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.