England's Green and Pleasant Land

 Texts:  Ephesians 2.11-22 and Mark 6.30–34,53–56

In England’s green and pleasant land….

This will be my last Sunday sermon for a while.  After 16 months of preaching twice a week, almost every week, I’ve decided that you’ve heard enough from me, for a while at least!  So over the next few weeks, a fine array of alternative and doubtless better preachers than me will grace this lectern, including Bishop John, the Rev’d Judy Henning, and, I’m very proud to say, our daughter Emily.  I’ll be sneaking off, from time to time, for some rest and refreshment, in the hope that I’ll return with new insights to share.

Today’s final sermon – for a while – is entitled ‘England’s Green and Pleasant Land’. 

Those of you who have thumbed today’s service sheet to the end, will know that I’ve chosen that great anthem of Englishness, ‘Jerusalem’ as our final hymn.  And we started our service with ‘Glorious Things of Thee are Spoken, Zion City of our God’.  It will not surprise you, then, to hear that today, I’d like to invite us to contemplate the theme of ‘nationalism’.

I am an Englishman.  There have been times in my life when I have identified with other nations too.  Being an Honorary Canon of two cathedrals in Africa, for example, gives me a somewhat unique perspective (and a sense of belonging to a wider human family).  But ultimately, at my core, I’m an Englishman.  My heart swells with pride at the sight of the Cross of St George flying on our church Tower (even if St George himself never set foot here in England).  I did shed a little tear at the death of the Duke of Edinburgh, and I was sad when we failed to win a certain football match last weekend.  Not as sad, however, as I was at the awful racism which followed our defeat. 

I glory in Gilbert and Sullivan’s epic song “For he is an Englishman”.  “For he himself has said it, and its greatly to his credit, that he is an Englishman:  he i……………..s an Englishman”!

The word ‘English’ derives from the tribe of Angles, the Germanic-speaking ‘Northmen’ who colonised much of the British Isles after the Romans had abandoned us to our fate, while Rome itself burned.  ‘England’ is really ‘Angland’ – the newly acquired land of the Angles.  But my great grandparents came from Ireland and from Wales (which perhaps goes some way to explaining my love of singing).  The plain fact is that I’m actually a Celt, or a Briton, not an Englishman at all.

Well, OK then.  At least I can say with some certainty that I am British.  Can’t I?  Well, no actually. DNA research into all human ancestry leads to a scientific conclusion that all of us are descended from Africans – and that the Great Rift Valley of Africa is the birthplace of modern humanity.  After their migration from there, humans inter-bred with other hominoid species, like Neanderthals.  On average, all modern humans have between 1% and 4% Neanderthal DNA.

So, I’m part Celt, descended from Africans, with up to 4% Neanderthal DNA, living in a country which has only been called England for about 1000 years.  But I’m an Englishman!  And an African.  And a Neanderthal.  Oh it’s all very confusing, isn’t it?

The problem we face is that most human beings have a deep desire to belong somewhere, either as the ‘owner’ of land, or (as with many aboriginal peoples) being owned by the land.  The Jewish people held on to the promise that a certain portion of land was theirs for almost 2000 years.  So strong was their belief, and so persuasive their argument, that the modern state of Israel was created out of what had been, for centuries before, Palestine. 

However complicated is the truth of our messy ancestry, we also feel a strong call to bind ourselves to those around us.  We form tribes – partly out of a sense of shared endeavour, and partly to protect ourselves against other tribes who might want to take our land, or our stuff.  Our tribalism is at the same time formed out of need to build something with other people, but is it also defined by our opposition to other groups of people.

This embedded tribalism expresses itself in different ways.  For some, it produces an allegiance to a Country.  For others, there’s a greater allegiance to a way of living – perhaps as a Football fan, or a member of a political party, or the fan of a popular music band.  Many of these ‘tribes’ set themselves up in opposition to others.  Football tribes hate other football tribes, for example.  Political tribes are entirely deaf to the wisdom which any other political tribe may possess, believing that for good or ill, only their tribe has all the answers.

And then of course, there are the tribes of different philosophies and religions.  Religious tribes tend to transcend national borders.  To call one’s country a ‘Christian country’, or an ‘Islamic country’, or a ‘Buddhist country’ is to lay claim to membership of a much wider, broader, deeper tribe than mere national identity alone, or to the small vision of special interest tribes.  The best religions have the power to call nations beyond the narrow confines of ‘national interest’, and into shared endeavour with people all over the world.

Which is why St Paul, writing to the Ephesians in this morning’s Epistle, was so keen to assure non-Jews (that is ‘Gentiles’ as they were known) that Jesus brings all nations and identities into one new Kingdom, with Jesus as the cornerstone of a new living Temple to God.  Paul’s vision is lofty and powerful.  He says: “So then you are no longer strangers and aliens, but you are citizens with the saints and also members of the household of God, built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, with Christ Jesus himself as the cornerstone. In him the whole structure is joined together and grows into a holy temple in the Lord; in whom you also are built together spiritually into a dwelling-place for God.”

Naturally enough, as we would surely expect, Jesus also got this.  He didn’t only preach the Kingdom of God to Jews.  He spent time in places like Tyre, Sidon, Gabardine, and (as we heard in this morning’s Gospel) Genessaret.  These were places where Jews and Gentiles mixed freely together.  There were even pigs being farmed in the land of the Gabardines – despite pigs being outlawed for Jews.  Jesus preached to Canaanite, Philistines, Samaritans and Romans as much as he did Jews, and he healed their sick too.   Later, before Ascending into Heaven, Jesus told his disciples to preach his Gospel message to all the nations.  One of those nations, without a doubt, was England.

So, when I think of England, I think of a country which at least in principle, has the capacity and the potential to be part of the great Christian ideal – a truly Christian Kingdom.  So bring me my bow of burning gold.  Bring me my arrows of desire.  Help me to battle for a Christian England in which strangers and aliens, Jews and Gentiles, and people of all races are welcome and cherished;

Bring me my chariot of fire, to race towards a Christian England in which workers in dark satanic mills are freed (from the slavery of profit-driven-exploitation);

O clouds unfold on a Christian England in which Christ’s example of offering healing for all is not sub-contracted out for profit; 

Bring me my spear to fight for a Christian England which offers charity and aid to all who need it, without counting the cost in percentages of national income; 

I dream of a green and pleasant land in which, in the words of the prophet Micah, we truly know what it means to do justly, love mercy and walk humbly with God.

Now that’s an England of which I could be truly proud.

Amen.

Sodomy - a surprising twist...

Text: Matthew 10.7–15 & Genesis 19.1-11

As you’ll probably know, it’s my policy to preach as often as possible from the published Lectionary – that is the list of readings provided by the Church.  I do so because over the cycles of years, the Lectionary is designed to give us access to all the key biblical texts – the foundations of our faith.  But once in a while, the Lectionary throws me a curve-ball, like today!  The Gospel reading of today is almost exactly the same as the Gospel reading for Sunday.  It is in fact Matthew’s account of the same story told by Mark…the story of Jesus sending out his disciples, very simply equipped, to spread the good news of the Kingdom.

So, if you want to know what main message of that story, at least in my opinion, then I invite you to read last Sunday’s sermon.  Essentially, I argued that Jesus sent his disciples out without possessions, so that they (and therefore we) could learn how to travel lightly in the world.  But, as with all Biblical texts, there is often more than one meaning to be discovered. 

Matthew, in fact, offers us some extra emphasis (compared to Mark) on one very important matter:  and it’s this…  After telling his disciples to shake the dust from their feet against any town which refuses to welcome them, Jesus proffers a dire warning against the people of such a town.  “Truly I tell you,” he says,  “it will be more tolerable for the land of Sodom and Gomorrah on the day of judgement than for that town.”

Notice, that here, Jesus explicitly links the concept of ‘welcome’ and hospitality with the sin of Sodom & Gomorrah.

“Wait a minute!”  (I hear some cry).  “Surely the sin of Sodom & Gomorrah was something else entirely?  That’s why we call it Sodomy, isn’t it?”

Well perhaps not.  Perhaps our historical obsession with the subject of same-sex attraction has put a particular gloss onto the ancient story.  Let’s consider, for a moment, what happens...

Three ‘angels’ – messengers of God – arrive at Sodom, where they are given hospitality by Lot.  They have come to see whether there are any righteous people in the City.  But before they turn in for the night, an angry mob gathers outside the house – demanding that these troublesome inquisitors should be brought out of the house – so that the crowd can ‘know’ them (to use the subtle phrase of the King James Bible).

Lot refuses.  He has granted hospitality to these messengers, and they are now, by the ancient code, under his protection.  He is SO convinced of his responsibility that he even offers his young daughters to the baying mob outside.

Looking at this story, and especially the way that Jesus himself uses it as an example, we are confronted with some very challenging questions.  The first question is whether ‘Sodomy’ actually has anything to do with what we general think it does.  This fresh interpretation, and remembering Jesus’ stern warning, suggests that the failure to offer and secure a welcome to strangers is a far greater sin.

The second question is, of course, ‘why did the crowd want to (cough) ‘know’ the angels’?  The answer is that the crowd wanted to punish the angels for coming to judge them.  They wanted to scare them and send them on their way – and they proposed to use rape as their weapon.  Rape of any kind is a heinous crime, and a terrible offence against any notion of hospitality and welcome.  But it has nothing to do with committed, faithful, loving relationships between consenting adults.

When referring to the same story, Jesus, we notice, says nothing about same-sex attraction.  He invites us to think instead about the whole notion of hospitality, and welcome.  And if the welcome of strangers was such a big issue for him, how much more so should it be for us?

A few verses later, after today’s reading, Jesus says ‘Whoever welcomes you also welcomes me, and the one who sent me’.  What kind of welcome do we offer to people who come to us?  Do we welcome them with the same extravagant love for the stranger that God requires?

The word ‘welcome’ is ‘an expression of joy towards someone whose coming is pleasing’.  “It is well (or good) that you have come!”  Jesus teaches us that the failure to provide hospitality really was the greatest sin of Sodom and Gomorrah.  And that fact leaves us with a challenge.  How shall we, as a church, as a nation, and individuals and as a community, live up to the immense challenge of being those who truly welcome others in Jesus’ name?

Amen.

 

Treading Lightly upon the Earth

Text:  Mark 6.1-13

To watch this sermon, as delivered, please click here: https://youtu.be/0iN9YNmEbbw

⁠I’m about to have a bit of stress introduced into my peaceful existence.  In about nine days time, Clare and I are expecting a team of builders from the Diocese to arrive at our Rectory.  Following a surveyor’s inspection, the builders have instructions, from the Diocese, to rip out our 30 year old kitchen, machine-gun all the tiles off the wall, and install a new kitchen.  This process is likely to take a month a more, because of the time it will take for newly plastered walls and ceilings to dry.  In the meantime, Clare and I will be confined to our living room, surrounded by the contents of our kitchen and dining room, and living out of a microwave.  Now would be a good time to buy shares in any of the local fast-food delivery services!

And that’s not all.  We are also to have a flat roof replaced, new carpets fitted to the hall, stairs and landing, walls painted, holes in the driveway filled in, and some new fencing erected.  Doors and wood-work are due to be painted too, and a new smoke detection system will be fitted throughout the house.  Clare and I will continue to do our work throughout this chaos – but we hope you will forgive us if we arrive in public with plaster in our hair, or panic in our eyes.

All this work will take place because there is an expectation upon the Diocese, as a landlord, to maintain clergy properties to a reasonable standard – which is, of course, what anyone would expect.  The things we own, or the things we steward, need to be taken care of, don’t they? 

Or do they? 

On the front page of the present Corona Chronicle, I was a little bit provocative.  (Which I realise is very unusual, for me!).  I suggested that some of the dramas in the news we’ve been reading are really what are known as ‘first world problems’.  Among them, I listed the tragedy of people getting their cruises cancelled.  Poor things.  Sainsbury’s has run out of pre-packaged bags of salad – meaning that its customers might actually have to cut up and mix their own salads (horror of horrors!).  The costs of garden furniture and other luxury goods is set to rise by 25% or more, thanks either to Brexit or the Pandemic – or both.  “It’s all just awful” was my headline, quoting a comment I read on Facebook one day.

But these are all ‘first world problems’.  80% of the world can only dream of taking a cruise, buying pre-mixed salads in a bag, or purchasing garden furniture.  80% of the world’s clergy would dream of working for a diocese which is capable of renovating their vicarage.  Believe me, I’ve seen the state of third world clergy vicarages, and they make me ashamed.

What I didn’t have space to reflect on, in my article, was the extent to which we, in the West, are effectively owned by the things we think we own.  Every possession we ‘own’ requires stewarding, by us.  I have a car.  An old car.  And this month it will require at least a couple of new tyres to scrape through another MOT.  I have a swing in my garden, for my grandson.  And this year, all the ropes will need replacing for health and safety reasons….lest my little boy lands with a bump.  Clare dug a fish-pond last summer, as regular readers of the Chronicle will know.  Well, this week, we had to entirely replace our stock of goldfish, and buy a net to stop the local heron from snacking on the new ones!

Do you see what I’m getting at?  Everything we own requires effort, time and often money to maintain.  Computers have to be updated, windows have to be washed, lawns have to be cut, motorbikes (like mine) have to polished and preened.  Ornaments need dusting and polishing, or housing in glass cases.  We don’t own these things: rather, we are slaves to them.  We spend considerable portions of our lives just looking after stuff.

But Jesus didn’t.

When he sent out his disciples with the message of the Kingdom, he told them to take ‘nothing for their journey, except a walking staff.  No bread, no bag, no money, and no second tunic’.  In doing so, Jesus did no more than ask his disciples to live as he lived.  ‘Foxes have holes, and birds have their nests’, he said, ‘But the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head’.

Jesus gave up all possessions, all property, all stuff, in order to be as free as possible from the shackles of such possessions.  As he sent out his disciples with a Gospel to proclaim, he asked them to do the same.  Without such stuff, encumbering their journey, the disciples would be free to give themselves wholly and completely to the task of the Gospel.  Jesus taught his disciples the principle of ‘Living Lightly’ – and I genuinely believe he calls us to do the same.

It is a challenge to us, though, isn’t it?  We have become skilled at justifying to ourselves every one of the possessions we own.  I justify my motorbike, because it’s easy to park, it gets me efficiently to meetings, and costs less to run than a car, and its kinder to the planet.  But, let’s be honest with each other, I don’t really need one, do I?  The Diocese justifies the enormous amount of money it’s about to spend on the Rectory, because we don’t know who the next Rector will be when I one day move on…and we don’t want the decaying state of the Rectory to put anyone off applying for the job.

So, let me point a finger at you, this morning – fully conscious that three fingers are pointing right back at me.  Let me invite you to conduct a bit of an audit of your home, and your possessions this week.  Look around your home, and ask which of your possessions takes up time, energy or money to maintain.  Ask yourself which of them you could let go, in order to have either more time for the work of the Kingdom, or more money to give to the Kingdom.  What do we own, what do we buy which is wasteful of the wealth God has given us?  What do we own, what do we buy which does no good for the planet we steward for the next generations?

The disciples found that when they followed Jesus’ instructions to tread lightly upon the planet, they cast out many demons, and cured many who were sick.  I wonder what blessings could be ours, if we truly followed the call of our Master to live lightly on God’s green earth.

Amen.

Abraham and Isaac - the sacrifice of a child?!

Genesis 22.1-19 - Abraham goes to sacrifice Isaac.

To watch this sermon, please click here https://youtu.be/g2U-07V11gQ        

        Once upon time there was a cave woman, who lived in cave...as cave-women did in those days. Outside her cave was a tree. And verily, it came to pass, that Cave-woman noticed that when it rained, the tree seemed to come alive. She also noticed that at certain times of the year, if conditions were just right, the tree produced delicious fruit that she could gather for food.

Now Cave-Woman had a cave-husband - who wasn't especially interested in fruit. He preferred his food to have been running around before he killed it and ate it, fresh. Cave-husband used to go off with his mates to hunt animals. Sometimes they would be gone for days at a time...and when they returned home, they would talk about the hunt, around the campfire. They wondered why each hunt was so different. Could it be that someone, or something, was affecting how each hunt went?  Cave-woman would listen to these stories around the campfire. She saw similarities between the hunters' talk about the hunt, and her own observations about her tree.

One night, Cave-woman said to Cave-husband, "I wonder whether there are forces that interfere in some way with my tree, and your hunt". "Hmm," replied Cave-husband, "perhaps you are right." That would explain why every hunt is different. I wonder if there is a way to persuade these forces to do what we want them to do for us?"  Cave-woman thought for a moment. "Where do you think these forces might be?" she asked. "Well," replied Cave-husband, "I reckon they must be up in the sky...looking down on us. After all, that's where the big burning yellow thing is. And that's where the rain comes from. They must be sent by these forces".

"I know!" said Cave-woman "What if we were to put some of my fruit, and some of your last hunt up on the top of that hill...and maybe set fire to it? Then the forces will smell the smoke from our food, and will know that we are grateful to them, and sorry for anything we’ve done wrong.  Maybe then they will help us to find more food?" "Great idea," said Cave-husband. "Let's do it!"

And so burnt offerings were made to the forces in the sky...forces that came to be known as 'the gods'. There were gods for everything. Gods of fruit, gods of rain, gods of the hunt, gods of the lake. One of my favourites is the god of beer!

But, over time, people began to puzzle over why the gods didn't always respond to their offerings and prayers.  Larger and greater sacrifices were offered, but the gods seemed deaf.  Then, around the camp-fire, some bright spark suggested “Perhaps we have to sacrifice one of our very own children?" There was initial horror at this suggestion, of course. But still the rain didn't come. Eventually, one family, unwillingly, desperately, for the good of the people, agreed to let one of their children be sacrificed.

And the day after, the rains came. That did it. That unhappy co-incidence meant that now people thought they understood what the gods wanted. And so all sorts of horrific sacrifices began...human sacrifices, child sacrifices.  Children's bodies were built into the walls of houses - to protect the house from evil. Children were carried up to mountain-tops, at key points of the year, and sacrificed to bring the Spring.

Into that kind of world, the Bible tells us that Abraham came. He was a traveller. He explored the world around him and as he travelled, he became convinced that all these small gods were, at best, pale manifestations of one Supreme Being who bound the universe together.  For a while, however, he still imagined that this one God had the same bloodlust as all the small gods. And so when, in great old age, he unexpectedly became a dad, he thought that his duty was to sacrifice his new son to God.  So, he set off for a nearby mountain-top, to carry out his duty.

But when he got to the mountain-top, he had a mountain-top experience!  "Why," he thought, "would God give me the wonderful gift of this son, just to have me kill him as a sacrifice? It doesn't make any sense. Surely there is another reason why I have been given a son at such a great age?"  At that moment, he noticed a ram, with its horns caught in the bushes on the side of the mountain. He saw this as a sign...a sign from God that indeed, the sacrifice of children was not what God wanted. Joyfully, he caught hold of the ram...and sacrificed it instead, as a substitute for his son. A new day had dawned in the world's understanding of God.

Over the centuries that followed, Abraham's descendants slowly began to change the world's understanding of what God was like. Abraham's many-times great grandson, Moses, wrote a book of laws that limited the sacrifices to something rather more reasonable. A dove, a sheep, a bull - a simple transaction that enabled the penitent sinner to walk away, assured of forgiveness.  

However, even this limit on sacrifice wasn’t enough for God. He sent prophets to the people who said, "Don't bother any more with your sacrifices of animals. God isn't interested in you trying to earn his love...he loves you anyway.  Learn his wisdom and follow his ways.  Just ask for God’s forgiveness and favour, and it will flow!"  Their words were written down for us...we can read their frustrated cries in the pages of the Hebrew Bible. But, they were still ignored. After all, the leaders of the people had grown very wealthy on the system of sacrificing. Until, that is another man entered human history...

Jesus of Nazareth was a man like no other. He talked to God in a startlingly new and intimate way...as a heavenly Father.  Instead of demanding blood sacrifices of the people, this Jesus offered his own life as an ultimate sacrifice for the whole world.  God didn’t want human sacrifices; and to prove it, God was willing to sacrifice himself instead! The writer to the Hebrews makes this clear, in chapter 9, when he explains that after all the centuries of blood sacrifices, Christ “appeared once for all at the culmination of the ages to do away with sin by the sacrifice of himself”.

Then something wonderful happened.  Somehow, the sacrificed Jesus came back to life. He appeared again to his followers, and promised them that he would always be with them, in Spirit...leading them ever onwards into a deeper and deeper understanding of who God is, and who they are as his children. 

That in a nutshell, my brothers and sisters is the history of our religion.  We worship the God who leads us across the ages from ignorance towards wisdom, from fear towards love, from the blood sacrifice of animals (and even children!) towards the willing, living sacrifice of our own lives.  Amen. 

Man plans, God laughs!

 Text:  Ezekiel 17.22-24 and Mark 4.26-34

Watch this sermon by clicking here: https://youtu.be/bx5S7nEacXk 

Clare and I count ourselves extremely blessed to be custodians of one of the larger gardens in this parish – a garden that I hope we will be able to use for a Strawberry Tea, or a parish barbecue before too long.  In a recent Chronicle poem, Marian Porter reflected on the sheer variety of plants contained in the 200 yards of border planting we look after – including a surprising number of ‘mahonia japonica’ – far more than our fair share, in fact!  I am frequently amused by horticulturally-minded visitors to the garden, who love identifying strange and rare plants among our borders.  But I have to confess, I usually have little idea how they got there. 

Clare and I are lucky recipients of the efforts of previous Rectory occupants.  Trish Jones and Susan Gibbons before her spent many hours labouring to create the lovely garden we now have, for which we will be forever grateful.  Because, frankly, neither Clare nor I have a clue what we are doing.  Most of our attempts to plant anything at all have ended in complete failure.  The Rectory garden is now where all new plants go to die!

But when they die, wonderful things happen.  New, wild seeds blow in upon the wind and establish themselves where the latest expensive, cultivated marvel has slowly died its death.  In place of the expensive garden-centre plant, which showed so much promise, wild flowers now bloom.  Slowly, year by year, with each new season of our gardening incompetence, Mother Nature is asserting her creativity and her inevitable dominance.

This is an all-to-familiar pattern to the Kingdom of God, as well.  We human beings strive and struggle to build the Kingdom of God.  We embark upon initiative after initiative, desperately hoping that our latest wheeze to establish alternative forms of ‘emerging church’ will bring new believers crowding to our door.  Messy Church, Café Church, Pioneer Ministry, Wild Church, Men’s Groups, Women’s Groups, FaithTalk, God in Art – they all have value, and they all have their place – just like the professionally grown plants we buy from our garden centres.  But God, we find, has God’s own unique way of working out God’s purposes, and building God’s vision.   Like Mother Nature in the Rectory garden, God just keeps on building God’s kingdom in God’s unique way. 

“The Kingdom of God”, says Jesus in this morning’s Gospel reading, “is like a mustard seed”.  It’s often a tiny little seed, but it has the potential to grow into the greatest of shrubs.  Through Ezekiel, God promised the exiles of Israel that it would be God who would replant the Nation back on Israel’s own mountain, after their 70 years of captivity.  God’s activity is wild and unfettered.  The Spirit blows where it wills, and is constantly at work in the lives of all God’s creation. 

Often, I find, it is not my clever new initiative that draws new believers into the Kingdom.  It is God himself, working unceasingly in all human life, which causes that potential new believer to take the first steps of faith.  It is the person who wanders into church, seeking shelter, or comfort, or answers, in whom the Spirit of God is already working.

Am I implying, therefore, that all our endeavour for the Kingdom is meaningless?  No, I’m not.  But let me remind you of the last verse of the opening hymn we sang today: 

“All are efforts are nothing worth

unless God bless the deed;

vain our hopes for the harvest tide

till God brings life to the seed.”

 Here at St Faith’s, we have a Mission Plan.  Following the example of Lenin and Stalin, we’ve called it our five-year plan!  This week, your PCC will receive a report on our progress towards meeting the goals we set ourselves back in October, when we presented our Plan to the Annual Meeting.   It’s a plan which we firmly believe is in line with God’s mission to the people of this parish.  But little did we know, when the plan was being drawn up, that a world changing event was galloping around the bend.  None of us saw (when the plan was first in motion) that a pandemic would sweep across the world.  Many of the things we planned have been put on hold as a result.  Many of the professionally cultivated flowers we had bought have withered and died, while the wild Spirit of God has blown in all around us. 

If you had told me, even 18 months ago, that more people would be attending our services via computer than in person, I would have laughed at you!  Some of our online services now attract more than a thousand viewers.  Hundreds of people are reading our homilies, history and humour every week via the Chronicle, and responding to the deeper, more thoughtful contributions in a variety of ways.  New members and friends who live hundreds (or even thousands) of miles away are signing up to support our work financially and prayerfully.  Some of the deepest and most profound faith conversations I now have take place on Facebook, or via email.  If you had predicted any of these things to me only 18 months ago, I would have wondered at your sanity!

You see, as our opening hymn proclaimed – “God is working his purpose out, as year succeeds to year”.  There’s an old Jewish proverb, which is reflected in the Scriptures (especially some of the Psalms) and it goes like this: “Men plan.  God laughs!”

Here’s a final thought.  It is an arresting moment when we realise that the Church does not have a mission.  Rather, the mission of God has a Church.  We, the Church, are a part of God’s plan.  Jesus established it, and proclaimed that he would build it.  We are co-operators with God, and with God’s plan.  Our mission has to be, and must be, God’s mission – otherwise, all our efforts are nothing worth.

Amen 

Ordinary Time?

Texts:  2 Corinthians 4:13-5.1 and Mark 3:20-35

To watch this sermon, please click here: https://youtu.be/-IvZg0lZOZ0

So, my brothers and sisters, here we are in Ordinary Time, once more.  Advent, Christmas, Epiphany, Lent, Easter, Trinity and Corpus Christi have passed, and we slide into the week-by-week contemplation of the everyday teachings of the Scriptures.  Our gaze shifts away from the dramatic narratives of the great feasts that have inspired us, and we settle into a period of diligent study, and quiet effective practice of our faith.  Ordinary Time.

Which is perhaps why the Lectionary gives us, this morning, such a smorgasbord of theological ideas to pursue!  As a preacher, my task is to focus on that which I judge to be most useful to you at this time.  And this morning, I have quite a lot to draw from.

Perhaps, we could consider the debate between Jesus and the Scribes, who accused him of casting out demons by the power of the devil?  It’s certainly a fascinating topic – and it leads to Jesus announcing that there is one sin, and one sin alone, which can never be forgiven.  He means the sin of ‘blasphemy against the Holy Spirit’ – which often puzzles many people.  

I could, perhaps, remind you of the importance of ‘context’ in understanding any biblical text.  The context here is that the work of healing is ascribed not to the Great Healer (the Divine Spirit of God) but instead to the Devil.  That indeed is blasphemous talk.  It would be like saying that the Devil is the author of Love.  Or that God is the author of disobedience, hatred and war.

We need to hear this stern warning of Jesus.  To describe anything hateful, violent or evil as the work of God is indeed a heinous blasphemy.  Anyone, for example, who believes that God approves of, or instigates war, or sickness, is treading on dangerous ground.

It’s fine to say that religions are the cause of many wars, because, regretfully, there is truth in that statement.  But to suggest that God either approves of such conflict, or worse still that he desires it, or even foments it, is blasphemous indeed.

It’s fine to wonder why God does not always answer our prayers for healing from sickness or disability.  But to suggest that God causes it, or that it is perhaps a direct punishment for our sins is blasphemous stuff.

But you know all that.  We’ve covered such ground many times before.  So what else, as a preacher, might I focus on from today’s readings? 

Perhaps I should focus on the idea that a house divided against itself cannot stand – which, of course, Jesus talks about in relation to the crazy idea that his ministry somehow stems from the Devil. This is, of course, one of those great ‘Truisms’ which we hear (and don’t ponder) because it is so plainly obvious. 

If we were the kind of church in which there were different theological factions arguing against each other; or if our PCC was divided over some great policy issue; or if half our choir was threatening to walk out because of the Rector’s choice of hymns – then perhaps this would be a good text for us to consider in depth, together.  But, I have to tell you, I have rarely encountered such a harmonious, kindly, co-operative group as Christians we have here at St Faith’s.  So I’d really be preaching to the converted.  Wouldn’t I?

So, perhaps we should focus on the little story at the end of the Gospel, in which Jesus widens the scope of what the word ‘family’ means.  He says, ‘Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother’.  He invites us to look beyond our narrow, human understanding of what the family is.  He invites us to see each other as not just fellow-worshippers, or even fellow travellers on the road to faith, but as actual family.  A few weeks ago, we sang ‘Brother, Sister let me serve you’ (which is why I didn’t chose it for today).  But it conveys something of the depth of the relationship which Jesus calls us into:

I will weep when you are weeping,

When you laugh, I'll laugh with you;

I will share your joy and sorrow

Till we've seen this journey through.

But you know all this.  When you care for one another, with phone calls to the lonely, or by meeting up for friendship’ sake, or by holding one another in prayer, or supporting the needy through the Discretionary Fund, then you are living out exactly how Jesus calls us live.  When you welcome to our family table those who are not like you, those who are of a different race, or a different sexual preference or gender identity, or a different intellectual ability, or even a different understanding of God, you are being exactly the kind of real family that Jesus is talking about.

So, perhaps there is little from the Gospel reading that we desperately need to consider this morning.  Perhaps I should just shut up, and sit down….

…Or….perhaps we could just take a few final moments to contemplate the words of St Paul, written to a church community not unlike our own, which we heard in our first reading.  Paul wants his readers not to lose heart.  He knows how much has been achieved by those early Christians, battling against the forces all around them to bring the Kingdom to fruition.  He wants to encourage them to press on, to keep on living as Christ has called them to live.  He wants them, by God’s grace, to keep on extending that Kingdom to more and more people, so that there may be even more thanksgiving, to the glory of God.

And that’s my prayer for us, at the beginning of this ‘Ordinary Time’.  Let us keep on loving one another, my sisters and brothers.  Let us keep on inviting others – even very different others - around our family table.  Let’s keep on weeping with those who weep, and laughing with those who laugh.  Let’s keep on proclaiming and demonstrating the radical, life-changing Love of God!  And perhaps, then, we will discover that Ordinary Time is not so ordinary after all!  Amen.

 

The Meaning of Holy Communion

 To watch this sermon please click here: https://youtu.be/tt2W1HCF5SI

As is so often the case, we have a medieval woman to thank for the feast of Corpus Christi.  Juliana of Liège, was born in the early 1190s in Liège, Belgium.  In that fine European city, there were groups of women dedicated to Eucharistic worship. They lived together, devoted to prayer and to charitable works.

Juliana developed a special veneration for the Blessed Sacrament.  Like all such faithful people, she took great comfort from the celebration of Maundy Thursday, or the Feast of the Institution of the Eucharist.  But, as we often observe here, she noted that the Maundy Thursday celebration had many layers, including the washing of the disciples feet, and the agony in the Garden of Gethsemane.    As a true devotee of the Eucharist, Juliana longed for a feast day outside of Lent in its honour.  This desire was enhanced by a vision of the Church under the appearance of the full moon with one dark spot, which signified the absence of such a singular focus in the Church’s year. She had this vision many times over the next 20 years but she kept it a secret. When she eventually relayed it to her confessor, he relayed it to the bishop.

At that time bishops could order feasts in their dioceses, so Bishop Robert ordered in 1246 a celebration of Corpus Christi to be held in the diocese each year thereafter on the Thursday after Trinity Sunday.  The first such celebration occurred at St Martin's Church, Liège, in the city that same year.

The rest is history. The feast of Corpus Christi became rather a rallying point for the different Christian perspectives on the Eucharist.  The feast was intended to celebrate the true presence of Christ in the bread and the wine of Communion.  As it grew in importance, the elements were paraded around churches, and then around whole cities, in an ever more devoted display of faith. At the High Mass of the day, the bread itself, placed in an elaborate holder called a monstrance, was used to bless the assembled congregation.

But as the debates of the Reformation took hold, many considered such displays of the Eucharist to be idolatrous. For those who considered the Holy Communion to be no more than a memorial of Christ’s death and passion, it was too great a leap to believe that Christ himself could be present in the bread and the wine.  By 1548, the Church of England had abolished the Feast altogether, although traditional Catholic worshippers would still celebrate it in secret.  The 39 Articles of the Church of England specifically forbade the ‘carrying around’ of the Eucharist for people to ‘gaze upon’.

And so, for centuries within the Anglican Church, the feast of Corpus Christi has always felt a little bit ‘naughty’. To celebrate it with full pomp and show stands directly in opposition to the intentions of the Reformers of the church – and it continues to be a topic that divides opinion among priests and people of the church.

For my part, I think this feast still has value.  It is an opportunity for us to focus entirely upon the meaning of the service we do together every week – but without the possible distraction of focusing on other texts or issues.  It is an opportunity for each of us to ask ‘what does the Eucharist mean to me?’  What is the Service for?!  What is its fundamental purpose?  Why do we do it, and why should we continue doing it?

Surprisingly, one of the most profound answers that I've found to these questions comes from an atheist. The philosopher Alain de Botton has written a description of what he calls 'the Mass', which is well worth hearing.  (It’s part of his book "Religion for Athiests: A Non-Believer's Guide to the Uses of Religion").  He argues that Atheists need to learn from the Church.   He praises the Mass for the way that it brings people together in community around a meal. 

de Botton points out that with declining church attendance we have seen an exponential rise in restaurants.  But, he says, restaurants fail to "introduce patrons to one another, to dispel their mutual suspicions, to break up the clans into which people chronically segregate themselves”.  The focus is on the food and the decor, and on the people we’ve chosen to meet.  It is never on opportunities for extending and deepening connections across the whole community.

In contrast, de Botton says of the Mass that... “Those in attendance tend not to be uniformly of the same age, race, profession or educational or income level; they are a random sampling of souls united only by their shared commitment to certain values"

The Mass, says de Botton, "should inspire visitors to suspend their customary frightened egoism in favour of joyful immersion in a collective spirit - an unlikely scenario in the majority of modern community centres"

Of course, the Holy Communion is much more than a gathering of disparate souls into one body.  But it is at least that.  For me, it is also the chance to focus, for a while, on something other than myself, my needs, my desires.  It is a chance to be drawn outwards from my fragile ego, and into the life of the Eternal Trinity.  It is an opportunity to be fed, spiritually, by the source of all life, so that I may be empowered and inspired to live my life for God and for others.

What does the Eucharist mean to you?

Amen.