Easter Sunday

 

This Easter Sunday at St Nicholas Church, we celebrated the resurrection with the ancient practice of baptising someone who has joined our church family since last Easter.

Whenever I speak at a baptism, I try to make a connection between the candidate’s name and the story of faith found in the Bible. And today, with Roxanne, it was easy. Roxanne means radiant, or bright (and she really does live into her name) and in our Gospel reading an angel descends from heaven, ‘His appearance was like lightning, and his clothing white as snow.’ Radiant. Now, ‘angel’ means ‘messenger,’ sent by God, sometimes a heavenly being, sometimes a human being. Today we commissioned Roxanne to be a messenger sent by God.

The angel, and then Jesus himself, have the same message for the women: do not be afraid; go and tell.

Do not be afraid, or do not fear, is the most-repeated Instruction we are given in the Bible—which says something about being human. And I wonder who or what you are afraid of?

Some of you might be here today because you know and love Jesus, but you are afraid to tell others about him. I want to say to you that there are half a dozen or more adults who have become part of our church who weren’t part of any church a year ago. If you tell someone about Jesus, they might have been waiting for you to do just that. Even if they aren’t interested, what’s the worst that can happen? Easter tells us that the worst thing that can happen does not get the last word, and God will honour those who trust him with their fear.

It may be that you are afraid of God. Many people are. Many people have been taught that God is quick to disapprove, quick to get angry; that if we step out of line, he will strike us down with a lightning bolt. This is blasphemy. God reveals himself to Moses as full of loving-kindness, slow to anger—and even when he does get angry, he is not violent but moved to pity; faithful to his nature even when we are faithless.

In our first reading this morning we heard Jesus’ friend Peter proclaim, ‘I truly understand that God shows no partiality, but in every nation anyone who fears him and does what is right is acceptable to him.’ The point is not that if you want to be acceptable to God you must fear him; but that if you are afraid of God, you need to know that you are acceptable to him.

In the Wisdom section of the library we call the Bible, we learn that the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom. Everything else described as ‘of the Lord’—the arm of the Lord, the mountain of the Lord, the angel of the Lord—belongs to God, not us. The fear of the Lord is giving what we are afraid of to God and saying, this is yours now. That is what Jesus did in the Garden of Gethsemane. Of all the things we might be afraid of—some with good reason—God isn’t meant to be one of them. Jesus comes into the world so that we might know that, in him, God is with us, and for us.

Finally, some of you might be afraid of death. We live in a society that is petrified of dying, that is in total denial of death. It is almost a civic duty to Botox, to not allow yourself to visibly age. But denial is never healthy. The will of the Father is that the Son should become human; should live, and die, as humans do. The Father glorifies the Son for this faithfulness by raising him from the dead. And so we can face our own mortality, because Jesus says to us: Do not be afraid; I have walked this way ahead of you, and I will walk this way again alongside you. I know what lies beyond.

Do not be afraid. That is the message of Easter. That doesn’t mean that we won’t ever be afraid of anything or anyone; it means that we are instructed, again, to place that fear in the hands of Jesus.

That is the message I want you to hear today. Do not be afraid. Go and tell.

Acts 10.34-43

‘Then Peter began to speak to them: ‘I truly understand that God shows no partiality, but in every nation anyone who fears him and does what is right is acceptable to him. You know the message he sent to the people of Israel, preaching peace by Jesus Christ-he is Lord of all. That message spread throughout Judea, beginning in Galilee after the baptism that John announced: how God anointed Jesus of Nazareth with the Holy Spirit and with power; how he went about doing good and healing all who were oppressed by the devil, for God was with him. We are witnesses to all that he did both in Judea and in Jerusalem. They put him to death by hanging him on a tree; but God raised him on the third day and allowed him to appear, not to all the people but to us who were chosen by God as witnesses, and who ate and drank with him after he rose from the dead. He commanded us to preach to the people and to testify that he is the one ordained by God as judge of the living and the dead. All the prophets testify about him that everyone who believes in him receives forgiveness of sins through his name.’’

Matthew 28.1-10

‘After the sabbath, as the first day of the week was dawning, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to see the tomb. And suddenly there was a great earthquake; for an angel of the Lord, descending from heaven, came and rolled back the stone and sat on it. His appearance was like lightning, and his clothing white as snow. For fear of him the guards shook and became like dead men. But the angel said to the women, ‘Do not be afraid; I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified. He is not here; for he has been raised, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples, “He has been raised from the dead, and indeed he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him.” This is my message for you.’ So they left the tomb quickly with fear and great joy, and ran to tell his disciples. Suddenly Jesus met them and said, ‘Greetings!’ And they came to him, took hold of his feet, and worshipped him. Then Jesus said to them, ‘Do not be afraid; go and tell my brothers to go to Galilee; there they will see me.’’

 

Maundy Thursday

 

In the Church calendar, we are in the days leading up to Easter. These are among the holiest—that is, set apart for a special purpose—days of the year (this is where we get our word ‘holiday,’ days set apart as special, different from everyday days). On Thursday evening, I will be speaking about Jesus with his apprentices on the night of his betrayal and arrest. You can read the text, from John’s biography of Jesus, below. My attention is caught by these words: ‘One who has bathed does not need to wash, except for the feet, but is entirely clean.’

I don’t know how often you have a bath, and for what purpose. I have a bath about twice a year, not to wash my body—I do that in the shower, and also have a basin in my bedroom—but as an act of self care, running the bath as deep and as hot as possible, and soaking in it.

In the Instructions of Moses, we find that there are certain states of being that cause a person to be ritually impure, and that their restoration to the wider community requires a ritual bath.

Being ritually impure has nothing to do with moral wrongdoing. It is, rather, a codified way of engaging with the reality of death. Certain states of being are, psychologically, rehearsals for death, including ejaculation and menstruation—not because these things are ‘dirty,’ or even shameful, but because in both instances, the person loses mastery of their bodily life-fluids. Contact with a corpse, and being a corpse, also result in ritual impurity. Ritual washing marks the restoration of purity, symbolising the limit to which death cuts us off from life.

Dying made a person ritually impure; but the community handled the corpse in such ways as to make the person ritually pure again, ready to meet their Maker. In Jewish tradition to this day, this begins with gently washing the body, removing anything that is not a natural part, such as jewellery or nail varnish, while saying certain prayers and psalms and other passages of Scripture (holy writing). Then the body is fully washed, either by submerging it in a mikvah (ritual bath) or by pouring a large amount of water (the equivalent of 48 pints) over the corpse. Finally, the body is dressed in linen, ready to return to the earth from which it came.

We should not assume that contemporary Jewish tradition is the same as first-century Common Era Judaism; but neither are they unrelated.

When Jesus says that Peter has had a bath—in fact, not washed himself but that he has been washed—he is referring to the washing of a body after death. Though this is not described, in relation to Jesus’ blood-streaked corpse, in the Gospels, it is implied. This practice is mentioned by the church historian Luke in his Acts of the Apostles, where he notes that the deceased Dorcas is washed by the women of her community, and also that Paul and Silas have their bloodied backs washed by the jailer in Philippi immediately before he himself is baptised.

Jesus is saying that his apprentices have been joined with him in his death. They have been washed, made ritually pure again, in preparation to stand before God—symbolising the real but temporary separation from God that death demands. Having been full-body washed, all that remains needful is to have their feet washed. In Genesis, God visits Abraham in human form (that is, in a form Abraham can see, and relate to) and Abraham welcomes God by washing his feet. An act of welcome and hospitality. The tradition later arose that Abraham welcomes the dead into Paradise (and Jesus tells a parable, or micro story that gets under the skin, where Abraham does exactly this). So, Peter is already made ready to enter Paradise, and Jesus now takes the Abrahamic posture of welcoming him.

This is what we enact in baptism, the candidate dying with Christ (Jesus, the One sent by God to rescue his people), united with him in his death and in his mighty and glorious resurrection.

This, then, is the drama of both our baptism—a one-off, unrepeatable event—and the Thursday of Holy Week—to which we return annually—that we rehearse our physical death, that, when it comes, we might die in the confidence that this parting is temporary; that the community of faith, and the God whose faithfulness we look to, will take us in their hands and hold us with dignity and love. As we, in turn, are to do for our brother's and sisters.

By such love, confident in the face of death, we shall be known.

John 13.1-17, 31b-35

‘Now before the festival of the Passover, Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart from this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end. The devil had already put it into the heart of Judas son of Simon Iscariot to betray him. And during supper Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands, and that he had come from God and was going to God, got up from the table, took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet and to wipe them with the towel that was tied around him. He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, ‘Lord, are you going to wash my feet?’ Jesus answered, ‘You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand.’ Peter said to him, ‘You will never wash my feet.’ Jesus answered, ‘Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.’ Simon Peter said to him, ‘Lord, not my feet only but also my hands and my head!’ Jesus said to him, ‘One who has bathed does not need to wash, except for the feet, but is entirely clean. And you are clean, though not all of you.’ For he knew who was to betray him; for this reason he said, ‘Not all of you are clean.’

‘After he had washed their feet, had put on his robe, and had returned to the table, he said to them, ‘Do you know what I have done to you? You call me Teacher and Lord-and you are right, for that is what I am. So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you. Very truly, I tell you, servants are not greater than their master, nor are messengers greater than the one who sent them. If you know these things, you are blessed if you do them.

‘When he had gone out, Jesus said, ‘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. Little children, I am with you only a little longer. You will look for me; and as I said to the Jews so now I say to you, “Where I am going, you cannot come.” I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.’’

 

Holy Wednesday

 

Wednesday of Holy Week

Today, the Wednesday of Holy Week, is sometimes known as Spy Wednesday, recalling the contract between Jesus’ apprentice Judas and the chief priests, by which he becomes a double agent for them.

Money has been a recurring theme across the week—whether or not to pay the tax due to the emperor; whether to pour out fragrant ointment or sell it and give the money to the poor; and now thirty silver coins.

Thirty silver coins is the worth placed on a slave in the discussion of recompense in the Instructions of Moses:

‘If [an] ox gores a male or female slave, the owner shall pay to the slave-owner thirty shekels of silver, and the ox shall be stoned.’ Exodus 21.32

This transaction makes Jesus Judas’ slave, and the chief priests the owners of the ox that gored him to death—that is, responsible for the actions of the Roman auxiliaries who would torture and execute Jesus.

And Jesus is, indeed, Judas’ slave, for he comes not as master but as slave of all. Even of Judas, who will prove to be a wicked master, one who would trade his slave’s life for money. ‘Jesus, you are a worthless slave; worth more to me dead.’

And here, again, Judas is right; for Jesus is better to him dead than alive—having absorbed and neutralised he sting of death; having descended into hell, broken its doors from the inside, and returned victorious, never to die again. For Judas will deeply regret his betrayal, and take his own life; but Jesus will go looking for his lost sheep, even through the darkest valley, the shade-realm of the Dead, and—surely—bring his torn-limb-from-limb lamb back on his shoulders.

 

Matthew 26.14-16

‘Then one of the twelve, who was called Judas Iscariot, went to the chief priests and said, ‘What will you give me if I betray him to you?’ They paid him thirty pieces of silver. And from that moment he began to look for an opportunity to betray him.’

 

Holy Tuesday

 

Tuesday of Holy Week

Holy Week continues, as we walk the way of the cross with Jesus. Yesterday, I reflected on Jesus’ handling of money, of the difference between the coins that bear the image of the emperor and the human beings who bear the image of God.

On this day, Jesus’ biographer Matthew tells us of a woman anointing Jesus’ head with a very costly ointment. From his perspective, she was preparing his body for burial. From her perspective, it is perhaps more likely that she was acting as a prophet, symbolically anointing a king. Both are true: he is the king who comes to lay down his life.

But the disciples—Jesus’ apprentices—were angry at the waste of money, which they would have given to the poor. Elsewhere we read that Judas was the keeper of the purse, and helped himself from it; but Matthew does not mention this, and, rather, records that all the disciples were angry at the woman. In effect, they were saying, how we would choose to act is more important than how the woman has acted. In effect, they are saying, we are of more value than she is.

What monetary value do we place on a human life? Certainly, the world works not on the basis of everyone having what they need, to life a good life, but on the idea that I am worth more than some and less than others. Wealth breeds wealth, and with it, worldly value.

The woman does not play the game. She relinquishes her stake in it. In this, she does not only prepare Jesus for his burial, but united herself to him, to his death, and to whatever may come after.

Matthew 26.6-13

‘Now while Jesus was at Bethany in the house of Simon the leper, a woman came to him with an alabaster jar of very costly ointment, and she poured it on his head as he sat at the table. But when the disciples saw it, they were angry and said, ‘Why this waste? For this ointment could have been sold for a large sum, and the money given to the poor.’ But Jesus, aware of this, said to them, ‘Why do you trouble the woman? She has performed a good service for me. For you always have the poor with you, but you will not always have me. By pouring this ointment on my body she has prepared me for burial. Truly I tell you, wherever this good news is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in remembrance of her.’’

 

Holy Monday

 

On what we call the Monday of Holy Week, the biographer Matthew tells us that Jesus spent the day in the temple in Jerusalem, teaching, and being confronted by different factions from among the religious leaders of the people.

One such encounter focused on taxation. Noone liked the Romans, but some wanted to see them driven out, while others owed their position of power and authority to Roman patronage. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, as the saying goes. So however Jesus answered the question, he was likely to spring the trap and alienate people.

I have in my hand a coin bearing the image of a woman. She is dead now, but for most of my life, she was Queen. Over the course of her reign, five images were made to represent her on coins, from youth to old age: this coin happens to bear the fourth of the five, the coin being made the year before the final image.

I cannot tell how many hands this coin has passed through, from person to person, some of whom might have known each other, others who will never have met before or since. But this coin can be exchanged for something else, anywhere in the United Kingdom—even now, after the woman is dead. It has no currency in the USA, or France, or other places: there, we must enter into a negotiation, establish an exchange rate, what it is worth.

Most people pay little interest in the coins in their pocket; they are more interest in the things the coin can be exchanged for. But for some, coins have a value in and of themselves, are collectable, have a story to tell.

Jesus replied, give to the emperor the things that belong to the emperor, and to God what belongs to God. The implication being that human beings bear God’s image. Not the image of one woman, at different stages of life, but countless faces, male and female, young and old. Not just within one realm, but all across the world. Not simply exchangeable for something more valuable, but of inherent value.

What might it mean to give such images (back) to God? It might look like prayer, bringing people before God, asking God to bless them. People we know well, people whose paths have crossed our path today, people we have never met and in all probability never will.

How might we hold other people in our hand, behold them? Whose image might we see reflected there—the devil? some sub-human creature? or, the God who longs to be One with us?

Matthew 22.15-22

‘Then the Pharisees went and plotted to entrap him in what he said. So they sent their disciples to him, along with the Herodians, saying, ‘Teacher, we know that you are sincere, and teach the way of God in accordance with truth, and show deference to no one; for you do not regard people with partiality. Tell us, then, what you think. Is it lawful to pay taxes to the emperor, or not?’ But Jesus, aware of their malice, said, ‘Why are you putting me to the test, you hypocrites? Show me the coin used for the tax.’ And they brought him a denarius. Then he said to them, ‘Whose head is this, and whose title?’ They answered, ‘The emperor’s.’ Then he said to them, ‘Give therefore to the emperor the things that are the emperor’s, and to God the things that are God’s.’ When they heard this, they were amazed; and they left him and went away.’

 

Palm Sunday

 

Today is Palm Sunday, the day we remember Jesus arriving at Jerusalem to celebrate the Passover, days before he will be put to death. He comes as one of a crowd of pilgrims. Passover, one of the three great festivals of the year, could be observed at home, in any place, but to do so in Jerusalem was special. Jesus comes with others from Galilee, in the north, and those who have joined them on their way. Many in the crowd have seen the things that Jesus has done—the way his interpretation of the Instructions given by Moses captured the attention; the way he healed the sick, brought deliverance to the demonised, restored the marginalised to full participation in the community—and wanted to see what he would do next.

With Jerusalem in sight, Jesus stops, and instructs his apprentices to bring him a donkey and her foal, a colt not yet used to carrying burden. He will ride the rest of the way, down the Mount of Olives. And the crowd interpret this as fulfilling Scripture, the words of the prophet Zechariah:

‘Tell the daughter of Zion,
Look, your king is coming to you,
humble, and mounted on a donkey,
and on a colt, the foal of a donkey.’
(Zechariah 9.9)

The prophecy being referenced continues:

‘He will cut off the chariot from Ephraim
and the warhorse from Jerusalem;
and the battle-bow shall be cut off,
and he shall command peace to the nations;
his dominion shall be from sea to sea,
and from the River to the ends of the earth.’
(Zechariah 9.10)

Prophecy is not a foretelling of future events. Prophecy is a poetic form, that holds out a combination of what is and what could be, and invites us to step into the story. A prophetic word about an individual, for example, may combine what the seer sees in them, and how that might play out. To fulfil prophecy is to allow our character to be shaped by it, in some way or other. But to overly-interpret prophecy makes a fool of us. We see this over and again in the ancient Greek tragedies; and in modern stories such as Voldemort’s obsession with Harry Potter and, hence, failure to recognise the danger Neville Longbottom poses him. We see it in the folly of the current US administration seeing the Revelation—a work concerned with events at the end of the first century CE—as licence to wage war today.

The crowd sees Jesus as coming to liberate Jerusalem from the Roman Empire, from an external threat of warhorse and battle-bow. But there is a far older prophecy at play here.

Long ago, at the very end of Genesis—the first of the five books of Instruction of Moses—the patriarch Jacob spoke words over his twelve sons. Words that both gave description to the character, and the actions that flowed from that character, and also held out a future possibility, one that might shape their descendants.

Of Judah, Jacob says:

‘Judah, your brothers shall praise you;
your hand shall be on the neck of your
enemies;
your father’s sons shall bow down before you.
Judah is a lion’s whelp;
from the prey, my son, you have gone up.
He crouches down, he stretches out like a lion,
like a lioness—who dares rouse him up?
The sceptre shall not depart from Judah,
nor the ruler’s staff from between his feet,
until tribute comes to him;
and the obedience of the peoples is his.
Binding his foal to the vine
and his donkey’s colt to the choice vine,
he washes his garments in wine
and his robe in the blood of grapes;
his eyes are darker than wine,
and his teeth whiter than milk.’
(Genesis 49.8-12)

Binding his foal to the vine and his donkey’s colt to the choice vine, he washes his garments in wine and his robe in the blood of grapes.

On the night of his arrest and mockery of a trial before the Sanhedrin (the religious leaders of the people) Jesus will describe himself as the true vine, an image of the people of Israel. And here, picking his way down the hill on a colt accompanied by its mother, Jesus binds the foal to the choice vine, as he comes, knowing that his garments will be soaked in his own blood.

But immediately before speaking words over Judah, Jacob had spoken these words over his brothers Simeon and Levi:

‘Simeon and Levi are brothers;
weapons of violence are their swords.
May I never come into their council;
may I not be joined to their company—
for in their anger they killed men,
and at their whim they hamstrung oxen.
Cursed be their anger, for it is fierce,
and their wrath, for it is cruel!
I will divide them in Jacob,
and scatter them in Israel.’
(Genesis 49.5-7)

The priestly caste—those in whose presence Jesus will be tried, whose council will condemn him to death—saw themselves as the descendants of Levi. A tribe so violent against their own kin (when Moses was gone for over forty days and nights and the people made for themselves a golden calf as a sign of the presence of the gods among them, the Levites went through the camp putting thousands to the sword) that they were not allotted their own territory where they might live in concentration, but had to live scattered in small towns across the territories governed by the other tribes.

For good reason Jacob declared, ‘May I never come into their council; may I not be joined to their company—for in their anger they killed men.’

The warhorse and the battle-bow Jesus comes to remove is not the mighty of Rome but the violence at the heart of his own people. And he will do so, not by leading a violent uprising—for violence can never rid us of violence—but by absorbing the very worst that the violence can muster, and cursing it—utterly neutralising it—as he lives into the story in a particular way, holding together humility and authority, laying down his life and being raised up to a kingly rule that will never end.

This, too, is prophecy; is a story to be stepped into. A story that shapes those who respond, laying our tribute before him.

This is where we find ourselves again this Palm Sunday, caught up in the reconciliation of all that has been estranged, that is accomplished in and coming into being through Jesus.

May we, therefore, renounce all violence against our sisters and brothers, against those who live around about us, not least all violence done in the name of God, who stands opposed to any such claim.

Lord, have mercy.
Christ, have mercy.
Lord, have mercy.

on unbinding

 

Some things are a storm in a teacup. Some things are a weather front rattling and entire dinner service. There has been much sound and fury of late claiming that our Christian heritage is being lost to Muslim immigrants. This is racism trying out new clothes. If we are losing our Christian heritage, it is not because some of our neighbours faithfully attend the mosque on Fridays, but because we have become disconnected from the stories that inform and shape Christian faith. There are complex reasons for this, including two World Wars in the last century, the rise of individualist self-expression, suspicion of institutions, scandals within the Church; very little to do with immigration, which has brought us many Christians, who happen not to be white. But a core part of my own vocation is to help people make and strengthen connections between their own lives and the Christian story.

Two weeks out from Easter, the Church tells again the account, found in John’s Gospel, of Jesus raising his friend Lazarus from the dead. This is the moment he goes too far, crosses a line, from which there can be no going back: the event that seals Jesus’ own murder. On Sunday, my colleague Katherine Cooper-Young spoke from this text, focusing on the end of the account, where Jesus, having called Lazarus out of the tomb, instructs the witnesses to remove the grave clothes from him so that he can go free.

Katherine asked us to imagine Lazarus’ life post- this event, an event which changes everything. Though his sisters Martha and Mary are highly articulate, Lazarus himself does not speak in the Gospels, not one word. Yet there are two traditions that claim that, after he was raised from the dead, Lazarus became an evangelist—one who proclaims the good news of Jesus—and a bishop. The Eastern (Orthodox) Church claims that he was run out of town, fleeing to Cyprus, where he was eventually made Bishop of Kition (today, Larnaca) by St Paul. The Western (Catholic) Church claims that the three siblings were pushed out to sea in a boat without sail or rudder, whereupon the winds carried them to France; there, they went three separate ways, proclaiming the Gospel as they went; Lazarus becoming Bishop of Marseilles.

The veracity of these stories does not depend on their historicity (see also: the bones of St Andrew were never carried to Scotland) but on communities of believers making connections between their lives and the story they read together. Communities that saw some transformative hope they wanted to claim for themselves too.

Katherine invited us to call to mind the things that bind us, that tie us in knots, preventing us from experiencing freedom—the life God longs for us, in reaching in and lifting us out from the graves we make for ourselves. To acknowledge those things in the presence of Jesus, who weeps for our pain and who, in compassion, speaks a new life—not merely a restoration of what has been lost, but new possibilities—into being.

Neuroscience would inform us that many of these grave clothes—acts of self-preservation—are wrapped around us in the first seven or so years of life; and though they serve us well at the time—the best we can do—they become unhelpful later on, constraining our ability to respond to other relationships. It is fascinating that Jesus enlists the help of a community—those who have borne witness to grief with tender compassion—in bringing progressive freedom; and that this involves physical touch and movement.

This is a vision of what the church could be.

 

what Lazarus does for Jesus

 

Today marks the start of Passiontide, the two-week run-in to Easter. In this context, passion refers to things that are done to us (Greek: paschō) as opposed to things we do by our own agency (Greek: poiō). Through much of the Gospels we see Jesus doing things—as he describes it, doing (only) what he sees the Father doing. But as we reach the climax of the story, as time slows down (with as much ink dedicated to days as has been dedicated to years of ministry) there is a shift from things Jesus does to things done to him by others. Some of these are loving things; some are hateful, or treacherous, or tragic; and some are deeply mystical.

The Gospel passage set for this Sunday is a long chunk (technical term) from John chapter 11. Here we encounter friends of Jesus, the siblings Martha, Mary and Lazarus. Luke also writes about the sisters in his Gospel (Luke chapter 10).

They are a fascinating family. They appear to live together, and Martha appears to run their home. Culturally, it would seem unusual that neither sister is married, and that Lazarus is not responsible for his unmarried sisters, in the absence of parents. Martha and Mary are both highly articulate, but Lazarus is silent whenever he is mentioned. (Some scholars believe that Lazarus is the ‘beloved disciple’ at the Last Supper—unnamed but traditionally identified as the disciple and later gospel-writer John—in which case he speaks three words, asking a simple question.) These observations lead some scholars to believe that Lazarus has some form of disability, and perhaps learning disability; that he may be unable to speak, or be situationally mute (that is, can speak, but doesn’t, whether by choice or defence mechanism).

Luke’s account of the sisters is almost universally misinterpreted. They appear in the context of Jesus sending out seventy plus disciples, or apprentices, ahead of him, to every village where he intended to go, sent to find persons of peace whose homes might become the hub of a community of disciples—what we would call a local church congregation. Martha is presented as a deacon, as the local minister to the proto-church in her village. Mary is presented as one who sat at Jesus’ feet, which is code for a disciple: which is to say, she is one of the seventy plus Jesus has sent out ahead of him. Martha tells Jesus that there is more work to be done ministering to her village than she can attend to alone, and asks Jesus to find Mary and send her back home to work alongside Martha. Jesus declines, affirming the different vocations—deacon, evangelist—of both sisters. This is a far cry from Martha being in the kitchen and complaining about Mary not helping prepare food.

In John’s Gospel, we meet the siblings again, this time including their brother Lazarus. Jesus has recently been in Jerusalem, but has withdrawn down into the rift valley that is the lowest point on the surface of the earth, crossing over the river Jordan, getting away from enemies who had attempted to stone him. Lazarus falls ill, and the sisters send word to Jesus, most likely through the network he had established across the countryside.

Jesus does not come to the sisters until after Lazarus has died. Their brother’s death turns the sisters’ lives on their heads. Martha, who had ministered in the context of her own home and village, now leaves her village behind to find Jesus on his way. Mary, who had been travelling ahead of Jesus to village after village, is unable to leave the family home. The vocation of each has flipped. Martha has become Mary, and Mary has become Martha. Such is often the way in the wake of death.

Both sisters know that Jesus could have healed Lazarus (could have acted to do so: poiō) but they still trust him. They present to him their faith and hope and need of consolation, a mess of co-existing emotions, feelings and thoughts. Jesus does not respond by doing, but by being moved with compassion, a visceral experience, something, in a sense, done to us (paschō). Jesus is not in mastery of this response, which wracks him like a wild animal. And that raw compassion enables Martha to return home, empowers Mary to leave home, and brings Lazarus back from the dead.

But there is another gem in this passage. Jesus asks the community that has come from Jerusalem to be with—to surround, with love—Martha and Mary in their grief, where Lazarus had been laid, and they take him to the tomb. This echoes what John records in chapter 1 of his Gospel, two disciples of John the Baptiser who were following Jesus: he turns and asks them ‘What are you looking for?’ and when they ask, ‘Where are you staying?’ responds, ‘Come and see.’ (Interestingly, this takes place at the same place where Jesus will first hear news that his friend Lazarus is sick.) Now Jesus asks to see where Lazarus is staying, and invited to come and see. And so the disabled man—the dead man—Lazarus becomes the one who shows Jesus what it is to dwell in a tomb—and to rise from the dead.

Lazarus does for Jesus what Jesus cannot do for himself, but needs to know. Paschō.

We are created to be inter-dependent. And agency matters, what we choose to do with our lives, with our bodies, matters. But we do not have unlimited freedom. Our actions are constrained by the existence of others—not only by what they do, their actions, but by the place they occupy in the world, in the grace of God. The good news is that poiō is only half the story: the other side is paschō. In entrusting ourselves to others, to how they might respond to us—for good or ill—and trusting God to work through all of this, the kingdom of heaven can break into this world through us.

 

silence

 

Note: includes discussion of suicide.

Lectionary readings for Holy Communion today: Jeremiah 7.23-28 and Luke 11.14-23.

I have been thinking about silence of late. Silence, and listening. One of the things God says, repeatedly, through the prophets, is that the people don’t listen to him, when God cries out in the voice of the poor and those weighed down by heavy burdens. The more the world changes, the more it stays the same. In our age, we are trained, by social media—surely Orwellian double speak—to listen to shout down with counter-argument, rather than to understand another’s experience and meet them with compassion.

There is a silence that leads to life, and a silence that leads to death; and we must discern one from the other.

Here at St Nicholas’ Church this Lent, some of us have been sitting together in shared silence. This is a profound experience. I spend some hours every day alone at my desk, with no radio or music in the background. But this is not silence. Inside my head there is a running commentary, on what I am doing, on what I need to do next, and after that. Shared silence is a discipline of allowing the internal noise to be stilled, the mind to come to rest. Sitting with others in 20 minutes of shared silence on Tuesday night, I realised that my mind does not know how to rest. I understand the theological importance of rest; I gift rest to my body; but my mind does not know how to enter into rest. My mind is not a machine, that can be turned off and later on again. My mind is a creature—God’s good creation—that is stuck in a trauma response—for me that is to freeze, in hope that if I stay very still, the danger I sense will go away. But a frozen mind is not a mind at rest; it is a mind at constant high alert.

Shared silence is a discipline, a posture that opens us to the possibility of encountering God; and encountering, more deeply, others; and encountering, more truthfully, ourselves. Shared silence invites us to let go of the false self, the barriers we construct between us and others, which, eventually, come between us and the self we fear to acknowledge, because we cannot gaze upon ourselves with the depth of love with which God gazes upon us.

There is a silence that leads to life, and a silence that leads to death. Some days ago, a local teenage boy completed suicide in the park across the intersection from the church. His friends and classmates and their wider peer group have gathered where he died each day since, at the end of the school day, in small groups, leaving flowers and lighting candles. I have been deeply impressed by how they are caring for one another. And a recurring theme in the cards they have left is, we wish you had felt able to speak up; we would have supported you.

We wish you had felt able to speak up.

The silence we freely choose leads to life. The silence that feels imposed upon us, by the world around us, the shape of society, by an exercising of control we might even call demonic, leads to death. In some cases, tragically, in a literal sense.

The perhaps counterintuitive thing is that shared silence may help us to listen more attentively, carefully, compassionately, when another person does speak up. Because we have disciplined ourselves not to cut them up, not to speak over them.

As the local church, we need to hold safe space for shared silence—safe space, because to enter into silence, letting go of the noise that distracts us, is a deeply vulnerable posture. And we need to hold safe space for being listened to, where people can find a voice to say, ‘This is what I am burdened with right now.’

Our young people need such safe spaces, as do our senior citizens, and anyone in between. Spaces where we might experience the freedom that God, who has made himself known to us in the face of Jesus Christ, longs for us to know.

I have been thinking about silence of late. Silence, and listening.

 

finding ourselves in the story

 

This Sunday, I shall be speaking about Abraham, who is also known as the father of faith. We meet him in Genesis, the first book of the Bible, the origin-stories.

By way of context, we first meet his father, Terah. Terah lived in what today we would call southern Iraq, and had three sons, Abram, Nahor and Haran. Haran pre-deceases his father, and after this loss, Terah determines to set out for Canaan. He is searching for something, and though it is not made explicit, the implications is that he is searching for the God who will be known by his son Abram. His eldest son and his orphaned grandson go with him, while his other surviving son chooses to remain in the place he knows. They travel north along the Fertile Crescent between the rivers Tigris and Euphrates, until they reach the foothills of the mountains of what we know as Turkey, coming to a place called Haran. It is a different language, different root and meaning, but the name sounds like the name of his dead son. Whether that is painful, or comforting, or both, Terah finds himself unable to go any further, settling and eventually dying there.

It is possible that Terah’s story is your story. I meet quite a few people who have an innate sense that God exists, and even a strong hunch that he might be encountered in a church, in the local church I serve; who make a plan to turn up at public worship, but who — for a variety of reasons — just can’t get over the threshold. It is too daunting. I know others who come every week, perhaps out of force of habit or sense of duty, but who carry some sense of loss that prevents them from knowing God as fully as they had hoped, or once did. Terah’s story is not unusual; but more is possible.

After Terah dies, the Lord God speaks to Abram. And that is noteworthy in itself. The story takes it for granted that God speaks, to humans. And not just to vanishingly rare Important People. If God speaks to the father of faith, anyone who traces their heritage back to Abraham — Jews, Christians, Muslims — should expect to hear this God speak to them, too. To hear God’s voice. To learn to recognise the voice of God, the things that God would say to us.

And what God says is, Get out, get away — there is a sense of urgency here — from your country and your kindred and your father’s house. Not because these things don’t matter, but because God does not want us to find our security in them. Because, ultimately, these things aren’t secure. Who settles, and who rules over, geography changes continuously over time, not only over long stretches of time but in a continually ebb and flow. Culture changes, from generation to generation, so that you are quickly left behind by the concerns, the vocabulary, of the generation below you. Family can be a source of strength, but also of wounding, of enmity, of division. The word for ‘house’ can also be translated ‘palace’ or ‘dungeon’: families can exercise a hold over us; even where we love and are loved by our families, they can prevent us from going beyond where we now are.

Jesus will call these things — sources of privilege such as ethnicity, nationality, socio-economic background, gender, sexuality, education — the flesh, saying flesh gives birth to flesh but the Spirit of God gives birth to the spirit. It is also noteworthy that Jesus called the Temple in Jerusalem ‘my Father’s house,’ and for some, our cherished church practices can become a dungeon that imprisons us. If that is your story, the Spirit of God wants to set you free.

Instead of in these things, God wants Abram to find security in God. In knowing himself to be a child of God. In knowing God to be a loving Father. As my wife would put it, knowing WHO you are, and knowing WHOSE you are.

(Abram means Great, or Exalted, Father. But Abram is childless. He has no heir. His name is as unwelcome as a Best Dad In The World mug to a man with low sperm count. But God wants to bring healing to Abram, first by showing Abram that he, God, is a Loving Father, and in time by giving Abram a new name, Abraham, the Father of a Multitude, the father of all who follow in his footsteps walking with God.)

God calls Abram — and his descendants — out of every familiar source of hoped-for security, to become foreigners wherever they find themselves. To identify with the immigrants, those on the outside of national identity, cultural identity, self-interest. To be a significant sub-group within the host people but not of the host people. To be, as immigrant communities usually are, a community who seek to bless the host people. To serve their neighbours. To add value.

God tells Abram that if he sets out on this adventure, he will meet two kinds of people. He will meet those who bless him, who affirm him, encourage him, those who ask how they can support him. And he will meet those who curse him, who speak ill of him, on account of his faith, who oppose him. God tells Abram to expect both responses, and that God will multiply blessing wherever the intention to bless is found; and frustrate all intention to curse Abram, working to constrain evil, to transform it effectively against itself by bringing good out of actions intended for harm.

If you have set out on the journey of faith in the footsteps of Abram, you can expect to encounter the same reactions. We should not be surprised by this. We can give thanks for openness and hostility, for invitations and challenges, for favour and frustration, all as signs of still being on the path to a destination we don’t yet fully know, in the company of a trustworthy guide.

Maybe you recognise yourself in the story of Abram. Of faith, stalled by circumstances. Of the search for security — identity, meaning — in structures that are, inherently, unstable. Or perhaps of feeling like an outsider, and feeling alone, not part of a mighty people-group. Maybe you want to be a blessing, but struggle to see yourself in such terms, as something — someone — who is a gift to the world. Or perhaps you are struggling with the hostile reaction of others towards the things that matter to you.

Abraham’s story is the story of his descendants in faith. If that story resonates with you — if anything above intrigues you — I’d love to talk to you about that, to hear your story. To bless you. And to pray for you, that you would see and hear and know God more clearly.

If you are geographically local to me, you’d be most welcome to join us on Sunday morning, at 10.30 a.m. at St Nicholas Church, Sunderland

Genesis 12.1-4

‘Now the Lord said to Abram, “Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you. I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you, and make your name great, so that you will be a blessing. I will bless those who bless you, and the one who curses you I will curse; and in you all the families of the earth shall be blessed.” So Abram went, as the Lord had told him; and Lot went with him. Abram was seventy-five years old when he departed from Haran.’

 

immigrants

 

Abraham was seventy-five when he set out on a great adventure with God. He had already seen seventy-five winters. (So have I; but then, we squeeze more than one winter into each year around here.)

God invites Abram to get away — to distance himself — from his country, his kindred, and his father’s house, exchanging these securities — the soil and the people who have formed him — for uncertainty, and for his descendants to become a foreign (goy, or gentile) people wherever they reside.

Like Jews and Muslims, Christians trace their faith heritage back to Abraham. And while there are voices today claiming that Britain must reclaim its Christian heritage, there is no such thing as a Christian geo-political nation, or national people group. Land and neighbour and family matter to Christians, but don’t define us. We are foreigners in the midst of whatever nation we live in; foreigners positioned there to bless this ‘other’ soil and people we live among.

The word used to describe Abram’s father’s house can also be translated ‘palace’ or ‘dungeon,’ and when we seek to elevate the historic palace of Christianity in this nation — its beautiful buildings and music; its position of privilege in the corridors of power — it becomes, for us, a dungeon.

God speaks to Abram about both blessings and curses. Blessings are expansive, words — and actions — of life-giving affirmation. Curses are temporary constraints applied to those whose actions towards others steal life, make their world smaller. Being under a curse — for example, spending time in prison — is intended, in part, to create space to change minds and amend ways, ultimately opening the door to blessing that outstrips the curse.

If anyone is truly concerned that we, as a national society, have lost our sense of identity, confidence, and direction on account of forsaking the Church, the best advice I can offer is that you commit yourself to being found among the local church community that gathers week by week in your neighbourhood; that you submit yourself to learning, alongside neighbours of various origins, the Way of Jesus. That you might move from being under a curse to being blessed, and a means by which others are blessed too. You are not yet too old.

But if you are simply looking to co-opt Christianity as a weapon against other faiths, you won’t find support here.

Genesis 12.1-4

‘Now the Lord said to Abram, ‘Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you. I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you, and make your name great, so that you will be a blessing. I will bless those who bless you, and the one who curses you I will curse; and in you all the families of the earth shall be blessed.’ So Abram went, as the Lord had told him; and Lot went with him. Abram was seventy-five years old when he departed from Haran.’

 

hungry

 

I wonder what you are hungry for?

God made us with bodies, and with appetites. Those bodies, and appetites, are good. Our appetites are designed to keep us close to God, as the one in whom all our hunger is met. But we can also seek to fulfil our hungers elsewhere, in false consolation. The invitation of Lent is an invitation to sit with our hunger long enough to name it, and to allow it to draw us back to God.

While we all experience all kinds of appetite, we each have a core, habitual hunger. It might be a hunger for justice, that, whenever you see injustice in the world, leaves you with a physical ache, or longing, for justice. It might be a hunger for order, or originality; for success, or knowledge; for security, or peace; a hunger to be helpful, or comforted.

Each of these can draw us back to God, the source of justice, harmony, diversity, creativity, wisdom, fidelity, contentment, support, joy.

But we must wrestle with the temptation to settle for false consolation. To be drawn away from God into vengeance, control, supremacy, drivenness, despair, legalism, misery, resentment, cynicism. These things can all feel good in the moment — self-indulgent — but they leave a bitter aftertaste.

We are so schooled to be ashamed of our hunger, as if it revealed some failure, that we hide our hungers even from ourselves. When emotions threaten us, we displace the feeling (we feel sad, find that uncomfortable, and reach for a doughnut). The reality is, we might hide so well that we can’t even identify our own deepest, core hunger — a hunger that most probably is shaped by childhood experiences (such as needing to compete for parental love) but which also reveals something profound about who God made us to be, the way in which, our hunger being met in God, we might contribute to the healing of the world (for example, extending justice, rather than perpetuating injustice).

The invitation of Lent is an invitation to sit with our hunger long enough to name it, and to allow it to draw us back to God.

I wonder what you are hungry for?

Matthew 4.1-11

‘Then Jesus was led up by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil. He fasted for forty days and forty nights, and afterwards he was famished. The tempter came and said to him, ‘If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread.’ But he answered, ‘It is written, “One does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.”’

‘Then the devil took him to the holy city and placed him on the pinnacle of the temple, saying to him, ‘If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down; for it is written, “He will command his angels concerning you”, and “On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.”’ Jesus said to him, ‘Again it is written, “Do not put the Lord your God to the test.”’

‘Again, the devil took him to a very high mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the world and their splendour; and he said to him, ‘All these I will give you, if you will fall down and worship me.’ Jesus said to him, ‘Away with you, Satan! for it is written, “Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.”’

‘Then the devil left him, and suddenly angels came and waited on him.’

 

Ash Wednesday 2026

 

‘So we are ambassadors for Christ, since God is making his appeal through us; we entreat you on behalf of Christ, be reconciled to God. For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.’

2 Corinthians 5.20-21

 

God is Light and Life and Love. Sin is darkness and death and fear. In the person of Jesus, God took the sin of the world into God’s very being, where it was captured and utterly dissolved, rendering it powerless.

At our Ash Wednesday service, I spoke on John 8.1-11. Here we see a group of men who are so committed to discrediting Jesus that they misuse the Law cynically and partially, while ignoring the processes it sets out to protect people, not caring whose lives are destroyed as collateral damage.

They invite Jesus into an argument — that will never change anyone’s mind — and, choosing to hold silence instead, Jesus declines to attend. This is real wisdom for us in our digital age where we are bombarded with invitations to outrage. But there is more than that going on here.

Twice in this account, John tells us that Jesus bent down and straightened up. And this is what he did, physically. But everything John writes in his Gospel — his account of the life of Jesus, and why it is good news — is a sign. And the words he uses for ‘bent down’ and ‘straightened up’ can also be translated ‘bowed down’ and ‘lifted himself up.’ Twice, Jesus bows down; and twice, he lifts himself up.

What is going on here? This is Jesus, taking on sin — bowed down under its weight — and, that sin dissolved, lifting himself up again, triumphant.

The first time, he is taking upon himself, into his very being, the sin of the men who are standing around him. Their envy, their fear, their hatred, their hypocrisy, their bearing false witness against the woman and against Jesus and against Moses, their hard-heartedness. Taking all this into himself that it might be dissolved. That they might be freed to walk away from it all, to live a life reconciled to God and neighbour, characterised by love. This, Jesus does for them. It is in no way dependent on what they choose to do next.

The second time he bows down and rises up again is to take on, and dissolve, the sin of the woman. A life caught up in wrongs committed against her, and wrongs committed by her; a life story we might only speculate over, though speculation is of no help to us: better that we simply recognise our common humanity reflected back in her eyes. Once more, Jesus bows down under the weight of what sin has wrought in the world; and, once more, rises up triumphant over it, freeing the woman before him to walk into a life reconciled with God and neighbour. When he tells her to go, and son no more, he is not setting her up for future failure, but indicating that such a life is possible, such is the work he has done on our behalf.

This is not to say that sin has no consequences, which we must live with. What we see here in John 8 points us to the cross, where the sin of the world coagulates and is dissolved en masse, though Jesus’ body still bears the scars. Our bodies, too, bear the scars, keep the score; but can, nonetheless, know freedom.

Jesus says, let whoever is without sin be the first to throw a stone — and does not throw a stone, himself. He cannot, for he is not without sin. Jesus reveals to us the God who takes upon himself, takes into himself, sin — this making himself ineligible to cast stones — that we might experience restoration. This is the length God goes to heal every soul. Every soul.

At the end of the day, all our lives turn to ash — sometimes, very publicly. And yet, that is not the end of the story. We came from ash to begin with, and, just as God gave life to us, so God restores life to us.

This Lent, may you know that freedom.

 

John 8.1-11

‘Jesus went to the Mount of Olives. Early in the morning he came again to the temple. All the people came to him and he sat down and began to teach them. The scribes and the Pharisees brought a woman who had been caught in adultery; and making her stand before all of them, they said to him, ‘Teacher, this woman was caught in the very act of committing adultery. Now in the law Moses commanded us to stone such women. Now what do you say?’ They said this to test him, so that they might have some charge to bring against him. Jesus bent down and wrote with his finger on the ground. When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, ‘Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.’ And once again he bent down and wrote on the ground. When they heard it, they went away, one by one, beginning with the elders; and Jesus was left alone with the woman standing before him. Jesus straightened up and said to her, ‘Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?’ She said, ‘No one, sir.’ And Jesus said, ‘Neither do I condemn you. Go your way, and from now on do not sin again.’’

 

Candlemas

 

This coming Sunday is a pivot-point in the year, forty days on from Christmas, when we turn away from celebrating Jesus’ birth and turn towards remembering his agonising suffering, death, and glorious resurrection, in Holy Week and Easter.

This coming Sunday we recall the occasion, forty days after his birth, when Jesus’ parents presented him before God at the Temple in Jerusalem. This coming Sunday we bless candles — the ritual lighting of which symbolises our deepest moments of sorrow and of joy; and of recognition that God, who is invisible, is with us.

When a Jewish woman gave birth, she entered niddah, a period of seclusion and abstinence from intimacy with her husband she entered whenever she bled, in menstruation or in childbirth. Niddah lasted around seven days (or, seven days after the bleeding stopped) after which she would take a ritual bath before being reunited with her husband. (In recent years there has been a renaissance of this practice of withdrawal and reunion among Jewish women, as a beautiful gift of self-care, and a means of sustaining intimacy over time.)

After giving birth to a son, a woman entered niddah for seven days, followed by thirty-three days before she returned to public life, marked by presenting her son before God. After giving birth to a daughter, the periods were doubled — fourteen days of niddah, followed by sixty-six days before returning to public life.

This much is set out in the law of Moses, though no reason is given for why it should be thirty-three days for a son and sixty-six for a daughter — leading to much speculation. My own speculation (no more than that) is this. In Genesis 46 we read about the family of Jacob — grandson of father Abraham, and whom God had re-named Israel — who went with him down to Egypt to find salvation from a lengthy, region-wide famine. Jacob had twelve sons — who would give their names to the twelve tribes of Israel — and a daughter, by four different women, his wives Leah and Rachel, and their slaves Zilpah and Bilhah. We read that the number of his offspring, those belonging to him, his sons and their children, by his first wife Leah — beginning with his firstborn son, Reuben — numbered thirty-three; and the total number by all four women came to sixty-six. (The list of names and the accompanying numbers don’t exactly match; but these are symbolic numbers, not literal ones.)

I would suggest that to wait thirty-three days before presenting a son before God, and sixty-six days before presenting a daughter, is a means of including them in the family of Israel. Every son extends the family into the next generation. Every daughter completes the family again. Thirty-three. Sixty-six. This one, too, belongs to Israel. This one, too, takes their place within the family who are saved from famine, and, later, saved again, from enslavement. This one, too, is numbered.

So, Mary and Joseph bring Jesus, forty days on — seven, plus thirty-three — to take his place within the story of his people.

And there, there will be a reversal, a pivot-point, a turning. For the old man Simeon will bless Mary with a strange blessing: ‘and a sword shall pierce your heart, too.’

This points us to the cross, where a spear is thrust into Jesus’ heart to establish that he is, truly, dead; and the blood that has pooled there, and separated out into red and white blood cells, pours forth as blood and water. And a sword shall pierce your heart, too. Mary, at the foot of the cross. Her heart pierced, in the personal pain of any mother who witnesses the violent death of her son. But also, a symbolic union. Mary, who is the Church, the family of Jesus, shares in his piercing, in his death — and in his resurrection.

Just as Jesus is brought into the story of the family of Jacob/Israel, so, now, Mary — and all future generations to come — are brought into the story of the family of Jesus (which is a continuation, and a fulfilment, of the family of Israel).

This is the story into which the Church enters, participated in, down through the generations. A share in Christ’s suffering, dying, rising in glory. This is the life we are called to live in the world, not seeking to shield ourselves from pain but to know pain transformed, to bear faithful witness to, first, evil, and then, good — and truth, and beauty — rising from the bloody ground.

This is the story we enter into, symbolically — in embodied ways — in observing Christmas and Holy Week and Easter; and in observing the pivot-point between them, this Sunday, with the blessing of candles, which we light in times of great joy and sorrow.