SLOW : andrew dowsett : collected musings
Some
days are dark days. You were never supposed to carry the weight of the pain of
the world; but you can be a stargazer: one who looks, intently, for signs of
light in the darkness – and who redirects their life to follow the light, and
so to carry the light.
Whenever
we are rudely reminded that we dwell in the long shadow of death, may we seek,
follow after, find, revere, and point others to the light that came into the
world in the incarnation of Jesus, God-with-us.
The
Third Sunday of Advent has long been associated with joy. On it, we read the poet
Isaiah’s joyous vision of a parched land transformed by the coming of the
rains:
‘The wilderness
and the dry land shall be glad,
the desert shall rejoice and blossom;
like the crocus it shall blossom abundantly,
and rejoice with joy and singing…
‘Then…the tongue
of the speechless sing for joy.
For waters shall break forth in the wilderness,
and streams in the desert;
the burning sand shall become a pool,
and the thirsty ground springs of water…
‘A highway shall
be there,
and it shall be called the Holy Way;
the unclean shall not travel on it,
but it shall be for God’s people;
no traveller, not even fools, shall go astray.
No lion shall be there,
nor shall any ravenous beast come up on it;
they shall not be found there,
but the redeemed shall walk there.
And the ransomed of the Lord shall return,
and come to Zion with singing;
everlasting joy shall be upon their heads;
they shall obtain joy and gladness,
and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.’
Isaiah 35.1-10
About
thirty-five years before the birth of Jesus, Herod the Great built a fortified
pleasure dome a parkrun’s distance (5 km, 3 miles) south-east of Bethlehem,
with commanding views over the ancient road known as the Way of the Patriarchs.
On a man-made hill, he raised four towers, the largest being his penthouse.
Beneath them, a great reception room, and Roman-style bathhouse. Below that, an
enormous pool – Hollywood did not invent the pool party – and ornamental
gardens, the edge of the desert transformed by water brought in by aqueducts (‘What
did the Romans ever do for us?’). At a superficial glance, this was a
fulfilment of Isaiah’s vision, the burning sand become a pool. (I have stood in
the bottom of that pool, now long dry, the burning sand reclaiming its own.) But
Herod co-opts the vision of Scripture – of holy writing – to justify absolute
power. It will become an early warning system against ambassadors sent from a
distant court to pay homage to the ‘newborn king of the Jews.’
The
co-opting of faith in service of authoritarian control, in favour of wealthy
men who play out obscene excess behind closed doors while the common people struggle
under the weight of injustice, can never bring forth joy. Joy is that profound
experience of being caught up in something bigger than ourselves – of a deep
sense of connection with our neighbour, with strangers, with nature, the
universe, God. It is impossible to know joy whenever we intentionally separate
ourselves from other people, from those who are different – inferior to us in
our own eyes.
We
live in days when, on both sides of the Atlantic, we see agitators promoting
the anathema which is Christian Nationalism. This is the false fulfilment of
Herod the Great (Make Herod Great Again). But joy has always waited to be
found, just as clouds wait to pour out their precious rain on the desert.
Tomorrow
– the third Sunday of Advent – we will hold our annual Nativity at St Nicholas’
church. We have invited everyone to come dressed as their favourite character
from the story – it does not matter whether we have one Mary or fifteen (the
Gospels are full of women called Mary) because there is room for everyone.
Nativities
– retellings of the events surrounding the birth of Jesus, usually pitched for children
and popular in primary schools – remain reasonably familiar, and poorly
presented. Famously, they involve Mary & Joseph turning up at Bethlehem on
the very night she will go into labour, desperately going from inn to inn
seeking a room, being turned away by innkeeper after innkeeper, until a kindly
one, deeply apologetic at having nothing better to offer, let’s them sleep in
his stable. Nothing could be further from what the Gospels actually portray.
Jesus
is born in the home of a relative of Joseph, who, some time earlier, has returned
to Bethlehem with his bride Mary, from her father’s home in Nazareth. In
keeping with custom, a newly married couple (that is, having completed the
legally binding contract of betrothal) would expect to live with the bride’s
parents for the first twelve months of their life together – Joseph may well have
been working for his father-in-law by way of a dowry – before the bride was
taken to live in the home of the groom’s parents (marked by what we would
recognise as a wedding feast). There is not space in the room allocated to the
couple – Luke uses a term we might translate as ‘guest room’ and definitely
should not translate as ‘inn’ – for Mary to give birth, attended by female
relatives and town midwives, and so Jesus is born in the main, shared living
space. He is then washed and wrapped tightly in bands of linen – all he has
known so far is the confines of the womb – and laid in a stone depression
hollowed out to form a manger in the dividing point between the lower end of
the home, where animals slept at night, and the upper end, where the humans
slept. Luke makes a point of describing he manger in detail, perhaps because it
is a relevant detail for the shepherds (possibly a particular manger in a home
known to them) but also because he is foreshadowing the stone shelf in the tomb
where Jesus, wrapped in linen strips, will be laid following his crucifixion.
The whole town of Bethlehem – the ‘city of David’ – rejoice that God has at
last restored the fortunes of the house and line of David – though their joy
will turn to sorrow within a couple of years, when Herod orders the massacre of
every male child of two years and under in and around Bethlehem.
This,
then, is a story set firmly in history, in the history and cultural practices and
hopes and expectations of a particular community. It is a story of hope and of
joy, albeit a story that will not run smoothly, because there will be powerful others
who contest the story.
And
the invitation is, where do you find yourself in the story? Not as a shepherd
or as townsfolk or relatives, but where does the story resonate with your life –
lived in a very different culture?
Where
will the God who broke in there and then, break into your life here and now?
Once
upon a time, many years in the past, there lived a young man, in a valley in a
city built on seven hills. Each Sunday, he would get up bright and early and make
the short walk to the house of the young woman he loved, stopping on the way at
the boulangerie, to pick up two fresh-from-the-oven pains au chocolat, and at
the tabac, to collect a Sunday paper, stuffed with weekend supplement sections.
Then they would sit and drink coffee and eat their pains au chocolat and read
the supplements, before walking up the hill to church. [1]
On
a street between where the young man and the young woman lived, a street that
ran parallel to the one with the boulangerie and the tabac, there was a gift
shop. The kind of shop you could not walk past without looking in the window,
for something new. The kind of shop you might turn into, at any time of year,
and find the perfect gift to hold onto, to give a friend or relative when
Christmas came around. The kind of shop that has, in cities up and down the
land, been put out of business by online shopping.
These
days, it is perhaps harder to find the perfect gift, in good time in advance,
not only because we have withdrawn from the physical world but because the virtual
world shapes us for immediacy. But the perfect gift might be in your hands:
your own, undivided, presence the best present you have to offer (and, you don’t
need to give a gift to everyone you know or have ever met; don’t need to be run
ragged by the season of More Invitations Than You Can Possibly Accept).
Advent
invites us to slow down enough to be present. But also, to plan in advance. Not
for the Christmas that is upon us, but for the days and years and times ahead. Advent
reminds us that the first coming of Christ – his incarnation – was a plan set
in motion from before the creation of the world: God’s desire to be one with us,
to be one of us, to unite heaven and earth. To savour the anticipation of
seeing our surprise and delight. Might we rediscover this for ourselves?
[1]
I know the young man and the young woman, though they are no longer young. They
married, and he brings her coffee before she gets out of bed each morning – not
only on Sundays – but they no longer live close to a boulangerie where people
queue out the door waiting patiently for the oven to be opened.
Is
your Christmas tree up yet? At this time of year we make room for Christmas
trees in our homes, gardens, businesses and public squares. As I have walked
around my parish delivering Christmas cards, I’ve seen Christmas trees of all styles
– including stylish minimalist branches, painted white, with a few brightly
coloured baubles – and sizes.
In
the symbolic universe of the Bible – in the imagination of the poets who wrote much
of what has been handed down to us – trees stand for a person or people.
The
poet Isaiah imagines a creative act of God – of the god who first created the
world and everything in it – establishing a whole, diverse ecology of trees in
the wilderness: cedar and acacia and myrtle and olive and cypress and plane and
pine (Isaiah 41:17-20). It is a vision of a new way of being human, rooted in
quietness and rest, in trust in the God who waits to meet with us, who waits
for us to grow weary of the noise, the drivenness, the distraction of the city –
of our physical and virtual, external and internal architecture.
And
it isn’t a monoculture, this new way of being human – this vision of the
Church. There are many different types of tree: some tall and thin; some
spreading out a broad canopy providing shade; each with its own properties –
this one is good for burning, for fuel; this, for building; this one, for food;
this, possessing healing in its bark, or leaves.
This
year, I have witnessed something of a fulfilment of Isaiah’s vision – biblical prophecy,
biblical sense of history, is both cyclical and linear; its poetry speaks to
events down through the ages – this year. Men and women seeking something that
the world cannot give, searching for it in the wilderness of our long-abandoned
churches. God is planting trees, creating something beautiful in its diversity.
And
this Advent, the trees we make space for in our homes might just point us to
this joyful reality.
‘Are
you feeling Christmassy yet?’ If not, that’s quite alright. Christmas – as Rend Collective sing* – is not a feeling. Christmas celebrates a truth – a reality
that Advent points to – that ‘In the tender compassion of our God the dawn from
on high shall break upon us, To shine on those who dwell in darkness and the
shadow of death, and to guide our feet into the way of peace.’** In Advent we
hold on to the hope that the dawn is on the way, and at Christmas we celebrate
that it came and will come again. The dawn tells us that the darkness in our
lives does not have the final word; but it does not deny that the night can be
bitterly cold.
*We
are playing Rend Collective’s ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen / Hallelujah’ before
all our Christmas services this year. Check it out on your music streaming
service of choice.
**vv.
9&10 of The Benedictus (The Song of Zechariah) which is ‘normally said’ at
Morning Prayer.
One
of the great themes of Advent is joy. (It is especially associated with the Third
Sunday of Advent, also known as Gaudete Sunday; and this year, JOY is the overall theme for Advent across
the Church of England nationally.)
The
author Brené Brown describes ‘joy’ as ‘sudden, unexpected, short-lasting, and
high intensity. It’s characterized by a connection with others, or with God,
nature, or the universe. Joy expands our thinking and attention, and it fills
us with a sense of freedom and abandon.’
(Atlas of the Heart, p. 204)
I
know too many people whose marriages have fallen into messy divorce. (That is
not to pass judgement: marriage is hard. I am aware that singleness is also
hard, but the point is not comparison; the point stands: marriage is hard.) I
know far too many people whose lives have been touched by the death, by
suicide, of someone close to them. I know people who are living, this
Christmas, with end-stage terminal illness. People who have lost a much-loved
family pet. (this is no small thing.) And this is not to look for the wider
catastrophes of climate collapse or war that uproot and remove families from
their lives and confront the watching – perhaps receiving – world with our own in/humanity.
It is common to the human condition that we dwell in darkness and in the shadow
of death.
Joy
does not deny or dismiss this reality. Rather, it is under these conditions
that joy is utterly essential, strengthening us to face our lives. For we do
not face life alone, beneath a dispassionate void, but with the God who chose
to become God-with-us in the birth of Jesus. He is the light that shines in the
darkness, the light that grows, incrementally, to noon-day sun. But the dawn,
the dawn sky, will take your breath away.
In
our home we build up our Christmas decorations slowly through Advent. One of
the pieces that comes out on the second weekend is a German wooden Christmas
carousel/pyramid. Heat rises from candles to drive propellor blades that spin a
nativity scene – slowly at first, then faster, building up momentum. In truth,
it can be mesmerising, quite relaxing to look on.
But
spinning around is not relaxing. And I am aware of an Anxious Generation,
driven to distraction, unable to embrace stillness – to enter into the rest
that God holds out to us. I am also aware that there are some in this very
generation who are ‘returning’ to church, in search of God; returning to a
place left behind by their parents’ (and perhaps grandparents) generation,
drawn by the call of deep rest in a very fast digital moment. A generation who
need to rediscover how to be quiet and still – on the inside – and in this
Advent can help, as we discover the God who waits for us to wait for him.
One
of the things many Christians do in Advent is read the poetry of the prophet
Isaiah, who lived and wrote some 600 years before the birth of Jesus. At
Morning Prayer today, we read these verses:
‘For thus said the
Lord God, the Holy One of Israel:
In returning and rest you shall be saved;
in quietness and in trust shall be your strength.
But you refused and said,
‘No! We will flee upon horses’—
therefore you shall flee!
and, ‘We will ride upon swift steeds’—
therefore your pursuers shall be swift!
A thousand shall flee at the threat of one,
at the threat of five you shall flee,
until you are left
like a flagstaff on the top of a mountain,
like a signal on a hill.
‘Therefore the Lord
waits to be gracious to you;
therefore he will rise up to show mercy to you.
For the Lord is a God of justice;
blessed are all those who wait for him.’
Isaiah 30:15-18
I
learned recently that for some young adults (dubbed the Anxious Generation) at
least, Advent calendars are a source of anxiety at being expected to remember
to open a door / eat a piece of chocolate every day for twenty-four days. This
is no joke, but an expression – and indicator – of the levels of anxiety, over
performance and in relation to simple, daily tasks or habits, the younger
generation live with – and if not for any given member of that cohort, likely
for people they know personally.
This
is a tragedy, because Advent practices are not meant to be burdensome. They are
about building a sense of expectancy – flexing the muscles of hope – not hyper-vigilance.
The Church has been waiting, actively, for Jesus to return for two thousand
years. It is not possible to remain hyper-vigilant for any extended length of
time (let alone millennia) but grace-filled habits train us for healthy lives.
Whereas in Lent we might abstain from chocolate – a simple practice of learning
to say no to immediate self-gratification; simple, but hard in an age addicted
to both dopamine hits and sugar – in Advent we might embrace the discipline of
receiving a gift.
Advent
anxiety prevents us from entering into Advent. For me, the weekend just gone
was a full one, with our parish church patronal festival, marked by the St
Nicholas Fayre on Saturday, two services on Sunday morning, and a Christingle
on Sunday evening. In the need to attend well to these things, I did not need
the added pressure of writing a daily Advent calendar post. And so, I made the
choice not to have to do so. To leave it – this thing I have done every Advent
for twenty years – until tomorrow. To extend grace to myself, just as grace has
been extended to me.
Today
(6th December) is the Feast of St Nicholas, sometime Bishop of Myra, patron saint
of children and sailors, defender of both orthodoxy – believing ‘rightly’
(faithfully) about God – and orthopraxis – acting ‘rightly’ (faithfully) in
accordance with what we profess to believe. And the saint for whom the parish church
I serve as vicar is named.
The
parish church of St Nicholas, Bishopwearmouth, was dedicated as a place of
worship ten days after the declaration that, for a Second time in just over two
decades, we were at War. A declaration of another kind, that, however uncertain
the world we live in, Christ is our hope. Following in the footsteps of Nicholas,
as he followed in the footsteps of Jesus the Christ (the one sent by God to
deliver his people from oppression), the ‘charism’ of this church (charism: the
particular gift God has given this church to serve their neighbours) is to be a
safe haven for those experiencing the storms of life – for those ‘lost at sea’.
This is a place, and a community, I long to see filled with the joy of children
and of people of all ages who have dared to call out to God to deliver them.
The
Feast of St Nicholas always falls in Advent, provides a moment of joyous
celebration (our patronal festival, however we mark it, which this year
included the St Nicholas Fayre) in the approach to Christmas, and – if we allow
it – recalibrates our lives to Jesus.
Photo:
me, dressed as St Nicholas, on his feast day.
Advent
has its own flavours. Some years ago, Jo came across a recipe book of German
Advent biscuits. Apparently, there is a German tradition of serving plates of
mixed, home-baked biscuits to anyone who visits your home in Advent. Neither of
us are German, but Jo lived there for a year, and we both enjoy visiting Germany.
So, Jo decided that she would take up this tradition and bakes a couple of
different batches of biscuits each Advent weekend.
Both
of my grandfathers fought against Nazi Germany in the Second World War; but
their grandchildren and great-grandchildren have known friendship. The prophet
Isaiah foretold the birth of a child who would be known, among other titles, as
the Prince of Peace; and Christians see that hope fulfilled in Jesus. In a
world were peace seems distant, we are called to hold fast to the hope that in
him, all will – one day – be reconciled. In the face of todays’ seemingly
intractable conflicts, we remind ourselves of where peace has overcome hostility.
Could something as simple as sharing biscuits help us to do this?
Hospitality
is central to the Christmas story. Joseph brings his expectant wife, Mary, to
the home of a relative. Social convention requires the relative to welcome them,
but the space in the home (sometimes a separate room, sometimes an end
partitioned off by a curtain, sometimes a shelter on the flat roof) where travelling
guests might sleep is either too small for Mary too labour in or is already
occupied – further evidence of hospitality, extended to another relative or to
a stranger, for social convention required hospitality be extended to both.
Who
might enter your home this Advent? And what might you serve them?
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 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.
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.)
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.
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.
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.’
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.’
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.’
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.
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.’
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.
