Advent 2025 : day five

 

In our home, we build up our Christmas decorations slowly through Advent, bringing out a box on each of the four weekends. It begins with just a few changes: a figurine of a pregnant woman, symbolizing Mary, placed on one end of the mantlepiece, with an attending angel; our Advent calendar opposite. I bring my wife a mug of coffee in bed every morning before we get up (itself another ritual) and on the first day of Advent we swap out our usual mugs for ones we only use in Advent: simple markers. The tree does not go up until week three.

In this way, we build up a sense of expectancy, ready to celebrate Christmas when it arrives – a twelve-day feast; we are not sick of it all by the afternoon of Boxing Day, desperate to pack everything away for another year.

But this might also help us to wait expectantly for Christ’s return: recognising – learning to recognise – that Jesus breaks into our lives in many often small and accumulative ways; that the victory of justice and mercy over exploitation and oppression is not, usually, dramatic – and yet, little by little – gradually – comes around again and again.

 

Advent 2025 : day four

 

Advent has its very own soundtrack, a mix of songs in a minor key, filled with longing for the light, and stirring carols focused more on Christ’s return than on his first coming as the Babe of Bethlehem.

I love more traditional Advent carols, like Hills of the North, Rejoice and People, look East. But in recent years, my go-to Advent playlist has included the albums Advent Songs (2021) by The Porter’s Gate; and Good News (2016) and the earlier In the Town of David (2006) by Ordinary Time. Check them out.

 

Advent 2025 : day three

 

I have a memory of a childhood Advent calendar. Card, with (probably – here, my memory is shaky) a picture of the hills around Bethlehem for backdrop. Doors opened carefully, re-opened year after year. Each one revealing a picture, depicting some character or item relating to the nativity, and a verse from the Bible on the back of the door.

These days, the Advent calendar on our mantlepiece is a wooden box, with twenty-four doors that lift upward, not to the side. Behind each door, Jo hides a piece from a jigsaw of an icon from the Church of the Nativity, for her, and a fairtrade individual ‘taster’ bar of chocolate, for me.

The practice of opening a little door every day through Advent, a door that is linked to the story of the incarnation, might shape how we open larger doors. So far this Advent, I have opened my front door to a neighbour, shut out of her own home and in need of help, and to delivery drivers, dropping off Bibles I had ordered for friends who are exploring faith. The vicarage doorbell is loud – I cannot adjust the volume, and it makes me jump whenever it rings. It does not predispose me to welcome those who come to my door. Yet the Advent calendar might resist that move; might predispose me to see Jesus coming to my door in the face of a neighbour or stranger. Coming to me, in need or in response to my own need. (In the Gospels we see Jesus ministered-to by others and ministering to others.)

    

Advent 2025 : day two

 

Warning: mention of suicide

The Advent candles are not the only candles we light in our home throughout Advent. We also light a frankincense & myrrh candle. One of the smells of Advent, along with cinnamon biscuits—for smell connects deeply with memory and so has a key role in keeping traditions alive—is frankincense & myrrh. Two of the three gifts (along with gold) presented to the infant Jesus and his parents by the magi/wisemen/kings.

This is a dark time of year. The sun does not rise above the horizon, here where I live, until 8.00 a.m. (by mid-December, not until 8.15 a.m.) and sets mid-afternoon.

These are dark times, at the best of times. Not a week goes by without news of another life taken in violence by its own hand. Lives that have run dry of hope, carrying a burden of pain they just don’t think they can continue to bear. Tragically, often longing to be reunited with family members who have died too soon, carried away by illness or accident or suicide.

For some, this darkness, this void of despair, is evidence against the existence—or at least the efficacy—of God, of a god who is good and loving and strong. And yet, for others, it is in the darkness that Light and Love shine most brightly. How, then, might we side with the Light and Love?

Those gifts—made to a child who all too soon will find himself a refugee, his peers butchered by hardened soldiers at the orders of a fragile king—just might hold a clue, a key. Incense, symbol of prayer rising; prayers rising, even when we can find no words. And myrrh, used to prepare a body for burial, a final act of tenderness, of kindness, of dignity; and though these days embalming is undertaken by professionals, we still might embrace the bereaved with tender touch.

In the darkness, we light a frankincense & myrrh candle, and breath in what it means to wait, until our eyes adjust, until the clouds pass over and the stars are revealed, fierce pinpoints of light in blazing glory.

 

Advent 2025 : day one

 

This is now the twentieth year that I will post a daily reflection through Advent. For longer than that – almost a decade longer – Jo and I have woven Advent traditions into the pattern of our year, the fabric of our lives. Some of these we were introduced to by older friends, when we were newly-married – not as an off-the-peg coat, whether it fit us or not, but as a pattern we might start with and adapt to create a bespoke fit. This year, we are passing some of the traditions on to friends – we are now the older ones – some of whom are marking Advent for the first time.

Traditions, and especially the kind of traditions we might call rituals, act as anchors or hooks that connect us to a Story that is bigger than ourselves, in such a way that has sustained both families and wider communities through times of unimaginable tragedy.

One of the simplest Advent rituals is the lighting of candles: one on the first Sunday of Advent, two on the second, three on the third, and four on the fourth. These are often arranged around a fifth candle, which represents Jesus, the light of the world. One tradition leaves this candle unlit until Christmas Day; another variation lights the central candle each Sunday, and the other candles from it. There are also various traditions regarding the colours of the candles: red, or blue, or three purple and one (week 3) pink. This year, the Advent candles in our home are a simple arrangement, all white.

We lit the first candle and spoke about waiting with hope. Waiting in anticipation of something we are looking forward to. Waiting, well, for inevitable bad news. Waiting, in times of pain – and as faithful friends in others’ times of pain. Light in the darkness. We spoke of faith handed down by previous generations, well-worn words of prayer when we cannot find words of our own.

 

Christ the King

 

Today is the Feast of Christ the King, the culmination of the story we begin to tell again next Sunday with Advent, Christmas and Epiphany, Lent, Holy Week and Eastertide, Pentecost and the long count of weeks in Ordinary time. The culmination of history to which the Church points; and of the news the Church proclaims concerning Jesus, that ‘his kingdom shall have no end.’

But if Christ is King, what kind of a king is he? And why is this good news?

We see the answer to these questions in the Gospel reading set for today, Luke 23.33-43. It may seem strange to hear, today, of Jesus’ crucifixion; but the cross is the throne this king choses for himself. More than that, a cross alongside two others.

This we proclaim: that Christ suffered, for our sake, and that his kingdom shall have no end.

This is where we see him: alongside us in the place of our deepest wound, our deepest humiliation, our agonising and protracted public death.

There are two near-universal human emotions at play in our Gospel passage, that reveal this wound: shame, and humiliation.

Shame is the self-belief that we are, inherently, unworthy of love, of connection. Shame is the secret we do not want anyone to know about us, because if you knew, you would agree that I am unworthy. The tragedy is that shame grows in the dark, and is destroyed by the light of empathy, of being seen and accepted.

Humiliation is what we experience when someone else judges us unworthy of love, of connection, and we inherently know that they are wrong, that this is unjust. Humiliation is being told we are too fat, too ugly, too foreign, too gay, to be in our gang. From primary school, if not before, we are flayed by humiliation. And, tragically, humiliation correlates to violence. Studies in the US show that the experience of being humiliated, deeply, repeatedly, is a key part of the backstory of those who perpetrate high school shootings. I don’t know of UK based research, but I would expect to see the same regarding fatal stabbings.

(For more on shame and humiliation and many other emotions, see Brené Brown’s ‘Atlas of the Heart’)

Crucifixion was all about humiliation, as a deterrent. Luke records not only the physical humiliation Jesus is subjected to, but also how the religious leaders and the soldiers join in. Crucifixions were conducted by specialist teams of soldiers. I cannot prove it, of course, but I would wager that these teams were made up of those who had, themselves, been subject to humiliation. Humiliation correlates to violence; and spreads as those who have been made to feel inadequate — unworthy — seek out a victim to shore themselves up.

The first criminal knows humiliation. He turns to the person hanging next to him, and both adds to their humiliation and calls on them to turn the tables: what would humiliate the leaders, the soldiers, more than Jesus getting down from the cross and defeating them? But Jesus refuses to play the game, to perpetuate violence, to deepen the problem.

The other criminal knows shame. He believes that he, and the other criminal, deserve what is happening to them. In this, he is not a reliable witness (in the Bible, we find the testimony of many people, but Jesus alone is the faithful, reliable witness). Certainly his actions may have had consequences, may have deserved punishment; but noone deserves the obscenity of crucifixion.

Nevertheless, this man, who is steeped in shame, is able to do the very thing that is necessary: despite believing that he is unworthy of connection, he reaches out to the person who is right there next to him: ‘Jesus, remember me — make me whole, make me worthy — when you come into your kingdom.’

And Jesus responds, ‘Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.’ Paradise is a tricky word to translate. It seems to mean both ‘in the ground’ — that is, dead — and in heaven — that is, alive. In other words, the promise is that Jesus will be with him — and us — in our protracted dying, and in the life on the other side, where suffering is transformed into glory.

I do not say that lightly, that suffering is transformed into glory. This is a slow, slow process, a life-long (and perhaps beyond) process. And yet it is the way in which Christ the King goes about his reign.

I don’t know your shame story, your humiliation story — but I know you have one. And that is why I believe that Christ the King is good news. Because in these places, we are not alone. This is where he meets us, sees us, re-members us. In the deep blues, the bruised purples, the bloody reds of our lives, drawing these emotions, too, into the spectrum of his light.

Luke 23.33-43

When they came to the place that is called The Skull, they crucified Jesus there with the criminals, one on his right and one on his left. Then Jesus said, ‘Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.’ And they cast lots to divide his clothing. And the people stood by, watching; but the leaders scoffed at him, saying, ‘He saved others; let him save himself if he is the Messiah of God, his chosen one!’ The soldiers also mocked him, coming up and offering him sour wine, and saying, ‘If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!’ There was also an inscription over him, ‘This is the King of the Jews.’

One of the criminals who were hanged there kept deriding him and saying, ‘Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!’ But the other rebuked him, saying, ‘Do you not fear God, since you are under the same sentence of condemnation? And we indeed have been condemned justly, for we are getting what we deserve for our deeds, but this man has done nothing wrong.’ Then he said, ‘Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.’ He replied, ‘Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.’

 

circus maximus

 

In the summer of 64 CE, a great fire broke out in the cramped streets surrounding the Circus Maximus. The Circus Maximus was the largest venue in Rome for public games — the Colosseum was yet to be built — home to chariot racing, athletics, gladiator fights, and beast hunts (where artificial forests were created and wild beasts imported, the most popular being the ferocious lion). The great fire would destroy three-quarters of Rome.

The rumour rapidly spread that the fire had been set at the command of the emperor Nero — a populist, despised by the ruling class but popular with those who had no political voice — to clear ground to build a big, beautiful Golden Palace. That Nero was away from Rome, at his private villa, when the fire occurred, along with the speed with which he had his new palace constructed, only added fuel to the flames. Needing to deflect the heat, Nero pinned the blame on the city’s Christians. Perhaps a thousand were put to death, including Paul, who had come to Rome some two years earlier having claimed the right to defend himself against false claims of inciting an insurrection before no lesser court than the imperial tribunal.

Knowing that he would soon meet his death, Paul writes two letters to Timothy. It is possible that the great fire had already occurred by the time he wrote a second, and final, time — we cannot know for sure, but in any case, the imagery of the Circus Maximus is clearly on Paul’s mind, from the libation that marked the opening ceremony of an athletic games, to the gladiatorial fight, the athletic discipline of the foot race, the victor’s wreath, and the triumph of the bestiarius (hunter) over the lion.

(Very boldly, if this timescale is correct — and we know that Paul believes his death will be imminent, and we know that it was part of the scapegoating of Christians following the great fire — Paul has already told Timothy to ‘fan into flame’ the gift of God that is within him through the laying on of Paul’s hands, 2 Timothy 1.6.)

Reflections:

We are called to pour out our lives as a sign and symbol of the peace treaty between God and humanity that is established in and by Jesus.

Faith is something we wrestle with, not the absence of struggle. Some days we experience relationships, some days despair.

We are acceptable to God not on the basis of our own merit, but on the merit of Jesus.

We still get scared and run away, just as Paul’s supporters did, just as Jesus’ apprentices had done. But — as Paul prayed that it would not be held against them, and as Jesus restored Peter after Peter had denied knowing him — we can experience forgiveness, and redemption, the transformation of bad circumstances for the greater or common good.

Death is not a tragedy, but an adventure, a new journey (and in some sense, a journey home).

2 Timothy 4.6-8, 16-18

‘As for me, I am already being poured out as a libation, and the time of my departure has come. I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. From now on there is reserved for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, will give to me on that day, and not only to me but also to all who have longed for his appearing.

‘At my first defence no one came to my support, but all deserted me. May it not be counted against them! But the Lord stood by me and gave me strength, so that through me the message might be fully proclaimed and all the Gentiles might hear it. So I was rescued from the lion’s mouth. The Lord will rescue me from every evil attack and save me for his heavenly kingdom. To him be the glory for ever and ever. Amen.’

 

analysis

 

On Sundays at the moment, we are reading extracts from letters from St Paul, writing at the end of his life, to Timothy, whom he has mentored over more than a decade. Paul is in prison in Rome, awaiting trial, and will eventually be executed (according to tradition, on the same day as St Peter) as part of the Neronian persecution of the Christian community in Rome, whom Nero made scapegoats responsible for starting the great fire that devastated Rome in 64 CE. He does not know when he will be executed but is aware that it will be soon; and the two letters he writes to Timothy express what he most wants Timothy to hold onto.

Paul writes, ‘As for me, I am already being poured out as a libation, and the time of my departure has come.’

(2 Timothy 4.6)

A libation is a drink offering made to a god or gods, probably the most common daily form of offering. One might pour water into a bowl or onto the ground as a libation on waking, and libations were made before every meal. Whenever wine was drunk, first a libation would be poured from a jug into a small bowl, before the rest of the wine in the jug was consumed. There are frescos depicting libations being made at weddings, and in the Roman tradition a libation was also made at funerals: indeed, if you had no one to take care of your funeral arrangements, and so the state took on that responsibility, the libation may have been the only part of funeral observances to be fulfilled — an interesting observation given that Paul feels abandoned by those who should have supported him.

But where a libation is described in the middle voice (a voice that combines aspects of both the active and passive voices, to describe something you do that changes you in the doing) — as can be read here (though my English translation opts for the passive voice) — a libation refers to a formal and binding peace treaty. Specifically, it related to a peace treaty contracted between city states at the opening of an Olympic, Corinthian, or other athletic games. Paul underlines this meaning by claiming to have struggled the beautiful struggle and run the foot race — direct allusions to events the athletes competed in — and that he now awaits being presented with the wreath crown worn by athletes who won their events.

Paul’s life has been lived (at least, since his conversion) as a peace treaty between the God of the Jewish people and the Gentile nations: as a declaration that all who confess that Jesus is Lord — regardless of their ethnicity — will be welcomed by the God of his own ancestors.

Who or what are you pouring your life into? And how are you being changed in the process?

Paul goes on to speak of his impending departure. The word for departure is analysis, that is, the loosening of ropes holding a ship to the dock, or the loosening of elements (of e.g. a life) so as to understand how they work together.

Jo and I have spent the last week in Rome, celebrating our wedding anniversary. We flew home yesterday. We boarded the plane, and then we waited. We knew that our departure would be taking place soon, but we did not know exactly when it would be. There was a shortage of ground crew to load cases into the hold, and then to uncouple the sky bridge from the cabin doors. We could not depart until this ‘analysis’ had been completed. We missed our take-off slot, and, in the end, we took off forty-five minutes after our departure had been scheduled. Nonetheless, it was only a matter of fairly imminent time.

Paul writes of his departure time, or, the final analysis of his life. And the final analysis is that he has lived — and would soon die — trusting not in his own merit, but on the work of Jesus, whom, he believed, God had appointed as judge over the nations of the Greco-Roman world. Whether Paul was right or not is a different matter, but of this he was convinced — and many others with him.

And so for Paul death is not a tragic end, but a new chapter, a glorious transformation of what has been into something more than the world can offer.

Death comes to us all, or rather, we come to death. What would the final analysis of your life be? What has already been loosened — those things we no longer need to hold tightly to, for fear of the voyage ahead — and what is (perhaps entirely appropriately) ‘keeping us here’ for now? How might we make the most of the time we have left before our own departure?

2 Timothy 4.6-8, 16-18

‘As for me, I am already being poured out as a libation, and the time of my departure has come. I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. From now on there is reserved for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, will give to me on that day, and not only to me but also to all who have longed for his appearing.

‘At my first defence no one came to my support, but all deserted me. May it not be counted against them! But the Lord stood by me and gave me strength, so that through me the message might be fully proclaimed and all the Gentiles might hear it. So I was rescued from the lion’s mouth. The Lord will rescue me from every evil attack and save me for his heavenly kingdom. To him be the glory for ever and ever. Amen.’

 

mast year

 

Every several years, certain fruit or nut trees produce a harvest that is exceptional in both quantity and quality. These are known as mast years. 2025 appears to be a mast year for acorns, and apples.

No one knows exactly why this happens. There are various theories, and it may be that the phenomenon is the result of several factors combining. Climate may be a factor. Another theory sees mast years as a mechanism for survival: producing seeds is costly, and many are eaten by animals — for example, wild pigs like to eat acorns — so there is advantage in reserving energy for bumper crops every so often, which are more abundant than the prey can consume.

I believe that the physical and spiritual are entwined, and that the physical can be an expression of the spiritual. We are seeing an unusual number of people exploring Christian faith for the first time or the first time in a long time, and this seems to be replicated across the UK and across other western contexts that have not been especially open to such things for some time. It interests me that this coincides with a mast year.

Why would we see a mast year in people coming to faith? Perhaps climate plays a factor. Perhaps a materialistic worldview is increasingly ‘dry’ for more and more people, experiencing a new awareness of thirst for spiritual things. Undoubtedly, successive generations are needed for a particular faith, or other worldview, to survive, and Jesus’ parable of a sower sowing seed points out the many reasons why converts might give up. Mast years might be a good way of ensuring the faith is passed from generation to generation. Certainly, large numbers new-to-the-faith at the same time is exciting, yes, but also demands a lot of energy. It is not necessarily sustainable. Mast years with quieter years between them might be a more viable pattern, over the long term.

Anyway, all this to say, 2025 might just be a mast year, in the physical sense and the spiritual sense. I am praying that we would not only see an increase in people coming to faith, but that they would be a cohort of exceptional quality, not just quantity. That this year’s seeds might, in time, grow into what the ancient Jewish prophet Isaiah called oaks of righteousness, keystone species in the ecology of their community, providing a viable habitat for many others.

 

on immigrants

 

Summary: Christians should welcome immigrants, not fear them.

‘The Letter to the Hebrews,’ a first-century circular that has been passed down the centuries as one of the 27 ‘books’ of the New Testament, was originally written to Jews who were followers of Jesus, and who had fled their homes and found themselves internally or regionally displaced by the Jewish-Roman War.

The passage below (Hebrews 13.1-8) feels incredibly pertinent to my own current context — both globally, with Christian communities displaced in the West Bank, in Nigeria (18 million Nigerian Christians living in refugee camps) and in other other nations; and more locally, in England, where there is a growing anger being directed at asylum seekers. This pertinence is one reason why the New Testament continues to have relevance, some two thousand years after it was written.

‘Let mutual love continue.’ The Greek here is philadelphia, that is, love for your sisters and brothers in Christ. The new family, constituted by and in Jesus — and which embraces gender, age, class, education, ethnicity, nationality — every category of the census — takes primacy over blood family and nationality.

‘Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it.’ The Greek word translated ‘show hospitality’ is philoxenia, and means hospitality — warmth, friendliness — shown to strangers. This is written to people who themselves have been displaced — as could happen to any of us — making an appeal to their shared history, or stories. There is a play on overlooking to show hospitality: God sends messengers (both ‘angelic’ and human) who might or might not be received, and whose message might be lost even on those who do welcome them in. Therefore, hospitality should be an intentional practice, a doing the work of getting to know the other — the stranger — for, whether we recognise it or not, we are as much in need of and benefitted by them as they are in need of and benefitted by us.

So, those who consider themselves to be Christians should love other Christians, regardless of where they are from; and to extend warmth, friendliness, and hospitality to strangers, regardless of where they are from. This is in keeping with God’s repeated insistence, recorded in the Old Testament, that the people treat the alien living in their midst well, attending to their welfare and livelihood, and guaranteeing them justice.

‘Remember those who are in prison, as though you were in prison with them; those who are being tortured, as though you yourselves were being tortured.’ There is a radical solidarity urged here, a compassion born of empathy and practical care.

The line of reasoning may seem to swerve here — ‘Let marriage be held in honour by all, and let the marriage bed be kept undefiled; for God will judge fornicators and adulterers.’ — but marriage, or, the marriage feast, is an image of the union between Jesus and the Church, and so, whatever this may have to do with honouring any marriage (which is a good outlook to embrace) this is also an injunction not to defile our union with Christ, by embracing the xenophobia (excessive fear of strangers) that is so common in the world around us. We should resist, separating ourselves from such ungodly ways of being in the world.

‘Keep your lives free from the love of money, and be content with what you have; for he has said, ‘I will never leave you or forsake you.’ So we can say with confidence, ‘The Lord is my helper; I will not be afraid. What can anyone do to me?’’ The reasoning continues, with a warning about covetousness and a call to remain in the present moment (this, rather than possessions, is the emphasis of ‘with what you have’). It is telling how often I see complaints about what asylum seekers — or black people, or gay people, or [insert scapegoat of choice here] are given, that [place myself here] does not. Why should asylum seekers be housed in a hotel!? (These really aren’t the hotel you have in mind, and you would not ever choose to stay in such an establishment.) We — those who are displaced, and those who receive them — are encouraged to remain in the present, not necessarily because conditions are ideal, but because God will not abandon us, whatever we face, now and in the future. Therefore we can say, I will not withdraw, I will not flee from the stranger in need, from the one I am continually provoked to fear.

‘Remember your leaders, those who spoke the word of God to you; consider the outcome of their way of life, and imitate their faith. Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and for ever.’ Those who hold office, who have authority within the community (that is, the community of the Way, or, the Church community) should take the lead in modelling such a loving, hospitable way of life, to which we are called today as much as the original recipients of the Letter to the Hebrews were called in the first century. And those who call themselves Christians should look to make hospitality towards strangers their own practice, by which we live out our faith in tangible ways.

Hebrews 13.1-8

‘Let mutual love continue. Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it. Remember those who are in prison, as though you were in prison with them; those who are being tortured, as though you yourselves were being tortured. Let marriage be held in honour by all, and let the marriage bed be kept undefiled; for God will judge fornicators and adulterers. Keep your lives free from the love of money, and be content with what you have; for he has said, ‘I will never leave you or forsake you.’ So we can say with confidence, ‘The Lord is my helper; I will not be afraid. What can anyone do to me?’ Remember your leaders, those who spoke the word of God to you; consider the outcome of their way of life, and imitate their faith. Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and for ever.’

 

A-levels

 

Today is A-level results day. Many young people will be celebrating getting into their first choice of university. Through Clearance, others will be offered an opportunity — a degree course, a location — previously unconsidered. For others, today will mark the end of academic study and open the door to a different future, just as valid.

The first-century biographer Luke records Jesus as saying, ‘I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled!’ Jesus is speaking of the Holy Spirit, poured out with wind and flame at Pentecost, but not before Jesus will be stretched out on a cross, a Roman soldier piercing his side with a spear.

Luke’s Greek audience would have immediately thought of Prometheus, the titan who, according to Greek mythology, had created the first humans from clay, and who, for love of his creatures, stole back fire for them from the Olympian gods, thus giving the means of technology, innovation, and ultimately civilisation in its broadest sense, for which Zeus had him chained to a mountainside and sent an eagle to eat his liver — which regenerated every night — day after day after day.

For Luke, the stories of Prometheus are a culturally-embedded longing that points to Jesus. To his suffering for love of the human race; and to his ushering-in of the age of the Spirit, along with all the benefits the Spirit brings.

These benefits are not limited to life-giving animation of our spirits; charismatic gifts; and character formation; but also include the skills by which we might participate in the shaping of the world towards creative fruitfulness. Gifts of music and all the arts; of science and technology; of the means to discover more of the cosmos God has created; of architecture and medicine and engineering.

Jesus not only brings fire to the earth, which will be apportioned out person to person; he is also the Clearance officer, by whose gift we are allocated our place: some to this role and some to that.

Today is A-level results day. A day of fire, apportioned according to Christ’s call, for the greater blessing of our and every civilisation. None are left out, regardless of results, regardless of the plans our parents might wish for us and whether we have made them proud or disappointed them. Each young person has measureless value; has a role to play in society. Today, may they know the love of Christ Jesus for them, and something of the meaning and purpose he holds out.

 

bringing fire

 

‘I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled!’ Jesus

The Gospel writer Luke was a first-century Greek author who had decided to order his life around the claim that Jesus — not Caesar — was Lord, and who wrote for other Greeks who were interested in exploring the same claim. Jesus was a Jew, whose imagination of ‘how the world is’ was shaped by Jewish scriptures; but he lived in ‘Galilee of the Gentiles,’ alongside a Greek population, and would have been as familiar with Greek mythology as with his own cultural heritage.

So when Luke records Jesus saying ‘I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled!’ his Greek audience would have immediately thought of Prometheus. Prometheus was a Titan, one of the ancient gods usurped by the younger — Olympian — gods. Prometheus himself had not fought against the Olympians, and so had been spared being thrown into Tartarus, the great pit deep within the underworld. Nonetheless, he had an uneasy relationship with Zeus. It was, so the Greeks told, Prometheus who had made humans — initially all male — from clay, and he loved his creatures dearly. In contrast, Zeus believed that humans were worthy only of making endless sacrifices to the gods. Prometheus tricked Zeus into being bound to accepting sacrifices of bones (wrapped in glistening fat) rather than choice meat (wrapped in an ox’s stomach) and in his capricious anger, Zeus withdrew fire — and with it, the means of technology, and ultimately civilisation — from humanity. But Prometheus stole fire back for his creatures. For this betrayal, Zeus had him chained to a mountain, where each day and eagle — symbol of Zeus, and later symbol of the Roman empire — would eat his liver, the seat of human emotion. Being immortal, each night his liver would regenerate, condemning Prometheus to an ageless torture. Zeus also created Pandora, the first woman, and tricked her into bringing misery into the human experience. Eventually, Prometheus is freed by Heracles, the half-human hero son of Zeus.

So when Luke records Jesus saying, ‘I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled!’ — fire being a symbol of the divine presence, and a reference to the Holy Spirit — he is (also) making particular claims about Jesus with reference to Greek mythology. That is to say, that Jesus fulfils Greek stories as well as Jewish ones. He is claiming that Jesus is the god through whom humans were created; and a god who loves his creatures enough to suffer for them. He is making a claim as to what will happen on the cross, that instrument of torture on which the god of this age — the Zeus or Satan figure — is tricked out of his claim to all human life as an endless sacrifice.

The link to Prometheus is underlined by Jesus claiming that he had not come to bring uniformity to the human experience, but to differentiate between humans — claiming a right over and above family ties; this differentiation need not imply enmity — which points to the unfolding of the arts and sciences that flows from the gift of fire. The Spirit of Jesus will inspire great architecture, and scientific invention.

Luke is demonstrating that the stories of Prometheus make it plausible for Greeks to believe in a god who suffers for humanity. Nonetheless, Prometheus was not a god they venerated in any cultic sense. That a god who could be so humiliated, even for noble reasons, was worthy of worship was hard to imagine. At most, he was allowed to hang out with Athena, goddess of wisdom, and Hephaestus, god of invention.

But this is the choice Luke sets out, on which his audience must decide: to side with a capricious god who imposed his will through torture; or with the human god who willingly shared our suffering, transforming opposition to the divine will into God’s good purposes for us. Who suffered, died, and rose again.

It is just about plausible. But the choice must be made.

Luke 12.49-56

‘I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled! I have a baptism with which to be baptized, and what stress I am under until it is completed! Do you think that I have come to bring peace to the earth? No, I tell you, but rather division! From now on, five in one household will be divided, three against two and two against three; they will be divided: father against son and son against father, mother against daughter and daughter against mother, mother-in-law against her daughter-in-law and daughter-in-law against mother-in-law.’

He also said to the crowds, ‘When you see a cloud rising in the west, you immediately say, “It is going to rain”; and so it happens. And when you see the south wind blowing, you say, “There will be scorching heat”; and it happens. You hypocrites! You know how to interpret the appearance of earth and sky, but why do you not know how to interpret the present time?’

 

stars

 

One of my favourite painters is Dutch preacher Vincent van Gogh. ‘The Starry Night’ was one of several paintings he created while recuperating from a mental health breakdown. It depicts a night sky, with stars, moon, and the bright planet Venus, over a sleeping village. In the centre of the village, a church spire points to the heavens. We know the window from which van Gogh painted this scene. We know that the village existed only in his imagination. The spire is a visual sermon, pointing us to hope in the darkness.

In Genesis 15, we read that God came to Abram in a vision, saying, do not fear. In response, being safe in God’s presence, Abram makes himself vulnerable before God. He says, I can’t see any future. Abram pours out his pain, his hurt and anger and bitterness, that he and his wife are childless. God listens, and then invites him to step outside of his tent. Look up at the night sky, God says: count the stars in the heavens, if you can: I will give you descendants as numerous as these.

Luke records a conversation between Jesus and his apprentices, where Jesus tells them that they do not need to be afraid, for it is the good will of the Father — his way of referring to God — to establish them as a kingdom, to give them treasure in the heavens — referencing the conversation between God and Abram about descendants as numerous as the stars. Jesus expands on this nocturnal imagery, inviting his apprentices to see themselves as servants waiting through the night for their master to return, at an unknown hour. Those who wait actively will experience the master coming to them and serving them: the servants find themselves guests and the master, host. But, Jesus warns, it is also possible to fall asleep, and to experience the treasure God bestows stolen away.

Last week Jo and I were camping in a field far from much light pollution. One night, the sky was cloudless. It was extremely cold, but you could see every star visible to the naked eye. The following night there was a blanket of low-lying cloud. It was markedly warmer, but not one single star was visible. The next night, there were some clouds, and some stars visible. The difference was the conditions.

After many generations of decline, there is surprising but statistically-significant evidence to suggest a marked increase in church attendance in England and Wales since the COVID pandemic, including a three-fold increase among young women and a five-fold increase among young men. The reasons seem to be multiple and complex, as are the reasons why my own age group continues to leave the church. But the narrative of inevitable decline — the extinction of the church in this part of the world in the near future — no longer seems, well, inevitable. People are questioning the secular script, and looking for alternatives, including though by no means only in the church.

We need the Vincent van Goghs, who will point to hope, specifically in the person of Jesus, in the darkness, holding hope and despair, faith and unbelief in honest and creative tension; who will help us imagine what we do not yet see with our eyes.

The Abrams, who are honest about their pain and their falling short — what we call sin — and in bringing these things to God receive, in exchange, comfort and peace, hope, forgiveness, cleansing for shame, renewed identity and purpose.

The apprentices, who prepare to receive Jesus turning-up in the face of the stranger, and in particular generations who have been estranged from the church.

 

sisters

 

The painting known in English as the Mona Lisa, by Leonardo da Vinci, which hangs in the Louvre in Paris, is arguably the most famous painting in the world. Another painting, also known as the Mona Lisa, hangs in the Prado in Madrid. It was not painted by the great master; but it is neither a fake nor a forgery. It was created, in his workshop, by one of his pupils (which one is debated) and it is an exact copy of the original in every detail. (And because the Prado Mona Lisa has been cleaned, it shows us what the Louvre Mona Lisa would have looked like originally.) This faithful reproduction is an example of what is known as sitting at your master’s feet.

In Luke 10, Jesus sends his apprentices ahead of him to every place he planned to go, ‘as lambs among wolves’ to find someone who would receive them (and, therefore, Jesus) into their home. In this context, Jesus tells a parable about a man on the road set upon by robbers (a lamb among wolves) and an innkeeper who receives the man and cares for him.

And in this context, we hear about two sisters, Martha and Mary. Martha receives Jesus into her home. Mary is not there, we only hear that she is one of those who sat at Jesus’ feet learning from him. That is, she is out there, on the highways and byways. Martha is offering hospitality, but she is distracted. And she is bold to ask Jesus, ‘Aren’t you worried about my sister? Aren’t you worried for her, who has forsaken me to serve you out there?’ (the word for service literally means stirring up the dust by moving from place to place). Aren’t you worried that she is a lamb among wolves? If you can tell a recognisable story about a man left filor dead by robbers, what will they do to a woman out on the road?

Martha speaks her truth before Jesus. And Luke gives us only a summary. But we know that she is distracted. Perhaps she is a little envious of her sister, out there having an adventure. Perhaps more than a little resentful, at having been forsaken, that Mary didn’t take her along with her. Certainly worried for her sister’s safety, wanting her back here where she knows that Mary has come to no harm.

The first thing Jesus does is let her know that she is not alone (accompaniment). ‘Martha, Martha,’ is not dismissive, not ‘Oh, Martha, you silly girl.’ It is quiet and tender, and says, You are seen. When I was a child, it was widely thought that children acted out because they were naughty, and that they should be sent to their rooms until they calmed down. But children — and adults — act out because they are overwhelmed; and being sent into isolation to somehow regulate themselves is the worst possible thing. What they need is the presence of a safe adult who will sit with them, not trying to fix the problem, but simply so they know they are not alone.

Jesus acknowledges Martha’s concerns acknowledgement). He does not dismiss them. Martha, Martha, you are concerned about many things.

And Jesus normalises those concerns (normalisation). It is not surprising that you are worried about your sister. That is perfectly understandable, normal. There’d be something wrong with your relationship if you weren’t. This is not a failure, not a lack of faith.

But Jesus (re)connects Martha with what she has lost sight of connecting with resource). I don’t think she is alone, with no-one to help her offer hospitality; but she feels abandoned by her sister. She is unable to focus on her thing because she is worried about her sister’s thing. Jesus brings her back. There is only one thing needful/lacking/you have almost everything you need.

Then (only then, not rushing to fix anything) Jesus holds out hope (hope). Mary has chosen the good portion God has for her, and it will not be taken from her. Not by any wolf on the road. Not by any robber. And, if this is true of Mary, it is also true if Martha. No one will take away the good portion God has for her.

What are you anxious about today? What worries do you carry? Can you name your truth in the presence of Jesus? Perhaps you are worried about growing older, about the ways in which your body or the body of someone you live and care for is inevitably falling apart. Perhaps you are worried about the declining numbers of the church congregation. Perhaps you worry for your parents, or children, or grandchildren. Perhaps you worry about what you see and hear in the news. The climate crisis — if not for yourself, for your grandchildren.

Such worries are normal. They are not a failure of faith, or nerve. Jesus sees you, and cares. Calls you by name. Sits with you. Acknowledges your concerns as legitimate. But also, slowly, gently, connects or reconnects you to the resources of the kingdom of heaven. Also speaking a word of hope.

The current building of the church I serve — the inn to receive all, of which I am current innkeeper — opened its doors for the first time in September 1939. The nation had just entered what would become the Second World War in a generation. Uncertain times. Anxious times. We are here for such times. We are still here.

Luke 10.38-42

‘Now as they went on their way, he entered a certain village, where a woman named Martha welcomed him into her home. She had a sister named Mary, who sat at the Lord’s feet and listened to what he was saying. But Martha was distracted by her many tasks; so she came to him and asked, ‘Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me.’ But the Lord answered her, ‘Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.’’

 

Luke 10

 

In Luke chapter 10, Jesus sends out seventy(two) apprentices ‘like lambs into the midst of wolves’ to find, in the places he intended to go, someone who would welcome them into their home.

In this context, Jesus is asked what makes for that quality of life we long for — a life characterised by loving God and our neighbour — and, when pushed to define who is in and who is out when we speak of ‘neighbour,’ Jesus tells a parable of a man on a journey who falls into the midst of robbers (cf. sent out like a lamb among wolves) and who is taken to an inn (literally, the place where all are received) where the innkeeper (host; cf. the person who welcomes Jesus’ apprentices into their home) might ‘take care of him.’

Also in this context, we meet two sisters, Martha and Mary. Martha receives Jesus into her home, as a person of peace or as the innkeeper. Mary is described as sitting at Jesus’ feet, which is a way of describing the apprentice to a master. That is to say, Mary is one of the seventy(two) who are sent out as lambs among wolves; and Martha is one of the people who receive Jesus into their homes and extend hospitality to him and to others.

We are told that Martha is distracted, or pulled in multiple directions, by much service or ministry. And while ministering hospitality to Jesus, she takes the opportunity to ask him that, at such time as he comes across her sister Mary out on the road, out identifying other ‘inns’ — other homes of hospitality where all are received in Jesus’ name — he might tell her to return home and cooperate with her sister, Martha, sharing the load.

What is interesting is that Martha feels safe enough to name her truth — her sense of overwhelm; her need for help; her sense of being abandoned by her sister, perhaps with attending resentment; perhaps even her concern for her sister, sent out as a lamb among wolves or a man who falls among robbers, perhaps her longing that her sister returns to the inn that she keeps, so that she might know that her sister is safe.

In this place, Martha is bold enough to ask Jesus if he does not care, if he is not prepared to be the innkeeper who attends to the wounded and weary?

In this safe space, Jesus responds with deep listening — demonstrating that he does, indeed, care. He speaks her name — ‘Martha, Martha’ — which is a way of expressing that she has been truly seen, truly heard, truly recognised. Her being overwhelmed by much service is understandable. Yet, the solution is not to tell Mary to come home. Rather, Jesus helps Martha to see that Mary has taken hold of the call of God on her life, which is different to Martha’s life, and that this will not be taken away from her, at least not by Jesus.

The call on Martha, likewise, is not a call to much ministry — to an overwhelming burden — but to something good, something life-giving, she has lost sight of through distraction, through anxiety. She has the resources for what she is called to — to offer hospitality, to receive all — and, in being heard and affirmed is enabled to reconnect to her resources.

Our churches are called to be inns where all are received, where weary travellers experience hospitality, refreshment and safety. Where they are fed, as Psalm 23 puts it ‘in the presence of our enemies,’ for there is no place where we do not face anxiety or overwhelm, but nonetheless we can be brought back to the place of emotional and nervous system regulation.

Our churches are also called to be communities of apprenticeship, of sending out, of establishing other such communities, other ‘inns on the way.’

What, then, is our experience of the church? Is it a place where it is safe, to name our anxieties, to name the sensations that are felt first in our bodies? Are they the kind of communities that help us bring those unconscious responses into our conscious thoughts and memories, our stories by which we navigate life? Are they places of healing and wholeness?

This is slow work, patient work, that takes deep listening, deep hospitality (it is no coincidence that we get our word hospital from the practice of providing hospitality to travellers).

 

the parable of the inn on the way down

 

Today as the church gathers we will hear one of Jesus’ most well-known parables. A parable is a short story that allows Jesus to explore with us what it means for God to have come into the world as one of us, as a human being in search of his frightened friends, in a way that allows Jesus to remain hidden in plain sight.

In the parable we will hear today, Jesus is the road, the way, down from Jerusalem to Jericho. The way God leads us on is down, the way of self-emptying. This road was notorious, known as the Red Road because the blood of pilgrims and travellers, spilled by robbers, flowed so regularly. The Way is the way of self-sacrifice.

Next, Jesus is the man travelling the way, who fell in the midst of robbers, was stripped, wounded, and left for dead, ignored by the priest. Here the parable points to the cross where Jesus, having been stripped and whipped, is crucified between two robbers, one on his left and the other on his right, as the priests look on and mock.

Next, Jesus is the chance by which first a priest and then, in the same manner, an assistant to the priests, come across the man in need of assistance, as they are busy trying to make their way up, not down. The word Luke uses for chance literally means ‘with the Master,’ or divine coincidence. Who will Jesus bring across our path—or, whose path will Jesus bring us across—this week? And how will we respond?

Jesus is also the Samaritan, who enters into a covenant with the man in need, binding-up his brokenness.

And Jesus is the inn to which the Samaritan brought the man, and the innkeeper who would continue to minister to him. The Persian word for inn is caravanserai, or travellers’ palace. The Greek word Luke uses is pandocheion, or ‘all-receiving,’ the place where allmare welcomed. Elsewhere, Jesus uses yet another related word to describe the sheepfold to which he is the gate. Such inns provided rooms for traders, travellers and pilgrims, on one or more levels, around the four sides of a central courtyard, with one way in and out. Jesus is both the gate, and the innkeeper, the host who welcomes all.

Jesus is everywhere you look in this parable.

And the church is called to be those who accompany Jesus on the way down, who lay down our lives, who notice divine coincidences, who enter into covenant relationships with our neighbours, who bring them to the travellers’ palace, to the host who welcomes all, who receives all.

Today, I want us to pay particular attention to what it means for the inn to be the gathered church in the parable. For the building we come to on a regular basis, as a place of hospitality on our journey through life, to be a community that receives all who comes through the door.

What would that look like, in practice?

Luke 10.25-37

‘Just then a lawyer stood up to test Jesus. ‘Teacher,’ he said, ‘what must I do to inherit eternal life?’ He said to him, ‘What is written in the law? What do you read there?’ He answered, ‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbour as yourself.’ And he said to him, ‘You have given the right answer; do this, and you will live.’

‘But wanting to justify himself, he asked Jesus, ‘And who is my neighbour?’ Jesus replied, ‘A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell into the hands of robbers, who stripped him, beat him, and went away, leaving him half dead. Now by chance a priest was going down that road; and when he saw him, he passed by on the other side. So likewise a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. But a Samaritan while travelling came near him; and when he saw him, he was moved with pity. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, having poured oil and wine on them. Then he put him on his own animal, brought him to an inn, and took care of him. The next day he took out two denarii, gave them to the innkeeper, and said, “Take care of him; and when I come back, I will repay you whatever more you spend.” Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbour to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?’ He said, ‘The one who showed him mercy.’ Jesus said to him, ‘Go and do likewise.’’

 

come near

 

‘As you go, proclaim the good news, “The kingdom of heaven has come near.”’ Jesus

‘The kingdom of heaven has come near’ means that the very life of God — the life that creates and redeems and sustains all life — is reaching out to us, is made available to us, that we might know life in all its fullness. That the character, power, and resources of God might shape our lives, enabling us to be not superhuman but simply, astonishingly, fully human.

Are you anxious? It is possible to know peace.

Are you in a position to administer justice? It is possible to be strengthened to do what is right even when it is hard, even when it is not expedient.

Are you on the receiving end of injustice? It is possible to know that long-suffering endurance that transforms anger into resilience and restrains us from adding our own wrongs to theirs.

Is your body and/or mind shattered by pain? It is possible to know the wholeness of being held together, by love.

Are we struggling to forgive ourselves, or someone else? It is possible to know forgiveness.

Do we grieve the loss of a loved one? It is possible to know what it is to be comforted.

Has the life you hoped for come to a tragic end? It is possible to receive a new life, and even to flourish within it.

The kingdom of heaven has come near. That is good news, wherever we find ourselves. Whatever life looks like in this moment, or season. Good news, in a myriad of ways.

If you have ever known life, known your life renewed or given back to you or simply still here against all the odds, you have experienced the kingdom of heaven drawn near, whether you realised it or not.

Not that this is easy. It is neither a magic wand that erases difficulty nor a drug that numbs us. It is a daily dependency on a higher power, on the highest power, on power given away to others, made perfect in human weakness.

But it is good news, worth proclaiming.

 

weighty

 

In the Gospels, we read of Jesus sending out seventy (or seventy-two) of his apprentices, in pairs, ahead of him to every settlement he intended to pass through, to prepare the way. Luke’s account turned up in the Lectionary (the set passages read day by day, and Sunday by Sunday) on Sunday, and Matthew’s account turns up tomorrow.

In Matthew’s account, Jesus instructs them to find out who is worthy. The Greek word translated ‘worthy’ means, ‘who is the same weight as them.’ Not in a literal pounds and ounces or kilogrammes sense, but in a social and relational sense.

An example: imagine a White British grandmother, whose neighbours are a Pakistani Muslim family. She might feel that they have nothing in common, yet might come to find a connection with the Pakistani grandmother, because, despite real cultural differences, at one level a grandmother is a grandmother is a grandmother, and grandmothers might share a bond that no one who is not a grandmother can know.

And the point is not that we cannot build bridges across divides — intergenerational divides, cultural divides, or any difference — but, precisely, that if we are to build such bridges, the best place to start is where we find common ground. Common experience. Someone whose ‘weight’ is equal to our own.

The best place to start proclaiming good news is to find someone worthy, someone of comparable weight, or life experience, to your own. And from there, god news spreads through their connections, to other people whose lives have some common point — some point where their lives balance — with theirs.

So, who do you know who is the same weight as you?

Matthew 10.7-15

‘As you go, proclaim the good news, “The kingdom of heaven has come near.” Cure the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the lepers, cast out demons. You received without payment; give without payment. Take no gold, or silver, or copper in your belts, no bag for your journey, or two tunics, or sandals, or a staff; for labourers deserve their food. Whatever town or village you enter, find out who in it is worthy, and stay there until you leave. As you enter the house, greet it. If the house is worthy, let your peace come upon it; but if it is not worthy, let your peace return to you. If anyone will not welcome you or listen to your words, shake off the dust from your feet as you leave that house or town. Truly I tell you, it will be more tolerable for the land of Sodom and Gomorrah on the day of judgement than for that town.’