Homily for the Second Sunday before Advent, Yr. A (2014)

Texts: 1Thess. 5:1-11; Matthew 25:14-30

In the name of the (+) Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit: Amen.
I expect most of you will have heard by now about Mission Action Planning. One of the great benefits of the whole process is that as a parish, we have had to take regular long hard looks at ourselves, to consider our strengths and weaknesses, and to think about our priorities for the next few years. One of our key strengths is, so we believe, “our diverse and talented people”. We committed ourselves to “a major programme to harness the many latent gifts and skills within the congregation”. We recognised that although we are blessed to be a very “talented” church family, we don’t always use this blessing as well as we might.

I think part of the challenge is recognising the individual gifts we are given – those talents – as coming from God. Sometimes, we can take them for granted, and this can lead to all sorts of problems.

Our Gospel reading today confronts the issue of talents head-on. I was surprised to learn quite how much a talent was worth: between 75 and 96 pounds of silver, apparently. At the basic wage of 1 Denarius a day – which was what was paid at the time to unskilled workers or common soldiers –one talent would have represented 20 years’ wages. So when we think about our “talents” – perhaps our baking skills, or fluency with numbers, whatever it might be – contemplate that for a moment. It’s of huge value.

If we are to continue comparing the idea of personal talent with the currency referred to in the gospel, we might also like to consider the way in which the master gives them: the Greek παραδιδωμι implies a handing over – a complete transfer of control. There’s no expectation of receiving anything in return. These talents are freely given: even the one taken from the third slave is given to the first. The message here seems to be less about stewardship than about our response to the gracious giving of the master. We too have been given a variety of gifts of immense value, with no strings attached. How are we to respond to this act of amazing grace?

Another way in which the text can speak to us today is in the apparent inequality of the distribution – each slave receives a different sum from the master. In this age of individual rights and freedoms, which prizes the notion of equality above almost everything, some of us might be arguing that this was unfair. How many of us are resentful when we come across someone with manifestly more “talent” than we feel we have ourselves? Jealousy is a vicious sin, which eats away at us inside. We resent those who receive promotion ahead of us, who earn more than us, who take more exotic holidays, who send their children to public school, and so on. We resent those who are brighter than us; the more powerful and connected; the alpha-mummies who can manage a household whist holding down a career, a social life and remain a pillar of the playground community. When we feel like this, we must remember that salvation is not relative. The greatest gift of all – the one which truly matters more than anything else, which we all receive in baptism – is offered without distinction to everyone. All too often people confuse the grace received in baptism, which is available freely to anyone, and the grace offered in the other six sacraments which are dependent on circumstances. Not everyone can be ordained, but this doesn’t make those of us who are, any better off. We are not superior to those who are not ordained – quite the reverse, in fact.

So, God offers salvation to all who love him, but the gifts he gives each one of us are distributed according to his will alone, according to our abilities. The dustman is no less valuable than the Prime Minister or the brain surgeon. What matters is what we do with that which is given us. Here’s another parallel with the text, then: the contrast between work and laziness. Matthew’s gospel emphasises the importance of “works” – not as a means to righteousness, but in the way they demonstrate what lies within: a good tree bears good and plentiful fruit. We are told to

…let [our] light shine before men, that they may see [our] good works, and glorify [our] Father in heaven.

A contrast can be drawn between the first two slaves and the third, who “shrinks” from work. This implies a lack of ambition. There’s a story about a priest who, to show his reliance on God, entered the pulpit trusting that God would tell him what to say. After his prayer for guidance, he waited expectedly – and God spoke to him – “You’re lazy!” That was the divine word addressed to him. We must not rest on our laurels. How many churches struggle because of “laziness”? The phrase “waiting on God” is perhaps more often heard in evangelical circles, but the lesson is just as relevant to us. We should not confuse a call to “wait” with an excuse for idleness. St Paul points out in his letter to the Thessalonians

…you yourselves know very well that the day of the Lord will come like a thief in the night.

So we must “keep awake and be sober” , and be watchful. Always being thankful for the gifts we have received, we must use them as best we can in God’s service, remembering that the humblest of acts, the lowliest of stations, is of as much value as the loftiest offices of church and state. We must never confuse the talents we have been given – which St Paul likens to the different parts of a body all working together in harmony – with the greatest gift of all, that of membership of that body itself, that is the Church. We at St Margaret’s are well-known for our inclusiveness and the warmth of our welcome – classic fruit of the catholic tradition – but we must not rest on our laurels, or allow our talents to be squandered. We must continue to hold fast to “the faith once delivered to the saints”, no matter how unpopular this might make us, using all our talents to the full in the service of Christ and one another.

Wealth is used as an image to teach us a lesson, but it isn’t really about finance at all. Sacrificial giving is a fundamental aspect of Christian discipleship, but faith demands more from us than the regular opening of wallets. Ask yourself what you’re good at, and then consider whether this is being used as well as it might be. Pray for God’s guidance. And then take action. “Let us not fall asleep as others do.” Fed by the sacraments, we must

go out into our streets, villages, towns and districts – not to pontificate and preach, but to listen to the binge-drinkers, hug the depressed, feed the hungry and help the homeless. They will ask the questions. They might even sense the heart of love which motivates.

So says a recent post on the Archbishop Cranmer blog, which concludes:

We are accountable to God for the way we use our gifts, time and opportunities. We can wait for holy leadership and make excuses for our indolence and inaction, or we can just get on with it.

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

Homily for Trinity 9, Year A

Texts: Romans 11:1-32; Matthew 15:21-28

I wonder how many times you have felt rejected by God. Despite all the many demonstrations of the power of prayer that surround us in the world, all too often it feels like you’ve been forgotten, or overlooked. Like you’re not part of the plan. Like God has better things to do than worry about your needs.

Self-esteem is something which many of us struggle with – some more than others, perhaps, but it’s incredibly common for people to go through periods where low self-esteem can become a problem. The vicious circle of feeling worthless can lead to depression, which can then manifest itself in a variety of self-destructive patterns of behaviour or physical symptoms. Only just recently the media has been full of the news of the actor Robin Williams’ tragic suicide. Despite his ability to bring happiness and laughter to millions, he struggled, and finally lost the battle with his inner demons. It’s an all-too-common scenario, and one to which much social stigma is still attached, even in our so-called liberal and tolerant society.

As soon as someone accuses me or criticizes me, as soon as I am rejected, left alone, or abandoned, I find myself thinking, “Well, that proves once again that I am a nobody.” … [My dark side says,] I am no good… I deserve to be pushed aside, forgotten, rejected, and abandoned.

Those words of Henri Nouwen articulate how easy it is to fall into a spiral of self-criticism as a result of feeling oneself to be rejected or abandoned.

Our Gospel reading this morning is quite a challenging passage, because at first glance it seems to show Jesus turning away a woman’s appeal. As a Canaanite, she wasn’t part of God’s chosen people, the Jews. In spite of her plea, “Lord, have mercy” (κυριη ελεησον in the Greek, which you may recognise as a liturgical phrase perhaps employed deliberately by Matthew in this context) Jesus tells her that he was sent “only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel”. Now, whether one interprets this as meaning the lost sheep within the house of Israel, or that the whole house was lost doesn’t change the fact that Jesus was telling her that she wasn’t one of those to whom he was sent.

Her response isn’t to turn away and disappear, even though the disciples seem to urge Jesus to tell her to go. She won’t go quietly, but replies with what might seem quite a cheeky response – it’s certainly not after the manner of speaking we have come to expect people to use with Jesus. He is, as she acknowledges, “Lord” and “Son of David” – so she knows very well to whom she is speaking. But she does it anyway: confident in her own identity, she comes back at him with quite a cutting comment. Even the dogs eat what falls from their masters’ table. Now, this could be seen as quite an unpleasant exchange, comparing people to dogs. Again, the Greek helps us here: Jesus actually uses the diminutive form, “puppy” we might say in English. These puppies are clearly house-dogs, too, again softening the harshness of the language. But nonetheless, the exchange demonstrates that Jesus sees his earthly mission as being to the Jewish people, not to the Gentiles. The woman’s response is to declare that even the dogs – the Gentiles – are fed from the same table. This implies that they, too, are satisfied, and this would have been especially important to the Matthean community. Many of them were, like Jesus, originally brought up as Jews, yet others would have been Gentiles. The emphasis given to Jesus’ Jewish roots through his statement is clear. But the woman prods him to admit that the Gentiles, too, have a place in God’s plan of salvation.

Establishing that both have a part of the divine salvific plan was important then, as it is still today. We have heard a great deal in the news recently about the conflict in the Holy Land, and this encounter demonstrates that the tension between Jews and Gentiles in that part of the world are nothing new. Importantly, our reading shows us that there is hope: both can live as part of the same community. The historic precedence of Israel is maintained, but Gentiles have a part too. Here in the West, universalism is fashionable, and we are suspicious of claims about divine election for some but not others. We read here though that while the people of Israel are clearly God’s covenanted people, Christians may also share in God’s promises through Jesus.

The woman’s request was granted not on the basis of her membership of a particular ethnic group, but on her faith: several times she expresses her belief in Jesus as Lord, and as Son of David. This clearly impressed Jesus, and so he grants her request. She might perhaps have been forgiven for taking his initial words to heart. But as Nouwen points out, and as she seems to realise,

Self-rejection is the greatest enemy of the spiritual life because it contradicts the sacred voice that calls us the “Beloved.” Being the Beloved constitutes the core truth of our existence.”

The reality, then, is that we Gentile Christians have been grafted in, as St Paul described in the letter to the Romans[1]. We are all included in God’s plan of salvation, and so we all have worth to him. To be in need of healing is not something to be ashamed of: each of us is broken or flawed in some way. This can be a source of great strength, as we call upon the Lord to help us.  Prayer is an important aspect of the way Matthew frames the encounter between Jesus and the woman: he has adapted Mark’s account[2] to make it much more literary in form. It becomes a dialogue here, just as prayer should be.

Through encounters with Jesus in our prayer and especially through the sacraments, we become aware of our dependence on his mercy and grace. Although we ourselves are weak, through our acknowledgement of this we can become strong, because in calling on him, through receiving him in his Body and Blood, we recognise that we are included. This transforms not only our lives, but empowers us to be channels of God’s mercy to others. Henri Nouwen wrote of the “wounded healer”: it is only through our own brokenness and suffering that we can reach out to our brothers and sisters.

So while we acknowledge with Cranmer that

We are not worthy so much as to eat the crumbs from under [the Lord’s] table.

We can also state with confidence that God is

…the same Lord, whose nature is always to have mercy;

Let us acknowledge our flaws and failings, and come to him regardless:

…so to eat the flesh of [his] dear Son Jesus Christ, and to drink his blood, that our sinful bodies may be made clean by his body, and our souls washed through his most precious blood; and that we may evermore dwell in him, and he in us.

Amen.

[1] Romans 11:17, 24

[2] Mark 7:24-30

Homily for Trinity 6, Year A

Text: Matthew 13:31-33, 44-52

Wondering what heaven is like is surely one of the great preoccupations of human history. In the song, “Heaven for Everyone” by Queen, Freddie Mercury sang that

In these days of cool reflection

You come to me and everything seems alright

In these days of cold affections

You sit by me and everything’s fine

 

This could be heaven for everyone

This world could be fed, this world could be fun

This could be heaven for everyone

This world could be free, this world could be one

I’m no great connoisseur of Queen’s music. My preference is largely skewed towards compositions from the Medieval and Renaissance periods. So forgive me if I’m not able to offer much in the way of sophisticated analysis of the lyrics or the background to the song’s composition, and instead concentrate on the text as it comes across to the uninitiated. It is a very idealistic image of what heaven might be like, it seems to me. The song is addressed to a loved one, and evokes the bliss and contentment that being united with that loved one brings:

…everything’s fine…this world could be fed, this world could be fun…

…this world could be free, this world could be one.

Such a feeling of contentment and happiness is something that many of us have been blessed with in and through our relationships. They don’t always work out, of course, but many of us will probably be able to identify moments when we have been with someone else who has made everything feel totally safe, happy and content.

So that’s one man’s image of heaven. In many ways it takes a similar approach to describing it as Jesus does in our Gospel reading. A parable is, as biblical scholar CH Dodd reminds us,

a metaphor or simile drawn from nature or common life, arresting the hearer by its vividness or strangeness, and leaving the mind in sufficient doubt about its precise application to tease it into active thought[1]

Just as we have an image from our common human experience in the song, so we have a variety of brief images – largely agricultural ones since this was the context in which Jesus was teaching – used to explain what the kingdom of heaven is like. What Jesus is doing is bringing something that is distant within the reach of his audience: as Benedict XVI points out [2], there is a twofold movement involved in this, as the distant reality of the kingdom of heaven is brought close to the listeners through their reflection, and at the same time they – we – are invited to go on a journey of transcendence, to begin to understand things which we previously did not. Unless we are prepared to engage with this dynamic, then, it is often difficult to see what Jesus is driving at. It’s perhaps harder for us in the modern age, removed as most of us are from the agricultural world. On the other hand, God is shown to be active in the hum-drum everyday world of fields, jewellery, and fishing. This is good for us: he shows us how the divine light – which we, like Moses and the burning bush, cannot bear to look directly upon and from which we try to escape – shines through the everyday. Jesus is showing us “Heaven for Everyone”, in a similar way to the words of the song.

And so we are shown several images in rapid succession. Matthew presents them in pairs. The parable of the dragnet which we heard this morning matches the one about the wheat and the weeds that we had last week: it points us towards the need for patient tolerance of the unrighteous and of sinners, and for trust in God’s eventual judgement of all – when we also trust that we may find ourselves justified before him. Another pair of images presented to us, the mustard seed and the yeast, demonstrate how great things may grow from incredibly small beginnings. Finally, the pairing of the treasure in the field and the pearl of great price point us to the value beyond measure of the kingdom of heaven. Just as with the kingdom of this world, the kingdom of heaven can be experienced in a variety of different ways.

But, as my New Testament tutor was fond of saying: here’s the rub. As well as offering a multiplicity of images to demonstrate different aspects of the nature of the kingdom, the way in which the kingdom is located in time, as well as space, overlaps – to such an extent that it almost seems paradoxical. “The kingdom of God is among you”, we are told elsewhere in the gospels[3]. This points, most obviously, to the reality of the incarnation: the eternal Word has been made flesh, and dwelled among us. God coming to us in Christ has inaugurated the kingdom on Earth in a real, present, sense. Yet after his resurrection and ascension we no longer perceive him in the same way. We are required to discern the signs of the kingdom on earth here and now: this is why parables can be so useful. They don’t just point us to something we cannot see, but remind us that the kingdom is in one sense about the here and now. But at the same time we look forward to the future, in the joyful expectation of the fulfilment of God’s promises when the redeemed shall shine like stars in the kingdom of their Father.

So there’s also a sense of the “not yet” about the kingdom of heaven. St Paul talks about the “eager longing” and the “groaning” of the creation as it waits. This is something which we can perceive in the brokenness of the world in which we live. Our relationships with one another are frequently imperfect. Indeed, Roger Taylor recognises this at the end of his song:

Listen – what people do to other souls

They take their lives – destroy their goals

Their basic pride and dignity

Is stripped and torn and shown no pity

When this should be heaven for everyone

And he is quite right: human beings are capable of appalling cruelty to one another, and to the wider creation. We have only to look at the plight of Christians in Mosul, or the conflict between Israel and the Palestinians, or that in the Crimean Peninsula, to see that.

Jesus’ parables offer us sound advice to avoid such conflicts. The message of patient tolerance of each other, coupled with the reminder of the inestimable value of God’s kingdom, are things that we would all do well to ponder before we take action against our brothers and sisters in the world. So as well as active engagement with the situation on the ground – we might choose, for example, to support the Anglican hospital in Gaza City who are in desperate need[4] – we must pray for peace, for a speedy resolution to the wars which scar our world, and for the grace to be tolerant of those with whom we disagree.

Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven.

 

[1] Dodd, CH, quoted in Just, F (2010)

[2] Benedict XVI (2007). Jesus of Nazareth, p. 191 ff.

[3] Luke 17:21

[4] http://www.anglicannews.org/news/2014/07/emergency-appeal-made-for-gaza-hospital.aspx

St Margaret’s Day 2014

Text: Luke 17:11-19

I have a slightly uneasy relationship with St Margaret of Antioch. Unlike her namesake, the 11th century saintly Queen of Scotland, the Church is not entirely sure of our Margaret’s historical credentials. Indeed, Pope Gelasius declared her apocryphal in 494AD, and in spite of a subsequent renewal of devotion, her cult was again suppressed by Pope Paul VI in 1969. Nonetheless, she retains a place in the Roman Catholic Martyrology, with an entry in the calendar set as 20th July.

At least, that’s the perspective of the Western Latin church. In the East, the story is somewhat different. There, she is known as Saint Marina the Great Martyr, and was said to have come from an entirely different Antioch (the one in Pisidia, rather than Syria). Legend records that she was raised in the Orthodox faith by a nursemaid following the death of her mother. Disowned by her Father and imprisoned as a teenager during the Diocletian persecutions, the Roman Governor took a fancy to her. When she refused to renounce her faith and marry him, he gave her to be tortured.

The Orthodox Church tells us that

Having beaten her fiercely, they fastened the saint with nails to a board and tore at her body with tridents. The governor himself, unable to bear the horror of these tortures, hid his face in his hands. But the holy martyr remained unyielding. Thrown for the night into prison, she was granted heavenly aid and healed of her wounds. They stripped her and tied her to a tree, then burned the martyr with fire. Barely alive, the martyr prayed: “Lord, You have granted me to go through fire for Your Name, grant me also to go through the water of holy Baptism.

Hearing the word “water”, the governor gave orders to drown the saint in a large cauldron. The martyr besought the Lord that this manner of execution should become for her holy Baptism. When they plunged her into the water, there suddenly shone a light, and a snow-white dove came down from Heaven, bearing in its beak a golden crown. The fetters put upon St Marina came apart by themselves. The martyr stood up in the fount of Baptism glorifying the Holy Trinity, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. St Marina emerged from the fount completely healed, without any trace of burns. Amazed at this miracle, the people glorified the True God, and many came to believe. This brought the governor into a rage, and he gave orders to kill anyone who might confess the Name of Christ. 15,000 Christians perished there, and the holy Martyr Marina was beheaded.

While much of the Latin Church seems to have had quite an ambivalent relationship towards her, there have never been any qualms about her in the East. Her relics spread far and wide after the sack of Constantinople in 1204, and now reside in a church dedicated to her in Athens. Her right arm is apparently in the famous monastery on Mt Athos.

Interestingly her cult has done rather better in England than in the rest of Europe. There have been over 250 churches dedicated to her here, most notably the parish church of Parliament in Westminster. This suggests that she was very popular: perhaps in no small part due to the wondrous miracles attributed to her. The fact that Joan of Arc reported her as one of the voices she heard doesn’t seem to have done any harm, surprisingly.

This morning’s Gospel reading also deals with miracles. Ten lepers approach Jesus and ask for mercy. When they begin to obey his instruction to go and show themselves to the Priests, they are healed. One turns back and doesn’t do as Jesus has instructed, but comes direct to him praising God, worshipping Jesus and expressing thanks. In theory he is the one who has not done as he was asked: presumably the other nine had carried on to the temple. Yet Jesus draws a clear contrast between the faith of the foreigner, and the other nine. It is the one, the Samaritan, who has recognised the significance of what has happened: he has been truly healed. The others have been cured of their affliction, but their lack of faith means that something is still missing. They haven’t been cured – there is a really important distinction between the two, which lies at the heart of the Church’s healing ministry. Our monthly healing masses offer the chance for anointing and the laying on of hands. Whilst we might pray for miracles, and we would be forgiven for doing so, especially if we are suffering from a serious, even life-threatening illness, the fact is that they are rare. People can become disheartened and wonder what the point of coming for intercessory prayer and sacramental anointing is – but the church’s attitude to healing is about the whole person: we seek the full healing given to the Samaritan, not just the curing which is usually these days entrusted largely to medical science.

Margaret’s cult was popular at a time when this science was somewhat less sophisticated than it is today. Ironically, people’s faith in her power to heal, or perhaps in the efficacy of her prayers, was much stronger back then. In our modern world we place so much trust in the doctors to cure what ails us that we frequently lose sight of the bigger picture, of the need for full healing. We need to remember that true healing encompasses more than physical and mental wellbeing. It demands attention to the spiritual. This is something that the NHS and the education system are in danger of losing sight of, with the increasing reluctance to fund chaplaincy posts. With the Church of England now saying that the daily act of worship in schools has had its day, we must not fall into the trap of failing to take seriously our responsibility to care for the souls of the young people – and adults – in our charge.

Worship is a critical part of our spiritual wellbeing: the Bible teaches us that we were created to offer spiritual sacrifices to God – to love him and to express this love in worship. The daily offering of this in schools plays a central role in the forming of the whole person, and it is very sad to see so many schools flouting the law, no matter how reasonable their excuses. As Christians, we all need to take responsibility to continue to proclaim – and to live – the good news, and by our example draw more people to the source of our salvation.

Let us ask Saint Margaret to aid us in our endeavours as we seek to become truly whole.

Homily for Easter 7 2014, Yr. A

Texts: Acts 1:6-14 ; John 17:1-11

“It is not for you to know the times or periods that the Father has set by his own authority”

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

Life is full of surprises. Sometimes, things jump out at you that you didn’t expect. This can be unsettling and frightening – especially when the experience is an unpleasant or difficult one, such as when you or someone you care about is taken ill. Sometimes that old adage about “the best laid plans” shows itself to be only too true, and I am sure that there are times in all of our lives we can think about – and perhaps this is true for some of us today – when all we can do is hold on and hope.

Sometimes, not knowing “the time or the periods” is less unsettling and more frustrating: that critically important meeting you’ve prepared carefully for being postponed at the last minute by someone’s non-attendance; waiting for the arrival of someone on a long journey, and so on. It’s in this sort of category that one might put the dialogue between the disciples and Jesus in the reading we’ve had from Acts. They still don’t quite understand, do they? To be fair, the drama of his resurrection is a very recent memory for them. They lack the benefit of 2,000 years of reflection, and the gift of the Holy Spirit has yet to be poured out on them. So they are limited by their own horizons. As devout Jews, they long for the restoration of the kingdom to Israel, and have yet to grasp that what took place forty days previously is so profound that it has implications far beyond Israel alone. At this point though, I suspect we might forgive them for holding fast to what they know – to those things which are familiar. When we are feeling threatened, or are frightened, or confused, we frequently narrow our focus to the things which we feel most secure about.

So sometimes we don’t focus properly on the big picture. Often, this is because we cannot do so: it’s hard to blame the disciples for their lack of insight here: hindsight is a wonderful thing – as they, and we, have come to realise. Indeed, there are some things about which Jesus has made clear we are not supposed to know. The withholding of knowledge about precise times and so on here serves to underline the authority of the Father, and of Jesus – who clearly does know.

This is a key theme of our Gospel reading: Jesus, in his so-called High Priestly Prayer, asks his Father to protect those who had been given to him, “so that they may be one, as we are one”. Jesus knows he is shortly to be glorified by his exaltation on the cross (for John, it is the raising up on the cross which provides the climax of the narrative, rather than his resurrection or ascension). Jesus declares that because all that is his, is given from the Father, and that the Father gave him his disciples, so they (and we who believe) are caught up in this mystical relationship within the Godhead. Jesus and his Father are one – so they share everything that they are, and everything that they have. This includes us, but although we have been made part of this special relationship, it does not extend to equality with the Godhead – there are some things we are not meant to know.

St Bede, whose feast we would have been keeping on the 25th May had it not been a Sunday – is among many who point out that it is not expedient for us to know precise details. Lacking the knowledge means that we need to keep a constant state of readiness, being watchful for the signs of the times and ensuring that we are prepared for Christ’s coming. Each day should be lived as though it were the last. This doesn’t mean we should adopt a hedonistic, careless lifestyle! Instead, it means that we need to constantly examine our lives and ask ourselves whether, if Christ were to return today, we would have any regrets.

Next Sunday, we shall celebrate the Church’s birthday, the feast of Pentecost. Like all birthdays, it offers us a chance to reflect on the year just gone, and to make plans for the future. Every Sunday is a new beginning, of course: how could the Day of Resurrection be anything but? Yet the celebration of Whitsunday offers a chance to lay down a marker of sorts, if we need to. I’d like to make two suggestions about how we might use the time this week.

Firstly, in the light of the need for constant preparedness, ask whether there is anything you would want to put right before you meet your maker. Try to resolve as many things as you can before you come to Mass next Sunday. Making your confession to a priest is a wonderful (and entirely Anglican) method to help you work things through, to receive God’s forgiveness in a very powerful way, and to make a fresh start – and I am sure the parish clergy would be delighted to be approached about this.

Secondly, a call to prayer. The time in between the Ascension (which we kept forty days after Easter, on Thursday) and Pentecost next Sunday has traditionally been taken as the pattern for a special period of focused prayer. Known as a “novena” (from the Latin novem, meaning “nine”) the Church gathers to pray for a specific intention, just as the disciples, along with Mary their Mother, were gathered together in prayer in the Upper Room. We are a few days short of the nine days, I know – but you might like to consider adopting a similar discipline this week. With the inauguration of the new Diocese, and the Confirmation of Election of our Bishop-Designate, taking place in York next Sunday afternoon, we are all of us living with a certain amount of transition. Let us dedicate ourselves to prayer for Bishop Nick, and for all those working to secure the establishment and building up of our Diocese, these next few days.

So may Christ, when he comes, find us watching and waiting. And may we all be one, as Christ and the Father are one.

Amen.

Homily at Evensong: Easter 4, Year A

Texts: Ezra 3:1-11; Ephesians 2:11-22

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

It’s not always immediately obvious whether there is one core theme linking the lectionary readings. Of course, it is usually the case that there is one, and even when it seems like there isn’t, one is revealed with a close reading of the texts. But tonight there’s a fairly clear link, as I hope you’ll have spotted, between the story in Ezra of the re-founding of the Temple in Jerusalem, and the way in which the author of the Epistle to the Ephesians speaks about the structure of the household of faith, that is the Church. St Paul uses the language of the body elsewhere in the New Testament, but here the metaphor is much more reminiscent of bricks and mortar: we heard about how the apostles and prophets form the foundations of the structure, “with Christ Jesus himself as the cornerstone”, which forms the point at which everything else comes together, deriving its stability and strength. This “holy temple in the Lord” becomes “a dwelling-place for God”.

This is very much a reflection of the Old Testament narrative, in which we see how the people of Israel develop from being a group of nomadic tribes into a great nation centred on the worship of YHWH in the Temple at Jerusalem. When the vast majority of the people were carried off into exile by Nebuchadnezzar in 597BC which you might remember being referred to in a previous homily on the Book of Daniel – see chapter 24 of Second Kings for the story – the Jerusalem Temple was destroyed. In our reading from Ezra it is recorded that the people, having returned from exile, gathered in Jerusalem and kept the festival of Booths. The worship of God was clearly their overriding priority, and it was carried out with great solemnity. Yet they recognised that there was something missing: they had not yet re-laid the foundations of the Temple. The worship of God was clearly the most important thing to the people – yet without a proper structure within which they might meet with God, things just didn’t seem right.

So, it seems that Ephesians is trying to set up a typological analogy between the Jerusalem Temple, YHWH’s dwelling place, and the structure of the household of faith within which we all belong. Indeed, the epistle makes clear that because of the saving death and resurrection of Jesus, old boundaries no longer apply: those who belonged to the “uncircumcision” – the Gentiles – are as much a part of the new structure as those who belong to the “circumcision” – the Jewish people. Just as the Temple was destroyed, and then re-founded, so was Christ’s body broken for all, and then raised again to the new life in which we may all now share. Just as all Jewish males received the mark of circumcision to indicate their membership of the Abrahamic Covenant, so all Christians receive the mark of the cross in baptism to identify themselves as having died and risen to new life with Christ. The marking of baptism is available to all, of whatever status, colour or gender, without distinction. All, as St Paul teaches in his letter to the Galatians, are one in Christ Jesus: there is neither male nor female, neither slave nor free, Jew nor Greek. Ephesians underlines this radically inclusive message in turn: the blood of Christ has drawn us together, whereas we had been far off before – “guilty of dust and sin”, as George Herbert wrote.

It is clear from both our readings that hostility, conflict, and suffering have been a characteristic of life on Earth at least since the first records of human civilisation – and we may reasonably infer that this has always been a part of the struggle for survival in an environment with finite resources. In the wider world, we witness this on a daily basis: the overpopulation of certain parts of the world such as the Subcontinent; the struggle to ensure national security and sovereignty in the face of threats from abroad such as in the case of the Ukraine and Russia; the sensitivities over access to natural resources such as Middle Eastern oil. When we feel threatened, it seems that we instinctively act to preserve our own advantage – and this is often the case within the structure of the Church, too. Within our beloved Church of England we can see tensions between Evangelicals and Catholics, conservatives and liberals, and so on. These divisions can appear, in a broad church such as ours, as far more serious than they truly are, since one local expression of the Church can appear vastly different from another one just a few miles away. This was very much in evidence just the other week as the curates from the area of what was Bradford Diocese gathered for a few days’ exploring the topic of evangelism: while there was agreement about the urgency of the call to mission and evangelism, the ways in which we felt called to go about it were in many cases vastly different. The ways in which we worshipped gave further expression to this diversity.

Yet diversity does not necessarily have to lead to division and conflict. We are a very diverse community here at St Margaret’s, too: yet we all agree on the fundamentals: we love the Lord Jesus, we belong to him in baptism and want to share the Good News with others in our daily lives. We may disagree about many other things – some of us value the language of the Prayer Book, others would prefer more worship songs at the Family Service – but we are united into one structure, the household of faith of which this physical building is but one tangible expression. It is this mutual belonging, founded on the risen Christ from whom we draw nourishment in Word and Sacrament, that is the source of our strength – a strength not to be claimed as individuals, but as members incorporate. Just as a pillar differs from a buttress, and just as each brick in the external wall is crafted individually, so are we made different and individual, yet each of us – like the parts of the temple – can stand strong only in the strength of the cornerstone, who unites all – Christ the Lord.

Just as the people of Israel realised that they needed a dwelling-place for the Lord, so too we must recognise our need for such a dwelling-place. The difference is that through the death and resurrection of Christ, that dwelling-place is already among us. Each of us, in our imperfect, fallen humanity, and regardless of our outward standing or status, is a temple of the Holy Spirit. And so, as the writer to the Ephesians goes on to exhort us, let us “be patient, bearing with one another in love…[and make] every effort to keep the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace”.

Homily for Ash Wednesday 2014

“Beware of practicing your piety before others”
Readings: Isaiah 58:1-12; Matthew 6:1-6,16-21

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

The doors of the reredos have closed: Lent has come again. Having looked forward to seeing the sanctuary in its Lent array, the absence of the splendid carvings which greet every visitor to this church are already making their absence felt. Similarly, the annual period of forty days’ preparation for Easter is something which can be anticipated and dreaded in equal measure. Anticipated, because it gives an opportunity – if taken seriously – to examine oneself and to refocus on one’s relationship with God and neighbour. Dreaded, because of the expectation of “going without” certain pleasures, and / or “taking up” something which is frequently worthy, but all too often discarded with great joy on Easter morning. But attitudes like that entirely miss the point of the season.

This section of the prophecy of Isaiah, the so-called “second Isaiah”, dates from a time when the people of Israel were living in exile in Babylon. Despite what many might assume from one of the Old Testament Prophets, there is much in the way of comfort and consolation offered to the audience. Yes, judgment is clearly a present theme: God is clearly aware of the people’s disobedience. Yet he recognises that they return to him. Clearly not a lot changes in a few thousand years: here we are, presenting ourselves at the altar of our salvation, seeking God’s forgiveness and grace to continue on the Way. Let us pray that God will be merciful to us, miserable sinners that we are.

Some of you may be planning to attend St Margaret’s Lent Course this year, and I do hope that as many of you as can manage will try to do so, even if you cannot make each week, as part of your Lenten observance. The theme, as you may know, is the Sacraments of the Church. Together we will examine something of the whys and hows of all seven (and yes, there are seven) sacraments. One of the key things the course aims to stress is that when it comes to the Sacraments, what you see with your eyes is most certainly not the whole story. You may grow fed up of hearing the phrase “outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace” by the time Lent is over! This definition of a sacrament, coined by Augustine and so helpfully enshrined in our Catechism (which, if you have not done so already, I heartily commend as further Lenten reading), stresses that what is visible is only part of the overall mystery. It is what our eyes cannot see – the grace conveyed – which is the reason for, and the essential part of, the sacrament.

The rich symbolism of our particularly catholic brand of religion is one of its chief glories, and underpins a great tradition of spirituality which millions around the world use to help them get closer to the numinous. Amongst all this, there are also some signs and symbols which whilst not considered sacraments by the Church, convey an important meaning and help us to focus our intentions. In addition to the usual offering of bread and wine in this Mass, we will also each receive a cross in ash on our foreheads, made from the remains of last year’s palm crosses. The ash serves as both a reminder of our mortality and a sign of our repentance, placing these ideas (at least until we wash our faces next) front and centre. Ashing is surely one of the Church’s great “sacramental” symbols. Even though we are surrounded by reminders in our daily life, we tend to ignore them or shy away from them. Many people spend their younger years imagining that they will live forever: such people are lucky to enjoy good health and don’t need to worry as much. Not everyone is as lucky – we are surrounded by child poverty and malnutrition; our hospitals are full of the sick and dying, our crematoria work each day literally returning the dead to the dust from which they came. But we don’t like to think about it very much in modern, sanitised society. So it’s good that this tradition of receiving ash on our foreheads on this day is becoming more commonplace. It is a sign, or symbol, representing the mortality we all must face up to, as well as a way to demonstrate our renewed commitment to holiness and good Christian living.

Part of this, of course, involves prayer, almsgiving, and fasting – never more so than during Lent itself. However, on Ash Wednesday one may sometimes see Christians walking around with ash on their foreheads long after they have left Church. We could be charitable about their intentions: perhaps they simply forgot about it. But even if this were true, such forgetfulness might imply a lack of attention to the other important lesson we learn from today’s readings: that we ought not to be wary of practising our piety in public. St John Chrysostom wrote

“…it profits nothing to endure an empty stomach and then to do other things that are displeasing to God.…Nor should they disfigure their faces but wash them with water and anoint their heads with oil”

Many of us will be choosing to give up something for Lent: frequently this takes the form of a favourite food or drink. Chocolate, say. Or wine. Maybe you’re planning to give up snacks between meals. But consider your motivations for such a decision, especially if you are (or consider yourself) overweight. The same can be said of taking things on: extra reading, more exercise, and charitable giving can make us feel good about ourselves at the same time as they do good. All too often, we go without things – or take things on – as a vanity exercise. Whilst immense good can be done – and indeed I am not seeking to criticise the many who fast, pray, and give with entirely honourable intentions each Lent – one of the clear lessons to take from our readings is that none of these things should ever be for show. Indeed, as Jesus tells us in the gospel reading, they should be done “in secret” because our heavenly Father sees all things – the good and the bad. He sees right through any apparently pious or charitable acts that are motivated by vanity or pride. As Chrysostom again points out, Jesus “is not focusing simply on the outward act done, but on the inward intent”. I hope those who are standing at train stations and the like today, offering “ashes to go”, have this firmly in their minds: mission and evangelism, key aspects of Christian living, should not be done primarily to raise the Church’s profile, to boost attendance statistics, or to grab publicity. The Church’s central institutions tread a fine line in this area: we ought not to care whether anyone knows about the good works we do – except insofar as this brings new commitment to follow Christ.

Nobody needs to know what you’re doing this Lent: go to it, secretly and with prayerful intent, and do so joyfully in the knowledge that our heavenly Father will see in secret.

Amen.

Sermon at Evensong, Epiphany 2 Yr. A.

Readings:  Ezekiel 2:1 – 3:4; Galatians 1:11-24

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

In some ways, I’m not a great fan of St Paul. I don’t especially object to his teaching per se, although some of the instructions in his letters might be considered controversial in many circles these days. No, my real issue is the impression he seems to leave in his letters of having a rather big head. Although he exudes self-confidence in many ways, this has struck me as potentially a device to cover up insecurity, to the point where his apparent self-confidence seems excessive, and his instructions bordering on domineering. Yes, it seems that Paul has some issues with authority, and with the legitimacy of his apostleship: he certainly hasn’t been the only one since, and I wonder how his example might speak to us today.

The passage we’ve just heard, from the beginning of his letter to the Galatians, is where Paul himself “sets out his stall”, as it were: he is presenting his credentials as an apostle and giving some details about his life prior to his conversion, or perhaps more appropriately his calling to Christianity (since Paul remained a Jew, Christianity not yet having become a religion in its own right). Aside from the narrative in Acts[1], where Luke describes the event on the Damascus Road, this is the key passage from Paul’s own hand describing how he became a Christian. We ought to be wary about simply associating it exclusively with Luke’s version of events, since Paul’s own writing seems to go deeper than referring to one single event: he writes of a “revelation of Jesus Christ”, but this doesn’t have to mean that he is referring to Jesus speaking to him in the way that Luke describes: one can receive a revelation “of” Jesus Christ in many different ways: one might experience “something of” Jesus Christ, without literally hearing his voice. None of this precludes the biblical narrative’s account, of course. Paul uses language to describe how he was “set apart” and “called”, and this is all the more dramatic given his own admissions about his former zealous persecution of Christians: the zeal with which he sought out and punished those who he saw as misguided was now being employed in the service of the Gospel.

So, Paul is seeking to establish his credentials as an apostle, and the basis of his authority. This is especially necessary because of the radical slant to his Gospel: Paul’s mission is focused on the Gentiles, and as he sees it, the gift of God’s grace in redemption is available to all. Neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female: Paul goes on later to quote an ancient baptismal formula which declares that such distinctions are abolished in Christ. All Christians have fundamental equality before God. That people might become Christians without first accepting the need for works of the Law (such as for men to be circumcised, for example), was highly controversial: Paul’s irritation and anger towards his critics is apparent in the text of his letter. So Paul’s response is to shore up his own authority with the Galatian Church, presumably in response to the so-called “Judaisers” trying to do the same.

So, for all the radical equality Paul proclaims, a hierarchy is still necessary. This is hinted at by the distinct nature of the authority he has received to preach the Gospel, which he claims comes direct from a divine, rather than a human, source. This is designed to be compelling: because his gospel came direct from a divine source, “the Galatians [and we] should pay no heed to those who would have them adopt works of the Law”[2]. Ezekiel too, receives his commission direct from God: a spirit literally enters him, and we hear a verbatim account of what God says: Ezekiel is told that he “shall speak [God’s] words to them, whether they hear or refuse to hear; for they are a rebellious house”[3]. This dramatic description, again from the early part of the Book, acts as the prophet’s credentials.

Many of us will find it difficult to identify with such dramatic imagery when we think about how we came to faith. I certainly do, and all the more so in terms of my sense of vocation to the ordained life: Michael Sadgrove suggests that the calling of another prophet, Isaiah, frequently read at ordination services, ought to be replaced, partly because relatively few ordinands are able to identify with a similar “flash of light” moment in their own journeys[4]. Unlike Paul, I have no such moment where I can speak of a “revelation of Jesus Christ”, although I know that many people, especially in the evangelical and charismatic traditions, do. My faith is something that has simply always been there by degrees: sometimes strong, other times…well, less so. Yet here I am, baptised a Christian. As Christians, we have been born again by water and the Spirit, and through God’s grace can stand before him as his beloved child. We are nourished by Christ’s gift of himself in the Eucharist, and by his grace some of us have been given authority in a particular way in ordination. Yet a fatal mistake is often made when our calling to faith is confused with our calling to a particular role: yes, they are intrinsically bound together, but one’s value is totally independent of one’s role. Each task has equal value, even if the nature of their authority differs.

Through the redemptive love of God, each of us can claim authority by virtue of our baptism into Christ. As Paul is keen to point out, past sins, however serious, are no barrier to being called by God to his service. That’s certainly a comfort to me, sinner that I am. We should all claim this authority with confidence: St Jerome points out that the manner of Paul’s revelation (the Greek says that God “revealed his Son in me”, not to me as we have here) suggests an innate, natural knowledge of God

…which was previously in him and had been subsequently revealed … from which it clearly appears that there is natural knowledge of God in all[5].

This is something implanted in each of us, without distinction. But equality of dignity in baptism does not mean that we are all capable of, or called to, the same tasks. We cannot all be great mathematicians, or linguists, or artists – no matter how hard we apply ourselves, and we cannot all be great organists, churchwardens, or priests. That our greatest ambition might be to become one of these things is sometimes a source of great pain when we are told that we cannot do so: frustration and anger are often the result when our hopes and dreams are disappointed. Many Christians are convinced that they are called to a particular role within the Church, and feel angry and let down when they experience what feels like rejection.  This can happen, for example, in the process of discernment for ordination training, where the conferral of identity (and of the authority and responsibilities of a Christian) in baptism is blurred with the specific – but not superior – conferral of identity and authority in ordination. I therefore think we need to think our theology through very carefully before asserting that baptismal equality justifies opening every role within the Church to all.

So, Paul is asserting his own authority strongly here. Does he feel threatened? Has his self-confidence taken a beating? Perhaps. We know that the issue of adherence to the Law was a matter of great controversy for the first Christians, and Paul must have been affected by the conflict. Yet he remains confident in his dignity before God. There’s nothing wrong with assertiveness, provided that it is directed in the right way: Paul’s example, that we are all known and loved equally by God, with a calling prepared for us individually from before we were born, should give us heart when things don’t go the way we expect or hope. We need to keep listening, praying, and watching for the signs of God revealing himself in us, so that in the fullness of time we may joyfully respond “thy will be done” to our Father’s call.

Amen.

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[1] Acts 9:1-20

[2] Harrington, Sacra Pagina

[3] Ezek. 2:7

[4] Sadgrove, M, Wisdom and Ministry

[5] Jerome, Epistle to the Galatians, 1.1.15

Homily for Advent Sunday 2013, Yr. A

Text: Matthew 24:36-44
“Keep awake, therefore; for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming”

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

Happy New Year! If you were here last week, you would have heard Fr. Philip mention that this Sunday marks the beginning of a new church year. For liturgical geeks like me, this prompts great excitement, which is really only matched by the arrival of new books, or the use of the Athanasian Creed – the one that begins “Whosoever shall be saved…” – at Mass (which as all prayer book Anglicans will tell us, is to be said on Trinity Sunday and certain other major feast days).

Yes, it’s farewell lectionary Year C and hello Year A, which means we begin our journey through Matthew’s Gospel. And so, today we have set this startling passage from the 24th chapter. Its message is stark: keep awake. Be watchful. You don’t know when the Son of Man is coming, so don’t take any risks: be ready for it at any time. Live each moment as though the time has come.

We’ve heard a lot of talk about eschatology – about the end times – in recent weeks, and traditionally on Sundays in Advent we consider the four last things: death, judgement, heaven and hell. I’m only skirting around the issue of death this morning, but it ought to be very much in our minds as we consider the end of all things and the final coming of the Son of Man. This theme was especially important amongst the first Christians, who emerged from a period where Judaism was itself very concerned with the end times, and the coming of God’s kingdom. We can see this most clearly in the Book of Daniel, which shares a lot of vocabulary and imagery with Matthew here. The difference is that all the dramatic predictions of the precise time of the coming have so far failed, and so Christianity, having inherited the tradition of apocalyptic, as it’s called, has to respond. Matthew’s answer to the problem of naming a date is, as we see here, to teach that such a prediction is impossible: nobody knows when the time will come. The only response to this is, he tells us, to assume that it could come at any time, and so constant watchfulness is required. We need to look at our lives and consider whether we are truly ready to be judged today. Ethics and eschatology combine in a way which has deeply influenced Christian theology ever since.

I don’t know about you, but I find this idea of constant readiness very challenging. I worry about what would happen were the Son of Man to return in, say, five minutes’ time. I suspect that many of us would, if we are honest, feel the same. So how do we deal with this?

Advent is a time of complex overlapping imagery, for as well as meditating on the last things, with the dark nights growing longer and the temperatures dropping, we also start things again. The liturgical expression of this is the annual season of preparation for the coming celebration of Our Lord’s coming not just at the incarnation, but his final coming too. These should be seen as part of one overall movement in history which has, yet also has not, been entirely fulfilled. It is perhaps the ultimate new start, and deserves serious thought. How are we to make ourselves ready – not just for Christmas, but for the final coming with which this season is also bound up?

Well, might I suggest that just as in January many people make New Years’ resolutions, so we might also make some now?

This week Pope Francis published an exhortation, entitled Evangelii Gaudium. It focuses on mission and evangelism, something which ought to be a real priority for all Christians. He writes:

At a time when we most need a missionary dynamism which will bring salt and light to the world, many lay people fear that they may be asked to undertake some apostolic work and they seek to avoid any responsibility that may take away from their free time…This is frequently due to the fact that people feel an overbearing need to guard their personal freedom, as though the task of evangelization was a dangerous poison rather than a joyful response to God’s love which summons us to mission and makes us fulfilled and productive.

Perhaps we might use Advent as a time to reflect on how seriously we are taking the call to mission. Are we genuinely giving of ourselves in the service of Christ? How do you understand your vocation, and are you responding to it as well as you might? This might mean that you feel called to incorporate more of the contemplative life into your routine: prayer and study are important missionary and evangelistic activities in themselves, since they nourish and sustain our outward engagement with the world. You might, for example, wish to take up an “Advent Book”, as you might a Lent one; you might want to commit to praying the Daily Office, or to exploring a new form of devotion such as the Rosary, lectio divina, or silent prayer in the presence of the Blessed Sacrament.

Indeed, we must not forget that the first priority of Christians is to worship: to borrow the language of former Bishop of Durham Tom Wright, “everything else is just rock and roll”. As catholic Anglicans we confidently assert that we have all the mission tools we need in the form of the seven sacraments: let us resolve to using them well this Advent, and then to share the grace we have received through them with others in acts of service. And so, as Pope Francis writes, may we “find true healing” in

…a mystical fraternity…capable…of finding God in every human being…called to live as a community which is the salt of the earth and the light of the world

And as we live out that calling to be the light of the world, may we be prepared to welcome that “light which lightens everyone”, in the season to come.

Homily for All Saints’ Sunday

Things seem to move rapidly at this point in the liturgical year: from All Saints’, to All Souls’, to Remembrance Sunday. Each connects with the other, of course – though I must say I dislike the idea of having a “Kingdom Season” as a way of underlining it. We remain in Ordinary Time at St Margaret’s, which seems best to me. I do have a little dislike of shifting Feast days to the nearest Sunday, though – although it makes it easier for people to keep them, I think it takes something away from the special nature of the day if we tamper with it too much (I suspect that there would be an outcry if Christmas was shifted).

Anyhow, yesterday we kept All Saints’ Sunday, and here’s what I had to say:

Texts: Ephesians 1:11-23; Luke 6:20-31

And he has put all things under his feet and has made him the head over all things for the church, which is his body, the fullness of him who fills all in all (Eph. 1:22-23)

It’s good to be able to preach on one of the major solemnities of the Church’s year this morning: I’m sure Fr Philip won’t mind my pointing out that we are two days late, but better late than never…

This particular feast is slightly unusual in that we are not commemorating a particular individual, neither are we celebrating a particular event in the life of our Lord, our Lady, or that of the Church. Instead, in keeping this great feast of All Saints, we are rejoicing in our communion with – and our calling to membership of – what the Letter to the Hebrews refers to as a great “cloud of witnesses”[1]. And what a cloud it is – the Church’s calendar is filled with memorials, lesser festivals and festivals where she celebrates the life and witness (and sometimes, as my teenage self gleefully recalls, gruesome martyrdoms) of particular saints.

It’s quite hard to tell what one has to do in order to qualify for saintly status. At the moment, I’m reading a history of the Papacy (a very entertaining read so far, though sometimes one despairs of the conduct of some of those who have occupied the chair of St Peter – look up John XII for a particularly notable example of ninth century hedonism). As the history has unfolded, I was reminded quite how many Popes have been canonised. It’s hard to avoid the sense that some of these have been more deserving than others: Perhaps it is rather unfair to compare the likes of the soon-to-be canonised Popes John Paul II and John XXIII with the great names of the more distant past. Gregory I, for example, has justifiably earned to be called “the Great”: his liturgical reforms and prolific writings earned him the respect of West and East: even John Calvin admired him. According to the Catholic Encyclopaedia, Gregory was declared a saint on his death by “popular acclamation” – something which despite the cries of subito santo following John Paul II’s death, no longer happens. Procedure must be followed: in the Roman Catholic Church this involves no fewer than four separate stages, each of which can take years to progress through.

It all seems terribly complicated. But then, should we be surprised at this when we hear the challenging words of Jesus in our gospel reading this morning? Blessed are you who are poor…blessed are you who are hungry…blessed are you who weep…blessed are you when people hate you…and so on. Being faithful doesn’t seem on the face of it to be terribly pleasant.  Harder still are the instructions to turn the other cheek, and to give away our possessions freely. Nonetheless, this is what we are called to do. This was what St Gregory did: he was the first Pope from a monastic background, having turned the family home into a monastery on his father’s death. He loved the contemplative life, and was reluctant to leave the cloister behind when elected Pope. Yet he was obedient to his calling, and the Church is much the richer for it. Yet though he has been considered one of the greatest papal saints, his life was not without controversy: there are accounts that he once forced a monk to die friendless and alone, and then threw his body onto a manure heap, all because he had confessed, in extremis, to the theft of three gold pieces. I shall leave the question open as to whether Gregory was fulfilling the injunction to “do to others as you would have them do to you”.

Suffice to say that it is not for us to decide whether a person is considered a saint: giving someone that title is reserved only to God. Holy Mother Church does not do so, in spite of appearances: she merely recognises something that is already the case, through a process of discernment. And so we should perhaps not be surprised that we find examples of sinful behaviour among the lives of the saints: Augustine and the robbing of the pear tree being another famous example. The point is that we, like those we celebrate today, are united in a common bond that is not based on our shared humanity, but rather on our adoption as heirs of Christ. All of us are called to be saints: we each have that capacity within us. Having died to sin in baptism, as St Paul says, we live to God. At least, we try to – I am sure that I cannot be the only one to hear Christ’s words in this passage and not feel guilt at my relatively comfortable standard of living, for example.

So, we are united with the saints in spite of our weaknesses, through the overflowing grace of God who offers us a place at his table in Heaven. It is a shame that we have not heard today’s Old Testament reading, from Daniel 7. We would have heard an apocalyptic vision of the Last Judgement, describing how an “Ancient One” took his throne. “A thousand thousand served him” we are told, “and ten thousand times ten thousand stood attending him”[2]. Here then is another image of that great cloud of witnesses with whom we are united. The passage goes on to describe how “one like a Son of Man” was presented to the Ancient One, and that

His dominion is an everlasting dominion
that shall not pass away,
and his kingship is one
that shall never be destroyed.

Ephesians declares that the authority given to Christ is not just for this age, “but also in the age to come”, and so we see that the Church is not simply composed of the people we meet on Sundays and at PCC . Even the vast new Diocese of West Yorkshire and the Dales will not be able to contain it, though I think they’re having a jolly good try. The Church is nothing less than Christ’s own body – a concept which goes beyond the veil of our own sensory perception and means that right now, we are surrounded by a host of the faithful – the saints of every age. Just as you might ask your friend to pray for you, so you can have confidence that they will pray for you, too, if you ask them.

So let us hope that one day we shall take our place with them, united before the throne of the Ancient One, and with the Son of Man. As Saint Bernard wrote,

Let us strive to attain this glory with a passionate desire and an ambition that is entirely praiseworthy[3]

In so doing, let us unite ourselves with Ss. Bernard, Gregory, Paul and the whole company of Heaven in this Mass, as we go to the altar and are told, “The Body of Christ”. As Saint Augustine said:

Be what you see. Receive what you are.[4]

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[1] Heb. 12:1-3

[2] Daniel 7:10b

[3] Saint Bernard, Sermon II

[4] Saint Augustine, Sermon CCLXXII