Maundy Thursday - A thought experiment

Tonight, we stand on the threshold of the darkest hours of our Lord’s earthly life. The shadows lengthen, betrayal lurks, and the air crackles with a tension. We are here to remember, to reflect, and yes, perhaps to squirm a little in our comfortable pews. Let us gather our thoughts this Maundy Thursday. A peculiar name, isn’t it? “Maundy.”

The word “Maundy” itself, you see, derives from the Latin word “mandatum,” meaning “commandment.” Specifically, the commandment Jesus gave to his disciples at that last, fateful supper: “A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another.” (John 13:34).

Now, let’s be honest. “Love one another” sounds lovely, doesn’t it? Warm, fuzzy, like a freshly laundered fleece. But Jesus wasn’t suggesting a gentle hug and a shared cup of tea. He had just done something utterly scandalous, something that would have made the social hierarchy of the time choke on its unleavened bread. He, the teacher, the Lord, had knelt down and washed the grubby, travel-stained feet of his disciples. Including Judas’s. Think about that for a moment. The man who was about to plunge the dagger of betrayal into his heart had his feet tenderly cleansed by the very hands he would soon deliver to his executioners.

This, my friends, is the essence of the “mandatum.” It’s not just a suggestion; it’s a command, an instruction manual for how we are to live as followers of Christ. It’s not about lofty pronouncements from pulpits (though I am rather enjoying this bit, I must confess). It’s about getting down and dirty, about serving, about humbling ourselves before one another, even – especially – those we find difficult, those whose feet are particularly… fragrant.

Tonight’s service often centres on the sharing of bread and wine, the Eucharist, the Lord’s Supper. And rightly so. It is a powerful and profound act of remembrance, a tangible connection to that last meal, a sharing in the body and blood of our Saviour. But let us not forget the prelude to that sacred meal, the act that Jesus himself highlighted as the example to follow: the washing of feet.

Imagine, if you will, a Christian Church where the primary act of worship wasn’t the reverent receiving of a wafer and a sip of wine, but the humble, often awkward, act of washing each other’s feet.

Picture Sunday mornings. Instead of the hushed reverence as we queue for communion, we’d be lining up with towels and basins. The air would be thick with the scent of soap and perhaps the faint aroma of sweaty trainers… well, let’s not dwell on that. Pastors wouldn’t be polishing their sermons quite so diligently; they’d be scrubbing heels. The collection plate might be replaced by one of those foot spas.

Think of the theological implications! Our understanding of humility would be radically redefined. We couldn’t just *talk* about being servants; we’d have to *be* servants, literally. Church politics would likely be less about who gets the best committee chair and more about who’s willing to tackle Mrs Miggin’s notoriously pungent big toe.

Our outreach programmes would take on a whole new dimension too. Perhaps we’d have mobile foot-washing stations. Evangelism might involve a gentle exfoliation and a word of encouragement. Mission trips would require industrial quantities of foot cream.

Of course, there would be challenges. The shy amongst us would break out in a cold sweat at the thought of exposing their neglected extremities. The germaphobes would require hazmat suits. And let’s not even contemplate the logistical nightmare of an entire congregational foot-washing session. The health and safety regulations alone would be very challenging.

But consider the profound impact on our relationships. How could we hold onto grudges, how could we foster division, when we had just knelt before one another, intimately caring for a part of the body we often neglect and hide? The act of washing feet forces a vulnerability, a stripping away of pretences. It’s hard to feel superior to someone whose calloused soles you’ve just gently massaged.

This evening, as we reflect on the Last Supper, let us not just focus on the bread and the wine. Let us also remember the basin of water and the towel. Let us remember the command, the “mandatum,” to love one another as Christ loved us – a love that is not afraid to get its hands (and knees) dirty.

Perhaps we won’t all be rushing out to wash each other’s feet in the aisles after the service (though the thought is rather… invigorating). But let the spirit of that act permeate our lives. Let us seek out opportunities to serve, to humble ourselves, to show love in tangible, practical ways, even when it’s uncomfortable, even when it’s a bit smelly.

For in the washing of feet, we find not just an act of service, but a powerful symbol of the love that binds us together, the love that Christ commanded us to share. And that, my friends, is a command worth heeding, one grubby foot at a time. Amen.

In the light of progressive Christianity, is there any hope of Heaven?

 Okay. Let's talk about the big one: Eternal Life. Specifically, through the lens of progressive Christianity. The title asks: "In the light of progressive Christian teaching, can we have any hope of eternal life?"

Now, let's be honest. For generations, "eternal life" often meant one thing: pearly gates, streets paved with gold (sounds terribly impractical, frankly – imagine the glare!), fluffy clouds, maybe reuniting with Great Aunt Mildred (which, depending on your Great Aunt Mildred, might be more of a threat than a promise), and possibly endless harp practice. It was a destination, a reward, a place you went after shuffling off this mortal coil, hopefully having ticked the right boxes.

Progressive Christianity, bless its questioning heart, tends to look at this traditional picture and... well, cough politely. We see the fingerprints of ancient cosmology, cultural assumptions, and maybe a touch of wishful thinking (or crowd control). We grapple with a God who seems infinitely more interested in justice, mercy, and love here and now than in managing celestial real estate.  And we are open to what both other religions and scientific observation might have to teach us.

So, does ditching the literalist, gated-community afterlife mean we ditch hope altogether? Do we just shrug, say "ashes to ashes," and focus solely on composting? I’d argue: Absolutely not! But our understanding of eternal life gets a radical makeover. It becomes less about duration and more about quality and connection.

Think about it. Jesus didn't spend much time sketching architectural plans for heaven. His central message wasn't "Be good so you can get into the sky-mansion later." It was "The Kingdom of God is at hand." It's here. It's now. It's in the act of feeding the hungry, welcoming the stranger, challenging oppression, forgiving debts, loving extravagantly – even loving your enemies (still working on that one, if I'm honest).

This "Kingdom" living, this immersion in God's way of love and justice – that has an eternal quality to it. When we participate in acts of selfless love, profound compassion, or courageous justice, we are tapping into something timeless, something divine, something that resonates with the very Ground of Being. That feels pretty eternal to me. It's experiencing the life of the ages, in the midst of time.

So, one progressive hope for eternal life is this: Living a life so infused with divine love and purpose that its significance echoes beyond our physical lifespan. We live on in the love we've shared, the justice we've fought for, the ripples of kindness we've set in motion. Our "eternal life" is woven into the fabric of the ongoing story of God's work in the world. Less harp solos, more positive legacy.

Now, what about the big event? The linchpin of traditional hope? The Resurrection. Ah, yes. The empty tomb. The cornerstone of faith for many.

Progressive Christians don't necessarily throw the Resurrection out, but we certainly look at it with different eyes. We notice, for instance, that the four Gospel accounts – supposedly eyewitness or close-to-eyewitness reports – are, shall we say, charmingly inconsistent on the details. Let's do a quick sketch analysis: 

·           Who went to the tomb? Was it Mary Magdalene alone (John)? Mary Magdalene and "the other Mary" (Matthew)? Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome (Mark)? Or "the women who had come with him from Galilee," including Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and "the others with them" (Luke)? Quite a crowd fluctuation there.

·           What did they see? One angel (Matthew, Mark – sitting inside the tomb in Mark, outside in Matthew)? Two men in dazzling apparel (Luke)? Or just... no Jesus, and then later Jesus himself appearing (John)? Did the stone get rolled away (Matthew), or was it already rolled away (Mark, Luke, John)?

·           What were the instructions? Go tell the disciples to meet him in Galilee (Matthew, Mark)? Or... remember what he told you in Galilee, and then the disciples didn't believe the women anyway (Luke)? Or... Mary just encounters Jesus, thinks he's the gardener, and is told not to cling to him (John)?

·           Where did Jesus first appear to the wider group? In Galilee on a mountain (Matthew)? Or behind locked doors in Jerusalem that very evening (Luke, John)?

Now, a fundamentalist might tie themselves in knots trying to harmonize these accounts into one coherent story – like a crime scene investigation – “C.S.I.: The Jerusalem episode”. A skeptic might just say, "See? It's all made up!"

But a progressive perspective might say: Hold on. What if these discrepancies aren't a sign of fabrication, but a sign of something else? What if they show multiple individuals and communities grappling with an experience so profound, so reality-shattering, that it defied simple, uniform description? What if the core message – that Jesus's presence, power, and message were experienced as overwhelmingly alive and vindicated by God after his brutal execution – is the point, not the precise choreography at the tomb?

The "Resurrection" for many progressives becomes less about a resuscitated corpse wandering around Galilee (though, you know, stranger things...) and more about the transformative experience of the disciples. These weren't people reporting a straightforward event; these were people whose lives were utterly turned upside down. From hiding in fear, they burst out with world-changing courage. They experienced Christ as present, empowering them, validating his message of love and the Kingdom. That experience was the Resurrection event for them, described in the symbolic language available to them.

So, can we hope for our own resurrection? Maybe not in the sense of bodily resuscitation. But hope for what?  

·           Hope for Transformation: Hope that, like the disciples, we can be transformed by the living spirit of Christ, moving from fear to courage, from apathy to action.

·           Hope for Continuation: Hope that the love and energy that constitute "us" are not simply extinguished, but are somehow gathered back into the Source of all Being, the God from whom we came. Maybe "eternal life" is less about individual consciousness persisting forever in a recognisable form, and more about rejoining the great Dance, the eternal energy of Love itself. It's a mystery, and perhaps that's okay.

·           Hope in the Enduring Presence: Hope that the Divine presence experienced by the disciples is still accessible to us now, guiding, comforting, and challenging us.

Progressive Christianity doesn't offer neat, tidy answers shrink-wrapped for easy consumption. It invites us into the questions, into the mystery. It shifts the focus from escaping this world to transforming it, inspired by Jesus. It reframes "eternal life" from an endless future duration to a quality of living steeped in divine love now, leaving a legacy that endures. And it sees the Resurrection less as a historical puzzle to be solved, and more as a powerful testament to the enduring, transformative experience of Christ's presence.

So, can we have hope? Yes. A profound hope. Not necessarily for pearly gates or escaping the cycle, but hope in the enduring power of Love, hope in the meaning we create, hope in our connection to the Divine Mystery that holds us all, before, during, and after our brief, beautiful time on this earth. It’s a hope grounded not in escaping life, but in living it fully, deeply, and justly, participating in the "eternal" quality of God's kingdom, here and now. And frankly, that sounds a lot more interesting than harp lessons.

(Images created with ImageFX from Google Labs)

 

Never Mind the Palms, Where’s the Peace? A sermon for Palm Sunday

Never Mind the Palms, Where’s the Peace? (Luke 19:28-40)

Well, here we are again. Palm Sunday. Normally, you would be spared a sermon from me on this day, because, over the last 10 years, it has been our custom (along with many traditional churches) to read the Passion narrative, during the sermon slot.  But this year, I wanted to try something different.  You see, it occurred to me that in the 10 years we have celebrated Palm Sunday together, we have not once stopped to think about what it may mean.  And, most especially, what Luke’s account of the Entry into Jerusalem might mean.

This is the day when we witness the annual miracle of dried vegetation being folded into shapes vaguely resembling crosses. Palms were an ancient symbol of monarchy and power.  In much the same way that today’s crowds will hang bunting, and wave little Union Flags when the King passes by, ancient peoples waved palm branches. 

But today, my friends, we are in the Year of Luke in our lectionary cycle. And I want to suggest that if we only read Luke’s account of this day, we might need to seriously rethink our Palm Sunday routines.  We might discover Luke paints a picture far stranger, more challenging, and ultimately, more profoundly relevant than the generic, flag-waving parade we often settle for.

We tend to create a sort of ‘Greatest Hits’ version of Bible stories in our heads. Palm Sunday? Ah yes, Jesus rides into Jerusalem on a donkey, happy crowds wave palm branches, everyone shouts ‘Hosanna!’. Simple enough. Except… when you actually sit down and read Luke’s account… something’s missing. Actually, two rather significant things are missing or noticeably altered.

First – and brace yourselves, all who cherish those palm crosses – according to Luke, there are no palms!  Not a single frond is mentioned. Matthew has them. Mark mentions leafy branches. John is very specific about palm branches from date trees. But Luke? Nothing. Zilch. Nada.

Why? Why does meticulous Luke omit the very symbol that gives this Sunday its name? Did the Jerusalem council ban palm trees for health and safety reasons that year? Unlikely. Scholars like Clare Amos, whose thoughtful article informed this sermon, suggest Luke has a specific agenda. Luke, it seems, wants none of the conventional association with nationalism and monarchy.  His king is arriving, make no mistake, but not that kind of king. Not the conquering hero many longed for. Luke deliberately sidesteps the nationalist symbol. So, maybe next year, instead of palm crosses, we attempt cloak origami? Could be interesting.

But the second, and perhaps even more startling difference, is what the crowd shouts. In Matthew, Mark, and John, the cry is clear: "Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest!" And ‘Hosanna’ is absolutely crucial. It’s not just first-century liturgical filler. It literally means "Save us, now!".  It's a plea for deliverance – the kind of salvation many expected the Messiah to bring: political liberation, national restoration, freedom from Roman boots.

Now look closely at Luke. What do his disciples shout? Verse 38: "Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord! Peace in heaven and glory in the highest!"

Hold on… what? Peace… in heaven?  Not ‘Hosanna!’ Not even, significantly, the angels’ song at Jesus’ birth which proclaimed "Peace on earth, goodwill among people". No, suddenly, the peace is relocated upstairs, to heaven.

What on earth – or indeed, in heaven – are we to make of that?  It sounds… well, a bit weak, doesn't it? A bit disconnected from the simmering political tension, the real suffering under occupation. "Peace in heaven!" Thanks for that. Very useful down here.

But maybe, just maybe, Luke is doing something incredibly clever, deeply subversive. By replacing the desperate cry of "Save us now!" with "Peace in heaven," Luke fundamentally reframes who this king is and what kind of peace he brings.

This king, Luke insists, brings a peace that has its origin and its foundation in heaven, in God's ultimate reality. It’s a peace operating by different rules. It’s the peace Jesus himself will speak of: "Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives." (John 14:27).

And crucially, just a few verses later in Luke’s narrative (verses 41-44), Jesus weeps – weeps! – over Jerusalem. Why? Precisely because it did not recognise "the things that make for peace" in that very moment of his arrival. The city was looking for Hosannas, for earthly salvation, for a political strongman, and it completely missed the arrival of heaven's peace. They wanted peace on their terms, not God's. And the result, Jesus laments, will be devastation.

So, what does this Lukan Palm Sunday, stripped of its familiar palms and its expected Hosannas, say to us, here in Havant, in 2025? Well, it challenges us profoundly.

First, it demands we ask: What kind of king are we truly looking for? Are we still secretly hoping for a Messiah who fits our political mould? One who will simply make us comfortable, secure our interests, vanquish our enemies, and deliver ‘salvation’ tailored to our desires?  

Second, What kind of peace are we praying, and working, for? Is it just the absence of conflict in our own lives, a quiet life? Is it a peace maintained by economic walls or military might? Or are we seeking that deeper, harder "peace from heaven" – a peace rooted in God's justice, demanding reconciliation, requiring forgiveness, lived out in alignment with God's will, even when it’s unpopular or costly? Can we recognise, as Jerusalem tragically failed to do, the "things that make for peace" in our own complex time – tackling poverty, pursuing racial justice, welcoming the refugee, caring for our wounded planet, speaking truth to power – even if it doesn't look like a victory parade?

Third, Are we missing the point of the procession? We rightly enjoy the communal celebration of Palm Sunday. But Luke reminds us it’s not just a street party. It’s the arrival of a king whose reign leads inexorably to the Cross – in much the same way as our palms are woven into crosses. The cloaks spread enthusiastically on the road will soon be replaced by the soldiers gambling callously for Jesus’ seamless robe. The shouts of praise will curdle into cries of "Crucify him!" Luke’s Palm Sunday isn’t simple triumph; it’s triumph shot through with impending tragedy, precisely because the peace being offered is about to be brutally rejected. Are we guilty of celebrating the entry while conveniently ignoring the profound cost of the peace Jesus actually embodies and offers?

Luke’s Palm Sunday isn't meant to be entirely comfortable. It deliberately pulls the rug out from under our easy assumptions. It presents us with a king and a kingdom that don't quite fit our neat categories, challenging us.  So when Jesus rides into our lives, our town, our world today, what are we shouting? Are we demanding ‘Hosanna! Save us!’ on our own terms? Or are we ready, truly ready, heart and soul, to welcome the challenging, transformative, world-altering reality of ‘Peace from Heaven’?

May we, unlike that beloved, tragic city, recognise the things that make for peace, in this our day. Amen

That Land Promise Has Expired: Jesus, Abraham, and What God Requires Now

Texts:  Genesis 17.3-9 and John 8.51-end

We’ve got some hefty texts to consider, today.   Genesis 17 and John 8. Texts about promises, identity, and how we live, echoing right into the troubles of our own time.

In Genesis, Abram hits the deck before God, who makes a stunning promise: nations, kings, and land. Yes, that land in Canaan, promised as an "everlasting possession." Everlasting.  That’s a heck of a long time.  We've all heard these verses used, haven't we? We’ve heard them pulled out to justify claims on that specific patch of earth, right up to the tragic conflicts we see today between the patches of the land called Israel and Pallestine. "God gave it to us, forever!" the argument goes.  

But hold your horses. Verse 9 adds a crucial condition: "As for you, you shall keep my covenant..." This wasn't a no-strings-attached giveaway. It was conditional. Keep the covenant – love God, love neighbour, live justly – then the land promise holds. Think of it like getting the keys to a company car – abuse the rules, you lose the privilege.

So, how did Abraham’s descendants do? Let's be brief: the rest of the Hebrew Bible shows a rather patchy record. Bless their hearts, it wasn't exactly a stellar record, was it? Golden calves, dodgy kings ignoring prophets, worshipping other gods, injustice... the covenant was broken, repeatedly. If the promise depended on faithfulness (and faithfulness was frequently absent) what happens to the "everlasting" part? It suggests the promise, at least concerning that specific land, might be forfeit. Waving Genesis 17 today as an unbreakable divine deed ignores the crucial small print about obedience. It certainly challenges using it to justify violence or dispossession now.

Now, fast forward many centuries to John 8. Jesus is sparring with the religious leaders again. Honestly, sometimes reading John’s gospel is like watching a boxing match!  He declares, "Very truly, I tell you, whoever keeps my word will never see death." The leaders are outraged. “Woah!  Back up the donkey there. Abraham died! The prophets died! Who do you think you are?" They accuse him of having a demon – their usual response to baffling claims.

Jesus doesn't back down. In fact, he doubles down.  He says Abraham saw his day and rejoiced, and then delivers the knockout punch: "Very truly, I tell you, before Abraham was, I AM."  Boom!

I AM. Not just 'I existed before'. He uses God's own name from the burning bush, YHWH. He's claiming equality with God.  John's Gospel is making one of his more startling assertions: Jesus (according to John) is the God who made that covenant with Abraham. No wonder they reached for stones – it was ultimate blasphemy to them!  It would be like me walking into Canterbury and claiming to be Jesus.

Do you see the connection? The Genesis promise was conditional on keeping God's covenant – the Old Testament as we call it.  But humanity struggled. Then Jesus, the great "I AM," arrives and offers a new promise, a New Testament - not of land, but of eternal life itself. And the condition? "Whoever keeps my word."

This new way, centred on keeping his word, echoes the conditionality of the old covenant.  But focuses it now onto Jesus’ word. But what is his word?   We can boil it down to the The Great Commandment:  essentially love God, love neighbour – which means love enemy, welcome the stranger, seek justice, forgive endlessly, live humbly. 

This brings us to a crucial point, one that often gets lost in some corners of Christianity. We sometimes get terribly tangled up in doctrines about Jesus, particularly intricate theories about how his death saves us – the substitutionary atonement idea, that God needed a blood sacrifice and Jesus was it. Now, the cross is central, undeniably powerful, mysterious. But listen to Jesus himself in John's Gospel! He doesn't say, "Whoever believes the correct theory about my death will never see death." He says, "Whoever keeps my word."

This should give us pause about focusing only on belief in Jesus's death as the ticket to heaven. Keeping Jesus’ word – is about discipleship. It’s about action. It’s about letting his teachings permeate our lives and change how we behave.   As the troublesome but ever-practical letter of Jesus’ earthly brother James reminds us, "Faith without works is dead." Lifeless. A car without an engine. 

You see, Jesus seems far more concerned with whether we live his teachings than merely signing off on a doctrinal statement. Keeping his word isn't about perfection; it's about the direction of our lives, the active striving to embody his love, forgiveness, and justice. You can say you believe Jesus is Lord until you’re blue in the face, but if you’re not actually doing the stuff he said – loving, forgiving, seeking justice, caring for the poor, welcoming the stranger – then according to Jesus himself, and his brother James, your faith isn't firing on all cylinders. To continue the car metaphor, it’s like owning a Ferrari but never taking it out of the garage. It looks nice, but what’s the point?

So, the journey is from a conditional land promise, arguably broken, to the arrival of the Promiser Himself, the great I AM. He offers not territory, but life eternal. The condition remains faithfulness, but now defined as actively keeping his word – living out his commands of love and justice.

So, my friends, the challenge for us today is to embrace the radical, life-altering promise offered by the one who is before all things. It’s about getting our hands dirty with the messy, demanding, beautiful work of keeping his word – loving God, loving our neighbours (all of them, no exceptions!), and finding in that active, living faith, the promise of life that truly never ends. Amen.