on immigrants

 

Summary: Christians should welcome immigrants, not fear them.

‘The Letter to the Hebrews,’ a first-century circular that has been passed down the centuries as one of the 27 ‘books’ of the New Testament, was originally written to Jews who were followers of Jesus, and who had fled their homes and found themselves internally or regionally displaced by the Jewish-Roman War.

The passage below (Hebrews 13.1-8) feels incredibly pertinent to my own current context — both globally, with Christian communities displaced in the West Bank, in Nigeria (18 million Nigerian Christians living in refugee camps) and in other other nations; and more locally, in England, where there is a growing anger being directed at asylum seekers. This pertinence is one reason why the New Testament continues to have relevance, some two thousand years after it was written.

‘Let mutual love continue.’ The Greek here is philadelphia, that is, love for your sisters and brothers in Christ. The new family, constituted by and in Jesus — and which embraces gender, age, class, education, ethnicity, nationality — every category of the census — takes primacy over blood family and nationality.

‘Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it.’ The Greek word translated ‘show hospitality’ is philoxenia, and means hospitality — warmth, friendliness — shown to strangers. This is written to people who themselves have been displaced — as could happen to any of us — making an appeal to their shared history, or stories. There is a play on overlooking to show hospitality: God sends messengers (both ‘angelic’ and human) who might or might not be received, and whose message might be lost even on those who do welcome them in. Therefore, hospitality should be an intentional practice, a doing the work of getting to know the other — the stranger — for, whether we recognise it or not, we are as much in need of and benefitted by them as they are in need of and benefitted by us.

So, those who consider themselves to be Christians should love other Christians, regardless of where they are from; and to extend warmth, friendliness, and hospitality to strangers, regardless of where they are from. This is in keeping with God’s repeated insistence, recorded in the Old Testament, that the people treat the alien living in their midst well, attending to their welfare and livelihood, and guaranteeing them justice.

‘Remember those who are in prison, as though you were in prison with them; those who are being tortured, as though you yourselves were being tortured.’ There is a radical solidarity urged here, a compassion born of empathy and practical care.

The line of reasoning may seem to swerve here — ‘Let marriage be held in honour by all, and let the marriage bed be kept undefiled; for God will judge fornicators and adulterers.’ — but marriage, or, the marriage feast, is an image of the union between Jesus and the Church, and so, whatever this may have to do with honouring any marriage (which is a good outlook to embrace) this is also an injunction not to defile our union with Christ, by embracing the xenophobia (excessive fear of strangers) that is so common in the world around us. We should resist, separating ourselves from such ungodly ways of being in the world.

‘Keep your lives free from the love of money, and be content with what you have; for he has said, ‘I will never leave you or forsake you.’ So we can say with confidence, ‘The Lord is my helper; I will not be afraid. What can anyone do to me?’’ The reasoning continues, with a warning about covetousness and a call to remain in the present moment (this, rather than possessions, is the emphasis of ‘with what you have’). It is telling how often I see complaints about what asylum seekers — or black people, or gay people, or [insert scapegoat of choice here] are given, that [place myself here] does not. Why should asylum seekers be housed in a hotel!? (These really aren’t the hotel you have in mind, and you would not ever choose to stay in such an establishment.) We — those who are displaced, and those who receive them — are encouraged to remain in the present, not necessarily because conditions are ideal, but because God will not abandon us, whatever we face, now and in the future. Therefore we can say, I will not withdraw, I will not flee from the stranger in need, from the one I am continually provoked to fear.

‘Remember your leaders, those who spoke the word of God to you; consider the outcome of their way of life, and imitate their faith. Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and for ever.’ Those who hold office, who have authority within the community (that is, the community of the Way, or, the Church community) should take the lead in modelling such a loving, hospitable way of life, to which we are called today as much as the original recipients of the Letter to the Hebrews were called in the first century. And those who call themselves Christians should look to make hospitality towards strangers their own practice, by which we live out our faith in tangible ways.

Hebrews 13.1-8

‘Let mutual love continue. Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it. Remember those who are in prison, as though you were in prison with them; those who are being tortured, as though you yourselves were being tortured. Let marriage be held in honour by all, and let the marriage bed be kept undefiled; for God will judge fornicators and adulterers. Keep your lives free from the love of money, and be content with what you have; for he has said, ‘I will never leave you or forsake you.’ So we can say with confidence, ‘The Lord is my helper; I will not be afraid. What can anyone do to me?’ Remember your leaders, those who spoke the word of God to you; consider the outcome of their way of life, and imitate their faith. Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and for ever.’

 

A-levels

 

Today is A-level results day. Many young people will be celebrating getting into their first choice of university. Through Clearance, others will be offered an opportunity — a degree course, a location — previously unconsidered. For others, today will mark the end of academic study and open the door to a different future, just as valid.

The first-century biographer Luke records Jesus as saying, ‘I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled!’ Jesus is speaking of the Holy Spirit, poured out with wind and flame at Pentecost, but not before Jesus will be stretched out on a cross, a Roman soldier piercing his side with a spear.

Luke’s Greek audience would have immediately thought of Prometheus, the titan who, according to Greek mythology, had created the first humans from clay, and who, for love of his creatures, stole back fire for them from the Olympian gods, thus giving the means of technology, innovation, and ultimately civilisation in its broadest sense, for which Zeus had him chained to a mountainside and sent an eagle to eat his liver — which regenerated every night — day after day after day.

For Luke, the stories of Prometheus are a culturally-embedded longing that points to Jesus. To his suffering for love of the human race; and to his ushering-in of the age of the Spirit, along with all the benefits the Spirit brings.

These benefits are not limited to life-giving animation of our spirits; charismatic gifts; and character formation; but also include the skills by which we might participate in the shaping of the world towards creative fruitfulness. Gifts of music and all the arts; of science and technology; of the means to discover more of the cosmos God has created; of architecture and medicine and engineering.

Jesus not only brings fire to the earth, which will be apportioned out person to person; he is also the Clearance officer, by whose gift we are allocated our place: some to this role and some to that.

Today is A-level results day. A day of fire, apportioned according to Christ’s call, for the greater blessing of our and every civilisation. None are left out, regardless of results, regardless of the plans our parents might wish for us and whether we have made them proud or disappointed them. Each young person has measureless value; has a role to play in society. Today, may they know the love of Christ Jesus for them, and something of the meaning and purpose he holds out.

 

bringing fire

 

‘I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled!’ Jesus

The Gospel writer Luke was a first-century Greek author who had decided to order his life around the claim that Jesus — not Caesar — was Lord, and who wrote for other Greeks who were interested in exploring the same claim. Jesus was a Jew, whose imagination of ‘how the world is’ was shaped by Jewish scriptures; but he lived in ‘Galilee of the Gentiles,’ alongside a Greek population, and would have been as familiar with Greek mythology as with his own cultural heritage.

So when Luke records Jesus saying ‘I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled!’ his Greek audience would have immediately thought of Prometheus. Prometheus was a Titan, one of the ancient gods usurped by the younger — Olympian — gods. Prometheus himself had not fought against the Olympians, and so had been spared being thrown into Tartarus, the great pit deep within the underworld. Nonetheless, he had an uneasy relationship with Zeus. It was, so the Greeks told, Prometheus who had made humans — initially all male — from clay, and he loved his creatures dearly. In contrast, Zeus believed that humans were worthy only of making endless sacrifices to the gods. Prometheus tricked Zeus into being bound to accepting sacrifices of bones (wrapped in glistening fat) rather than choice meat (wrapped in an ox’s stomach) and in his capricious anger, Zeus withdrew fire — and with it, the means of technology, and ultimately civilisation — from humanity. But Prometheus stole fire back for his creatures. For this betrayal, Zeus had him chained to a mountain, where each day and eagle — symbol of Zeus, and later symbol of the Roman empire — would eat his liver, the seat of human emotion. Being immortal, each night his liver would regenerate, condemning Prometheus to an ageless torture. Zeus also created Pandora, the first woman, and tricked her into bringing misery into the human experience. Eventually, Prometheus is freed by Heracles, the half-human hero son of Zeus.

So when Luke records Jesus saying, ‘I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled!’ — fire being a symbol of the divine presence, and a reference to the Holy Spirit — he is (also) making particular claims about Jesus with reference to Greek mythology. That is to say, that Jesus fulfils Greek stories as well as Jewish ones. He is claiming that Jesus is the god through whom humans were created; and a god who loves his creatures enough to suffer for them. He is making a claim as to what will happen on the cross, that instrument of torture on which the god of this age — the Zeus or Satan figure — is tricked out of his claim to all human life as an endless sacrifice.

The link to Prometheus is underlined by Jesus claiming that he had not come to bring uniformity to the human experience, but to differentiate between humans — claiming a right over and above family ties; this differentiation need not imply enmity — which points to the unfolding of the arts and sciences that flows from the gift of fire. The Spirit of Jesus will inspire great architecture, and scientific invention.

Luke is demonstrating that the stories of Prometheus make it plausible for Greeks to believe in a god who suffers for humanity. Nonetheless, Prometheus was not a god they venerated in any cultic sense. That a god who could be so humiliated, even for noble reasons, was worthy of worship was hard to imagine. At most, he was allowed to hang out with Athena, goddess of wisdom, and Hephaestus, god of invention.

But this is the choice Luke sets out, on which his audience must decide: to side with a capricious god who imposed his will through torture; or with the human god who willingly shared our suffering, transforming opposition to the divine will into God’s good purposes for us. Who suffered, died, and rose again.

It is just about plausible. But the choice must be made.

Luke 12.49-56

‘I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled! I have a baptism with which to be baptized, and what stress I am under until it is completed! Do you think that I have come to bring peace to the earth? No, I tell you, but rather division! From now on, five in one household will be divided, three against two and two against three; they will be divided: father against son and son against father, mother against daughter and daughter against mother, mother-in-law against her daughter-in-law and daughter-in-law against mother-in-law.’

He also said to the crowds, ‘When you see a cloud rising in the west, you immediately say, “It is going to rain”; and so it happens. And when you see the south wind blowing, you say, “There will be scorching heat”; and it happens. You hypocrites! You know how to interpret the appearance of earth and sky, but why do you not know how to interpret the present time?’

 

stars

 

One of my favourite painters is Dutch preacher Vincent van Gogh. ‘The Starry Night’ was one of several paintings he created while recuperating from a mental health breakdown. It depicts a night sky, with stars, moon, and the bright planet Venus, over a sleeping village. In the centre of the village, a church spire points to the heavens. We know the window from which van Gogh painted this scene. We know that the village existed only in his imagination. The spire is a visual sermon, pointing us to hope in the darkness.

In Genesis 15, we read that God came to Abram in a vision, saying, do not fear. In response, being safe in God’s presence, Abram makes himself vulnerable before God. He says, I can’t see any future. Abram pours out his pain, his hurt and anger and bitterness, that he and his wife are childless. God listens, and then invites him to step outside of his tent. Look up at the night sky, God says: count the stars in the heavens, if you can: I will give you descendants as numerous as these.

Luke records a conversation between Jesus and his apprentices, where Jesus tells them that they do not need to be afraid, for it is the good will of the Father — his way of referring to God — to establish them as a kingdom, to give them treasure in the heavens — referencing the conversation between God and Abram about descendants as numerous as the stars. Jesus expands on this nocturnal imagery, inviting his apprentices to see themselves as servants waiting through the night for their master to return, at an unknown hour. Those who wait actively will experience the master coming to them and serving them: the servants find themselves guests and the master, host. But, Jesus warns, it is also possible to fall asleep, and to experience the treasure God bestows stolen away.

Last week Jo and I were camping in a field far from much light pollution. One night, the sky was cloudless. It was extremely cold, but you could see every star visible to the naked eye. The following night there was a blanket of low-lying cloud. It was markedly warmer, but not one single star was visible. The next night, there were some clouds, and some stars visible. The difference was the conditions.

After many generations of decline, there is surprising but statistically-significant evidence to suggest a marked increase in church attendance in England and Wales since the COVID pandemic, including a three-fold increase among young women and a five-fold increase among young men. The reasons seem to be multiple and complex, as are the reasons why my own age group continues to leave the church. But the narrative of inevitable decline — the extinction of the church in this part of the world in the near future — no longer seems, well, inevitable. People are questioning the secular script, and looking for alternatives, including though by no means only in the church.

We need the Vincent van Goghs, who will point to hope, specifically in the person of Jesus, in the darkness, holding hope and despair, faith and unbelief in honest and creative tension; who will help us imagine what we do not yet see with our eyes.

The Abrams, who are honest about their pain and their falling short — what we call sin — and in bringing these things to God receive, in exchange, comfort and peace, hope, forgiveness, cleansing for shame, renewed identity and purpose.

The apprentices, who prepare to receive Jesus turning-up in the face of the stranger, and in particular generations who have been estranged from the church.

 

sisters

 

The painting known in English as the Mona Lisa, by Leonardo da Vinci, which hangs in the Louvre in Paris, is arguably the most famous painting in the world. Another painting, also known as the Mona Lisa, hangs in the Prado in Madrid. It was not painted by the great master; but it is neither a fake nor a forgery. It was created, in his workshop, by one of his pupils (which one is debated) and it is an exact copy of the original in every detail. (And because the Prado Mona Lisa has been cleaned, it shows us what the Louvre Mona Lisa would have looked like originally.) This faithful reproduction is an example of what is known as sitting at your master’s feet.

In Luke 10, Jesus sends his apprentices ahead of him to every place he planned to go, ‘as lambs among wolves’ to find someone who would receive them (and, therefore, Jesus) into their home. In this context, Jesus tells a parable about a man on the road set upon by robbers (a lamb among wolves) and an innkeeper who receives the man and cares for him.

And in this context, we hear about two sisters, Martha and Mary. Martha receives Jesus into her home. Mary is not there, we only hear that she is one of those who sat at Jesus’ feet learning from him. That is, she is out there, on the highways and byways. Martha is offering hospitality, but she is distracted. And she is bold to ask Jesus, ‘Aren’t you worried about my sister? Aren’t you worried for her, who has forsaken me to serve you out there?’ (the word for service literally means stirring up the dust by moving from place to place). Aren’t you worried that she is a lamb among wolves? If you can tell a recognisable story about a man left filor dead by robbers, what will they do to a woman out on the road?

Martha speaks her truth before Jesus. And Luke gives us only a summary. But we know that she is distracted. Perhaps she is a little envious of her sister, out there having an adventure. Perhaps more than a little resentful, at having been forsaken, that Mary didn’t take her along with her. Certainly worried for her sister’s safety, wanting her back here where she knows that Mary has come to no harm.

The first thing Jesus does is let her know that she is not alone (accompaniment). ‘Martha, Martha,’ is not dismissive, not ‘Oh, Martha, you silly girl.’ It is quiet and tender, and says, You are seen. When I was a child, it was widely thought that children acted out because they were naughty, and that they should be sent to their rooms until they calmed down. But children — and adults — act out because they are overwhelmed; and being sent into isolation to somehow regulate themselves is the worst possible thing. What they need is the presence of a safe adult who will sit with them, not trying to fix the problem, but simply so they know they are not alone.

Jesus acknowledges Martha’s concerns acknowledgement). He does not dismiss them. Martha, Martha, you are concerned about many things.

And Jesus normalises those concerns (normalisation). It is not surprising that you are worried about your sister. That is perfectly understandable, normal. There’d be something wrong with your relationship if you weren’t. This is not a failure, not a lack of faith.

But Jesus (re)connects Martha with what she has lost sight of connecting with resource). I don’t think she is alone, with no-one to help her offer hospitality; but she feels abandoned by her sister. She is unable to focus on her thing because she is worried about her sister’s thing. Jesus brings her back. There is only one thing needful/lacking/you have almost everything you need.

Then (only then, not rushing to fix anything) Jesus holds out hope (hope). Mary has chosen the good portion God has for her, and it will not be taken from her. Not by any wolf on the road. Not by any robber. And, if this is true of Mary, it is also true if Martha. No one will take away the good portion God has for her.

What are you anxious about today? What worries do you carry? Can you name your truth in the presence of Jesus? Perhaps you are worried about growing older, about the ways in which your body or the body of someone you live and care for is inevitably falling apart. Perhaps you are worried about the declining numbers of the church congregation. Perhaps you worry for your parents, or children, or grandchildren. Perhaps you worry about what you see and hear in the news. The climate crisis — if not for yourself, for your grandchildren.

Such worries are normal. They are not a failure of faith, or nerve. Jesus sees you, and cares. Calls you by name. Sits with you. Acknowledges your concerns as legitimate. But also, slowly, gently, connects or reconnects you to the resources of the kingdom of heaven. Also speaking a word of hope.

The current building of the church I serve — the inn to receive all, of which I am current innkeeper — opened its doors for the first time in September 1939. The nation had just entered what would become the Second World War in a generation. Uncertain times. Anxious times. We are here for such times. We are still here.

Luke 10.38-42

‘Now as they went on their way, he entered a certain village, where a woman named Martha welcomed him into her home. She had a sister named Mary, who sat at the Lord’s feet and listened to what he was saying. But Martha was distracted by her many tasks; so she came to him and asked, ‘Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me.’ But the Lord answered her, ‘Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.’’

 

Luke 10

 

In Luke chapter 10, Jesus sends out seventy(two) apprentices ‘like lambs into the midst of wolves’ to find, in the places he intended to go, someone who would welcome them into their home.

In this context, Jesus is asked what makes for that quality of life we long for — a life characterised by loving God and our neighbour — and, when pushed to define who is in and who is out when we speak of ‘neighbour,’ Jesus tells a parable of a man on a journey who falls into the midst of robbers (cf. sent out like a lamb among wolves) and who is taken to an inn (literally, the place where all are received) where the innkeeper (host; cf. the person who welcomes Jesus’ apprentices into their home) might ‘take care of him.’

Also in this context, we meet two sisters, Martha and Mary. Martha receives Jesus into her home, as a person of peace or as the innkeeper. Mary is described as sitting at Jesus’ feet, which is a way of describing the apprentice to a master. That is to say, Mary is one of the seventy(two) who are sent out as lambs among wolves; and Martha is one of the people who receive Jesus into their homes and extend hospitality to him and to others.

We are told that Martha is distracted, or pulled in multiple directions, by much service or ministry. And while ministering hospitality to Jesus, she takes the opportunity to ask him that, at such time as he comes across her sister Mary out on the road, out identifying other ‘inns’ — other homes of hospitality where all are received in Jesus’ name — he might tell her to return home and cooperate with her sister, Martha, sharing the load.

What is interesting is that Martha feels safe enough to name her truth — her sense of overwhelm; her need for help; her sense of being abandoned by her sister, perhaps with attending resentment; perhaps even her concern for her sister, sent out as a lamb among wolves or a man who falls among robbers, perhaps her longing that her sister returns to the inn that she keeps, so that she might know that her sister is safe.

In this place, Martha is bold enough to ask Jesus if he does not care, if he is not prepared to be the innkeeper who attends to the wounded and weary?

In this safe space, Jesus responds with deep listening — demonstrating that he does, indeed, care. He speaks her name — ‘Martha, Martha’ — which is a way of expressing that she has been truly seen, truly heard, truly recognised. Her being overwhelmed by much service is understandable. Yet, the solution is not to tell Mary to come home. Rather, Jesus helps Martha to see that Mary has taken hold of the call of God on her life, which is different to Martha’s life, and that this will not be taken away from her, at least not by Jesus.

The call on Martha, likewise, is not a call to much ministry — to an overwhelming burden — but to something good, something life-giving, she has lost sight of through distraction, through anxiety. She has the resources for what she is called to — to offer hospitality, to receive all — and, in being heard and affirmed is enabled to reconnect to her resources.

Our churches are called to be inns where all are received, where weary travellers experience hospitality, refreshment and safety. Where they are fed, as Psalm 23 puts it ‘in the presence of our enemies,’ for there is no place where we do not face anxiety or overwhelm, but nonetheless we can be brought back to the place of emotional and nervous system regulation.

Our churches are also called to be communities of apprenticeship, of sending out, of establishing other such communities, other ‘inns on the way.’

What, then, is our experience of the church? Is it a place where it is safe, to name our anxieties, to name the sensations that are felt first in our bodies? Are they the kind of communities that help us bring those unconscious responses into our conscious thoughts and memories, our stories by which we navigate life? Are they places of healing and wholeness?

This is slow work, patient work, that takes deep listening, deep hospitality (it is no coincidence that we get our word hospital from the practice of providing hospitality to travellers).

 

the parable of the inn on the way down

 

Today as the church gathers we will hear one of Jesus’ most well-known parables. A parable is a short story that allows Jesus to explore with us what it means for God to have come into the world as one of us, as a human being in search of his frightened friends, in a way that allows Jesus to remain hidden in plain sight.

In the parable we will hear today, Jesus is the road, the way, down from Jerusalem to Jericho. The way God leads us on is down, the way of self-emptying. This road was notorious, known as the Red Road because the blood of pilgrims and travellers, spilled by robbers, flowed so regularly. The Way is the way of self-sacrifice.

Next, Jesus is the man travelling the way, who fell in the midst of robbers, was stripped, wounded, and left for dead, ignored by the priest. Here the parable points to the cross where Jesus, having been stripped and whipped, is crucified between two robbers, one on his left and the other on his right, as the priests look on and mock.

Next, Jesus is the chance by which first a priest and then, in the same manner, an assistant to the priests, come across the man in need of assistance, as they are busy trying to make their way up, not down. The word Luke uses for chance literally means ‘with the Master,’ or divine coincidence. Who will Jesus bring across our path—or, whose path will Jesus bring us across—this week? And how will we respond?

Jesus is also the Samaritan, who enters into a covenant with the man in need, binding-up his brokenness.

And Jesus is the inn to which the Samaritan brought the man, and the innkeeper who would continue to minister to him. The Persian word for inn is caravanserai, or travellers’ palace. The Greek word Luke uses is pandocheion, or ‘all-receiving,’ the place where allmare welcomed. Elsewhere, Jesus uses yet another related word to describe the sheepfold to which he is the gate. Such inns provided rooms for traders, travellers and pilgrims, on one or more levels, around the four sides of a central courtyard, with one way in and out. Jesus is both the gate, and the innkeeper, the host who welcomes all.

Jesus is everywhere you look in this parable.

And the church is called to be those who accompany Jesus on the way down, who lay down our lives, who notice divine coincidences, who enter into covenant relationships with our neighbours, who bring them to the travellers’ palace, to the host who welcomes all, who receives all.

Today, I want us to pay particular attention to what it means for the inn to be the gathered church in the parable. For the building we come to on a regular basis, as a place of hospitality on our journey through life, to be a community that receives all who comes through the door.

What would that look like, in practice?

Luke 10.25-37

‘Just then a lawyer stood up to test Jesus. ‘Teacher,’ he said, ‘what must I do to inherit eternal life?’ He said to him, ‘What is written in the law? What do you read there?’ He answered, ‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbour as yourself.’ And he said to him, ‘You have given the right answer; do this, and you will live.’

‘But wanting to justify himself, he asked Jesus, ‘And who is my neighbour?’ Jesus replied, ‘A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell into the hands of robbers, who stripped him, beat him, and went away, leaving him half dead. Now by chance a priest was going down that road; and when he saw him, he passed by on the other side. So likewise a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. But a Samaritan while travelling came near him; and when he saw him, he was moved with pity. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, having poured oil and wine on them. Then he put him on his own animal, brought him to an inn, and took care of him. The next day he took out two denarii, gave them to the innkeeper, and said, “Take care of him; and when I come back, I will repay you whatever more you spend.” Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbour to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?’ He said, ‘The one who showed him mercy.’ Jesus said to him, ‘Go and do likewise.’’

 

come near

 

‘As you go, proclaim the good news, “The kingdom of heaven has come near.”’ Jesus

‘The kingdom of heaven has come near’ means that the very life of God — the life that creates and redeems and sustains all life — is reaching out to us, is made available to us, that we might know life in all its fullness. That the character, power, and resources of God might shape our lives, enabling us to be not superhuman but simply, astonishingly, fully human.

Are you anxious? It is possible to know peace.

Are you in a position to administer justice? It is possible to be strengthened to do what is right even when it is hard, even when it is not expedient.

Are you on the receiving end of injustice? It is possible to know that long-suffering endurance that transforms anger into resilience and restrains us from adding our own wrongs to theirs.

Is your body and/or mind shattered by pain? It is possible to know the wholeness of being held together, by love.

Are we struggling to forgive ourselves, or someone else? It is possible to know forgiveness.

Do we grieve the loss of a loved one? It is possible to know what it is to be comforted.

Has the life you hoped for come to a tragic end? It is possible to receive a new life, and even to flourish within it.

The kingdom of heaven has come near. That is good news, wherever we find ourselves. Whatever life looks like in this moment, or season. Good news, in a myriad of ways.

If you have ever known life, known your life renewed or given back to you or simply still here against all the odds, you have experienced the kingdom of heaven drawn near, whether you realised it or not.

Not that this is easy. It is neither a magic wand that erases difficulty nor a drug that numbs us. It is a daily dependency on a higher power, on the highest power, on power given away to others, made perfect in human weakness.

But it is good news, worth proclaiming.

 

weighty

 

In the Gospels, we read of Jesus sending out seventy (or seventy-two) of his apprentices, in pairs, ahead of him to every settlement he intended to pass through, to prepare the way. Luke’s account turned up in the Lectionary (the set passages read day by day, and Sunday by Sunday) on Sunday, and Matthew’s account turns up tomorrow.

In Matthew’s account, Jesus instructs them to find out who is worthy. The Greek word translated ‘worthy’ means, ‘who is the same weight as them.’ Not in a literal pounds and ounces or kilogrammes sense, but in a social and relational sense.

An example: imagine a White British grandmother, whose neighbours are a Pakistani Muslim family. She might feel that they have nothing in common, yet might come to find a connection with the Pakistani grandmother, because, despite real cultural differences, at one level a grandmother is a grandmother is a grandmother, and grandmothers might share a bond that no one who is not a grandmother can know.

And the point is not that we cannot build bridges across divides — intergenerational divides, cultural divides, or any difference — but, precisely, that if we are to build such bridges, the best place to start is where we find common ground. Common experience. Someone whose ‘weight’ is equal to our own.

The best place to start proclaiming good news is to find someone worthy, someone of comparable weight, or life experience, to your own. And from there, god news spreads through their connections, to other people whose lives have some common point — some point where their lives balance — with theirs.

So, who do you know who is the same weight as you?

Matthew 10.7-15

‘As you go, proclaim the good news, “The kingdom of heaven has come near.” Cure the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the lepers, cast out demons. You received without payment; give without payment. Take no gold, or silver, or copper in your belts, no bag for your journey, or two tunics, or sandals, or a staff; for labourers deserve their food. Whatever town or village you enter, find out who in it is worthy, and stay there until you leave. As you enter the house, greet it. If the house is worthy, let your peace come upon it; but if it is not worthy, let your peace return to you. If anyone will not welcome you or listen to your words, shake off the dust from your feet as you leave that house or town. Truly I tell you, it will be more tolerable for the land of Sodom and Gomorrah on the day of judgement than for that town.’

 

when the wind blows

 

June is a strange month, the tension building in the air as sulking heatwaves give way to grumbling thunderstorms and sudden, petulant outbursts of rain.

It reminds me of these words of Jesus, at the end of the ‘sermon’ on the mount:

‘Everyone then who hears these words of mine and acts on them will be like a wise man who built his house on rock. The rain fell, the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house, but it did not fall, because it had been founded on rock. And everyone who hears these words of mine and does not act on them will be like a foolish man who built his house on sand. The rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell-and great was its fall!’

Matthew 7.24-27

It is a taut illustration, sparing in words, making the most of repetition and of rhythm like fingertips against a drum. The downpour broke, releasing the deluge (potamos, from which we get hippopotamus, or river horse), and blew, the wind.

And yet, Jesus plays with the words he chooses. In our English translation, the wind beats both houses; but in the Greek, the word describing the actions of the wind is not identical. When it reaches the household built up on exposed bedrock, the wind ‘prosepesan,’ which can be translated, ‘prostrated itself,’ as one might prostrate oneself in worship of a god or a king. But when it reaches the household built on sand, the wind ‘prosekopsan,’ or ‘struck’ it, as you might strike down an intruder.

That is both a small difference — pesan or kopsan — and a huge difference.

Blew, the wind...and when it reached the household of the wise, it recognised wisdom, acknowledged wisdom, submitted to wisdom.

The rain and the deluge, or torrent, and the wind that blows, test the quality of work — of what has been built up — the house being metaphor for the household, for a wife and children and slaves (in the Greco-Roman world, only a freeman could form a household, could be, by law, a husband and father and owner of slaves) whose character has been built up, made strong; or else perhaps undermined or disregarded.

You can’t stop the rains, the flood, the gale. You can only invest in solid foundations, for yourself and for any other human you have responsibility for, or duty towards, at any given point in their lives. Indeed, the storms reveal the quality of your work, which is an out-working of your character. Whether you are wise or dull of mind. Whether you have been sharpened by time spent with others whose lives evidence their wisdom or dulled by time spent with those who know the shortcuts to success.

The wisest of all is Jesus, who is both the word to the wise and their bedrock.

 

setting out to share communion

 

I walked across the city,
keeping to the running veins;
towering above as
caterpillars crossed my paths,
while, as far again above
my earthbound frame, a
kestrel surfed upon the wind.

I crossed the river as it
snaked beneath my feet — castle,
far down the other
shore — and climbed the hill to reach
my goal; my back, so slick with
sweat, so drenched, I might
as well have run, not walked here.

I am both river running
to the Sea, and earth that rises
up to greet the Way.
I am both worm that dreams of
flight, and kestrel on its soar-
ing wing. I am the
air blown by the wind; come, rain.

I am the grain that Christ will
mill to make the bread that he
will turn into His
Very Self — he, not I — for
all are one in him alone.
I blessed his people +
and I make my journey home.

 

deep breaths

 

Yesterday evening, while we were running, a friend asked me about what parts of a funeral or marriage service are ‘set’ and what parts are tailored. I spoke of the parts that are set, or given, as offering a framework to hold all the emotions, and words to turn to when our own words elude us.

This afternoon I am covering a Communion service for a friend who buried her husband yesterday. The Old Testament reading is from Isaiah 40, which begins:

Comfort, O comfort my people, says your God.

The root of the Hebrew word translated comfort — and repeated, to underline the point — means to breathe, strongly or deeply. The implication is that to comfort someone is to lend them something of your vital breath, when they are breathless, winded by circumstances.

This injunction is given in the context of an exploration of breath. A voice crys out; but the voice is a bleating, it lacks full articulation. The poet — Isaiah — must interpret its longing, give it words. But the poet himself cries out, in response, what could I possibly utter? Human life is as frail and fleeting as a flower, even though it is animated by the breath of God. The poet wrestles with despair.

And yet part of the very answer given is: offer your own breath, to comfort my people. Offer them the breath that I, your God, have breathed into your lungs. Breath that you cannot hold onto — that you must release, trusting that I will give you another — so you might as well gift it to those who gasp for air.

The poet gives away their breath, in deep gasps as he climbs a high mountain from which vantage-point to proclaim, ‘God is on the way to you! God comes, to gather you and carry you.’

Yes, life is fleeting; but it is beautiful in its time. And though we pass from this world, though our breath at the last returns to the One who gave it us in the first place, yet all is not lost. The giver of life will breath life in us again. In this world, and the next.

Isaiah 40.1-11

40 Comfort, O comfort my people,
says your God.
2 Speak tenderly to Jerusalem,
and cry to her that she has served her term,
that her penalty is paid, that she has received from the Lord ’s hand
double for all her sins.
3 A voice cries out: ‘In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord ,
make straight in the desert a highway for our God.
4 Every valley shall be lifted up,
and every mountain and hill be made low; the uneven ground shall become level,
and the rough places a plain.
5 Then the glory of the Lord shall be revealed,
and all people shall see it together,
for the mouth of the Lord has spoken.’
6 A voice says, ‘Cry out!’
And I said, ‘What shall I cry?’ All people are grass,
their constancy is like the flower of the field.
7 The grass withers, the flower fades,
when the breath of the Lord blows upon it;
surely the people are grass.
8 The grass withers, the flower fades;
but the word of our God will stand for ever.
9 Get you up to a high mountain,
O Zion, herald of good tidings; lift up your voice with strength,
O Jerusalem, herald of good tidings,
lift it up, do not fear; say to the cities of Judah,
‘Here is your God!’
10 See, the Lord God comes with might,
and his arm rules for him; his reward is with him,
and his recompense before him.
11 He will feed his flock like a shepherd;
he will gather the lambs in his arms, and carry them in his bosom,
and gently lead the mother sheep.

manumission

In a circular letter to house churches across Galatia, Paul writes:

‘For freedom Christ has set us free. Stand firm, therefore, and do not submit again to a yoke of slavery.

'By contrast, the fruit of the Spirit is lovely, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. There is no law against such things.’

Galatians 5.1, 22-23

For freedom Christ has set us free. Somewhere between 10% and a third of the population of the Roman empire were slaves. As such, they lacked legal personhood. They had no kinship, neither ancestors nor descendants. They were not permitted to marry — in each of the house churches Paul wrote to, there would have been only one man who was legally a husband and a father, only one woman who was legally a wife and a mother — though with their master’s permission slaves could enter into contubernium: a co-habitation with certain, limited, legal recognition. They could not enter into contracts, or own property — though their master could give them a peculium: land that, while remaining the legal property of the master, a slave could hold and manage for themselves. This mechanism allowed a slave to earn the money to buy his freedom — to be manumitted, their master letting go of their hand, becoming instead their patron. A slave who had been freed could translate their contubernium into a legal marriage; own property; and enter many, but not all, professions.

For freedom Christ has set us free. The image here is of manumission. An image that would have spoken deeply to the people — mostly slaves; a few masters who held legal power over them — to whom he wrote.

Paul goes on to say that the crop, or harvest, of the Spirit is affection, cheerfulness, wholeness or wellbeing, longsuffering (that is, being slow to anger) or patience, gentleness, goodness, assurance, inner strength, self control.

And then he says that there is no law — or, parcelling-out — against — or about, or according to — such things. Which might be translated, there is no peculium that allots this land as something the master retains legal rights over but which we might be permitted to benefit from so that we might buy our freedom.

That is to say, we can’t earn liberty by virtue: liberty is a gift.

But also to say that virtue is not something we do not, ultimately, possess ourselves: it is ours, fully, because we have been given our freedom. It might be the harvest of the Spirit, but we are not slaves, we are land — the human, or creature taken from the soil of the earth — we are Spirit-animated land, land from which the Spirit brings forth a fruitful life.

  

we look for the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come

 

I attended the funeral of a friend today. Of a friend and fellow priest. I don’t often attend a funeral these days, sit in the pews with nothing to do except bear witness to a life well lived, a good death, and the hope of the resurrection that is ours in Jesus. I had forgotten how exhausting attending a funeral is — it is different when you have a job to do — and I am grateful for the wisdom of my wife, who knows, and told me to rearrange the appointment that had been in my diary later in the day.

There are times, when you are called to be a priest, when your colleagues huddle around you. Laying hands on you when you are made a deacon — as I shall lay hands on the curate I shall be tasked with training just next weekend — and again when you are made a priest, and, for some, again when you are made a bishop. Today the church was full of priests. Today we — priests and the whole people of God — huddled around our brother one final time, and around his family — his widow (also a priest, as it happens), their children — as, in the Antarctic, penguins gather around the young, turning their backs against the blizzard: the warmth of the huddle was the affection God has for each one of us. God who does not save us from the blizzard, but who saves us through it. Today, we were penguins (ironically, unusually at a funeral, I was not dressed like a penguin, in black and white).

After the church, I stood at my friend’s graveside and threw dirt on the coffin, making my ‘thank you’ for a sea of small and gentle kindnesses; a small and gentle kindness in return, made also on behalf of all our colleagues.

And after the after, I went for a run. I ran a kilometre to meet with other friends, carrying a heavy burden, heavy enough almost to drive me to my knees, forcing me to turn back home. But this was a burden that I knew I must run off, the turning over of my limbs a prayer, loosening the knot that it might slip from me. And after a kilometre, I ran with others, and we bore one another — one whose legs were heavy, me whose heart was heavy — because carrying one another is what we do. I have no idea what my legs were doing over those nine further kilometres we ran, but my spirit was doing the work of receiving grace, of letting go, being made lighter.

I am telling this story from the first-person perspective, because I can tell it from no other. But it is not about me. It is a story about the loving-kindness of Jesus, and the affection of God the Father, and the companionship of the Holy Spirit, experienced in flesh and blood and in the invisible connections between us. And I am grateful to be able to tell this tale.

 

harbour

 

I did not preach on current affairs this morning. There is a time and a place to speak out against the inhumanity of empires, and that time and place may sometimes even be in sermons, not least in a week when the UK Parliament has voted, by a very small majority, to press ahead with an Assisted Dying Bill that even many of those who support it in principle say is not fit for purpose, and on a morning when 47 crowed about bombing Iran. But there is also a time to pass judgement on the folly of empires with silence.

Instead, I spoke of stories, of how stories carry us, carry out deepest longings and our deepest learning. Of the Odyssey and the Gospel According to Luke. Of homecoming — through many dangers, toils and snares — and of hospitality held out to strangers to heal weary bones and restore their dignity.

And then we shared Communion together. These who journey through this world on their way home to God, with Jesus their captain; who arrived at a table on the coast of a remote island off the western edge of the world, some with tales to warm the heart but most battered and bruised by whatever they have passed through since they were last here, gathered around this table. Battered, and tested, and yet kept by divine grace; carried to this harbour by the Spirit, restored by the Spirit. Welcomed by and with and in Jesus, who is host and guest and food, all three.

I wove stories — their lives woven into something greater; some visiting the church of their childhood for the first time in a long time; some receiving Communion for the first time — and then gave them bread and wine, and anointed as many as asked with oil for healing and wholeness. It is all I have. It is enough. It is what was needed this day, and on many days.

Thanks be to God.

 

homecoming and hospitality

 

Eight hundred years before Luke compiled stories of Jesus and his followers into the Gospel According to Luke and its sequel The Acts of the Apostles, Homer had compiled stories of the Bronze Age siege of Troy and subsequent return home of the Greek hero Odysseus in two epic poems, the Iliad and the Odessey.

In chapter 10 of the Odessey, we hear of Odysseus, his fleet of twelve ships by now already reduced to only one, welcomed as the guest of the mortal king Aeolus, whom Zeus himself had made captain of the winds. To aid Odysseus on his journey home to Ithaca, Aeolus ties up all of the winds, save for the fair west wind, in a bag, which he gives to Odysseus. For nine days and nights the west wind carries them, until they are within sight of home. At this point, Odysseus, who has kept awake throughout, is overcome by sleep. His men then debate what is really in the bag, deciding that it is some treasure their captain is keeping for himself. They open the bag and unleash a storm that carries them all the way back to Aeolus, who concludes that the gods are set against Odysseus and refuses to assist him a second time.

They sail on, arriving at the island of Aiaia, home of Circe, the daughter of Helios, the sun, exiled there for using her strange powers as a pharmika, a witch, to transform a rival sea nymph into a man-eating monster. From time to time, pirates have landed on her shore, have sought to plunder her body and her possessions. But she has always piled them with drugged wine and transformed them into pigs, keeping them in her styes. Occasionally one would escape, and throw itself off a cliff into oblivion. When an advance party of Odysseus’ men arrive at her door, she does what she has done before. But Odysseus, coming after them and forewarned and protected by Hermes, the trickster god and messenger, disarms Circe, persuading her to restore his men. Circe rubs an ointment on their snouts, transforming them back, then clothing them all in shirts and cloaks that she had woven on a loom gifted to her by the master inventor Daedalus.

Luke is a Greek writer writing for a Greek audience, and he models himself on Homer. Anyone hearing his account (Luke 8 ) of Jesus and his disciples caught in a storm on the Lake, Jesus asleep and the disciples at a loss, and afterwards arriving on a strange shore where they are met by a man whose life — his body, his home — has been taken possession of by a legion of demons, whom Jesus will in effect transform into pigs, while restoring the man to dignity, would know exactly what kind of a story they were listening to.

This is a story of the long journey home, undertaken by Jesus returning to his Father in the heavens, a journey that will necessitate that he first descends into the land of the dead and back again. An epic journey of facing and overcoming many challenges. As the sea captain and slave trader John Newton would later put it, ‘through many dangers, toils and snares, I have already come; ’tis grace that brought me safe thus far, and Grace will lead me home.’

And this is a story of hospitality given to or withheld from the stranger — hospitality being a key measure of morality in their world. When the citizens of this strange, gentile region see the man restored, they beg Jesus to depart. Others will show kindness. Still others will try to kill him. Some will succeed.

But unlike the stories told by Homer, set in a distant past, these stories were set in the present. They had been born too late to sail with Odysseus; but Mary, the mother of Jesus, and John, the disciple, were still alive; Peter, and Paul, only recently put to death by order of the Emperor in Rome. Moreover, it was claimed that this Jesus had returned from the dead, and had returned home to his Father’s palace.

One could yet journey home through this life with Jesus as your captain. One could yet be welcomed at his table, or with him at a table in many strange corners of the world.

In Jesus, the great searchings and longings of the Greco-Roman world might find their deepest fulfilment. And not only theirs, but the searchings and longings of humanity — we still read Homer, we still read Luke.

Today, you are called to journey with Jesus as your captain. Today you are welcomed to a table to find refreshment on your travels, healing for your weary bones. To be restored to your truest and most noble self, which is to be found alongside him.

 

true story

 

Every story is a true story.

Even fiction.

Especially fiction.

Even the delusional rantings of 47 — every lie that proceeds from his mouth proclaims, in disguise, the truth about him.

But some stories are truer than others.

And the stories of Jesus are the truest stories of all.

In him, every story is searched out, found, rescued, and brought home.

 

Odyssey

 

Very long: on the Odyssey, and the Gospel; Odysseus, Jesus — and you.

Eight hundred years before the time of Jesus, a Greek author (or authors?) known as Homer compiled oral stories into two epic poems: the Iliad, which recounts the decade-long Trojan War; and its sequel, the Odyssey, which recounts the decade-long attempt of Odysseus, king of Ithaca, to return home after the War — a journey on which he is hindered by the god Poseidon and helped by the goddess Athena. Homer’s two volumes were hugely popular — hence their survival — and remain popular with audiences to this day.

Luke, the Greek follower of Jesus and author of the two-volume Gospel According to Luke and Acts of the Apostles, clearly modelled himself on Homer in his storytelling. (Long after the event, editors divided ‘Luke’ into 24 chapters — the same number of chapters as both the Iliad and the Odyssey — but then spoiled it by dividing ‘Acts’ into 28 chapters.)

In Acts chapter 8, Jesus crosses the Lake in a storm and arrives at the country of independent Greek colony-cities to the south-east of Galilee. There he is met by a monster, a man who possesses the strength of many men.

In the Odyssey chapter X, Odysseus is recounting parts of his voyage. The chapter opens with his arrival on the island home of Aeolus, a mortal king whom Zeus had appointed captain of the winds. Aeolus entertained Odysseus and his men for a month, and then, to aid them on their journey home, made a bag from the hide of an ox and contained within it, bound tight by a silver thread, all of the winds except for the fair west wind.

For nine days and nights they sailed and on the tenth day they saw home — Ithaca — on the horizon. But at this point, Odysseus was overcome by sleep. While he slept, his men debated the contents of the bag he had kept close, and, believing it to contain treasure that Odysseus planned not to share with them, they opened the bag, releasing a storm that drove them all the way back to Aeolus.

Aeolus was surprised to see them again. When Odysseus explained the betrayal of his men, Aeolus concluded that the gods were set against Odysseus and refused to help him a second time. And so, their epic journey continued.

After further misadventure, they arrived at the island of the goddess and enchantress Circe. There, Odysseus spied smoke, assumed habitation, and encouraged his men to investigate. But on the previous island — and not for the first time — many of the men had been eaten; and so they were understandably hesitant. Nonetheless, half the party were dispatched to explore, and came across the home of Circe, who invited them in. Only Eurylocus, the captain, being suspicious, remained outside. The other men entered and dined on cheese and wine, which had been drugged, such that they forgot their home. Then, Circe transformed them into pigs and shut them in her pig styes.

Eurylocus ran back to Odysseus to inform him what had befallen the men, but on his way to rescue them, Odysseus was intercepted by the god Hermes, sent to him by Athena, to counsel him how to approach Circe safely, also giving him a herb that would protect him from her spell.

On discerning his identity, Circe asked Odysseus to go to bed with her, that they might become friends and learn to trust one another; but he asked how he could trust her and made her swear an oath not to harm him. Agreeing, Circe washed Odysseus in a bath, anointed him with oil, dressed him in a fine cloak and shirt, and seated him on an ornate chair. She then sets a banquet before him, but he refused to eat while his men were still held captive as pigs. So, Circe gave them a second drug, restoring them to human form, and repenting of her actions.

While Odysseus returned to the ship to fetch the rest of his men, the men who had been pigs were washed, anointed with olive oil, clothed in woollen cloaks and shirts, and fed. They remained there for twelve months being strengthened for their journey. Then, they sought to continue on their journey home, but Circe informed Odysseus that first they must journey to the house of Hades and consult the ghost of the blind Theban prophet Teiresias.

In Luke 8.22-25 Jesus and his disciples are crossing the Lake. Jesus is asleep in the boat. A storm arises; the men debate among themselves. So far, so the Odyssey. But unlike Odysseus, Jesus is not betrayed by their actions. Instead, here is an opportunity for them to discover (not for the first time) that Jesus is divinely appointed, as he takes captaincy over the wind.

Luke tells us that they sailed down to the country of the Gadarenes (our English translation says that ‘they arrived at,’ but the more accurate ‘they sailed down to’ sounds more epic), perhaps blown off course by the winds. There, a man of the Greek city meets them. We are told that he has been naked for some time and is living not within a household but among the tombs, in the house of the dead.

This man is demonised. The text implies both that he has taken hold of demons and that the demons have taken hold of him. This is a codependent relationship, where the demons make his life a misery and yet he cannot imagine living without them.

The demons fear that Jesus will send them back into the abyss. They plead to be allowed to leave the man and to enter a herd of pigs. When they do, the terrified pigs rush over a precipice into the lake and are drowned. The swineherds run off to the city to inform the citizens, who come out and discover the man whom they have often bound in chains to restrain him from self-harm and harming others, sitting clothed and in his right mind.

In Greek culture, pigs were seen as both noble and ignoble, and as a symbol of human behaviour, which could be noble or ignoble — falling away from the human ideal into base animalistic behaviour.

In the Odyssey X, men are transformed into pigs, and back again, symbolising their greed and how quickly they will fall away from sensibility (only Eurylocus resisted the temptations of Circe). In Luke 8, the demonised man is freed as the demons enter into the pigs instead.

In the Odyssey X, the restored men are washed and clothed — in the Homeric tradition, clothing is significant, not simply the contrast to animal nakedness but in a play of concealment (disguises) and revealing, falsehood is made to speak truth, and character is purified. In Luke 8, the man is sitting clothed and in his right mind.

The pigs — and the demons — are also washed, plunged into the lake. This will be picked up in the Baptismal prayer over the water, where the liturgy declares: ‘drown sin in the waters of judgement, anoint your children with power from on high, and make them one with Christ in the freedom of your kingdom.’

In the Odyssey X, Odysseus cannot return home before first journeying to the house of Hades. In Luke 8, the man desires to leave home behind and accompany Jesus on his journey — which will ultimately be to Hades, and back, before returning home to his Father — but is instead told to return to his own household and declare to them what God has done for him. (In so doing, the man conflates God and Jesus.)

There is a clear play between the story of Odysseus, familiar to Luke’s audience, and the new story they are hearing concerning the adventures of Jesus. But these adventures are not set in the distant past, lost in the midst of time, but in their near-present.

A man who has been kept captive by the powers of death and hell is set free; clothed with Christ, taking on his own true identity within the — grounding, framing — person of Jesus; and restored to relationship with his own family, from whom he has been long-separated due to the capricious nature of the gods.

The demonised man — not Jesus — is now the new Odysseus. And Jesus is, to him, help along the way — Aeolus, and even Circe — truth hidden in various disguises, waiting to be revealed.

Likewise, our true identity is hidden within Jesus, who comes to us in various guises: in men and women whose actions help us on our long journey home to God the Father, through many challenges.

Every story is an epic tale, including yours.