pain

 

In the first half of life, we accumulate many blessings. We may get married. We may have children. We may discover and grow into the gifts that have been uniquely bestowed upon us, and found ways to bring them to bear in a professional capacity. None of these things are inevitable, but all of them are common to human experience.

In the second half of life, the longer we live, the more we experience bereavement, of every kind. Our marriage may break down, irretrievably; or we may need to accept that we will never marry. Or else, we may need to face up to the knowledge that, statistically speaking, it is likely that one of us will die first and the other will be left to live on, alone. Our children may leave home. Our bodies start to betray us. The technologies and methodologies of our workplaces change beyond our capacity to keep up. The songs they play on the radio, or that we sing in church, are ‘rubbish,’ compared to the songs we listened to, or sang in church, when we were younger.

Pain is inevitable, and unavoidable. And pain has a purpose. Its purpose is to bring us to the end of ourselves, so that we might discover, there, beyond our means, the immeasurable, unchanging compassion of God towards us.

But this is not inevitable. If this is the invitation of pain—of the losses of the second half of life—then the temptation of pain is to find something, however small, we might take control of. Whenever we do this, we cause both others and ourselves great heartache.

Jesus told a parable about forgiveness—which is the art of letting go of control, and abandoning ourselves to the compassion of God.

A certain servant of a certain king had accumulated—from the king’s hand—incredible, over-the-top, blessings. Yet the thing that defined his life was not gratitude but fear, the pain of the knowledge that one day he would lose everything he had been given. And so, when the king decided to settle accounts with his servants, the servant was thrown into torment. Despite being the king’s servant, he did not know the king’s character. He did not know that compassion was the very, steadfast, nature of the king. The king sought to test the servant’s heart—how well was he known? The servant failed to recognise the one before him; thought, if I can come up with a good enough plea, perhaps I can persuade the king to show mercy. The servant failed the test. And yet, the king did what the king had always intended to do: he wrote off the great debt of every blessing the servant had received from his hand. There was nothing to pay back. It was always gift.

The servant departed the king’s presence, released from debt but still in pain, the pain of the knowledge that one day he would lose all that he had gained. And he succumbed to the temptation of pain, to take control of whatever circumstances he still could. Which turned out to be the debt owed him—an incredibly small and trivial thing—by a fellow servant. When that servant could not pay, he had him thrown in the debtors’ prison. When this was reported to the king, the king brought about the consequences of the servant’s decision: that he, himself, would find himself trapped in a prison cell of his own making.

We heard this parable read this morning at our mid-week Holy Communion, a service attended by the Elders of our congregation and those of us who are becoming Elders. By which I don’t primarily mean the elderly, but those of us in the second half of life, those of us who have known and walked with God for a lifetime.

We are also blessed with an increasing number of members in the first half of life, in the process of accumulating the blessings God has for them, and who are coming to an awareness of their deep hunger and thirst for God.

And it is the dual vocation of those of us who find ourselves in the second half of life to allow our experience of pain to bring us to an ever-greater experience of God’s compassion towards us, and to model this response—resisting the temptation, choosing the invitation—for those who are younger, in life (for the most part) and in faith.

Those people connect mostly with our 10.30am Sunday service. And that service is for them: it is no longer ‘for’ the Elders. It is no longer the place where the Elders come to be fed, but has become the place where the Elders are needed to help feed the lambs. Elders, mature sheep, are able to feed themselves—at the midweek service, through daily prayer and bible reading in our own homes, through joining the hymns of the weekly Sunday service on Radio 4 or Songs of Praise on the BBC, and in a great many other ways. Elders are those who have either inherited wells that enable them to draw on the great underground river of God that flows below the surface of our lives, or who have dug their own wells in their youth; they do not need to dig new wells, but they are those who can teach those, new to faith, how to dig. The younger generation needs to be introduced to the old hymns that carry something of our faith, and ground us in a story bigger than our own time; but also need the opportunity to respond to God in praise that is of their own time, a new generation pouring out praise (where we had been told, over many long years, that noone is interested in praising God anymore). It has ever been thus (and every age has struggled to affirm the accents of the generation below them).

We need Elders who know enough of the compassion of God to let go of seeking control. Who demand no debt be paid in return, from those who, as yet, think they are immortal.

For all its challenges, I am thankful that we have, among us, both those in the second and the first half of life.

Matthew 18.21-19.1

‘Then Peter came and said to him, ‘Lord, if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?’ Jesus said to him, ‘Not seven times, but, I tell you, seventy-seven times.

‘For this reason the kingdom of heaven may be compared to a king who wished to settle accounts with his slaves. When he began the reckoning, one who owed him ten thousand talents was brought to him; and, as he could not pay, his lord ordered him to be sold, together with his wife and children and all his possessions, and payment to be made. So the slave fell on his knees before him, saying, “Have patience with me, and I will pay you everything.” And out of pity for him, the lord of that slave released him and forgave him the debt.

‘But that same slave, as he went out, came upon one of his fellow-slaves who owed him a hundred denarii; and seizing him by the throat, he said, “Pay what you owe.” Then his fellow-slave fell down and pleaded with him, “Have patience with me, and I will pay you.” But he refused; then he went and threw him into prison until he should pay the debt.

‘When his fellow-slaves saw what had happened, they were greatly distressed, and they went and reported to their lord all that had taken place. Then his lord summoned him and said to him, “You wicked slave! I forgave you all that debt because you pleaded with me. Should you not have had mercy on your fellow-slave, as I had mercy on you?” And in anger his lord handed him over to be tortured until he should pay his entire debt. So my heavenly Father will also do to every one of you, if you do not forgive your brother or sister from your heart.’

‘’When Jesus had finished saying these things, he left Galilee and went to the region of Judea beyond the Jordan.’

 

139

 

In a couple of weeks’ time, I shall be preaching on Psalm 139 (text below). The psalm—or song—rejoices in life lived in intimate nearness to God’s presence, from the womb to the grave. In the experience of being known, and loved, by One whose love for us causes them to want to know us fully. Of discovering that God is alongside us in the highs and lows of life, in ecstatic joy and in the depths of despair. And that this God, who is beyond our capacity to know, is nonetheless knowable.

For Christians, this God does not only know us from the outside, from beyond human life, as we might study and learn about the way of life of other species with whom we share this planet. We proclaim that in the man Jesus, born of the woman Mary, the eternal Word of God took on human nature, becoming what God loved. The God who is with us from our mother’s womb and will be with us in our grave, or urn, has known both womb and tomb firsthand, as one of us. And has broken out of both.

Ignatian spirituality invites us to take time each day to ask ourselves, where have we been attentive to, aware of, the presence of God with us, in the joy and sorrows of our hours? And where has that presence been hidden from us?

The psalm takes a turn towards the end, the psalmist crying out to God to bring an end to the wicked. It is a raw and heartfelt prayer, and one that God chooses to answer in a stunning way. Rather than slaying the wicked, God allows the wicked to slay the innocent One—God’s very self in our midst, become one of us—and as they do so, from the executioners’ scaffold, proclaims, ‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.’ And forgiveness is so disarming that the power of the bloodthirsty, which is their ability to draw us into their own game, is broken. Forgiveness does not proclaim, ‘what you did is okay,’ but, ‘what you did has no hold over me.’

The psalm concludes with a declaration of perfect hatred against God’s enemies. As Paul will write to the church in Ephesus (Ephesians 6.12) our enemies are not flesh and blood—not other human beings—but spiritual realities that hold us captive and obscure our vision of God. To hate such things is to desire to have nothing whatsoever to do with them, to distance ourselves from them.

Such enemies include:

For the older generation in particular:

Pervasive sadness—grief is an appropriate response to loss, but pervasive sadness chokes gratitude and wonder.

The belief that we are responsible for providing for ourselves in our old age—which fosters a scarcity mindset, causes us to hoard our resources, and prevents generosity.

For people of any age:

Chronic pain—which can turn us in on ourselves, and away from the source of life that sustains us even in our pain.

Among younger people in particular:

Anxiety—which pulls us in every which way at once, away from the present moment, the moment, whether high or low, where we might discover again God with us; where we might find stillness, rest, peace, wholeness.

P*rn*graphy—available from every mobile phone, desensitizing is towards and dehumanising how we see others, into a commodity for consumption, and so desensitizing and dehumanising ourselves.

Distraction—whether the insatiable demand to be productive and never rest, or the exponential availability of entertainment, including the idol of social media. An idol is a good thing that has been accepted as an ultimate thing; a thing that promises what it cannot deliver, and demands more and more of ourselves without ever being sated in its appetite for consuming us.

If you want to be set free from any of these enemies of the soul, free to learn to be aware of God’s nearness, I would love to pray for you and with you.

If you would like to experience something of the pilgrimage through life, accompanied by God and God’s people, you are welcome to join us at St Nicholas’ church (other local churches are available).

Psalm 139

To the leader. Of David. A Psalm.

1 O Lord, you have searched me and known me.
2 You know when I sit down and when I rise up;
you discern my thoughts from far away.
3 You search out my path and my lying down
and are acquainted with all my ways.
4 Even before a word is on my tongue,
O Lord, you know it completely.
5 You hem me in, behind and before,
and lay your hand upon me.
6 Such knowledge is too wonderful for me;
it is so high that I cannot attain it.
7 Where can I go from your spirit?
Or where can I flee from your presence?
8 If I ascend to heaven, you are there;
if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there.
9 If I take the wings of the morning
and settle at the farthest limits of the sea,
10 even there your hand shall lead me,
and your right hand shall hold me fast.
11 If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me,
and night wraps itself around me,”
12 even the darkness is not dark to you;
the night is as bright as the day,
for darkness is as light to you.
13 For it was you who formed my inward parts;
you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
14 I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
Wonderful are your works;
that I know very well.
15 My frame was not hidden from you,
when I was being made in secret,
intricately woven in the depths of the earth.
16 Your eyes beheld my unformed substance.
In your book were written
all the days that were formed for me,
when none of them as yet existed.
17 How weighty to me are your thoughts, O God!
How vast is the sum of them!
18 I try to count them—they are more than the sand;
I come to the end—I am still with you.
19 O that you would kill the wicked, O God,
and that the bloodthirsty would depart from me—
20 those who speak of you maliciously
and lift themselves up against you for evil!
21 Do I not hate those who hate you, O Lord?
And do I not loathe those who rise up against you?
22 I hate them with perfect hatred;
I count them my enemies.
23 Search me, O God, and know my heart;
test me and know my thoughts.
24 See if there is any wicked way in me,
and lead me in the way everlasting.

(Psalm 139, NRSVue translation)

 

on the ecology of community

 

The Gospel passage set for this Sunday is Matthew 13.1-9, 18-23, see below. [We are not following the Lectionary at St Nicholas at the moment—we are in the middle of a summer sermon series on the Psalms—but I am covering at another church this weekend.]

In this passage, Jesus tells a parable about a sower. If we are familiar with the parable, we most likely view it through the lens of individualism, and a culture that promotes polarisation. We are invited—tempted—to view ourselves as ‘good soil,’ and label others as compacted, stony, or thorny soil. Or, we compare ourselves unfavourably with others, lamenting the poor quality of the soil of our life in contrast to their greater worthiness.

But, in common with the majority of human experience, Jesus lived in a society that was more communal, where neighbours lived in greater interdependence.

Most lived in villages we would consider hamlets. While families owned land—and if you found yourself needing to sell it, you did so to the nearest possible relative, and with a return clause—each village also had its common field. This field was divided into strips that different families took responsibility to care for, alongside their primary role in the community (e.g. building, fishing).

The Holy Land is hilly, and cultivated land is terraced. Agriculture requires certain features. Places where the bedrock is close to the surface are necessary, providing the foundation for the stone walls that create the terracing. The perimeter of the cultivated land was surrounded by thorny plants, necessary to keep wild animals away from food intended for humans. The field also required paths, allowing access to each strip without trampling the entire field.

A sower scattering seed on the ground would inevitably send some seed into those areas. But in the parable, the field produces a one-hundred-and-ninety-fold return. The compacted, stony, and thorny ground contribute their part in that, as does the good soil they encompass and bisect.

As well as the common field, the village also had a common granary. The harvest was pooled, and distributed according to need, not according to the yield of the strip your family had tended. The family whose strip included thorny ground received what they needed, as much as the family who had only good soil to tend. And from the common granary, next year’s seed for sowing also came.

(And yes, there were privately owned fields and granaries too; and elsewhere Jesus tells another parable about a man who seeks to increase the size of his private granary.)

So this is a parable about a common field—think, the community listening to Jesus. We might call that common field a church congregation. Within that congregation, there are different kinds of ground, necessary for its survival. Note that nowhere does Jesus say, break up the stony ground, or root out the weeds. (How tempting it is, for those of us who scatter seed, to believe we must break every hard ground, without discernment.) This is, in fact, the ecology of community—of any kind of community.

In our congregations there are those whose service, over time, has enabled us to live together in relative harmony, not trampling over one another’s lives. Who have created, and maintain, habitual paths, or ways of doing things. Think governance. Yes, there may be times when they get stuck in their ways—when the path becomes the most important thing, where paths become barriers, where way-makers become toll-keepers unhelpfully restricting access. But the paths themselves, and those who tend them, play an essential part in the whole, even if it doesn’t look directly fruitful. Even if they miss out on the opportunity to produce a harvest, they don’t miss out on being fed.

In our congregations there are those who respond to everything with enthusiasm, that does not last. They may be ADHD, needing a different structure, but also bringing a different—and needful—gift or perspective. They—we—may be looking at the wrong metric, for what being part of the village, the field, the community looks like. They may be shoring up a defense against the odds in their personal lives. They may be discouraged that their presence in the community is taken for granted, or not valued as highly as that of others. They may have a valid point. They certainly have pastoral needs. They, too, should not miss out on being fed.

In our congregations there are those whose lives contain many cares, including financial worries. The elderly, whose bodies have begun to betray them. Their adult children, simultaneously being there for aging parents and their own children. The parent who is concerned about the bad actors who have influenced their children for harm. The one who is struggling to pay the bills, to keep food on the table and a roof over their head. These are legitimate concerns—and we rightly look to maintain both safeguarding and practical pastoral care, as a framework within which all can flourish. But it is hard work. This is one reason why in some places the strip within the common field that each family tended would be reallocated year on year, so no one had to maintain the wall or the hedge for too long. It can be disheartening work. Those who have many cares deserve special attention and care; and to not have additional burdens of judgement placed upon them. Jesus does not identify them for our censure but for our compassion.

Within our congregations, everyone has a part to play; everyone has a gift to bring; and, yes, no one is uniformly receptive to the word of the kingdom. And yet, overall, the field and the seed together produce a harvest.

So, where do you find yourself today, in relation to the common field? (Which could be, entirely outside of it.)

Whatever your answer, you are part of a village.

Where there are well-worn paths, boundaries, defence mechanisms, and a good harvest in our personal lives, may all be offered and shared to the common good.

 

good

 

The first reading set for Morning Prayer today is Judges 11.1-11.

The Book of Judges tells the story of the loosely federated tribes of Israel, after they settled in Canaan and before they were united into a kingdom. Throughout this period, various of the tribes were in conflict with various of their neighbours, who were either already living in the same territory or also seeking to take control of it. The Book of Judges presents a cycle of defeat to and oppression by neighbouring peoples, followed by successful uprising and temporary liberation under the leadership of a usually flawed hero.

Judges 11.1-11 introduces Jephthah, whose story (spoilers!) will ultimately end in tragedy. Jephthah is the child of an adulterous relationship, and though he grows up to be described as a mighty man of valour, his half-brothers drive him away, determined that he will not share the inheritance with them.

What interests me is that the account tells us that Jephthah flees to the land of Tob. Tob, or towb, means good, or pleasant. It describes an environment where healing from abuse can take place. Where someone who has been wronged might be seen, and affirmed, for who they really are. And as Jephthah removes himself to such a place, we are told that others gather to him. Men described as worthless gather to a man described as being of valour.

It is worth reflecting on who has assigned these descriptions. Jephthah himself is considered worthless by his brothers—indeed, at least for now, by his wider community; though they will come to fetch him back when they think his skills as a warrior might serve them: this, too, is abuse—though the narrator clearly has a different perspective. Likewise, the worthless fellows, or outlaws, who gather to him are outlaws because they have been driven out by their families or communities.

And in the place of Tob, the good and pleasant place, they experience healing and come to see themselves not as worthless but as skilled warriors. As a thorn in the side of the communities who drove them out.

Sometimes families can be toxic, and sometimes the wisest and bravest course of action is to cut ties (though to be clear, Jephthah will go on to make some disastrous decisions as a parent: trauma can beget trauma, even where there has been a measure of healing). But healing doesn’t happen in isolation. We need the land of Tob, the good and pleasant place. The community that honours our stories, that sees us without rejection, that is good to us. That chooses, again and again, to love someone who, because of their brokenness and baggage, resentment and bitterness, or simply because their response to potential danger is stuck on high alert, may be hard to love.

Whatever your story, may you know a ‘land of Tob.’

 

on Psalm 65

 

Our summer sermon series at St Nicholas’ explores the Psalms. This coming Sunday, our psalm will be Psalm 65 (text below).

Psalm 65 is written for the person who presides over the public worship of the gathered community, which makes it very appropriate for this weekend, when my colleague Katherine will step into that role for the first time.

It is a ‘David psalm’—a psalm composed in the tradition of David, with a David outlook, from a David perspective. And it speaks of the temple, which, at the time of David, did not exist. It is future-oriented.

For Christians, that future orientation points to Jesus—who claimed that the temple was a ‘type’ fulfilled in his own body—and to the community who proclaim him as Lord—as the rightful heir of David—those whom the disciple Jesus gave the nickname ‘stone’ imagined as living stones being built into a temple.

Psalm 65 speaks of people rooted in place, a community close nearby, or surrounding, the temple. We might call that a parish. A community, of young and old, of many different kinds of people, who find their lives blessed by proximity to the temple, or to the community who is rooted in both this place and that Lord Jesus.

We are told, in our neo-liberal world, that there is no such thing as community any more, only (increasingly polarised) individuals. But, in fact, we are created as persons, who only find the fullness of identity in relation to other persons—not just like-minded persons, but in the diversity of persons found in, and committed to, the place we are found. This diversity is the glory of a parish; and the tragedy of many a local church congregation has been their inability to embrace certain identities as divine gift. The local congregation, within the local parish, should function as a community that holds us, grounds us, nurtures us, such that we discover who we are—whom God has created us to be—and are able to flourish. Too many people have felt that they have had no choice but to leave the community behind in search of a more nurturing one.

But Psalm 65 goes on to speak of salvation, of God at work to save, to bring us into a place of healing and wholeness. To calm the storms that rage, within us and around about us. To usher in something new: morning and evening; fruitful creativity and harmonious order, and joyful celebration and rest.

Hard ground softened. Barren ground swollen with good things.

Again and again, in time, in season.

There’s a hymn often sung at funerals and cup finals that says, ‘change and decay in all around I see; O, thou who changest not, abide with me.’ But this is, at best, only part of the picture; for God is continually bringing about change, drawing life out of death, hope out of hibernation.

And it is the role of the one called to oversee the worship of the community to notice that which is not yet; to call the people back to a future-orientation; to remind us of hope that is grounded in God’s faithfulness in every age before us.

Psalm 65

To the leader. A Psalm of David. A Song.

1 Praise is due to you,

O God, in Zion,

and to you shall vows be performed,

2 O you who answer prayer!

To you all flesh shall come.

3 When deeds of iniquity overwhelm us,

you forgive our transgressions.

4 Happy are those whom you choose and bring near

to live in your courts.

We shall be satisfied with the goodness of your house,

your holy temple.

5 By awesome deeds you answer us with deliverance,

O God of our salvation;

you are the hope of all the ends of the earth

and of the farthest seas.

6 By your strength you established the mountains;

you are girded with might.

7 You silence the roaring of the seas,

the roaring of their waves,

the tumult of the peoples.

8 Those who live at earth’s farthest bounds are awed by your signs;

you make the gateways of the morning and the evening shout for joy.

9 You visit the earth and water it;

you greatly enrich it;

the river of God is full of water;

you provide the people with grain,

for so you have prepared it.

10 You water its furrows abundantly,

settling its ridges,

softening it with showers,

and blessing its growth.

11 You crown the year with your bounty;

your wagon tracks overflow with richness.

12 The pastures of the wilderness overflow;

the hills gird themselves with joy;

13 the meadows clothe themselves with flocks;

the valleys deck themselves with grain;

they shout and sing together for joy.

 

on Psalm 23

 

What we call the Book of Psalms is in fact a compendium of five collections of in total 150 songs. Many are associated with (written by, or in honour of) David, though some are older and many more were composed after David’s time. Unarguably, the most famous of all is the twenty-third psalm.

The theologian Walter Brueggemann notes that many of the Psalms either ground us in the dependable goodness of God (psalms of orientation) or express lament in times of suffering or distress (psalms of disorientation) or give thanks for deliverance through such times (psalms of reorientation). The twenty-third psalm works its way through all three.

David lived about three thousand years ago. As a boy he was a shepherd, overseeing his father’s sheep. As a man he became an army general, then outlaw, and eventually a king. The twenty-third psalm draws on the experience of both shepherd and sheep, and general and troops.

Psalm 23

A Psalm of David.

1 The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

2 He makes me lie down in green pastures;

he leads me beside still waters;

3 he restores my soul.

He leads me in right paths

for his name’s sake.

The psalm begins by grounding us in the dependable goodness of God, who brings us again and again to rest—bringing us back to ourselves, when we have become scattered, pulled in every-which-way by fear or competing demands. (We engage with this through habitual practices such as Sabbath, one day in every seven to simply be and to enjoy the goodness of life.) It is interesting to note that rest is the state the shepherd-general wants for us, knows we need. It is in rest that we find comfort.This rest is not ‘doing nothing,’ but in fact essential for our lives to flow, to dance with vitality—with a contrast, lost in translation, between slow-moving waters and sparkling sheep (soldiers) flowing after their shepherd (general). The imagery continues, depicting sheep being led, to rest, along familiar trails, but the choice of words in the Hebrew the psalm was written in also describes the perimeter encircling an army camp, within which soldiers are able to rest. This is multilayered imagery, connecting to David’s varied life experience; but every layer is another way of describing coming to rest in God’s dependable goodness.

The psalm continues,

4 Even though I walk through the darkest valley,

I fear no evil,

for you are with me;

your rod and your staff,

they comfort me.

Here the scene narrows right down from a spacious pasture to a narrow gorge whose high sides block out the sun. If you are a sheep, this is the perfect place for predators. If you are a soldier, this is the perfect place for enemy soldiers to set an ambush. And yet, the sheep follows her shepherd and the soldier follows his general, because they trust them. The shepherd carries a club for driving back predators, and the pastoral staff we are familiar with shepherds (and bishops) holding. The primary thing a shepherd does with this staff is, lean on it: it enables the shepherd to rest, and also to walk without losing her footing; and because the sheep knows that the shepherd is secure, the sheep may also experience rest, confidence and sure-footedness even in the dark passage.

This dark and narrow place is where we find ourselves in bereavement, at the death of a loved one, or the loss of a job, the breakdown of a friendship, or all manner of transitional seasons. It is the experience of mid-life, where our choices narrow, where we may move from being a generalist to a specialist; where, if we have them, our children leave home while our parents face old age and dying. The dark and narrow place is not one we can avoid, retreat from back to the spaciousness of younger years, or rush through. It is inevitable, and difficult, and formative; and even here we can experience rest in the dependable goodness of God.

The psalm continues,

5 You prepare a table before me

in the presence of my enemies;

you anoint my head with oil;

my cup overflows.

6 Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me

all the days of my life,

and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord

my whole life long.

If you are a sheep, the table prepared is a pasture that opens out from the narrow gorge, bejewelled with wild flowers. But the word choice of preparing also refers to the arranging of his troops for battle by a general. And the way the Shepherd prepares for us to come face-to-face with our enemies is to invite them, and us, to sit down together. That, over a shared meal, enmity might be transformed into friendship. Here, too, the pouring out of oil, which—whether a sheep who has picked up snicks along the way or a soldier who has been wounded in battle—is a medical image.

There are those who live in war zones, whose enemies are flesh and blood. But my own enemies are for the most part internal: my anxieties and fears; my catastrophising; the way my own physical body lets me down as it ages; shame. These are invited to the table, so that I might make peace with them. With myself, my whole being. That I might experience healing for my wounds.

The psalm concludes with goodness and kindness (the most underrated thing in the whole universe) and rest, in the sheep pen or in the great hall prepared for those who have come through the strife. Ends, where we began, with resting in the dependable goodness of God. Here, life is not what it was, but is still good: reconfigured, experiencing the love of God in a new season of life. That life has its changing seasons is inevitable: whether we experience rest in this, or fight it—becoming a ridiculous caricature of our younger selves, or resentful and bitter, in older age—is a matter of choice. To rest, or not to rest: that is the question.

Christians are aware that Jesus claims this psalm, the imagery of the Good Shepherd, for himself; and Christians also see Jesus as the Captain of our Souls, the one who leads us through suffering to glory—in this world and beyond. May we always return to rest in him, in every season.

 

on love

 

The Church is currently in Ordinary time, from ordinal numbers, or ranking things in the sequence in which they occur: first, second, third; gold medal, silver medal, bronze medal. These are all the days that are not tied to Christmas (Advent, Christmastide, Epiphanytide) or Easter (Lent, Holy Week, Eastertide, Ascensiontide, Pentecost).

But when Jesus speaks of the first and second commandments, he is not speaking of ordinal numbers. By ‘protos,’ he means the charge from which all other instruction originates and against which it is measured for likeness. By ‘deuteros,’ he means a second telling of the same thing—that is, ‘to put it another way...’—not a subsequent thing. (Exodus, the second book of the Law of Moses, tells how God brought his people out of Egypt and gave them the Law; Deuteronomy, the fifth book, presents a second giving of the Law, to the next generation.)

The charge is, love.

As the sun is made to give light, and the rain to water the earth, so humans are created to participate in love.

And to do so fully involves heart (kardia) and soul (psuché) and mind (dianoia) and strength (ischus).

Heart means, our thoughts and feelings, and our ability to shepherd these. If your thoughts and/or feelings towards someone else do not run to love, we are not yet where God longs for us to be.

To be clear, you may have been deeply hurt by another person, and we are not claiming that this is okay and you need to embrace them. What we are saying is that if your response to the one who has deeply wronged you is, ‘I hope they burn in hell!’ rather than, ‘I am so sad at how they turned out, so far from what God longed for them,’ then there is still work to be done. For your own sake.

Soul means the breath of life. We are clay of the earth (and our bodies will, eventually, return to the earth from which we came) animated by the life of God. Your life is a gift. And if we do not participate in that gift in love—if we are overly defensive, or possessive, for example—we are not, yet, where God longs for us to be.

Mind refers to our ability to weigh a matter and reach conclusions. And if our conclusion, in relation to another person, or kind of person, or group of persons, is that they are deserving of only conditional or qualified love, then we have reached the wrong conclusion.

Strength refers to our ability to resist and overcome opposition. The strength available to us fluctuates, over the course of a lifetime, or a day; but, we possess such strength. And in a world that daily encourages us to hate or despise others, to see others as a threat to our own life (as if anyone else could take away the gift that God has given) we are called to exercise our strength to stand for love.

And if we do this, and if we acknowledge the ways in which we fail to do this and seek the Love that we have denied, then we will participate in the kingdom of God, which is the reign of Love.

Mark 12.28-34

 

on being parishioners

 

Years after the death, resurrection, and Ascension of Jesus, his former apprentice Peter—now himself apprenticing others in the Way of Jesus—wrote to the still-infant church.

He calls them aliens and exiles. And that is what they were, in a worldly sense; and this is true of some but not all Christians today. But these sacred writings are handed down to us to shape our imagination, to frame how we see the world and ourselves within it. And Peter encourages us to see our primary citizenship as belonging to the kingdom of heaven.

The word Peter uses for aliens is ‘paroikos,’ from ‘para,’ meaning to be close alongside (as in, parallel lines) and ‘oikos,’ meaning house or household. Paroikos meant resident alien, those who lived close alongside the citizens of a place, but did not possess all of the rights of a citizen.

This is the word from which we get our words ‘parish’ and ‘parishioner.’ We primarily think of a parish as an area, and the parishioners as those who live within its boundaries. But most people do not think of themselves as parishioners; and even those who do, don’t think of themselves as resident aliens.

Peter pairs this word with ‘parepidemos,’ or pilgrim: one passing through a place, dependent on the hospitality offered by the residents. We are to think of ourselves as immigrants and pilgrims.

How we see ourselves determines how we see others. If we think of ourselves as possessing a place, we may find ourselves seeing others who move in alongside us as a threat. If we understand ourselves to be resident aliens, here (wherever ‘here’ is) to be a blessing to the local population, then we will more likely see other immigrants as a blessing. Certainly as deserving compassion.

But this is hard, which is why Peter tells us to actively distance ourselves from fleshly desires, which, given the context, must include the desire to possess a place in the world.

1 Peter 2.2-5, 9-12

 

given

 

Seventh Sunday of Easter: Lectionary readings Acts 1.6-14 and John 17.1-11.

God the Father sends Jesus the Son into the world, and gives people to him so that they might know and be drawn into the Love they share. The Son, in turn, will send the people whom the Father has given him to the world, that others might know and be drawn into that same embrace: to experience peace within themselves (which is no small feat) and with their neighbours and with God.

The people the Father gave to the Son included ‘Peter, and John, and James, and Andrew, Philip and Thomas, Bartholomew and Matthew, James son of Alphaeus, and Simon the Zealot, and Judas son of James.’ (Acts 1.13)

Peter is a nickname. His parents called him Simon, but Jesus called him Peter, which means rocky. Jesus told a parable about a sower sowing seed on various soil. The seed that fell on rocky ground sprung up quickly but wilted just as quickly in the heat of the sun. This, he said, described those who responded to the message of God’s reconciling love with enthusiasm, but fell away as soon as living in that love turned hard. Jesus knew what he was doing when he called Simon, Peter: one who is all in, and then out; all in again, and out again.

Jesus also gave a nickname to the brothers John and James, ‘the sons of commotion.’ When the Aramaic word proved unfamiliar to the Roman audience of his Gospel, Mark reached for ‘thunderstorm.’ John and James brought the drama.

Andrew is the only obvious choice on the list of people the Father gave the Son. At what we would call primary school, Jewish children committed the Torah (the first five books of the Bible, Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers and Deuteronomy) to heart. Then most left schooling to apprentice to their father’s trade. But the most promising continued with school alongside that, committing, over several years, the rest of the Bible (what we know as the Old Testament) to memory. And the best of the best might then apprentice to a rabbi, before becoming a rabbi themselves, one whose position in the community was to help others live life fully and well. When we first meet him, Andrew is already a disciple of rabbi John the Baptiser, before John tells Andrew that he has taken him as far as he can, and now he must apprentice to rabbi Jesus instead. Andrew, at least, is an obvious choice.

Philip has a popular Greek name. He is an immigrant, the child of immigrants. Were this twentifirst century England, Philip would be Muhammad; and he was likely as popular then as immigrants are here and now.

Thomas means the Twin. But we never meet Thomas’ twin. If this is his name, rather than a nickname, perhaps he was the twin who survived birth, his parents wanting him to know that he was not alone in the womb. That would be very common. Or perhaps both twins survived, but later had a falling out. Whatever, there is a hole in Thomas’ life. After the resurrection, Jesus invites Thomas to put his hand in the hole in Jesus’ side, to discover that holes can be filled. Perhaps you can identify with Thomas.

Bartholomew is another nickname, possibly belonging to Nathaniel. It means the Giant’s Offspring. Specifically, Talmai (Hebrew, or Ptolomy in Greek). Talmai was one of the Nephilim, a cross breed with fallen angels for fathers and human mothers. Giants and monsters. Watch out, here comes Bartholomew. The freak. The monster. Imagine the other kids closing one eye and crying out, Cyclops, Cyclops. Perhaps you can identify with Bartholomew.

Matthew is a gambler. A tax collector. To raise capital for public works, the Romans would auction the rights to collect tax in a given area. Effectively a private loan to government, in the hope that you might collect the expected level of tax—or more—but with the risk that you might not. Like playing the stock market. Tax collectors were despised. The testimony of a tax collector was inadmissible in court—so, of course, the Holy Spirit would choose Matthew to write an account of Jesus’ life.

James son of Alpheus lived in the shadow of James the brother of John (and also in the shadow of his own brother, Matthew). The Church would come to call him James the Less, to tell him apart from James the Great (though James the Great would eventually have his head removed by a sword, making him, well, less). Perhaps you can identify with living in the shadow of someone else.

Simon the Zealot was a Patriot. One who co-opted religion to justify violence against ‘the other’—or who might justify resorting to violence to protect religious cultural identity. If this was today, he would fit right in at a rally organised by Stephen Yaxley-Lennon. He would hate Philip, and Matthew, for different reasons. And the Father gives him to the Son, to find reconciliation. The agenda is not Make Israel Great Again, but, see beyond your tribe to a common humanity, a brother- and sisterhood.

We don’t really know much about Judas son of James. Some think he was the same Judas who wrote the Letter from Jude; some don’t. But Judas son of James is also known, forever, as ‘Judas—no, not that one.’

It is hardly a promising list. As noted, Andrew is the only obvious choice. Except that if the purpose is to experience reconciliation—the healing power of Love—then this is precisely the kind of list you might choose. Almost as if God knows what God is doing.

Here’s the thing. If you find yourself drawn to Jesus, you are one of the people whom the Father has given to the Son, to discover and come to peace through Love—and whom the Son sends into the world to carry (through our actions as well as—and perhaps even more than—our words) that good news.

And so are the people you might find sitting around you when the church gathers.

Like the first people the Father gave to the Son, we are a motley crew. But that, too, is good news, because it is relatable.

 

on playfulness

 

Playfulness can unlock things that other approaches cannot.

The Gospel set for this Sunday, Luke 24.13-35, is playful. The story takes place on the third day after Jesus’ death by crucifixion. Two of his apprentices are walking together, and as they do so they are ‘talking with each other about all these things that had happened.’ These things that had happened can mean these things that coincided or walked alongside each other. This is playful language. The hopes and dreams of the Palm Sunday crowd, the repeated confrontations with the authorities over the following days, the rumour mills operating on overtime throughout the city, the sad awkwardness of the Last Supper, the terror of Gethsemane, the numbing disorientation of Calvary, the death of their Messiah, the emptiness of the Sabbath, and the incomprehensible insistence of the women; all these things have walked alongside each other over these days. And as the two apprentices walk alongside each other, throwing all these things that have walked alongside each other back and forth between them, Jesus came near, coincided, and walked alongside them.

Moreover, they will tell him about the apprentices who did not see Jesus. These two apprentices who do not see Jesus, walking right alongside them. Their friend and teacher, and the one at the very epicentre of the events they are discussing, is, in their eyes, a stranger; and, even among strangers, uniquely uninformed and unaware.

It’s playful.

Playfulness involves both the imagination and the body. The way the storyteller, Luke, describes the two apprentices discussing all these things that had happened draws on the imagery of tossing a ball back and forth between them. ‘The press of the crowds. Catch!’ ‘The Temple tension. Catch!’ ‘The taste of roast lamb and bitter herbs. Catch!’ ‘Um...Grief. catch!’ ‘Er...Total incomprehension. Catch!’ Luke doesn’t say that they were actually throwing a ball, but when we are wrestling with too many things—and too many emotions—at once, doing so might help.

They arrive at Emmaus towards the end of the day, as the day is bent and bowed, with age. They press upon the stranger to stay the night, and put together supper. And Jesus does something physical: reclines at the table, takes hold of the bread, acknowledges, with gratitude, its God-given goodness, tears it so it can be shared, offers it to his host companions (companion: literally, one with whom we share bread). Unhurried. And this is the moment their eyes are opened. The moment of recognition. Not in his exposition on the road—though that certainly did something—but in simple, and repeated, actions. Again, when we wrestle with disappointment and confusion, receiving bread and wine in Communion is an anchor, enabling us to see Jesus in circumstances where we are kept from seeing him.

It is at this point, too, that they realise that their hearts had burned within them as he spoke on the road. That something deep inside was reaching out to Jesus, even when they were unable to recognise him. The body does what the conscious, controlling, mind could not. Bypasses the intellect, which follows slowly behind like a dullard. Playfulness, again.

I wonder when you have been disappointed, in your faith? When you have lost someone you loved, or something that felt central to what you believed was taken away from you? Or when you found yourself simply and utterly confused by it all?

I wonder what stories you can tell of encountering Jesus in just these times? Or what stories you might one day tell? And I wonder what place playfulness had, or might have, in the process?

 

against Christian Nationalism

 

I want to offer some reflections on the Gospel reading set for Holy Communion today, John 3.31-36, in the light of serious misuse of biblical texts by political figures in recent days.

In this passage (which you can read in full below) Jesus makes several claims about the nature of God:

God is true;

he gives the Spirit without measure;

The Father loves the Son and has placed all things in his hands; and

whoever disobeys the Son will not see life, but must endure God’s wrath.

God is true:

God is the ultimate reality, and measure of what is inherently good—in marked contrast to the provisionality of any human culture or empire, which reflects goodness partially and imperfectly. This reaching-beyond what we can see and touch around us—beyond what we can grasp—in search of deeper truth is inherently human, across cultures. It calls for fidelity to something that is more weighty, more permanent, than our brief moment. The belief that we possess—that we are—the pinnacle of truth and beauty, the measure against which all others are to be judged (and found wanting) is hubris.

he gives the Spirit without measure:

The Spirit is the Life of God, shared, sent out into the world, to animate everything that is, to draw it back into the Life of God, as breath is exhaled and inhaled again and again. Genesis describes human beings as the humus of the earth, animated by the breath of God. And God gives this Spirit—this Life—without measure. In contrast, Capitalism measures everything, assigning a value, and seeking to control, to hoard. As if it is possible to hoard breath, to breathe in and in and in without ever breathing out. A scarcity model, in which we must compete with one another for the necessary goods of life. Yet we are all alive, on this Earth we share; not one of us asked for this. The idea that we must earn the shelter and food needed to sustain life is the antithesis of divine love. God gives without measure, to all, not asking who is worthy, who is deserving, who has or has not earned the right. Those who have seen and heard, who testify that God is true, reject the idea that we must hoard what is needful for ourselves.

The Father loves the Son and has placed all things in his hands:

God loves—is Love—and whatever lacks love is not of God. This love is all encompassing: Jesus calls us to love our neighbour and to love our enemy—for only love can transform enmity into friendship. Love is relational: hence, the Father and the Son. The Son is Jesus. Son language—Son of God, Son of David, Son of Mary, Son of Jospeh—reveals that God loves human beings so much that he resolved, from the beginning, to become one of us. One with us. God has a human ancestors, a human mother, a human kinsman redeemer. God, who is true, trusts humanness. This is stunning. And, in love, the Father has placed all things into Jesus’ hands. There is nothing that God has not entrusted to Jesus. To believe this is to not need to attempt to take anything into our own hands; and attempting to take control demonstrates the gulf between what we confess with our lips and believe in our heart.

whoever disobeys the Son will not see life, but must endure God’s wrath:

‘Earthly’ things are at odds with ‘heavenly’ things. Both are located within the heart. Earthly wrath looks like unbridled anger, raining fire on our enemies. But the wrath of God simply refers to God’s settled opposition to injustice. There is no violence in this resolute opposition, but a non-violent standing with all who suffer injustice. Jesus does not call down angel armies to destroy the Romans, but takes into himself our earthly wrath—our injustice; for the earthly, here, is the inverse of the heavenly—and neutralises it. Jesus reveals God to be non-violent. When we read of violence attributed to God in the Bible, we are not witness to the nature of God but we are witness to the reality that even those who know God can misunderstand, misheard, misrepresent God. These passages give us reason to doubt ourselves, not God’s goodness. Yet, we are addicted to violence. It cannot save us, cannot give life; but, rather, keeps us from the life God longs for us. We cannot know peace through killing our global neighbours, but inflict pain on ourselves as well as them. If we refuse to see this, God’s wrath—settled opposition to injustice—does not abandon us to our own self-destruction, but ensures. Indeed, Jesus claims, it abides with us: makes itself at home, testifying to our choosing death, testifying to the life God longs for us to choose instead. Truth that is deeper than the surface reality we see around us. Trusting that we can only endure this guest for so long before we are won round. Before we repent, turn around—see from a heavenly, not earthly, perspective—and give our lives to making amends.

Christian Nationalism has nothing to do with Jesus. Cannot see or hear him. Yet, Jesus remains. And in him, I hope.

John 3.31-36

“The one who comes from above is above all; the one who is of the earth belongs to the earth and speaks about earthly things. The one who comes from heaven is above all. He testifies to what he has seen and heard, yet no one accepts his testimony. Whoever has accepted his testimony has certified this, that God is true. He whom God has sent speaks the words of God, for he gives the Spirit without measure. The Father loves the Son and has placed all things in his hands. Whoever believes in the Son has eternal life; whoever disobeys the Son will not see life, but must endure God’s wrath.”

 

on the raising of the dead

 

If we accept, even hypothetically, that God can raise the dead, a question arises about timing. Why is Lazarus raised on the fourth day, and Jesus on the third day, after their respective deaths?

In the epic poem that opens the book of Genesis (and, therefore, the library we know as the Bible) the fourth day is the day on which God calls the sun, moon, and stars, conferring on them a vocation to mark night from day, and season from season. (To ask how there could be days before there was sun or moon is to miss the point: this is not creation, but vocation. A day is a day, and a night is a night, even when the sun, moon, and stars are totally obscured by cloud cover.) In his account of the good news of Jesus, or Gospel, John makes much of the symbolism of deeds done during the day and deeds done at night; between the things Jesus does to bring freedom to others, and the things his enemies plot to take him prisoner. In this, Lazarus is the moon to Jesus’ sun, marking the arrival of Jesus’ ‘Passion,’ of the time (night) where he is ‘done to’ (paschō) rather than ‘doing’ (poiō).

The third day is the day on which God draws land—the soil from which God will draw out the human being—from the flood of sea, which, in the poetic imagination of the Bible represents chaos and death. This is also the day on which God calls forth the first vegetation—the first fruits of the fruit-bearing plants. Jesus’ resurrection is presented as the return of human beings from death, not as a never-to-be-repeated event but as the first fruit of something that will, at some future point, become universal.

So not only raising from the dead, but also the specific timing of these events, is significant; makes a statement concerning the story in which we find ourselves.