Mary MacKillop – 8 August, 2021

Today I am going to talk about an Australian Saint, Mary Mackillop. It’s her feast day today, the 8 August, and we don’t have many recognised Australian saints, and she deserves to be better known.

First, the background details. She was born in Fitzroy, Melbourne in 1842, nine years before Victoria became a separate state from NSW. Her family was poor, and her father not a good manager of family finances. She became a governess with her aunt and uncle at Penola at 18. There she became friends with the local priest, Fr Julian Tenison-Woods, who encouraged her to expand her teaching duties to establishing a school at Penola for poor children when 24. It was then she started wearing a habit and the order started under the supervision of Fr Tenison Woods. The school was soon teaching move than 50 children. She was joined by other women and they began to call themselves the sisters of St Joseph of the Sacred Heart, and opened a school at Grote Street in Adelaide by the invitation of the bishop, Lawrence Shiel.

Now, if you want to found a community, you need a rule, and this was worked out by Fr Tennison-Woods and herself. It emphasized poverty, a dependence on divine providence, no ownership of personal belongings, faith that God would provide and willingness to go where needed. By the end of 1867, ten other women had joined the Josephites, who adopted a plain brown religious habit. Due to the colour of their attire and their name, the Josephite sisters became known as the Brown Joeys.

By the end of 1869, more than 70 members of the Sisters of St Joseph were educating children at 21 schools in Adelaide and the country. MacKillop and her Josephites were also involved with an orphanage; neglected children; girls in danger; the aged poor; a reformatory (in Johnstown near Kapunda); and a home for the aged and incurably ill. Generally, the Josephite sisters were prepared to follow farmers, railway workers and miners into the isolated outback and live as they lived. By 1871, 130 sisters were working in more than 40 schools and charitable institutions across South Australia and Queensland.

However, rapid success always causes problems. The main problem was that the Joeys was not an independent order. Now, we all know from our own bishops that they like to control and Roman bishops are just the same. They didn’t trust what they often thought were uneducated women who were not part of an approved order, especially for teaching. So, the bishops wanted to control what was taught and whom was taught. In Brisbane the Sisters had to withdraw owing to the opposition of the bishop there, and most famously she then fell out with the bishop of Adelaide, a man called Shiel.

Part of the problem lay with Fr Tenison-Wood, who had become director of education for the diocese and fell out with the other clergy. Bishop Shiel demanded changes to the Order and MacKillop refused, so Shiel excommunicated her in 1871. This meant she was also homeless. Forbidden to have contact with anyone in the church, MacKillop was given the rent-free use of two houses in Flinders Street, Adelaide by prominent Jewish merchant Emanuel Solomon and was also sheltered by Jesuit priests. But Shiel did not live much longer and the excommunication was soon lifted.

But Mary MacKillop had also become wiser, and she realised she needed better support. So she travelled to Rome to get approval as an Order – this enabled her to resist the pressures of local bishops. The Rule was also changed to make it more practical by removing the requirement that they own nothing. To run schools and control them they needed to own them, and Rome saw that the Order had to change.

This change of Rule led to problems with Fr Tenison-Wood who had written the original rule. In part Mary had outgrown him, and saw more clearly the needs of her sisters. She had moved on to a much more practical way of living and running the one of the biggest teaching orders in Australia. She also had moved from the strict control with which he had initially run the Order.

Let me give you an example. Her order established an orphanage at Kincumber on the Central Coast, not far from where I grew up. She took the boat there for a visit and a boy who had been found stealing bread was brought to her. She asked him why he had been stealing and he said he was hungry. So instead of some pious statement about the evils of stealing, Mary told him to go to the kitchen and tell the kitchen that she said he needed more food. She knew what it was like to be poor and was practical.

In 1883 Mary moved to Sydney to run the Order, and although she did remain always in charge, she was the guiding light until her death on this day in 1909.

Her order was unusual at a time when women were still controlled tightly by church authorities. Firstly, the sisters lived in the community rather than in convents. Secondly the Order’s constitutions required administration by a superior-general chosen from within the congregation rather than by the bishop, which was uncommon in its day. However, the issues which caused friction were that the Josephites refused to accept government funding, and were unwilling to educate girls from more affluent families. Not all bishops accepted this.

In South Australia they were a great Order, with schools in many country towns including, Willunga, Willochra, Yarcowie, Mintaro, Auburn, Jamestown, Laura, Sevenhill, Quorn, Spalding, Georgetown, Robe, Pekina, Appila and several others.

I wanted to talk about Mary MacKillop for several reasons today. Her emphasise on education for the poor is very similar to what Fr Wise tried to achieve here later with our own parish school which was also free. Also, we know her. Many of you would know the schools or remember the Joeys. If not you knows the locations.

So often when we consider the saints, we think of them as not part of our world. Part of this comes from their locations in distant lands or distant times. But Mary MacKillop walked these streets that we walked. She had fights with bishops and tried to organise her sisters in a way she knew would work. She is very much one of us, not some distant figure.

For sainthood is not an unreachable state, but one that we are all called to be. We will have fights with authorities and friends, but we are all called to live lives that are filled with the presence of God.

I should also mention today another remarkable woman, who feast day is tomorrow, Mary Sumner, who founded the Mothers’ Union. She was the wife of an Archbishop of Canterbury and certainly outshone her husband. She died 100 years ago tomorrow.

The process to have MacKillop declared a saint began in the 1920s, and she was beatified in January 1995 by Pope John Paul II. Pope Benedict XVI prayed at her tomb during his visit to Sydney for World Youth Day 2008. She was canonised on 17 October 2010, during a public ceremony in St Peter’s Square at the Vatican. She is the first Australian to be recognised by the Catholic Church as a saint.

Filling the Void – 1 August 2021

Bread: it’s such a simple thing. Made usually from wheat it has formed part of our diets for millennia. We have evidence for the bread making going back 14,500 years, and the first wheat and barley started being cultivated 10,000 years ago. That’s a long association for us. We even have loaves of bread left over from Pompeii. They are not very edible now, but they still exist.

Bread is also what Jesus took and said was his body.

The gospel today is from John. We have just had Our Lord taking the five loaves and two fish to feed the five thousand, and now we move onto a discussion on how he is the true bread.

In John’s Gospel there is a long search by people for signs. They seek signs of the coming of the Messiah. There was a belief that the Messiah would come; and his coming would be seen by a variety of signs. Now not everyone was agreed about what the signs would be – some though the Messiah would be a military leader, but not all. The signs that were particularly looked for were the signs that had accompanied Moses, the Great Prophet, when he brought the people into the Promised Land. Now, during the forty years in the wilderness the people had ben fed by a heavenly bread called manna. Manna had been found each morning, and continued until they reached the Promised Land. So, the re-occurrence of manna would be a sign that pointed to Jesus being the Messiah.

This is the significance of the people being fed with bread: it pointed to the manna, in that it came from heaven and was not made.

There was also another bread that was important: what we often call the shrewbread, which was the bread that was put out in the Temple every day. It was the holy bread that the priests would eat, and twelve loaves were made each day, to represent the twelve tribes. Even more important at Passover the altar, that the bread was placed on, was lifted up and shown to the people as the face of God as part of the celebrations. So, there was a link between the presence of God and the Shrewbread of the Temple.

So, when Our Lord creates the bread for the feeding of the five thousand, he gives a sign that he is the Messiah.

But what happens next is that the crowd don’t understand the sign. They see the sign as one of abundance, of free food, and want to make him king to supply them forever. So Our Lord slips away with the disciples and crosses the lake.

Then comes the discussion about the nature of the bread. The giving of manna by Moses is raised, and Our Lord says the manna came not from Moses but from the Father, from God, Our Lord then says that he is the bread of life, the great “I am” showing the divine name, identifying himself with God in that statement.

In the statement that Jesus is the bread of life Our Lord sets up the basis of what will happen when he says at the Last Supper, that this bread is his body. Drawing on the image of manna and shrewbread he identifies himself with God and makes the bread his flesh.

Now, eating flesh is abhorrent. In fact, Our Lord’s insistence that people will need to eat his flesh and drink his blood would put people off – and Our Lord does this deliberately. There are several ways of saying eat in the Greek, but the word that Jesus uses to is the word that is used for animals eating – he is asking people to guzzle and munch his flesh and drink. It is deliberately affronting.

This is where we come to the heart of ancient worship – sacrifice, the killing of animals or even humans to appease the gods. Even the sacrifices of the Jewish Temple were to appease God. The meat was then eaten – in the Temple by the priests and Levites; in the pagan temples the meat often was then sold on in the market. In the ancient world most of the meat that people consumed was associated with sacrifices. But of course, sacrifice had to be done over and over again to continue to appease the gods.

Now think about the crowd: they see the sign of the feeding of the five thousand, but search Our Lord out for another sign. They see the signs but are not satisfied, they keep coming back for more signs. They have a craving that cannot be satisfied.

Now, if you are still with me, here we have two things that are never satisfied – sacrifices to appease the gods and the cravings of the crowd. Both cannot be satisfied.

Then Our Lord offers them fulfilment – they will come to him and not be hungry and they will believe and not thirst.

What Our Lord is offering is the end of the sacrificial system – God will be satisfied, and people can end their cravings. How – by belief in Our Lord Jesus who becomes the sacrifice himself and fulfils the needs.

Furthermore, this bread is special: usually what we eat becomes us. Eating this bread makes us part of the bread, Our Lord, the Bread of Life.

That’s the technical part. What it means for us as believers is that we have found a way to escape our endless need for something to fulfil our emptiness. This emptiness may manifest by trying to have more and more money, or possessions, or addictions in some way – for part of the weakness of being human is want more and more. But if we believe in Jesus as our God, he offers a way to escape this craving – believe in him. It is in the love of God we find more than enough, and we can end our mindless pursuit of fame, money, power, drugs or whatever. The deep need for sacrifice is to fulfil our cravings and emptiness. Our Lord gives himself – if we believe, we can be filled. The hole of emptiness is waiting, not for darkness, but the love of God. Our taking of the bread and wine here, at this altar, is part of the closing of the circle of sacrifice. The guzzling of flesh of sacrifice is over, it never filled the need. The emptiness remains – and only by taking God can we fill it. Our Lord is bread, but he wants to fill the hunger of our hearts and not just our stomachs. He wants to fill the gnawing, aching emptiness that we try to fill with lesser things, to satisfy the longing or the boredom that we use substances of all sorts to quiet, to put an end to the grasping, fretting, worrying about having enough of anything that will in the end possess us, rather than allowing ourselves to fall into the hands of the one for whom we were made.

The Gift of Benedict – 11 July

In the year of Our Lord 476 the last Roman emperor, the boy Romulus Augustulus, abdicated following his capture by the Vandal general and king, Odovacar, and was allowed to retire to a villa near Naples, and there disappeared to history. Thus ended the long reign of Rome of nearly a thousand years, and the imperial rule disappeared in Western Europe.

However, there was still an emperor in Byzantium, the great city that the first Christian emperor Constantine has built as a new capital, that still survives under the name of Istanbul. Even though the empire was divided, those of the Eastern part, in the Byzantine palaces of the Bosphoros, remembered their ancient heritage as Romans and yearned for a untied empire once more.

Odovacar was not to rule long, for Italy was then invaded by a new tribe, the Goths, who established a new kingdom. Rome the city continued, poorer than the great days of the Emperors, but substantially intact, with its great walls, monuments, the great aqueducts bringing fresh water from the hills to fill the baths built by long dead Ceasars. Within these walls were newer Churches, some founded by Constantine, others built in the ruins of closed temples. Yet in this city continued the semblance of the ancient Romans, speaking a Latin of sorts, maintaining a link to the time when Rome ruled the world.

It was to this city of Roma that a little boy Benedict was sent for schooling. He was born around 480 in a little town called Nursia, now called Norsia, an ancient town mentioned in the Aeneid as frigida Nursia, a place long known for its cold. He was probably in Rome when the statues to Odovacar were overthrown and the Goth Theodoric was proclaimed ruler of Italy.

He soon left there to pursue a holy life, away from the evil he saw. This was not uncommon, many saw only decay in the disintegration of the old rule of law under the barbarians. The Roman life was fading under the barbarian rulers and many saw only decay around them and sought for a purer life. Some tried to live as hermits, others tried to live together in communities. Benedict would live first as a hermit, settling at Subiaco, some little distance from Rome, where the Emperor Nero had once a stately villa, and whose waters were channelled into those great aqueducts that supplied Rome. However, his early efforts were difficult – he lived as a hermit and then was asked to lead a community, who found him too strict and tired to poison him. He left them and soon had twelve communities, so great was his fame, but soon found himself caught up again in the fights within the very people he tired to live with.

Yet his fame spread and soon the nobles of nearby Rome were bringing him their sons for education. Yet Benedict disliked the quarrels of the monks there and left (one story is that the monks tried to poison him), going south to a place halfway to Naples, where on a hill overlooking the great ancient highway, the Via Latina, he founded his new monastery at the place which would henceforth be known as Monte Cassino.

It was for this community that he wrote a rule to guide the monks on how to live a life together. It is a rule noted for its moderation. It is not proscriptive, it is merely an outline that helps any community wanting to follow a monastic life. Its core values are stability of residence, obedience to the abbot, and monastic zeal. Its very moderation makes it easy to live by, yet calls for a devotion and commitment to the way. The abbot would be elected by the monks for life, preserving the rule of democracy within its tradition while the rest of Europe made do with kings and conquerors. It would be endlessly adapted and adopted by other communities, and would provide the stability for those seeking a monastic life in Europe for centuries.

I’m a middle-aged man now, and St Benedict when he wrote his rule was middle aged. He had tried fervour and strong will and it hadn’t worked. It’s a rule of balance and adaption. It’s the wisdom of middle age. Yet there is a strength in it as well. He knew that living in community and working together was the way to help bring the Kingdom of God closer. So many of the middle-aged people I talk to hate their jobs. They are tired of office politics, endless reports, political correctness, and sheer boredom of so much work. Jobs that often demand long hours and no security. In part that is because the corporations of the world offer the false gods of wealth and power that are never going to satisfy human beings who yearn for God. Benedict gave a Rule that allowed flexibility so that people could realise their desire (what is your desire is what we are asked as we join the community, and we respond that we desire to offer ourselves to God).

Meanwhile the emperor Justinian sent the great general Belisarius to reconquer the lost territories of the West. He re-conquered north Africa and then a few years later in 534 marched up the Via Latina past Monte Cassino to take Rome. He would then be surrounded by the armies of the Goths for several years, during which time the aqueducts would be destroyed and much damage done. One attack on the citadel of Hadrian’s Tomb would only be repulsed by the stratagem of throwing all its statues down on the attacking Goths. The city would eventually fall and be retaken, but by the time of Benedict’s death in around 550, it would be a ghost city, largely deserted, its monuments ruined, its walls pulled down and rebuilt, with space enough inside to grow crops in the forum which had once teemed with life. The great baths that the aqueducts had supplied would remain empty and useless, to crumble into the past. Italy would be ruined, impoverished by the passing armies, its institutions destroyed. Rome the city had passed into history.

Yet Benedict and his rule would continue and provide the stability that the old empire lacked. His rule would become the foundation of all monastic institutions in Western Europe, so much though that within the start of a new Europe, the Holy Roman Emperor Charlemagne would make inquiry if there was any other rule known throughout his empire. The monastic schools would flourish with the growth of the monasteries and preserve the institution of learning in the West. From these monasteries would grow again the schools and universities that we know.

For us Anglicans the influence has been profound. It was the Benedictine monks who came with St Augustine that helped to restore the faith to England. This was done by the special monastic missions, based around Churches called minsters, that were established in the pagan areas to bring the faith to the new tribes that would one day become the English nation. One of the inherited characteristics of that system would be a strong sense of parish, a reflection of the vow of stability that St Benedict marked in his Rule. That special devotion to the local parish is still a characteristic of Anglicans, and of our parish here with its great loyalty to our little church.

Our civilisation has a lot to thank Benedict and his rule for its moderation and wisdom that gave a way for the monastic way of life to flourish admidst the uncertainties and turmoil of the early middle ages.

The Coming of the Light – 4 July, 2021

Last Thursday was an important day for the church in Australia. It was the 150th anniversary of what is called the Coming of the Light, the coming of Christianity to the Torres Straits. There was a big occasion there, our Archbishop, as primate was going, with our bishop for aboriginal peoples, Chris McLeod. However, the lockdowns stopped those visits and there are four hundred copies of the order of service available free of charge from the Registry for those who want to see what was planned. A warning – part of it is not in English, and we can’t sing the hymns because of our new restrictions here.

This is the history. In the late afternoon of 1st July 1871, the Reverends Samuel McFarlane and Archibald Murray of the London Missionary Society, along with several New Caledonian mission teachers, arrived in a boat aptly named Surprise off the coast of Erub island in the far eastern Torres Strait. They had been planning to work in New Caledonia but had been expelled by the French authorities, so they decided to try Australia instead.

From the mid-19th century onwards, Torres Strait Islanders experienced momentous change from their increasing contact with Europeans. The emerging maritime industries of fishing, pearling and sea slug collection were attractions. There was also the darker history of the forced removal of workers to plantations to work.

One Warrior Clan Elder named Dabad is remembered with particular fondness on this day when the missionaries arrived, for having defied tribal law by welcoming the missionaries to the island, helping the people of Erub to embrace the new religion, and so playing a pivotal role in the story and history the Torres Strait Islands.

The LMS was an organisation that reflected the growing realisation in the later 19th C that Christianity was not Western Civilisation. So, although it worked to stop tribal warfare it also tried to preserve local customs. Most notably it set up a training college for local priests. Between 1871 and 1878 at least 131 Pacific Islander teachers, mainly from the Loyalty Islands, Cook Islands, Niue, Society Islands and Rurutu, taught in the Torres Straits and New Guinea, along with their wives and families. Only four European missionaries taught in the same period. They also developed liturgies in the local languages.

In 1879, the Torres Strait was annexed and as such was considered part of Queensland. At Federation, Islanders became Australian citizens although, like mainland Aboriginal people, they experienced restricted access to many of the rights their fellow Australians took for granted.

In 1914 the secretary of the London Missionary Society requested that the Bishop of Carpentaria, Gilbert White, take over the missionary work in the Torres Strait. The Australian Board of Missions in November 1914 accepted this and the Anglican Church assumed responsibility for the Torres Strait Mission. The Cathedral was based on the Torres Strait and it was a diocese particularly for the people there.

The Diocese was an important protector in the Islands. There was a major strike by 400 divers in 1936. This was supported by the bishop who argued that the Commonwealth should remove state control. This lead to the introduction of elected Islander councils in 1937.

The Torres Straits is also important in our history of the growing recognition of native rights. For it was from these islands that the High Court decision of 1992 in Mabo that recognised, for the first time, of the common law rights and interests of Indigenous people in their lands according to their traditions, law and customs. This in effect exposed the legal fiction of terra nullius—that Australia was an empty land belonging to no-one. The repercussions of this fundamental change to how the early story of the Australian nation was told, continues to be felt not only in the subsequent claims to Native Title that have ensued, but also in how prior Aboriginal occupation and management of the land challenges the previously competing claim of their non-relationship to it.

However, the 1990s also saw a change in the Anglican church in the Torres Straits. In 1996 the diocese of Carpentaria merged into North Queensland, and this led to a loss of emphasis on the Torres Straits. A new bishop was chosen for the islands, but there was a breakdown in consultations that led to a break in the islands.

Part of the problem was that the older ways of consulting were no longer working. Actions like Mabo showed a new awareness and self confidence in the Torres Straits. There were not happy with the consultations that chose for them a bishop.

This fed into the politics of the Anglican church at the time. Dioceses were increasingly struggling with shrinking incomes and governing burdens, a trend that has continued. One of the great moves by the Anglo Catholics in the 19th C was sending out a bishop with a few clergy and developing local ministries. Some were tiny. Now we are lost again in big structures and distant leaders. As dioceses become bigger and more complex the ability to listen and respond becomes harder.

The politics of the time fed the split. Supported by European elements within the church opposed to the ordination of women, Islander clergy charged that the mainland body was deserting the faith and order of the ‘church of the fathers’. With the Islanders newly empowered, as they perceived it, by the Mabo judgment of the High Court of Australia, their perception appears to have been that, in spirit, the mainland church denied what the High Court’s decision recognised: the ultimate control by Islanders over their own affairs.

The Anglican church in the Torres Straits is now splintered. Some joined the traditional Anglicans and have followed the increasingly tortured history of that church. Some joined the Ordinariate. Some remain Anglicans.

There are signs of hope. The Islands are still strongly Christian, more than here. In 2020, the Melanesian Brotherhood established a household on Thursday Island. The Melanesian Brotherhood is the world’s largest Anglican religious order and is headquartered in the Solomon Islands. The Brothers will live and minister at the cathedral on Thursday Island, nurturing community and supporting clergy and lay ministers across the islands of the Torres Strait. It is hoped that they will help heal the divisions we have caused.

We need to celebrate the 150 years of one of our most successful missions. So much of our ministry to the first nations of this land have been destroyed by the effects of colonisation. This is one of our success stories, even if our politics and attitudes have caused damage. We also need to find a way for our church to re-connect with people in our culture, and there is no easy answer there. But we are the church, and the gates of Hades will not prevail. We work and pray in that hope, that the Holy Spirit is not limited by our mind sets. In the gospel today we heard of the sending out of the twelve, the first missions. There have been a lot more since as you know, and will be still. It is for us to recognise that so much of what we think is the faith is often our culture as well, and we do need a humility in bringing the gospel to other lands or even to our families, so that God can work, and not our attitudes.

Story in a Story – 27 June, 2021

St Mark today takes us to a unique story in his gospel. It’s unique, because instead of one story, here we have two stories interlinked, deliberately to make a point together. The Gospels are not written like a modern novel, with character development and plot. Instead, the Gospels are written around separate incidents about our Lord that are then constructed into the whole Gospel. Scholars suggest that originally the Gospels may have existed in short separate stories to allow easy telling or maybe even acting. Here St Mark has broken the usual routine.

The passage has our Lord arriving and being met by Jairus. Now when you get a name in the Gospels, you know you are dealing with an important person: names aren’t given out willy-nilly. This man is also important, he is one of the leaders of the synagogue. Jairus comes and begs Jesus repeatedly to come and save his little daughter. Now we hear that many people were healed by Jesus, but not all the healing are recorded: this one is because Mark wants to teach us something. So our Lord agrees, and a great crowd follows him.

Then we have the story in the story, which is of the woman with a flow of blood or haemorrhage. We are told that she had it for twelve years, and had wasted all her money on doctors trying to be cured. It is worthwhile to note two things. Firstly, she is given no name: this means she has no status. Secondly, she should not be out: women like this were considered unclean because she was bleeding. and should not be out in public. Blood was always a big taboo in Jewish culture, you never ate meat with blood in it because blood was considered to have a special life force. Yet this woman goes out in desperation, and starts the relationship, by deliberately touching Our Lord’s garment for healing: and healed she is.

Now by doing this she, however, is making our Lord ritually unclean. She would cause scandal by doing so. But our Lord stops, knowing that the power had gone forth from him, and asks who touched him. The woman, in fear and trembling confesses, and one can understand her fear, as she could be attacked for making others unclean by her uncleanness. But our Lord then says, “Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace, and be healed.” There is no scandal, instead there is healing.

The point to note is that her faith has made her well, and that she is now given a relationship. Whereas before she had no name, no connection to anyone, now she is called daughter, so is given status. Jesus not only recognises her healing through her faith but also gives her status: status as his daughter.

But in the meantime, the daughter of Jairus has died. While our Lord was dealing with an unnamed, unclean woman, the daughter of an important leader, Jairus, dies. But our Lord keeps on going, reaches the house and calls the daughter back to life. It is then we learn that the daughter is twelve years old, linking her with the twelve years of the unnamed woman. It is also worth while doing a little numerology here: count the number of people present at the healing, the three disciples, Our Lord, then Jairus, his wife and daughter, making seven, a number of perfection.

So what’s the point the story is saying. Firstly, it is that our Lord is not going to get caught up in the social distinctions of the world. He is going to cure the lowly, in this case the child daughter, a person of low rank who is not even worthy of a name, just a relationship; but even further, when someone even lower caste comes into the story, the woman with the haemorrhage, of no name or relationship and unclean, our Lord stops and listens to her story as being more important than getting to the daughter of a named man. The woman then ends healed, and enters a new relationship, as a daughter, in this case, the daughter of God. The two are linked: both as women and in the twelve years.

But there is an anther important signal in this reading today, and that is the issue of the blood. Now the woman with the haemorrhage was bleeding continually. It is stated explicitly that it was a flow of blood. Now this made her unclean for society under the Law. Yet blood was also seen as the life force of a person. It was for that reason that sacrifices needed blood: it was that life force that was the most valuable that was therefore needed in sacrifice. Of course, then it would be the blood of our Lord that would eventually flow in a cursed way, dying on a tree, that would end the whole cycle of blood letting, because his blood would have a value beyond any demand of vengeance and need of human. On many crucifixes you see a skull under the cross, it represents Adam, and the blood drips onto it: Our Lord’s blood undoes Adam’s fault. The woman’s healing of her blood flow points to its divine reversal to come.

So often people, who are the beloved children of God, are judged by society and found wanting. They are named in various ways as outcasts and treated as less than human. But until all of God’s children, the whole human family, are welcome at the table, we will be falling short of the kingdom of God. For those of us with a seat at the table, we can pray for the grace to see the world as God sees it and the courage to act.

But if you are one whom others have seen as unworthy and judged as lacking, know that God loves you as you are and wants better for you as well. You don’t have to even touch the hem of his garment. You only have to reach out your heart in prayer and offer God your pain and suffering. God wants to take that hurt and give you peace —the health, healing, and wholeness—he gave to a woman not named in scripture, but whose faith is unforgettable.

This is something we can all experience every time we gather for the Eucharist. In this Great Thanksgiving, Our Lord Jesus is the host. At this table, all of us are known and loved. We are all his children. In the meal of bread and wine, we are fed. Then we are empowered to share that same love with others.

Views on History – 20 June, 2021

“Have you considered my servant Job?” is the question that God puts to Satan in the first chapter of the Book of Job. It’s a great question. Now, Job is living a good life, prosperous, a large family and Job was a good man. All is going well, and when Satan comes from going to and fro upon the earth, and God ask Satan this question, “Have you considered my servant Job?”

However, Satan answers back and tells God that Job is only a good man because he is having a good life. So God puts Job in Satan’s power, and Job loses everything, except his wife, for some reason (unless she was seen as part of the punishment), and furthermore is inflected with loathsome sores from the sole of his foot to the crown of his head. Then his friends arrive and a long discussion follows, where the friends are sure that Job must have committed some sin to cause all this grief. Job continually justifies himself and his friends continue to argue that he must have done something wrong to suffer in this way.

Thirty-eight chapters later the Book of Job ends when God concludes the argument, the part we heard today. God tell Job to gird up his loins like a man, a great phrase that is omitted in the reading, and then questions Job to where he was when everything was made. God challenges Job to understand the whole of creation. Job then realises that he cannot understand the purposes of God and the whole argument of whether he was righteous or not, and deserving of this punishment, is irrelevant.

The Book of Job has a profound theology. It states that we cannot understand the purposes of God and furthermore, God does not give us good lives or bad lives in return for our actions. Now this was an innovation. Many parts of the Bible clearly see the righteous as being rewarded for their good deeds. Even to this day, there are Christians who argue for a heretical theology of prosperity, that is, God rewards the good people with good things. The better you are, they argue, the more likely you are to succeed. Money flows to those who are good. They use some good lines from Scripture to justify this. However, the Old Testament is not a harmonious book: it is more of a long struggle of the chosen people to come to an understanding of their God, and Job is an important part of this reflection. The Book of Job clearly puts the argument that God does not give out earthly rewards for good behaviour like some sort of celestial lollies.

The lesson is one that was not learnt quickly though. Several times the disciples in the New Testament put the question of why people were punished for their sins: such as a the man born blind, was it something he did or his parents that caused the blindness [John 9]? Or why the tower of Siloam fell on the people [Luke 13]? But our Lord takes the question away from the dead-end question, and instead talks about the glory and works of God.

Well, in the Gospel, we have another moment. Our Lord and the disciples are asleep in a boat on the Lake of Galilee, and the storm arises. Now the ancients saw the sea as not just a body of water, but a place inhabited by gods and demons. This moment was evil fighting against them.

While our Lord sleeps the disciples panic and believe that they are perishing. The demons are going to get them. They wake our Lord, who calms the waters, and rebukes the disciples for their lack of faith. It also shows his dominance over the demons of the seas.

We, too, have our boats of life. Sometimes, the storms begin to rage – the storms of pain and loss – the storms of rejection and failure – the storms of illness and death – the storms of pandemic. Whenever or however they arise, storms are about changing conditions. Life becomes overwhelming and out of control. The waves crash, the boat fills up, and we’re struggling to stay afloat.

For more than a year, the storm of pandemic has taken us to uncharted waters. We have a desired destination but are not sure of where we will end up or when we will get there. The water is deep, and the new shore is a distant horizon. We long to have life back to what it was, and we cry out in fear, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?”

When the wind ceased and the waves became calm, Our Lord questioned the disciples’ fear and lack of faith. It is worth noting that Our Lord never said, “There’s nothing to be afraid of.” The storm on the Sea of Galilee that night must have been extremely fearsome if seasoned fishermen doubted their own ability to keep the boat afloat. We often confuse the two phrases, but saying, “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” is quite different from saying, “Do not be afraid.” The truth is that things that cause fear are very real. Isolation, pain, infections from covid, the loss of one’s job, or loss of a relationship, illness, and death are real.

Now the question comes: what was their lack of faith about? The simple answer is that he would not take care of them. That’s easy enough, but there is more here, and what is here is an attitude problem. Job wants to know what he has done to be punished. The disciples want to know about who sinned to cause a man to be blind. The disciples are accused of being afraid and having no faith.

Part of the good news about our Lord Jesus Christ is that he comes to give us a new world-view. Basically, we are told to lift up our eyes. Don’t get bogged in detail. We are too close to the action of history to be able to interpret it. We will not understand God acting directly in our lives: our God is not one of punishment and reward here. The meaning of God’s plan for history cannot be seen in day-to-day living. Instead we are to have faith and not be afraid.

What Our Lord is calling us to do is to live life in a new way. We live life now. We cannot change the past and the future is unknown. All we can do is to use the opportunity God gives us now. It is an error to try and interpret our part in the meaning of this moment. It cannot be done – to do so is to fall into the error of Job and his friends. We are to live lives instead of faith in our Lord. Faith that God has control over history, faith that God has control over our lives. That is the faith we are meant to have, to trust that God knows all and loves us. We may be in a boat in a storm in danger of being swamped, we may be about to be taken by the demons, but at all times we have the Lord in our midst. He may appear to be sleeping, and we often suspect that God is sleeping, but we should have more trust.

It is this trust in the presence of God that has helped the saints throughout the Church. Those great saints who faced persecutions with joy and trust, knowing that despite what was happening, God loved them and had a purpose for them. So are we called to live. We may be like Job, wanting to know the reason for everything. But if we want to do that, we had better gird up our loins like a man and start to explain the universe to God. Instead we can be good disciples, knowing we are in a boat in the storm, thinking God is asleep, but having trust and love that God will be there for us, and get us safely to the other side.

St Antony – 13 June, 2021

Not many Anglican churches will be celebrating St Antony of Padua this morning. But we are, thanks to a little statue of him by the pulpit, I think one of the best carvings in the church. It is gift in memory of Elsie MacLean from 1912, I don’t know why in particular this saint was chosen, except from his life.

Stories abound about the extraordinary events about that life of St Antony of Padua, the “wonder-worker.” The legends abound: fish are said to have listened to him preach, their heads attentively raised out of the river, when the hard of heart refused to heed his words, a donkey knelt reverently before the Blessed Sacrament, convincing heretics who had challenged Antony on Christ’s presence in the host. Statues depicting Antony with the infant Jesus in his arms recall the occasion when the child appeared to him surrounded by marvellous light.

This popular saint is also known as the “Finder of Lost Articles.” When a novice once ran away with a book of psalms containing notes Antony had made for teaching his fellow Franciscans, he prayed for the young friar and the recovery of the book. Soon the novice repented and returned to the order, bringing the precious psalter back with him. Since then, millions of people have asked Antony for help in finding lost possessions: “Saint Antony, Saint Antony, please come around/ Something is lost and needs to be found.” I know many here in this parish who have called upon St Antony to help recover lost things. There is a beautiful little poem about that with the statue here.

But behind all the remarkable miracles and captivating stories told of Antony is a man who loved God passionately and tirelessly proclaimed the truth of the gospel.

The man who became known to the world as St Antony of Padua actually began his life in a different city than Padua and with a different name than Antony. He was born Fernando Bulhom in Lisbon, Portugal, in 1195. His father served King Alfonso I as a knight, it would be expected that he would follow that profession. However, when he was fifteen, he chose instead to join the Augustinian.

In 1220, the bodies of five Franciscans martyred for preaching to Muslims in Morocco were brought to be honoured at Santa Cruz. The story of these men moved Fernando profoundly, and after receiving the reluctant permission of his prior, Fernando exchanged his white Augustinian habit for the grey robe of a Franciscan brother and took the name Antony in honour of the great monastic patriarch, Antony of the Desert.

Twenty-six years old, Antony sailed to Morocco with ambitions to convert Muslims to Christianity. That was his desire .However, a prolonged fever forced him to surrender his dream. He realized that God was asking a different kind of sacrifice from him, but he couldn’t tell yet what that sacrifice might be. On the return trip to Portugal, a storm drove Antony’s ship to Sicily, where he met friars who nursed him back to health. Together with these brother Franciscans, Antony set out for the now-famous Pentecost “Chapter of Mats” in Assisi where three thousand friars gathered with their founder, Francis. At the close of the meeting, Antony was assigned to the hermitage of San Paolo near Arezzo, where he served his brothers by celebrating Mass for them, washing dishes, and sweeping the floor.

None of the friars at San Paolo suspected their new companion’s brilliant intellect and knowledge of Scripture until 1222, when they all attended an ordination ceremony in Forli. When several other Franciscans and Dominicans declined an on-the-spot request to preach a homily, Antony was called upon to “speak whatever the Holy Spirit put in his mouth.” Antony did just that, and his listeners were amazed at his eloquence and passion. Thus ended Antony’s contemplative life as the Franciscan provincial commissioned him to preach publicly.

In Antony’s preaching tours throughout northern Italy and southern France, he strengthened the faithful, invited sinners to repent, and brought the wandering back to the truth. His studies as an Augustinian, coupled with his love for the Franciscan spirit, made him a powerful witness of the gospel. Realizing that it was not enough merely to proclaim right doctrine in order to win people’s hearts, Antony confirmed his words by demonstrating genuine gospel living. “The preacher must by word and example be a sun to those to whom he preaches,” he once said. “Our life must warm the hearts of men, while our teaching enlightens them.”

Antony presented the truth of Christianity in positive ways and defended the faith by the example of his life rather than by taking direct issue with heretics and trying to prove them wrong.

Loved and respected by his Franciscan brothers, Antony was elected provincial of the friars in northern Italy in 1227. During the next three years he also served as an envoy to Pope Gregory IX, preached throughout Italy, and wrote “Sermons for Sunday,” actually notes to aid other preachers in preparing their own sermons

In June 1230, Pope Gregory IX released Antony, at his own request, from his duties as provincial so he could devote his energies exclusively to preaching. From that time on he resided in Padua, a city whose people had become dear to him when he had preached to them earlier. There he was privileged to see great fruit in the final months of his life.

Antony’s sermons in Padua produced a genuine transformation among the citizens as he urged them to trust in God’s mercy and receive forgiveness. Long-standing quarrels among neighbours were settled peacefully, immoral living was abandoned, and stolen goods were restored as thieves became honest men. Shops and offices were closed while as many as thirty thousand people gathered in the piazzas or open fields to hear him. A bodyguard of young men protected Antony as crowds of enthusiasts; some armed with scissors to snip off pieces of his habit as relics, pressed around him.

Concerned for the poor, Antony preached against charging exorbitant interest rates on loans and persuaded the city to pass a law against the common practice of imprisoning debtors who could not pay their creditors. But his main object was to bring people back to peace with God. He took no satisfaction in a crowd of listeners if the confessional remained empty afterwards. Antony felt that would be like “hunting all day and returning with an empty game-bag.” So, after his morning Mass and sermon, he frequently heard confessions the rest of the day, often aided by local parish priests.

After preaching through Lent and the spring of 1231, Antony’s health and strength gave out. He was only thirty-six years old. He retreated with two companions to a forest where he enjoyed solitude and prayer in a cell built for him in the branches of a huge walnut tree. When he saw that he was declining, Antony asked to be taken back to his beloved Padua, but only reached the outskirts of the city, where he died on 13 June, 1231. He was canonised the following year.

The point about Antony is that he learnt to follow God’s will. He could have been a knight, he could have stayed an Augustinian, he could have stayed in Africa, but he went when he felt God was calling him. So, this boy from Lisbon ended his days being the peace maker of Padua. Now we all have different vocations, we are all called by God in some way. Most of us will follow jobs in the world, have families and the normal worries of this world as a result. But God still calls us to be exceptionable people. God calls us to be the peacemakers in our families and workplaces, god calls us to be truly a child of God and to live heroic lives, whether they be humble or famous. Antony learn to find God’s will. It’s a bit like the famous hymn, Amazing Grace, when we sing the line, I once was lost but now are found. Antony found his life by finding god. We still ask Antony to find the lost things in our lives, but perhaps we should ask most particularly to help him find our lives form where we have lost the way.

Corpus Christi – 6 June, 2021

Today we celebrate what we call Corpus Christi, the Latin term for Body of Christ. This feast takes again the giving of the Eucharist to us by Our Lord on Maundy Thursday and explores what it means for us. It’s the last of the four great theological Sundays with Ascension, Pentecost, Trinity. It’s good training for our brains.

This mass, uniquely, has a procession of the sacrament at the end. This proclaims that there is a special public element to this: that the sacrifice of Christ is for the salvation of the whole world. We must bring Christ publicly on the roads of the world, because He, whom the fragile veil of that little white host hides, is that what came to earth just to be the life of the world. In some countries this procession is a big outdoor event, here we do it more quietly inside.

With a procession we are always making point, as we wander around the church, which is why at St George’s processions usually include the congregation, the point is that we are “missionaries,” and also people with a holy goal, namely “pilgrims.”

We are missionaries, because walking together united around the body of the One who is the Lord of the universe and of history, we bring Our Lord to the world and with him the announcement of the peace he has left to us, that the world cannot give. Our Eucharistic procession allows us to witness with humble joy that in the little white host, which the priest leads devoutly, is the answer to the most pressing questions. There is the comfort for every most excruciating pain. There is the pledge for the fulfilment of that burning thirst for happiness and love that everyone carries inside, in this secret heart.

We are pilgrims, because we go from our earthly towards the eternal heavenly home. That is the story of life. We are pilgrims, not only for the restlessness of the eternal that we possess together with every human being, but by vocation. Our Lord calls us to share his friendship and his mission. We are not alone on our pilgrimage: we walk with Our Lord, the pilgrim that renews God’s presence on the roads of the world, the Pilgrim with pilgrims on the road to Emmaus. Emmaus is the place where Our Lord broke himself as the Bread of life, the bread of angels, the bread of pilgrims, that gives us the strength to continue the journey with Him, for Him and in Him. Pilgrimage is the lot of all Christians, it has been said that the bible begins with the Garden of Eden in Genesis and finishes with the City of God in Revelation, and we will find no earthly home until we reach that city but remain on pilgrimage towards it.

To be able to make the journey of life, represented by today’s procession, we must feed on the Eucharist, this bread of the angels who became food for people hungry for truth, love and freedom.

Our Lord is always close to us. He dwells by his presence in the sacrament, and years to dwell in us: we just have to take as food Him, who as the great Anglican and Roman Catholic theologian John Henry Newman said, “took our flesh and our blood so that His flesh and His blood could be our life.”

The mystery of the Eucharist has three aspects: sacrifice, communion and presence. Corpus Christi celebrates a particular aspect, that of the real presence. We cannot, and we should not, separate the three aspects peculiar to this mystery. However, that does not prevent us today to reflect primarily on the mystery of the real presence so that we can be present in this Presence who gives himself completely to us. We cannot explain it fully how this can be: but we are left with the assurance of Our Lord himself, that this is indeed his body.

There is a story of a farmer, a parishioner of the Curé of Ars, that famous rural 19th C priest in France. This simple and humble worker of the earth after a day in the fields was in the church looking at the tabernacle without opening his mouth. When asked by his priest “What do you say at this time of worship?” the farmer answered “I look at Him and He looks at me.” When Our Lord looks at a soul, He gives to it his likeness – said St Teresa of Avila – but this soul must not stop to fix his gaze on Him. When St Peter, walking on the water, took off his eyes from Our Lord to watch the storm, he began to sink. Peter learned the lesson and teaches us today to keep our eyes on the face of the Lord “as to a lamp shining in a dark place, until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your hearts” (2 Pet 1:19). If we give time to Our Lord in prayer and, in particular, in worship we will receive as a gift Our Lord himself who reaches out and pulls us out of the water in which we are drowning.

When we adore Our Lord in the sacrament, we embrace Our Lord and say, I am yours and want you also to be with me. The adoration of the Sacrament is always the preparation and the thanksgiving of Mass. It is the moment in which we learn to develop and grow in the complete donation of ourselves. We not only kneel in front of the presence of God in the sacrament, but also to unite ourselves to the offering pure and perfect of our Saviour, Our Lord Jesus Christ. The adoration of the Eucharist gives us the desire and the strength to put ourselves without hesitation in the hands of God, in total and happy abandonment in the One who made us and knows us fully.

There will be many times in our lives we may feel touched by the love of God. But in the daily and weekly celebration of the mass, the presence of God will come to us and invite us to look beyond the hidden veils of this world, and see the God who yearns for us and calls us to take and eat him so we may be one in love.

The Trinity – 30 May 2021

I love this season: it’s our processiontide, as we have procession every Sunday for four weeks as we celebrate four great theological feasts: Ascension, Pentecost, Trinity and then Corpus Christi. This year we even have another one, as we celebrate a saint’s day after that, St Anthony of Padua.

Each of these gives us a good dose of theology. Theology is something that gives us the reason for being and doing. That’s important. Why should we honour our bodies? Well, look to Ascension, with Our Lord accepting his body into heaven. Why should we believe we are guided into the future and trust it? Well that’s where we tackle the Holy Spirit and Pentecost. Why should we hold love and service to be given by God? Well, that’s why we are here today.

The first thing that we need to know for Trinity Sunday is that God is in three persons: Father, Son and Holy Spirit. We say that this is not three gods: so they are not autonomous distinct beings, but we say they are in a lesser sense three persons in the one. Now this is immensely important as it means that within the Godhead there is a community. The foundation of our faith is therefore that this is a community, which means that there is the ability to love and love back that signifies any community. Within a family there are parents and children with the ability to love and esteem the different qualities that each member of the family brings. So you immediately start to understand the nature of the Church and why we go on so much about love being our foundation. We, as the Church, cannot exist without being a community. We mirror the nature of God, therefore we cannot be unless we take in different members and attempt to love and see their different qualities. That is why there are distinct differences in the Church as well: we are not one body with equal abilities and roles, but the nature of our diversity, with clergy and laity, bishops, priest and deacons, all signify the different persons of God and the different gifts within the Church. When you see a body that everyone has exactly the same roles run a mile very quickly as it is the deadliness of enforced unity and nothing like God and godliness.

The next point to remember is that the Godhead holds together in love and service. The three are equal. Now this is important – it is not that we have God the Father ruling over God the Son who sends out God the Spirit as some sort of menial servant. Father, Son and Holy Spirit are equal. As they are equal the only way their love works is by continual service to each other. That is why the Church tries continually to make the point that we exist only to serve, not to dominate. Jesus makes the point time and time again to his disciples, that we show our love by service and not by lording over other people. Now we know that the church has laity and clergy, but clergy are not here to lord it over the laity, but rather to serve those around. Yves Congar, the Dominican theologian of the late 20th C, pointed out that there are levels of service we can see. As Christ served his disciples, so the clergy serve the laity within the Church. But then this goes onto another level, as the Church then must serve the world in the same way. The Church exists as the bride of Christ, and as the bride we show Our Lord’s love and service in the world. That is why the Church must always in every age be where the needy are, whether that be the sick, the insane, the prisoners, the poor, the lonely. God does not give up on anyone, and neither must the Church give up on any person as well. Love and service holds the Trinity together and is the core of how we act in the world.

The last point I would like to state is that within God there is timelessness and change. Now, this seems somewhat of a contradiction: how can an eternal god have change, for change for us often signifies error and decay. Yes, God is eternal, and lives outside time, always present always loving. Yet at the same time God enters into time and changes. God sent the Son, Jesus, into the world to live as a human, subject to all the change and aging of who we are. So subject to it, that he let himself even die in pain and refused to escape from the cross. Therefore, although we deal with a timeless God we will continually learn the depth of revelation of what that means: the Church will change over time as it learns the riches of God. St Frances is meant to have said (and poor man he is credited with a lot of things he never said) that Scripture is like a lot of seeds that bear their fruit and flowers at different times. Therefore the Church shows forth the love of God eternally, but the means it will do this will change as it brings forth the fruit of its love and history in different ways.

So the three points you need to remember: God exists as one God in three persons, so we also exist in diversity but as one community. The Godhead is held together in love and service, so we as the Church exist by learning always the hard lessons of love and service with each other and the world. The last point is that God is eternal and yet changing so the way we see God is never complete, but always changing. So, we get the answers of why we love and why we serve as Christians by Trinity Sunday theology.

Ascension, 16 May, 2021

Well, at St George’s, if it’s a festival, we always have a procession at High Mass, so this is the month for processions as we celebrate a whole series of feasts. which invite us to contemplate the great mysteries. One of the good things about being a Christian in our Anglo-Catholic tradition is that we are not shy about theology. God means something for us. I always like the analogy of taking a plane. When you take a plane, you have a destination, you have a purpose. Well, it’s the same for us as Christians. We have a destination, heaven, and we want to know how to get there. For that you need some facts, not just feelings. We don’t sit in church like some big waiting room for death, we are here for a purpose, and that purpose is the salvation of our souls. Well, that’s what theology is all about.

Today is Ascension, when we think about what does it mean that Our Lord went into heaven in a bodily form. The Gospels make the point that Our Lord was not some ghost, but a real living human who ate and touched and was touched both before and after the resurrection.

So I can give you what I am going to say in two sentences. The message is:

  1. God became human so we could become divine.
  2. What is not ascended is not healed.

Now let’s unpack that.

When we say God became human, we touch on what theologians call the incarnation: that God, in the person of Jesus Christ, becomes a fully human person. It is not that God appeared to be human, like some spirit, God was human, and was subject to our condition, of aging, hunger and all the demands of human life. But by dying, rising and ascending, Our Lord finishes the great journey of God; he takes our humanity into God. This makes the point: our humanity is not a burden, but blessed. If God were willing to take on our human nature, then it makes the great affirmation, that humanity, in its physicality, is worthy of God: it is the great gift to us. But more than that: Our Lord changes our humanity, he creates a new mutant: we are now no longer solely beings who live and die; he infuses outside time eternity with our lives. We are now creatures who are offered eternal life; our Lord’s divinity is mixed with our humanity to make us a new creature.

The Ascension here is an important event that we celebrate not just as a historical event. We don’t just celebrate the event of our Lord’s life as history: that belittles God. If we did that we would have things like the Sunday celebrating his first tooth and other idiocies. That’s not about faith; that is why the gospels just skip so much of our Lord’s life. What is important is the why of God, the theology. The Ascension makes the ending of the physical life of our Lord here. But the body is not discarded as a useless shell; it is taken into heaven, in the inadequate phrase of the gospels, where he seats at the right hand of God. What they are trying to get across to us poor limited beings is that he takes his humanity with him and it still exists in the Godhead. God takes our humanity with him, so that it is continually honoured by God and what we are is honoured as well. We are not a religion that can look as the body as a piece of evil: instead, we look on it as something honoured and accepted and part of God and changed by God.

Now the second point is that what is not ascended is not healed. In a sense this is the great warning of the ancient church. We live in a world that is imperfect and has evil. Our continual urge is to quarantine sections of our lives and societies as imperfect, evil, or sinful. Once we do that, we ghetto them, we can ignore them, or even worse try to eradicate them. It’s also called scapegoating, blaming something for all that is wrong. We do it with people, like the Nazis scapegoated the Jews, or we can do it with ourselves: if only I had not been mistreated I could have achieved so much, or if only I had been six foot two I could have led a wonderful life. There are much more relevant examples I assure you, how people choose some aspect to lay a blame. But we are warned: what is not ascended is not healed. What that means is that we have to take everything to God, if we seek healing for our sins and failings. God is interested in everything. So whenever we start to scapegoat, our Lord has the nasty habit of reminding us that he was the scapegoat for all time, and God will be with the victim. God will be with those persecuted. Furthermore, as long as we blame part of ourselves with our failures, we will not find healing. Awful things may happen in our lives: but God wants us to find in them his own presence so we can find healing. God is with our tears, and not just our joys.

That is why the second point is that what is not ascended is not healed. If we want healing, we have to let God take up us in all our failures and hurts. God does not expect us to come to him perfect: that’s missing the whole point: God wants us to come with all our imperfections because God loves us without preconditions. It’s love, not standards that God is all about. If we want healing, we have to let God take it all up: it all has to be ascended.

That’s why the Gospels make two points about Our Lord after his resurrection several times: one that he is still human, you can touch him and he eats, and secondly that he still has the wounds, they are just not fatal. He is the living walking wounded healed God, all those contradictions in one. If you can get that all into your head in one go, you are getting there, but that should take a lifetime of contemplation and more to understand that.

So remember:

  1. God became human so we could become divine.
  2. What is not ascended is not healed.

God accepts us for what we are, and from the great love that God has for us, wants to forgive and take us into heaven. That’s our destination. Don’t get lost, don’t forget why we are here. Amen.

Love One Another – 9 May 2021

It’s a beautiful reading from John’s Gospel today, all about love. These few verses appointed form the first part of the three dimensions of a Christian’s life, and all three are centred in love. It’s a remarkable section in a profound and moving chapter. The word “love,” both as noun and verb, is repeated nine times in only eight verses. There is no way one can escape the theme of this chapter.

Something both beautiful and heart-breaking unfolds here. Our Lord lays his heart bare to his friends and disciples. “I have chosen you,” he tells them, “you did not choose me,” and he repeats, “I have loved you.”

But he makes it clear that this relationship is not just two-sided. The source of all this love is God the Father. “As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you.” These are powerful words, and when one truly hears them, they can force the soul to kneel before her maker.

And then Jesus uses that enduring metaphor: abide in my love. Stay, remain within it, live in my love. The verb, meno in Greek, “abide” in English, has a continuing connotation. This is not a short-lived experience; this is for life. “Abide in my love.”

Such a powerful state of being does not happen in isolation, or simply as an act of the will. It is very closely related with a requirement that Jesus makes into a condition for love. “If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love.”

And here’s the point. Without keeping God’s commandments, we cannot have love and we cannot remain in this love. Keeping God’s commandments presupposes obedience, and this is something our culture rejects. Obedience is not what we admire. Obedience is for the weak, not the strong. Knowing how we react to obedience, Our Lord keeps referring to himself. His life was one of total obedience to the Father. And no one who knows the story can ever call Our Lord weak.

Our Lord obeyed. He kept in constant connection with his Father through prayer, through loving communion. Even when he was abandoned in the Garden of Gethsemane and on the cross, he remained in obedience to the will of the Father. The cup was not taken away; it was drunk to the bitter dregs. And still he obeyed, because he knew that, despite everything, the Father loved him.

What is the commandment that we must obey in order to abide in the love of Christ? Our Lord now directs us from himself and through himself to others: to love one another. All the ritual and sacrifices of animals and strict adherence to the minutia of the Law are as nothing; what matters is how we treat one another. St John in his First Letter testifies to this also: “By this we know that we love the children of God, when we love God and obey his commandments.” It is circular.

Obedience to God’s commandments bears fruit. The first fruit of abiding in love is that we have joy. The joy of knowing we are loved by God in Christ – not some easily earned emotion, but a state of being. Joy comes from the conviction that nothing can separate us from the love of God. We can’t fake being a joyful or miserable person: our friends and family will know as too well.

“And I have appointed you to go and bear fruit, fruit that will last,” Our Lord tells his disciples. St Paul list the fruits of the Spirit in his letter to the Galatians. These are the conclusions of a man who had suffered because of his love for Christ, yet because he knew that he was one with Christ, abiding in his love, the fruits that resulted are these: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control. Such attributes are not earned, they are not taught; they spring from abiding in Our Lord’s love: otherwise, a man who had suffered so unjustly would have been filled with bitterness. But Paul was not.

The verses we are looking at today, focused as they are on love and obedience to God’s commandments are not meant only for the disciples, for those who were Our Lord’s friends. They are meant for us also. We have not been left out in the cold. The great epiphany came to Peter during his visit to the gentiles of Caesarea, in the house of Cornelius, that Gentile, that Centurion, that Roman, that every loyal Jew would hate. After Peter preached a sermon on the meaning of the Good News, the Holy Spirit visited all those who were present, not just the Jews but also the gentiles. They were astounded, the writer tells us, that the Holy Spirit descended on them also.

And Peter had the good sense to realize that the love of Christ is for all. “Can anyone withhold the water for baptising these people?” he asked himself. Peter, in the Acts of the Apostles, has matured tremendously and has learned to obey. In this instance, in the house of Cornelius, he obeyed the Holy Spirit, understood about the all-embracing love of Our Lord, and he, in turn, embraced the others, the gentiles. The early Christians were known for loving one another. We are called to do the same.

Based on a sermon by Katerina Whitley of Louisville, USA.

Abiding – 2 May 2021

There are a lot of grapes in the Bible, and some of them very sour. As soon as Noah gets off the Ark he plants a vineyard and the problems start. Noah becomes drunk and the son Ham sees his nakedness and is cursed, leaving the other two sons in possession of the vineyard. The Old Testament takes up the theme of vineyards repeatedly, such as the idea of Isaiah of God tending the vineyard, but finding only wild grapes. The story of Ahab seizing the vineyard of his neighbour is also one of the great stories of Kings – and there are many others.

In the peasant societies of Israel the vineyards were the bigger places, where a landlord had the resources to hold enough land to plant a vineyard and to pay for workers. In the villages the ownership of the vineyard was a sign of wealth and security. It’s no wonder that the themes of vineyards and grapes run through many of the stories of the Bible.

But let’s consider the passage from the Gospel today. Firstly, it has the theme of abiding in Our Lord, one of the popular themes of John. The word abide is used by John more than any one else in the New Testament.

But instead of looking first on what it means to abide in the vine and produce grapes, let’s look at the other half: the failures. We are told that the vines are pruned by the Father to produce fruit. Also, if you do not abide in Jesus is thrown away like a branch and withers, such branches are gathered up and thrown into the fire and burnt.

The question arises then: who is doing the burning?

Now, many people assume that it is God who is doing the burning here. So much of our Christian theology is formed around the idea of a judgmental God dishing out punishment. Even though we know that a lot of this imagery is false, the assumptions often remain, that God is busy as a punishment officer keeping us in line by threats.

When you think about the passage today, it is never stated that the Father or Our Lord is doing the burning. Pruning is done to make the vine bear fruit, but those who do not abide are only predicted to wither and to be thrown away, to be gathered and then burnt. The burner is not named.

Let’s look at another way of thinking about this passage: that the burning, is instead, done by someone else. We will get back to that.

What is the point of abiding? St John continually uses this word: Jesus abides in the Father and we are to abide in him. This word is used to make us think about how we are to live as a community: a community that allows us to fulfil our lives and purpose, to be the vine that bears grapes, to have lives that create a community that God wants that gives us purpose in life. Belief in God means belief in a purpose for our lives: that God does not make us to be bored meaningless people but people who find in God a fulfilment of their deepest needs. John in the letter today also equates abiding with loving: we abide by loving God and God loving us.

But if we don’t abide in Jesus then we are left to the world and its needs. We don’t love God, so we love the world. That’s when things get tough, as the world is organised to different principles than love and mercy but instead on power and exploitation. Christians live in this world, but are called to live in a love and a service that undermines the structures of power. That’s why Our Lord, in John’s account, washes the feet of his disciples on his last night before his arrest, to teach his followers to serve and not to dominate. If we don’t have a belief in a purpose, then we are left to follow the world, and it is the world which will fit us into its structures of power. In this world the poor and underprivileged are the ones who suffer and find envy and hate of the better off. Even those, who have resources, succumb to envy and strive to exploit those around them. Envy, one of the seven deadly sins, is well and truly alive and is one of the most potent in our culture, driving advertising and competition.

A culture dominated by envy fails: inevitably the resources are not there to maintain endless exploitation to fulfil everyone’s desires. In the competition for wealth there have to be better mechanisms for assuring harmony than envy. Any culture that is not based on love inevitably fails: its fall is in the bonfire of vanities of the world, the final destruction of everything as those who have missed out destroy everything.

This is why the Church is the oldest institution in the world: despite our failures we are the body of Christ, attempting to live in the service of each other and sacrifice, teaching forgiveness to allow people to learn humility and find a purpose in the love around them. No other institution has lasted as long, nor can exploitation perpetuate itself indefinitely. Only by abiding in God can we find our deepest yearnings. Only an institution based on love can survive.

So now let’s get back to those branches: so who does the burning of the withered branches: that’s the world. It is the conflict of the world that burns up its members, in its never-ending pursuit of more it consumes its children in a destruction of greed.

Finally – how do we abide? Our Lord is not some distant figure only available on Sundays. Yes, he abides in the sacraments, but that’s only the start. Abiding means just finding Jesus and God around us. Abiding is living in the Spirit, seeing God around us and being filled with that love. Learning to thank God spontaneously, learning that God is all around us, finding God in the minute and in the day: of a naturalness of living that a vine finds in growing so we need to find God around us every day. That is abiding. That is how we are to live and be fruitful, that is how we are to learn the lessons of pruning and being the people God wants us to be, and our deepest selves need. To abide in him so we may grow forever.

Good Friday

Today we remember the death of Our Lord. This is the saddest day for all Christians, when violent people put an innocent man, a suffering servant, to death.

The liturgy today recounts this in the great passion according to St John. Most of the Gospels we read are short passages, but today we have the longest passage, as we follow our Lord to the cross and death.

There are two other particular things we do in the liturgy today: we have the proclamation of the Cross and the Great Intercessions. Today we have reverted to the traditional practice of Christians not to have the sacrament. Today is our time instead under the Cross with Mary and John, seeing Our Lord and God depart and leave us in death. As a result, our coming to the altar today has its focus not on the presence of Christ in the sacraments, but the presence of the power of the Cross, the symbol for all Christians of what Our Lord suffered for us.

The Cross is the moment of great intercession. Our Lord dies for us. His death is an intercession for all of us, the permanent presence of his suffering for us. On the cross, St Luke recounts how the penitent thief askes to be remembered, and Our Lord tells him he will be this day in paradise. The way of a thief is opened on the Cross, the way for all of us will not be denied. The road home to that lost country from which we have been in exile is now made plain to all of us who are reborn. The flaming sword of the Seraphin that barred the way to paradise is extinguished by the blood of Our Lord falling from the Cross, falling into the cup we share.

That is why we are invited to come forward and behold the cross at the altar today. We are invited to join with Mary, the God-Bearer, who bore her son and our God, and now stands weeping under the Cross. No words come down in Scripture of what she said, nor would any words encompass the grief of any mother who sees her child in torture. But John recounts that Our Lord gives Mary to John, Behold your mother, and to all of us, at the hour of Our Lord’s death. We pray “Holy Mary, Mother of God, prayer for us sinners now and at the hour of our death” because she was there at the hour of his death, that death when all but that small croup under the cross had fled. As we take the Cross today, remember Mary, Our Lady, at the foot of the Cross, remember our sins, remember the thief, and ask for the forgiveness that we too may be in paradise.

The mass then continues with the Great Intercessions. They are longer than the short versions we have each mass, but reflect an older pattern. For the Cross is the moment of all intercession, when the needs of all ascend into the Godhead. That is why the great crucifix, also known as the rood, hangs high traditionally in our churches, often over the entry to the sanctuary like here, to show that through it we reach the throne of heaven, the altar of God. Wine and water flow from his side in death, the wine and water that flowed from the temple at the Passover, the wine and water that make the cup each time at mass. With that Cross Our Lord dies for each of us and takes our needs, our sins, our love into the Godhead through the gift of the Holy Spirit joining us with him. That is why today we revert to the more ancient style, longer and more formal, as we more earnestly pray with the suffering Lord, who is dying for us.

Then God dies. We are left abandoned, by the God we killed. Our Lord descends into death, where we all one day must go. This is called in our older language, the harrowing of hell. To harrow a field was to plough a field with a frame set with teeth to break open the clods, remove weeks and cover seed. The harrowing of hell is when Our Lord descends into death to break it open and sow the seed of resurrection. For God will even reach into death for us.

There is a lovely passage in the great English mystic Julian of Norwich, who died around 1417. In it she sees the love of Our Lord, who would suffer time and time again, die time and time again, for us, because his love is so great for each of us. For the suffering and pain passes, but the love of Our Lord for us never passes, for his love has no beginning, but is now and ever shall be. When we pray at the foot of his cross, we see the suffering he has for each of us, but we also know that the love for each of us is far greater.

Our mass concludes today with the sacrament being brought back to the altar in the cup of suffering, the chalice of the mass. Then it is consumed, finished, and is present no more, and we leave in the dereliction of the day, mourning that Our Lord dies for us.

Good people of God, we are at the foot of the Cross, we are with John and Mary. Will we abandon the one who loves us?

Maundy Thursday

Tonight, we come to the start of the great liturgies of the three great days. These liturgies are at the heart of the Christian message of Our Lords’ last days, death and resurrection.

Tonight, we come to the last night of Our Lord with his disciples when he institutes the Sacrament of his body and blood.

Tonight we wait with him in the presence of the sacrament before his arrest.

The readings tonight reference back to the first Passover, for Our Lord dies on the same day as Passover. The Passover remembers how the Angel of Death passed over the Jews, to take the first born of their captors, to force the freedom of the Chosen People. To remember this a special meal was held every year. In Jerusalem the lambs were slaughtered at the Temple, so much blood would flow that is gushed from the Temple into the valley below, followed by the water cleansing the Temple. Blood and water issued from the side of the Temple. Then the lamb was eaten with the story told, so the people would not forget how the Lord God had saved them.

Yet Our Lord took this action and with the blessings of the bread and wine made a new sacrament for his disciples: that this was to be his body and his blood.

After the Reforms of the mid 20th C, another action was also added to this mass. St John in his Gospel does not record the institution of the Last Supper, instead he recounts the washing of the disciples’ feet. This was to teach the disciples that Christian love is always found in service, not domination, a lesson we always need to learn. This washing was repeated by Christians, but not anciently part of the mass – it was done for example by monarchs at this time to show their charity, or an abbess to the nuns in a separate rite. Now it takes place as part of the mass, to teach all Christians that service is the core of discipleship, but the main point of the mass today is the giving of the institution of the Great Sacrament of Our Lord’s own body and blood.

In this there are a whole range of images. The lamb that was slaughtered for the Passover meal is seen in the lamb of Jesus who meekly went to the cross. The bread refers back to what we often call the Shrewbread, or Holy Bread, that was kept in the temple. The cup of wine was the cup of blessing of the Passover meal – crucially not finished being drunk until Our Lord takes the vinegar wine on the Cross itself, thereby uniting the death on the cross in the shedding of his own blood.

The great Eucharistic prayer has one little touch which I always like tonight, we say in it that on the night, this very night, before he went up to the cross. Each time we come to mass, we don’t just come here to remember something that happened centuries ago. We come because we re-enter into the event. Christ is not dead and buried some two thousand years ago. God is not a God of the dead, but of the living. Christ still dies for us on the cross, and still rises for us every moment, continually renewing the world through his sacrifice and life. That is why we believe in the presence of Our Lord in the sacraments. He told us, on the night before he was betrayed, that bread and wine would be his body and blood, and we would do this in remembrance of him. The world here is more than a memory, it is a re-entering, taking part again, living through again.

Which is why the mass then goes on after communion to the altar of repose. We join Our Lord as he goes to the garden to wait for his betrayal and arrest. There, the gospels record how he prayed so deeply that the sweat fell like drops of blood. We sit in silence next to his presence, as he waited in the garden and prayed that this cup should pass from him, but not his will, but God’s. The sacrament tonight is in the more ancient form, kept in the chalice, the cup of the altar, to show that the cup of the sacrament is the cup of his suffering as well. In this garden he made his peace and accepted his cup, as we too must learn to take our own cups of suffering,

Finally, we strip the altar and wash it. This is an old English custom from our ancient rites of Sarum, where we wash the altar in anticipation of Our Lord’s dead body being washed for burial. The priest pours wine and water on the five crosses of the altar, symbolising the five wounds of Christ, and washes the altar while the psalm 22, “My God, May God, why have you abandoned me?“ is sung, and the sanctuary is stripped bare to show the life of Our Lord leaving.

Good people of God, we are entering the last days of Lent, and Our Lord is giving himself to us in the bread and wine of his body and blood. He accepts his cup of suffering and invites us to share it. Will we have the strength to join his suffering?

Palm Sunday – 28 March 2021

One of the advantages of having a guest preacher over Lent is that I can concentrate on the last section, Holy Week. This year I am going to look particularly at our liturgies, what we do, in how it shows our faith.

The first thing to consider is why we have such different services over this period. Now, long, long ago, Christians were also Jews, so we just kept the Jewish customs, usually concentrated on the Sabbath, and then did an extra bit on the Sunday, to show we also believed that Our Lord was the Messiah and rose on that day. Of course, there was no such thing as a weekend back then, so the Sabbath customs often happened in the evening, which was considered the start of another day, for a day was a period of darkness followed by light, for darkness was always followed by light. We still have a relic of this in the Church, when we talk about the first evensong of a festival, for a liturgical day still starts for us on the evening.

The great festival of this time for the Jews was the Passover, the celebration of two things. The main one was the celebration of the escape from Egypt, when the Angel of Death passed over the first-borns of the Jews. As such it is the link with the chosen people being led by Moses and Joshua to the Promised Land, and remember that Joshua is the same name as Jesus, as Joshua/Jesus is the one who finally leads the people over the Jordan, so our Jesus/Joshua will lead us to a new promised land of eternal life.

But for Christians the festival was linked with the resurrection of Our Lord, so after the celebration of the Passover meal, on the Sunday morning they would gather, often before dawn and the start of the workday, to remember the rising of Christ from the dead.

Now, let’s skip on a few centuries to the time when Christianity became a legal religion in the Roman Empire, under the Emperor Constantine in 313. This was also a period of stability in the Empire, the last great period, and travel was possible and eagerly taken up by those wealthy enough to indulge. Places like Jerusalem took advantage of this to become a tourist destination for the newly affluent Christians, and padded out their Easter Day with recreations of the events leading up, complete with re-enactments at the actual places of the crucifixion and resurrection, and for us today, a procession into Jerusalem for Palm Sunday. These tourists returned to their homes and popularised these recreations. We have one account of a nun called Egeria, a wealthy nun who travelled there around 380 and wrote an account of her travels: she sounds like one of these people who could never shut up about her holiday to all her friends stuck at home. But as a result of this the Cathedral cities started also recreating the last week of Holy Week with ceremonies that were happening in Jerusalem, and then it spread to all parishes.

At the same time the period before Easter had always been one for teaching those preparing to be baptised, and gradually this became Lent, a period of teaching for all Christians. The recreation of the last days of Our Lord became a way of teaching all Christians, especially in a pre-literate world. What we do teaches us our own history.

The great ceremonies of Holy Week, which we start today with Palm Sunday, enter into the recreation of the last days of Our Lord, and also continually point to his passion. Anciently the palm procession started at another church, if it were a city, sometimes outside the walls. Like today it started with the blessing of the palms, but the rite was different. The blessing took the form of how we start the prayer of consecration, lift up your hearts, we lift them to the Lord, to link the blessing with the Eucharistic prayer. For all the rites of this week must link in with the great and saving sacrifice of the Cross.

The procession then would stop at the gates of the city or the church where there would be ceremonial knocking on the doors for entry. This was a foretaste of Our Lord knocking on the Gates of Hades, liberating the dead from Hell, and bringing the dead into their true home, the heavenly city, then entering as the true King of Heaven We enter with Our Lord into the shadow of the heavenly city, our church.

There is another link between the procession and the passion – it is only when he enters the city, that he is acclaimed king and then by Pilate, which is why the passion is also sung today. This is the mockery of the kingship of the world, while we celebrate his true and hidden kingship.

Then the great hymn of “All Glory Laud and Honour” starts, an ancient hymn, written by one Theodulf in around 820. The version we use is that of the great 19th C translator John Mason Neale: as part of the Catholic revival in Our church there was a great interest in many ancient Latin hymns and he was one of the best translators of the age. Originally it was much longer, and it has been pruned over time, one line that did not survive, owing to American English, was “Be Thou, O Lord, the Rider, And we the little ass.” These great hymns have been sung for over a thousand years, to inspire us for this season.

Until the mid-20th C, the whole rite was done in purple, like the rest of Lent, but then the first reforms made the first section in red, and the later reforms made the whole service in red, we here keep the mid-century tradition of changing half way through.

The passion gospel is now read only twice over Holy Week: today and on Good Friday. The last section is sung traditionally to a special chant, the weeping chant.

The liturgy today is teaching us above all other things that there are two kingdoms: that of the world and that of God. The world is one of vanity and passing glory, it hails a king one day and then crucifies the same person the next. We all see the same even today. But God works in a different time; the kingdom of the world may despise those who challenge it, but God has different values. God’s kingdom is that of the suffering servant who can survive the fashions and hates of the world. During Lent we have been spiritually cleaning ourselves by prayer fasting and almsgiving, looking at the deeper level of God working around us. Now we are challenged by our liturgies, to go deeper, to see God’s purpose for the world, and also ourselves.

Good people of God, we are entering the last days of Lent, and Our Lord is entering the city. We may hail him as king, we may shout crucify, we may abandon him at the Cross. But will we follow him to resurrection?.

The Vision Thing – Lent II, 28 February, 2021

Many years ago now, the then American president, George Bush, talked about the need for “the vision thing.” Inelegant in expression, he was trying to say that to make people commit, that had to have a vision of what they were achieving. The Scriptures in Proverbs put it a little bit more poetically, in that they tell us that the where there is no vision, the people perish.

Organisations and people need a vision thing. Yes, organisations are into vision statements, but they are so often banal and bureaucratic, hardly worthy of the description vision at all. So much of our corporate life is taken up in targets and rules rather than clear visions of help and need. Even the church hierarchy loves us to do vision statements, imposed from on high, instead of the harder work of helping us where we are.

Anyway, let’s get back to the vision thing. The reading from the Gospel today is all about the vision thing. Mark has his account of the transfiguration as we call it. Peter, James and John go up onto the mountain with their friend and master and suddenly find their Lord changed, altered, into a creature of light, talking with the ancient prophets Moses and Elijah. What do we make of this story? What do we make of this change, transformation, transfiguration?

There are two different ways of understanding this story. The first is that Our Lord was altered, and everything else stayed the same. This would mean that it was an alteration in how Jesus was. However, this presumes that we normally see things in the right way.

The second way is to understand that it was Peter, James and John who were altered. It was they who suddenly saw our Lord Jesus Christ as he really was. What altered was how they saw the world, not the way Christ was.

The second view has an important difference. It means that the supernatural world is always there, but we are limited. It is as though we have some sort of spiritual colour blindness, only seeing the world in its dullest material way, and not in its spiritual colour.

This explains why we suddenly have flashes of realisation, of suddenly seeing a normal situation with new eyes. People sometimes tell me of some particularly moving situation, when they see perhaps a moment in the garden in a different way, or see a person with a beauty they never saw before. What is happening is not that the place or person is changed, but rather for a moment we see things as they really are, charged with the grandeur of God. It is a moment when our spiritual colour blindness is lifted and we see the world in its spiritual colour. Our way of seeing is altered to see it how it really is in God’s way. The spiritual life gives to all of us moments of clarity and beauty when we see the wonder of God.

If we realise that it is us who have the blindness, the limitation, then we start to understand what we must do. For if we saw the transfiguration of Our Lord as something that Jesus did, then we would be waiting for the world to change for us. But when we realise that it is our blindness at fault, we realise that to see the world how it really is, then we are the ones that need change. It is our blindness that fails to see God around us, not God neglecting to give miracles.

The starting point to work on this blindness starts here with the Church. Every week we come here, and we take this bread and wine. But it is not just that. For we come to the altar with the belief that we are taking Our Lord’s body and blood. We are coming to take part of God. We are coming to be joined to God. What we eat, we become: we eat the body and blood of Christ and become part of his body. We see only bread and wine, yet we know there is a divine reality behind what is happening.

That is why, week after week, this sacrament is offered to all people. More than any fancy sermon, good music or fellowship, the heart of our worship has to be in the bread and wine. That’s what has held us together over these difficult times when our churches were closed – the mass still went on, even if the community could not gather. For in the sacraments we touch a reality beyond ourselves. We see bread, wine, but we know the words of Our Lord, “this is my body,” “this is my blood.” There is nothing more sacred that that. That is why we must pray each week that we may be blessed by this sacrament, that it may transfigure us, that we may see God’s way. That is why we must seek always to be touched by the wonderful thing that comes into our lives, the true body, true blood of Jesus. May we find ourselves open to the real beauty and presence of God in the world. The world is a very dull place if we never see it in its true colours. Let’s not ask God to change, let’s ask that we may change and see the world as it is meant to be, transfigured into what Our Lord is. It’s our vision thing – to see God where God always is.

That’s why when you look at icons of the transfiguration you see some wonderful insights. If we were a church with an overhead projector I could show you a few. That the light comes from Jesus. But usually around the light coming from Jesus is a dark space. The reason is that in one understanding on what is happening is that Our Lord is being changed not by the light of the world, but by uncreated light, the light of God that we cannot see because it is not in the world. So, he comes out of what we cannot see with our senses, hence the dark matter behind his gleaming presence. We see Our Lord only through the light, which is transformed by his body, we see the glory of God only through what he has created, in the person of Our Lord and in the world, which is only a shadow of what we cannot see.

This vision thing is more than appearances. The vision of who Our Lord really is gives to his disciples the vision and courage to be who they are. Peter, James and John are with him at the transfiguration. They will also be with him in the garden on the night he is arrested. This vision of glory they will learn from, and the suffering of the last night they will also hold. The Lenten readings of the first and second Sundays always hold a balance: Lent I with the theme of temptation in the wilderness, and now, Lent II, with the vision of glory. It’s Lent and life in a nutshell, wilderness suffused with moments of glory. Christians need those visions to give us understanding. In all our troubles, in our agonies in the garden we will also remember the vision of the transfiguration. We are the people of God who hold on to the glory of God in all our troubles. We hold onto the vision that changes in our sacraments and worship and then take it to our own moments of despair. Because we have seen his glory we will never forget. We have the vision thing.

Disease and God – 14 February, 2021

Disease was an important matter in the ancient world. Besides the limited medical knowledge that meant even a trivial infection could result in death there was also the problem of how society accepted a diseased person. For most cultures a diseased person was unclean and could not enter society. They were ritually unclean. The old Law had a myriad of ways how a person could become unclean. This was not only from disease, such as leprosy, but also from childbirth or coming in contact with dead animals. Some things were unclean by their very nature, such as certain animals. There was no clear logic about this – it was accepted that God in his wisdom had decided this and it was fact, like the colour of the sky. Therefore, diseases that made a person unclean, such as leprosy were also accepted in the same manner that it was accepted that the sky was blue.

At the same time as uncleanliness was accepted as a potential hazard of life there was a strong suspicion that such diseases were judgments of God. If certain animals were unclean by their nature, why should it be different about the reason people became leprous? For example, the pig is unclean, but sheep are not. The only reason why the pig is unclean is that it has hooves but does not chew a cud. There is no real reason, just an arbitrary rule. Similarly, for diseases such as leprosy – the reason why certain people were afflicted with the disease was arbitrary, like the rule about pigs. There was no logic in why they had the disease, but other people did not.

However, people like to find reasons for everything. Theories were put up why the pig was unclean, that it had offended God in some way. Similarly, for those people who had leprosy or any disease, people speculated that they had offended God in some way, and disease was a punishment.

Even our own culture is littered with the relics of this attitude. Disease and illness in our culture has often been seen as a punishment from God. It is not by coincidence that our hospitals are built on the outskirts of towns – the reason is not just sanitation, but the need to separate people from society who are diseased, separate, as they cannot join society. For those of you who ever studied Michael Foucault, we learnt that the origins of prisons and hospitals are the same, both are motivated by the need to separate people from society. We even use the same words, both hospitals and prisons describe the divisions in areas as wards. In both hospitals and prisons, we do separate people from society in similar ways, standard issue clothing and restriction of personal freedom. Disease has been seen as a punishment from God, and the State helps in the constriction of the person punished. Another example is our attitudes to specific diseases. It is fascinating to examine how the identical comments of certain diseases in particular, as God’s wrath and judgment, have been transferred through the centuries, from leprosy, then syphilis and then AIDS.

But back to the Gospel. Our Lord seems to have a different idea about disease. Once again, we are back in Mark 1, and we are dealing with how Mark presents at the start of his gospel the challenge Our Lord makes to the ideas of holiness and cleanliness. Our Lord continually attacks the boundaries between what is seen as clean and unclean in his world. Mark also points how this challenge will also attack the idea that there are boundaries of holiness that exclude people as less holy. At the start of Mark, we have an expulsion of an unclean spirit in the synagogue, then last week the healing of Peter’s mother-in-law, and now the healing of the leper. Note that the leper asks not to be healed but to be made clean: the issue is all about cleanliness in a society obsessed about who is clean and unclean. Our Lord is moved with pity and says: “I do choose – be made clean!” and reaches out his hand and touches him. Mark draws out the action by putting in that he reached out, not just touched him, it is a deliberate act of Our Lord. Now, touching an unclean person normally makes a person unclean, but the reverse happens here, Our Lord’s action cleans the man, note the word again, not heals. Our Lord then orders the man to go to the priest to offer what the Law commands. Now, a leper, as unclean, cannot go to the Temple – the Temple excluded all who were not healthy males, so the sick, lepers, eunuchs and women could not go into the court around the Temple. By going there, a person had to be very sure they were clean. Our Lord is asking the man to go to the holy place and show his cleanliness, pointing to the link between holiness and cleanliness that is to develop in this gospel.

As if to make the point the next episode in the gospel is about another healing. Jesus first forgives the person who is crippled. The scribes dispute his power to forgive sins. Jesus, to show his authority to forgive sins, then heals the person. The healing is different from the forgiveness, but both stem from the same power of Christ as the Son of God, who is holiness incarnate.

With the leper in today’s reading there is no suggestion that the person has sinned – Our Lord is not advocating that his leprosy is connected with sin or God’s punishment. Quite the reverse. Our Lord is moved to pity, the gospel says. Our Lord then heals the leper. This is the Son of God making God’s power known. When God created the world, God saw that it was good, God wanted us all healthy. Disease and illness are part of the fallen nature of the world, they are in the world in the mindless way that evil is in the world. Our God is not out to get us, disease is not a punishment from God, God does not want a world of cripples. Our Lord is acting here to show what God wants, people who are healthy, people who are clean that can join society. It’s like the pig. Pigs are not unclean because they have offended God. Neither do we suffer illness or misfortune because we have offended God.

We have a God that wants us to fulfil our purpose of being the children of God, children who have been capabilities, capabilities of love and leadership, and all the other skills that God gives us so bounteously. The gospel today shows the power of Our Lord, the power of the Son of God. It also shows us that God wants us to use the gifts we have; God wants us healed so we can fulfil our purpose. But when misfortune comes, illness or any of the other evils in the world, they are not God’s plan for us. God does not make us ill. God is not out to hurt us. God will work on us, that even though we may have misfortune, we may have disease, God is there still allowing us to fulfil our purpose. Misfortune and disease do not make us less effective in showing to others God love for us, for fulfilling our purpose.

On an aside I find it interesting how people are moralising about the present pandemic. In the past there has always been someone who has seen the disaster of disease as some sort of judgment from God. That is conspicuously absent this time. No one is arguing that the United States is cursed by God and China is not, or Victoria is cursed by God and South Australia is not. Have the places that have done well just not fitted a simplistic view of judgment or have we become stuck in some Trump obsession instead?

Don’t be taken in by evil. Misfortune, illness and disease are not from God. Pigs are not victimised by God, and neither are we. When we suffer from diseases, we recognise in them the mindlessness of evil in the world, that attacks all. But the victory of evil is when we believe we are defeated, that we can no longer be God’s children, when we believe that our purpose is frustrated. No matter what happens, we still have a role to play, to show forth to others God’s love for us.

New Maps -7 February, 2021

Let me talk about maps today. We all have maps to deal with. We use road maps to find a new address. The more modern may use Google earth or have a navi system in their car. Taxis have become a lot easier these days because of these map devices.

But there are other sorts of maps we use. We have our social maps, those people we will find our way easily to. In a large crowd we activate our social maps, those with whom we will talk with and those with whom we will put o the far edges of our social map, and even those for whom will fall the old line “beyond here be monsters’” It can be really fun at a church gathering watching clergy and how they relate or don’t relate to the Archbishop or bishop by the way they gravitate towards a casual chat or rush to the door. There is a social map operating here.

Now is Our Lord’s time there was also clear social maps as well. It operated on two principles: holiness and cleanliness. The holier the place the better the person. The centre of this world was the Holy of Holies in the Temple where only the High Priest could enter, and it went through the grades of the Temple to the Court of the Men and then outside that the Court of the Women and beyond that the Gentiles. Occupying these different realms of holiness gave people status. At the top were the priests, then down to what were seen as damaged people like eunuchs and then to the Gentiles. The important thing about holiness was that it defined people in relation to the Temple. The more holy you were, the more you could enter the Temple. The boundaries were dangerous: if you went to the wrong part of the Temple you could be stoned to death.

Then there was the maps of cleanliness and uncleanliness that every good Jew had to navigate. Besides what was clean in food, such as beef but not pork, button mushrooms but not open mushrooms, there were people to avoid as well, such as menstruating women, the dead and lepers. Your life was controlled by the map where you could, or could not go, to remain clean.

I want you to hold onto this idea of these two maps of holiness and cleanliness when we are talking about Our Lord in Mark. Because it is how Jesus deals with these maps that teach us about how he wants us to understand God.

Now let’s look at the passage today. We are in Chapter 1 of Mark. Jesus has been baptised and the twelve called and we start with his ministry. Here it starts with him preaching in the synagogue and then a man in the synagogue who has an unclean spirit speaks up and Jesus expels the spirit from him. We then have the passage from today, where he goes to the house of Peter and Andrew, heals the mother in law of Peter, then the town gathers around the door and he heals and expels demon there. Then after prayer we learn he goes throughout Galilee speaking in their synagogues and casting out demons. The next passage, which we will deal with next week, will have him touching the unclean leper.

What we should note that from the very start, chapter 1, we have Our Lord challenging the boundaries of the maps. Our Lord is in the synagogues, the places of worship, holy places, dealing with the unclean spirits inside those holy places. He is making the unclean clean as well by his healing, often deliberately by touching and healing. By touching he would become unclean, except that his touching is a reversal of normality, by which the unclean becomes healed and clean. The point about the synagogues is important: these are places that shadow the Temple and point to the struggle that is to come with Our Lord against the institution of the Temple and the notion of a hierarchy of holiness. Our Lord is going to challenge the whole notion of what is holy and the positioning of unclean people with unclean spirits inside the synagogues point to what will happen. Remember also, that in Mark at the moment of Jesus’ death the veil of the Temple, the barrier between the most holy and the rest of the world will be torn.

So why? Well, that’s why we have to work through the rest of Mark for this year and find out in detail. But the short answer is that Our Lord is showing that these maps are wrong. Maps of holiness and cleanliness say all the wrong things about God. They make God into a god of rules and harshness, and Jesus continually presents himself as the Son who shows the Father to be compassionate and loving. Rules that define who people are because they are not holy enough are wrong. Our Lord tears up this map. But he points to the system as having evil inside it: thus we find the people with unclean spirits right inside the synagogues. Our Lord will teach a message of healing and making whole people and communities again: so he heals the mother in law of Peter and she rises and serves him, making the household right again. She now has the strength to offer the customary hospitality to her guests. Her identity is no longer a bedridden, fevered person, but a gracious host to a visiting teacher and his disciples. Our Lord wants this world to be a place of happiness and right relations of compassion and support, not a world of maps of who is in and who is out, who is clean and who is unclean. Nothing that God has made can be unclean.

But then how do we build a world that will see God in this way? Well, that’s the rest of the Gospel again, and that’s what we have Lent and Easter to go though. But today it’s just chapter 1 and we have to learn to see the signs that will divide us: the maps of holiness need to be torn up and the barriers between clean and unclean are reversed. God does not need boundaries to be preserved by killing people: God wants all people instead to learn love.

Candlemass – 31 January, 2021

One of the ways to think of the great feasts of the Church is that they are like lighthouses, that send their radiance both ahead of them and behind. Easter, for example, illumines all of Lent, and reaches to its last Sunday, Pentecost. Christmas too, warms Advent with expectation, and relishes its Good News for well over a month, forty days, a period ending, today, with this feast, Candlemass.

For Our Lord is “A light to enlighten the Gentiles, and the glory of your people Israel,” as Simeon proclaims in the gospel today.

St Luke´s story combines two different Jewish observances in one action: the Purification of Mary and the Presentation of the Christchild. Observing the Law, Mary comes to be restored after giving birth, which rendered her ritually unable to approach the Temple.

She also comes to present Our Lord, offering him to God as her first-born male, who is unblemished, just as Hanna had presented Samuel. There is an echo of this in the name of Anna, the prophetess who comes, as her name is strictly Hanna as well, the late Latin and Greek speakers liked dropping their “h”s.

Joseph and Mary offer two turtledoves, the offering prescribed for the poor who cannot afford a lamb: one dove for a burnt sacrifice, the other for a sin offering, removing the defilement. The couple also probably paid five shekels, but St Luke leaves this detail out.

It’s all very kosher. Upon this very Jewish scene, St Luke weaves his very own Epiphany (remember, the visit of the Magi, what we usually call the Epiphany, is a Matthean story). For Simeon recognizes Our Lord as the “light to enlighten the gentiles, and the glory (which is in Hebrew “Shekinah,” or the glorious presence of God) of your people Israel.” This light, born in darkest night, has begun to shine and spread everywhere, both home, for Israel and abroad, for the Gentiles. It is, as St Luke has Zachariah sing about St John the Baptist, “…a light to shine on those in darkness and the shadow of death; to lead our feet into the way of peace.”

The Feast of the Presentation and Purification dates from Jerusalem in the late fourth century (381-4 AD).  It was initially celebrated on 14 February, 40 days after the 6 January celebration of the Nativity, which was celebrated in the Holy Land at that time then. In the West it moved to 2 February, to match the Western date of Christmas, that eventually predominated. In Orthodoxy it bears the name of Hypapante, or the Feast of the Meeting (that is, Simeon and Anna meet Christ). A procession with candles was added to the beginning of the Eucharist in the early 700s, hence its other name, Candlemass. It was natural that, within a few years, the candles would be blessed.  By then the feast from the East was meeting local pagan observances in Northern Europe, such of the Irish Imbolc.

Observed at the midpoint between the Winter solstice and the Spring equinox (ie., February 1 or 2), pagan Imbolc was a feast of potentialities: it marked the first milking of ewes and the nascent Spring, along with the lengthening of days and the gradual warming of the earth. It was also an occasion for spring cleaning, specially of the hearths, and, as any gardener knows, cleaning up dead growth before the new shoots emerge.

Imbolc in Ireland was the feast of the pagan goddess Bridget, which then became Christianized as St Bridget’s Day with its distinctive woven crosses on 1 February. With her feast day just next door, and with the abundance of fire in the stories of her life, it’s no surprise that St Brigid makes an appearance among the Candlemass legends. One of those legends reflects a splendid bit of time-warping that happened around Brigid that refer to her as the midwife to Mary and the foster mother of Christ. Chronologically, this would have been a real stretch, seeing as how Brigid was born in 454 AD.  It is said in Ireland that she walked before Mary with a lighted candle in each hand when she went up to the Temple for purification. The winds were strong on the Temple heights, and the tapers were unprotected, yet they did not flicker nor fail.

St Luke’s story, however, is not all wine and roses. It contains a dire warning: this light comes for “the rise and fall of many in Israel,” for as St Luke had promised in the Magnificat, the poor will rise to healing and peace while the rich shall be sent away empty, specially the Pharisees and teachers of the law, who will be judged by the cross.

The Light is a troublemaker. It will “reveal the inner thoughts of many a heart,” exposing their deepest secrets; it blazes into the darkest corners, uncovering what is hidden and unearthing what is buried. It is indeed a two-edged sword, God´s Word made human. It will demand that we walk with integrity

This light, according to the first reading, is like a refiner’s fire or a fuller’s soap, purifying gold or silver and cleansing freshly woven wool until Israel can present an offering to the Lord in righteousness. The implication is, of course, that Israel was not able to offer anything in righteousness or justice. In Our Lord’s time the Temple priesthood had abandoned their integrity and defiled God´s house by selling themselves out to the invading Roman principalities and powers. But Christ comes to purify the Temple and to shine integrity upon God´s people and their worship in sincerity and truth.

So, St Luke stresses that we cannot enjoy the light and warmth of Christ without also welcoming the purification that it brings, a cleansing of the inner clutter of insecurity, lack of focus, deceitfulness, culling favour, and so on. This inner cleansing must be undertaken (and the coming Lent will give us the opportunity) in order for the Light to do its work in us and our communities.

St Luke also suggests that Simeon and Anna have a specific skill given by the Spirit: to be able to see the light of the world in the poor and insignificant, already emerging like tiny green shoots: the first fruits of God´s Reign of justice and peace.

So here we are, poised between the seasons, turning away from Summer into Autumn. It’s a time of change. There are many changes happening around us. We struggle to understand the change in the world’s climate. We struggle to find a way through reconciliation with the first people of this land. We struggle to find a place for the Church in a culture that steadily abandons faith. We struggle with the changes made to our lives since the covid pandemic began. I am sure there are many other struggles each one of us face through change: changes in family, changes in health, changes in work, that all leave us confused and wishing the world would just stop for a while to allow us to catch up, or even go back to a more secure time. Perhaps this festival is a good time for us to instead of worrying about change, to see the tiny signs of hope that come to us. Or perhaps we need to undertake the inner cleansing still to allow the Light to bring the Spirit to our lives.

But remember at the start how the great feasts are like lighthouses shining forth their hope. Whatever the darkness of change and the doubts, today of Candlemas we have the great beacon of Christmas shining forward, illuminating us. There is darkness around us; but the Light of lights, the Christchild choose to come into this darkness, for the Light shines in the darkness, to give us hope that darkness never can overcome it.

I hope you enjoy your candles today. They are such a vulnerable symbol of our vulnerability, so easy to blow out like the hopes and promises of our lives. They are lit twice in the mass, and I think that is a good sign as well, that whatever loss we have suffered, can be replaced again in a new way. No grief is too deep that God cannot fill it.

Based on a sermon by Juan Oliver of the International Anglican Liturgical Consultation, Societas Liturgica, and The Council of The Associated Parishes for Liturgy and Mission.

Leadership for Christians – 24 January, 2020

There are two good themes I would like to ponder today from the readings: the story of Jonah and the idea that we are called to be fishers of people.

Firstly, let’s look at the story of Jonah. It’s a short book, and a great tale. It is not meant to be a true story: one of my lecturers, a Uniting Church scholar who taught me , whom we called Rabbi Anderson, said it was missing the first four words that made sense of it: “Once upon a time..”

Anyway, God tells Jonah that he has to go to Nineveh to tell them to repent. Well, Nineveh is an Assyrian city, the people who had just conquered most of the area around them with a particularly bloodthirsty ruthlessness, including the northern Kingdom of the Jews, Israel, and sent them into exile. Jonah hears God but instead of going there, immediately takes off in the opposite direction, even taking a boat to get away – perhaps because water was seen as particularly effective at putting a barrier between a land-based God and oneself. However, God is having none of that, calls the storm into being, and eventually Jonah confesses his escape attempt to the crew and is thrown overboard into the belly of the great fish. There he repents of his decision and is thrown up on land and heads to Nineveh. He tells the people there of God’s wrath, and they repent. Jonah goes outside the city to watch its destruction in vain, and God shelters him with a vine, which God then allows to wither and die, so Jonah is angry about the loss of the shade. God then asks Jonah why he is so angry about the death of a plant, but not about the death of all the people and cattle of Nineveh?

There are many lessons the writer of Jonah seems to be drawing. An important one is that God has mercy on even the hated and foreign Assyrians. God is not just the God of the Chosen People. But the important one seems to be about Jonah – how Jonah won’t change unlike the pagan Assyrians. He is called to go and preach but won’t. God gives him a second chance from the belly of the great fish, and Jonah reluctantly goes. The people of Nineveh repent, but Jonah doesn’t – he still wants them destroyed by God. God then shows Jonah by the death of a vine that his priorities are wrong – he is after his own comfort and not feeling for the people and cattle of Nineveh – but the story ends on that question of why won’t Jonah feel for the people – we are left with no answer about Jonah. Jonah is presented as a man who despite being a Jew, a believer in God, continually sees the world as one not loved by God but under God’s judgment: the people of Nineveh are pagan bloodthirsty Gentiles and God should punish them. Jonah is the great failure – he never understands God’s mercy and never changes. The people of Nineveh change, God changes his mind – Jonah does not.

Now let us look at one part of the Gospel today – when Our Lord calls Simon and Andrew. He tells them to follow him and he will make them fishers of people. Have you ever thought how strange this analogy is? For think about what happens when you fish like they were fishing – you catch fish in nets, pull them out of the water, so they die, then sell them to other people to eat.

Is this what Our Lord is wanting from Andrew, Peter and, by extension, us? We often think of fishing as with a bait, and use the analogy that way, but giving some attractive food, a bit of God’s love for example, we can pull people from their world into a better world. But fishing even there involves death – to be lured by a false bait, for that is what a bait is, and a fish mistakes it for food, and then killed? But the fishing that was done here on Galilee was by nets so there was not any false bait, instead a group of fish, in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Once you start to think about how they were fishing with nets, then the school of fish start to seem remarkably similar to that other well-loved analogy, a flock of sheep. Fish and sheep are both gathered in groups and ultimately have the same destination – food. As the disciples were called to be fishers of people, they are also called by the example of the shepherd as well.

But here lies the point – the shepherd they are called to follow and imitate is the Good Shepherd, who lays down his life for the sheep. The model that Our Lord teaches is a reversal of the traditional model – not a fisher giving up his fish for death, or a shepherd giving up the sheep for death, but one who seeks out the lost and even dies for the sheep. This is the reversal that Our Lord teaches – the system is no longer for domination and death but one for protection and life.

To be a fisher of people or a shepherd comes down then to the person changing, not the school or flock. This is the point of Jonah again – God wants change from Jonah – why won’t he repent when everyone else does, including the people of Nineveh? We as Christians are called to change to be able to lead. To follow Jesus is to learn to change, to become more Christ-like, to die even, so we can guard the sheep and fish that we are entrusted with.

So, it’s no use blaming those around you for the lack of change – the people of Nineveh can repent and Jonah did not even care. The people around you may be just sheep and fish, catch up in their own needs and as mindless. But the question for us is not about the fish and sheep – it is about our role as shepherd and fisher. Do we really love those around us? Do we lay go and search out the lost? Do we lay down our lives for them? Do we try to change as Jonah could not?

Change – 17 January, 2021

Change is the theme in the readings today: change from one way of living to another. The first reading is from the Book of Judges, and is the start of the story of Samuel. It’s maybe from around the year 1000 BC. Then we have the Gospel reading and Paul writing to the Corinthians, which makes it early 1st C AD. Today we look at how change happened over this period.

The story of Samuel starts his life living with the Ark of the Covenant at Shiloh. Now that’s a small place, but a cultic centre around the Ark. But the Ark will be taken into battle and captured, before being returned. It will then languish and not return to Shiloh, before David takes it again. The capture of the Ark signifies that it is not an all-powerful talisman.

The big change here is the start and ending of the Temple. Samuel is the last of the Judges – he will anoint Saul and David, and start the Jewish Kingdom and the erection of the First Temple. The Jews will radically change their society to live under a king and to have a central place of worship in the Temple with all its ritual, away from a small cultic place like Shiloh. Samuel marks the start of the transition of Jewish life to a new Temple based worship.

Jesus and Paul are of course living before the famous Jewish Revolt in 66 AD. They mark the ending of that very era. For the Jewish revolt led to the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 AD. The Temple would not be re-built, and Christians and Jews would develop a spiritual life without a Temple focus.

So, Samuel marks the transition of a cultic crisis – the change of worship and organisation to a kingdom and a Temple, and the time of Our Lord and Paul mark the change from the Temple worship to another. The Temple is the sandwich between the two eras.

So, what is the point of the Temple? The Temple gave a focus on how to live. It gave rules on what to offer and how to be clean and live a life that was pleasing to God. It gave a structure on how to organise a society – with a king who obeyed and an altar for sacrifice. It marks the transmission of Jewish life from a series of prophets, often violent, who arise and impose leadership on the tribes and the scattered worship with places like Shiloh and the Ark to another form, with an organised and hereditary kingship and organised and structured Temple. The older way of chaos under the prophets moves to a more organised and hopefully less violent kingship and Temple. Samuel helps them move to a new way.

Yet a 1000 years later the structure was no longer working. The Temple, mark 2, was there, yet one faction of Jewish life increasingly controlled it. The country had no king – the last dynasty with kings like Herod were not of the right family, nor had there been a king of the House of David for centuries. The country was ruled by the pagan Romans, and before them Greeks. The old way was no longer working, and Our Lord and Paul prepare for a new way.

What Christianity is offering is a new way based on the incarnation, or enfleshment, of God in humanity. God has taken on human form in the person of Jesus Christ. Therefore, our desires are to follow those of Christ – we are to live by how Our Lord wants, not by our own misplaced desires. Desires will still tempt: and in our prayer life we need to acknowledge them, and in one way, visualise Our Lord helping to build a wall between them and ourselves to help overcome them, but these desires never give contentment.

That is why St Paul gets so ratty about fornication here. He places our bodies on a par with that of the Temple – the centre of Jewish life, and the replacement to be. It’s a question of desire. What is our desire – to go to a prostitute or to go to Christ? The endless and never satisfying forms of sexuality will not bring contentment. What brings satisfaction and fulfilment and growth is a life following Christ.

This is the point about the exchange between the two disciples and Jesus in the Gospel reading today. Our Lord asks what they are looking for, they reply, rather strangely, where are you staying? The point is, what they are asking is more than where he is physically living – the words are sometimes translated as abide. It’s the same word that has just been used for John the Baptist saying the way the Spirit of God, like a dove, descended and remained, or abided, in him. Jesus also talks about abiding in the Father using the same word. There is the link between the dwelling of the Spirit and the dwelling the disciples are looking for. It’s not a question asking for an address – it’s a deeper question as to what makes Our Lord tick. The disciples are asking Our Lord to show them who he is, and that is why Our Lord invites them to come and see. John often has Our Lord asking one question, and the disciples answering with another question, but Our Lord then moves to meet the disciples on the level they are asking. So, he ask them what they seek, they ask where does he stay, and he answers their question at their level. God will always meet us where we are, and then move us to a deeper level of seeking.

For us it’s the same question – what makes Our Lord tick – why do we love him and follow him. The reply is still the same – come and see. We have become Christians in different ways – some from an experience, some from a lifelong sense of belonging to a church, some from the love that has been shown – but to each of us we are called to abide, to live in Jesus. This is the new Temple for us, the new presence of God. Yet living in Our Lord is not an address – it’s a continual experience of coming and seeing what he calls us to do. The Temple, with its rules about how to live is gone. What we are offered instead in a new way, a Temple of the Spirit, a Temple lived in Christ and ourselves in communion with him. Unless we see the point of the Temple, that pink elephant, the need to have God dwell in us, then nothing makes sense.

Themes of Mark – Baptism of Our Lord, 10 January 2021

Each of the four Gospels begins in their own unique manner. Matthew, for example, embarks from the very first verse on a lengthy genealogy of Our Lord, tracing his Jewish lineage all the way back to Abraham. Luke, by contrast, begins with an introduction that reads like part memoir and part history textbook. John, for his part, utilizes poetry to introduce theological themes that continue throughout his Gospel.

But Mark is in a category unto himself. He never offers a genealogy of Jesus at all, never claims to be writing history, and moves at such a breakneck pace. Instead, Mark jumps right into the fray and opens on the banks of the river Jordan, as Jesus is baptised.

Although the lectionary begins in the fourth verse of the first chapter of the Gospel of Mark, it bears pointing out that the first three verses of the chapter lend important clues about just what kind of Gospel Mark is writing, and how best readers ancient and modern should read it.

For starters, it is no accident that Mark’s Gospel doesn’t make it past the first two sentences without quoting the Hebrew Bible—in particular, Isaiah. St Mark, not unlike Our Lord himself, knew the Jewish scriptures well and quoted them often. He narrates the story of Our Lord’s life, death, and resurrection, not as a new story about God and God’s people, but rather as a pivotal moment in the larger story of God making Godself known in human history. The God we meet in Jesus, Mark tells us, is the same God spoken of in the Hebrew scriptures, who is doing a new thing.

The second thing these omitted introductory verses point out is that this Gospel that Mark has written (gospel means literally “good news”) is not all that can be, or should be, said of Jesus of Nazareth. Rather, Mark makes clear from the first words of his Gospel that this is, “The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.”

Mark makes these two important points just prior to launching into the story of baptism because it turns out that baptism works in much the same way. In baptism, we don’t stop being who we are or get to ignore the history that inevitably and fundamentally shapes us. Just as Jesus doesn’t stop being Mary’s boy from Bethlehem, incarnate from the God we first met in the Hebrew scriptures, so too are we all someone from somewhere, for better or worse.

There is also a hidden understanding here as well that relates to how baptism was performed anciently. The candidate for baptism made the promises to renounce evil and follow Christ, professed belief in Jesus, then took off his clothes and was immersed in water. The person then rose from the water, was anointed with oil and clothed in new clothes, generally white. Baptism was the death to the old life, birth into a new life in Christ. Taking off the old clothes symbolised the life left behind, the new white clothes symbolised the new life as a Christian.

As a side point this was one place where female deacons were employed in the early Church, for the baptism of women. Unlike the Jewish religion for Christians both men and women had an initiation, and for propriety women deacons had a role in baptising other women.

Once you understand how baptism was performed then another theme in Mark becomes clear. Listening to the story of Our Lord’s baptism the listeners who were Christian would identify with their own baptism, taking off their garments until they were naked or nearly naked, then the plunge in the water and rising again.

There are two other points then in Mark where nudity is an element that connects with this passage – the young man who fled away naked in chapter 14, when they arrested Our Lord, and Our Lord’s own death.

Firstly Our Lord. Our Lord was crucified with either no or hardly any clothes. The reason was simple, it was part humiliation, and also that clothes had value, that was the spoil of the soldiers, hence them gambling for them. People were not crucified with anything of value. But it then ties in with baptism, for in baptism you take off your old clothes and die to the old life, and Christ literally died on the cross to make the new life possible. Our Lord’s death had clear baptismal connotations for those who understood baptism.

The last link is the young man who they tried to arrest with Jesus. Mark records how he fled naked, leaving his garment, a linen cloth, with the soldiers. The linen cloth he left is described with the same word in Greek that is used then when Joseph wraps the dead body of Jesus for the tomb. There is another connection here, between the cloth the young man left behind, and the cloth that Our Lord is wrapped in for the tomb. It is a grave cloth, a symbol of the old life. The young man then appears in the Gospel again – the word in Greek is the same; this time dressed in a white robe, to tell the women of the resurrection of Our Lord. He is the symbol of a newly baptised Christian, who flees naked with the arrest and death of Our Lord, who flees the old life, who goes naked into the waters of baptism to rise into a new life, a life that is possible through Our Lord’s resurrection, shown by the white robe.

All this may sound rather deep and confusing, but the Gospel, especially Mark, was not meant to be read in disparate chunks week by week, it was meant to be a way to listen to the whole story at once, to pick up themes. This is one of the deep themes of Mark that only the initiated Christians would be able to follow as they found food for their faith is the telling of the Gospel.

In Mark’s Gospel the ministry of Our Lord starts with his baptism and ends with his resurrection. In miniature, it is the story of a Christian. In baptism we start our ministry, with the assurance that our sins are removed, we are not to be hindered by the burdens of the past. So many people get stuck in the remorse of the past, our mistakes, and we wish we could change them. Well, it can’t be done. But they can be forgiven. We find the assurance of that in baptism. We find the working out of that by taking our daily problems to Our Lord in prayer and handing them over, which can be just as simple as telling Our Lord in prayer what we have done like a child and then letting him take care of the rest. It’s simple, as long as you keep on praying. Then our lives look to our own death and resurrection, just as Mark’s Gospel presents the story.

Mark’s gospel is centred around the themes of baptism and resurrection, deliberately, as it is a conversion document, designed to make us understand our own participation of Our Lord’s death and resurrection.

In Mark’s Gospel alone, the word “immediately” appears 42 times: three times more often than in the rest of the New Testament and seven times more often than in the entire Old Testament. It is as if Mark’s style of writing is a sermon in itself: just as the story of Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection moves at a breakneck pace, so too does the life of the baptized! The work is urgent!

That’s why when Jesus is baptized, Mark wants us to feel the water and smell the breeze and see the spectacle! That’s why, when he describes the heavens opening, he says they were torn apart: schizomenous is the word in Greek. It shares the same root as the word Schizophrenia; a violent disruption in the status quo. God’s voice disrupts the status quo, declaring Our Lord to be God’s own Beloved!

If we want life to remain exactly as it is, and if we want to stay exactly where we are, doing exactly what we’re doing, perhaps we should re-think baptism and the Christian life.

But if, on the other hand, we desire a life dedicated to following the living God, as we work together to build God’s kingdom, then the place to start is at the water’s edge.

From there, find a good pair of shoes and a sturdy walking stick because the journey has just begun, and the work of the Kingdom is far too urgent to wait. Amen.

Will You Follow? – Epiphany 2021

There is a traditional Italian story about an old woman named La Befana who was the most renowned housekeeper in her entire village. She would happily spend the day with her broom sweeping the floor, cupboards, and front step. The neighbours all knew her home was spotless. One day as she was sweeping, she was interrupted by a knock at the door. When she opened it, she saw quite a sight: three strangers looking travel-worn but well-to-do. The first one said that they had travelled a long way. The second explained that they needed somewhere to rest and heard that her house was the most hospitable in the village. The third told her the strangest thing of all: they were following a star.

Old Befana eyed them warily. She had lived alone for a long time and was cautious. They did not look like robbers, but more like scholars or wealthy merchants or possibly nobility of some kind from lands far away. Hospitality was important and so she invited them in to stay. She showed them to where she slept and they settled onto her small bed, pulling up her blanket, and falling asleep immediately.

In between sweeping, Old Befana checked on the strangers from time to time, but they did not stir. She wondered where they were from, and why they were following a star.

When they finally awoke in early evening, she offered them food and drink and asked them her questions. They told her they came from the East and were following a star that would lead them to a new-born child who was the king of the Jews, and who would be the king of all kings. The strangers wanted to reward her hospitality by inviting her along to find this child and bestow gifts upon him.

Old Befana had been so caught up in their story that she dropped her broom in surprise. To travel with three strange men following a star? It would not be proper! Besides, who knows how long it would be before they found this new king? Think of all the dust and cobwebs that would collect around her humble house! She shuddered as she pictured it and told the strangers kindly, but firmly, “No, thank you,” and wished them luck as they walked on into the night.

When Befana went to sleep that evening, she tossed and turned as she dreamed of the strangers, the star, and a baby bathed in light. When she woke up the next morning, she could think of nothing but the strangers, their story, and their invitation. All the time she spent thinking about that little king who perhaps lived in a village just like hers interrupted her cleaning schedule so much that, at last, she had a change of heart and decided to follow the strangers after all.

That night, she set off on the road with her broom in one hand and gifts tucked in her apron, looking for the light of the star and peeking into every house along the way. If it looked like a child lived there, she would leave a little gift, as she could never be quite certain which child was born the king of all kings, for the Christchild could be found in all children.

The Italian story of Old Befana is typically associated with Epiphany celebrations, as it is related to the Magi from the East who come to seek where the king of the Jews can be found. The strangers that both the legendary Befana and our Gospel story’s King Herod encountered were not kings, but most likely Persian or Babylonian experts in the occult, which in Matthew’s time would have been understood as astrologists and interpreters of dreams. This would not have been seen as odd in the ancient world, as astrologers prophesied the birth of other prominent rulers, such as Alexander the Great, from what was written in the stars, and prophetic dreams happened to Gentiles and Jews alike – as we see in the Gospel of St Matthew, as well as in the Old Testament. Both the star and prophetic dreams reveal God’s presence in miraculous ways that call those who experience each to act in faith.

The star which the Magi follow becomes a bridge between the pagan astrological hopes that invite the Gentiles into God’s story and the Jewish Biblical promises of a Messiah from the “star out of Jacob” as mentioned in Numbers 24:17. Two different worlds, aligning in one same goal: hope for the future. St Matthew reminds us that even from Our Lord’s birth, we see the walls between races and cultures breaking down. The Gentile Magi are seen to have what is a common occurrence in Matthew’s Gospel – the ability to be obedient to God by literally and figuratively following the light – while King Herod, the chief priests, and scribes serve as foils to show the unbelief of some of the people to whom Jesus was sent. Furthermore, these strange foreign men are allowed by Mary and Joseph to see the Christchild, as were the shepherds, neither quite the respectable guests for a new born Jewish child.

St Matthew consistently relates everything back to Our Lord’s future story and puts it in the framework of the ongoing story of God. Perhaps the worst sin in Matthew’s Gospel is the hypocrisy of the Judaean leadership, which King Herod portrays well in his sneaky and murderous intentions when engaging with the trusting Magi. It also forebodes what will happen later to Our Lord because the past in Matthew always points to Jesus and Jesus’ future. This interpretation is appropriate both to Matthew’s era and the community to which he writes. There are two claims to kingship: the one in this world, which Herod is keen to retain, and the divine kingship which Our Lord represents. The wonder which the Magi see and interpret translates into faithful action as they seek to pay homage to Jesus, while Herod scrambles in fear and plots murder.

If the Magi were from the East – meaning the Persian empire in this context, consider what a long journey they would have had to make. It echoes Abraham’s obedience to God in traveling from Ur, in modern-day southern Iraq, all the way to Egypt and back to Hebron in the Promised Land of Israel. What would compel not just one person but three to follow a portent in the sky on such a dangerous journey so far from home? Like Old Befana, would you have joined them?

We have been living through a global pandemic for almost an entire year. Our journey has been long, and we do not know when the end will be in sight. This ambiguous loss creates discomfort. While we have not been wandering through the wilderness literally, we certainly have been well and truly stick in one place, devoid of holidays, devoid of family, devoid of friends from afar; all the anchors, which used to hold us in place, are uprooted, setting us adrift. Adapting daily to new information and ways of doing things is tiring. Personal losses, whether through death, a job loss, or other changes, deplete our emotional reserves. Many wonder why God would allow this to happen, and some have lost their faith in God. This is where our story and that of the three Magi converge. We are not lost. We are traveling toward something greater than ourselves and Emmanuel – God with us – is as close as our breath. As Christians in this broken, hurting world, we can act now to reach out to our neighbours and offer hospitality of the heart. We have what the Magi and Matthew’s community had: hope for a better future in Christ.

Like them, we follow the star that brings us to Our Lord, and, in knowing Jesus, we change course, going home another way. Life will never be the same as it was before the pandemic. There is a quote by Desiderius Erasmus, the great Dutch Renaissance humanist and theologian: bidden or unbidden, God is present. The Magi did not know God in the way that the Judaean people did. Yet God’s sign compelled them to become part of God’s hopeful story. In our Book of Common Prayer, the Christian hope is defined as living “with confidence in newness and fullness of life, and to await the coming of Christ in glory, and the completion of God’s purpose for the world.” God is doing a new thing even now, and we are all invited to be part of the unfolding hope. Will you follow?

Based on a sermon by the Rev’d Danae M. Ashley, of S. Andrew’s Episcopal Church, Seattle.

To be Illuminated – Christmas Day 2020

Christmas is one of the greatest days of the year. We come together this day to celebrate the birth of a baby, helpless and vulnerable, yet at the same time God. It’s a contradiction, that God should come as one of us, and even as one of the most vulnerable of us.

But this morning we don’t tell the story of the birth in our Gospel. We did that last night, and this morning we expect you to have heard the story, or at least know it, and instead come her to ponder what it all means. So, this morning, we listen, instead of angels, shepherds, magi and manger; to the great prologue of St John. St John tells us a mystic revelation instead, that in the beginning was the word that all things were made through, and he was light, and the light was the light of the world. Word, Light and Life are the three key themes that St John opens for us as we contemplate the birth of Our Lord.

If you like what once were called penny dreadfuls, those books filled with dastardly conspiracies and buxom heroines, you probably have come across the name of the illuminati. They are often presented as some strange hidden group. There is more than that though. Illuminati means those who have seen the light, and those who were baptised were once called the illuminati, for they had seen the light and came to faith. For St John starts his gospel with this reflection on who Christ is instead of a story about his birth, because he wants to make a point about understanding. He wants us to be illuminati.

For in John there are many miracles about the life of Our Lord. But there is always a problem about them for those there. Many people see them, but don’t understand them. You see, it’s all about faith. People may see the signs, but only see them as a passing wonder. It doesn’t bring them to faith. The penny doesn’t drop for these people. They haven’t moved. They have seen, but haven’t been illuminated. The light has not shone for them.

The great Anglican monk and liturgist Dom Gregory Dix talked about becoming what you are. Baptised we may be; yet our illumination is not a static episode in the past, but a becoming which is part of our daily being. We are never finished with the growth into seeing reality as God its creator created it and sees it.

That’s the point of this great passage from St John this morning. It challenges us to move beyond a story about a child being born some two thousand years ago in a strange land. It challenges us to move beyond those angels, shepherds, magi, and manger to another reality. It calls us to have the illumination, to have light, to be illuminati, to be the baptised people we are, filled with the grace of God and the Holy Spirit and not just passive spectators of a tale told too many times.

There are many things that happen in the world that move and bother us. This year has been a particularly bad year. Sometimes we are so close to what happens that we have lost our perspective, especially as we wait minute by minute for the latest cases of Covid. We are so close we can no longer see the bigger picture and the light of God. I remember seeing a documentary once about the Carthusian monks in Parkminster in England in the 1960s. Once a week they were given a summary of the world news, pinned up on the noticeboard, in Latin! During the Cuban Crisis they had to wait a whole week to find out in World War III had broken out, unless the missiles arrived earlier. The point of this was to train them to let go of the world, to pray for the needs of the world, but to be detached from it. As the letter of St Peter tells us, with the Lord a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like a day. We are so close to the action at times that we cannot see the light, the reason, for why things happen. But this does not mean that God is not there, working through all this. We have been inconvenienced. But many, such as in our neighbouring countries, have been destroyed by the loss of tourism. Has this crisis of this year made us a better people? Are we more generous as a result? Have we just watched the signs of what have happened but not had faith and seen God?

That’s what the prologue from St John that we have heard this morning is meant to make us do. Go beyond signs to faith. Signs and stories are just the first steps to a deeper and better understanding, an understanding when we have faith. Be the illuminati, see the light, hear the word, and find the truth. With the truth that our god and Saviour, Jesus Christ has come into the world, and knows each and every person, sins and all, and still offers forgiveness and love to each and every person if we dare to accept such an audacious gift.

We have all heard the story. The baby is born. But do we have faith in what it means?

The Christmas Story – Midnight Mass

One of the things, that religion is very good at, is symbolism. We use things, items, symbols to point to deeper truths. Sometimes the connections are merely transitory, such as wearing white for the vestments tonight. It’s just a custom, that can change. Traditionally black was the colour for death for us, so we would wear black for funerals, but now it is increasingly common for black to be worn by guests as well. That symbol is fading. Other symbols are connected to the deeper truth, such as the wine and bread to the body and blood of Christ. You cannot break that connection without destroying the reality of the sacrament.

I’ve been pondering over this year and what symbols are appropriate for this year of crisis. There have been many suggestions: such as cancelled holiday tickets, zoom aps, covid codes – all things we knew little about a year ago. But for me I think the best one has been the surgical mask.

A year ago, most people had never worn one unless they worked in the medical field. And the first time I wore one I put it on upside down, and I have seen quite a few with the white on the outside instead of the blue. This year we all learnt how to wear one. Here in Adelaide it’s been only cursory, such as in the brief shutdown, but if you have been in Melbourne recently you would see them everywhere.

The interesting thing is what happens when you are in a situation where masks are expected but someone doesn’t comply. Plane trips or public transport in Sydney or Melbourne; or in our Nursing Homes until this week. There are looks at the person who has forgotten to put one or doesn’t care. Heaven help if that person then coughs, people move away, glaring at the person for the irresponsibility and danger. I travelled on a plane to Sydney a month ago and one man did not put on his mask, and didn’t people stare at him. There is a shunning, an avoidance, a fear.

Even more extreme is when a certain shop has been named as a hot spot for Covid infections. I doubt many of us will ever use a certain pizza shop in a nearby suburb. There is now a permanent shunning of it as unclean, dangerous: do not go there.

It’s good to think of this as we look at the gospel story tonight, the birth of Our Lord. Because that’s a story that is filled with symbolisms, some of which it is hard for us to understand. One that is hardest for us to understand is that Our Lord was born into a world of ritual purity. Only certain things and people were clean that you could deal with. For example, pigs and dogs were unclean animals and no good Jewish home would deal with them. It also extended to people – unclean occupations, or that the person was non-Jewish. It extended to places, such as tombs of the dead. The point about this was that life was unpredictable. You needed to stay ritually pure to be on the right side of God. It was like an insurance policy, you stay ritually pure, and God would look after you. If not, look out. So, eating the right food, avoiding the wrong people, were all symbols of a person on the right side of God.

Now when you understand that need to be pure, you start seeing something new in the Gospel stories. That’s the visitors. St Luke, as we heard tonight, tells of the visits by the shepherds, who are invited by the angels. St Matthew tells of the Magi who are lead there by stars. These two groups are noted particularly by the writers. The point about these two is that both were impure.

Shepherds were those who worked out in the fields, looking after animals in the night: it was a low status group thought to be little better than tramps and certainly unclean, both physically and ritually. Then the Magi, well, they were foreigners, and possibly involved with Zoroastrians, certainly not Jewish, and unclean as well.

Not the sort of guests that a good Jewish family would invite into the home for a viewing of a new baby.

Yet when they come, knocking on the stable door, so to speak, in the middle of the night, with no better excuse than angels and dreams, Mary and Joseph let them in.

The clean new baby is shown to the unclean.

Now when this baby grows up, he is going to do a lot with those who are unclean. He is going to eat meals with them. He is going to touch lepers to heal them, even though it is noted when he heals a Centurion’s child, that he does not have to touch, merely command. He deliberately touches to invite uncleanness, yet cleans the diseased instead. This is going to annoy a lot of people, so many in fact, that he is going to get himself killed.

All this points to a greater symbol: God is not afraid of becoming one of us. God is not afraid of impurity. God is not afraid of strangeness. God is not afraid of death. God loves us instead. So the Good Lord will eat, touch and even rise from the dead to show that love.

Now this is a year when many of us have been afraid: afraid of disease, afraid of changes. The symbol of the facemask is a good symbol for our fear.

Yet we are called by the Good Lord Jesus to not be afraid. All these things will pass, as wars and plagues have passed before. What is important instead is that love will win, the Christchild is born, vulnerable yet open to all even from birth, to shepherds and Magi and all sorts who are not the clean and pure of the world. Do not be afraid. In the symbol tonight of the bread and the wine, that great symbol that joins us with the body and blood of Christ himself made manifest in our midst, we touch again that hope that good will triumph and God’s will be done.

Pointing the Way – 13 December, 2020

It’s Rose Sunday today. That’s why these magnificent vestments are being worn, in this lovely shade of pink. That’s why there are roses embroidered all over them as well, in reference to this day. We only get these colours out twice a year, on the fourth Sunday of Lent, which we call Mothering of Laetare Sunday, and today, the third Sunday of Advent, sometimes called Guadete Sunday. The Latin names are just the first words in Latin of the entrance antiphon that is sung when I come in, which means Rejoice.

Why do we have it? Well, is our holiday break in Advent, when we are meant to lighten the mood, away from the sombre themes of death, judgment, heaven and hell. Its origins go way, way back to before Christ, to the habits of the ancient Roman Republic. This time of the year there is winter, when there was not field work, and in Rome this was the time that the elections were held for all the public offices, like consuls and tribunes, as this was the time that an agricultural society could take off and electioneer. So, when the church arrived in Rome it adapted to the custom of the early Roman Empire, by that stage, which still had elections at that time. In the early church the members of the congregations elected the clergy: and that term meant then not just priests and deacons, but also the lesser offices of lectors and doorkeepers; there were seven in total. So it was done, at this time, before the midwinter feast, which became for us Christmas. Elections should not be done in a sombre mood, so Mother Church lightened the mood for the day, so off with the purple and in with the pink rose to show the change of pace. Hence the antiphon, “Rejoice!, gaudete” that is sung at the start of high mass.

But back to the readings. Today we tackle John the Baptist. If you ever go into an Orthodox church you will see a screen separating the nave from the chancel, usually it’s covered with icons, and as a result is called the iconostasis there is always one of John the Baptist there at the right of Jesus. In the Orthodox rubrics, he is always placed there because he was the prodromos, the one who pointed the way to the Messiah. “I am not the Messiah,” John said. “I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness: Prepare the way of the Lord.” And then John went even further in saying of the one for whom he prepared people, “I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandal.” Prodromos means in Greek the forerunner, and that word for runner, dromos, is the same we have for a dromedary camel, a runner camel.

There is something to be said about knowing your place. In politics or in business, underlings, even those with distinguished titles, sometimes forget their job description and say things or cut deals which only their superiors are allowed to do. It’s fun watching the underlings of President Trump playing this game saying in a comment something which seems to say what the U.S. President has not yet said, or worse, might not want to say. John the Baptist did not have this problem. According to tradition, he was a first cousin of Jesus, yet there were no problems with jealousy or confusion of role. As a forerunner, he challenged people to think about their moral failures so that when Our Lord appeared on the scene they could appreciate his message of forgiveness and love. Because John understood his role, the need for Jesus was advanced.

Humility gives more than it asks.

John’s role in today Gospel is therefore worth our consideration. John so depreciated his status that historically he seemed to disappear from the stage once Our Lord arrived. That’s how John saw his role as forerunner or herald, but some who had come to appreciate his charismatic personality may have thought otherwise. Groups of John’s followers are documented in a variety of early Christian settings, such as in Acts of the Apostles.

Not only was that not John’s stated intent, however, but there is much to be said for that quality in humility that gives more than it seeks. John describes his humility in servant-like terms. He isn’t worthy to untie the thong of his master’s sandal. The sandal, usually a flat, undyed piece of leather, was in constant contact with the dirt and it was the one spot where touch could show the unworthiness of the disciple for the master.

There are many humble gestures that Christians might be called upon to use in order to demonstrate their own humility before Our Lord in a John-like way. Touching feet clad only in sandals made dirty by dusty roads may be symbolic, but washing them and putting body lotion on them is an ancient custom familiar to us from Our Lord washing Peter’s feet and Mary’s anointing of Our Lord’s feet. However, such humility, in our shoe-clad society, encourages us to ask with what measure of love we might reach out to show our appreciation for others rather than calling attention to ourselves. The Advent-Christmas season often has us sharing cards, gifts and foods with friends, neighbours and relatives. However, it’s one thing to be caught up in the spirit of the season, and another regularly to ask, “How might I be a forerunner/ambassador to Christ every day?” The mark of John’s humility was that he pointed away from himself and to the Messiah. We might ask ourselves how our actions could encourage someone to consider Jesus. Often the simple things do this, a meal to someone in need, or a phone call. It’s a question that a prodromos should ask: What did I do or say today that made a person ask about Jesus?

It was St Francis who captured the essence of this humility is assuring that “in giving we receive” and it was his Master who taught us that in giving to others we shouldn’t let our left hand know what our right hand is doing, so that your giving may be in secret. (Mt. 6:3-4) The essence of Christian humility lies in giving more thought to how another may discover Christ through our words, actions and shared feelings. The essence of Christian humility lies in keeping our focus on Our Lord, and looking for him in the face of a stranger.

This does require a reversal in our all-too-human need to see ourselves first and to consider how a caring action may affect our personal need, our wallet or our comfort level.

John, however, on the occasion in our Gospel lesson, not only recognized the importance of pointing others away from himself and to the Lord. He also knew that having found the Lord who alone could forgive, love and free him, he was happy to play second fiddle.

So, we to, must continue to learn the lesson of humility, to rejoice and wear our pink roses, and learn to be a prodromos, and point others to Our Lord and Saviour.

The Good News -6 December, 2020

We all know Christmas and Advent. We’ve all seen the Christmas plays. We’ve set up the Nativity crèche with the holy family, cow, donkey, and shepherds. It’s become almost too familiar. In part, that’s why we have the season of Advent. These four weeks serve to prepare the way to Christmas via a bit of liturgical wilderness. The penitential season provides a time of reflection and contemplation so that we can hear the good news of Our Lord’s incarnation afresh and let the gospel sink more deeply into our lives.

This year is a bit different, to say the least. For many, this does not feel like the usual joyous march toward Christmas. Hundreds of thousands around the globe will be spending their first Christmas without a loved one who has passed on due to the pandemic. Millions more will be attempting a celebration without their usual large and festive gathering, due to travel restrictions. For almost the entirety of the year, we have all been a people anxious and waiting for another lockdown. We missed Easter. We have been so fortunate here things are not so, so worse.

This has been a year full of new experiences, and every little thing is cast in new perspective. And yet, while the harshness of wilderness may be felt more deeply this year, the same ageless truths remain constant. We are just able to see them more clearly. The fundamental truth of these wilderness seasons is that we are waiting on an imperfect and broken world to pass. The season of Advent reminds us that no matter who we are or where we are in time or space, all earthly things will come to an end.

Nearly 30 centuries ago, Isaiah wrote to God’s exiled people, who were longing to return home. God’s message to them is one of comfort. The Lord is coming. On first hearing, Isaiah’s message hardly seems one of comfort: The comfort offered in these verses is more complex than a “happily ever after” story. The comfort comes by putting things into a divine and cosmic perspective. All people will fade like grass, but God is mighty and endures forever. The goodness of God will prevail. The prophet does not give an immediate timeframe or an immediate solution to the heartbreak and suffering of the people in exile; what is offered instead is a message of hope for the future.

The Second Letter of St Peter is also written to a people longing for God’s return. The author’s message is not unlike Isaiah’s: “But the day of the Lord will come like a thief, and then the heavens will pass away with a loud noise, and the elements will be dissolved with fire.” All things will, in the end, pass away. And in the end, God’s justice will prevail. While we don’t know the exact date of its writing, we do know that this epistle was written to the fledgling Christian community experiencing persecution at the hands of the ruling empire. They are looking for Our Lord’s return and immediate relief from their suffering. But God does not descend with thunder from the clouds in triumphant material salvation. Instead, God’s word instructs the early Church to step back and seek a divine and cosmic perspective. A thousand years is like a day, and a day is like a thousand years to God. Again, this does not seem like a happy fairy tale message for a people experiencing immediate pain and anguish. The author goes so far as to say that God’s lack of thunderous return is not to cause more suffering but instead is an act of love and patience. Once again, we are given a word of hope for the future, but we are also given instructions on how to live in the present: “Strive to be found by him at peace, without spot or blemish.”

In our gospel reading, we read the very beginning of the Gospel of Mark. Without much prelude or fanfare, we are thrust into the action in the desert. The prophet John the Baptizer proclaims in the wilderness a familiar message. At this point in history, Israel has been invaded and occupied by the Roman Empire. And now John proclaims a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. Though crowds flock to John – the reading says, “People from the whole Judean countryside and all the people of Jerusalem were going out to him” – John still points away from himself and toward someone greater to come. John points to a hopeful future by promising one who will come baptizing, not with mere water but with the eternal Holy Spirit.

Our readings also show us that waiting is not a passive action. We are to live out our hope. In waiting for the fullness of the Kingdom of God, we proclaim God’s message of justice. We name sin. We turn toward justice. We stand in the wilderness, pointing to the one more powerful than us.

Our Advent message from John the Baptizer is not to adopt a locusts-and-honey diet or de-clutter the closet to make room for the camel skins. The message isn’t even to level mountains or make a straight highway running through the desert! Our Advent message is that we are called to be a people that await the coming of the Lord. We are always in waiting – through victory and defeat, triumph and loss. It is certainly our job as the Church to proclaim peace on earth, goodwill towards all, and joy to the world. But it is just as much our job to be visible in the wilderness, naming injustice, oppression, and apathy as sins. We name these things as sin not to cast judgment or humiliate or ridicule. And least of all do we name sin in order to exclude people from our “in” group; it is precisely the opposite. We stand in the wilderness and welcome all to journey with us in the power of the Holy Spirit. We point to something better. We point to the Christ, the one who is more powerful, more patient, and more loving. We point to the Christ, the one who is to come. Our Church is always the hospital for sinners.

This Advent, many of us are already in the wilderness. Let us step back and pray for a glimpse of the divine and cosmic perspective. We remember that all things here on earth are temporary and passing, and we have to work to embody God’s patience and love here in this world. Let our lives be shaped by our hope in the truth that God is coming. As our collect says, let us live in such a way so that we may greet with joy the coming of Jesus Christ our Redeemer. Amen.

 Based on a sermon by Michael Toy, of Princeton Theological Seminary.