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.

Shaking the dust from our feet

Text: Mark 6.7-13

Today’s Gospel reading offers us a snapshot from the life of Jesus, as told by Mark.  It's a story of mission, of vulnerability, and of the messy, beautiful, and often challenging work of spreading a message of love and liberation.  We hear how Jesus, surrounded by his growing band of followers, sends them out. Notice, though, that he doesn’t send them as a large, well-equipped force, ready to dominate the powers of the world by force.  Rather, he sends them our two by two, armed with nothing but a staff and the authority to cast out unclean spirits.  Think about that for a moment.  No grand strategy, no vast resources, just the simple act of pairing up and stepping out in faith.

Mark says "He called the twelve and began to send them out two by two, and gave them authority over the unclean spirits."  What, I wonder, are these unclean spirits?  In Jesus's day, they were often understood as malevolent entities, external forces of evil that possessed individuals, causing physical and mental suffering.  But we must ask ourselves: what might these "unclean spirits" represent to us today, in our context, and with our more scientific understanding?  Could they be, perhaps, the internal demons we wrestle with – the self-doubt, the fear, the ingrained prejudices that hold us back from living fully and compassionately?  Could they be the systemic injustices that plague our world – poverty, racism, environmental destruction – the forces that corrupt and diminish the human spirit?  I believe they are all these things, and more.  Consider, for example, the spirit of greed that drives environmental destruction, or the spirit of fear that fuels xenophobia. These, too, are unclean spirits that we must confront.

Jesus gives his disciples the power to cast out these unclean spirits.  This isn't about some magical ritual or some scene from a horror movie in which demons are cast out.  It's about the power of love to overcome fear, the power of hope to conquer despair, the power of community to dismantle oppressive systems.  It's about recognizing the inherent worth and dignity of every human being and working to create a world where everyone can flourish.  This power resides not just in some select few (the qualified exorcists among us, perhaps).  It resides in each and every one of us.  We are all called to be agents of healing, to confront the "unclean spirits" in our own lives and in the world around us.

Mark goes on: "He instructed them to take nothing for their journey except a staff—no bread, no bag, no money in their belts—but to wear sandals and not put on two tunics."  This instruction speaks to a radical simplicity, a reliance on the generosity of others, and a detachment from material possessions.  It's a reminder that our true strength lies not in what we have, but in who we are and the message we carry.  It's a challenge to our consumer-driven culture, which constantly tells us that we need more, that our worth is measured by our possessions.  Jesus's words invite us to consider what truly sustains us, what truly matters.  Is it the accumulation of wealth and power? Or is it the connections we forge, the love we share, the difference we make in the lives of others?

Next, Mark tells us, the disciples are sent out to preach repentance.  Now, in our modern ears, the word "repentance" can sound harsh, judgmental.  But in its original context, it carries a different meaning.  It's not about self-flagellation or wallowing in guilt.  It’s not even about the rather subjugated tones of the confession that this 17th century service offers us, with its repeated cries for mercy on “us miserable offenders”.  Rather, true repentance is about a turning, a reorientation, a shift in perspective.  It's about recognizing the ways in which we fall short of the love and compassion that Jesus embodies, and choosing his path, his Way, instead of our own.  It's about acknowledging our complicity in systems of injustice and committing to work for change.  It's an ongoing process, a lifelong journey of growth and transformation.

And then, finally, Mark brings us to the image of shaking the dust from our feet.  "If any place will not welcome you or listen to you, shake the dust off your feet when you leave, as a testimony against them."  This powerful symbolic act can be easily misinterpreted as an act of anger or judgment.  But I believe it's something far more profound.  It's an act of self-preservation, a way of letting go of negativity and refusing to be dragged down by those who reject the message of love and inclusion.  It's a way of saying, "I have offered you what I have to offer.  I have shared the good news.  And if you choose not to receive it, that is your choice.  I will not let your rejection define me or diminish my commitment to this work." 

Perhaps you know someone, in your life, who refuses to forgive another for the wrong they have done.  They remain trapped by that unforgiveness.  It eats them up, with anger and sleepless nights.  You advise them, you counsel them - that to hold back forgiveness is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.  But they cannot hear you, they will not hear you, even though they love you.  You must persist…it’s your job to try to turn them to the Light.  But you cannot be dragged into their world.  You must not accept their hate and feed it by accepting it.  Ultimately, you have no choice but to shake the dust from your feet, to recognize that you have done all you can, and to release them to their own path.  As the old saying goes:  “There is a Saviour, and you are not him”.

So for us modern evangelists, shaking the dust from our feet might mean something different than the literal action it did in Jesus's time.  Perhaps it means recognizing when our efforts are being met with resistance and knowing when to shift our focus.  Perhaps it means acknowledging that we cannot force anyone to believe what we believe, but we can continue to live out our faith with integrity and compassion, trusting that our actions will speak louder than words.

The disciples went out and preached repentance.  They cast out many demons and anointed many sick people with oil and healed them.  Their mission was not easy.  It was met with both acceptance and rejection.  But they persevered, sustained by their faith and their commitment to the message they carried.  And so too, are we called to go out into the world, not with certainty or arrogance, but with humility and compassion, offering the gifts of love, hope, and healing.  We are called to be the hands and feet of Christ, working to bring about a world where justice prevails, where peace reigns, and where all are welcomed and valued.  Let us go forth, then, from this service, in the spirit of those first disciples, empowered by the love that unites us, ready to face whatever challenges may lie ahead, and committed to sharing the good news with courage and compassion. Amen.

Candlemass - Being Lights in the Darkness

Text: Luke 2.22-30

Later in our Candlemass service, we will gather in the soft glow of candlelight, a gentle flame flickering against the winter darkness.  The official name of this day is ‘the Presentation of Christ in the Temple’ which took place forty days after his birth; a common practice at the time, similar to ‘christening’ today.  

Candlemass is a folk name – recalling a time when parishioners would bring their year’s supply of candles to church on this day, to ask for a blessing on them.  The blessing reminded everyone of the symbol of Christ’s light in dark homes.  Perhaps it was also in the hope of staving off accidents leading to fires in thatched homes from the same candles! 

Candlemass, or the Presentation, is a feast of light, a beacon of hope shining amidst the long winter nights.  And within this narrative, we encounter Simeon, an old man, righteous and devout, waiting patiently for the consolation of Israel.  He sees the infant Jesus, held in the arms of Mary and Joseph, and his spirit leaps within him.  “Lord,” he proclaims, “now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word; for mine eyes have seen thy salvation which thou hast prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light to the Gentiles, and the glory of thy people Israel.”  A light to the Gentiles.  What profound words!  What could Simeon, gazing upon this tiny babe, have possibly meant?

Think for a moment of the world into which Jesus was born. A world fractured by division, oppressed by Roman rule, steeped in religious and political turmoil (rather like our world today).  The Jewish people, God’s chosen, yearned for a Messiah, a deliverer who would restore the fortunes of Israel and establish their vision of God’s kingdom on earth.  But Simeon’s words transcend these narrow, nationalistic expectations.  This child, he declares, is not just for Israel, but a light to the Gentiles, to all nations!  A light to those considered outside the covenant, those who dwelt in darkness and the shadow of death.  This is a radical, inclusive vision, a promise of salvation that extends beyond all boundaries, embracing all of humanity in its radiant glow.  It speaks of a love that is boundless, a grace that is freely offered to all who will receive it.

And this light, this transformative message, has echoed down the centuries, carried by those who have dedicated their lives to sharing the Gospel.  We have, in recent times, witnessed individuals, leaders within our church, striving to bring this light to the nations.  They have sought to interpret the scriptures, to guide the faithful, to offer solace and hope in a world often devoid of both.  No-one, in recent times, has done this more heroically than Bishop Marian Budde of the Washington Cathedral, into the very ears of President Trump.  

Yet, not least in the Diocese of Liverpool this week, we have also seen how easily the flame can flicker, how human failings can cast a shadow over the purest intentions.  Recent events have reminded us that even those in positions of authority, those entrusted with the sacred duty of shepherding Christ’s flock, are not immune to error, to temptation, to the darkness that can creep into the human heart.  These failings, these betrayals of trust, wound the Church deeply and shake the faith of many.  They serve as a stark reminder that the light of Christ shines not through the perfection of individuals; but through the grace that sustains us all, despite our imperfections.

Let us turn our gaze now to another figure in the Temple, Anna, a prophetess, a woman of great age and wisdom.  She had spent her life in prayer and fasting, waiting for the redemption of Jerusalem.  And when she sees Jesus, she too recognizes him, not just as a baby, but as the Messiah, the one who will bring salvation.  And what does she do?  She, an elderly woman, goes out and tells everyone!  Imagine the scene: this frail, aged woman, her voice perhaps trembling, yet filled with unwavering conviction, sharing the joyous news with all who will listen.  Her age does not diminish her zeal, her physical limitations do not hinder her witness.  She becomes a beacon of hope, a messenger of joy, proclaiming the arrival of the long-awaited Savior.

And what of us, brothers and sisters?  We who have also seen the light, who have encountered Christ in our own lives, what is our response?  Are we content to keep this light to ourselves, to bask in its warmth without sharing it with others?  Or are we inspired by Anna’s example, compelled to go out and tell the world what we have seen and heard?  To be a light to the nations is not the preserve of bishops or ministers.  It is the calling of every Christian, every follower of Christ.  It is not about grand pronouncements or theological debates, but about the simple, everyday acts of love and compassion that reflect the light of Christ.

What does it mean, practically, to carry this light into the world?  It might mean offering a listening ear to someone who is struggling, extending a hand of friendship to someone who is lonely, speaking a word of comfort to someone who is grieving.  It might mean standing up for justice and speaking out against injustice, even when it is difficult or unpopular.  It might mean volunteering our time and talents to serve those in need, both within our church and in the wider community.  (In this week’s Fortnightly News, there are a few requests for volunteers – do give them your attention.)  It might mean simply living our lives with integrity and kindness, reflecting the love of Christ in all that we do.

The world is still shrouded in darkness, longing for the light of hope, just as it was in the time of Jesus.  Let us, like Simeon and Anna, recognize the presence of Christ in our midst.  Let us, like them, be witnesses to his love, sharing his light with all the world.  Let the candles we will light this day, be a symbol of our commitment to carry the flame of Christ’s love into the darkest corners of our world, until the day when his light shines in all its fullness, and every knee shall bow and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.  Amen.

If you see George Herbert on the road, shoot him.

Sermon for 30 January - Day of Commemoration for George Herbert, priest.

Readings:  Malachi 2.5-7 and Matthew 11.25-end

I’d like us to focus, today, on the calling of priesthood, a vocation as ancient as the scriptures themselves, and as relevant today as it ever was. Our readings, from Malachi and Matthew, offer us profound insights into the nature of this sacred office, while the life and works of George Herbert, a 17th-century priest and poet, provide a compelling example of how these principles can be lived out.  But the title of today’s sermon is ‘If you see George Herbert on the road, shoot him’.

Let’s first review some basic information about George Herbert, himself.  Born in 1593 George Herbert went up to Cambridge in 1614, eventually becoming a fellow of Trinity College. At the age of twenty-five, he became Public Orator in the University and then a Member of Parliament, apparently destined for a life at court. To everyone’s surprise, he then decided to be ordained and, after spending a time with his friend Nicholas Ferrar at Little Gidding, he was made deacon in 1626. He married in 1629, was priested in 1630 and given the care of souls of the parish of Bemerton, near Salisbury, where he spent the rest of his short life.

Herbert wrote prolifically, his hymns still being popular throughout the English-speaking world. His treatise, The Country Parson, on the priestly life, and his poetry, especially The Temple, earned Herbert a leading place in English literature. However, he never neglected the care of the souls of Bemerton, however, and encouraged attendance at daily prayer by his congregation, calling to mind the words of his hymn, ‘Seven whole days, not one in seven, I will praise thee’. He died on 1 March 1633  - just three years after his appointment – and was buried in his church at Bemerton two days later.

Turning to our readings for today, Malachi reminds us that the priest is to be a guardian of knowledge, a source of instruction for the people.  Malachi says: "The lips of a priest should guard knowledge, and people should seek instruction from his mouth, for he is the messenger of the Lord Almighty."  These words resonate across the centuries, highlighting the priest's responsibility to not only preserve the sacred teachings but also to interpret them, to make them relevant to the lives of the community.  It is a call to intellectual rigor, to deep study, and to a constant wrestling with the Word of God.  The priest is not simply a ritualist, but a teacher, a guide, a shepherd leading the flock to the green pastures of understanding.

Compare that model to George Herbert, a man of deep learning and profound devotion.  His poetry, rich in imagery and spiritual insight, continues to inspire and challenge us.  He understood the priest's role as a teacher, and his writings are filled with wisdom and guidance for those seeking to live a life of faith.  He saw the beauty in the everyday, the divine spark in the mundane, and he used his gifts to illuminate the path to God for others.

But Herbert's life, and indeed the lives of many priests of his era, stand in stark contrast to the realities of priestly ministry today.  We hear whispers of a bygone age, of quiet villages, of ample time for study and reflection, of a less bureaucratic, less demanding existence.  We hear tales of priest-naturalists like Gilbert White, who could dedicate their time to observing the wonders of the natural world alongside their pastoral duties.  The image of the priest in those days, often serving a single, small community, seems almost idyllic compared to the complex demands placed upon clergy today.

One modern clergyman, burdened by the pressures of his ministry, famously lamented, "If you see George Herbert on the road, shoot him!"  This cry speaks to a deep frustration.  It acknowledges the disparity between the idealized image of the priest, exemplified by figures like Herbert, and the often overwhelming reality faced by clergy in our time.  The modern priest is not just a spiritual guide, but also a manager, a counsellor, a fundraiser, a community organizer, and a compliance officer navigating a labyrinth of regulations.  The weight of national and diocesan bureaucracy, health and safety concerns, safeguarding responsibilities, and charity law often seems to overshadow the core mission of pastoral care and spiritual leadership.  Many priests have multiple parishes to manage, in a church that has forgotten how to give sufficient money to maintain the parochial pattern of clergy.

Where, then, does this leave us?  How do we reconcile the timeless calling of the priesthood with the changing demands of our world?  How do we, as priests and as congregations, ensure that the essential role of the priest as a guardian of knowledge, as a messenger of the Lord, is not lost amidst the noise and clamour of modern life?

The answer, I believe, lies in a renewed focus on the core principles articulated in our scriptures.  We must remember that the priest's primary responsibility is to speak truth, to proclaim the Gospel, to be a voice for justice and compassion.  This brings us to the recent controversy surrounding Bishop Budde's address to the then-President.  She, like the prophets of old, sought to speak truth to power, to challenge injustice, and to call for a return to the values of love and mercy.  Her actions remind us that the priest's role is not simply to comfort the afflicted, but also to afflict the comfortable, to challenge the status quo, and to stand for what is right, even when it is unpopular.

The world may want its priests to be efficient administrators, skilled in the art of management and compliance. But the world also desperately needs its priests to be prophets, to be voices of conscience, to be beacons of hope in a world often shrouded in darkness.  We must resist the temptation to prioritize efficiency over faithfulness, to sacrifice prophetic witness on the altar of expediency.  We must reclaim our role as guardians of knowledge, as interpreters of the sacred texts, and as messengers of the Lord, speaking truth to power, and offering a vision of a world redeemed by love and justice.  Let us strive to be priests in the tradition of George Herbert, not merely reciting the words of scripture, but embodying them in our lives, and sharing them with courage and compassion.  Let us pray that all priests may be worthy of this sacred calling, and that our ministry may be a blessing to the world.  Amen

The Unclean and the Unspeakable: Confronting the Stigma of Disease

Text: Mark 1:40 to end

My friends, today we journey with Mark to a time when fear and misunderstanding ruled the hearts of many. A leper, outcast from society, approaches Jesus, his voice trembling with desperation. "If you will, you can make me clean." (Mark 1:40)

We do well to remember that at this time, sickness was usually thought of as a punishment for sin.  People with major illnesses, or disabilities were judged by their neighbours to have either been a bad sinner, or the son of daughter of one.  This man, bearing the weight of a disease considered both physical and spiritual, represents the marginalized of our own time – those living with disabilities, mental illness, poverty, or the consequences of social injustice. They are often seen as "other," their humanity diminished, their dignity trampled.  

Just think, for a moment, about the different ways in which we treat people who we consider ‘one of us’, and those we consider ‘unlike us’.  Just as an example, it is all but illegal for news cameras in England to show the picture of a child’s face, without the written permission of their guardian.  But news cameras in Africa, or Palestine, have no such compunction.  Think too about the round-the-clock news coverage we get over, say, the stabbing of a British young person.  But the ongoing murder from the sky of thousands in Palestine, or the abduction of children from their homes in Nigeria, get barely a mention.

Jesus, in his radical compassion, shatters these societal constructs. He does not recoil in fear or disgust from the man whom everyone else thinks is a sinner, or ‘other’ than them. Instead, he reaches out, his touch a symbol of radical inclusion. "I will; be clean." (Mark 1:41)

This isn't just a physical healing, but a profound act of social justice. Jesus dismantles the barriers of exclusion, restoring the leper to his rightful place within the community.

But what are we to make of the instruction that follows: "See that you say nothing to anyone." (Mark 1:43)?  It feels like Jesus wants to suppress the truth. Perhaps he’s worried that people will start to view him as a ‘miracle healer’ more than a wise teacher.

However, through a Progressive Christian lens, we can choose to see Jesus’ instruction as a call for sensitivity and respect for the individual's journey. Healing is a deeply personal process. It requires time for reflection, for reintegration into society, for the individual to reclaim their sense of self.

Furthermore, the emphasis on following the Law of Moses (Mark 1:44) can be seen as a recognition of the importance of both spiritual and physical well-being. While acknowledging the limitations of the Old Testament, we can appreciate its emphasis on ritual purity as a metaphor for inner transformation and social responsibility.

Just as Jesus healed the leper, he calls us to heal the brokenness within ourselves and our world. This requires us, first to:

• Challenge the systems of oppression: We must dismantle the structures that marginalize and dehumanize individuals based on their differences. This includes advocating for accessible healthcare, affordable housing, and social justice for all.

• Secondly, we are called to embrace radical inclusivity: We must extend compassion and understanding to those who are different from us, recognizing the inherent dignity and worth of every human being.

• Thirdly, we are called to cultivate empathy and compassion: We must strive to see the world through the eyes of others, to walk in their shoes, and to understand the challenges they face.

The story of the leper is not just a historical anecdote. It is a powerful reminder of the transformative power of love, compassion, and radical inclusion. It is a call to action, urging us to build a world where everyone, regardless of their background, their abilities, or their perceived imperfections, is embraced with dignity and respect.

May we, like Jesus, be agents of healing, not just for the physical ailments of the body, but for the deeper wounds of the soul. May we strive to create a world where the marginalized are uplifted, the oppressed are empowered, and all are welcomed into the embrace of the Beloved Community. Amen.