Sunday, 19 March 2017

Lent 3: Living water



Water is central to life. We all know that. Without it, life as we know it would never have evolved and couldn’t continue to exist. We tend, in our Western comfort, to forget just how precious water is, but to our ancestors it seemed miraculous. People have always venerated natural springs, and why wouldn’t you? They seem to come from nowhere, welling up through the ground, apparently a free gift from the earth itself.

It’s no surprise that people have tended to regard springs and wells as holy in every religion. Christians quickly started telling stories linking wells and springs with the lives of the saints. St Alban, on his way to martyrdom in the town that now bears his name, started to feel thirsty, the story goes, and right there and then, a spring rose up. When the Welsh saint, Winifred, was beheaded by the suitor she had rejected to become a nun, a well rose up on the spot. Fortunately, her uncle, St Beuno, managed to reunite her head with her body and resurrect her, but that’s another story – and the spring kept going anyway. You can still visit it at Holywell in Flintshire. And of course, just down the road in Kemsing, St Edith’s well marks the spot where the Saxon saint was born and grew up. It was a site of pilgrimage before the Reformation, along with a shrine to her in Kemsing churchyard. Supposedly, the water was good for restoring eyesight, though I wouldn’t advise trying it now.

And of course there are many Biblical stories about springs and wells,  and the significant things that happen at them, like our readings today. God brings water out of solid rock when the Israelites are thirsty in the wilderness. It was the last place they expected to find water, but solid rock is no obstacle for God.  

The well in our Gospel story was a familiar place to the woman who met Jesus there, though. In fact it was probably depressingly familiar. Collecting water was a daily task, and a backbreaking one, usually the job of women or girls, as it still is in many parts of the world. The UN estimates that 90% of the work of collecting water and wood in poorer parts of the world falls to women and girls, which means they miss out on school, and often face danger too. When drought strikes, as it has in East Africa at the moment, the task becomes infinitely worse. That’s why access to clean, safe water is such a game-changer for women in particular. The only positive feature of that daily journey to the well at the time of Jesus – and perhaps for some women today – was that it was often a sociable occasion, a chance for a catch up with your friends.

But the women who comes to this well in Samaria is alone, and it’s noon, the hottest time of the day. Why hasn’t she come in the early morning, as surely her peers did? It seems like she’s be avoiding them, or they have shunned her.

The reason why that might be is soon revealed. She’s been married five times and the man she is with now hasn’t even bothered to marry her. They have either divorced her – women couldn’t initiate divorce themselves – or they’ve died, or maybe a mixture of both. Whichever it was, it would have been seen as her fault, a curse from God. No wonder she can’t face her neighbours. And no wonder she’s so surprised that Jesus welcomes her.  A Jewish man who wants to talk to her, a Samaritan woman? What’s that about? And he  puts himself in her debt by asking for a drink from her. Why would this be? He can’t possibly realise what kind of woman she is, she thinks. But it’s clear from what he says that he knows very well what’s happened to her – he’s the one who brings up her marital history. He knows, but it makes no difference to him. She’s a person of value in her own right, a person he’s happy to talk with, and to talk theology with, something normally reserved for men.  She’s never met anyone else who has spoken to her like this before, giving her such dignity and respect?

It’s utterly transforming, even more transforming than having her own private water supply in her own home would be, which is what she initially thinks Jesus is offering her. It transforms her in her own eyes. It transforms her in the eyes of Jesus’ male disciples, who are astonished to find him talking to her. And it transforms her in the eyes of her community, the community who had judged and shunned her, but who are now drawn to Jesus by her testimony.

“Living water”, water that “gushes up to eternal life”, which slaked her thirst not just for a moment or a day or a week, but forever. This is what Jesus offered her, and it’s what he offers us too.

For one surprised Samaritan woman, the living water of God’s love, released by Jesus into the arid wasteland of her life, brought dignity and a sense of worth. We might thirst for something else – a sense of purpose, forgiveness, freedom, rest -  but whatever it is, the water we really need can only come from God. So what is it that we are thirsting for tonight? What is it that we need? In the silence, let’s imagine ourselves sitting on the edge of that well with Jesus. Let’s ask ourselves that question, and listen for his response.

Amen








Sunday, 5 March 2017

Lent 1: Where the Wild Things Are




I’m sure many people here know Maurice Sendak’s classic children’s book, Where the Wild Things Are. Max, a small boy in an animal costume, runs riot round his house until his mother tells him he’s a wild thing and sends him to bed without his supper. But in his room a forest grows, and a boat appears and Max sails away to a distant island “where the wild things are”. They have a wonderful wild rumpus together, until Max starts to feel a bit lonely, and wants to be where “someone loved him best of all”. So he sails home to his room, and there is his supper on the table, where his mother has left it for him – “and it was still hot”, says the story. What seemed like years was really only a short time. But in that time Max had found out a little about his own wildness, and realised that while it might seem like fun for a bit, being with “someone who loved you best of all” was far better in the long term.

I can’t help thinking of that book whenever we come to the beginning of Lent and to the story of Jesus going into the wilderness, because this too is a place “where the wild things are”.

Wilderness” is a word we’re especially familiar with here in Seal, of course, because it is the name of what was once the big estate where the lords of this particular manor lived. It was given that name in the late seventeenth century, probably because it contained a deer park, a place where the wealthy could hunt, without having to cope with the vagaries of real wild places. Wildernesses like this became very fashionable in the century that followed, with artificial lakes and grottoes. Some estates even hired what were called ornamental hermits to live in caves in their grounds to add to the effect. They were paid quite well, on the condition that they didn’t shave and maintained an air of elegant melancholy. It’s an idea if you’re looking for a new job…!

Wildernesses were all the rage, but they were a bit like Disneyland or Center Parcs, places where the wildness was safely contained and domesticated.

By the early nineteenth century, the Romantic movement in art had begun to glamorise wild places. The Lake District and the Scottish Highlands became holiday destinations, places to visit, preferably with a comfortable carriage and some servants to carry your picnic.  It was an antidote to the Industrial Revolution, for those who could afford it, a way of escaping the ever-expanding, dirty cities.  But those who had to scratch a living from the harsh terrain of these wild places all year round knew that they weren’t romantic at all. They were unforgiving places, places of danger, places not to be treated lightly, just as they’d always been.

Romanticising the wilderness is a modern phenomenon, then, in the scale of human history. Our medieval, and more ancient, ancestors would have been baffled at the idea of taking a holiday in the wilderness, or seeing it as a place of beauty and peace. Wilderness, for them was a place of danger, not only physical, but also spiritual. It was a place where wild things were – wild weather, wild animals, and demons too.

So when we hear of Jesus going out into the wilderness it’s really important that we understand that it wasn’t for a bit of quiet reflection and peace.  As the beginning of today’s Gospel reading pointed out, he went to be tempted by the devil,” not to escape what threatened his ministry, but to confront it. You don’t have to believe in a literal devil to understand what Jesus went through. He had to sort out how he was going to carry out his mission, and that meant looking very closely at his own motivation. Was it all going to be about miracles, to make people love him? Did he think God would never let anything bad happen to him? Was his goal going to be secular power and glory? He could have set off on any of those paths, but he rejected them all, and instead took a route that would involve sacrifice, humility and costly love. In the end, the wildest things Jesus wrestled with and defeated weren’t supernatural beings, or savage beasts, or harsh physical conditions, but his own desires and fears, and it would matter that he had done. He went into the unknown, wild territory of the desert to prepare himself for the unknown, wild territory of his ministry and the wildest of all, of his death on the cross.

There are wild things in the other readings we heard today too. Eve comes face to face with a wild animal in the Garden of Eden. All the animals were wild at this point, of course, but this one, the serpent, was particularly crafty, capable of outwitting the trusting, na├»ve human beings he came across in the Garden. He knew the weak spots of the people God had made, and tapped into what might be seen as their perfectly good and worthy desires. What was wrong with knowing good and evil? What was wrong with wanting to be wise, like God? Eve was out of her depth. Unlike Jesus, she hadn’t got the skill or experience to recognise the trick that was being played on her. There were wild things in her own heart, her desire for knowledge and power, which she hadn’t got to know yet, and the result was disaster.   

In the letter to the Romans, the wild things aren’t animals or demons. They are the power of sin and death, which wreak havoc in us. We are all born into a world which is tangled and scarred. None of us, however good by nature, however lovingly brought up, manages to avoid doing things wrong, being mean, hitting out when we feel threatened, clinging to things we should be sharing, because we grow up in a world that is already bent out of shape and mangled . And we then mangle it in our own way for the generations that come after us. The “wild things” we need saving from are the things which lurk unacknowledged in our hearts, waiting to ambush us when we least expect them. It’s as the life of Jesus takes root in us, says Paul, that these wild things can be recognised, named and known, that we can be straightened out and untangled, made right again.

Lent is a time when, traditionally, we try to go out into the wilderness in some way with Christ, to share some of what he experienced. We give things up, or take things up. We give to charity or go to study groups. But our “wilderness” experiences can very easily be no more real than those eighteenth century ones I talked about earlier, a Disneyland pilgrimage along a carefully pre-planned route that will bring us right round to where we started, unscathed but also unchanged.

Perhaps we’ve given up chocolate, or alcohol, because that’s what we always do during Lent. We know we can manage it. It’s only six weeks, and though there might be some tough times along the way, we know that when we get to Easter Day we can stuff ourselves with Easter eggs or crack open the gin bottle and think, “thank goodness that’s over for another year”. There’s nothing wrong with giving up chocolate or alcohol, of course. Our bodies will probably thank us for it. But if that’s all we do, it probably won’t make much difference to our souls. If we want real change in our lives, we’ll need to ask, “What is it about chocolate, or alcohol, which might get in the way of my relationship with God and with others? Why do I need to give this up?”  We need to go out into the territory in us that isn’t tamed and known. We need to talk to the wild things that lurk there, just as Jesus talks to the wild thing, Satan.   

It might be that chocolate is a comfort food that helps us to endure a difficult situation at work or home. If that’s the case, fasting from it is only really going to help if we also face the “wild thing” in our lives – that situation we’re being worn down by – and see what we can do permanently to change it.
It might be that alcohol is a prop we reach for in social situations, because we don’t feel confident enough to mix with others without it. If that’s the case, fasting from it will only make a difference if we use this time to confront the “wild thing” that is our lack of self-confidence.
It might even be that we discover that giving up things which we know we can do without is really just an easy substitute for giving up something else in our lives which we feel we can’t. The question isn’t just what we should do to observe Lent, but why we should do it, which wild places it will lead us into, which wild things it will bring us face to face with.

Lent is a time of self-discipline, and discipline often has a very negative vibe. We think it’s about punishment.  But in fact discipline really means “learning”. The disciples were learners.  Whatever we give up or take up during Lent should enable us to learn something we didn’t know already, and learning always means going out beyond our comfort zone, into the wild places, where the wild things are, the things we don’t understand about ourselves and so can’t yet control. And if we find something that we can’t deal with on our own, Lent’s a good time to talk to someone else about it. I’m always happy to listen – just ask!

Max, that little boy in the story, went “where the wild things are”, and he learned from his time in his own “wild place” that there was someone who “loved him best of all”, even when she was telling him off. He couldn’t really have learned that any other way. And when he got back, there was his supper, the nourishment he needed, “and it was still hot.”  The promise of Lent is that if we have the courage to face whatever the real wild things are in the real wildernesses of our lives, we too will find ourselves fed with the supper that love provides, the Bread of heaven , the food we really need.  
Amen


Sunday, 26 February 2017

Sunday before Lent: The touch of God



There’s an odd little detail in Matthew’s telling of the story of Jesus’ transfiguration, the story we’ve just heard. It’s only Matthew’s Gospel which includes it. Mark and Luke don’t mention it. When the Gospel writers do something different with the same stories, it’s always worth asking why, because what they put in or leave out is usually significant, something they particularly want us to notice.

What is it? It is what Jesus does when his disciples cower on the ground, bewildered by the sight of him shining in glory, terrified by the voice of God which has acclaimed him as his beloved Son.  Jesus comes to them and, we are told, he touches them. He touches them. Why? Matthew wants to tell us something, to put his own slant on this story, and the key, I think, is in Jesus’ touch.

Touch matters to us. We all know that. There is a lot of scientific evidence that children deprived of touch can often fail to thrive physically as well as emotionally (https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2865952/), and that need continues throughout our lives. I am sure there are times in all of our lives when a hug, or a hand holding ours, has meant far more than words could, soothing, comforting, reassuring us that we are touchable.

Touch can be problematic too, though. We can feel awkward touching and being touched by others. Some people need more personal space than others; even shaking hands can feel difficult, never mind the bear hug that others might give without a second thought. Giving or receiving personal care in times of illness or long- term disability can be a particular problem, sometimes so excruciatingly embarrassing that it prevents people getting the help they need.

Touch can be abusive and hurtful too. When a friend or lover puts an arm around our shoulders it feels good, but when it’s someone who is trying to manipulate or patronise us we shrink from it. For some, their response to touch will have been coloured by bad experiences in the past that they can’t forget.

It is the intimacy of touch that makes it potentially both joyful and difficult. Flesh and blood contact makes us real to each other in ways that words never entirely can, but it also makes us vulnerable to each other too. When someone is close enough to touch us, they’re also close enough to hurt us.

Touch was very important in Jesus’ ministry and life, and it’s often mentioned. On many occasions he healed people with a touch. He took a little girl who everyone thought was dead by the hand and lifted her up (Mark 5.41). He touched Peter’s mother in law, and the fever she was suffering from left her (Matthew 8.15). He touched the eyes of the blind, and they saw. (Matthew 9.29). He touched those who others wouldn’t touch – the lepers whose diseases rendered them ritually unclean.(Mark 1.41).

Touch could be a sign of Jesus’ blessing too. When children were brought to him, much to the dismay of his disciples who had tried to send them packing, Jesus  “took them up in his arms, laid his hands on them, and blessed them.” (Mark 10.16) It is a very physical description.

Jesus didn’t just touch others though. He also let them touch him. He got himself into a lot of trouble when he let a woman with a reputation as a sinner touch him while he was at dinner with some prominent local men. (Mark 7.38) She didn’t just touch him, in fact. She bathed his feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair. She kissed them and anointed them with ointment. I think that would cause quite a stir now, never mind then. On another occasion, a woman touched him – or at least his cloak – surreptitiously in the midst of a crowd, hoping he wouldn’t notice. (Mark 5.30) She suffered from constant bleeding and that made her, and anyone she touched, unclean. She didn’t want to put Jesus in a difficult position, but she was desperate. But as soon as she touched him, he knew it. “Who touched me?” he asked. The disciples were confused. He was in the midst of a crowd, pressing in on him – loads of people were touching him. But he knew that for one person in the crowd that touch hadn’t just been accidental; it had meant something, something really important. “Power has gone out of me”, he said. The woman came forward, and far from the rebuke or shaming she might have expected, he affirmed her and declared to all those around her that she was accepted, loved and healed.

Jesus could have healed and blessed all these people perfectly well without physical contact, and he sometimes did in other cases,  but for these people, touch was part of their healing. They didn’t just need their physical ailments cured, they needed to come into contact – literally – with the power and the presence of God, skin to skin, flesh to flesh, reality to reality. They needed to know that God was with them and for them, to literally be “in touch” with him.  

That brings us back to the touch in today’s Gospel story. Why does this touch matter? Let’s put ourselves into the minds of Peter, James and John if we can.  They’d just had a stupendous and bewildering experience. Jesus, their Jesus, their mate, had stood on a mountainside glowing with the glory of God, with Moses on one side of him and Elijah on the other. They’d seen some extraordinary things in their time with him – healings and other miracles – but they had never seen this. And when they did, as good Jewish men, they would have been instantly reminded of what their scriptures told them about looking on the glory of God, namely that it was horribly dangerous. No wonder they fell to the ground in terror. They were probably specifically remembering the story we heard in our first reading today, of Moses going up the mountain to meet with God. Before that happened God had told Moses to warn the Israelites not even to touch the mountain while he was gone, let alone try to go up it and look at God themselves.

That attitude was enshrined in the bricks and mortar of the Temple by the time of Jesus. It was made up of concentric courtyards, and only certain people were allowed entry to them. The outer one was for Gentiles, then there was one for Jewish women, then one for Jewish men, then a courtyard for the priests, but at the heart of that was the Holy of Holies. Only the High Priest went there, and only once a year, on the Day of Atonement, and only after very careful preparation. Getting close to God was a risky business.

But here on this mountain, Peter, James and John had been ambushed by God’s glory, shining in their friend, transfiguring him.   No wonder they were confused and terrified. What were they going to do now? Were they ever going to be able to go down the pub with him again?

Jesus’ touch says “yes” to them. It says, “I’m here. This transfigured person, the beloved Son of God is me, your familiar friend. The person you’ve fished with, eaten with, walked with, laughed with, cried with. This is my hand touching you, the hand that’s hauled in the nets with you, broken bread with you, maybe even made the boats you sailed in, the hand that’s calloused from hard work in the carpenter’s shop, the hand you know as well your own. I am the same person you have always known.”

That’s the whole point of Jesus’ incarnation, of course, his coming as the Word made flesh, God with us. The God of majesty, the God of shining glory is present in this carpenter from Galilee, and if he can be there, he can be anywhere.

In the sweep of the story of the Gospel this revelation comes at a crucial moment. After this, Jesus began his journey to Jerusalem where he would be crucified. Then, once again, his disciples found themselves confused and bewildered. But it wasn’t the dazzling light of the transfiguration that was the problem; it was the awful darkness of the crucifixion. Could this man dying in agony really be the Messiah?  Wasn’t this a sign of God’s rejection, a sign of Jesus’ failure? That’s what the popular theology of the time said. If they struggled to get their heads around the idea that their carpenter friend could be God’s anointed one during his ministry, they’d struggle even more to accept it when he was being crucified like a criminal.

Only after the resurrection would it start to make sense. Only then would they realise that through Jesus, every part of human experience had been touched by God; life and death, work and play, joy and suffering. The hands that held the hammer and the plane in the carpenter’s workshop were God’s. The hands that healed lepers were God’s. The hands that embraced grubby, noisy children were God’s. And the hands that were nailed to the cross were God’s too.

We’re about to enter the season of Lent. Ash Wednesday is this Wednesday. People mark Lent in many ways, by giving things up, or taking things up, in prayer, in service, in learning about their faith. But central to everything we do in Lent should be the desire to let God touch us, to be aware of his presence in our world, to hear him saying, “Here I am. This is me, with you – in the midst of your anxieties about your job, or your children or your health, in the darkness of loneliness with you when you feel that no one else really sees you or knows you, in the stranger that comes to you for help, and the stranger who comes to help you. This is me, with you.”

We live in a world which is deeply confused about touch. People are often hungry for human contact – loneliness is modern epidemic – and yet we’re also afraid of it, wary of others. We may have good reason to be afraid if we have been touched in a hurtful way.  But we never need to be afraid of the touch of God, because his touch can only bring healing, hope and life. So, this Lent, let’s ask God to help us feel his touch, his hand on our shoulder to comfort us, his hand on our heads to bless and heal us, his hand taking ours to lift us up and lead us out into the world in his service.

Amen

Sunday, 19 February 2017

2nd before Lent: Do not worry (Breathing Space Communion)



“Do not worry,” says Jesus. Well – easier said than done. If we were to stop and share at this point all the things we have worried about in the last week, I expect the list would be quite a long one. Some of the worries might have been fleeting ones – whether we would make the train we were aiming for, or whether we’d have time to fit in the things we needed to do. There’s a time limit on those sort of worries – once their moment has gone, it’s gone.
Other worries might be more persistent; worries about a family member, fears for our health, financial concerns. Then there is that that sort of generalised anxiety that convinces us that the world is going to the dogs, and that we are doomed with it – the political situation in Europe and the US doesn’t help us to feel at ease.

So when Jesus says “don’t worry” it is easy to write off his words as naivety. But let’s remember that this was a man who lived in an occupied country, and who was deliberately going head to head with both the Jewish and Roman authorities. He was asking for trouble, and he knew that he would be very likely to find it. After all, his cousin, John the Baptist, had just been arrested, and was languishing in Herod’s prison for preaching much the same message as him.

So what does Jesus mean? How can his words help us in the midst of our very real anxieties? How can we reclaim them from the rather sentimental images with which they have often been illustrated –chirruping birds singing sweetly in blossom-laden trees and sunlit meadows full of flowers? It can’t just be a matter of distracting ourselves from harsh realities with pictures of baskets of kittens, can it?

Perhaps it helps if we read this Gospel passage in the light of the first reading, from Paul’s letter to the Romans. Paul was convinced that God was going to intervene dramatically in history at any moment, that Christ was going to return to wrap up the whole sorry mess of the world. He may have got the detail wrong – that literal second coming didn’t happen – but I think his instincts were spot on. Something different was happening, something new, because of the life, death and resurrection of Jesus. He had seen it in his own life. A dedicated, ruthless opponent of Jesus and his movement, he had committed his life to rooting out what he saw as the dangerous heresy that he had brought. But after Jesus had spoken to him in a vision on the road to Damascus, his life had been turned around. And it wasn’t just the change in his own heart that had bowled him over, but the reaction of the Christians he had been hell-bent on persecuting. Instead of hating him, they had welcomed him, sheltered him, cared for him. Whatever they had, he wanted; that capacity to love, no matter what the cost. No wonder he writes so often of love – love that does not keep score of wrongs, that endures, that heals, that extends to enemies just as much as to friends. He had been on the receiving end of it. Something new had happened in his life, and through his ministry it was happening to others too. A new world was being born.

The imagery he uses in his letter to the Church in Rome is of that new birth. “The whole creation has been groaning in labour pains until now” he says, but look, the birth is happening. He has seen the “first fruits of the Spirit”, like that moment when the baby’s head crowns, the moment when, even if you are the mother in labour, you really do feel that it is nearly all over, and the child you long for is really going to arrive.

We thought this morning at our All Age Worship about God at work, God who works to bring about his creation, labouring six days for something he acclaimed as “very good” as it says in the opening chapters of Genesis. Our epistle today echoes that first creation. God is still at work, it says, making a new creation out of the mess we have made.
We thought about our own work this morning, our daily realities, with all their delights and their pressures, and we tried to look for God at work in them, because if we can’t find him there, we won’t find him anywhere.

And that is where it seems to me that this reading from Paul’s letter to the Romans – and that Genesis account of creation – touch on and enlighten Jesus’ words to his followers. Don’t worry, he says. Don’t worry, not because there is nothing to worry about, not because everything is fine and dandy, but because God is at work, in us, in our lives, in our world. That doesn't mean that nothing will hurt, or fail, or die – Jesus himself dies – but that whatever happens is not the end of all our hopes. In and through the things that seem to have gone wrong, God can bring to birth a new creation.  That’s the good news. Tomorrow is in God’s hands. We are in God’s hands. Whatever goes wrong – and whatever goes right – is in God’s hands. God is at work, and that means that, ultimately, there is nothing to worry about.

Amen 

Sunday, 12 February 2017

Third Sunday before Lent: Tough statements




It’s a tough Gospel passage we’ve heard today. If we didn’t wince or feel uncomfortable at some point in it, we probably weren’t listening. Jesus presents his disciples with a long list of challenges. He doesn’t pull his punches, and the spread of those challenges is so wide that something in it must have hit home to all of them, just as it probably did to us. What does he say? “You may not be murderers or adulterers but that doesn’t mean that you have got it all sorted out, that you are off the hook, that nothing needs to change in your life”. I mean, who hasn’t called someone else a fool at some stage? If that’s the level at which we should start to worry, then we’d all better pay attention.

It’s all a bit depressing. How can we ever meet God’s standards if they’re so high? We might as well all give up, do as we please, eat, drink and be merry, because we are never going to be good enough.

That’s so at odds with the general drift of Jesus’ message in the Gospels  that we ought to be wary of leaping to conclusions, though. It’s always important to know the context of what we read, and it’s doubly important here.

This is part of a much longer passage, which we now call the “Sermon on the Mount”.  Matthew groups together all sorts of sayings of Jesus, probably not all delivered at the same time, because he wants to spark comparisons in people’s minds with another “sermon on the mount” from the Old Testament. He wants his hearers to be reminded of Moses, coming down Mount Sinai with the laws of God inscribed on stone tablets, the laws which would shape their lives in the Promised Land they were going to. Jesus is leading his followers into another Promised Land, the kingdom of God. His words here give them a flavour of what that will be like, and how they can help to make it “on earth as it is in heaven”.

Again and again he repeats words which hammer that home. “You have heard that it was said to those of ancient times… but I say to you.” God is doing something new, says Jesus, something utterly different, and we will need to change from the inside out if we want to be part of it.  

Jesus isn’t just substituting a new set of rules for the old ones, but Christians have often struggled to see that. Let’s face it; we like rules, so long as we think we are on the right side of them. They make life simpler and more predictable. Keep them and you can convince yourself you’re ok.

You mustn’t get angry. You mustn’t call anyone a fool. You mustn’t look at a woman lustfully. You mustn’t divorce your wife, except for adultery, and you mustn’t marry a divorced woman. (Please note that this is framed through a man’s view point). Finally, you mustn’t swear oaths.

It sounds tough, but maybe it’s doable, we think, if we try hard enough. But in practice these rules present us with a whole new set of difficulties. How literally are we meant to take them, for example?

If you can’t call someone a fool, can you insult them in some other way. Does any insult or criticism matter, or is it just this one? And what about the prohibition on getting angry? There are no exceptions given here, yet Jesus himself gets angry, driving the money changers out of the temple for example. Has he broken his own rule?

Some Christians, like the Quakers, have refused to swear oaths in court because of this passage. That’s why you can make an affirmation instead – it was a concession to their consciences. But is Jesus really just talking about what form of words we use?

People haven’t very often cut off their hands or plucked out their eyes in obedience to these verses, but they have done all sorts of other things to “mortify the flesh”. They’ve worn hair shirts, whipped themselves, gone without food, drink and warmth in an attempt to tame what were seen as unruly desires because of this passage. That  isn’t a healthy attitude at any level, but it has also created an environment in which abuse thrives. Perpetrators can argue that they are only acting for the good of those they abuse. Just this week we’ve seen a shocking example of this surface, in the abuse committed by John Smyth. One victim, Andrew Watson, now the Bishop of Guildford, commented that John Smyth, “tragically play[ed] on the longing of his young victims to live godly lives.”

These may seem like extreme examples, and most of us wouldn’t dream of taking these statements of Jesus at face value now, but there’s one passage which, until very recently, was read as an absolute and unchanging prohibition by large swathes of society, and was enshrined in civil as well as religious law. It’s the prohibition on divorce and remarriage. As a divorced and remarried woman myself, I know what it feels like, even in the 21st century, to have to face the accusation that those who challenge the literal interpretation of this passage are going soft on scripture.   

But this passage too, needs to be understood in context. Jesus’ words were very much rooted in his own culture, a culture in which men could divorce women on a whim. They would be left destitute, since they couldn’t support themselves independently. They often had to resort to prostitution, or marry any man who would take them in order to survive. The lot of a divorced woman was desperate – and Jesus’ demand that they not be put in that situation makes a lot of sense.  But later generations have used his words as a chain to bind people – often those same vulnerable women – instead of letting them find freedom and hope. People have been forced to stay in abusive or loveless marriages because there was no option to do otherwise, and many parts of the church still refuse to allow them to marry again, even if the new marriage is clearly full of healing and hope.

When we rip his words out of their context, we do the exact opposite of what Jesus meant us to do. Jesus challenges us throughout this passage  to see beyond the letter of the law to its spirit, to have the courage to ask, “what’s the loving thing to do, the thing that will bring freedom and life?” even if it’s not what “we have heard said in ancient times”. He challenges us to be prepared to think new thoughts and go in new directions if love demands it. When we turn those challenges into rules that oppress people we pervert his intentions completely.

It seems to me that we are doing just that in much of our current debate about homosexuality – something Jesus doesn’t mention here, or anywhere else for that matter. It’s on the agenda again for next week’s General Synod meeting, following the publication of a paper from the House of Bishops. The C of E has been having what were called “Shared Conversations” between people with all sorts of views on homosexuality, including gay, lesbian and transgendered Christians, who paid a considerable emotional cost in taking part. The report calls for a change in “tone and culture”, but as it doesn’t give any indication that policy or practice might change, it’s hard to see how that can happen. The sticking point is, as always, a handful of Bible verses from a culture entirely alien to our own, with meanings we can’t even fully understand, which condemn anything other than heterosexual expressions of love. Like the majority in UK society now, I have no problem with people loving other people. It seems to me that it’s the quality of our relationships that matters, not the gender of the people in them. I long to see a time when all people can live lovingly and faithfully in the relationships to which God calls them, relationships which sustain them, and enrich the rest of us too. But here we are again, going over the same ground. Please pray for the Synod, whatever your views, and for all who are feeling bruised and battered by this ongoing struggle.

“I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses” said Moses in our first reading. His blueprint for life in the Promised Land included some things we’d still recognise and affirm – treating widows, orphans and strangers fairly, for example. It also included things which we’d now think very odd, though; not eating shellfish, or wearing clothes of mixed fibres, or sowing the seeds of two different crops together. There’s nothing new in having to revisit what seemed like rules set in stone for eternity. Slavery can be, and was, justified from the Bible, well into the 19th century by some Christians. Polygamy was never outlawed in the Bible, and was still very much accepted and acceptable in the Palestine of Jesus’ day, but I doubt you’ll hear calls for its return in General Synod any time soon, however biblical a pattern of marriage it is!

“You have heard it said… but I say to you…” said Jesus to his disciples. But what is it that he says to us? Perhaps, “look again at your own hearts, your own motivations, your unexamined prejudices and assumptions before you sit in judgement on the lives of others.”

If we find ourselves insisting on the enforcement of rules that crush others so that we can stay on the safe side of a punitive and wrathful God, I am sure we have missed the heart of the Gospel. “Those who live in love, live in God and God lives in them.” says the Bible.  God calls us to treat all people with respect – that’s the underlying message of this Gospel passage - to call no one worthless, to treat no one as a sexual object or a possession, to be people of integrity, whose inner motivations match up with our outer behaviour, letting our “yes be yes” and our “no be no”. That might look different in 2017 than it did in the time of Jesus, but the calling is the same.

Jesus’ words are challenging. They may make us feel uncomfortable, but let’s make sure that is for the right reasons, so that they can guide us into the path that leads to fullness of life, not just for us, but for everyone.

Amen 

Sunday, 5 February 2017

Goat Couture or Haute Couture, does it matter?

Matthew 5.13-20, 1 Corinthians 2.1-16, Isaiah 58.1-12 The words in our Candlemas service last week reminded us that we have moved away from Christmas and now look towards Lent, today being the 4th Sunday before Lent and, of course, the first Sunday of February. I don’t know about you but I’m pleased to see the back of January, I find it the most difficult month of the year. Short on light and cold, often something to just get through. It’s not a very politically correct thing to say, and everything hereafter has the caveat that the Church of England encourages responsible drinking, but I can’t relate to those who do ‘dry January’ when a glass of ‘bottled sunshine’ from the previous year helps lift the mood on a dark evening. Even worse, the same people who were drinking for England before Christmas are now so sanctimonious as they tell all how much weight they’ve lost and how they haven’t had an alcoholic drink for a whole month. Of course I dare not say to anyone that ‘God is tired of meaningless fasts and empty rituals.’ Forget dry January have a glass of wine and give some money to charity to help someone and you’ll probably feel much happier as a result of both. It wouldn’t really have been fair when the closest I came to a dry January was sticking with the dry white wine for an evening. I know that I’m being a bit unkind here but I have to admit that this type of behaviour came to mind as I read the words of the Prophet Isaiah. The people are fasting and denying themselves in a religious manner, and making sure everyone knows about it but they are getting pretty fed up because God doesn’t seem to be taking much notice, look at us with our itchy goat’s hair sack cloth and ashes piled on our heads. My interpretation of God’s response is ‘I don’t care whether you wear goat couture or haute couture; you’re totally missing the point of this fasting business’. Isaiah’s words of gentle sarcasm on God’s part are far more subtle. They indicate where the people are going wrong. He says ...’day after day they seek me and delight to know my ways, as if they were a nation that practiced righteousness’. AS IF. The sort of thing a teenage child says to a parent when they say ‘of course I’m still faster than you over a hundred metres’, without looking up from their mobile device they utter ‘yea as if’. It’s a tough thought to face but for most of us God must sometimes think why do you do all this praying and worshipping AS IF you’re serious about it and then slip back into your old ways? We really need to think more about why we do stuff and what it means to God. Isaiah tells the people observing strict religious practices that they need to widen their horizons until they start to see the world through God’s eyes rather than setting up systems of elaborate worship and hoping that God starts to see it through our eyes. Formal worship at its best can connect us with God, make us aware of his love and forgiveness, energise and equip us for each week. Formal worship at its worst can be a routine we fall into that makes us lazily assume that we are Christians without ever really stopping to challenge ourselves. The Prophet is pretty clear about where God’s priorities lie. The people have failed to notice or perhaps care about those suffering injustice, oppression, hunger, homelessness and poverty in their midst. Most of us can pick up and drop our fasting at will but God cares about those who don’t have that choice. What is the point of it? It can bring focus and self-discipline into our relationship with God but it’s not a task to be undertaken competitively or as a means of impressing others. Surely an element of true fasting means giving up a portion of what we have to share with those who do not? It’s worth keeping this in mind as Lent approaches. Giving something up may well be good for us but sharing the benefits of doing so could be good for many others. This could take the form of money, time, or practical help to those in need. If we share in God’s vision to include all we can’t help but act and speak when we see injustice. It’s so easy to get frustrated or feel down about some global matters but as Christians we need to be actively looking for the opportunities where we can make things better, to remain optimistic about the changes we can bring to other people’s lives by the way we live ours day in and day out.. God wants us to create systems of justice, free the oppressed, feed the hungry, house the homeless and clothe the poor. Opportunities to help do these things are plentiful if we open our eyes and when we do, we are told, ‘your light shall rise in the darkness’. We are probably familiar with the concepts of salt and light from the Sermon on the Mount. Well-worn words can sometimes be hard to interpret afresh but it’s worth considering whether we relate to salt in the same way that those who heard Jesus say ‘you are the salt of the earth’ would have done at the time. I read this week that it’s likely that Palestinians from the 1st century placed flat plates of salt on the bottom of their earthen ovens to activate the fire, this had a catalytic-like effect on the fuel, causing it to burn. The most readily available fuel was animal dung. After some years, the salt plates in the earthen oven underwent a chemical reaction due to the heat. The result was that the salt no longer facilitated the fire, but stifled the burning of the dung. It is in this sense that salt used for this purpose lost its saltiness, its ability to facilitate a fire. Would the people hearing Jesus actually thought we are the salt of the earthen-oven; but if salt has lost its saltiness, its ability to facilitate the burning of dung, it’s no longer good for anything except to be thrown out and trodden under foot. In this way Jesus language is finely tuned to the people’s culture, a culture familiar with conflict. In some respects it’s not that different from us now but without journalists and social media to endorse or put people down publicly spoken words in front of crowds performed a similar function. Insults and honours, their delivery and timing became an art form followed by many who loved the theatre of it all. People’s ears would have pricked up as Jesus spoke, after all who wouldn’t love to receive such a positive endorsement ‘you are the salt of the earth, you are the light of the world’. Not words spoken to pious religious leaders but to common people who had become disciples. The message is that we don’t have to do something to become salt and light that is how God created us, that’s what Jesus wants to remind us. We each have great potential for good but it’s up to us whether we obscure or lose that. It follows that each one of us is called to live today in a way that recognises that Jesus came to show us that we have a future with him which we can start living straight away, that his light can shine through us like that which passes through our stained glass windows. We are left to consider where this is and isn’t true for us both corporately as a church and individually. We will fall short but when we do so we are reminded that God’s doesn’t want us to focus on sackcloth and ashes but delights in seeing us refocus on the things that matter, his love for us all reflected as real love for each other. Amen Kevin Bright 5th February 2017

Sunday, 29 January 2017

Candlemas and Baptism: Light of the world




When Emma and Leon asked if Henry could be baptised on this particular day, as they’ll tell you, I jumped at it. It was, I assured them, an ideal day for a baptism – the feast of the Presentation of Christ in the Temple, otherwise known as Candlemas.

Perhaps when you heard the words I just read from the Gospel you understood why. What was the story about? It was about two parents bringing their first born son for God’s blessing, and about his community of faith, or at least, two members it, welcoming and affirming him. And that’s what we have here this morning too, except that there’s a whole church full of people for whom Henry is the star of the show this morning.  The other difference is that Emma and Leon haven’t had to bring a sacrifice with them, as Mary and Joseph did, but frankly, that’s a profound relief. I really don’t know what I’d do with a pair of live pigeons this morning!

The feast of the Presentation of Christ marks the end of the Christmas season in the Church’s calendar. It began at midnight on Christmas Eve when we celebrated Christ’s birth, and went on throughout the next forty days or so until now as we’ve pondered, along with Mary and Joseph, what the birth of Jesus might mean, how it might change us. Today that season comes to an end as we hear this story of Simeon and Anna recognising a light in the infant Jesus which would light up the world, “a light for revelation to the Gentiles and the glory of God’s people Israel.” It’s that association with light which gives this day its alternative name of Candlemas, and it was traditionally the time when the candles that were used in church through the year were blessed. Often people would bring candles from home for blessing too. In an age before artificial light, the flickering light of a candle was all that stood between you and the darkness of the night. We rarely encounter real darkness now. It can be banished with the flick of a switch. For our ancestors though, light was a precious commodity. Candles were used sparingly, and valued highly. It’s no surprise that people wanted to have them blessed. They had spiritual significance as well as practical value, symbols of the God whose first act of creation had been to say “let there be light”.

In Jesus, Christians saw God making a new creation, bringing light again into a darkened world, light which even death on a cross couldn’t put out. In pictures of his birth, artists often painted him as literally light-filled, a “glow in the dark” baby – perhaps you had some of those sort of images on your Christmas cards? Of course, he didn’t really look like that but that was the only way of capturing in paint the inner truth they were trying to convey. This was the child who would light up the lives of those he met. This was the child who would come into the darkness of despair, loneliness, and failure, and transform them with glory, who would bring people out of the gloomy prisons of their oppression, into the sunlight of God’s love.

As Mary and Joseph approached the Temple to present their child there and make the sacrifice the law demanded, they didn’t seem to have seen more than a glimmer of this light though. Despite the angels announcing his birth and the shepherds coming to wonder at him, they hadn’t grasped the immensity of the change he would bring, and why should they have?  Of course their child was special to them – every child lights up the lives of its family and friends - but we often struggle to see beyond this. Try as we might we can’t imagine our babies as adults,  as High Court judges, engineers, actors, nurses, solicitors, software designers, shopkeepers, or whatever  their path through life will lead them to. For Mary and Joseph, imagining Jesus as Messiah must have been even more of a stretch. You know how it goes in the Life of Brian, “He’s not the Messiah, he’s just a very naughty boy…”

As they made their way through the crowded precincts of the Temple, then, they weren’t expecting anything special to happen. They were simply doing what the law required, what every family did. The Temple would have been full of people like them bringing sacrifices and prayers for all sorts of reasons. There would have been people debating, talking, praying, pushing and jostling, and animals too, being brought , perhaps noisily, for sacrifice. Who would notice one little peasant family in the midst of all this hubbub?

There is no logical reason why Simeon and Anna should have spotted them, singled them out. Luke doesn’t explain how they knew this child was different, other than that the Spirit of God told them he was. What we do know, though, is that these two elderly people had spent their lifetimes tuning into God, and perhaps that’s why, when it mattered, they heard and saw what no one else did.  Simeon was devout and looking forward to the moment when God would act, we are told.  Anna had spent most of her long life fasting and praying in the Temple. Both of them were people of prayer and people of hope, in the habit of being on the look-out for God, despite long years of waiting. And they had had to wait. They were old enough to remember when the Romans had taken over their land some 60 or so years before. Where was God when that happened, and in the dark years afterwards? While many might have despaired, Simeon and Anna held onto their faith, waiting, watching, living right, when the world around them seemed hell-bent on going wrong, listening for the voice of God. And on this day, because of that faithfulness, they heard it. This was the child. This was the one who would change everything, the light that would light up the world.

But what’s all this got to do with Henry and his baptism? After all, he really isn’t the Messiah… And yet, the promise of Christian faith is that the light of God which shone in Christ shines in all of us too, if we will let it. Today’s service, being Candlemas, will have a lot of candles in it. But candles are a part of every baptism service, as a reminder of that truth.  At every baptism service, we light our Paschal or Easter candle, the candle which reminds us of the story of Christ dying and rising on Easter Day. At every baptism too, we light a candle from it, for the family to take home, to keep, to light when they want to pray for and with their child. That candle reminds them of the light of Christ which burns in their child, maybe sometimes covered over, obscured, hard to see, maybe sometimes flickering and unsteady, but there nonetheless – a light that nothing can put out.

At this service of Candlemas, though, we will all remember that together. At the end of the service, we’ll all hold lit candles, and during the responses that close the service, we’ll blow them out, as we say goodbye to this Christmas season. That might seem an odd thing to do, but it isn’t a sign that Christ’s light has gone out, so much as that his light has gone in, that it has sunk in to us, becoming part of our lives day by day, night by night, guiding our footsteps and lighting our path.

We don’t know who Henry will be when he grows up, or what he will do. We don’t know what he’ll be remembered for. We don’t know what successes he’ll achieve, what failures he’ll have to deal with, what struggles he’ll have to face. But like Simeon and Anna, we welcome him today, and we confidently proclaim that the light of Christ shines in him, as it does in all of us, and that God holds him in the palm of his hand.

Amen