stone and water

 

The Gospel set for the Second Sunday of Epiphany is John 2.1-11, the account of Jesus turning water into wine at a wedding in Cana of Galilee.

It is a favourite passage of mine, and paired with my favourite Collect (or Prayer for the Day, the day in question being the Second Sunday of Epiphany).

I want to pay attention to the details. There are six stone jars, for holding water for ritual purification, that is, a physical and bodily action that invites us to pause and to experience our body as holy, something that is both inherently good and chosen by God for his good purposes for his world, truths we lose sight of in the business of daily life. Such rituals are a gift, bringing us back to our body as gift, and are especially relevant to those of us who have been shaped by the Enlightenment and the Cartesian view that ‘I think, therefore I am’ without reference to my body or the bodies of my parents and indeed my ancestors from whom my body was given me.

There are Jewish water-purification rites relating to the menstrual cycle, not because women are a contaminating presence but because they have a body that experiences cycles to be attended to, not only on a practical level; cycles that connect them deeply to all creation. There are Jewish water-purification rites relating to eating bread, inviting us to pause and wonder at our hand, and the intimate connection between labour and food. There are rites of cleansing when laying out the dead, to remind us of the gift of a living, breathing body, for we bring nothing into the world and will take nothing with us when we leave it; and rites of cleansing before a priest declares a blessing, to remind us that a blessing is not merely words but a physical thing, a hand stretched out, air passing through a voice-box, matter connecting with matter in ways that matter.

The water used for water-purification must be living water, that is flowing, directly from a spring. But some took the view that living water could be stored and carried – though not directly touched – in stone jars. Unlike the more common (cheaper, readily available, disposable) clay jars, stone does not become ritually unclean when it comes into contact with something ritually unclean – such as blood, or a corpse. The family hosting the wedding in Cana used stone jars, which suggests that ritual purity was essential to them. This in turn suggests that they were a priestly family. We know that priests lived in Cana, and, along with other priests scattered in Levitical towns across the land, took their rostered turn serving at the temple in Jerusalem. If so, they would also have a spring-fed mikveh (a bath used solely for ritual submersion) in their home, and it would be from this water that the servants filled the jars at Jesus’ direction. (We once owned a house that had a stream flowing through the basement and occasionally flooded and had to be pumped out.) That there are six jars is a matter of biographical detail – the reason there were six jars was because there were six jars – not some theological symbolism – six days of creation, for example. The significant detail is that they were stone.

Mary, the mother of Jesus, and Jesus himself are invited guests, and the kind of close-circle guests expected to stay for the duration. Mary herself is thought to have been from a priestly family, and these may be her relatives. As she is not the host but nonetheless keeps a close and interested eye on proceedings, it is possible that this is the wedding of one of Jesus’ siblings. It is possible – though this is entirely speculative – that it is the wedding of one of Jesus’ sisters to Nathanael, after Nathanael has discovered that good things can come out of Nazareth after all, and Jesus has vetted Nathanael and declared him to be ‘a true Israelite in whom there is no deceit.’

Everything about this account – the jars, the water, the wine – is gift. It is not the case that the wine is better than the water (though it is better than the wine that had already been consumed). Jesus is not superseding anything here. We are not doing away with Judaism. Everything is gift and everything matters. The servants must manoeuvre heavy stone jars, fill them from the mikveh, carry them back, dip a ladle into the water, which is now wine. The master of ceremonies must lift the wine to his lips and drink, and declare it very good, though he does not know from where it came or why it is only now being brought out. The servants know where the wine came from, but not how it came to be wine. It is gift, and mystery. It is participation.

The Collect for the Second Sunday of Epiphany declares:

Almighty God,
in Christ you make all things new:
transform the poverty of our nature by the riches of your grace
and in the renewal of our lives
make known your heavenly glory ...

The phrase ‘the poverty of our nature’ is a recognition that we do not make ourselves – do not summon ourselves into being by our own power and authority – but receive our life as a contingent gift, wondrous, deeply connected to others. We do not need to make ourselves acceptable to God; nor does Jesus need to make us acceptable to God (though he may need to open our eyes to see). Yet, as if this were not wondrous enough, what is already gift is transformed into another – a different – gift ‘by the riches of [God’s] grace’ – that is, through the act of another gift-giving. This is grace upon grace.

You are a gift, and that gift is embodied. That body will age, and experience limitations, and is intended to become thoroughly inter-dependent with others, who are themselves also gifts who enjoy the gift of life. The gift you are is a gift that will undergo transformation, many times over, as your personal story is woven into the big story God is co-authoring with humanity. Like the servants and the steward, we will both know and not know what it is that has happened, for it is a mystery, not to be explained but to be entered. Like the disciples, we will be given a glimpse of Jesus’ glory and are encouraged to respond by affirming our belief in him. The occasion of our transformation may be a running out of some resource, as the wine ran out; or the abundance of a resource, as the water filled the jars to the brim. The ebb and flow of our lives is full of endings and beginnings. In all things, may Jesus be glorified.

 

formation and transformation

 

I am reflecting on these verses from the prophet Isaiah 43:1,2

‘But now thus says the Lord, he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you.’

I am reflecting on these verses in part because they (along with the following five verses) are set for this coming Sunday, and in part because they are entirely resonant for the first Monday of January, which, here where I am, is bleak.

These verses are spoken into an historical context I cannot relate to, nor could Isaiah imagine our twenty first century context, and yet ‘overwhelm’ and ‘burned’ are soul experiences we know all too well. Perhaps less familiar is the sense of being ‘created,’ ‘formed,’ and ‘redeemed.’

We experience overwhelm when we sense that life is unfolding too fast, faster than our body – our nervous system, certainly our conscious mind – can manage. We experience burn out when we lose hope – when, in contrast to life unfolding too fast, it feels stuck; when we can see no path from where we are to where we want to be.

These opposite and sometimes co-habiting emotional responses are familiar alarm bells in the complex society we have constructed that allows the few to dominate the lives of the many.

Psychologists tell us that the cure for overwhelm is play, or mindful play, which is a way of describing being absorbed, for a time, in being over doing. An activity that has no directed productive purpose (but, ironically, is essential to our longer-term direction, productivity, and sense of purpose).

Conversely, the return from burn out involves learning hope, through setting realistic goals, identifying flexible and alternative pathways, and embracing agency: our ability to change our circumstances, over time, one small step at a time.

We see both overwhelm and burning out addressed in Isaiah 43:1-7, with an understanding that we might be equipped to face such possibilities (indeed, likely scenarios) even if we cannot reliably predict and avoid the circumstances that are beyond our control – the waters rising, through which we must pass; the fires we walk through.

And what Isaiah imagines God might do with a people, we, who are called to participate in the divine nature in embodied ways, might well attend to doing in our own flesh.

The cure to overwhelm is play, and in these verses Isaiah imagines God, who has not only created a people but who has formed them as a potter gives form to clay. This is a creative process, one in which the potter brings their skill, yes, but the clay brings its unique properties, which are discovered through a playful interaction between the two, wet fingers exploring, imagining, nothing set (by fire) as yet, clay yielding, folding in on itself, taking one form and then another. There is both absent-mindedness and focus here, not in a self-contradictory way, but in being present to this moment alone, to creaturely embodiment, to the inchoate desire from which form will take shape. Daydreaming is part of the creative process, as is getting caught up in flow. And this can be scary, at first, especially if we like to be in control, if we want to master a skill – or our own self-expression, identity – without being willing to surrender to being a novice, an amateur, at being ourselves. Yet in such deep waters, God may be found with us.

The way back from burn out is hope, hope that tomorrow might be different from today. That we might know a little more freedom than yesterday and grasp it and put it to good use. That we might see a way forward – even if the path disappears into bright fog, for there is, at least, a path out from here; and if there is a path from here, and that path is blocked, there may yet be another path from there. And to those who have been burned, and those who might yet pass through fire (and who does not?) Isaiah imagines God calling on the compass points to surrender their captives, the sons and daughters who have been carried off into some distant exile, far from home, far from their own lives. That is powerful imagery. God has a plan, a redemption plan, that does not settle for what is but can imagine powerful societies overthrown that a new generation might be raised up. Not one path but four, from east and west, north and south. That the experience of exile is transformed from hopelessness – this will never change – into something to push against and grow strong.

What playfulness might you set apart time for this week?

What small step might you make on a path to a goal?

Where might you rediscover God with you in your life, however it looks at present?

 

cracker

 

Monday 6th January will be for many the day they go back to school or work after the Christmas break. Even if you are retired, and have nothing in particular to go back to, it may still feel like a gearshift. The Christmas decorations are back in the loft, and we turn our faces into the cold wind of a calendar month that seems to last a full three-hundred-and sixty-five days. But the 6th of January is also the Feast of the Epiphany. How might we keep the feast, wherever we find ourselves?

An epiphany is a revelation, and like a Christmas cracker, a revelation has two ends: at one end, the one who is revealing something, and at the other end, the one who therefore sees or hears something they did not know until now. At the Feast of the Epiphany, God is holding one end of the cracker, and we are holding the other. Here are three ways God might hold out an epiphany for us to grasp, taken from Matthew 2.1-12.

Firstly, God might speak to us through the wonder of the world around us, including the night sky, and the stunning dawns we often get at this time of year. Perhaps you might choose to get up early and get outside and look up. To take a deep breath and feel the cold air wake your lungs to life. Perhaps there will be a hard frost, that, during the night, spread fractals of ice across the windscreen of your car. The beauty of creation, as vast as stars and as tiny as ice crystals, can take our breath away. And open our eyes to the truth that we are not the centre of the universe, we are very small, and yet we are held by the love that holds everything there is together, which is a very secure place to be. And when we respond in overflowing gratitude for the sheer gift of life, we take hold of our end of the cracker and pull.

Secondly, God might speak to us through the wisdom and – crucially – the hope of others. The beauty of the Christian tradition and the resources of our scriptures, history and practices, is that they spring from many different generations and cultures. None of us has the full picture. God can speak to the young among us through the elderly and speak to those who are older through the children. In particular, I think that the older we get the more we need children to speak life to the hope within us. My observation is that many of us lose our sense of hope as we get older, and I think that is because the Baby Boomers became the most affluent generation the world had seen, and affluence is a hope-killer. My advice to those who are older is, stop consuming news, because human love and faithfulness is not newsworthy, and the news will bombard you with exceptional sorrow and despair. You do not need to be abreast of situations you can do nothing about to pray that the world might know peace. My advice to those who are younger is, restrict your consumption of social media, for it too holds out a distorted reflection of the world that makes everything appear closer than it is, such that we can think we are sitting in the same room as other people when in fact we are miles away. But when we are present to one another – to whoever is right in front of us – we take hold of our end of the cracker and pull.

Thirdly, God might speak to us through our dreams. We take in a lot of information, more than we need, so much that it becomes overwhelming. It is as if your wardrobe is full of clothes on hangers, but you have many more clothes, piled on a chair and strewn all over the floor. And you can’t find the thing you need. You are sure you saw it somewhere, but where? And when we sleep, our subconscious acts like a responsible adult, picking the clothes up, sniffing them, neatly folding those that might be worn another day and dropping the ones that are a bit whiffy in the laundry basket. Seeking to draw harmony out of chaos, which is how we most deeply participate in the divine nature. At times, our subconscious is so hand-in-hand with God, it is hard – and perhaps unnecessary – to tell them apart. But when we quieten our souls enough to sleep deeply enough to dream, we take hold of our end of the cracker and pull.

So here are three ways God might hold out an epiphany for us to grasp: through the wonder of the world around us; through the wisdom and – crucially – the hope of others; and through our dreams. But any Christmas cracker worth its salt contains a paper crown, a gift, and a riddle.

The paper crown reminds us that we, like the three kings, are drawn into God’s epiphany.

The gift is that when we gaze upon the face of Jesus, we see God – whom we could not see – made visible. Jesus is the revelation of God, of what God is like. What we see in Jesus, we can say of God – and what we do not see in Jesus is not of God. There is no violence in Jesus – no harm or oppression – and so any violence attributed to God (by admirers and critics alike) is misattribution. Jesus walks away from a fight, literally – evading those who sought to kill him – and metaphorically – keeping silent under hostile questioning. Jesus attends to the person directly in front of him, with compassion – even when he himself is crucified. He absorbs suffering and returns love. He is the emptying of power to be an infant dependent on others to show him the way he should go, and the adult who hangs from the gallows. He is foolishness in the eyes of the world. He sleeps soundly in the madness of a storm at sea. He thirsts. He is love.

The riddle is that we become God’s epiphany to the world: the bearers of the greatest gift, from which every other gift flows and to whom every gift returns: Jesus. This bleak midwinter Monday, may you be a star in the darkness, a treasure-chest on the journey, a child who sparks joy. May you be whatever God might choose to make his Son known in the world. Amen.

 

to grow in wisdom

The Great Feast of Christmas (24 December to 5 January) is followed by the Feast of the Epiphany (6 January) when the Church remembers the visit of the magi recorded by the biographer Matthew (Matthew 2.1-12).

I will assume that Matthew is as reliable a record as any other ancient text, which is not to claim that the text is without bias or agenda, but to accept it as a primary source for historical claims.

Matthew records that a caravan of strangers arrived in Judea.

They are there because they have observed something in the night sky that, according to a significant body of learning with which they are well-versed, they have interpreted to announce the birth of a great leader of the Jews.

They present themselves at the court of Herod the Great in Jerusalem, where their arrival is taken seriously as potentially giving rise to a messianic uprising that could threaten Herodian dynastic ambition.

Consulting their own library of knowledge, the royal courtiers identify Bethlehem as the potential epicentre of any such possible revolt, and the strangers are sent there to establish the lie of the land and report back.

On finding the family of Joseph, they present gifts summarised as gold, frankincense and myrrh, gifts that are reminiscent of the idealised wedding procession of King Solomon the Son of David through the wilderness towards Jerusalem in the erotic poetry of The Song of Solomon, and also of a prophecy attributed to Isaiah of the wealth of the surrounding nations flowing to the royal court in Jerusalem.

One or more of the strangers has a dream which they interpret as being a divine warning not to return to Herod, and so they disappear into their own country by another road, or another way of being.

How might we reflect on this account?

Firstly, we note that the travellers at the heart of this account are strangers. They are the other, and the other is always a source of fear for humans. God is the ultimate other, and as such the other is often an envoy of God. We do not know the size of the caravan, but, extrapolating from three named gifts, tradition has given us three kings, and this is reminiscent of the three divine visitors received by Abraham. We do not know where these strangers come from or return to. But in seeking to deceive the stranger, we seek to deceive God, and in welcoming the stranger, we welcome God.

Secondly, we note that humans are meaning-making animals, even when the world cannot beat the weight of the meaning we construct (for example, the arbitrary value we have given gold, or land). The ancients sought to navigate world events according to the map of the night sky. We, too, endlessly, find patterns, and attribute significance. The age of scientific enquiry is no different from those ages that came before.

Thirdly, and entirely related to the above, we note that the ancient world was highly connected, through the exchange of ideas and philosophies as well as trade. We strive not only to make sense of the world but to do so, at least in part, by overcoming the fear of the other. Only together will we overcome our fear of the unknown. The stranger and the familiar each have a piece of the code we are trying to interpret.

Fourthly, we note that our present is understood in the light of the past, and the actions of the other, in as much as they have a bearing on us, are understood through the lens of our own history. We do not so much judge a book by its cover, as judge the cover of the other by the content of our book. This is less than fair, but there we are. Those of us whose shared history has trod heavily on others should tread with extreme caution.

Fifthly, we note that dreams are a way in which our subconscious attempts to bring order to the chaos of information our conscious mind observes in the world. This is another level of meaning-making. At some level, something about Herod registers as false, and yet it is in the time of sleep that God is able to bring clarity, to bring us from a place of harm to a place of harmony.

Sixthly, we note that the way ahead is a way that leads us to disappear from the view of the watching world, and that it can never be the same way by which we have appeared in the world. Our lives begin with the struggle to come together, to construct not only meaning but also allies, partnerships, purpose. There comes a point when the mission changes, when the goal is to give our lives away. When maturity is marked by giving away our lives to others. The gifts given by the magi are, within the frame of reference of the account Matthew gives us, the first gift offered, the first unburdening of the self. This is followed by the gift of not trying to retrace their earlier steps but embracing a new and unknown way forward. An event not told by lights in the night sky, but conducted entirely in the dark, so to speak. There comes a further point where the mission changes again, and we are called to give our death away to others, to model dying well, which in fact begins long before we die. The magi disappear entirely from the story, but not from our imaginations.

In 2025, how might we welcome the stranger, lighten the load of the meaning we construct, embrace the limitations of our understanding, redeem the past through gratitude for what was and is in all its imperfection, meet chaos with empathy as the birthing of harmony, and give more of ourselves away to others becoming less than they may become more?

winter wedding

I wonder what the furthest distance is that you have travelled to attend a wedding. In the straw-poll conducted with our congregation this morning, the top 5 distances were: 5. Toronto, Canada. 4. Lexington, USA. 3. Chingola, Zambia. 2. Kochi, India. 1 Melbourne, Australia. In our Gospel reading today (John 2.1-11) Jesus and his disciples and his mother Mary had travelled 25 miles to attend a wedding, which isn’t far by car, but cars hadn’t been invented.

Weddings are a big deal, and they were a big deal then. The whole village would turn up, along with other guests from miles around.

If you’ve ever been on any journey, you’ll know that often the first thing you want to do on arrival is splash some water on your face. In Jesus’ time, guests would be welcomed by servants pouring water on their feet and hands and splashing water on their heads, as a way of saying, ‘You are welcome; we are so glad that you have come to us.’ At this wedding there were so many guests that they poured out the equivalent of 900 modern .75l bottles of spring water, or wine.

Weddings are a big deal, and they were a big deal then. The whole village would turn up, along with other guests from miles around, and they would stay for as long as it took to consume all the food and wine. When all the wine was drunk, that was the social cue to go home. And so, eventually, Mary turns to her son and says, ‘The wine has all been drunk; that’s our cue to leave; round up your friends, say goodbye to the bride and groom, it’s time to go.’

Jesus replies, ‘Woman,’ Woman. What a beautiful, tender moment. It resonates with the creation story. God had made a human from the soil and breathed life into it; but whereas everything else God had created was good, or very good, it was not good for this human creature to be alone. God saw that the human needed someone to stand alongside them, to sustain them, at times rescue them. So, God drew it into a deep sleep, took it up, broke it in two, and gave each part to the other. And the man cried out, in delight and relief, ‘Here at last, this one is bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh; this one shall be called Woman for she was drawn out from man.’ In my culture, to call your mother ‘Woman’ may seem dismissive, but when Jesus calls his mother ‘Woman’ that delight in their shared humanity, their intimate biological belonging to one another, and the sense that Mary is the one who stands alongside him and sustains him are all there.

‘Woman,’ says Jesus, ‘what has this social cue to do with us? My hour has not yet come.’ Other than the sense that he is not ready to leave, that is a rather enigmatic statement that will just hang there for the next ten chapters until, speaking of his imminent death and resurrection, Jesus reveals that his hour has come (John 12.27). Ah, now we recall the wedding at Cana, and see that it was the first sign pointing to this moment.

Mary tells the servants to do whatever Jesus asks of them. And what he asks them to do is something very ordinary. He asks them to refill the water-jars. Something they would have done many times. An ordinary task for a servant, involving a trip to the well; something they would undoubtedly have done later as part of the clearing up after the guests had gone. But instead, they do it now. And when Jesus asks them to draw out some water, it has been transformed into wine.

The master of ceremonies is livid. He calls the groom aside and gives him a dressing down: This might be your first wedding, but it can’t be the first time you’ve been to a wedding!? Everyone knows that you serve the best wine when the guests arrive and hold back the cheaper wine until they’ve had plenty to drink. You have totally messed up!

The master of ceremonies doesn’t understand what is going on. But what is going on?

The water of hospitality had run out. The wine of hospitality had run out. But this is not the end of the story, only a necessary moment within the story. Jesus demonstrates the principle of death and resurrection, of the new life that is only possible because the old life has come to an end. It is a principle we see at play in the world around us, in nature. It is winter, and the plants and animals have withdrawn deep into themselves. The trees look dead, but something profound and necessary is going on beneath the surface. Only we humans are hard-headed and hard-hearted enough to live as if every month, every season, were the same. It is winter, and yes, spring is coming; but we cannot force it to arrive before winter has done its work. The world is renewing itself.

Our youngest son is in his second (final) A-level year. And he is flying. He is excelling academically, he has an active social life, he is making hopeful plans for his future. But there was a time when, for over two years, he could not face leaving the house, didn’t leave the house. I can tell you, that was a long, hard winter. I don’t mean December, January, February.

Jesus is the God who became one of us, who entered-into the death and resurrection of creation. Who blesses the life that we cannot hold onto, and the life that we receive if only we let go of the life we had.

This happens to us over again. This coming Saturday, at a service at the cathedral, we will mark Bishop Paul’s ten years of service among us as our bishop, as he retires. And we will pray for Paul and Rosemary as they begin a new life, in a new place; a life that is only possible because this life and ministry is coming to an end.

Sometimes we have varying degrees of choice, sometimes not. No one chooses bereavement; but Jesus says, just as I was with you, just as I blessed, the life that has run out, so shall I be with you, and so shall I bless, the life that still lies ahead.

What Jesus does at the wedding in Cana is the first signpost on this road.

It is such a beautiful, tender, and hopeful gospel.

 

Here, then, are some questions for those who would consider following him:

Where have you experienced death? It could be the death of a dream, the death of a marriage, a literal bereavement. In what part of your life are you dying right now?

Where have you tried to resist death, or deny the reality of dying? It could be in resistance to change or by masking the natural process of aging.

Where have you known resurrection—new life, not necessarily better than what was before, but different, and hopeful? What did that awaken in you? Is there any part of your life where you are experiencing resurrection life right now?

 

Feast of the Epiphany 2023

 

I preached off-the-cuff today, without a written sermon. But here are some notes written up after the event…

 

Epiphany, part 3

 

[iii] a myrrh-mur, rising

Lectionary readings: Isaiah 60:1-6 and Matthew 2:1-12

I don’t know what darkness you are journeying through today. Some of you have let me in enough to give me a glimpse, but I cannot experience your darkness as you experience it; nor you, mine. I do know that some of the darkness, at least, is holy. Bereavement, grief, is holy. I know, also, that there is darkness in your life that is the culmination of the sin of the world, that awareness that the days we are living in are lacking in justice and mercy; and I am reminded, again, that this present darkness is passing away. Until it does, stand still, breathe deep and slowly, and watch the dawn. Allow your heart to thrill and rejoice, for Jesus is the omega and the alpha, the End, and the new Beginning.

I don’t know what darkness you will journey through in the year ahead, but I know that Jesus is the brightness of your dawn. And I sense that he would have me offer to anoint you with myrrh [oil of Chrism], for, with the Magi, traditionally known as kings, all those who kneel before the Christ-child in adoration are anointed kings and queens, crowned with the glory of the Lord. Living promises of the dawn that is breaking.

 

Epiphany, part 2

 

[ii] if I may be frank(incense) with you

Lectionary readings: Isaiah 60:1-6 and Matthew 2:1-12

Our reading from Isaiah speaks of thick darkness and of dawning glory, and with it the promise, ‘Then you shall see and be radiant; your heart shall thrill and rejoice’ – a promise experienced by the Magi when they reached the goal of their longing, and ‘they were overwhelmed with joy.’ Isaiah cries out ‘Rise! Shine! Become light, participating in the glory of Yahweh. Though, to rise, the magi must first fall on their knees in adoration. And before that, they must journey through darkness, deep and thick, the darkness where God dwells, hidden from sight, requiring of us that we walk by faith. The thick darkness belongs to God as much as the glorious sunrise.

In this Season of Epiphany, a surprising revelation, we are invited once again to journey with the Magi, through the dark. That is, we are already on a journey through the dark, and we are invited to attend to it, to enter it more fully, to name it for what it is. To give a name, also, to the end of our searching. Every person you have ever met or will ever meet is searching in the dark. And, ultimately, whether they know it or not, whether they can name it or not, what they are searching for is God-with-us, in the human face of Jesus. God, come to us, as a baby, vulnerable, dependent on us. The light of his countenance overwhelms grown men, powerful men of means. Herod did not dare gaze upon the child.

What, then, of the darkness we travel through? The darkness within which God is simultaneously hidden from us and revealed to us? The Magi observe the night sky and discern meaning there, story that makes sense of the world. We journey through the darkness of our learning, our experience, of all that has become so familiar to our community that we no longer see it at all. The darkness is to us what water is to fish. But the Magi also appear in Jerusalem, having come so far on the strength of what they already know, knowing that they still haven’t found what they’re looking for, knowing that others might be able to help them, even if they don’t yet know that the very person whom they are asking will betray their trust. We must journey through the darkness of the very limits of our learning, our experience, from independence, through interdependence, to utter dependence on others, just like the infant Christ. Unless we journey through the darkness, until we are willing to do so, we will never find what we were searching for all along.

Looking through the darkness of history, through the centuries, by faith, Isaiah sees a multitude of camels bringing gold and frankincense, and in the clearer light of dawn Matthew is able also to see myrrh. An opening of treasure-chests. An opening of the life we have been given, to reveal before God what lies within: the seam of gold mined from the earth, metaphor for wisdom; the sap of a tree, its lifeblood surrendered in prayer; oil of anointing, kings and queens, and the dead. Wisdom, discovered in the dark, hard won by hard labour. The life of prayer, also learnt in the dark, its treasure surrendered to the one who has experienced the dark night of the soul, the awareness of God’s presence that comes only after awareness of God’s absence. The glory of being part of the people of God, the family of Jesus, dawn-bearers in a world longing for light.

 

Epiphany, part 1

 

[i] this is gold

Lectionary readings: Isaiah 60:1-6 and Matthew 2:1-12

Tou de Iēsou gennēthentos en Bēthleem tēs Ioudaias en hēmerais Hērōdou tou basileōs idou magoi apo anatolōn paregennonto eis Hierosolyma

Now Jesus having been born in Bethlehem of Judea, in [the] days of Herod the king, behold, Magi from [the] east arrived in Jerusalem, (Matthew 2:1)

I don’t often offer you whole sentences in Greek, but there is a striking contrast here that is lost in our English translation: between ‘en hēmerais Hērōdou, in [the] days of Herod,’ and ‘magoi apo anatolōn, Magi from the east.’ Herod’s reign is described as the period from sunrise to sunset. That is, a rising to power, a period of brilliant glory, and a fading to a passing. The Magi are described as arriving from the rising of the sun, from the dawn, the light of a new day. The point is clear, certainly to Herod if not to us: Herod’s days are passing, a new day is dawning, its light already breaking the eastern horizon. Herod will fight it tooth and nail, but you cannot hold back the dawn.

Most English churches lie East-West. I live in a vicarage that lies East-West alongside such a church. In these days at the beginning of a new year, I stand on the half-landing and watch the sun rise over our neighbours’ homes. The sky passing from night into day, from darkest blues through electric blue, purple, vivid pink, gold, silver, palest baby blue. I stand, very still, breathe slowly and deeply, welcome the day.

 

Poverty and riches

 

A collect is a form of prayer, that helps focus our personal prayers according to a shared theme. There are collects for every week of the year, as well as collects for other events or occasions, and the collect for this coming Sunday has long been my absolute favourite:

 

Almighty God,
in Christ you make all things new:
transform the poverty of our nature by the riches of your grace,
and in the renewal of our lives
make known your heavenly glory;
through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord,
who is alive and reigns with you,
in the unity of the Holy Spirit,
one God, now and for ever.
Amen.

 

Here ‘the poverty of our nature’ means a recognition that everything we are and have is a gift. We came into this world with nothing, and we shall take nothing with us when we go. And in-between these two moments, we steward the life given us, the world entrusted to us to hand on to those who will come after us. To recognise this poverty of our nature is freedom from hubris. What might otherwise be tragedy and a cause for resentment is transformed into something beautiful in its time, a life for which we can be truly grateful, by the riches of God’s grace at work in our lives, renewing us, so that the glory of God in whose likeness we are formed is revealed.

 

Epiphany

 

The unspecified number of travellers bearing three kinds of gift to the infant Jesus are most likely a consortium of Persian court astronomers (Magi) and Chinese Han dynasty court astronomers. Their arrival at the court in Jerusalem, enquiring after a child born to be king of the Jews, causes consternation.

There is a pattern in the Gospels of identifying events in the life of Jesus as fulfilling earlier events. For example, Isaiah speaks of a woman, pregnant at the time of his speaking some 600 years before Jesus, and of a judgement that will fall before her son is weaned. That Jesus’ birth fulfils this is not to say that Isaiah prophesies Jesus’ birth, but that Jesus’ birth is a similar but greater sign, and that the earlier sign helps us understand what will happen in and through and to Jesus.

In the same manner, I would suggest that the reality that the Christian church today is growing faster—under persecution by the governing authorities—in Iran and China than anywhere else on earth is a fulfilment of the journey of the Magi.

Happy Epiphany to all, and especially to my Iranian and Chinese friends!

 

Pleasure

Growing up in Scotland, the son of missionaries in Asia, where I myself had been born, it was inevitable that one of my childhood heroes should be Eric Liddell.

Liddell was a ‘missionary kid’ born in China, where he would return as a missionary, dying young in a Japanese internment camp during the Second World War. But in the early 1920s he had been both a Scotland international rugby player, and an Olympic sprinter, coming third in the 200m and taking gold in the 400m at the 1924 Olympic Games in Paris.

That part of his story was portrayed in the film Chariots of Fire. The film took some artistic liberties, of course. Liddell, who refused to run on the (Christian) Sabbath,* did not find out that the 100m heats would take place on a Sunday only en route to France, but several months earlier, switching his training to the 400m at that point. Nor did he argue with his disapproving sister, who thought it all a distraction from a higher calling. His actual sister was supportive, and hurt by her fictionalised persona.

Nonetheless, the imagined scene provided context for a famous Liddell quote, whether or not he said it:

“I believe God made me for a purpose [to be a missionary]. But He also made me fast. And when I run, I feel His pleasure.” **

Today the Church marks the Baptism of Christ, an occasion we participate in, in our own baptism, that is all about being plunged into God's approval or pleasure.

Baptism is an unrepeatable event. But it has ripples, many other events remind us of our baptism.

So, a question for this day is, in doing what are you made aware of, and actively participate in, God’s pleasure?

*This is very Presbyterian.

**It is not very Presbyterian to speak of feeling God’s pleasure. Indeed, it is not very Presbyterian to speak positively about feelings at all. And yet, I believe that Eric Liddell knew the truth of these words — whether he spoke them, or not.

Treasure

This weekend, many churches will be celebrating Epiphany, re-telling the journey of the Magi to pay tribute to the infant Jesus. They opened their portable storehouse and gave treasures of gold and frankincense and myrrh, and then returned to their own country by a different route to that by which they came.

The treasure chest, or portable storehouse, symbolises the heart, our capacity to make choices. As an adult, Jesus often described the heart in this way.

Gold symbolises purchasing power, our ability to acquire what we value. It includes privilege, the associations and investments-in-us that multiply our opportunities. It includes givens, such as natural abilities we might invest in, and more liquid currency such as the extent to which we might take risks or exercise caution. We are all traders, all give something of our gold to those we believe it will be advantageous to align ourselves with, the thing we worship whether that be the stock market or the Son of God.

Incense symbolises prayer, a recognition that, regardless of how much privilege we may enjoy, life involves chance, and forces — some benevolent, others malign — outside of and beyond our control. There is more to life than I can handle alone. We seek a covenant partner to stand alongside through thick and thin, and who will come to our aid; and we get to choose who that partner will be.

Myrrh symbolises romantic, erotic love. It was also used to embalm the dead. The desire to know love, to love and be loved in return, to give passionately of ourselves to another person or to a great consuming cause, is almost universal. Sooner or later, the experience of loss, of death and walking the valley of the shadow of death, is truly universal. Certainly, you cannot know the first without the second, for they go hand-in-hand.

Gold, frankincense and myrrh represent the treasures that are locked away, kept close together and under guard, in all of our hearts. We all make choices in relation to all three. And Jesus is the key that unlocks the storehouse, that enables us to share what we have received, and so find it to be true treasure: to find that we are enough, for others as well as for ourselves. For God, however inadequate we might feel.

This Epiphany, may your heart be unlocked.

Baptism of Christ

John 1:29-34

Today the Church marks the baptism of Christ. John the Baptist refers to Jesus in three ways that link him to the story of the people of God—a superabundance of imagery.

1. The description ‘the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world’ links Jesus to Isaiah’s vision of a restored Israel, post the Babylonian exile (Israel having been judged by means of Babylon). See Isaiah 42, 49, 50, 52, 53, with the lamb imagery in 53:6, 7.

2. The Holy Spirit resting on Jesus in the form of a dove, as he stands surrounded by the waters of baptism, links Jesus to the post-flood. Noah sent out a dove who returned with an olive branch and later did not return, indicating that the flood had subsided and life could begin again. See Genesis 6-9, especially 8:8-12.

3. The title ‘the Son of God’ links Jesus to king David, called God’s ‘firstborn son’, whose throne God promised to establish through all generations. See, for example, Psalm 89:19-37.

What John ‘foresaw’ comes to pass within a generation of Jesus’ death and resurrection. The First Jewish-Roman War (66-70AD) saw the end of the Herodian dynasty, and the destruction of the temple: an existential crisis for Judaism in the aftermath of which the Church would emerge as a world-changing community (Judaism would also re-emerge in a new form).

Jesus’ baptism, then, prefigures imminent and cataclysmic judgement on the people of God (and then beyond) followed by a restoration (for them, and then beyond). God active in human history. It is not so much Jesus identifying directly with sinful humanity, as Jesus identifying with the covenant-making God, Yahweh, who calls and works with a particular people for the blessing of the nations of peoples.

Does this have any relevance today? And not as abstract theology beyond history, but as pattern in history?

Gift, not role

From early childhood, we all adopt roles. I am the compliant one, the rebellious one, the academic one, the sporty one, the one who lets others down, the one who always screws up. We reinforce these roles and we hold on to them, even though they put unnecessary pressure on us, even though they may cause us anxiety and suffering. We hold on to them because they are the means through which we get attention, the role we are loved because of or despite of. We hold on to them not only because we fear losing connection from other people, but also because we fear that if we let go of our role(s) we will lose ourselves. To do so would result in the death of the self: a false self, but one that keeps telling us, in glaring tweets in our head, how very real it is.

The all-encompassing gifts of being an apostle or prophet or evangelist or shepherd (pastor) or teacher are not roles. True, they are often seen as such; people often try to develop them as such—but when we do, we inevitably twist something far more precious out-of-shape. We find ourselves acting out, playing up to, living down to prescribed scripts, such as ‘I am an apostle. I create collateral damage in the organisation or community or family I belong to. Deal with it.’ or, ‘I am a shepherd. I am always needed, 24/7/365.’

No, these are not roles to take upon ourselves, but gift: specifically, the gift that gives us life.

One of the questions I am regularly asked is, ‘How do these different people-gifts work together, in a team?’ In my opinion, the question misses the point: there are as many different apostles, prophets, evangelists, shepherds and teachers as there are people, who are unique and constantly-changing expressions of vast humankind.

The way to work out how a group of people might best work together as a team is to care enough about each member of the group to get to know them well enough to discover what makes them come alive. And then, to help them to keep coming back to that.

When we do that, we discover that each one is a gift that brings not only the person but the body-corporate alive.

At one time, the team I was part of included a colleague who was a gifted shepherd or pastor. She cared deeply about people, paying deep attention to their hurting and, so doing, nurturing room for their healing. Before being ordained, this vocation had been expressed through nursing. This is what brought her to life—something which would drain me deeply. By this I do not mean that shepherds never get overwhelmed by the volume of pastoral need, nor that they do not need space of their own to retreat and close the door on the world. Nor am I saying that the rest of the team could thankfully excuse themselves from pastoral concerns. My point is that we saw something to be cherished, to be encouraged, to be unearthed at times.

It takes time, and the deliberate choice to value one another, to learn to work well with others. There are no shortcuts. But the longer, slower road offers the most wonderful views.

Giving Gifts

Gold is currency – top-end currency at that – and currency is simply codified influence. The first gift that I can give to you is to recognise, to acknowledge, that you have influence.

Everyone has influence, from the moment of birth – indeed, from before our birth. We can use our influence to exploit others (usually explicitly), to manipulate others (usually implicitly), to compete with others, to nurture others, or to cooperate with others – to take a stance upon, over, against, for, or with others. But I can only take a stance for and/or with you when I am willing to value your influence.

For whom, and with whom, will you exert influence in 2016?

Incense rising is the articulation of hopes and dreams in the form of prayer. The second gift that I can give to you is to recognise, to acknowledge, that you have hopes and dreams.

Everyone has hopes and dreams, by definition beyond our reach, even if we are content to let the present be enough for now, and however we choose to exert our influence to try to turn vapour into substance, or base mineral into gold. I cannot be your alchemist but, again, I can take a stance for and/or with you only when I am willing to value your hopes and dreams.

How will you (name and) nurture your hopes and dreams in 2016? Who else’s hopes and dreams will you nurture? With whom will you cooperate, finding overlapping common ground, in hope of a future more expansive than either party could have imagined?

Myrrh is balm, for the body of the dead and – more so – for the soul of the living. It represents the healing, in time, of our memories: wounds becoming scars; and scars, markings; stories, or landmarks, to navigate by. The third gift that I can give to you is to recognise, to acknowledge, that you have sorrow.

Everyone has sorrow. In time, we reach a tipping-point, after which we can never return: the discovery that life is bitter-sweet, as opposed to unrelentingly bitter (as we had imagined it must be, after our first unbearable loss). I can only take a stance for and/or with you when I am willing to value your sorrow.

How will the past you must leave behind equip you – and others – to step with confidence into the future?

The City

In Isaiah chapter 60, there is a vision of a city which includes representatives of the nations coming on camels bearing gold and frankincense (for this reason it is read during the Season of Epiphany, when we remember the bringing of gifts to the infant Jesus).

It is a city made beautiful by the immigration of many different people groups, bringing their resources, their skill, their particular traditions and solutions.

Indeed, it is a city rebuilt by a multicultural international community, after it has been deeply damaged and its population displaced as a result of international conflict.

It is a city free from security worries, because former enemies have become friends, and those who refuse to share in this vision of friendship and partnership have perished – not ‘are destroyed by the city’ but self-destruct, fail to reproduce, die out, their own vision of nationhood left abandoned.

It is a city at the heart of a nation surrounded by ally nations.

It is a city built on humbly receiving what others offer – recognising its dependence on others, as dependent as a breast-fed baby – not on arrogantly taking what belongs to others from them.

It is a city of divine light and glory.

It is not any existing city, but a city that could be. Isaiah imagines what Jerusalem, in ruins, could become, rising from the ashes. But it could equally be Paris, or London, or New York, or the cities of northern Nigeria, or northern England.

At the heart of the vision, God says that he will appoint Peace as their overseer and Righteousness as their taskmaster.

Allegorically, the city can refer to Christ (the one to whom representatives of the nations came, bearing gold and frankincense), to the one appointed by God to establish peace and righteousness. He is the Peaceful overseer and Righteous taskmaster, not imposed but given – not imposed but nonetheless appointed – to Jerusalem, and Paris and London and New York and the cities of northern Nigeria and northern England, for he has been revealed to all the peoples.

Living in peace doesn’t just happen, it needs to be worked on, needs to be built, painstakingly, with strong foundations, and quality material. Righteousness – living in right relationship with others – doesn’t just happen, but is hard work for which we need direction, and at times arbitration.

For peace and righteousness to flourish, I need to make my contribution, and so must you; and we must learn to value one another’s contribution. For peace and righteousness to flourish, my contribution must also be directed, and so must yours.

This isn’t a vision about imposing anything on anyone, but a vision of submitting ourselves, our gifts, how they might be deployed and who we might labour alongside, to the God-supported work of establishing and maintaining and expanding and sharing peace and righteousness.

And although it may sound naïve, it is a vision that has been fulfilled, albeit incompletely and temporarily, many times over, where people of different peoples have come together...

All Things

Either nothing is ‘sacred,’ because everything has been made sacred; or nothing is sacred at all.

There is no place in the universe where I can stand and pronounce that

I am a true believer, but you are a blasphemer,

my activity is devotional, but yours is profane,

‘this’ is holy, and ‘that’ is secular.

If such a universe ever existed, it imploded at the Epiphany: the revelation of Jesus – in and through whom God is reconciling all things to himself – to the nations.

And any action to separate what God has joined together is sacrilege.

Je suis Charlie.