him,” he declares. “For no one who does a miracle in my name can in the next moment say anything bad about me, for whoever is not against us is for us.” Let that sink in. Whoever is not against us is for us. This is not a call for theological uniformity. This is not a demand for doctrinal purity. This is a radical invitation to embrace the inherent goodness that exists beyond the boundaries of our own limited understanding.

John, like so many of us, fell prey to the seductive illusion that truth is a possession, a commodity to be hoarded and controlled. He confused loyalty to a group with loyalty to the very essence of love and compassion that Jesus embodied. He forgot that the Spirit, the very breath of life, cannot be contained within the walls of any single institution, any single creed, any single ideology.

The pursuit of wisdom, as understood in the Judeo-Christian tradition, and indeed, in many other spiritual paths, is not about accumulating knowledge for its own sake. It is about cultivating a deep and abiding awareness of our interconnectedness, our shared humanity. It is about recognizing the divine spark that flickers within every living being, regardless of their background, their beliefs, or their social status.

Think of the Buddha, sitting beneath the Bodhi tree, seeking enlightenment. Think of the Sufi mystics, whirling in ecstatic communion with the divine. Think of the Indigenous elders, listening to the wisdom of the earth. In each of these traditions, and in countless others, we find a common thread: the recognition that true wisdom is born of humility, of openness, of a willingness to transcend the limitations of our own ego.

Jesus, in his encounter with John, exemplifies this very principle. He refuses to be confined by the expectations of his followers. He challenges their assumptions, he expands their horizons, he reminds them that the work of healing and liberation is not the exclusive domain of any one group.

 We, too, are called to this same radical openness. We are called to recognize the wisdom that exists beyond the boundaries of our own comfort zones. We are called to embrace the inherent goodness that shines through even the most unexpected sources.

So, let us be done with the petty squabbles and the theological hairsplitting that distract us from the real work of building a more just and compassionate world. Let us be done with the arrogance that tells us we have a monopoly on truth. Let us, instead, embrace the spirit of radical inclusivity that Jesus embodied.

Let us recognize that the person who volunteers at a soup kitchen, the activist who fights for social justice, the scientist who seeks to understand the mysteries of the universe, the artist who creates beauty in the face of despair – all of these are engaged in the pursuit of wisdom, all of these are contributing to the healing of our world.

Let us, in the words of Jesus, see that whoever is not against us is for us. Let us, together, build a world where wisdom reigns, where compassion triumphs, and where love is the guiding principle of all our actions. Let us, together, seek and find the wisdom that exalts, that nourishes, that saves. Amen.

Embracing the suffering...

Text:  Mark 8.27-33

Friends, we gather at a pivotal moment in Mark’s Gospel. Jesus, having journeyed with his disciples, sharing meals, teaching, healing, now asks a question that echoes through the ages: “Who do you say that I am?”

Think of the weight of this question. These men, Jesus’ companions, had witnessed his extraordinary acts, heard his radical pronouncements about the kingdom, seen the hope he ignited. They had left everything to follow him.  And now, their leader asks them, point-blank, to define him.

Peter, ever bold, declares, “You are the Christ.” The Messiah. The long-awaited king.  A powerful declaration. But Jesus immediately pivots. He doesn’t bask in the glory. He doesn’t confirm their expectations of an earthly ruler. Instead, he speaks of the Son of Man, and of the suffering that awaits him.

This title, “Son of Man,” is fascinating.  It appears throughout Hebrew scripture, particularly Daniel.  Sometimes it refers simply to a human being, emphasizing mortality.  Other times, it takes on a more exalted meaning, referring to a figure who will come in power to establish God’s kingdom. In Jesus’ time, the meaning was fluid, open to interpretation, carrying both human solidarity and a hint of divine destiny.

When Jesus calls himself the Son of Man, he's not necessarily claiming divine status as we understand it today. He’s not using later theological formulations like “Son of God.”  He’s drawing on scripture to describe his unique role, one that defies easy categorization. He’s saying, “I am one of you, human, yet also something more, something transcendent.”

And what is that “something more”? Not worldly power, not political dominance, not military might. It’s suffering. Jesus predicts his own suffering, rejection, and death. Not as a distant possibility, but as inevitable.  Remarkably, he assigns no theological meaning to this suffering. No explanation of sacrifice for sins, no atonement theory. He simply says it must happen.

Peter recoils. He can’t comprehend a Messiah who suffers. He rebukes Jesus.  But Jesus turns on Peter with startling severity: “Get behind me, Satan! You are not setting your mind on God's things but on human things.”

Harsh words. Why such a strong reaction?  Perhaps because Peter’s objection reveals a fundamental misunderstanding. Peter, like many, wanted a Messiah who conformed to expectations, a Messiah of immediate triumph, avoiding hardship.  But Jesus’ path is different. It leads through suffering, through vulnerability, through the depths of human experience.

What does this mean for us? What does it mean for our understanding of suffering? We live in a world that tries to shield us from pain, that promises ease and convenience. But Jesus reminds us that suffering is inescapable. It’s not to be avoided at all costs, but faced, integrated into our lives.

I’m not suggesting we seek suffering. I’m not saying we glorify pain. But when suffering comes, as it will, we shouldn’t deny it or run from it.  We should look to Jesus’ example. Embrace vulnerability, acknowledge pain, and trust that even in darkness, God is with us.

As many of you know, this week marks ten years since my installation as Rector. It’s been an exciting, transformative decade, for me and for this parish. But also, a decade of suffering.  Together, we navigated the Covid pandemic, many losing loved ones.  Personally, I faced health challenges, including heart problems and surgery, and periods of stress.  Our staff have also experienced stress, meeting the demands of modern society.  We’ve all suffered in different ways, through health, loss, and daily struggles. Yet, looking back through these years, through the suffering, I see the moments that brought us together – in mourning, compassion, service. I see the growth in our community, the building improvements, the generosity of so many. I see the hope of resurrection binding us. The suffering has not defined us, but in many ways, strengthened us.

The remedy for suffering is not avoidance, but finding meaning. Connecting with others, sharing burdens, offering and receiving compassion. Discovering resilience, the strength from brokenness. Recognizing that even in suffering, we are not alone. We are part of a larger story, of pain and joy, loss and redemption, death and resurrection.

Just as Jesus’ suffering wasn’t the end, neither will ours define us. It won't have the final word. It can be a catalyst for growth, a source of wisdom, a pathway to deeper understanding.  It can connect us profoundly to our own humanity, and to others.

So, let us go forth from this service, not fearing suffering, but embracing it. Let us follow Jesus, not on a path of worldly triumph, but on one of compassion, humility, love.  His question rings in our ears: “Who do you say that I am?”.  Let us answer not with empty titles, or theological dogmas, but with lives of service, hearts of compassion, and a willingness to embrace the fullness of human experience, its pain, its mystery, and its boundless hope. Amen.