who do you think you are?

 

‘But our citizenship is in heaven, and it is from there that we are expecting a Saviour, the Lord Jesus Christ. He will transform the body of our humiliation so that it may be conformed to the body of his glory, by the power that also enables him to make all things subject to himself.’

Philippians 3.20, 21

When we read the Bible, we are invited to find ourselves in the story, and to do so honestly, in Christ. He is the interpretive key to the story, the resurrected Jesus who appears to his followers and says, ‘Peace be with you.’ Whatever you are going through, peace be with you.

This Sunday when the church gathered to meet with Jesus, we read from a letter Paul wrote to our brothers and sisters in Philippi.

Around forty years before the birth of Jesus, the brilliant Roman general Julius Caesar took for himself emergency powers to save the Republic. Not everyone agreed that this would save the Republic. Some, even former friends of Caesar’s, believed it would destroy the Republic. Caesar was assassinated (on what our calendar calls 15th March, 44 BCE) and the Republic thrown into civil war. Caesar’s friend Mark Anthony and adopted son Octavian chased Cassius and Brutus around the Mediterranean, catching up with them just outside Philippi, in Macedonia. Mark Anthony and Octavian won a decisive battle and rewarded many of their legionaries for faithful service by giving them Philippi as their pension, also making the city a colony of Rome, that is, Rome in another place.

Around fifteen years later, Mark Anthony and Octavian had fallen out, Octavian had defeated his former friend, and declared himself emperor, taking the title Augustus, or venerable, and rewarding more soldiers with retirement in Philippi.

Paul will turn up in town around seventy-five years later. By now the original generation of Roman citizens is gone, but the current residents enjoyed Roman citizenship as a participation in the reward of someone else.

This, too, is the basis on which we are citizens of heaven, of the rule and reign of God in the world which is the reward given to Jesus for being faithful even unto death, and which we benefit from. Not on the grounds of our own faithfulness.

Paul, Silas and Timothy were seeking to establish new communities of followers of Jesus in what today we would call Turkey. But every way they turned, they felt God say, not here, not yet.

Perhaps you know what it is like to seek guidance for a decision you need to make or an action you are looking to take and feel only confusion and frustration.

Eventually, one night Paul has a dream. A man from Macedonia stands before him, saying, Come over to us; we need to hear the Gospel too.

The next morning, over breakfast, Paul tells his friends about his dream, and they agree this is what they need to do. So, they head to the nearest port, take a ship across the Aegean Sea to Neapolis, and make the short walk inland to Philippi.

Wherever Paul went, his first move was to seek out the Jewish community, those with whom he had a common history. But at Philippi, there was no Jewish community. Perhaps there were some Gentiles who worshipped the Jewish god, and if so, they would probably be found on the Sabbath, a little way outside the city walls, by the river where there was flowing water to wash in before praying. And this is where they do find such people, including Lydia.

Lydia was a businesswoman, an immigrant to Philippi from Thyatira, perhaps what we would call a fashion designer. She invited Paul and his companions to be her guests; they told her about Jesus; and she asked to be baptised. Then for several days they shared stories of Jesus.

But as they walked through the city, they would be followed around by a slave girl who was possessed, or oppressed, by a demon that purported to tell your fortune. As many people want to know what is going to happen, or think that they do, or want to find a hack to swing chance in their favour, this slave girl made her owners, her pimps, very wealthy. And she started following Paul and his companions around, telling anyone in earshot, ‘These men are servants of the Most High God, who bring you a message of salvation.’

The endorsement of a demon is not the kind of publicity Paul is looking for, for Jesus. At first he tries to ignore her, but eventually it is too much. He turns around and performs an exorcism. The girl returns to herself, and her owners realise that they have lost their income stream. This makes them angry.

They drag Paul and Silas before the magistrates and accuse them of inciting public disorder. The magistrates decree that, accordingly, they should be stripped and beaten with rods in the public square, then spend the night in the cells before being run out of town. And this is what happened.

Paul and Silas find themselves in stocks in the innermost cell. And their response is to sing hymns of praise. Behaviour that intrigues the other prisoners. Who does this?

During the night there is an earthquake, and the prison doors fail. The jailer despairs. He sees a future in which he is held accountable for the escape of his prisoners, where he suffers the public shame of trial and execution; and he decides that it would be more honourable to take his own life.

But Paul calls out, ‘Stop! No one has escaped.’ You might feel that you have no options, but you do have options. And the jailer chooses to take Paul and Silas into his home, wash them, tend to their bruised and bloodied bodies, feed them. And he asks these extraordinary men, ‘Sirs, what must I do to be saved?’ And, like Lydia, he and his household are baptised.

The next morning, the magistrates send the word to expel Paul and Silas from the city. But Paul does not think so. They are, he claims, Roman citizens. This terrifies the magistrates. It is not legal to punish a Roman citizen without trial, yet they had not taken the trouble to establish who was brought before them or their side of the story. They saw only a foreigner whose presence was an offence. Paul could be Nigerian, and Philippi, Sunderland. But for this failure, the magistrates could lose their jobs and be banned for life from holding any public office.

Instead, they find themselves humbled before Paul. Paul and Silas rejoin their companions, return to Lydia’s home to say their farewells, and leave town on their own terms.

Later, Paul writes to the brothers and sisters in Philippi, about (among other things) their primary citizenship (a colony of the rule of God) and the hope that the humiliated body will be glorified.

So where do you find yourself in this story of citizens and migrants, of feeling oppressed or of being exploited, of miscarriages of justice, of deep despair, of burning humiliation?

Where does Jesus suddenly appear before you, saying, ‘Peace be with you?’

 

non-anxious presence

 

I am witnessing a lot of anxiety at the moment. And in response, I want to say:

[1] The world is not going to hell in a handcart. The world is being drawn into the reconciliation of all things to God in Jesus. All movement that enlarges the distance between people, or between people and the rest of creation, is an aberration, a temporary state of affairs, where we have yet to respond to grace. Keep choosing to move with the grain of history, not against it, by the grace of God.

[2] 47 is not God’s man appointed to bring about God’s purposes. The man God has appointed, who has brought about, is bringing about, and will bring about God's purposes, is Jesus. No one else. Not 47, not you, not me. Christian Nationalism is idolatrous.

[3] On the other hand, nothing that 47 or anyone else can do can derail the trajectory to reconciliation in and with and through Jesus. Nothing that falls short of Love has the power to defeat Love.

[4] You are not reading about Putin and 47 in the Book of Revelation. Revelation is an apocalypse, a genre of work that lifts the veil on present events to reveal what is going on in a deeper reality. The present events in question being the end of what we now refer to as the first century of the Common Era. Revelation was written to encourage Christians living under the seemingly all-powerful Roman empire to remain faithful to Jesus, even to death, for through their faithful witness Rome would fall. Everything we see in Revelation concerns events that took place long before our time. Because Jesus is the same yesterday, today and forever, we can extrapolate truth about the nature and action of God, and our vocation to remain faithful to Jesus in the face of empire, just as we can do with the texts that make up the Old Testament. But to claim that we are living in the events depicted in Revelation is an aggrandisement of our time, a foolish self-importance.

[5] Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return. Turn away from sin and remain faithful to Christ to the end of your days.

As you were.

 

Ash Wednesday

 

In his Gospel—good news story—concerning Jesus, John records an incident in the temple at Jerusalem, a building that stands for a convergence of national, religious, cultural identity and power. On this occasion, Jesus is visiting the temple and is speaking in front of a gathered crowd who are taking an interest. But the scene is hijacked by a group of men who are important in their own eyes. They thrust a woman in front of Jesus. She has, they say, been caught in the very act of committing adultery. She is, one may surmise, not dressed in a manner they consider appropriate for the hallowed space in which she now finds herself. She has forgotten herself. She has not shown the expected deference. She has no cards in her hand, and without the help of those who are exposing her to public humiliation, it will all be over for her very quickly. She is silenced.

She is somewhat collateral damage, for their true intention is to push Jesus to do as they want. Will he refuse to show mercy, and so place himself in their debt, a debt they may choose to call in at any moment of their own choosing? Or will he refute them, in which case he will invalidate his credentials against their interpretation of founding documents? And who, exactly, are these men trying to impress?

Jesus ignores the men. He stoops down and draws in the dust on the ground with his finger, moving it around, so that it settles in a new configuration, so that it lies differently now.

Most Saturday mornings, I take part in the local parkrun, and afterward we go to the café in the sports centre. Near the door to the centre is a banner, a larger-than-life size photo of a smiling middle-aged woman with the text ‘Be the best version of you.’ I am sure she is a lovely person, but I cannot help but think that the best version of me looks somewhat different. But being the best version of you is quite the thing to be these days, involving self-discovery and self-improvement. We might even be tempted to coopt the Season of Lent into this programme.

But self-discovery and self-improvement are treacherous goals. Our identity is not a fixed given we discover, nor a project we construct for ourselves. When we embark on such activities we become to ourselves like Pharaoh conscripting the Israelites to hard labour or condemn our future selves to excavating and robbing the graves of our past selves.

In his letters to early congregations of Jesus-followers, Paul proclaims that our identity is in Christ. It is he, who died and rose again for us, who is the eternal convergence of our past, present and future, the givenness of our identity. And as John records, Jesus is the one who writes on the ground, who re-orders the dust of which we are made—dust animated by the breath of God—including in ways that reveal his unassuming mastery over events that befall us. Paul goes so far as to say that we are hidden in him—that is to say, our identity, which is kept safe by him for all eternity, is at least partially hidden from others and also from ourselves. For one thing, who among us could know, at four years old, what we would be at fifty, or at eighty? There is both continuity and discontinuity—the same dust, reconfigured many times.

On Ash Wednesday, I press my finger into a mash of ash and fragrant olive oil and trace the pattern of the cross on the forehead of those who find themselves standing in front of me. They may feel humiliated by the circumstances of their life, by their shortcomings, by their inability to take and keep hold of the best version of themselves. They may very well have been wounded by the actions of others, whether old wounds that have left scars or fresh wounds that have left bruises. The cross I trace says you have died with Christ. Not only are you mortal, but you have already died: you share in his death, and in his rising, in his glory, for your identity is in him, and only in him. You are hidden in him. His past, present and future are your past, present and future; and your past, present and future are his and in him. Nothing can separate you from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus. Nothing that has changed or is changing or will change your very partial understanding of yourself; nothing you have experienced, are experiencing, or shall experience. And in him, one day you shall fully know yourself, and be fully known.

And with the sign of the cross in ash, words of invitation: ‘remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return; turn away from sin and be faithful to Christ to the end of your days.’ Such action—turning away from sin and returning to Christ, which, if it is true that we are in him is also to return to ourselves—achieves nothing for us. It is not a process of self-improvement, of becoming the best version of you. It is simply the expression of a thankful heart, for what has already been done. The best version of you—the version that has been set free from the hold of sin over us; the version that is the righteousness of God—has already been called into being through Christ and with Christ and in Christ, along with the rest of humanity. We do not need to strive for perfection, or wrestle with existential angst. We may, indeed, lament aspects of the past, present or future, but even as we are treated—by others, by ourselves—as dying, we are alive; as punished, and yet not killed; as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, and yet possessing everything. This Lent, may we rest secure in this amazing grace, and know ourselves afresh to be reconciled to God.

 

arc of history

 

Like many, I have been watching global political events unfolding over recent weeks. We are witnessing a major change in approach—at least official approach—by the US, with consequences that run far wider. I have a friend who often says that people are alright, wherever they are from; it is the politicians who are the problem. Respectfully, I disagree, for several reasons: firstly, politicians are people, not some other category of being; moreover, many politicians are good people, working hard for the communities they represent; and politics can be a helpful way to share resources for the common good.

But politics, and politicians, cannot address our most fundamental problem, which is that at the deepest level we are alienated from, and fearful of, the Other, those who are not accepted/acceptable within our family or group or tribe. Some Christian traditions call this original sin; some Christian traditions call it the original wound. Politics cannot bridge that divide; indeed, politics reflects and can deepen the divide.

Christians believe that the arc of history is irrevocably moving towards the bridging of that divide, the healing of that wound, in the person of Jesus; and that, whatever the times we find ourselves in look and feel like, in Jesus now is always the auspicious moment in history to be reconciled with God and our neighbour. To discover that we are acceptable/accepted.

That same trajectory passes through me and carries me, an arc that originates in God and will return to God. An arc that moves through time, which, like me, is itself one of God’s creatures, and is held within God—specifically, Christians believe, in Jesus. A path that, viewed close up, as I trace it, often appears—and is experienced as—tangled, heading in the wrong direction, or even blocked. This is real, but not the ultimate reality. When tempted to despair, at ourselves or on account of the actions of those Others we fear—including where we, or they, attempt to co-opt that arc, to co-opt Jesus, to the purposes of division—we need to zoom out, to see the bigger picture.

These are dark times, and there are those who take advantage of the darkness to harm others for their own gain. This is also the time we have been given, the fitting time to choose for Life, for Light, for Love. For peace, with guaranteed security. Accept no substitutes.

 

further on prayer

 

Notes on Luke 9.28-36

The stories we read in the Bible are rich in symbolism, in recurring motifs. For example, whenever you read about a tree in the Bible, you are reading about a person, and so we should enquire, whom does this tree represent? Or to give another example, the sea stands for chaos.

The Gospel text for this Sunday, Luke 9.28-36, is a story about prayer, and about what comes into being through prayer (the Greek employs the phrase ‘it came into being’ five times in nine verses—and my English translation erases every one of them under ‘Now,’ ‘And while,’ ‘Just as,’ ‘While,’ and ‘came [a voice]’ which is interesting in itself). And this passage employs four recurring biblical symbols: mountain; light; cloud, and (implied, in their returning) valley.

In the Bible, mountains stand for talking with God, or prayer. It is interesting to note that many people report feeling closer to God out in nature, by which we mean in places largely untouched by human activity, by buildings and traffic. But most of us (humans) are now urban dwellers. Jesus claimed that if you have faith, you can say to a mountain, be thrown into the sea, and it will be done. This is often presented thus: the mountain represents obstacles we face, which we can overcome by faith. But in the Bible, mountains do not symbolize obstacles we face; giants, or armies do. Jesus’ point makes more sense as being able to transfer the experience of being with God in the quiet space he models for us to seek out, into the chaotic circumstances we must return to. But if the regular practice of prayer is like being out in the mountains, this invites all kinds of imaginative engagement, from taking a leisurely pace, to needing a map and compass, to moments of breathtaking panoramic view, to times of descending mist. Like getting away from the noise of the city, prayer reshapes us where speed and busyness have deformed us. We come into being, again.

In the Bible, light stands for union with God, our ability to know God affectively with our whole body. As Jesus prays, his face changes, and his whole body radiates with light. The saints of the Church are depicted in art with halos, coronas of light around their heads. We pray with our whole bodies (not just our minds) and prayer changes our bodies. It can cause the face to shine. Ten years ago, eighteen-year-old photographer Shea Glover conducted a social experiment, taking two photos of subjects, the second captured immediately after telling them ‘You are beautiful.’ Their faces literally lit up. (You can find these images shared online.) Union with God is bathing in love shared between us: we gaze on Jesus and Jesus gazes on us as his beloved. Again, we come into being—from one degree of glory to another, as Paul and Timothy, two early apprentices of Jesus, described it.

Throughout the Bible, people pray with arms outstretched and the palms of their hands facing up. For Christians, this ‘orans’ posture symbolizes Jesus on the cross. I adopt this posture whenever I lead the congregation in the Prayer of Thanksgiving at Holy Communion—and for the first Christian millennium, they would have all joined me in the same posture. Early in the second Christian millennium, praying with hands clasped or palms pressed together became more common—a posture many of us were taught as children. Recently, someone asked me to pray; I bowed my head and started to speak to God, but they interrupted, demanding that I prayed ‘properly,’ that I put my hands together. My initial, internal response was not positive: it does not matter what we do with our bodies in prayer! But on reflection, I realized that it does matter: that for this person (and every person) the posture of hands together (or body) was not merely an outward form or a slavish traditionalism, but a posture that helps her come to God—and will help her to do so when she cannot do so consciously, with independence of mind, and when Christ comes to her embodied in a sister or brother.

In the Bible, cloud stands for mystery, the limits of our mind, of our ability to know God cognitively. We know God because of divine self-revelation, through the prophets and most fully in the person of Jesus; but we do not know God in full, because the fullness of God is far greater than our ability to hold that knowledge. And this is surely a good thing, because a god that can be contained within our mind is a creature of our own imagination. We are terrified by the prospect of cognitive impairment, especially of dementia: of being more known by others (chronologically, sequentially) than they are known by us. Yet the reality is that we are all more known—and especially by God—than we are knowing; that our cognitive ability, important though it is, is only part of a bigger whole. My own cognitive impairment—I recognize people not by their faces but by their voices, mannerisms, postures; and routinely struggle to recall names—is a gift, albeit unwelcome at times, that draws me (even kicking and screaming) to simply be with the other in the present moment. To be caught on a mountain in the cloud can be chilling and disorienting, but also an invitation to trust something beyond our interpretation of our senses, and to lean into the experience of others who have erected cairns along the path. We come into being with them.

In the Bible, valleys stand for obedience, trusting God in our daily lives. Jesus takes Peter, James and John with him up the mountain, but they return to the valley with him, having heard the voice that told them to listen to him. Their learning to listen involved not speaking about those things they weren’t to share, yet, for sharing them would jeopardize the departure—the exodus—Jesus was called to lead others in. And testifying as witnesses to what they had seen come into being, when the right time to do so had itself come into being. The valley is the place of obedience and trust. Valleys are also centres of population, human-shaped landscapes, filled with interaction, the context in which we love our neighbour as ourselves. The culmination of the mass, of encountering Christ in bread and wine, is the dismissal, the people of God being sent out into the world in peace, to love and serve the Lord. There is no mountain, light, or cloud without its attendant valley. This is where what has come into being in us—peace, love, a posture of service—is revealed, tested, refined. But what has come into being, through prayer, is the work of God’s Holy Spirit, not some self-betterment.

Mountains, light, cloud, and valleys are recurring symbols in the stories told in the Bible—in the story the Bible invites us to enter-into. Where have you known these in your own life?

 

on prayer

 

Notes on the Gospel passage set for this coming Sunday, Luke 9.28-36:

‘Now about eight days after these sayings Jesus took with him Peter and John and James, and went up on the mountain to pray. And while he was praying, the appearance of his face changed, and his clothes became dazzling white. Suddenly they saw two men, Moses and Elijah, talking to him. They appeared in glory and were speaking of his departure, which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem. Now Peter and his companions were weighed down with sleep; but since they had stayed awake, they saw his glory and the two men who stood with him. Just as they were leaving him, Peter said to Jesus, ‘Master, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah’—not knowing what he said. While he was saying this, a cloud came and overshadowed them; and they were terrified as they entered the cloud. Then from the cloud came a voice that said, ‘This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!’ When the voice had spoken, Jesus was found alone. And they kept silent and in those days told no one any of the things they had seen.’

Mountains symbolize talking with God, in prayer. How does this image speak to you about prayer?

Light symbolizes union with God, our ability to know God affectively with our whole body. How do you pray with your body? And how have you (or others) become aware of prayer changing your body?

Cloud symbolizes mystery, the limits of our mind, of our ability to know God cognitively. Does the thought of ‘entering the cloud’ terrify you? Why, or why not?

Valleys symbolize obedience, trusting God in our daily lives. Is there something you find hard to trust God for? Is there someone you can talk to about it?

Image: a line drawing of a mountain, one side bathed in sunshine, the other overshadowed by cloud.

 

not so fast

 

A year ago this month, the Bishop of Durham retired, and the process began to appoint his successor. Interviews took place in late November, a candidate was selected, offered the post, and accepted. All this is done confidentially, just as any vicar is appointed: if I apply for a post, my current congregation does not need to be troubled by the thought of my departure unless I am successful. Once accepted there is further process, some of which is the same for bishops as for vicars, some of which is additional to most vicars (the involvement of both the Prime Minister and the Crown). But we were expecting a public announcement by now.

On Monday of this week, we heard that the candidate had withdrawn. There have been various rumours as to why, but such speculation is unhelpful. Again, the process is confidential: if I accepted a post as a vicar but before the news was made public I or a member of my family received a life-changing medical diagnosis that meant I had to withdraw, my privacy ought to be respected, and another person be given a clean sheet.

Yesterday evening, we gathered with others from across the Durham Diocese to acknowledge our disappointment, to affirm our trust in God, and to pray. And as we did so, my mind was drawn to the Old Testament passage set for this coming Sunday, Genesis 2.

In Genesis 2, God notes that a particular part of the earth needs someone to oversee and care for it. And so God forms a human and places them in the garden, within a boundaried territory. Such as a bishop given to a diocese. Such as where we thought that we were.

But still the situation is not quite right, the solution is not quite what is needed. And so, God forms all the animals of the field, the birds of the air, the fish of the sea, all living things, and invites the human to pay careful attention to what it is that God is forming, and to name it. And only through this process does the time reach its fullness whereby God draws out what is needful, and provides someone who will come alongside, who will see the human who is naming what God is doing and who will work alongside them to support and even deliver them when in trouble.

And it seemed to me that God is asking us to go back to our places across the diocese and pay attention to what God is forming there, and name it, and as we do so, at just the right time, we will find out who God is preparing to send to us, to come alongside us.

Genesis 1 is a sweeping overview of the story, such as you might get in the opening movement of a symphony or the opening song of a musical. Everything is condensed. All plant life is flourishing on the third day; all animal life is flourishing on the sixth day. And all is good. But Genesis 2 slows the story right down. There is as yet no plant life or animal life. Rather than speak everything into being, God forms life as a gardener or a potter, in slow processes that move at the pace necessary to notice and participate in the goodness of creation. This is the actual pace of the story we are drawn into, not the overview pace of Genesis 1. The slower, the better, for God has all the time in the world; and it is for those who have forgotten this to fret about time running out or away from us.

The passage from Genesis 2 is paired, this Sunday, with a passage from the Gospels where Jesus is depicted asleep in the boat on the lake in a storm, while his apprentices run around in panic. We too find ourselves in choppy times. May we rest in the love of God. May we sleep, not panic, in the storm.

 

how to hold a human

 

The Old Testament reading set for Holy Communion today is Genesis 9.1-13. It picks up the account of Noah after the Great Flood. These are the survivors, human and animal, of a traumatic event. The sea level had risen and flooded the Fertile Crescent along the Tigris and Euphrates rivers, the Cradle of Humanity, from horizon to horizon: what today we would know as Kuwait and Iraq, hemmed in by the mountains of Iran to the east, Turkey to the north, and Syria and Jordan to the west. Every settlement washed away. But Noah and his family and their domesticated livestock survive, delivered by the god Yahweh, in an ark.

Like so many survivors who carry trauma in their bodies, and who lives with survivors’ guilt, Noah will attempt to numb his pain by drinking himself to oblivion. But Yahweh blesses Noah and his traumatized family. He informs them that the animals will be in dread of them, hardly surprising for they are traumatized too, but that they are given into the hands of Noah and his sons. They will be good for them, but food without lifeblood.

We all live downstream of the Great Flood, and no one gets through this life without experiencing trauma, whether a broad and shattering event such as natural disaster, or bereavement or living with dementia or suffering at the hands of an abuser. And it is this idea of being in someone’s hands that is significant here. For we are all given into one another’s hands, and the question God asks is, What will we do with the trauma survivors who are given into our hands as gifts?

Will we re-traumatize them with further mistreatment, as the Father gave the Son into the hands of his people and they had him tortured and executed?

Will we dehumanise them as objects of our altruism?

Or will we receive them as divine gift, as human with the dignity that is ours as those who bear the very likeness of God? Will we recognise that we, as community, are nourished by their being fully part of our community, that we are fed by them (that is, that we are fed by one another, for we are all simultaneously and paradoxically the one who receives in our hands and the one who is given into the hands of others) without bloodshed, without their life being consumed by us in some zero-sum game where there is only one winner so it had best be me?

May we receive one another in our hands, and be found worthy of the gift, by the Giver.