Weeping

 

And I began to weep bitterly because no one was found worthy to open the scroll or to look into it. Then one of the elders said to me, ‘Do not weep. See, the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, has conquered, so that he can open the scroll and its seven seals.’ Revelation 5:4, 5

As [Jesus] came near and saw the city, he wept over it, saying, ‘If you, even you, had only recognized on this day the things that make for peace! But now they are hidden from your eyes. Indeed, the days will come upon you, when your enemies will set up ramparts around you and surround you, and hem you in on every side. They will crush you to the ground, you and your children within you, and they will not leave within you one stone upon another; because you did not recognize the time of your visitation from God.’ Luke 19.41-44

The lectionary text for Holy Communion today, Revelation 5:1-10 and Luke 19:41-44, are linked by weeping.

When we weep, the tears we are unable to hold back affect our vision. At an earthly level, we are unable to see clearly, our sight is blurred, and what is before us is obscured. But at a heavenly level, our weeping enables us to see what before we could not, God come to us. It is when John begins to weep that he is given a vision of Jesus, as he truly is, Lion and Lamb, Root and Branch, Victim and Victor.

Jesus weeps over Jerusalem, a city of people who do not weep and so do not recognise their visitation from God. Through her tears, on the coming Resurrection morning, Mary will identify Jesus as the gardener. From an earthly perspective, this is a case of mistaken identity: he is not the gardener, the keeper of that garden. But from a heavenly perspective, he is the Gardener, who has won back what Adam lost, and Mary sees him as he truly is.

Our tears are prayers that rise before God when our mouths and our minds are unable to work together, just as the blood of murdered Abel cried out to God when his mouth and mind were no longer able to do so. The tears of the saints are precious to God. They are not wasted, but gathered up, by God, in a bowl. And our weeping intercessions change earth and heaven, for by them we are given revelation of God-with-us. We weep precisely because all is not yet reconciled, all is not well; yet our weeping points to that day when, all things reconciled and made well, God will dry every tear, and—heaven and earth fully reconciled—we shall see God face to face without distortion nor the need for corrective. More than holding fast to that future, through our weeping, that promise draws nearer.

Often, when I am talking with someone who has been bereaved, as if out of nowhere they start to weep, and, invariably, apologise. I always respond in the same way: don’t you dare apologise for your tears; there is nothing to apologise for. The tears of the saints are precious in God’s sight. Those who would see Jesus do so through drenched eyes.

 

Fifty, setting out on new adventures

 

Learning

 

I had a brilliant time this afternoon with 20 pupils and their teachers from the autism specialism school around the corner. We are building a close relationship, and either I go into the school or groups come to me, one or two afternoons a week (the parish gets half of my time, and the school gets half of that time, because they have asked for my involvement).

Today we learnt about baptism and holy communion. Baptism is how we welcome people into the church, not as visitors—I did not baptise anyone today—but as new members of the Christian community within the neighbourhood. I love to pour the water we will use for a baptism into the silver bowl we use as a font, starting just above the bowl and drawing back so there is a waterfall. It makes the most amazing sound. They loved that. One pupil said that it was very moving, profound. Another said it sounded like doing a wee. They’re both right. They asked if it was holy water, and I explained that it was tap water (not wee) but that holy water was what we called it when we had asked God to use it for a special purpose.

When we moved on to thinking about communion, I invited them all to gather around the altar with me, some in front, some behind it standing beside me, a part of the church building few people get to be in. They helped set out the (empty) vessels of wine and water, and enjoyed the loud snap when I broke the big wafer I hold up that you can see from the back of the room. Of course, some of them wanted to know what the wafers taste like. I’d discussed this with the teachers beforehand, and, as none of the children had any allergies, they were allowed to eat a wafer if they wanted to. These were not consecrated wafers—I would not give a child communion without the consent of their parents/guardians, and only after preparation classes—so it was just a ‘learning about’ experience, just as role playing a wedding with children is not the same as conducting an under-age marriage. 12 of the children chose to eat a wafer (all did so respectfully) and 8 decided that they didn’t want to, which was absolutely fine. One said it tasted like an ice-cream cone; another, that it tasted like paper; another that it tasted of nothing much at all. And, as with the water, they were all right. Then I showed them the tiny patten and chalice and glass bottle and pyx we use to take communion to those who are sick or housebound and cannot come to us, and the aumbry (“what’s behind that tiny door?”) where we keep the consecrated wafers until we are able to take them out to those people.

We also had good conversation about the church year (and associated colours, as a tool for learning and a means of participation), and reasons people gather together here, such as to pray as well as for various special occasions. We talked about Jesus, a lot, about his eating habits (he ate with all kinds of different people) and the meal he ate with his friends the night before he died, we talked about his birth and death and resurrection. Children ask great questions. Teachers do too. They are learning more and more about Christian faith, and I am learning more and more about communicating what we believe.

I’m looking forward to the rest of the term, including a Christingle service at their forest school nearer to Christmas.

 

On being dead or alive, part 2

 

I have no conscious recollection of being dead, I was too young, and now, though I will inevitably experience dying, I shall never know what it is like to be dead. But, theologically speaking, dead was what I was, from my birth in November 1972 until my baptism, when my missionary parents were home on furlough, in September 1973.

At birth, I was severed from my mother, and from God. Not that I was in any way unacceptable to God, any more so than the umbilical cord was cut on account of my being unacceptable to my mother. Birth is a necessary separation, from God and neighbour, or state of being dead. But just as I was placed on my mother's breast, so we might get to know and trust one another, so also was I placed on God's breast. As she watched over me, so too did God.

At my baptism, at St Mary’s Broadwater, I crossed, with Jesus, from death to life. And ever since, I have been learning from him what it looks and sounds and smells and tastes and feels like to be alive. And that will take eternity, and it so happens that we have the time.

 

On being dead or alive, part 1

 

I think most people would say that you are born, you are alive, perhaps for three-score-years-and-ten, you die, and then you are dead. This is not the Christian view. Fundamental to Christian faith is the belief that we are (made) alive in Jesus Christ. There are those who are alive in Jesus who have yet to die, and those who are alive in Jesus who have died, but these latter ones are not dead. Rather, the dead are those who are unable or unwilling to recognise, with thanksgiving and devotion, the life that is given in Jesus. Just as those who are alive in Christ include those who have yet to die and those who have died, so also, those who are dead include some yet to die and some who have died. That is to say, from a Christian view, there are plenty of people living among us, breathing and walking around, who are dead; who are yet to come alive.

The Christian pattern, then, is that you are born, you are dead, and then you are alive, and alive forever. Indeed, baptism is a burial, with Jesus, and a passing through death to life, with Jesus.

Life and death are entirely transformed for the Christian. It is not that they are spiritual categories rather than physical or material ones, but, rather, that our material bodies cannot be separated from a greater reality that catches them up within it.

Today is the Feast of All Souls or the Faithful Departed. They are not dead, but alive in Christ, as we are alive in Christ. We are one, in Jesus. They are not in another room, near by; we are held together in the person of Jesus. And Jesus spreads a table where we can sit together, Jesus, and all the alive, seen and unseen. Breaking bread together. Conversing. What a feast!

 

From values to virtues

 

At the start of the week, I heard a radio DJ enthuse about a couple of guests coming on his show as being people who ‘have values.’ I think he meant that they were people for whom certain things that were important to him were also important. But values are intensely personal, entirely subjective. Even when two or more people uphold ‘family values,’ for example, what each understands by that will differ.

Last night Jo and I went to see the British New Wave band Squeeze in concert. In my opinion, music doesn’t get any better than New Wave, combining the energy of punk with intelligence and musicality. That is a value statement, and it is subjective. Even if there were a thousand other people in the room who shared that value, to a greater or lesser degree, it is only the temporary gathering of a thousand individual values. We had no reciprocal obligation to one another. We had all paid good money to attend a seated venue, and though there came a point in the evening when we were all on our feet, our shared value did not prevent the inconsiderate actions of the few who stood early, blocking the view of the people behind them, nor the resentment towards them.

Values are important. They add colour to life (I value Impressionism over other styles of painting; I value blues and oranges over reds and greens). But they are morally neutral and lack the capacity to establish a common foundation on which we might agree on matters of judgement. So, we now observe the fabric of ‘liberal values’ or ‘British values’ being torn apart (democracy, the rule of law, individual freedom, and mutual respect and tolerance—the British values, though it is hard to see what is distinctively ‘British’ about any of these—are all being rejected by the Left and the Right).

While talk of values is ubiquitous, of late I have been thinking about virtues: stable character traits, that have an outcome (a generous person will be dependably generous in a wide range of circumstances and regardless of how they feel, that is, not dependant on an emotive response). Virtues are not subjective. They aren’t objective, or universal exactly, but they are reciprocal in a moral obligation to others. While there are many virtues, such as wisdom, or courage, I have been thinking most of all about the spiritual virtues of hope, faith, and charity or loving-kindness.

What does it look like to be a hopeful person, in a rising tide of fear and anxiety? What attributes can we recognise, whether we share them or not? What practices—such as long-term investment in others—might we note?

What does it look like to be a faithful friend? Or to be a congregation of people who are faithful to and within the wider community to which they belong? And to be faithful to a heritage, receiving something from those who came before us and handing it on to the next generation as a treasure? What does it look like to be faithful with the planet we share?

What does it look like to act, consistently, dependably, with loving-kindness, not only towards our closest family members, or driven by emotional attraction, or fluctuating according to mood, but in ways that reach out to embrace and bless the lives of strangers?

Are these things we can widely recognise, and that we have mistakenly labelled values? Or things that have been displaced by values?

Where values are overstated, and so lose their value, how might we reframe the conversation, pointing to an older tradition—virtue—that has waited, patiently, with self-control, for such a time as this to return?

 

All Saints and All Souls

 

Half of my time is parish-based (the other half is city-centre/civic based) and half of that time is currently invested in one of the local schools, at their invitation. This afternoon, we talked all things Halloween/All Saints’ Day/All Souls Day and from All Saints to St Nicholas (for whom the parish church is named)/Sinterklaas/Santa Claus and from there to Advent and Christmas and evidence for God and back again to death and ghosts and evidence for what they called afterlife and how Christians celebrate our communion with those who have died, held together, as we are, by and in Jesus. A sprawling conversation, with a lot of tangents along the way.

 

Evidence

 

The best evidence for the bodily resurrection of the dead is the persistent hope of the bodily resurrection of the dead, and the lives of billions of women and men oriented, in the here and now, to that hope.

For a narrow scientism, this is no evidence at all. But the failure is one of scientism, not of evidence. In all the known universe, there is not a shred of empirical evidence that love exists. We can measure short-term and long-term physiological changes attributed to love, but evolutionary biologists can and do offer alternative explanations. There is no standardised, universally accepted scale (Hk, hugsnkisses) by which we can measure the love we have for one parent, sibling, or child in comparison with the love we have for another; nor by which we can track the rise and fall of love for a spouse over time. And for scientism (as opposed to scientific enquiry) what cannot be measured cannot exist. Yet deny the existence of love, and you will rightly be pitied.

The apostle Paul said that if there is no resurrection, then Christians are to be pitied above all people. Not commended, as good people who seek to serve their neighbours. Not condemned, as hypocrites who think they are better than others. But pitied.

On the other hand, if our hope is not in vain, we are the most hopeful of all people, for death has no hold over us, now, keeping life at arm’s length from us, or when it comes for us.

Don’t discount evidence simply because it doesn’t look like we were told it should. Evidence for the bodily resurrection of the dead is all around.

 

For all the saints

 

The Apostles’ Creed, the baptismal confession of all Christians, says of the Church:

‘I believe in…the holy catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting.’

The Nicene Creed expands:

‘We believe in one holy catholic and apostolic Church. We acknowledge one baptism for the forgiveness of sins. We look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come.’

It is perhaps a commitment to the forgiveness of sins that is the most culture-critical aspect of this confession in my twenty-first century British context (and while the Nicene Creed emphasises baptism as a sacrament of forgiveness, the Apostles’ Creed makes forgiveness of sins, without qualification, a creedal sign of the baptised). But today, we ought to reflect on the communion of saints, on resurrection and life.

Today is the Feast of All Saints, the day Christians are called to give thanks for and rejoice with all those who have gone before us, who have died ‘in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ, who will transform our frail bodies that they may be conformed to his glorious body, who died was buried, and rose again for us’ (taken from the Committal, Common Worship Funeral Service).

Tomorrow is the Feast of All Souls, the day Christians are invited to give thanks for and rejoice with those we have known personally, who have died in this same hope.

One of the local churches I serve has been a confessing community since 930AD. There are many more Saints to rejoice with than Souls. The other has been a confessing community since 1939. There is among our number one man, in his nineties, who was there on Day One. Here, in contrast, the Souls outnumber the Saints.

One of the things I note in Sunderland, among both those who would locate themselves at the heart of the confessing community and those who slip in and out of our buildings to remember their dead before God, is a crisis in confidence in the resurrection of the body and the life everlasting, and therefore in our ability to look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come. Every day of the year functions as a truncated All Souls, in which my loss is cut off from the community, becoming individual (that is, atomised) rather than personal (that is, embedded in relationships and an institution that provides meaning). People leave written prayers for the dead, imploring God to take care of their relatives. Every Sunday becomes a day to read aloud the names of those whose anniversary of death has come around, yet again, that week. There is no letting go, and therefore no meeting up again (as with, say, the Mexican day of the Dead celebrations; as All Souls ought to be). There is no receiving the grace to expand around our grief, such that we ourselves are signs of resurrection and participate now in the future breaking-into the present. These things are more peculiar to Sunderland than they are to any of the other cities I have lived in, Glasgow and Sheffield and Liverpool. This is not to say that grief does not break in uninvited, nor that it should be pushed away: rather, that when it comes, we can be confident in the promises that are ours in Jesus Christ and encourage a collective confidence in place of a collective anxiety.

The resurrected person of Jesus Christ bridges the divide between this life and the life of the world to come and holds together those we see and those we see no more. Through him, we are one. Through him, we can engage in conversation, using both shared words (liturgy) and the personal imaginative gift of prayer (our own words, shaped in part by the community). The rhythms of the year, these Feast days of Saints and Souls, are a gift that is both a duty and a joy. They ought rightly to be attended to, in their time. May these days be filled with light and celebration.

 

God in the midst of us

 

There are many ways God is described in the Bible. Some are anthropomorphic, such as, God is a mighty warrior. This makes sense, if you accept that humans are created in the likeness of God; and all the more so if you consider the story that God saw it was not good for the animated humus to be alone, anaesthetised them and cleaved them in two, that male and female might be warriors alongside one another, given to deliver one another from the powers of evil that set themselves against God. But God is also described in other ways, such as a mother eagle, or the wind.

The prophet Jeremiah offers us two of the most startling descriptions of God: God as a stranger, knowing and known by no one in the land, passing through, one whom even should we offer them bed and breakfast will only set out again on their way; and God as an elder, a once-mighty warrior, now physically spent, their mind also defeated by the advance of dementia, no longer able to construct a meaningful story from a shared history.

‘Oh hope of Israel, its saviour in time of trouble, why should you be like a stranger in the land, like a traveller turning aside for the night? Why should you be like someone confused, like a mighty warrior who cannot give help? Yet you, O Lord, are in the midst of us, and we are called by your name; do not forsake us!’ (Jeremiah 14:8, 9)

Jeremiah’s lament is stunning. It is also offered to us as faithful eyewitness testimony. God does not name it as false, nor move to redress the divine reputation, but is ‘in the midst of us’ as such a one as this.

What does it mean, to describe God, and our experience of God, in such ways? And how do these images help us inhabit what it means to be human, bearing the likeness of such a god, in the world?

Surely we encounter God, together, and for Christians through and with and in the spirit of Jesus in us, as we extend the hospitality of listening to one another’s story—of the intent and the goal of our journeying, our wanderings, our pilgrimage in the company of others, as we understand it—and in the holding of one another within a shared story that provides us with meaning as well as with a mutual, interdependent, agency and dependency?

 

heart, shaped

 

Walking home from town, I passed by two horse chestnut (Aesculus hippocastanum) trees. Three small boys were searching the grass below for conkers, accompanied by two women. One of the boys ran up to me, squealing with delight, “There’s so many conkers! They’re everywhere!” Watched over by trustworthy grown-ups, he (rightly) had no fear of a total stranger. Acknowledging the women with friendly greeting, I joined in with his delight—“I know! They’re amazing, aren’t they?”—picking up three conkers and offering them to him, before choosing one to hold on to. Its white scar, from where the seed is connected to its protective casing, was heart-shaped.

There is beauty everywhere.

 

Covenant

 

The Greek philosophers held that above the quarrelsome pantheon of popular gods there was an ultimate creator being who possessed all the omni-s. In contrast, the accounts found in the Bible resolutely insist that God is recognisable: walking and eating with his friend, Abraham; bearing his mighty right arm in battle; coming among us as Jesus. This should not be surprising—and nor is it an accommodation for our sake—given that human beings are created in the likeness of God. Christians believe that in every moment, Jesus is fully God—not half-God, nor one third of God, nor half one third of God, but fully God—and fully human. Thus, whatever can be said of Jesus can be said of God. Thus, the wonder that the God who created the first humans has human ancestors: this mystery alone should cause us to worship.

Jesus told a story to describe, from the inside, what it is like for God and humans to be in covenant relationship (Luke 11:5-13). In the story, set at night, one friend is asleep in bed with his household, when his friend knocks on the door: another friend has just now arrived at his own door, perhaps delayed, perhaps unexpected, and he has no bread to set before the weary traveller: friend, would you lend me some bread?

This story tells us something of what God, our covenant partner, is like. And it should be read in both directions.

God sleeps, with his children. God sleeps, for in sleep, even God is renewed. Jesus sleeps in the boat, not simply because he is fully human but because he is also fully God. And yes, Psalm 121 speaks of a context in which the psalmist can trust that Yahweh will not be drowsy; but, just as the disciples are perfectly safe in the boat in the middle of a storm while Jesus sleeps, so God’s children are safe in God’s presence even when God lies down to sleep in safety and peace. Even so, the God who sleeps will rise to respond to the plea of his covenant friend.

God has needs, and turns to us, as covenant partners, to supply them. For just as God is the friend who sleeps, God is also the friend who knocks on the door. God is not self-sufficient. God is the infant suckling at Mary’s breast. God is the hungry man in the wilderness who rejects the temptation to turn stones into bread. God comes to covenant partners to meet needs: would you lend me some bread?

God sleeps, and God rises from sleep. God approaches, and God requests. We can say, God fully enters the experience of creation; that God’s reign is in sustaining the order God has created, without violating the dignity and responsibility of creation and not least the humans God has appointed to govern the earth. And because God is like this, so we can sleep in safety and in readiness to arise and respond; so, also, we can approach and request, at any time of the day or the night.

A community formed in response to such a God should be non-anxious and generous presence in the world.

 

Falling and rising

 

I love the passage from the New Testament set for Morning Prayer today, Acts 20:1-16.

Paul has been travelling by land from Asia Minor (modern-day Turkey) through Macedonia (the north of modern-day Greece) and down into Greece, and from there intends to travel by ship to Syria, when a plot against him is discovered. Presumably this is a plot to have him thrown overboard, lost at sea, for Paul revises his plans to take the longer route back by land.

The first thing he does is gather to himself a company who will attend to him on the journey: Sopater son of Pyrrhus from Beroea; Aristarchus and Secundus from Thessalonica; Gaius from Derbe, and Timothy, as well as Tychicus and Trophimus from Asia—while more again travelled in a second (possibly decoy) group, with Luke. These are not merely individuals from different places of origin, but representatives of churches Paul has planted. We know that as Paul planted churches, he sometimes took someone from the newly established church with him, to learn from him as, together, they planted other churches. We know that sometimes churches planted by Paul sent representatives to him, after he had moved on, carrying letters back and forth, continuing to engage in the dialogue by which the new believers in Jesus as Lord and Saviour got to know Jesus, and the nature of his reign and salvation, better. We know that Paul sometimes wrote to churches, asking them to send named persons to him, for a given purpose, as an expression of their partnership in the gospel that was both symbolic/representational and deeply practical. In these ways, Paul faces the challenges of his circumstances drawing on a broad and tightly connected network of fellow believers.

This company meet up with other believers to break bread, shorthand for to gather together to tell the story of Jesus, to spend time in adoration, back-and-forth story telling where Paul speaks and another takes the story up, through great looping detours and backtracks that connect Jesus with all the history of the people of Israel before him and now also the gentiles, these companions from among the surrounding peoples, a joyous conversation over food, that arrives, at some holy moment, not predetermined, of remembering the Passion, his giving himself for us all.

This is such a precious thing, in response to overwhelming circumstances over which we have so little control, that the people gathered in that room remain all night. No one wants to leave. There is nowhere else, nowhere, they would rather be. The room is warm on account of their bodies in close proximity, the air is thick with the smoke of oil lamps. A young slave boy sits at the open window, reaching for any breeze. He has worked all day, but the night is his, and he does not want to miss a moment. Sleep can wait until he is dead. No one notices him slump sideways until it is too late, and Eutychus—his name means ‘good fortune’ and he was clearly a valued slave, one his master believed himself fortunate to possess—falls from the third story of this urban apartment block, and lands on the street below, dead. Paul, however, will not let him lie, but restores him to life, in keeping with the story of Jesus, the miracles that point to something greater to come. And then, they keep going, telling, celebrating, that story. Food is served, including that moment when bread is broken as Jesus had broken bread with his disciples on the night he was arrested, looking backward to the time God delivered his people from slavery in Egypt and forward to the time, days from now, when God would deliver his Son from the realm of the dead. Before Eutychus is raised, the conversation is described (twice; though the second time is somewhat lost in translation, the English suggesting more of a monologue) as dialegomai, getting to know one another. After Eutychus is raised from the dead, the conversation is described as homileó, the communing of companions. This moment, then, this falling and rising, this dying and being raised to life, marks a deepening in relationship.

So yes, I love this passage. While I am not, personally, the target of any plot, I serve two congregations that are facing challenges far greater than the resources we possess. The temptation is to be caught up in constant firefighting or give in to despair. Under such circumstances, Paul would encourage us to network with other churches and to focus our eyes on Jesus.

 

Jesus and the sinner

 

I do not need Jesus because I am a sinner. That would be to reduce the glorious Prince of heaven to the solution to an inconvenient problem.

Rather, I need Jesus as the sun needs the sky, because he is my ground of being. And because I recognise that I am a sinner, I am able to welcome his mercy and grace.

Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.

 

On death and ecology

 

Death is the precursor to life. I exist, because my father’s DNA and my mother’s DNA tore themselves apart, disembowelled from top to bottom, and instead cleaved to the other. John’s account of Jesus coming into the world notes, ‘The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.’ (John 1:5) Darkness first, then, ‘Let there be light.’ Darkness, not overcoming light, but from whence light shines. Death does not bring Life to an end, but ushers life in.

There was a time when the whole earth was barren, save for a garden, planted by God. There, the rain fell, dying and being laid to rest in the ground; to be drawn up by the roots and trunks of trees. There, the leaves fell, decaying into the soil, making it ever more fertile. Death is the precursor to life. (I have proposed, elsewhere, that the Garden is a metaphor for the Babylonian exile, and the barren earth for the abandoned territory of Judah. This theme carries through exile, through invasion, through siege and destruction, through the re-emergence of remnant communities over again.)

When Adam and Eve are driven out from the garden, this is not an ontological change in human nature—we have always had the capacity for good or evil; and always had the gift of death and life, neither of which can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus—but an ecological change for the wider creation. Our experience of death—our experience of death; death already existed, as fossil records and coal seams testify—and therefore also our experience of life—is no longer cradled in the garden, but spreads through the whole world: first, death; then life, as promised. Our creaturely labour enables all creation to die, and die well—including dying to self, and to sin, which is to put ourselves first and against our neighbour—in order that it may be taken up into the grace of perpetually renewing life, ‘For the wages of sin is death, but the free gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.’ (Romans 6:23)

He is the light that shines in the darkness. He is the branch, because he is the root, the one who, having been lifted-up in death, lifts us up with him in life. He is the tree of life, and the tree from which his own cross is hewn (hence Nordic mythology, written down in the thirteenth century, and which paganises Christianity, depicts Odin hanging himself from the sacred tree Yggdrasil to gain wisdom and power). He is the seed buried in the soil, dying to produce fruit a hundred-fold. We die, not because we have fallen from grace, but because we are created to represent the One who from eternity has laid their life down, that life might flow to others. We rise again, only in and with and by him. The whole earth is filled with his suffering and his glory. The made-new earth will not banish the death that births life, only Death as a foreboding cipher for estrangement from God and neighbour.

What might this mean for the mission of God on which we are sent out among our neighbours?

What does the reign of God in this suffering, glorious Christ Jesus look like in our neighbourhood?

What are the implications for creation care—one of the marks of mission—that does not empty the earth of her natural resources with insatiable hunger, but does enable that quality of dying that will usher in new life?

 

Good and evil

 

We have started watching Inside Man (BBC One). In a cast full of individual performances given to perfection, the chemistry between Stanley Tucci and Atkins Estimond as two inmates on death row is to die for.

The premise is that we are all murderers; you just need to meet the right person. And this is a true revelation of the human heart. There are no good people, and no evil people; just people, who are capable of doing inspirational good or unimaginable evil.

To train ourselves, then, we do not do good for reward, which is so often not forthcoming, but for its own beauty. This is, at least in part, why the apostle Paul writes, ‘Finally, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honourable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.’ (Philippians 4:8)

And we turn away from evil, not for its punishments, for, indeed, evil is often unpunished, and many times rewarded, but on account of its emptiness.

The liturgy forms us, if we allow it.

In Baptism, we are asked to respond to four questions, not simply in the service but every day of our lives. We are reminded of this at every baptism we, the ekklesia or chosen company, participate in as supporters of the baptismal candidate. In their simplest form, these are:

Do you turn away from sin?

Do you reject evil?

Do you turn to Christ as Saviour?

Do you submit to him as Lord?

Then, whenever we come to Communion, we begin with the Prayer of Preparation, in which we acknowledge that the desires of our heart, including those we hide even from ourselves, can become disordered—that, among other things, we can do evil in pursuit of good, or, the wrong thing for the right reasons—and affirm our dependence on God’s holy and lifegiving Spirit to cleanse the thoughts of our hearts, that is, our capacity for choosing between good and evil.

Only then do we move to Confession, the confession that we have thought and said and done that which we ought not to have done, and neglected to do that which we ought to have done—we are speaking of moral responsibility, not To Do lists—and of our trust in God’s forgiveness. Indeed, it is only possible to be so radically honest about and to ourselves kneeling on the ground of divine absolution, not of commensurate consequence but of ultimate emptiness, of being cut off from beauty, from Life.

And we must return to these truths again and again; for, even priests forget them.

 

Paddington

 

For her Platinum Jubilee celebrations, Queen Elizabeth II made a short film of her inviting Paddington Bear to afternoon tea. When she died, social media was flooded with pictures of Paddington taking her hand and leading her from this world to the next. Of course, she had also jumped out of a helicopter with 007, and, given the ending to the latest film in the franchise, it could be argued that James Bond would have been a better escort.

Today my wife showed me a picture circulating online of Paddington escorting Coolio from this world to the next, with the comment—my wife’s, not a caption on the image—'Why? Who has decided that Paddington should be the Grim Reaper?’

Perhaps it is because Paddington is a refugee, a bear who sought and found welcome in a new land. Perhaps this makes him a suitable guide to whatever lies beyond death.

Coolio came to public attention in the UK for his rap hit Gangsta’s Paradise, which riffs off (Stevie Wonder’s Pastime Paradise, but also) Psalm 23. The lyrics open, ‘As I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death,’ introducing the story of a gang member who is feared by his rivals and looked up to by the other members of his gang but who is secretly afraid, noting, ‘I’m 23 now but will I live to see 24?’

Death is the great unknown, and, in my experience at least, a majority of people do not believe it to be an end to personal existence. But, in my experience, many people are fearful for what lies beyond. Not that they fear hell, or assume heaven, but that they envisage a journey that continues through further tribulations and for which they must plead God to keep their loved ones safe. In many ways, the northeast is the most Mediaeval context I have ministered in, and it is fascinating for that. Our cultural expectations are thickly woven.

The valley of the shadow of death runs through the heart of Psalm 23, a dry wadi the sheep journey up and down again many times over the course of their lives, just as we navigate the contours of bereavement many times over, rendered different each time by the flash flood of another loss. And the singer sings of the Good Shepherd, who carries, and knows how to use, a rod and a staff. One is long and thin, and used to steer the sheep along the path or lift them up when they fall. The other is a stout cudgel, used to drive back predators that hide among the rocks. This is a show of confidence, of leadership and of selfless strength.

As divine revelation of the mortal heart, the Bible speaks of death and what lies beyond in so many different ways that the only reasonable response of faith is an agnosticism about details and an unshakeable trust that within the reign of God in and through Christ Jesus, all shall be well. The Good Shepherd of Psalm 23 is a pool of hope that runs deep and does not fail.

Paddington is a heart-warming story. But there is no need to ask him to take on more than a small bear can, well, bear. If you would like to talk about your hopes and fears to do with death, I’m happy to have that conversation.

 

Michael part 3

 

Today is the Feast of St Michael & All Angels. And earlier today, I reflected on two passages of Scripture that speak of angels descending and ascending. Except that they don't. Looking again, I am reminded that both passages, Genesis 28:10-17 and John 1:47-51, speak of angels ascending and descending:

‘And [Jacob] dreamed that there was a ladder [a ziggurat] set up on the earth, the top of it reaching to heaven; and the angels of God were ascending and descending on it.’ Genesis 28:12

‘And [Jesus] said to [Nathanael], “Very truly, I tell you, you will see heaven opened and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of Man.”’ John 1:51

Another passage set for today is Revelation 12:7-12, which opens:

‘And war broke out in heaven; Michael and his angels fought against the dragon. The dragon and his angels fought back, but they were defeated, and there was no longer any place for them in heaven [or, they lost strength, and no region was found for them in heaven]. The great dragon was thrown down, that ancient serpent, who is called the Devil and Satan, the deceiver of the whole world—he was thrown down to the earth, and his angels were thrown down with him.’

So, the angels of God ascend and descend, and the rebellious angels rise up and are thrown down. In both cases, the movement is up > down. Emissaries who approach the throne of God and are sent out from God’s presence. Whose purpose is to bring representation to God—this is why Accusation, false rumour, is so serious an offence, a betrayal of God and of angels and mortals—and to carry messages from God in return. To Jacob, and to his offspring Jesus and to all his offspring: “Know that I am with you and will keep you wherever you go, and will bring you back to this land; for I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you.” (Genesis 28:15)

This offspring, the Son of Man or faithful remnant community, with Jesus as their representative, are the new humanity, the new ground, earth animated by the life-breath of God’s very word.

May you hear that word, carried by angel messengers, spoken over you today. And may it restore your weary body and soul to life.

 

Michael part 2

 

Today I celebrated the Feast of St Michael & All Angels in this space, dedicated in thanksgiving for the archangel who contended against the great dragon, the ancient serpent known as the Devil and as Satan, and threw him out of the heavens down upon the earth. And we are told that the Accuser is overcome by the blood of the Lamb—that is, Jesus—and the testimony of saints and angels. As we see in the East window, the testimony that plays its part in overcoming the Accuser is the FORGIVNESS OF SINS. May we, therefore, declare this testimony over one another.

 

Michael part 1

 

Today is Michaelmas, the Feast of St Michael & All Angels. (Happy feast day to all Michaels/Mikes & Angelas among my friends!)

In one sense, Michael is an unusual saint, in that almost all saints are humans whose lives demonstrate an unusual awareness of the presence of God. The exceptions are the few angels whose names are revealed to us, including Michael, and in this greater sense Michael is an exemplary saint, for the angels live in unbroken awareness of God’s presence.

Michaelmas is to Michael as Christmas is to Christ: (not a birthday, but) a season of great thanksgiving for what God has done. In Christmas, we celebrate the incarnation, that, in Jesus, God has become one with God’s creation. In Michaelmas, we celebrate divinization, that, by and with and in Christ, creation is being caught up in union with God. Michaelmas is a consequence of Christmas, and its near-completion, as, in the Church calendar, we move towards the Feast of Christ the King.

There is a story in Genesis of a broken man running away from the mess he has created, who, in the restless sleep of drained exhaustion, is graced the vision of angels descending to earth and ascending to heaven. Sent from and returning to God, their beginning and their end. And early in John’s Gospel, Jesus calls another runaway to follow him, saying he shall see the angels of God descending and ascending on the Son of Man, that is, the faithful community which is focused on Jesus, the Alpha & Omega, the source and completion, of angels and disciples alike.

According to later legend, Michaelmas is the day on which Michael defeated the rebellious angel Lucifer, and threw him down to earth; the fallen angel, who landed in a briar patch. Some say you should not pick its fruit, the blackberry, after this date. But if you are looking to celebrate the Feast of St Michael, a blackberry crumble would be appropriate.

Happy Michaelmas! In these days, may you become increasingly aware of God’s presence in our world, in our midst.

 

Reveal/Conceal

 

Whenever the library we call the Bible presents us with accounts of human encounters with God, it is always as a simultaneous revealing and concealing. The coincidence of both these elements is the essential prerequisite for Mystery. And this is as true of the human as it is of the divine, even if the human concealing is as childlike as covering their eyes (note I say childlike, not childish: there is deep insight in such action; I do not look the congregation in the eye when I preach, for they would not bear to see my soul directly, nor I theirs, despite sharing in the care of those very souls).

Of the many ways God is described, one is as dwelling in blinding light, and another, as dwelling in thick darkness. These are not mutually opposed images, but necessary counterparts. And each invites us to walk, with God, by faith not sight. The psalmist goes so far as to declare that the sun shall not strike you by day nor the moon by night, because God is present within and rules over both light and dark.

Learning to walk in the dark is part of being a pilgrim people. (Learning to walk in the light, also; though this can be harder, as we too easily assume that we can accurately see what lies ahead.) It requires trust, patience, and attentiveness. It evokes wonder and opens the door to experiencing awe.

Last night, moving around my bedroom in the dark, I hit my toe, hard, against the foot of the bed, so that today the toe is red and the nail black. This was a space I have navigated countless times in the light, and plenty times before in the dark. Nothing had moved, or been moved, within the space; but, half-awake, my senses were dulled and my movement was at the same time too cautious and lacking care.

We do well to recognise that the future that lies ahead of us is concealed from us in blinding light and thick darkness. We do well not to rush in, with overly-bold promises. But neither do we need to fear to tread, in despair. For God is waiting for us in the future, as God comes to us in the present, as testified to in the past. And wherever our mutual revealing and concealing occur, there, even though limping, we stand on holy ground.

 

Flesh and bone

 

There comes a time, in a man’s life, when the middle-of-the-night trip to pee has become a nightly occurrence. A necessary, ritual shuffle along the corridor. There will be a night-light on the landing, of course. He isn’t stupid. But so as not to break his sleep cycle, and especially if he does not sleep alone, he will not turn on a light in the bedroom. He isn’t stupid.

So it was that a friend of mine, just a few years older than me, recently broke his toe on the foot of the bed. I was commiserating this state of affairs with him only on Wednesday gone.

And so it also was that I did the same, last night.

My friend was at least on holiday, abroad; can blame an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar space. I was in my own home. Nor was it my first night misadventure (not stupid; but dyspraxic).

The stories of our lives are written in our flesh and bones. The body not only keeps the score; it is a librarian.

 

Letting go

 

Ecclesiastes (Qohelet, in Hebrew) is one of my favourite books of the Bible, a beautiful and at times disturbing work, hard to translate in places. It opens by setting the scene, beginning with the great cry often rendered ‘vanity,’ or ‘all is in vain,’ but perhaps better rendered ‘ephemeral and fleeting as breath.’ From the moment of birth until the moment of death, every breath is but momentary; insubstantial; cannot be seen, except when the air is cold; cannot be held in the hand. Having breathed in, you cannot breathe in again without first breathing out: every breath must be surrendered. And yet, every breath is a gift, upon which everything else we do depends.

The scene setting continues, with observational insight into the world God has given us to experience and enjoy. The dependability of day following night, the sun rising and setting and rising again. The security of knowing that the sun will rise again tomorrow. The water cycle: clouds dropping rain on the land, water, flowing in streams to the sea, from where it evaporates to form new clouds, and begin again.

The earth is so full of things to experience, in time we are wearied, overwhelmed: it is too much for us to hold on to, however hard we may try.

And, in the end, we are told, there will be no remembrance. This was deeply disturbing to an ancient people for whom not forgetting was so important; and it is disturbing for us today, who fear the erasure of memory to dementia more viscerally than cancer. And yet, to let go of memory, like letting go of breath, is both necessary and a gift.

There are different forms of memory. There is semantic memory: facts and figures, which have no personal impact. The Battle of Hastings took place in 1066. You have already, long ago, let go of almost every semantic memory, the many things you were taught at school. There is simply so much that can be known that, were we not able to let go, we would be utterly overwhelmed.

Then there is procedural memory: skills you have learnt, such as being able to play the piano, or drive a car. Some of these will remain with you forever. Others, again, we let go, as they are no longer required, or must be replaced with new procedures.

And then there is episodic memory: our memories of things we have experienced. Episodic memory is not factual recall. Episodic memory creates stories, in search of wholeness, and the stories we tell ourselves we edit and re-write repeatedly, in search of that wholeness. Hence siblings will remember the same event very differently, one recalling and another responding, ‘That never happened!’ The goal of episodic memory is wholeness, and this requires that we let go of certain things, whole narratives of the story we have told ourselves. This is the reason why we need forgiveness, to forgive others and to forgive ourselves. The ultimate goal of episodic memory is to let go, and surrender ourselves; trusting (as we do every time we breathe out) that we are known and held and loved by God, from before our birth and beyond our death, through every change, in the eternal moment.

Ecclesiastes 1:2-11

Vanity of vanities, says the Teacher,
vanity of vanities! All is vanity.
What do people gain from all the toil
at which they toil under the sun?
A generation goes, and a generation comes,
but the earth remains for ever.
The sun rises and the sun goes down,
and hurries to the place where it rises.
The wind blows to the south,
and goes round to the north;
round and round goes the wind,
and on its circuits the wind returns.
All streams run to the sea,
but the sea is not full;
to the place where the streams flow,
there they continue to flow.
All things are wearisome;
more than one can express;
the eye is not satisfied with seeing,
or the ear filled with hearing.
What has been is what will be,
and what has been done is what will be done;
there is nothing new under the sun.
Is there a thing of which it is said,
‘See, this is new’?
It has already been,
in the ages before us.
The people of long ago are not remembered,
nor will there be any remembrance
of people yet to come
by those who come after them.

 

Pilgrim people

 

Yesterday, I baptised Oscar, a baby boy. Baptism marks the beginning of a lifelong journey of faith, that ends with our funeral—at which point, a new journey begins. This is why, in some traditions within the Church, the coffin is sprinkled with water from the baptismal font as it enters the church. Between these two points, our baptism and our funeral, we speak of the Christian life as a pilgrimage we undertake with others. At the heart of the baptismal rite, I declare:

‘N, I baptize you

in the name of the Father,

and of the Son,

and of the Holy Spirit.

Amen.

‘May God, who has received you by baptism into his Church,

pour upon you the riches of his grace,

that within the company of Christ’s pilgrim people

you may daily be renewed by his anointing Spirit,

and come to the inheritance of the saints in glory.

Amen.’

Over recent days, we have witnessed The Queue, a long procession of people, from all over the world, who have made a journey to the Queen, lying-in-state. For the final stages of their journey, they have walked alongside others, strangers to them, in a shared, and ordered, experience. People of surprisingly diverse backgrounds. Their reasons for making the journey are many and various—selfless and self-centred; we do not get to choose those we queue with—and, for some at least, hard to put into words. As they have walked, strangers have become friends, perhaps even family. As they have reached their desired destination, we have seen people bow, or salute, or make the sign of the cross, or keep their cap on until the last moment so as to doff it. And afterwards, just moments later, they are spilled out, into the city, perhaps into the night. What then? Some have rejoined The Queue, others have returned home. All will carry this experience for the rest of their lives. Will it make a difference? For some, undoubtedly.

Without any doubt, this has been a pilgrimage. And those who don’t ‘get’ that are unable to appreciate what has taken place, and why. Why so many have needed to make this journey, to pay their respects, to give thanks for a life lived in the service of others. They can only dismiss it as folly, scandal even. Which, for me, is yet another evidence that this is a pilgrimage.

The catafalque in Westminster Hall has been a resting place, not only for the Queen’s coffin, but for every pilgrim who has made the journey to stand before it. May they all be renewed for their onward journey. May they all come, at last, to their final destination, the inheritance of the saints in glory.

 

Balm for the troubled soul

 

On Sunday afternoon we welcomed over 170 adults, and 12 children, to Sunderland Minster for our monthly Choral Evensong. No, those numbers don’t reflect our usual attendance. England is thoroughly post-Christian. But it is also post-secular, post-liberal, post-rational. Not because we have embraced postmodernism, but because simplistic labelling does not, and never did, do justice to the complexity of reality, of our at times deeply conflicted lives. Perhaps it is because we acknowledge that complexity, and because we invite people into mystery rather than superficial certainty, that in times of great disturbance the community looks to the established Church of England. Again, this is not Christian Nationalism—choral evensong is almost certainly unfamiliar to the majority of those who were present this afternoon; not something recognised as essentially English, though as an expression of Christian public worship it is rooted in our history—but a visible, signposted place where the troubled soul might find rest.

In any case, we gather, not only in times of national crisis, but in ordinary time, full of everyday miracle and tragedy. And it was good to welcome others into that space today. Thank you to everyone who made, who make, that possible.

 

Bodies

 

The Gospel passage set for Holy Communion today is Luke 7:36-50. In it, we meet a woman who is described as a sinner. A sinner is one who falls short of the wholeness God desires for our lives. We are not told anything about the form of behaviour by which the fragmented nature of her life is expressed; though she is surely aware it is not considered acceptable, and her behaviour, even if it is necessary for any sense of living, may cause her additional shame. We can only speculate, but we must speculate responsibly. Some translations describe her as an immoral woman and as being of bad character. I believe this to be an example of irresponsible speculation. We should, rather, pay close attention to what the woman does, and how others respond. What kind of sinner is she?

Jesus has been invited to a meal, in the home of a Pharisee, someone who seeks to manage their life through very prescribed behaviour. In their culture, meals were eaten lying on the floor, with feet stretched out behind. The woman comes in. Perhaps she is noticed. She is known as someone whose behaviour is not considered acceptable. Perhaps others present are silently pleading, ‘Please don’t make a scene, please don’t make a scene…’

The woman allows herself to approach Jesus, to draw very close to his prone body. She allows herself to break down, to weep, in front of others, not caring what they think or how uncomfortable they feel. She allows herself to touch Jesus’ body, with her hair; and then to rub myrrh into his feet, embalming ointment for the preparation of the dead for burial.

In recent days Ukrainian troops have pushed back Russian invaders, and, yet again, stories have emerged of torture and killings. And I would like us to imagine that this woman, who has grown up in a land occupied by cruel soldiers of another country, knows this only too well. That, far too young, she had witnessed her parents, possibly other family members, die in traumatic circumstances. That she had had to prepare them for burial. That the past intruding into her present, triggered, as we would say today, by the smallest thing. Responding in violent outburst to the accidental brush of a passing stranger; waking her neighbours with her nightmares. A sinner, falling short of personal and relational wholeness. A sinner who dares to reach out and touch a prone body and rub ointment into flesh.

Jesus’ host is confused, but not hostile, and open to Jesus as instructor. If Jesus really were one who can interpret God's will, surely he would know that this woman fell short? And, yes, surely Jesus is perfectly aware; and, knowing God’s will, knows it is God’s will to close the gap between her present state, and wholeness. He speaks of an unpayable debt, as those who are traumatised are held hostage to events in their past, being sent away, setting them free. And he addresses the woman: ‘Your faith has saved you; go in peace.’

Your faith, your commitment to being restored, your trust that this will happen, somehow, in and through Jesus, has healed you; go on, in wholeness, your fragmented life restored to the integrated wholeness God desires for you, for all.

I am responding to the text with my imagination. But might that help us enter the forgiveness of sins, in a tangible way; and to be free to love, not fear, our neighbour, and ourselves?

 

Love

 

The Gospel set for Holy Communion today is Luke 6:27-38

‘But I say to you that listen, Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you…

‘If you love those who love you, what credit is that to you? For even sinners love those who love them. If you do good to those who do good to you, what credit is that to you? For even sinners do the same. If you lend to those from whom you hope to receive, what credit is that to you? Even sinners lend to sinners, to receive as much again. But love your enemies, do good, and lend, expecting nothing in return. Your reward will be great, and you will be children of the Most High; for he is kind to the ungrateful and the wicked. Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful…’

Jesus

Jesus’ words are powerful. They call us to honest self-awareness, to recognise that when we love only those who love us, those who serve our best interests and centre us in the story we tell, we are no different from the people we consider to be beyond the pale.

But these are words of conviction, not condemnation. When Jesus declares, Love your enemies—those whom you cannot stand alongside, or be counted with—he is not setting a bar against which God judges us for not being able to attain a certain standard. This is the Word of God, become flesh. This is the Word that declared, “Let there be light.” And there was light. And God saw that the light was good.

This is the Word that declared, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind, and with all your strength.” and “Love your neighbour as yourself.” We have been conditioned to hear this as an injunction, but, while it does set parameters (as the sea sets parameters for the great sea creatures it teems with) these words are, primarily, an act of creation, a release, a setting free to exist. You—personally, and as a community of faith trusting in the Word—shall love. You shall—God declares it into being—love. You shall love—this is what we are set free to bring to the world. And that love shall be whole, for, being awakened to life by that Word, we ‘fill the earth’ that is ourselves, the earth-ling, the hu-mus/man, expanding through our heart and soul and mind and strength.

And, yes, this is a work in progress. But it is upheld, underpinned, sustained by the Word: Love.

 

Storms

 

The new Prime Minister arrived at Downing Street in a torrential downpour. I’m excited that she is going to deliver on making us “an aspiration nation [aka cloud cuckoo land] with high paying jobs.” But I was mostly struck by her recurring motif of being in a storm: landing with “together we can ride out the storm.”

I was reminded of a story from the Gospel According to Mark. In the evening, Jesus had sent his disciples to cross the lake by boat, while he went up the mountain, alone, to pray. During the night, he sees that they are ‘straining at the oars against an adverse wind’ and goes to them, walking on the water. Seeing him, and assuming him to be a ghost, they were terrified, but he calms them, and the wind, and, as a result, they were utterly astounded, because they did not understand the significance of Jesus having fed the multitude, as their hearts were hardened.

The Greek is more vivid and urgent than the English. Their straining conveys torment and torture, being examined or interrogated under torture. Their rowing, pulling on the oars, is also used of wind, and demonic power. The wind itself is described as their adversary, the Adversary being also a title of satanic power. Jesus’ approach causes them to be stirred up, agitated, while their response to his addressing the situation is to be besides themselves, displaced, looking on themselves from a dissociative position. And we are also told that their capacity to exercise desire-decision for moral preference was calcified.

In other words, the wind and the disciples and the demonic and Jesus are all complex, interrelated factors at play in the storm, in which they were not making expected headway. Moreover, they are compromised in their ability to choose what they desire, and what is best, despite themselves.

Such is the manner of the storms that buffet us, storms the Prime Minister quite rightly recognises. And the passage sheds insight on why, with the best will in the world, the party she leads has not delivered on their own aspirations, having had twelve years to do so. And why a change of government would do no better, whether in the short term or the long run. The issue is not one of party politics, but, ultimately, of the human heart.

I wish the new Prime Minister well, as I did her predecessor. I wish us all well. But my hopes will be modest, at best; apart from the hope I have placed in Jesus, from whom I withdraw in fear at times, but who prays for us, and comes to us, and rescues us, so that we do not merely ride out the storm but cross the lake to the place where the most vulnerable, who cannot strive for excellence, find wholeness.