That blue shirt

You see this shirt, I just pegged out on the line to dry? I graduated from Sheffield University wearing that shirt, back in 1995. My girlfriend was there. We’ve been married for almost 23 years. My parents were there, and hers too. We went for a meal at a pizzeria on West Street. We graduated alongside a good many friends, who are still friends, who will see this post on Facebook.

And I still wear that shirt. It is a little threadbare at the collar and cuffs. And the other day, a button frayed loose: it is sitting on my desk; I really ought to ask Jo to sew it back on (that’s not sexist, by the way; that’s dyspraxic fingers speaking). But we’re not done yet.

The apostle Paul wrote, “above all, clothe yourselves with love...” Love, of course, is storied. And clothes are, sometimes, books, journals, albums. That item, belonging to a loved one, you hold on to; or pass on, with love, so that the story might continue, taking on a life of its own.

Clothe yourselves with love, with all its running repairs. x

Time to get dressed

Lectionary readings for Holy Communion today: Colossians 3:12-17 and Luke 6:27-38

Writing to the church in Colossae, Paul takes up the imagery of getting dressed—a daily activity: “clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, meekness [that is, teachability], and patience...above all, clothe yourselves with love.”

In our Gospel reading, Jesus speaks of being robbed of clothing: “love your enemies, do good to those who hate you...from anyone who takes away your coat do not withhold even your shirt.”

What if those who sought to rob us of our compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, patience, our love, found themselves enveloped in these things, by our response?

“Above all, clothe yourselves with love.” Colossians 3:14

Maybe it is because I do the laundry in our house, but I very much word-associate socks with socks-and-[under]pants; whereas, my youngest son very much word-associates socks-and-shoes. So, socks are almost the first thing I put on in the morning, and almost the last thing my son puts on.

We all get dressed in our own idiosyncratic way. And what our clothes look like says something of the culture we live in, of the generation we belong to within that culture. What we wear may say something about the role we play (as do my clerical shirts) or an activity we are taking part in (as does my hi-viz running top: there is a time and a place). Sometimes, we need to put the clothes on and keep putting the clothes on until we own them (I went for a lot of runs before I saw myself as a runner).

And some of us need help in getting dressed—for which, if we are loved by the helper, we need feel no shame, but may do nonetheless.

Ultimately, clothing protects us from the elements, and also from the shame of public nakedness. From over-exposure, in more than one sense. Though in our intimate settings, we remove our clothes.

Paul writes, above all, clothe yourselves with love. Like clothes, love is universal, but how it is expressed may vary somewhat from culture to culture, context to context. Like clothes, love is something we may need to grow into. Like clothes, love is something we sometimes need help to put on. Like clothes, we sometimes remove love in our intimate settings, hurting (often unintentionally, and to our deep shame) those closest to us.

Like clothes, love is something we must put on, afresh, if not always fresh, each day.

The seasons are turning, here in the north of the northern hemisphere. You might want to dig out a jumper, or pull on a coat. But, wherever you live in the world, and whatever you wear today, above all, clothe yourself with love.

This is not a post about sexuality or politics

What happened to nuance, a friend of mine, dismayed by the quality of public discourse in our polarised society, recently asked on Facebook? When did nuance die?

The apostle Paul wrote a letter to the house churches in Rome, concerning the nature of the standing, before God, of two formerly-divided camps, the Jews and the Gentiles. He introduces his theme (Romans chapter 1) by way of a consideration of same-sex intercourse.

Paul argues that same-sex desire transgresses the purity code, and that same-sex intercourse is ‘contrary to nature.’ And here, traditionalists part company with the LGBTQIA+ agenda; progressives part company with Paul; and both miss the point that he is only just getting going in making.

(Of course, same-sex intercourse is contrary to nature in as much as it must override an almost universal desire to pro-create. But the point Paul is establishing is a theological one.)

That the Gentiles are included in the church at all has already been established, through the vision God gave to Peter of God’s bursting the purity laws, specifically in relation to clean and unclean foods. But now, Paul goes further. Taking a well-established image of Jewish socio-political identity, the vine, Paul says that God has broken Israel off from its own vine and has grafted-in the Gentiles ‘contrary to nature’...and then, will graft the Jews back in, again, ‘contrary to nature.’

In several places, Paul writes about human sexual relationships with incredible nuance, as do other New Testament writers.

On the one hand, (heterosexual) marriage is an illustration of the relationship between Christ and the church—and widowhood, of the relationship of the Christian to the Jewish law.

On the other hand, Paul critiques such relationships according to the gospel, making clear (among other things) that they ought not to be conducted in a way that dishonours either party, or any third party.

One the one hand, same-sex intercourse is (by virtue of its being contrary to nature) an illustration of God’s desire and action in establishing Jews and Gentiles within one community on the same basis.

On the other hand, same-sex exploitation is condemned. To give a concrete example, there is no place in the kingdom of heaven for the common Roman practice of masters exercising control by raping adolescent male slaves, and those who did so formerly must do so no longer.

Moreover, we are not at liberty to weaponise the marriage illustration against those who are single and celibate.

And, also, we ought not to consider same-sex desire, in all its brokenness, as being outwith God’s bigger picture.

Nuance. The ability to see something that points to God in anything, while not naively embracing everything about it. To build a robust case through making careful, qualified statements.

The greatest polarisation in British society today is over Brexit. That two camps might be brought together as one seems as unlikely as the bringing-together of Jews and Gentiles as equal standing in the early church. It will take not only the grace of God, but careful, nuanced, theological reflection, to break down the dividing walls and any desire to establish first- and second-class citizens in the new world order.

Unless we can see, in the desire to Leave the EU, something that reveals the nature and activity of God to us, we have lost sight of the gospel.

Unless we can critique the values and actions of Leavers, according to those of the kingdom of heaven, we have lost sight of the gospel.

Unless we can see, in the desire to Remain in the EU, something that reveals the nature and activity of God to us, we have lost sight of the gospel.

Unless we can critique the values and actions of Remainers, according to those of the kingdom of heaven, we have lost sight of the gospel.

And if nuance really is dead, here’s to the raising of the dead!

World Suicide Prevention Day

Today is World Suicide Prevention Day.

I am a survivor.

It was on my twelfth birthday, that is a year younger than my youngest child is now, that I first found myself assaulted by suicidal thoughts. Though they were in my head, I’d say they came from ‘outside of’ me...

The second time came when I was seventeen, and that time, it was more of an internal wrestle. As with many, maybe all, survivors, I did not want to die, I just wanted the pain I felt, after years of depression, to end.

The first time, I felt all alone in the world. I think there must have been angels fighting for me. The second time, I was surrounded by some good friends, who I could talk to. They got me home, got me talking to my parents, my GP, a child psychiatrist. I was able to access support, of various kinds, and so began a two-year journey towards life.

At university, I discovered there were plenty of other people going through something very similar, and that I was able to listen, to be a friend to them in their need, as others had been a friend to me. I discovered, as again so many survivors do, a sense of life-purpose through my experience of pain.

When I was going through the selection process to be a vicar, I was sent to the Priory, and they gave me a clean bill of health. I’ve known low mood since, but I’m not in that place. I wouldn’t wish my past on anyone, but I don’t resent it. It has more-than been redeemed.

If you are struggling, reach out. If you are concerned about a friend, reach out. Night is long and cold and dark, but the dawn comes. We can watch the sunrise, together.

Butterflies

The Gospels are full of accounts of finding, and being found by, Jesus. But who was the first to do so?

One could make a case, from the Gospel According to John, for the young fisherman, Andrew (John 1:35-42, prompted by John the Baptiser; though we have already met people searching for the Messiah earlier on, in verses 19-28).

Or, from the Gospel According to Luke, for the shepherds, sent by angels (Luke 2:8-20).

Or, from the Gospel According to Mark, for Simon Peter, searching for the visitor who had slept in the guest room last night but hadn't shown up for breakfast this morning (Mark 1:35-37).

Or, from the Gospel According to Matthew, for the star-led, gift-bearing Magi (Matthew 2:1-12).

But before all that, Matthew tells us that “Mary...was found to be with child” (Matthew 1:18).

And the first person to find that Mary was with child was...Mary.

At this point, Luke is hopping up and down in the background, clamouring, “Tell’em about the angel, Matt! You haven’t told’em about the angel!”

And of course, Mary knew that she would be with child. But that is not the same thing at all. The angel is to Mary what the angel is to the shepherds, the star to the Magi, John the Baptist to Andrew, and Andrew to Simon Peter.

My wife was informed that she was pregnant by a magic stick. But that is a world away from feeling that first flutter inside, which she did, long before I first felt the kick of a foot impressing itself through her skin.

Finding Jesus, for the 1st time or the 1001st time, begins with butterflies in the stomach.

When did you last feel them?

What use is a human?

Of the 27 first-century documents that together make up the New Testament, 13 are letters written to churches or individuals by the apostle Paul. This was a communal exercise: often, the transcript of a discussion between Paul and co-workers, in response to a presenting issue; carried and read out to the recipients by further co-workers.

From prison in Ephesus (a major city in Asia Minor, or modern-day Turkey), Paul sent a letter to the church in Colossae (a small city in Asia Minor). With it, he sent a personal message to Philemon, in whose home that church met, concerning the letter-carrier, Onesimus.

Onesimus was a runaway slave, a slave of Philemon’s household. The name Onesimus means ‘Useful’, but he was not. ‘Onesimus’ was a common name conferred upon a slave. It speaks of a society in which a person’s value was determined by utility, by their usefulness. A slave is useful, until they are no longer useful.

Onesimus runs away to the anonymity of Ephesus, where, as luck or divine will would have it, he somehow comes across Paul. It is unlikely that they had met in person previously, though Onesimus would have known about Paul through the conversion of his master Philemon. Though under no obligation to do so, and at personal risk, Onesimus finds Paul in prison and begins to serve him. Over time, he, too, comes to faith in Jesus.

Some time later, Paul persuades Onesimus to return to Colossae, and sends a letter advocating for him. In it, he speaks of Onesimus not, primarily, as one who has fulfilled the role of a useful slave, but as one who has become like both a child and a brother to him. Likewise, he invites Philemon to receive Onesimus back, not as a slave but as a brother; not simply as a useful member of the household, but as a member of God’s family.

We live in a society in which, as in that of Paul and Philemon and Onesimus, people are valued in as much as they are useful. And as those shaped by our environment, this is easily internalised. We observe that the elderly, the disabled, the long-term sick, the unemployed, the asylum-seeker barred from work, are not valued by society. We also observe our own struggle with, say, having gone from being a teacher to a retired teacher; with the empty-nest; with the infirmity of aging.

Where is your identity found?

In your role, the useful contribution you make to society?

Or in being, and knowing that you are, a child of God?

Lost and found

In Luke 15:1-10, the sinner who repents, causing joy in the presence of the angels of God, is not the sheep that was lost or the coin that was lost, but the shepherd who lost a sheep and the woman who lost a coin, but who, in each case, set about rectifying the matter (i.e. repenting).

In these parables, Jesus is the lost sheep, celebrated by the sinners searching him out; Jesus is the lost coin, with the sinners calling their friends and neighbours to celebrate.

Finding something (ultimately, in someone: Jesus) that we have an awareness of having lost, and the resulting joy when what was incomplete is made complete again, is at the heart of the Gospel-writers’ message (much more so than the forgiveness of sins, which Jesus only mentions twice; and one of those is to emphasis the action of a woman who already knows that she has experienced this).

As in Jesus’ day, in my own experience, those outside of the respectable community of the church are much better at this, than those inside.

Joy happens when the transcendent is made imminent. In our secular society, we have, within the church as much as outwith it, traded the possibility of joy for the imminent-made-transcendent, which is any form of escapism from the daily grind. The two are, at least on the surface, hard to tell apart; but only one results in an accumulative cure of chronic grumbling.

When did you last experience joy?

Building the future

Now, large crowds were following Jesus, and he spoke to them using metaphors, describing them as builders who, before starting out, had considered matters and arrived at an estimated cost, and decided that they had the means to pay the price, even if, as was so often the case, the final cost turned out to be somewhat greater than the initial estimate.

(Jesus, of course, was a house-builder by years of apprenticeship, and knew a thing or two about which he spoke.)

The crowd were confident that they could follow in the wake of this popular rabbi, swept along but never getting in too deep. In short, they were in control, and would not be exposed to ridicule.

The crowd, of course, saw themselves in just such a metaphor. Knowing. Judicious. Having a certain status in the world. Respected by others. Not a laughing-stock.

And then Jesus springs the trap. Tells them that, if they stick with him, they will indeed get in too deep; it will cost them everything they have, and, even then, they will not be able to complete what they have begun.

In the Gospels, as everywhere, crowds are not to be trusted, swept along as they always are by whichever way the wind is blowing. Jesus is always extending the invitation to step out of the crowd, to step away from even the crowd at its best; to embrace loss and ridicule and emptiness and servitude and death, when it comes, as it always does; to discover that in the rubble of what we cannot keep, God is building something that cannot be shaken.

The realisation that you have been swept up in something you thought you could manage, but have since discovered will cost you more than you have; that you have embarked on a course of action you will never be able to complete, and at huge loss of reputation; is a kairos moment.

There are, I suppose, three possible courses of action: to seek to return from where you came, and try to forget the whole, unfortunate recent past; to plough on regardless, suffering massive loss but pretending otherwise; or, to become a disciple, one being shaped for the kingdom of heaven on earth—a vision altogether greater than our towers and armies, our empire-building, could ever imagine or deliver.

Luke 14:25-33

Pray

Last night was the first of our eight-week Prayer Course, exploring the Lord’s Prayer. Then Jo and I went home to watch The Great British Bake-Off (recorded, whizzing through the advert breaks).

After a while, Jo said, “There’s a lot of prayer going on in that tent.”

And there was. It was striking. Again and again, as contestants put their biscuit mix in the oven, they commented:

“All I can do now is pray.”

“I just have to pray that it bakes in time.”

I don’t imagine that most of them would describe themselves as religious. And yet, their go-to is prayer. I can’t be certain, of course, but I think that what they are saying is:

“I’ve done all I can; and I know that it is not enough. I need the universe to smile on me. I need a little magic.”

What good is prayer? Well, prayer does two essential things. It connects us to a power that is greater than ourselves. And it reminds us that that power is not of ourselves.

Without that connection to a power greater than ourselves—however we understand that—we quickly deflate, give up. Without recognising that that power is not of ourselves, we become self-important, think too highly of ourselves, and, too little of others.

Prayer, as those in the know, know, both energises and grounds us.

Prayer won’t make biscuits cook any faster in an oven. But it will energise and ground the baker. It will empower them to enjoy the experience, no matter the outcome; not taking themselves too seriously, power to rise above being a sore loser or an inconsiderate winner; power to cheer on fellow competitors, to bond with others. Power to keep on baking, for others, beyond the tent.

It is not surprising that there is a lot of prayer in that tent. It is not surprising that there is a lot of prayer in the world.

Whatever you face today, take time to pray.

Church

Two images I have been pondering this evening, as I have prayed in St Nicholas’ Church, the wind roaring around the building:

the house built on a rock, that withstands the storm;

and the ark, that rides the flood.

The ark is not indifferent to the flood, nor the house to the storm. Indeed, the ark exists for the flood, and the house for the storm; for such a time as these.

The ark and the house, alike, take what is thrown at them; absorb the fury; transform it into energy for life to flourish; and then, crucially, give that energy back out to, and for, the world. Life begins again, pouring out from the ark. There is a river of life that flows out from the temple. The wise householder is a gift to his or her neighbours.

These two images, the ark and the house on the rock, are important metaphors for the church in our time. We are called to be communities that create a stable space in our neighbourhood, where the restless energies that flow through our society are absorbed and transformed. Where hate is absorbed and transformed into hope. Where fear is absorbed and transformed into compassion. Where loneliness is absorbed and transformed into belonging. Where wrongs are absorbed and transformed into forgiveness. And where hope and compassion and belonging and forgiveness are released back into the world.

Abound in love

Lectionary readings for Holy Communion today: 1 Thessalonians 3:7-13 and Matthew 24:42-51.

In the Gospel set for today, Jesus speaks of those slaves or servants appointed to guarantee that the needs and rights (though not every wish, whim or demand) of their fellows are met; drawing a contrast between the blessed slave who does so diligently, and the wicked slave, who exploits others, acting only for their own personal gain.

Across all parties, the overwhelming majority of Members of Parliament—public servants, appointed to guarantee certain basic needs and rights of the population at large—are in politics in order to serve the best interests of the population. More, on the whole, they agree on what makes for a good society; albeit that they disagree, at times profoundly, sometimes by very little, on how best to deliver that.

Yet they bear the brunt of a level of abuse no-one should have to endure. Death threats are a regular occurrence; and, for female MPs, rape threats. While many people would consider these ‘taking things too far,’ such hatred is legitimised by a far wider-spread derision of MPs as either ‘obstructing’ or ‘bypassing’ democracy. We place ourselves as qualified to judge them wicked slaves, and demand decisive judgement on them.

Paul prayed for the church at Thessalonica, ‘And may the Lord make you increase and abound in love for one another and for all...’

Paul prayed that Jesus, at work in them by his life-giving Spirit, would multiply and bring forth the fruit of love, in them, for all.

This is a fitting prayer for our time, that we might be empowered to love those with whom we disagree, at times profoundly disagree.

I voted to Remain in the EU, and nothing has caused me to change my mind. I believe Brexit to be an abdication of responsibility towards our neighbours. Yet, I sit and eat with those who voted to Leave and those who voted to Remain, week by week.

I vote Green, in a Blue ward in a Red city. Yet, I care for, and experience the care of, those who vote Blue and those who vote Red, on a regular, ongoing basis.

We cannot get along by avoiding talk of politics, by ignoring the engagement that, together, contends for the good of society.

And so, we must attend, carefully, to the way in which we speak to, and of, one another.

And that, in turn, means that we must attend carefully to the ways in which we allow ourselves to think of one another and to feel in relation to one another.

Rather than be swept along by the crowd, we need to stand our ground. We need to observe carefully, reflect deeply, discuss honestly. Then we can plan wisely, give account of ourselves soberly, and act justly.

We are all slaves, not masters. When we beat one another up, we prove ourselves to be wicked slaves. When we give to others ‘their allowance of food at the proper time’—when, among other readings, we nourish them with a word in season that affirms their humanity—we find ourselves to be blessed, or happy, slaves: content in our own circumstances (which is not the same as being content with all circumstances), and at peace with our neighbour.

The truth is, we can’t do this in our own strength. The pull to put others down is too relentless a rip-tide. But the good news is, we do not have to do this in our own strength. We can not only love all, but increase and abound in love for all. This is the work of Jesus, who eschewed the place of Master to become servant of all.

Suspense

Parliament is to be suspended.

Some are calling this deeply undemocratic. Others are responding that it is simply routine.

Both views are wrong. Both responses are inadequate.

It is not deeply undemocratic, in that it is part of the regular rhythms of our democratic parliament. (If this is a coup, then, like many before it, it is using democratic process against democracy.)

And yet, the circumstances are so very far from routine, by anyone’s measure (whether you believe that parliament is doing its job or refusing to do its job), that to call this action ‘routine’ is disingenuous.

What we are witnessing is, I suspect, the prolonged and protracted death of parliamentary democracy in this country as we have known it. Which is not exactly the same thing as the death of parliamentary democracy (something we might or might not see). Other models of parliamentary democracy are available. But we have taken oppositional politics to its logical conclusion, which is to devour itself.

Given both tensions in the Union and the extent of repair needed to the Palace of Westminster, what we might see, on the far side of all this, is an English Parliament based in, say, Birmingham. The future is a new country. I have no particular dog in this fight.

Samuel Seabury, first Anglican Bishop of the American Colonies, gets short shrift in the brilliant musical Hamilton, for opposing moves for American independence. But to paraphrase the words Lin-Manuel Miranda puts in his mouth, in our own current context everyone, on all sides, “are playing a dangerous game...”

We are in profound need of places of hospitality towards the stranger, where we can sit down together and eat with those of utterly different perspectives; not in order to persuade the other that they are wrong and we are right, but to see through their eyes and to have compassion for their hurts and dreams.

Our churches ought to be such a space.

Octogenarians

It is a fascinating experience to journey with a church that is eighty years old this year. Unlike a church that is one-hundred-and-eighty, or a church that is one-thousand-and-eighty, a church that is eighty years old likely displays the likeness of an eighty-year-old.

This church is unlike others I have known: churches full of young adults, wrestling with who and with whom they are; churches with significant numbers of mature adults, wrestling with how to give away who they have become, to invest in others. But this is a church of seniors, wrestling with senior concerns.

This is not an exhaustive list, but observations in progress. Not the last word, but first words.

[1] The primary concern of an eighty-year-old church is its own impending death. This is in no way a criticism. It is, in fact, a great opportunity. The church itself, of course, has every chance of life beyond this death; but for now, it is facing congregational death for the first time. Dying is not something we do well by accident; and a good death is our last and greatest gift to those around us. It involves learning to be fully present to life, perhaps for the first time since childhood. Simultaneously, it involves a letting-go, that, again, does not come naturally; and a profound (need for) making peace. A church learning to die well is an incredible gift to its neighbourhood, in a society in which death is taboo.

[2] Their relationship with children will be nostalgic. Not, of course, for every individual. There will be many younger, and not so young, members of the congregation who are actively involved in caring for their grandchildren. But, for the church as a collective entity, they are of an age where they have moved beyond having something to give children to needing something from young children. In both directions, this is passive, simply being rather than doing—fully present—and, in both directions, this can be wonderfully beneficial.

[3] It is not for them to take up the battles of our time, let alone the future. From climate change to food and farming to urban living to waste, environmental issues are the greatest concerns of our day. It is unfair to expect eighty-year-olds to engage. When they do—usually prophetic voices who have been seeing and speaking for a longer time—they are a gift to be cherished. Nonetheless, their memory of a time before the great acceleration of consumption in late modernity may help us reimagine a liveable future. Possibly.

As I said, not the last word...

A niggle

I’m conflicted, in relation to supermarkets. It is, perhaps, culturally impossible to be entirely immune to the nostalgia for parades of local high streets, a local economy of family businesses passed down from generation to generation. Mr Bun the Baker. Mr Green the grocer. Happy Families.

And yet, I frequent supermarkets enough to observe the regulars: often elderly citizens for whom being able to shop without needing to worry about uneven pavements, traffic, wind and rain, perhaps a long hill, means that they can continue to get out of the house. In the good old days, they’d be stuck at home. For them, the supermarket enables, empowers, facilitates gentle physical and mental exercise, social interaction; sociable interaction, too, in the café.

They’re not monsters, the supermarkets, you know. But they do drive change, for good and ill.

So there has been a niggle in my brain for some weeks now. It began with an increase in self-service tills at the check-out. Then, the impending introduction of hand-held tills you take around the store with you...

...And now, the contraction of the shelves, to make room for a subsidiary company to share the floor-space.

There is a move afoot, to reduce costs and to prepare for less on our shelves. Future-proofing, I believe they call it; though a future still defined primarily in economic units.

For people like me, that will be an inconvenience. Undoubtedly, these changes will change how we shop and cook and eat.

For others, it may well have far deeper consequences.

I’m not sure, as yet, how I might respond. For reasons already given, I’m not convinced that boycotting supermarkets in favour of local shopping is the answer; at least, not the full answer. In any case, that works for those who enjoy the privilege of choice, not everyone has. But the niggle is unlikely to go away any time soon.

Cauliflower

We went to buy a cauliflower.

There were none.

The domestic harvest was devastated by flooding back in June; the import option, destroyed by heat waves across continental Europe in June and July.

In the not-too-distant future, we shall eat not only what is local and seasonal, but what survives.

We shall eat like the rest of the world.

It will not be good news for our taste-buds.

It might just be good for our souls.

Listen, and I will tell you a story

There’s an old, old story from the ancient near east, from a world that overshadowed the people of Israel for hundreds of years. In essence, it goes like this: the fresh-water god married the salt-water goddess, and together they had offspring. Their pre-eminent son murdered his father, and, in an epic battle, killed his mother and made the world from her carcass.

The Bible tells this story, too, but tells it different. Here, instead of an usurping god who fights, defeats and kills his parents, we are presented with the King of the Universe, the Lord of lords, who calms his creatures, the fresh-water god and salt-water goddess, not by wrestling them into submission but by listening to them.

We see this in the speech this Sovereign creator God makes to Job, towards the end of the book that bears Job’s name, where God speaks of the Behemoth and the Leviathan. Our English translations have all but domesticated these into the fresh-water hippopotamus and salt-water crocodile; but, even to the ancients, these are hardly beyond the skill of hunters working together. No, these are great and powerful spirit-beings, gods. And they cannot be tamed by might.

In a world where Yahweh, the God who becomes the god of Israel, made all that is, seen and unseen; and in which we see the consequences of rebellion against God among gods and men; God’s great act is to listen. To listen to the rage, the pain, the shame, that causes various beings to lash out, to act out...to listen, until the fury is spent, and harmony is restored. To listen, even to rebellious gods, to the beings we call demons.

That is stunning.

Moreover, this same God calls on his people to do likewise: “Hear, O Israel...” Listen.

Hear, O Israel, the Lord your God is One. You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your mind and with all your strength and with all your soul...And you shall love your neighbour as yourself.

To listen to another is the most powerful thing, the most divine thing, it is possible to do, in all the universe.

And the book of Job sets this revelation up through chapters and chapters of exercises in not listening, in piling on layer upon layer of shame; while God, listens, and we are invited to listen-in.

In effect, the book of Job is a re-telling of Genesis chapter 1, in the present continuous.

Sacrifices were made

The other lectionary reading set for Holy Communion today is Judges 11:29-40, the salutary tale of Jephthah.

Jephthah is willing to sacrifice for his family. He resolves that, if God gives him success, he will sacrifice the first thing that comes out of his home to meet him on his return. Undoubtedly he expects this to be the family cow or a goat, the animals being kept in the home at night and driven out again in the early morning.

Jephthah travels through the night to get home, only to be met by his daughter, delighting to see him.

I am certain that in this moment, God is offering Jephthah an opportunity to humble himself—as a general rule, it is good to be true to our word, but sometimes we need to repent of our folly—but alas, the father sets his resolve to sacrifice his only child.

This is a story that is repeated again and again. Countless men (most often, men) set out prepared to sacrifice for their family, only to end up sacrificing their family. Failing to see their children grow to adulthood. Losing them for ever. Others sacrifice their own inner child, who delights in the world, in exchange for success that brings no joy.

An old, old story that could not be more contemporary to us.

Work is good, and success is a necessary stage in our development; but work makes a poor master, and success a poor goal. The temptation to workaholism presents to us the dream of escape, for our family, before becoming escapism from our personal commitments, and, finally, a prison cell. Or a tomb.

This is the end of the story.

And yet we believe in a God who raises the dead; in a story where the end need not be the end...