good news, bad news

 

When Paul and Barnabas give a man born lame the ability to walk, the citizens of Lystra believe them to be the gods Hermes (the Messenger) and Zeus, and make preparations to honour them with sacrifices and a feast. This is a perfectly reasonable assumption, given their cultural frame of reference.

Therefore, when Paul defeats (the spirit of) Python in Philippi, we would expect the local population to assume that he was the god Apollo. Instead, Paul and Silas are thrown into Tartarus, the deepest dungeon of the underworld.

The difference is that in Philippi, Paul’s proclamation of the good news of salvation in the name of Jesus results directly in loss for a gang who have invested in grooming a vulnerable child for their financial gain.

Such people have always been dangerous.

The gospel should always be good news for the most vulnerable, and a problem for those who would exploit them.

 

cloud

 

While Luke records Jesus’ ascension — twice — for a primarily gentile audience whose reference point would be the cloud-enveloped Mount Olympus, home of the gods, the witnesses to the ascension and the first people they recounted this event to were Jews.

I don’t think that it would have been hard for the disciples to tell people about the ascension of Jesus into heaven — however that sounds to our ears — because it made sense within the Jewish mythos. Among other stories, it resonated with:

the ascent of Moses into the thick cloud enveloping Mount Sinai, to meet with the God who had just brought his people out of captivity in Egypt;

the dedication of the temple in Jerusalem built by king Solomon, the son of king David, when God descended on his earthly footstool, the temple being filled with the cloud of God’s glory;

the carrying of the prophet Elijah into the heavens, without having tasted death, in a fiery chariot pulled by fiery, flying, spirit horses;

the exilic prophet Daniel’s vision of the Son of Man, a vision symbolising the people of God being brought before the heavenly court by the prosecutor — the satan — but vindicated by God, the Judge.

So for Jews hearing testimony of Jesus’ ascension, they would hear a claim that Jesus is the new Moses, who leads God’s people out from captivity to sin and death, and establishes a new covenant; the new Solomon, a royal descendant of David who establishes a new temple; the new Elijah, greatest of prophets, through whom the community lives in fidelity to the covenant; the new Son of Man, or people of God, vindicated by God and released from their exile.

Whether they accepted or rejected the claim, they would recognise it as a claim to meet their most fundamental longings.

Jesus is all this and more, the fulfilment of the Jewish mythos, just as he is also — as Luke will set out — the fulfilment of the Gentile mythos. The one to whom every story points, and in whom every story comes home.

That we live in a culture that so easily dismisses mystery reveals the impoverishment of our imagination. But the human — heart and mind and soul and strength — is created for mystery, is refreshed and restored through encounters with mystery.

In the ascension of Jesus, our human nature is taken up into mystery, for our salvation, our being made whole.

 

true story

 

What is not to like about Greek mythology? It is full of tales of gods and mortals that have stood the test of time, and many re-tellings (say hi to Percy Jackson from me). They do so because they reveal to us something of what it is to be human in this world, a world in which we see rapacious men seek to claim and consolidate power for themselves, and neighbours caught up in generational wars.

And that is what myths do. They are stories that are true, a true reflection of the world. When we dismiss them as nonsense woven by people who profoundly lacked our knowledge of the world, we show our ignorance, our failure to understand their purpose, the difference between a thing (the cosmos, say) and its significance. When Christians dismiss the gods of Greece, or any other culture, as not real, we diminish our understanding of the created order, which is both seen and unseen.

I believe that the Olympian gods exist, or existed. I am not a monotheist, that is, someone who believes only one God exists. I am a monolatrist: that is, I believe in the existence of many gods — we might also call them angels, demons, powers, principalities — and I even revere some (this afternoon I shall attend a neighbouring parish church dedicated to the archangel Gabriel) but I only trust my life to (believe in) one God; I only offer my existence, as a living sacrifice, to one God.

The issue that I have with the gods of Mount Olympus is not that they are false, so much as that they are inadequately true.

Their stories reveal much about the world, but leave us at its mercy. And while we are blessed by the earth, we also suffer. When it comes to human dealings, we both suffer evil at the hands of others and inflicted evil on others by our own hand — whether imposing vengeance for some real or imagined slight, or withholding good from those in need.

The story of Jesus is the best story I know. It is the story in which all stories find their fulfilment, in which all life can find its fullest meaning and purpose.

It is the story of the restoration of all things, the healing of every relationship, however torn they have become.

 

He ascended into heaven

 

Today is Ascension Day, the day the Church remembers that forty days after he was raised from the dead, Jesus returned — physically, bodily — to heaven, ascending into the clouds. From there, ten days later, he would send the Holy Spirit, made visible as fire that engulfed the disciples without burning them.

What do you make of this claim?

Luke, the author of the two-part work Luke-Acts, writing for a Gentile audience, records Jesus’ ascension into heaven twice: at the end of his first volume, and the start of his second volume. How would the audience he wrote for understand this event?

According to Greek mythology, the generation of gods before the Olympian gods were the Titans. The Titan Chronos (Time) castrated his own father, Uranus (the sky, heavens) (this is why the sky bleeds red each evening and morning) and swallowed five of his own children, at birth, to prevent them from usurping him. But he was tricked, by his wife Rhea, into swallowing a stone instead of their youngest child, Zeus.

When Zeus had grown, he worked with his grandmother (and great-grandmother) Gaia (Earth) to release his siblings from their father’s stomach, and together, with help, they fought the Titans over a ten-year war. Despite being one of the Titans, Prometheus — who had created humans from clay — chose to side with the children of Chronos.

After the Olympians won, and had thrown most of the Titans into Tartarus, they wanted to decide what sacrifices mortals should offer to them as gods. Prometheus, the great champion of his creation, tricked Zeus into choosing the fat-covered bones of an animal sacrifice, so the humans could enjoy the meat. Angry at having been tricked, Zeus revoked the gift of fire from mortals. But Prometheus stole fire from the gods and brought it back to his cherished creatures.

As punishment, Zeus had Prometheus chained to a mountain where an eagle — symbol of Zeus, and, later, symbol of the Roman empire — would eat his liver. Every night, the liver would regenerate, only to be eaten again the following day, in an eternal torment. However, later, Zeus’ son Heracles persuaded his father to allow him to set Prometheus free. But by then, Prometheus and the humans had been further punished by the creation of woman — Pandora — who succumbed to the temptation of opening a jar containing every evil known to humanity, releasing them into the world, leaving only hope in the bottom of the jar.

The parallels between Prometheus and Jesus include:

Chained to a mountain/hung from a tree;

Liver eaten by an eagle/side pierced by a Roman soldier;

(Sometimes) welcome on Mount Olympus, the cloud-shrouded home of the gods where mortals could not go/ascending into the clouds to the realm of God (and remaining there);

The one who returns fire to humans/the one who sends the Holy Spirit — known in the past by a limited few, but now given to all — made visible as fire.

These are clear parallels, but there are also transformative differences:

Jesus is not crucified because he has angered the sky god, but by mortals to whom he had been sent by the God of heaven and earth with a message of reconciliation;

This god is not persuaded by another actor to show mercy to Jesus, but raises him in accordance with his own will, in an act of vindication and of judgement on those who had put Jesus to death;

Jesus’ willingness even to die, and to freely forgive his executioners, is an acceptable sacrifice from humans to God;

Jesus takes every evil known to humanity into himself and contains and nullifies them there, and instead will pour out God’s permanent, affirming, presence with mortals.

In this way, Luke presents Jesus as the one who is victorious over the older Titans as well as the younger Olympian gods; as the one who fulfils Greek mythology — the hopes and fears of a culture — not through violence but through being humble enough to allow himself to be placed into the hands of humans, to love even his enemies, those who sought to erase him.

Of course, our cultural context is not the same as that of those for whom Luke wrote. But the myth — the true story that transcends its original telling, by which the world is ordered — remains.

 

He descended into hell

 

According to Greek mythology, only two mortals had descended into the underworld realm of the dead and returned to the world of the living. Both were demi-gods.

Theseus was a son of Poseidon, god of the sea. Among the many adventures of Theseus were his six labours, in which he defeated six villainous bandits, one at each of the six entrances to the underworld. Theseus joined his friend Pirithous in his attempt to abduct Persephone, the wife of Hades, god of the underworld. However, they failed in their quest, remaining trapped.

Heracles was a son of Zeus, God of the sky. Among his many adventures were the twelve tasks. Driven mad by Hera, who vented her anger towards her husband at his illegitimate children, Heracles murdered his own wife and children. Restored to his right mind, he sought out the pythonic Oracle at Delphi to discover how he could atone for his sins. Unknown to him, the Oracle spoke only as directed by Hera, who determined that his penance would be to serve king Eurystheus for ten years and perform any task the king required of him. The king initially set Heracles ten tasks, later adding a further two, the last of which was to capture Cerberus, the three-headed guard dog of the underworld, and present him before Eurystheus. While on this quest, Heracles found his cousin, and Persephone was persuaded to grant him clemency (though Pirithous remained captive). Hades was persuaded to let his nephew borrow his dog, on the condition that Cerberus was returned unharmed.

In Acts 16, Luke, the biographer of Jesus and historian of the early church, describes Jesus as the one who is victorious over the Greek monsters, gods, and heroes. But he does not defeat them through heroic labours — even if the church told the story of Jesus dying, descending to the realm of the dead, preaching there, (harrowing hell) and returning to the world of the living on the third day.

Jesus is victorious over both the giant serpent Python and the god Apollo through Paul noticing the girl whom others saw only as child labour to be exploited, and freeing her with just an authoritative word.

Jesus is victorious over the monstrous dog Cerberus and the god Hades (along with Theseus and Heracles, and Poseidon and Zeus) through Paul expressing compassion towards the man tasked with denying him his freedom.

This is dynamite.

It is radically different from the way in which Greek gods and mortals see, and treat, one another.

This is how the church grew exponentially over the following three centuries.

Through care.

 

Jesus and the fulfilment of Greek mythology

 

In the earliest recorded proclamations of Jesus as Saviour and Lord, the likes of Peter and Stephen show how Jesus fulfils Jewish hopes and expectations. But as Gentiles start to profess faith in Jesus, there is a need also to demonstrate ways in which Jesus fulfils their own mythologies or meaning-making stories.

When Paul and his companions arrive in Philippi, they encounter a young slave girl who possesses/is possessed by the spirit of Python, by which she utters oracles. She informs all who gather to hear her that these men are slaves of the Most High God who brings them news of a way of salvation (that Way being Jesus). Paul commands the spirit to release the girl and depart. Realising that their means of making an income from the girl is now lost, her owners have Paul and Silas brought before the magistrates, who have them beaten and thrown into the innermost cell of the city prison. That night, an earthquake jail-brakes them, causing the gaoler to intend to fall on his sword. But Paul prevents him from doing so, as none of the prisoners have escaped. In severance, the gaoler asks them what he must do to be saved from destruction into divine protection, and professes Jesus as Lord, bringing Paul and Silas into his home, washing their wounds, being himself baptised along with his household, and hosting a feast in honour of his guests.

According to one version of the story, Zeus, the king of the Olympian gods and serial adulterer, fathered the twins Artemis and Apollo by the goddess Leto. Zeus’ (older sister and) principal wife, Hera, was angered by her husband’s infidelity, and sent the giant serpent Python, who guarded the centre of the world (obviously in Greece) to pursue and kill the pregnant Leto. Leto evaded capture, Python only catching up with her when her twins were four days old. Carrying them in HR arms as she ran, she told her son to shoot at her attacker (both twins were acclaimed archers, apparently from birth) and Apollo’s arrow killed Python. Apollo then took the shrine of the Oracle at Delphi, previously guarded by Python, for his own shrine.

In vanquishing the Python who possessed the slave girl, Paul is, in effect, claiming that Jesus — the Way of salvation — fulfils the role of Apollo, that is, the aspirations invested in Apollo.

For such audacity — mortal heroes claiming equality with an Olympian god — Paul and Silas are judged and sentenced to Tartarus, the furthest point of the underworld from the earth, that is, the innermost cell of the jail. Tartarus had originally been the prison in which the Titans held the three one-eyed monsters and three one-hundred-armed monsters captive. But Zeus had freed them, enlisting their help in overthrowing the Titans (Zeus’ father Chronos had swallowed his older sisters and brothers). Now Tartarus was the prison for mortal kings who had defied the Olympian gods. Only two mortals — the demi-gods Heracles (a son of Zeus) and Theseus (a son of Poseidon) — had ever returned from the realm of the underworld to the earth above (Theseus, held captive, had been rescued by Heracles, who met him at the edge of Tartarus while undertaking one of his twelve labours).

The gaoler functions as both Cerberus, the three-headed hound that guards the realm of the dead (a canine goaler) and also Hades, god of the underworld, who brings Paul and Silas up out of the pit of Tartarus to feast with him in Elysium, that part of the underworld reserved for heroes.

In effect, in this short account of Paul’s time in Philippi, Jesus is demonstrated as being victorious over the giant creatures Python and Cerberus, the heroes Heracles and Theseus, and the gods Apollo, Hades, Zeus, and Poseidon. Indeed, in time, the followers of Jesus would outnumber the followers of the gods, and his story would become the story in which fears were brought to peace and desires fulfilled.

We humans seek salvation — being delivered from dissonance into wholeness, from danger into safety — through the stories we tell. While the Greek and other ancient mythologies no longer have cultic worshippers, they still have a hold on our imagination. There are, some say, only so many stories, retold over and over in different clothes, in different cultures. We have our own cultural stories, our own epic heroes (celebrities). Luke, the first historian of the church, sought to show how Jesus fulfilled the stories of both Jews and Greeks. In our day, Jesus fulfils the stories — the hopes and fears, the aspirations — we tell, seeking our own security in an uncertain world. Jesus is still Lord (not the servant of Christian Nationalists).

 

a good story : part 5

 

The motto of Sunderland, the city where I live, is NIL DESPERANDUM, AUSPICE DEO, which roughly translates as, ‘Do not despair, trust in God.’

The words are adapted from a line in the Odes of Horace, spoken by Teucer. Teucer was a mythical Greek prince, son of the king of the island of Salamis, who took part in the decade-long siege of Troy. This intractable conflict, between relatives on either side of the Aegean Sea, was provoked by Zeus, king of the gods of Olympus, to deal with human over-population and, at the same time, the personal problem that his serial sexual violence towards (goddesses and) human women (alike) had resulted in the birth of many demi-god heroes, whose very existence was an affront to Zeus’ wife, Hera. If they could be provoked to destroy one another, Zeus’ problems might go away.

At Troy, Teucer (a grandson of Zeus) found fame as an archer, often firing at the Trojans from behind the giant shield of his older half-brother, Ajax. (Zeus eventually broke his grandson’s bow, just to influence the balance of the war.) Teucer was also one of the men who finally breached Troy’s defences inside the wooden horse. But towards the end of the war, Ajax, despairing at being overlooked in favour of Odysseus to inherit the fallen Achilles’ armour, took his own life. Teucer insisted that Ajax be buried where he died. After the war, on returning home, their father accused Teucer of negligence for not having brought Ajax’s body, and armour, home, and banished him for ever. At this point, Teucer set out onto unknown seas in search of a new home, inspiring his companions that there was no need to despair (at their banishment) with Teucer as their guide, for the god Apollo had assured him of success: he will found a new Salamis elsewhere.

Do not despair, trust in God.

But does it matter which god?

In Acts 16, Paul and his companions set sail from the Troad — the vicinity of ancient Troy — across the Aegean Sea to Macedonia (north of the Achaeans who went to war against Troy, but by now — that is, Paul’s time — both what we would recognise as Greek).

Paul comes as the new Teucer, a man exiled from his birth community, who has set out on the Sea of life in an uncertain world, proclaiming not himself as a guide backed by one or another member of the feuding family of Olympian gods, but Jesus as the leader (guide) backed by the God of the Jews.

(Luke, who records Paul’s story, is the new Homer, and a rival storyteller to Horace, who, by fascinating coincidence had served in the Battle of Philippi, where Paul would arrive a hundred years later, and who had reimagined Teucer’s story to proclaim Octavian — later, Augustus — as the founder of a new beginning.)

The question is, which story will you choose? Which guide, or leader to follow? Teucer? Augustus? Jesus? Someone else?

To whom will you look when tempted to despair?

 

a good story : part 4

 

The first person to accept Jesus as Lord in (over) Macedonia is not a Macedonian but a Lydian. Nonetheless, it was Macedonians that Paul, in a night vision, was asked to rescue. This raises questions. From what did they need rescuing? And, what made them open to being rescued by the good news Paul would bring them? I shall turn to the second question first.

Greek religion had three distinct strands: civic religion (my duty towards my neighbours; duty towards the patron god/goddess of your city for the good of the city); natural religion, or philosophy (thinking about the nature of the world, and of divine and human beings); and mystery religion (a sense of awe and wonder). Of these three strands, the second and third were optional, and could sit alongside or challenge the first/others. True to its Jewish roots, Christianity did not separate these three strands but held them together; though over the past three centuries they have been separated out again, such that it is assumed that you can be a heritage-Christian without participating in corporate ritual worship, or that congregations might serve their neighbours without recourse to a sense of awe and wonder.

The Macedonians recognised that civic religion — duty towards your neighbour — needed to be sustained by mystery religion: by an awareness of awe and wonder, crucially engaged with in communion with others, supported by ritual and liturgy. This is something we have largely lost to individualism.

Moreover, the Macedonians acknowledged their fears and pressed into them. The mystery religion centred on Samothraki was particularly concerned with seeking assurance of being kept safe while crossing the sea — and to secure such assurance, devotees had to cross the sea. That is a fascinating psychological insight. It flies in the face of our attempts to numb our fears, though it does perhaps feed into modern self-help advice.

So the Macedonians had much going for them. What, then, did they need rescuing from? I am inclined to find generic answers unsatisfying, and look instead for storied answers. Therefore, I might suggest that they needed rescuing from being stranded ‘half way there,’ wherever ‘there’ might be. This is why Paul travels from Alexandria Troas to Samothraki and then from Samothraki to Neapolis, Philippi, and beyond. He does not even stay two nights, as those seeking to be fully initiated into the mystery religion must do. Samothraki does not become his touchstone; but it is a stepping stone. It gets Paul from Asia Minor to Macedonia, and it gets the Macedonians from captivity in limbo to the kingdom of heaven, the expanding story of the justice and peace of heaven administered on earth through Jesus the anointed one.

 

a good story : part 3

 

When Paul has a night vision of a Macedonian asking him to cross over from the Troad to Macedonia and rescue the Macedonians, he and his companions sail across the Thracian Sea (the northernmost part of the Aegean Sea) spending a night on the island of Samothrace (Samothraki) (Acts 16.9-15).

It is said that the Sanctuary of the Great Gods was where Philip II of Macedon and his fourth wife, Olympias — the parents of Alexander the Great — met, and by Paul’s time it had been the Macedonian national sanctuary for several centuries. It was the centre of a mystery religion, that is, a religion with a focus on rituals that only the initiated witnessed; as such, it could be understood as an optional add-on to the expected participation in civil religion, and Samothraki’s popularity had not waned under Roman rule.

The Great Gods whose sanctuary was at Samothraki were particularly associated with protection at sea, which made them popular with sailors, travellers, adventurers, and would-be rulers alike. Unlike other mystery religions available at the time, who venerated particular days, initiation into the Samothracean mysteries was available throughout much of the year (the sailing season) and, moreover, made no distinction between men and women, adults and children, Greeks and non-Greeks. Anyone who came desiring initiation into the mysteries was welcome. Proceedings were overseen by a priestess. Initiation took place over two nights. On the first night, the first level of entry into the mysteries began with a ritual washing. Initiates received a purple headband, and a magnetised ring. At the second, optional, stage of initiation on the following night, initiates confessed their sins. Both nights concluded with a banquet.

It is inconceivable that Paul spent a night in Samothraki and did not encounter people who had sailed there to be initiated into the mystery religion.

When Paul and his companions arrive in Philippi they meet a Lydian woman, a dealer in purple (cloth; headbands?), who is open to their message, who along with her household is initiated into the Way of Jesus, and presides at a banquet that night.

The parallels are not exactly shrouded.

The story that Luke tells is that Jesus is the fulfilment of the desire — the motives — that drew Macedonians to Samothraki in search of participation in a mystery, in hope of protection at sea, in expression of a ‘national’ identity that was inclusive in embrace. And that, good though those desires were, Jesus rescues those Macedonians who will receive him from a superficial mystery and from unknowable, impersonal, and untrustworthy gods.

Nonetheless, there is much that is good about the Macedonian mystery, not least its egalitarianism and table-fellowship. Paul does not come to erase their journey so far towards knowing God in Jesus, but to see that journey come to fulfilment.

I am called to preside at the table for a community of those who follow Jesus, in the context of a society whose civil religion (sometimes called ‘British values’) is increasingly hostile to mystery or egalitarianism, in a parish named for St Nicholas, who was venerated as one who could offer protection at sea. Our parish church is, in a sense, a sanctuary for those who find themselves ‘lost at sea’ in the storms of life. There is much that is good about British society, and both the hopes and fears of her people should rightly be acknowledged and understood. The key is to chart a passage between those desires and the One in whom our desires find safe harbour (something, interestingly, that Samothraki lacked).

 

a good story : part 2

 

Once upon a time, my wife visited Hannover, sight-seeing. While there, she walked the Red Thread, a 4,200m narrow ‘red carpet’ painted on the pavement that takes visitors to the city on a self-guided tour of 36 must-see highlights.

When she got home, she told one of our sons all about the things she had seen, complete with photos so he could see them too. The next day, she did it all again for me. It was obvious that she wanted to share the experience, even though we had not been able to travel with her, and listening to her recount her adventures drew us in.

This is what we bring home from our travels: not just laundry to be washed, or some small souvenir or duty-free purchase, but stories.

When Luke (who wrote the two-part work Luke-Acts) wanted to tell Theophilus (the friend for whom he was writing; possibly a patron, possibly not an individual but any Gentile devoted to the god of the Jews — theophilus means lover of god — who was interested in finding out about Jesus) about his trip to Philippi, where he met an unnamed Lydian woman who dealt in purple and whose household was baptised into the Way of Jesus, he made sure to include that his journey took in a stop-off on Samothraki.

Theophilus would have known that Samothraki was the home of the Sanctuary of the Great Gods, a household of deities whose names were a closely-kept secret, whose matriarch was the Great Mother, venerated at altars made of purple stone.

Luke doesn’t mention the temple complex explicitly, but he doesn’t need to. While I needed to be told about the sights of Hannover, the Sanctuary of Samothraki was more equivalent to the Eiffel Tower or the Statue of Liberty. Common cultural currency.

The stories recorded in the library we know as the Bible exist on more than one level. The question, ‘Did this event take place or is it a way of conveying a deeper truth?’ fails to grasp the nature of such writing. In Acts 16, we hear about a household who are baptised into the Way of Jesus; but we should also understand this as an expression of the triumph and reign of Jesus, the human god, over the family of Great Gods of the Macedonian world.

That is to say, the conversion of the Lydian woman’s household is a manifestation of the rescue that the Macedonian who appeared to Paul in a night vision asked him to bring about.

Here is the thing: stories are our best attempt to navigate the world we live in; but our stories — personal histories, national myths, worldviews — can also hold us captive, ultimately to the fear of death, to the inevitable possibility of losing our (way of) life. But the claim of Christianity is that the God who created the world we live in set Jesus as Lord and Saviour, first over a wayward people scattered across the eastern Mediterranean, to reign over the gods of the empires that surrounded them, and from there expanding outward to reign over every story. Not by erasing them, but by setting them free from captivity, free to help us navigate deeper into the unknown without fear. Into an even greater story, that is both bigger still and more personal.

Your story is set against the backdrop of a bigger story — late Modernism, for one — and one that waits to be transformed, or rather, is being transformed all around us. One that needs your story, and the compelling story of Jesus. That story is currently ongoing. Where we are on the Red Thread — somewhere between 1 and 36 — and what we will experience along the way is ongoing. Enjoy it. Be sure to take photos, to take hold of memories, to be open to whomever you might meet on the Way, to recount the experience. Tell more, and better, stories.

 

a good story : part 1

 

A good story will often turn on the smallest of seemingly incidental details.

One night, Paul, stuck in the Troad on the northwest coast of Asia Minor, has a vision in which he meets a man from Macedonia. In a beautiful mutuality, the man comforts Paul — who is stuck, and frustrated — and asks him to cross the northern Aegean Sea to rescue the Macedonians.

When morning comes, Paul and his travelling companions decide to go: “We set sail from Troas [the harbour of Alexandria Troas] and took a straight course to [the island of] Samothrace, the following day to [the harbour of] Neapolis, and from there to Philippi, which is a leading city of the district of Macedonia and a Roman colony.” (Acts 16.11, 12)

There is not a lot for Ancient or Modern tourists to do in Samothraki. Nonetheless, ancient tourists came, to visit the Sanctuary of the Great Gods. Unlike the gods of Mount Olympus, the Great Gods were shrouded in mystery: it was taboo to speak their names. They were, simply, the household of the Great Mother, who was venerated at altars made of porphyry, purple stone.

Though Luke — the author of the two-part work The Gospel According to Luke and The Acts of the Apostles; and who has just made himself a first-hand eye-witness to this sea journey — makes no mention of the night Paul spent on Samothraki, it is inconceivable that they did not visit the Sanctuary of the Great Gods, or speak with other travellers, who had come here for that very purpose, about their hopes and fears: about what they were searching for and what brought them to this place.

The next day they continue on their journey, arriving eventually at Philippi, and staying there for several days. Whereas Jewish communities were widespread in Asia Minor, and it was Paul’s practice to seek them out, there was no synagogue — a gathering of the Jewish community: from which the Church derives the word Synod — in Philippi. Therefore Paul and his companions looked for a gathering — that is, a ‘synagogue,’ if not a synagogue — of god-fearing women, Gentiles who were drawn to worship the God of the Jews.

There, they meet a woman who has come to be known to us as Lydia. Except, that was not her name. Lydia was an ancient kingdom and by this time region of Asia Minor from where this woman came. She was a Lydian woman, identified as the Lydian woman, from the city of Thyatira in Lydia. Thyatira was the home of many syndicates: records exist for guilds of wool-workers, linen-workers, cloak-makers, dyers, leather-workers, tanners, potters, bakers, slave-traders, and bronze-smiths. The Lydian woman who lived in Philippi was a dealer in purple. It is unclear whether a dealer of purple cloth or a dealer in purple dye: either way, a syndicate member, or syndicate-adjacent.

This is the hidden detail: a woman whose identity is shrouded in mystery and associated with purple, who is the Great Mother/the mother of the first recorded church in Europe.

This is not to say that the story of the Church is derived from older stories, but, rather, to say that the story of the Church transforms existing imagination. Not to demystify the stories by which we navigate the world, but to lead us deeper into a mystery the surface of which we had barely scratched. It does so to connect with existing hopes and fears; to purify our desires; to set us free from our night terrors; free, to be at home in our own lives — even though having no name in the world — and so to be a home in this world for the God who is Love.

This is what it means for the God who is revealed in the human god Jesus, whose risen life his apprentices participate in, to cross into our lives to rescue us.

And it turns on the smallest of incidental details, even your small life, and mine.

 

on love

 

If you live long enough, you will eventually become dependent on the care of another, perhaps to come into your home and help you get up — that is, to rise — washed and dressed, to make sure that you are eating, and taking your medication.

When this happens at scale, across the population, it looks like this: since ‘taking back control’ of our borders, we have given an unprecedented number of visas to workers from overseas who work on our hospital wards, in our residential care homes, and in our own homes — and still we have a shortfall in numbers. Or like this: our parliamentary representatives are debating whether the Assisted Dying Bill is an angel of mercy, or the very devil himself disguised as an angel of light.

Not many members of my congregation are quite at the stage of needing this kind of care, yet; but as a congregation, we have been, for a while now. We are unable to do certain things for ourselves, which in the past were a matter of course. We are not able to provide a treasurer from among ourselves, and are dependent on the help of someone from a neighbouring congregation. We do not have succession in place for church wardens or a Parish Safeguarding Officer (PSO). We are by no means unique in this regard, across the Church, across the nation.

I want to say, and to say quite strongly, that this is not failure — though it undoubtedly feels that way, and I wrestle with such feelings often — but a natural season of life. Congregations (and other communities), like individuals, experience life cycles: birth, growth, vitality, maturity, aging, decline, death — and resurrection.

On the night that he was arrested, hours before his state execution, Jesus told his apprentices that the glory of God is revealed in the world by the way we love one another. This can certainly involve how we serve one another — Jesus had just washed their feet — but at this moment none of them can do anything to serve him, or one another. Jesus did not say, the glory of God is revealed in what you are able to do, the tasks you are able to take on.

The question for my congregation at this time is, what does it look like to love one another in this season of life?

What does it look like to love one another in a Christ-like way when we are dependent on others to do simple as well as complex tasks for us?

What does it look like to love one another in this way, without turning in on ourselves defensively — such that we are unable to welcome the care of others (whose lives will almost certainly look quite different to our own) and to recognise the new thing that God is doing? Because, alongside this, God is doing a new thing.

The invitation is to discover the answer to this question, not only for our own sake but for the good of the wider society whom we are also called to love. If we are able to do so, we will have deep wisdom to share. Our lives will be a beacon of glory in a dark world, and people will be drawn to the light. If not, we will have only bitterness and regret, a share in the darkness.

May the Spirit of God, who makes Christ known in the world, draw us to him and empower us to love one another.

 

on being present

 

Humans are not omnipresent, but learning how to be in two or three places at the same time is an essential part of being human. Today has been my weekly day away from work, and I have spent much of the day in Québec with Armand Gamache. Because I did not leave my reading chair, I was able to take an-hour-and-a-quarter out earlier this evening to go for a run with a few more-local friends.

Theologically, a Christian is in at least two places at once: wherever they happen to be on earth, and seated with Christ in the heavenly places. But we also occupy more than one place, simultaneously, when we recall the past — our own; or some other period of history, such as reading the Gospels — or call to mind friends who are physically distant. Those who live with dementia are present in two (or more) places at the same time, and while this is undoubtedly draining for those around them, it should not be seen in an entirely negative light. They are being human, not losing their human nature and identity. They are, arguably, showing us something crucial to being human that we have forgotten or failed to recognise.

Fiction helps us develop the skills of bi-presence, or multiple presence. The problem with social media is not so much that we are not fully present where we are, physically — in this sense, it is no different to being ‘lost’ (or, found) in a good book — but that we are never present anywhere long enough. It is like being on a bus: no sooner have you noted where you are, than you have moved on again. There is a place for bus journeys, and for scrolling Facebook, but at some point it is time to step off again. To take note.

As someone who, for neurodivergent reasons, struggles with processing sensory information such as sound, bi-present noticing can be tricky. If I am reading something and someone speaks to me, I won't hear what they are saying, to begin with. This isn't rudeness on my part (or on theirs, for gatecrashing) but neither is it a problem with being in two places at once: it is simply a feature of this human reality, and demonstrates why we need to practice these skills. And though today is my weekly day away from work, it is part of my work to help people live well in two or more spaces simultaneously, as an essential part of being fully human.

And with that, I am heading back to Québec/my vicarage in northeast England.

 

you are what you eat

 

Summary: over-identified tribalism blinds us to the grace of God at work in and through people who do not look like us.

It has been said, ‘You are what you eat.’ Everyone eats, but what you eat, and how you eat, is inseparable from cultural and religious identity. Just across the street from my vicarage, I can eat Chinese or Indian food, sometimes pizza (this takeaway is more often ‘between owners’ than it is a going concern), fish and chips — our national dish, originating with Jewish immigrants — or a traditional ‘British’ carvery. We are a nation of immigrants, and we are all shaped by all of the other immigrants. Some are pushing us to be ‘a nation of strangers,’ but that would be a violation of who we are. The table has always been the God-given mechanism for transforming strangers into friends.

There is a significant moment in the story of the Church that is recounted (in fact, this story is recounted more than once) in the Acts of the Apostles. Peter is praying on the flat rooftop — the space for hospitality, for entertaining guests — when he has a vision. He sees a vessel, like a sheet, lowered from heaven. It contains many animals and birds that, as a Jew, he was prohibited from eating. He hears a voice instructing him to rise (as from the dead), sacrifice what had previously been an unacceptable sacrifice, and eat. This he refused to do, for he was an observant Jew. But the voice from heaven told him that God had now redesignated these creatures as permissible food. Three times, Peter is instructed to eat. Three times, he refuses. Then the vessel is withdrawn up to heaven. Immediately after this, a delegation arrives searching for Peter, asking that he comes with them to the home of a Roman centurion, and Peter understands that the vision was a form of preparation for this moment.

The Law of Moses gave instructions concerning what the Jews could eat, and how it was to be prepared, and also what they were prohibited from eating. These serve as a cultural marker. To live in the world as part of this people, of all the peoples of the earth, is to embrace certain parameters. You are what you eat.

This does not mean that other people, who eat according to different scripts, are inferior in any way, including morally. It is simply a way of being distinguishable, as a person embedded within a community.

Labels are helpful. They can also become unhelpful. I am autistic. This helps me to recognise that I am not a law unto myself, but part of something bigger; and that that thing in itself is part of something bigger still, the whole neurodiversity of human experience. But if I allow myself to conclude that being autistic makes me better than allistic people, I have missed the point. The same applies to any label or marker that might describe me, in part, shaping who I am.

As a consequence of entering the home of a Roman as their guest, Peter faces excommunication by a group of hard-line believers whose identity is overly bound-up in the cultural markers of circumcision (in my English translation, they describe the Gentiles as uncircumcised, which sounds purely descriptive; but in fact they are using a slur) and dietary rules. In their eyes, he is no longer one of them.

These men have already made a distinction between themselves and the wider group of believers of whom they are a part. They are the ones, in their own eyes, who are really serious, really committed, true believers. But their over-identification has caused them to be agitated in spirit — not only agitated against others, but agitated within themselves. Peter meets their hostility with grace, and this grace moves them from agitation to a state of quietened spirit, of being at rest within themselves, of being at peace — within themselves as well as with their neighbour. This is the work of the Holy Spirit — whom, Peter affirms, has been given to the Gentile believers just as to the Jewish believers. Their spirits quietened, his erstwhile accusers are able to recognise that God can bring about life-embracing change in others, without their needing to become like them. Healthy assimilation looks like embracing diversity, not uniformity. Is it possible that they recognised the same gift of repentance — the ability to change, to embrace life in its fullness — at work in themselves?

The Church has never managed to grow beyond hard-liners, those who labour in missing the point — who, as Jesus put it, refuse the grace of God for themselves and prevent others from accessing it too. In neurodivergent language, those who require those who are different to them to mask in order to be accepted (tolerated).

But neither has the Church ever managed to grow beyond the grace of God, who gives the Holy Spirit, empowering change, enabling us to embrace a vision that extends beyond our own cultural and religious markers.

‘You are what you eat.’ ‘What God has made clean, you must not call profane.’

 

on glory

 

Summary: we should be slow to excommunicate others, as the glory of God is revealed through them in ways we have (as yet) failed to comprehend.

Fifth Sunday of Easter: Acts 11.1-18 and John 13.31-35.

If there is a theme connecting these two readings, it is recognising God’s glory. The reading from Acts ends with a group of men glorifying (to ascribe value) God (somewhat lost in the NRSVA translation, ‘they praised God’). The reading from John’s Gospel starts with Jesus saying, ‘Now the Son of Man has been glorified, and God has been glorified in him. If God has been glorified in him, God will also glorify him in himself and will glorify him at once.’

The context for recognising God’s glory in the passage from Acts is that the men who recognised God’s glory had planned to excommunicate Peter (to separate themselves from him, to judge him as no longer one of them; again, somewhat lost in the translation ‘criticized’) but their troubled spirits were quietened/brought to rest/at peace, by Peter’s step-by-step explanation of why he had eaten with Gentiles, whom his hard-line critics referred to by a racial slur. God’s glory is seen not in purity of observance — neither orthodoxy nor orthopraxy — but in divine initiative expanding who is included in the life God gives: who may participate in the risen life of the risen Jesus, that quality of life that triumphs over death. (This is the instruction Peter hears from heaven, first to get up — rise, with Christ — and then to offer a previously unacceptable sacrifice that has been redesignated acceptable to God, by God.) The validity of transformation in the Gentiles was not determined by conformity to the expectations and demands of Peter’s accusers (though the new Gentile believers would be asked to embrace minimal accommodations to the sensibilities of their Jewish brothers).

The context for recognising God’s glory in the passage from John is the highly ambiguous preceding verses, in which Jesus reveals that one of his apprentices will betray/entrust him into the hands of another; Jesus shares bread with Judas; Satan — the Accuser — enters into Judas after the bread; Jesus instructs Judas?/Satan? to do what he must do, quickly; having taken hold of the bread, as an act of volition, Judas/Satan escapes/goes out. God is glorified, and glorifies Jesus, through the ambiguous actions of those who oppose him — who, intending to betray Jesus into the hands of those seeking to kill him, in fact entrust him into the hands of the Father — and the equally mysterious actions of Jesus towards Judas/Satan, who does not depart before, in essence, receiving communion. Jesus then reinforces his actions, mandating that his apprentices should wish one another well/take pleasure in/esteem one another in the same way that he — who had just shared bread with Judas — had done. This enemy-love will be — above all else — the revelation to the watching world that they are his apprentices.

When Peter eats with Roman soldiers, and accepts them as brothers and fellow heirs of the life God gives, he is participating in the life of the risen Jesus.

Whenever we claim that a group of people are outside the scope of transformation God has wrought in Jesus, unless they conform to our understanding of that life, we side with those who moved to excommunicate Peter. In the grace of God, they received the gift of being able to change. May that be our story too.

 

mend

 

The world and all that is in it, created, redeemed, and sustained by the triune God, is good. But it is easily and often torn. This is because the fabric of the world is meant to be soft, not hard like armour. The Son of God himself was torn.

We are called to mend the torn fabric of the world, according to our calling to be in the world in a particular way, or as a particular participation in the life of that creating, redeeming, sustaining God. Through carefully considered words, and caring actions.

It is said that a stitch, in time, saves nine. But one stitch is not very secure, and if it is not in keeping with the fabric, it spoils rather than enhances. Ten stitches are more likely to hold, and can be a thing of beauty in themselves. A daisy or a teapot; a leaf or a sun.

Do not ignore any tear you find in the fabric of the world (in a spouse, or a child, or a friend; in yourself, or your worst enemy; in the earth or sea or air; whether self-inflicted, or inflicted by another, or caused by your own clumsy handling) for it will only get larger.

But do not rush to mend it. Especially, do not rush to mend a person (including yourself). To do so will neither hold nor enhance. And do not trust anyone who claims to be able to fix any torn thing quickly; they will only cause more tears. Instead, observe the tear in the fabric, the way it runs. And forgive the fabric for tearing, for not being able to hold, for not bearing your weight day after day indefinitely. Forgive yourself, where necessary; and ask the fabric to forgive you, where appropriate. But do not rush to mend.

A stitch, in time, saves nine; but ten, in time, may better mend the fabric.

 

rise

 

Lectionary texts set for today: Acts 9.36-43 and John 10.22-30.

The Gospel passage set for today opens with John informing us that this account took place in winter. This might feel like an incidental detail, but there are no incidental details in his writing: every word is carefully chosen. The literal meaning of the word that means winter is tempest-driven. That makes sense, though in England these days the storm season lasts from October to October. But I think we can all relate to times in our lives when we are battered by storms.

In this context, Jesus says, to those who follow me, who apprentice their lives to me, I give that quality of life that triumphs over death, and they shall never be separated from that life which flows from God.

The fifty days between Easter and Pentecost are the Season of Resurrection or Season of Life, the annual practice of learning again what it means to live lives that participate in the life of the risen Lord Jesus.

In the reading from Acts, we meet Tabitha. Her life is an example of this. She has been battered by many storms. She is likely a widow and an internally displaced person, who has lost both her husband and her city, and made a new home in Joppa. Here she rises to serve others, mending the torn fabric of the world by making clothes (probably in a street-facing work room) and hosting the church in her upper room.

When Tabitha dies, her friends send for Peter. We read that he got up from where he was receiving hospitality and went to Tabitha; that he told her corpse to get up; and that when she responded, he helped her up. For all these risings, the author, Luke, uses the same word that is used to describe the resurrection or rising from the dead. These, then, are examples of participating in the life of the risen Jesus.

This morning, I was awake at quarter to two. I confess before the company of heaven and before you, my sisters and brothers, that I did not think: Alleluia, Christ is risen. Let me rise with him, kneel by my bed, and pray for the congregation. I did not. I lay there for several minutes wishing I was still asleep (this never works) then got up and walked down the corridor to have a wee, and went back to bed, to sleep fitfully. When I did get up, I washed and dressed and went downstairs. I sat at my desk, and slipped my clerical collar into my shirt, because sometimes I forget. A few minutes later, I remembered to slip my clerical collar in, fished one out of the desk drawer, and in attempting to insert it, discovered to my surprise that I had already done it. So, off to a good start today...

But every time that we rise can be a response to the voice of Jesus calling us to follow him. And every time we rise, we may bring life to others. I have never raised someone from physical death, but I have raised the dead, unknowingly at the time, and perhaps you have too. I have said just the right thing at just the right moment that has caused someone in deep despair, someone who was existing but not alive, to return to life. I know this only because more than one person has told me this, long after the event. Some of you might read this.

And I have been on the other side of that experience too: I have known deep despair and been called back to life by the words and actions of others, who, like Tabitha, mended a torn world through compassionate care. Some of you might read this.

Today, may you rise, made strong by the risen life of the risen Jesus.

 

if Jesus were me

 

Tabitha (Acts 9.36-43) was probably:

a widow, who knew the grief of losing a spouse;

a refugee (internally displaced), who knew the grief of losing her home city through the experience of persecution;

bi-lingual, knowing the tensions of living alongside close neighbours who had different cultural values.

The one thing we know for certain about Tabitha is that she was a disciple, someone who had apprenticed her life to the life of Jesus.

The American philosopher Dallas Willard (1935-2013) said:

‘Discipleship is the process of becoming who Jesus would be if he were you.’

Jesus was a builder, that is, a stone mason and carpenter; and a rabbi (a teacher of how to do life well) and healer. (Rabbis came from many different backgrounds, and would usually continue to ply their trade as a bi-vocational way of life.)

Jesus-as-Tabitha was a seamstress, a maker of both undergarments and outer garments. A maker of items that were both practical and beautiful, created as a tangible manifestation of compassion.

The same Life, expressed in different ways. Diversity in unity.

What does Jesus-as-you do?

And where?

What has Jesus-in-you lost, and found?

 

learning to rise

 

The seven weeks between Easter Sunday and Pentecost are a Season of the Resurrection, a season in which the Church is invited once again to learn how to live our lives in the light of Jesus’ resurrection and as a participation in Jesus’ resurrection.

Throughout this annual season, the Church reads and meditates on the Acts of the Apostles.

The Gospel passage set for Holy Communion today begins like this: Jesus said, ‘No one can come to me unless drawn by the Father who sent me; and I will raise that person up [άναστήσω, ‘will raise up’: from άνίστημι, to raise, to rise, to stand up, to resurrect, to rise from among the dead] on the last day’ (John 6.44) and it is paired with an extract from Acts that begins ‘Then an angel of the Lord said to Philip, ‘Get up [Άνάστηθι, ‘rise up’: from άνίστημι] and go towards the south to the road that goes down from Jerusalem to Gaza.’ (This is a wilderness road.)’ (Acts 8.26).

The reading from Acts set for this coming Sunday, Acts 9.36-43, tells us that at the request of two messengers, ‘Peter got up [Άναστάς, ‘having risen up’: from άνίστημι] and went with them’ (Acts 9.39) … ‘He turned to the body [of Tabitha, who had died] and said, ‘Tabitha, get up.’ [άνάστηθι, ‘arise!’: from άνίστημι] Then she opened her eyes, and seeing Peter, she sat up. He gave her his hand and helped her up [άνέστησεν, ‘he raised up’: from άνίστημι].’ (Acts 9.40b-41a).

That is to say, there is a repeated theme – here illustrated by Philip, Peter, and Tabitha – of participating in the risen life of Jesus.

The point is not that this life is a rehearsal for the life to come, but that the life to come has already begun.

Here is the thing: I rose up this morning, and so (unless you are reading this in bed, having not yet got up) did you. Whether rising willingly or unwillingly, gladly or reluctantly, I rose up yesterday and today and God-willing I shall rise up tomorrow. And each opportunity to rise is an invitation to participate in the risen life of Jesus. Each rising is a response to that invitation. I am alive today – as opposed to merely existing – because he lives: because I live ‘through him, and with him, and in him’ and he in me.

And if I rise this day, it is to bring life to others. To raise up those who need hope, need purpose, need that quality of life that triumphs over sin and death, over all that separates us from God and our neighbour, and even our very selves. To know this life at work in my own life and to give it away knowing that it will never run out.

This way of living is what we are called to discover and rediscover in this season. The Season of the Resurrection.

 

shearing

 

There is a fascinating account in the Acts of the Apostles of the faith journey of a gender-Queer Black African (Acts 8.26-40).

Philip is divinely directed to seek this person out and befriend them. They are reading from the scroll of the prophet Isaiah (they will ask Philip about the meaning of Isaiah 53.7-8) and they see something of their own life story reflected back at them there. Philip does not reject them but helps them to see that Jesus identified with them, and they can identify with Jesus (this they decide to do, as evidenced in their request to be baptised). They will become the parent-in-the-faith of all who follow Jesus in Africa, the rich tapestry of Orthodox, Roman Catholics, Anglicans, and Pentecostals.

The verses that spoke to them from Isaiah are significant, not only at a personal level for this individual but in relation to how we ought to relate to anyone, and especially if we call Jesus our Lord. Here, the person denied justice is described as being like an ewe before her shearer. A shearer is not supposed to injure the sheep, let alone kill them. Shearers are supposed to remove the fleece, for the good of the sheep and for the benefit of people who can be clothed with garments made from the wool. This is a matter of animal husbandry, an annual event, familiar to the sheep. But the ewe is betrayed by her shearers, who instead butcher her.

In a similar way, Jesus is betrayed by the religious leaders of his people, by those who ought to have attended to his welfare and, through him, the good of others. Yet God will vindicate him.

The call of the family of God is to be a shepherd people, who attend to the welfare of humanity and who enable the gifts of every person to contribute to the good of all, meeting physical needs and paying attention to dignity.

When we fail to respond to anyone in this way, we are guilty of iniquity.

And yet Jesus the ewe has taken upon herself the iniquity of us all, so that we might be unburdened of its weight. Jesus the true ewe becomes Jesus the true shearer.

May we submit to his shearing, and receive all, as God (not only) receives (but also seeks) them.