Homily for Trinity 5B 2015 (Proper 9B)

“Prophets are not without honour, except in their hometown” (Mk. 6:4b)

In the name of the (+) Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen

There is an apocryphal story which goes that the publication of Alan Titchmarsh’s first gardening book was greeted by the Ilkley Gazette with the headline “Former Ilkley man writes book about plants”. I’m not sure whether this is precisely correct – perhaps some of you may remember – but it has the ring of truth about it in its use of straight-talking, no-nonsense Yorkshire language so that I can well believe it. These days, if the recent Times interview is to be believed, we treat Mr Titchmarsh like royalty here – though I can’t say I have noticed. Indeed, my conversations about him this week with people have left me thinking that many remember him more for his rather humble beginnings: his parents Bessie (a textile mill worker) and Alan senior (a plumber), his having left Ilkley Secondary Modern School at 15 with few qualifications to work as an apprentice gardener for the local council (which involved tending the gardens in the park here in town). Although I gather he was very good at art, he never realised his talent for gardening until after he’d left school, and so it was via Shipley and Hertfordshire, and then study at the Royal Botanic Gardens in Kew, from where his career in journalism took off.

Now I am sure we are all familiar with Mr Titchmarsh’s achievements in later life, and his popular standing in the country, especially, so I understand, with ladies of a certain age (I gather that his waxwork in Madame Tussaud’s requires twice-weekly cleaning to remove the lipstick stains). But it is interesting that the mention of his name here results in a rather different response compared that which one might expect in the average Middle-England area. Here he is almost counted as one of our kin – the Gazette may have referred to him as a “former” Ilkley man (he left town at the age of twenty), but his local roots were at the heart of their angle on him. The headline highlights that he’d come from here – not that he was any particular authority on horticulture, even though this was doubtless the case by this time.

Is this disrespectful? No, not at all: it’s a local angle on the story, and the local angle is what we all eagerly look forward to each Thursday. Indeed, on that note, there will be a test on the content of my column later. But the serious point to come out of this is that people are always perceived differently by the communities in which they grew and developed. It is perhaps for this reason that Jesus was not received in quite the same way in his home town. People knew him from of old, and more than that – people knew his family and his humble origins. In order to start to inhabit his true vocation, Jesus goes away – we are told, for example, that following his baptism in the Jordan he was led by the Spirit into the wilderness. Going away is often a costly business: it is necessary to leave familiar people and places behind and move beyond our comfort zones. This was something many young people will experience for the first time when they move from school to university. I found my own move from Chelmsford to Durham particularly challenging for a variety of reasons, but it was an important step in my formation – and that of my family’s, too. Likewise, the first time I preached in front of my family was significant, but not because of any nerves about public speaking. Each of us will have a “persona” which develops with independence, and which we allow to drop when we are among our closest friends and family. So there is a certain amount of self-consciousness involved the first time those close to you see this persona in action. This can be the case as much for a soldier, or a police officer. There is also an aspect of this experienced by teachers where their own children are pupils at the same school.

This intimate knowledge can act as a stumbling-block, or a barrier to recognition of the gifts and talents a person has been given beyond their roots. So we are told that the people in Jesus’ hometown took offense at him, and that he could do no deed of power (although of course he did manage to heal some sick people). It seems that their unbelief is at the root of this. Miracles require faith (remember Jesus’ instruction in Jairus’ house last week, “do not fear, only believe”). A lack of faith doesn’t mean healing is impossible – a few sick people were cured in Nazareth – because nothing is impossible with God. But the two go together: Origen likened the effect to a magnet being drawn towards iron. The iron is still present without the magnet, but without it, it is easier for stumbling-blocks to be put in the way.

The rejection of Jesus is the latest example of the rejection by God’s people of those He has sent to them: we read about how the priest Pashhur struck the prophet Jeremiah, and placed him in the stocks. Jeremiah’s reaction is to prophesy Pashuur’s exile to Babylon. Jeremiah’s faith in God was clearly unshakable, however much others may mock him or seek to do him harm.

Such a strong faith was unusual, and resulted in the rejection and derision of those closest to him. As brothers and sisters in Christ, we are called to build one another up in the faith. St Paul instructs the Romans to “welcome those who are weak in faith” and not to pass judgement on them. Whereas for the Romans the issue appears to have been whether or not to abstain from certain foods, for us here today it might, for example, relate to our approach to the question of gender in matters such as marriage and holy orders. The watch-word for Paul is, of course, love. If we create difficulties for one another by what we say and do, and if we judge one another, then we are not acting out of love. Without love, faith cannot flourish. And without faith, without that magnet, drawing the iron – the deeds of power – become much harder.

In such situations, when our prejudices and assumptions come to the fore, it might help to adopt one of the teachings of St Ignatius of Loyola, that

it is necessary to suppose that every good Christian is more ready to put a good interpretation on another’s statement than to condemn it as false.[1]

In other words, we must presuppose that other people’s actions and beliefs stem from good intentions, and seek to understand how they view things on this basis. It is incumbent on us to view others’ beliefs and actions through the eyes of love. In this way, though we might sometimes need to correct others kindly, both Paul and Ignatius show us a way to build each other up in faith. If we are willing to do this – even with those from our own house – then who knows how many more deeds of power may be wrought?

In the name of the (+) Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

[1] Ignatian Presupposition, via http://www.ignatianspirituality.com/12837/when-you-think-someone-is-wrong

Homily for Trinity 2B (Proper 6B), 2015

Texts: 2 Cor. 5:6-10,13-17; Mark 4:26-34

“So we are always confident; even though we know that while we are at home in the body, we are away from the Lord – for we walk by faith, not by sight.”[1]

In the name of the (+) Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

I’d like to start with a quick story that our parish administrator told me the other day. Last week she was walking with the children to school, holding hands with her son. He was walking with his eyes shut – something which he does quite often, apparently. She decided to ask him why, and he replied, “Mummy, I do not need to be able to see because I am holding your hand”. Now there’s a great example of walking by faith and not by sight. He clearly trusts his mother implicitly (if only my own children were so trusting! Life in the Curate’s house might be a bit easier if they were), so much so that he doesn’t feel the need to look where he is going: he has faith in her ability to ensure that no harm comes to him and that they will get to the promised destination.

Of course, the destination is not heaven in the case of the story – far from it, unless perhaps one is a particularly enthusiastic teacher or student – but it serves as a modern-day parable to illustrate the idea being expressed by Paul in his letter to the Corinthians. In spite of the sufferings of this life (Paul has been describing some examples of these in the preceding part of his letter), the Christian has a reason for hope beyond everything the world might throw at him or her. This hope, our faith in Christ’s promise to us, is the source of our confidence. We do not need to worry too much about our earthly lives and the many distractions and anxieties which may arise from day to day. What really matters is the reality: “if anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation”. Christians long for the day when they will see the Lord face to face, and we trust that through everything we experience in this world, we are being guided towards that day. It doesn’t always seem like that, because that promised destination can’t be seen. But we have faith that it will come, and very soon.

I’m really glad I heard that story, because as I said earlier, it’s a little bit like a parable for our time. Like the walking to school scenario, Jesus’ parables were deliberately designed to employ imagery which would have been relatively familiar to his audience – even though it is clear that his audience didn’t quite understand the meaning behind them (this is presumably why we are told that “he explained everything in private to his disciples” here in our Gospel reading). Tom Wright describes[2] trying to understand parables as being a little bit like trying to pick out individual notes from a chord: everyone can hear the notes together – that is, the surface meaning of the story – but can we pick out individual notes? This is often a test employed at musical auditions, and for many people it’s a surprisingly difficult thing to do. But not for those with ears to hear, of course.

So, looking at our Gospel reading, we have two parables about the kingdom of God. Let’s focus on the first one: what might those individual notes sound like? Can we pull them out of the chord? On the surface of the story, the seed grows secretly, and apparently quite innocuously. It gets bigger, ripens and is harvested. But Bishop Tom suggests two notes within the chord: the harvesting with the sickle is in fact a reference to the prophecy of Joel[3] which deals with the Day of the Lord. The Jewish people looked for the coming day when, after a time of terrible devastation, the Lord would restore the fortunes of the people of God, reaping a harvest of judgement against the surrounding nations. So what Jesus is pointing to with his image of the sickle going straight in is that their ideas about the coming judgement aren’t quite right. Judgement is definitely coming soon, but it’s not simply going to involve vindication for Israel and condemnation for others. This will have been quite a controversial message, and quite a dangerous thing to be preaching – presumably one reason for the message to be crafted very carefully.

The second note involves what the seed itself is doing. There’s a cycle of sleeping and waking going on, just like we have in the seasons. The sower “sleeps and rises”, but it is easy to miss the nuance in the language. The word for rising here is one of the terms employed elsewhere in the gospels to refer to the resurrection. So while his listeners may have expected Jesus’ teaching on the kingdom of God to be all about the restoration of the fortunes of Israel, his message is somewhat different again. Jesus’ ministry is itself the moment of seed-time. People won’t see how the plant that God promised could ever grow from the seed. This is taken up in the parable of the mustard seed which follows – it’s a most unpromising looking seed. But the reality is that the seed grows into the greatest of all shrubs, with branches so large that birds may nest and find shade there.

We shouldn’t look down on small beginnings. Even one or two people meeting together regularly to pray and work together can have dramatic results. Here in this parish we have wonderful examples of small initiatives that often get overlooked. Did you know about the rosary group, for example? This small group meets each Monday morning to pray the rosary together. They’ve been doing this week in, week out since 1994. And then there’s the midweek masses, which often drop below double figures in numerical attendance terms. It’s tempting to look at this and wonder why we persist. It might seem more logical to spend our energies on higher profile mission activities – and we have plenty of those too: Playtime on Fridays being an example of how we are serving our community and getting “out there”. But we mustn’t forget the smaller stuff: God can do fantastic things with the unglamorous, the ordinary, and the unfashionable. We might not see the results ourselves, but like Jamie, if we persist with them, placing our hand in that of the One who loves us beyond all imagining, and have confidence, we can be sure that God will bring the seed to ripeness.

In the name of the (+) Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

[1]  2Cor. 5:6-7

[2] in his Mark for Everyone

[3] Joel 3:13

Homily for Easter 6B, 2015

Text: John 15:9-17

In the name of the (+) Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
It’s not often you can follow up a homily delivered at the Family Service with one at our more formal services, but I’d quite like to have a go. Perhaps some of you were there last week when I told the sorry story of our Christmas tree and its frankly rather embarrassing outing to the kerbside in the green waste bin a week or so ago. For those of you who missed it, let me briefly say that my attempt to have it collected was a dismal failure, and it languishes – still! – in our garage. It is a sad sight indeed, its branches largely stripped of needles, a reminder (as if we needed one) that Christmas is long-gone, and will be a long time coming yet. Its dead branches took me to the image of the vine, and what branches which are cut off from the life of the tree (or the vine) look like. They do not bear the intended leaves; they do not blossom or bear fruit. We are not to be like my Christmas tree, but as branches of Christ himself, the true vine. We are called to be one with him.

Our Gospel reading today follows on from Jesus’ words last week. The central theme remains abiding. This word, abiding, is the key to understanding the way to sustain the Christian life. Last week we were told to abide in Jesus just as he abides in us. How are we to do this? Well, this week we find out: the way that we abide in Jesus’ love for us is to keep his commandments, just as Jesus himself keeps his Father’s commandments and so abides in his Father’s love. Jesus and his Father are bound together by a unity of love for each other. In turn, this is what Jesus wills for us with him. We are thus caught up in a kind of chain of love, being drawn by it into the divine family. And if we are called into this new relationship, then we cannot be called servants any more. The Greek word δουλος is more correctly translated as “slave” – so in fact the contrast is even greater. In fact, while we are dealing with linguistics, the word we translate as “abide” – μενω – doesn’t convey the full meaning of the Greek idea. To abide, or to dwell, has the sense of existing fully and completely, without any need for more. Jesus’ love, then, is like the air we breathe – entirely sufficient for our needs.

So when we’re called, as we are here, to love one another to the point of laying down our lives for our friends, we need not fear that this will deprive us of life. The use of this phrase of Jesus’ on so many war memorials (much in mind at this time as we commemorate the 70th anniversary of VE Day) has perhaps associated it too much with the death of the body, whether in glorious sacrifice on the battlefield or in quieter ways such as Maximilian Kolbe, the Polish Franciscan who volunteered to die in place of a stranger at Auschwitz. But it has a wider sense, too. Everything you do for someone else out of love is an act of laying down your own life. You cast it aside for that other person, building their life up by spending your own. This is quite a challenge in a society which is so acquisitive and focused on the rights of the individual, rather than of the community. But when we give our lives away out of love, we discover that we are drawn closer to the God who calls us all his friends, and to those from whom we might previously have been alienated because of our hardness of heart.

This isn’t always easy, of course. We are called to love one another – all of us – like Jesus has loved us. This means we must love those we do not find easy to love, too. We won’t always get that warm fuzzy feeling afterwards, either: some people are very difficult to like. Some people are hard work. But every day, we must seek to renew our feelings of love towards those who Jesus calls his friends.

St Augustine once said to “love, and do what you will”. This might sound like a licence for unrestricted freedom and hedonism, but it isn’t. If we love first before anything else, then everything that we do will be in the light of that love. It becomes the lens through which we see the world, and which focuses all our actions. That’s not a bad way of approaching life, but it requires work. We must make a conscious and regular commitment to those we love. We have an obvious opportunity this week in the form of the little red envelopes of Christian Aid. But there will be many other ways to show our love: why not take a moment each day to plan some act of random kindness (ARK)? Perhaps combine this with a short time of prayer – even just a few minutes – to share this with the one who loves us beyond anything we can imagine.

And as we draw near to the altar of our salvation to receive the love of God broken and poured out for us through the Body and Blood of his Son, and sustained by this love, let us go out and bear fruit by laying down our lives for one another.

And may “glory be to God whose power working in us can do infinitely more than we can ask or imagine.” 

In the name of the (+) Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Homily for Easter 4B, 2015

Texts: Exodus 16:4-15, John 10:11-18, Revelation 2:12-17

In the name of the (+) Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

At the moment quite a number of our readings are taken from what are collectively referred to as the “Johannine” books of the New Testament – I’m referring to the use of the Book of Revelation and the Gospel of John, though there are also three letters of John which belong to this group, too. These works were once said to have been written by a common author – St John the Apostle himself, if you follow ancient tradition. Justin Martyr, one of the earliest Christian apologists, names the Apostle as the author, for example. However, there has long been a consensus that this is not in fact the case: there are considerable variations in language and tone, for example. So while many scholars agree that the Gospel and epistles may have a common author, Revelation is more likely to have been the work of a different John altogether.

John’s Gospel is probably my favourite (although I have a very strong attachment to Luke, probably because of its contribution to the Christmas narrative). This is partly because I love the way that the evangelist uses imagery and symbols, which are then interpreted through great discourses. These images and symbols take various forms – you have the “signs” such as the wedding at Cana and the raising of Lazarus, but you also have Jesus’ “sayings” which conjure up images in the mind. These sayings are famously begun by Jesus’ use of the words “I am” – in Greek, εγω ειμι – a deliberate use of the phrase used by God to Moses in the burning bush – “I am who I am…” and to the Israelites: “tell them ‘I am’ has sent me to you”. Those of you who came to the discussion group we held on Monday afternoon in that lovely spring sunshine will recall that we talked a little bit about this, and hopefully some of my enthusiasm for this sort of thing has rubbed off on you…

Today we hear Jesus say “I am the Good Shepherd”. This wasn’t the one people came up with first when asked to name the sayings on Monday afternoon, but I think it’s fair to say that it’s probably one of the more popular biblical images. Certainly there is a wealth of depictions of this image in art – it is the most common representation of Christ in the Roman Catacombs, for example, and has remained popular ever since. The theme of Jesus as the Good Shepherd is also found in the synoptic parables , and we can also find similar ideas expressed in the Old Testament about God, perhaps most famously in Psalm 23.

Shepherding is what lies, of course, at the heart of what we call “pastoral” care: the original “pastors” were shepherds, and it is for this reason that people have used the word to express how God might care for them. It is also applied in other circumstances: we talk of pastoral care by teachers for their pupils, for example. Whether in the secular or the religious spheres, however, the use of the word is usually intended to express similar ideas. When we speak of pastoral care, we generally mean the giving of help to others, perhaps through befriending, but generally through supporting and encouraging them. There is often a certain amount of protecting involved, especially where the “flock” are vulnerable in some way. So doctors, nurses and carers all fulfil a pastoral role, in terms of the sick, elderly, and so on. And because God created the whole world and calls each one of us, whether we listen or not, the care that is exercised by even the most ardent disciples of Richard Dawkins has the potential to show us something of the way that Jesus cares for us in turn.

In fact, we can go one further than this, especially if we consider the role of the Christian in the workplace. St Teresa of Avila’s words express this beautifully:

Christ has no body now, but yours.
No hands, no feet on earth, but yours.
Yours are the eyes through which he looks
With compassion on this world.

This sort of “pastoral” care is exercised by Moses and Aaron, too. In the reading at Evensong tonight we hear how God gives them instructions about what he is about to do – rain bread from Heaven in order to satisfy their hunger in the wilderness – and how they are to explain this to the people of Israel. Moses and Aaron are chosen by God to represent God to the people, to lead and care for them on God’s behalf. This isn’t because God cannot do things himself – the manna being an example of his direct intervention – but because God chooses to use people as his instruments or mediators. We are told repeatedly that “no one can see me, and live”, so in the Old Testament we see the great figures of Moses, Aaron, Joshua and so on acting on God’s guidance. The prophets were given messages to proclaim to God’s people. And in the fullness of time, God himself came to us in such a way that we could look upon him and not die. As the great kenotic hymn in Philippians relates, “he emptied himself, taking the form of a slave…and humbled himself, and became obedient unto death, even death on a cross”.

So here we have the most excellent example of pastoral care: Jesus cares for his flock so much that he is prepared to give up his own life to save them. So as well as identifying with the sheep, the Good Shepherd is also a sacrificial victim. And not just on behalf of those closest to him, but the “other sheep who do not belong to this fold”. The Good Shepherd is concerned for all the sheep, and desires to bring them all into the one flock, with one shepherd to guide them. John’s community clearly identified a need to unite with other traditions, as well as to draw in new believers.

So how are we to respond to this? If we go back to what St Teresa said, we can see how our risen Lord calls us to continue his work of caring for the flock. Some, he has called into public ministry: those of us who serve as priests, sharing in the work of pastoring Christ’s flock, are given an awesome responsibility. But we clergy aren’t the only ones who have a pastoral role: far more important is the role of the individual Christian in the world: each of us is called to care for those around, to be Christ to other people. This could be to our spouses, our wider families and friends, or to our work colleagues. But it most definitely includes those who are different to us in some way – those we might find hard to relate to or identify with. Just as Jesus sought out the lost, so we must find ways to reach out and care. This might be uncomfortable and challenging, but we can do so in the knowledge that God never asks more of us than we can manage, and that he cares for us with a love stronger than we can possibly conceive.

So on this “Good Shepherd Sunday”, let us listen to the voice of Jesus, and follow him wherever he may lead us.

Homily for Mothering Sunday 2015

Text: John 19:25b-27

In the name of the (+) Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Mothering Sunday is quite a difficult day to pin down, because of all the overlapping imagery that has built up over the years – and note that it’s not “Mothers’ Day” which is an American secular card-and-presents extravaganza with no link to the Christian calendar whatsoever. Today is first and foremost about returning to “Mother Church” – the place of our baptism, where we began our Christian journey and were born of water and the Spirit. 

This used to involve a literal return to the place of our own baptism each year to give thanks, and so in the days when families were less mobile one can perhaps understand how the tradition of visiting our mothers on this day developed (and bringing Simnel cake!), expressing affection and thanks for all they have done in giving us life and support throughout our lives. So for those of you who were baptised in this font, there is an even more special significance in being here today.

Another name for this Sunday is “Refreshment Sunday”, because we observe a lightening of the Lenten fast. This is why we wear rose vestments today – no, it’s nothing to do with pink supposedly being a feminine colour. So the giving of thanks for our baptism, and our nurture at the hands of Mother Church, is underlined by the gentle sense of celebration in our worship. A little outbreak of special joy enables us to find refreshment of a spiritual nature – which might also be reflected in enjoying something today that we might have given up during the rest of Lent.

But today can bring a mixture of emotions, as is the case so often at other times when there is a collective emphasis on happiness. Like Christmas, Mothering Sunday can be a painful time for some. Many of us will be unable to spend time with our mothers today. Often the physical distances which divide wider families will be the reason. Some will have had difficult relationships and might not be on speaking terms. Others will be feeling the pain of having been parted from our mothers through death, or having lost children. And tragically, some may have suffered abuse at the hands of someone who was, or who fulfilled, the role of mother in their lives.

So amidst the posies, the cards, the chocolates and perhaps for the lucky few, the special lunches, we don’t ever lose sight of the cross. Today’s gospel is that brief, incredibly poignant moment of Jesus’ last words to his mother as he hangs there. It has always struck me how even in the midst of the pain, Jesus considers the needs of others: he gives his mother to the beloved disciple – and in so doing, she becomes a mother to him and to all Jesus’ followers. 

We who claim to be followers of Jesus ought to take seriously this great gift. Being Jesus’ mother makes Mary the mother of God, and as children of the same heavenly Father, she is our mother too. Like the beloved disciple, we should take her into our own homes – not because she needs us to care for her, but because she longs to care for us. Who could be closer to Jesus than his own mother? Who better to ask to pray for us than the one closest to his heart? The one who tells us to “do whatever he tells [us]”, who teaches us to say “yes” to God, to accept the outpouring of his love into our lives and his calling to us to follow wherever that may lead us, knowing even in our darkest moments, when we feel hopeless and unable to go on, that we are not alone.

We Anglicans are often a little shy about prayer to Mary. Perhaps some of us have an in-built aversion to anything we feel might be a bit too “Roman”, a bit of that Yorkshire “no nonsense” attitude, or perhaps it’s the British stiff upper lip which makes public displays of emotional piety so common in other countries. This suppression of emotion is a bad thing! Psychologists have been telling us this for many years in the secular sphere, so I don’t think it’s much of a leap to see why it’s bad in faith terms. 

As we try to integrate our faith more deeply into our daily lives, it becomes easier to see how we can all benefit from maternal love, all the time – from Mother Church, from our earthly mothers, and from our Blessed Mother, Mary. So let today be a day of refreshment for you, as we celebrate this great gift of God, of motherly love, to each of us.

In the name of the (+) Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Homily for Evensong, Lent 1B (2015)

“For just as by the one man’s disobedience the many were made sinners, so by the one man’s obedience the many will be made righteous.” (Rom. 5:19)

In the name of the (+) Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit: Amen.

I hope Lent has been going well for you these past few days. For me, the impending arrival of Lent results in mixed feelings. Should I give something up? Should I take something on? There’s a fair bit of anxiety about prospective changes to the daily routine, as whatever discipline I might settle on takes effect. Then there’s the constant self-examination aspect: how well am I keeping my commitments? Am I obeying the rules I set for myself at the start, or am I falling short in some way? Lent is surely a perfectionist’s nightmare. By setting oneself a variety of Lenten observances, we open up the possibility of failure, which can lead to a sense of letting oneself, or of letting God, down. And then how much more aware we become of our imperfections and our sins.

In reality, this added potential to become aware of the brokenness of our existence does not change the fact that it was there before – the extra demands we place on ourselves during Lent make us more aware of something that was already there. Sin is unavoidable, it would seem: this is the reality of human existence. And likewise the consequence of sin – death. None of us can escape the brutal truth that one day we shall return to the dust from which we came. Our dramatic Ash Wednesday liturgy calls us to remember our mortality, and so in these first few days of Lent we have had these two inescapable and unpleasant aspects of human nature thrust uppermost again into our minds.

So, if we can’t escape sin, we might as well try to understand something about how it works – and this is what Paul attempts in his letter. Here, sin is revealed in its character of transgression – rule-breaking. The sin of Adam was to disobey the one specific rule given to humanity by God. Likewise, once the Law was given through Moses, people had a code of rules to live by. Unfortunately this meant that there were an awful lot more rules all of a sudden, and therefore a lot more ways to identify sin. So the Law amplified the problem. Paul is making clear that Moses is not the answer to Adam’s sin – the Law cannot save us, because what is does is expose quite how deliberate human disobedience actually is. We are told how to live in great detail, yet we still do not listen.

And Paul recognises that even the holiest and most observant (“righteous”) of people continued to die, of course. If death is seen as the consequence of sin, then sin must be about more than simply breaking commands. Just like Adam experiences in his encounter with the serpent, sin plays on our weakness, and we end up falling short. Paul’s writing supports a doctrine of what the church has come to call “original sin”. Paul writes that “death spread to all because all have sinned”. We all share collectively in the sin of Adam. There is no escape, and therefore Paul doesn’t waste time thinking about what life might have been like before sin came into the world. We can’t change the way things are. We simply accept that we cannot ourselves do anything about it. Later in the letter he will observe “I do not do the good I want, but that which I do not want, that I do” (7:15). We need help.

The Christian faith teaches that because nothing in the world could possibly have the power to break the hold of sin, only something beyond creation itself – only God – could do anything about it. Which is why God became man, because nothing short of this would do. Paul’s language is rather complicated, but it boils down to the antithesis that he sets up at the end of the passage – just as Adam brought about humanity’s sinful state, and began the reign of death, so Christ acts as a counter to that. Adam brings death, Christ brings life. Christ is the new Adam, who by his death and resurrection sets us free from the old order. The process by which this is achieved is called “atonement” (at-one-ment – the way we are reconciled to God, and made one with him), and there are a variety of models depending on which branch of the church you gravitate towards. You’ll be delighted to hear that we haven’t time for a detailed discussion of these tonight, but the core message that Paul is trying to establish here, which goes to the heart of the matter, is that in the same way that Adam’s disobedience brings sin and death, so Christ’s perfect obedience – something that no human being could achieve – brings about reconciliation and life. Death no longer has the final word.

And so, at the beginning of Lent, we are reminded that there is hope. It is good that we set ourselves targets and discipline ourselves for a short while, not out of some act of self-punishment, but to remind ourselves of our dependence on God. We cannot earn our own salvation by being extra holy, giving things up, taking things on, or whatever you might decide to do. By becoming aware of this reality, and perhaps through failure to keep to our regimes as well as we might have hoped, we are reminded of our need for God’s mercy and his forgiveness. God knows that already, of course, which is why he came to us in Jesus Christ. Through him, the power of the sin of Adam was broken, and in baptism we are washed clean of our share in this, beginning our new life in Christ. But we persist, don’t we? We still do things wrong, and we still need that “grace which abounded all the more”. This can be received through the continuing ministry of reconciliation that Jesus entrusted to the Church. Lent is a popular time of year for people to make use of sacramental confession, when this forgiveness is made known in a very powerful to an individual, by a priest acting as an instrument, focusing God’s forgiveness like a lens. If you have not considered this before, then I would suggest exploring the possibility with one of us this Lent, in complete confidence.

So, sin is unavoidable, and so we die. Yet we Christians dare to hope nonetheless, because the old order is overthrown in Christ. The late 16^th / early 17^th century poet John Donne writes powerfully of this confidence:

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so;

For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow

Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,

Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee do go,

Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.

Thou’art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,

And poppy’or charms can make us sleep as well

And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally,

And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.[1]

[1] Death be not proud (Holy Sonnet X)

Third Sunday in Ordinary Time, Yr. B

In the name of the (+) Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

I must begin by thanking Fr. Edward for inviting me to visit you this morning, and you all for your warm welcome, to me and to my family. It’s lovely to be back in London, and I bring you all warm greetings from the frozen wilds of West Yorkshire and most especially from the people of St Margaret’s, Ilkley! We may be three hours’ rail journey (and a province) away, but our shared faith, prayer, and the wonders of technology do much to bring us closer together.

The rapid development of technology has been a great blessing in many ways, hasn’t it? We have Twitter to thank (or blame) for my presence here today, so you may come to disagree with that sentiment shortly. Nonetheless, through the power of social media, distance is increasingly becoming less of a hindrance to the forging and maintenance of relationships. Fr. Edward and I had not met in person prior to this weekend, yet I do not consider him any less of a friend because of that. This has given me pause for thought: what does it really mean to “follow” someone in this day and age?

Today’s reading from Mark offers an image of following of another kind. Jesus, passing along the Sea of Galilee, calls Simon, Andrew, James, and John. We are told that they “immediately” left their nets and followed him. It’s very easy to “immediately” follow someone on Twitter, or to add someone to your Facebook friends list, and so on. It doesn’t require any great effort or sacrifice on our part – and if you discover that your new friend is posting an annoying number of cute cat pictures, you can “unfollow” them as easily as you please. But Jesus’ call to his first disciples, and their decision to follow, has much greater implications. Family solidarity and security were hugely important in the culture of the time: Simon and his fellow-disciples were most likely to have been the latest in a long line of fishermen, expected to take on this trade in order to provide for themselves and their wider families. Make no mistake – following Jesus in the way that they did would have involved serious risk, with implications not just for their own personal security but for their dependants. Yet they recognise something special about the one who called them, something so special that they just left their nets. This is a real watershed moment in their lives, a complete turnaround.

This is what repentance really means. It’s not just about stopping sinning, but about turning away from the things that lead to it, to begin again. Jesus’ call to repent and to believe the good news was, and is, a prophetic call to return to true loyalty to YHWH. He proclaims his message at precisely the right time: John has been arrested. He seizes the moment to begin his ministry – Mark’s frequent use of the word “immediately” gives us a sense of urgency. The business of repentance can’t wait: we must not be like Jonah, who tried to run away from God’s call – because it’s a waste of time.

In other years, had it not been a Sunday, we would today have been celebrating the Conversion of St Paul, so it is good that we hear from him this morning. His message to us is also stark: Paul urges those with wives to be as though they had none, for mourners to appear not to be mourning, and so on. There, the emphasis is not on actual rejection of one’s wife, or possessions, or to deny one’s state of mind. But Paul urges his listeners to see things in the context of eternity, because the things that belong to the world are short-term. This, in the end, was Jonah’s message too – “forty days and Nineveh shall be overthrown”. And there, too, we have a complete turnaround: the people believed God, and repented of their sinful ways. So God did not destroy them: the relationship between God and his people was restored to its proper state.

So following Jesus means doing more than clicking a button on an app or a web page. It means a complete change, or turning around, and real commitment. If we want to follow Christ, it’s not all passive, with updates pushed out to us. We are challenged to respond to his invitation with every fibre of our being. Part of that means spending time with him – we can do this through prayer, and through regularly receiving him in his holy sacraments – but it also means leaving everything behind for his sake. Christ calls us out of our comfort zone, away from familiar sources of security like money, success and popularity. Being a follower involves being led, submitting to the will of the one you’re following – which perhaps exposes the relatively shallow nature of the phenomenon of following on social media. Like leading your livelihood behind at the invitation of a stranger, true discipleship is a risky business. This is not to suggest that we should not engage with Twitter, Facebook, and the like – quite the reverse, in fact. If they are part of your life, as they are mine, then let us try to use them as ways of deepening our relationship with Christ, to break down barriers that divide us from recognising him in one another, and to build up our common life.

So let’s use every means at our disposal to spread the good news and share God’s love for us. Let’s show the world just how much God loves each of us, and just what truly following him looks like. The Venerable Fulton Sheen gives us a pattern for this:

Show me your hands. Do they have scars from giving? Show me your feet. Are they wounded in service? Show me your heart. Have you left a place for divine love?

You’ve clicked that “follow” button. It’s time to leave those nets behind.

In the name of the (+) Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

(Preached at St Mary’s, Kenton)

Christmas Morning 2014 (Yr. B)

Texts: Titus 2:11-14; Luke 2:8-14

In the name of the (+) Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
There’s a lot of talk about appearing this morning. The Letter to Titus starts off talking about how the grace of God has appeared, bringing salvation to all. And then in the Gospel reading we heard about three more appearances: firstly we hear about “an angel of the Lord”, but at the same time something else appears – the glory of the Lord, which is described as shining all around. I’ve never seen the Northern Lights – the Aurora Borealis – have you? I’ve seen lots of pictures, and imagine that God’s glory might have shone a little like that, although presumably much brighter. The angel then talks about the appearance of the Christ-child lying in the manger, and then we have the final appearance of the passage – the heavenly host, a great multitude of angels singing praise to God and announcing peace to his people.

So, lots of appearing is going on. During Advent, we’ve all been encouraged to watch, to wait, and to prepare for Christ’s coming, and this morning we rejoice as we remember how he came among us as a helpless little child. But although Advent may be over for another year, we don’t stop waiting entirely.

Now, I know that lots of you will be waiting expectantly this morning: I can see one or two people waiting slightly impatiently…have you left the sprouts on the hob? Or have you got presents awaiting your return, perhaps? Like the shepherds once the angels had vanished, the waiting doesn’t come to an end, but it enters a new phase. Like the theologian Hans Urs von Balthasar, I suspect the shepherds were probably quite relieved when they were left alone again. But they’d been left with a sense of joyous expectation that led them to set off for Bethlehem. They want to go and see what all the fuss was about – the substance of what the Lord had made known to them, through the angel (remember the word angel means a messenger, someone who “announces”). So the angels’ message – their words – are just a pointer towards the actual content of the message – the child. That’s what John was talking about at the beginning of his Gospel that we have also read in recent days – “the Word was made flesh, and dwelled among us”.

This is the grace that we heard about in the first reading. God revealed himself to us by giving us an astonishing gift – this thing called grace became visible and tangible when it took human form in Jesus. God’s grace is what enables us to be faithful and live the Christian life while we await Christ’s final coming. God came to be with us in that supreme act of solidarity, to show us how we should live, so that we could learn to be like him.

So the shepherds believed the word they were given, and set out to see the child – the content of the word. But when they got to Bethlehem, they didn’t find a royal palace or a great chamber. There was no rich embroidery or great warmth in the place they found. Instead, a dirty stable. A child swaddled up tightly so that it couldn’t move – helpless, and placed in a manger where you might expect the animals’ food to be. This was less than ordinary. This was pretty squalid. Nobody realised then quite how far into the dust and darkness this child would go for us, but we are called to follow him there. As Christians, we are sent into the world to proclaim freedom for the oppressed, light to those who are in darkness, joy for those who mourn, release to those who are captive. We must stand alongside all those who suffer – and never more so than on this most special of days. When so many of us are looking forward to tucking into a special meal with friends and loved ones, we must not forget that the waiting does not end at Christmas. Our work of feeding the hungry, relieving poverty and sharing the Good News of Christ goes on, as we too are placed in the most ordinary and mundane of circumstances to be Christ’s body in the world until he comes to us once more – not as a helpless little child this time, but with power and great glory, when we hope we shall be caught up in that glorious light with the angels, singing his praises.

Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, goodwill towards men.

Homily for Advent 4 Yr. B, 2014

Texts: 2 Samuel. 7:1-16; Luke 1:26-38

“For nothing will be impossible with God”…”Let it be with me according to your word”

In the name of the (+)Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

One thing I have picked up very rapidly as a relatively new clergyman is the need to get ahead with the planning at this time of year. So it was that I began to think about this homily on the 8th December. Lots of things have distracted me from it in the intervening period, of course – but when I turned to the texts appointed for today I smiled to myself. They deal, of course, with the Annunciation. 8th December, the day I began working on this homily, was the Feast of the Immaculate Conception – when the very same gospel passage is set at Mass. So there was a nice little coincidence there as I settled to read it through.

Now, before I go any further I should just straighten a few things out. This homily comes with a small health warning: as Anglicans we take a very broad approach towards devotion to Mary – much as we do with our sacramental theology. When Christians talk about the Immaculate Conception, we do not mean the Annunciation, or Mary’s own virginal conception of Christ. 8th December is kept as the day when Mary was herself conceived in the womb of her mother Anne – that’s holy Annie, God’s Granny – the tradition being that, as a special gift to the mother of God, Mary was preserved from any spot or stain of original sin from the very moment of her own conception.

One might be forgiven for thinking all this a little far-fetched. The whole point of the humble origins of Mary would seem to be challenged by her receiving such special treatment. One defence of this is Duns Scotus’ use of the teaching St Anselm: potuit, decuit, ergo fecit: “he could do it, it was fitting, therefore he did it”. Of course Mary was in need of redemption like all human beings, but the doctrine teaches that because God can achieve anything, he preserved Mary from sin as a foretaste of the redemption that her divine Son was to accomplish through the cross. As the angel tells Mary in this morning’s reading:

…for nothing will be impossible with God

And so Mary goes on to proclaim

…my spirit has rejoiced in God my saviour

Now the Church of England doesn’t insist that Mary’s conception was immaculate, but the date is kept as the Conception in our Kalendar – the only feast of its kind unless one counts the Annunciation itself on 25th March. If it was a conception just like any other, why bother to celebrate it?

So although Mary’s own conception was the starting point for my reflection, as I’ve already said, whatever one thinks about how that event happened, we should not confuse it with the Annunciation, which is the story we have heard this morning. Gabriel (whose name means “strength of God”) is sent to Mary, about whom the evangelist has told us very little. The greeting he gives her (κεχαριτωμένη, more correctly translated as “full of grace”) is, unsurprisingly, perplexing. This greeting is unique to Mary, which is fitting: the Venerable Bede points out that just as Eve contained in her womb all humanity that was doomed to sin, now Mary contains in her womb the new Adam who will father a new humanity by his grace. When Mary asks how all this shall be, she is not doubting or sceptical, as Zechariah was when he received a similar visit and was struck dumb: she is the model of faithfulness. In his response, Gabriel describes two separate things. First, the Holy Spirit is to come upon her, and then the power of the Most High will overshadow her. There is no elaboration on how this will work, and nothing further is said.

Mary’s response to all this is one which underlines her faithfulness:

Let it be to me according to your word

Her words have echoed down the centuries as the model for Christian discipleship. They form a counterpart to the words Christ was himself to teach us:

Thy will be done.

Interestingly this phrase does not appear in the Lukan version of the Lord’s Prayer. Perhaps Luke sees this as an unnecessary petition in the wake of our request that God’s kingdom come – the repeated emphasis in the Gospel that God’s will must be fulfilled, as we see here right at the beginning and continued throughout, might suggest that such a prayer is superfluous. The Incarnation was, is, and always shall be a part of God’s saving plan for his creation. In it and through it the infinite is made visible: “heaven and earth in little space”, as the fifteenth century carol puts it.

So, the figure of Mary has excited much controversy among Christians over the centuries. But her place is nowhere more central than in the great mystery of the Incarnation, which we are about to celebrate again. It is for this reason that she is to be honoured above all God’s creatures: in so doing, we honour her divine Son.

Homily for Advent Sunday 2014 (Yr. B)

Texts: Isaiah 64:1-9; Mark 13:24-3

“Keep awake!”
In the name of the (+) Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

One of the wonderful things about St Margaret’s is the way in which people enjoy telling stories. I really enjoy spending time visiting people, or catching up after the Mass, and listening to the stories people tell. Just the other day, I heard one about a trip a couple once took to India – over land. It’s something which you don’t hear happening much these days, of course: ironically in our modern globalised world, travel across continents has not necessarily become easier and in many places such as Iran, Syria and Iraq, it is considerably more difficult than it once was.

Such stories are fascinating, because they speak of a world with which we are familiar, but frequently they put an entirely different perspective on the world which we had not necessarily considered. They remind us that in a few short years, so much can change – but we often don’t realise quite how much change has happened until we look back in retrospect. Looking back, and taking the time to listen to stories, is often seen as a luxury. But without regular time devoted to reflection in this way, we risk losing sight of the bigger picture of the story of the world, and of our own tiny place within it.
We perceive the world in different ways, each of us conditioned by our own experiences which have shaped us and our feelings. Yet we each know when summer is coming, don’t we? We northern Europeans might not all recognise the leaves of a fig tree (at least, not as readily as our southern and middle-eastern cousins), but each of us can interpret the seasons relatively well in our own way. At this time of year, as the days become ever shorter and the temperature ever lower, thoughts turn towards the coming of winter, and with the arrival now of Advent, we are consciously preparing ourselves for the great solemnity of the Christmas season. We are looking forward – many of us expectantly, even excitedly in some cases – to what’s coming next. We are always “on the go”!

I have American relatives, and they’ve just been celebrating Thanksgiving. Part of the modern Thanksgiving weekend involves what is known as ‘Black Friday’ – the biggest shopping day of the year in the USA with lots of deals and discounts, especially on high value items like TVs and computers. People are urged to watch out for the best deals, and long lines form before dawn outside stores, as people fight to make sure they’re first in line and don’t miss out. This is increasingly becoming the norm in this country, too: have you noticed how the January Sales have become the Boxing Day sales? Online retailers like Amazon have even started to encourage the Black Friday phenomenon in the UK.

So Americans (and increasingly we Europeans) have become experts in keeping awake, but for all the wrong reasons. We keep awake so we can consume more and cram ever more spending of time and money into each day. This is evident not just in the marketplace, but in the workplace, as the modern always-connected, 24/7 culture leads us to go to extraordinary lengths to fill our time. People work longer hours to avoid going home to an empty house. We check our work emails from home when we do get there. We fill our rest time with activity: our children’s weekends and holidays are full of clubs, courses, and sports, while the parents ferry them to and fro. We seem to want to fill each moment of our lives with one of the multiplicity of options for diversion which our sophisticated, cosmopolitan society offers us. We rarely take time to stop and listen to those stories which might help us to understand things more deeply.

Jesus tells us to keep awake – but he doesn’t mean like this. We aren’t to keep ourselves constantly on the go: working, shopping, partying, and so on. We are told to wait, to be watchful. Like the household awaiting their master’s return, we must remain alert. This means seeking to read the signs of the times as best we can. The greatest error of the Reformers was to do away with so much that was good which had built up slowly over the previous centuries: so much of the richness and depth of the faith was discarded because it appeared to be in conflict with the ideas, with the new scriptural hermeneutic, of Enlightenment Europe. The signs of the times had been read too quickly, one might say. Of course, there were areas where abuses were taking place and which were rightly corrected. However, the gradually accrued wisdom of the Fathers and Mothers of the Church was all too readily dismissed in the brave new world. The resulting splits between Protestants, Catholics, and Anglicans are tragic and sinful, and reflect a failure to listen carefully not just to the story of our salvation revealed in the Holy Scriptures and set forth in the catholic creeds, but to the wisdom of the ages. The signs of the times do not always demand that we do things differently. Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today and forever. There is no need to rush out after the latest craze: time is required in order to discern what is right.

Isaiah laments that God “did awesome deeds that we did not expect”, but “because you hid yourself we transgressed”. Yet God “works for those who wait for him…for those who remember [him] in [his] ways”. This particular section of Isaiah comes hot on the heels of a series of visions of God acting in his wrath. He acknowledges that we are like clay in the hands of a potter, and prays that God will “tear open the heavens and come down”, revealing himself as he did in times of old.

This is what we, during this season of Advent, are called to do: we remember how God has acted in the past, with confidence that he is the God who reveals himself in fire and boiling water, “with great power and glory”, but who also stoops to our level and became one with us as a helpless baby in a manger. So, keep awake: not in order to spend ever more money, to get that project finished for the boss, or to get to the next level in Candy Crush Saga. Keep watching. Listen to stories, and through them, try to interpret the signs of the times. Prepare to meet thy God…