Monday, 11 December 2017

Advent Breathing Space 2: A Child is Born



Tying in with our daily Advent reflections about the birth of children in the Bible, these three Advent Breathing Spaces pick up some more general themes we find in the Bible about children and childbirth. Each talk has a poem in it – one of mine – tonight’s will be at the end of this talk.

Last week we thought about the miracle of the birth of any child, the sense in which every birth changes the world even if only a little. This week’s readings, though, point us to the birth which we celebrate at Christmas, the birth of Jesus. If every birth changes the world, then this one absolutely transformed it. That’s the case even for those who aren’t Christian. The course of history, the fate of nations, our musical and artistic heritage, our laws and our customs were all shaped by the fact that Jesus came into the world.

In fact, though, we know very little about his birth for sure. Luke and Matthew are the only Gospels that tell us about it, and they tell stories that are very different. There are shepherds in one, Magi in the other. One starts in Nazareth, the other seems to take place completely in Bethlehem. They’ve got some common features. Bethlehem seems significant, and the child is born to ordinary, even poor, parents against a backdrop of danger. But whether either story is historically accurate is very hard to tell, and, in any case, Matthew and Luke weren’t really trying to give us an historical account. Their stories are more like an overture, giving us hints of what is to come, setting the scene, helping us to see not what happened, but why it mattered.

We have surrounded these Gospel stories with tinsel and magic and highly unlikely details, “The little Lord Jesus, no crying he makes” - like no baby, ever! But the central point that the Gospel writers make is that this child is, to outward appearance, no different from any other, not special, not an obvious candidate for Messiahship. He’s not born in a palace, where the Magi expect to find him. He’s not even born in the comfort of a home. He is born among the animals, lain in their feeding trough because there is nowhere else.

We see babies like him all the time in our news reports today. He’s the baby born in a refugee camp in a cold, muddy tent. He’s the baby quietly starving in Yemen. He’s the baby born right here in the UK, to parents struggling to make a home in a B & B, because they’ve been evicted by their landlords and can’t afford the deposit for a new place. He’s the child whom no one really notices, who doesn’t look as if he – or she – will ever amount to anything. And yet, in the case of Jesus, he does, because God is at work in him.

And God is at work in him not despite his ordinariness, but because of it. This is what the Gospel writers are telling us in their stories. He is an ordinary child, born to an ordinary mother, but he will go on to have an extraordinary impact. His ordinariness will be hurled back at him throughout his life. His opponents will ask him, in fury, “Who do you think you are?” again and again. “Why does this carpenter from a backwater in Galilee, with no qualifications, no pedigree, think he can turn our traditions upside down?” they will complain. His death will be a last, desperate attempt to put him back in his place. Crucifixion was deliberately humiliating. The Romans used it to concentrate the minds of those who witnessed it, so that they wouldn’t be tempted to get ideas above their station.

But Jesus embraces his ordinariness because his whole life was a sign that God comes to us where we are, which isn’t, for most of us, anywhere grand. He chooses fishermen and tax collectors, women and children, as his closest circle of friends and followers. When he casts about for symbols that will remind them of his presence, he doesn’t go for champagne and fois gras, but bread and ordinary wine, their staple diet. “This is where you’ll find me”, he says, “in the people who attract no special notice, in the bits of life that are disregarded and in the parts of yourself that you’d rather ignore too. That’s where I’m needed, so that’s where I’ll be.”

That’s the message which brought hope to his first followers. They were people like Paul, who wrote that the whole of creation was  “groaning in labour pains”  waiting to see the  “the revealing of the children of God,” waiting for the moment when people would learn to see themselves and each other as the people we really are, beloved and precious to God, however ordinary we might feel to ourselves. God comes to us, in Christ, in all that is ordinary, and in doing so, makes it glorious by his presence.

So here is tonight’s poem. It is simply called “He is here”.

He is here

He is here,
blood-streaked from his mother's womb,
slippery purple with rage
- ejected from comfort -
helplessly beating the cold air
in the powerless protest of childhood.

He is here
in voiceless pain,
naked,
debased,
unnamed with the dead of the killing fields.

He is here
in the commonest things of life.
In rough wine, acid on the tongue
and the crumbling bread of the poor.

He is here
unremarked,
in the eyes which ask for help.

He is here, this Lord of Heaven.
He has slipped, unnoticed, into the thread of life.
He is here, this God of holy splendour.
Commonplace and ordinary,
he has soaked himself into all that is overlooked,
saying,
"Touch me,
  break me
  eat me."

He is here,
he is here,
he is here.


May 89

Anne Le Bas

Monday, 4 December 2017

Advent Breathing Space 1: A Child is Born

The address from the first of our Advent Breathing Space Holy Communion Services.


During our three Advent Breathing Space services this year, I am picking up the theme of our Advent daily reflections, “ A child is born”. As you’ll know, if you are following them, they trace almost all the stories of children being born in the Bible.

In these services, though, I’ll be thinking a bit more generally about the theme of birth in the Bible and what it might mean to us, not just the birth of actual babies, but birth in its widest sense.
I decided too, that I would introduce each of these three talks with one of myown poems. That may be a bit self-indulgent, but I’m hoping you’ll forgive me, because each of them reflects something of my own ruminations on the subject, just as these talks do.

This week’s poem is one I wrote about ten years after the birth of my first child, Michael.
It recalls his first day in the world, and my first day as a mother. He’d been born on a Sunday morning, and we were the only occupants of the four bed ward in the maternity hospital at the imte.
It’s called “You and I”, and it goes like this.

You, startled in your fishbowl crib,
and I,
washed down and lain between cool sheets
after the sweat and blood of your arrival
watch each other.

Left alone,
(- we were the only ones last night
committing miracles -)
we find ourselves fixed in conspiratorial surprise,
gazing, as if,
for all that we shared
nine months swelling expectation
this was somehow not what we expected.

Most of all,
(and strange!)
we never thought
the world would now be
quite so different.
I,
transformed from isolated independence
find I am become the wellspring of the future,
tied through time and over oceans to the whole of life.
You,
opening a space, and love and grief, where there were none,
forcing your way into the fabric of existence
have enlarged the universe
with your small, growing self,

Your dreams did not encompass change
and mine were limited to tiny hands and nappies
yet between us
we have changed the world.



As that poem expresses, giving birth doesn’t just change the lives of the child and its parents, it changes everything. Who knows what that child will grow up to be and to do? When a child comes into the world, the future is altered irrevocably. It is a profound mystery. A person who didn’t exist now does. Someone who was just a figment of your imagination is now real, and may be nothing like you imagined. Maybe you are quiet and cautious, but find yourself with a child full of energy and no sense of danger! Maybe you are an intrepid traveller, and find you have given birth to a child who just wants to stay at home. Maybe your child has abilities or disabilities you weren’t prepared for. Whatever else children do, they always surprise us.

Perhaps we shouldn’t be surprised, though. After all, the God who gives them to us is a God of surprises. As our first reading reminded us, this is the God who sits in a formless void at the beginning of time and brings into being something that has never existed before - light. And then he follows it with a whole great panoply of other things, from the moon and the stars to the worms and the whales. God is, first and foremost, a creator. By his word he gives birth to everything that is. The writer of this first great story wasn’t writing science or history when he wrote this. He was trying to encapsulate the greatest truth about God, that he is a God who does new things all the time. It’s in his nature to do so.  

Maybe that’s one reason why Jesus was always so keen on putting children centre stage when he talked about the new kingdom he was bringing in, as he does in our Gospel reading. They’re a constant reminder of the creative imagination of God. In every child God recreates the world. Through their birth, he does something that has never been done before, and those who welcome children get to share in that endless creativity.  

As I said at the beginning, though, not every birth that matters is a flesh and blood one. Other sorts of birth can be just as creative, just as world changing as the birth of a child. We may give birth to new ideas and initiatives. We may create hospitable communities, or new possibilities for people who feel hopeless about themselves. We may bring into being love and joy where there were none before. As we do so, co-operating with our life-giving God, all of us can bring to birth a new world.  


In the silence tonight, then, let’s think about our children – not just the flesh and blood babies, but all those others too. How have we changed the world with God, and what children does God still call us to bear as we learn to work with him? 
Amen 


Sunday, 3 December 2017

Advent 1: The God who comes to us

Audio version here

Isaiah 64. 1-9, Psalm 80.1-7, 16-18, 1 Cor 1.3-9, Mark13.24-37

Advent can be a confusing idea. It falls to my lot to explain it to children and I tell them, of course, that  the word means “coming”, from the Latin “advenire”. ‘What’s coming?’ I ask them. The answer is usually ‘Santa’, or sometimes ‘Christmas’, but whatever it is, it normally has something to do with what is going to be under the tree for them. After a bit of prompting I might get something about the birth of Jesus. But I can’t blame them for wondering what that has to do with coming, because the baby Jesus has, obviously, already arrived. We’re two thousand years too late for his coming. There’s not much point trying to get ready for it now, is there? It may be good news, but it’s old news.

And yet Christians through the ages have still kept Advent as a season of expectant waiting, lighting the Advent candles, one more each week, opening the windows on the Advent calendars, one more each day. Something is coming, we proclaim. But what is it?

One answer, traditionally, is that Advent is a time when we prepare for Jesus’ second coming at the end of the age, “‘in clouds’ with great power and glory” as our Gospel reading put it. His first coming was as a baby in Bethlehem. Traditional Christian belief says that he will come again one day in majesty. St Paul called it “the day of the Lord Jesus” in our second reading today. Like the Gospel writers, Paul believed that Jesus would return in the very near future in a very literal way. On that day, the heavens would open. It would be like a king leading his victory parade only much, much better. The dead would be raised. There would be a judgement, a reckoning, but ultimately Christ would usher in a new age of peace.  

By the end of the first century, though, it hadn’t happened as those first followers had expected, and there was a crisis in Christian faith. Had something gone wrong? The early Christians thought again about what Jesus had said and done. He had said, after all, that no one knew – not even him – when this Second Coming would happen.   “Maybe we got it wrong,” they thought. “Maybe this isn’t a sprint. Maybe it’s a marathon. Maybe the second coming of Jesus is further off than we thought, or is different from what we imagined it would be.”

Many people feel rather uncomfortable with the idea of the Second Coming today. Christ coming through the clouds? Stars falling from the heavens? It all sounds like a rather overblown disaster movie. But Christianity has never entirely abandoned the idea. We’ve never given up the belief that God will, one day, create a “new heaven and a new earth” as the Book of Revelation puts it – it’s still there in the creed we say each Sunday.  However we feel about it, it’s good that it is there. It has also often sustained and strengthened people going through hard times, because its underlying message is that God’s love is stronger than hatred and oppression. Whatever the world looks like, whatever it throws at you, God is ultimately in control – the bad times won’t last forever. African American slaves sung about Jesus’ return often in their spirituals. It was precious to them because it told them that their suffering wasn’t the end of the story. There would be a better future, even they didn’t live to see it. It helped them to hold onto the truth that they were God’s precious and beloved children when they were being treated as if they weren’t even human.  And in doing that, it gave them strength not only to endure but also to challenge the powers that oppressed them. And that strength eventually helped them win their freedom.

The people who wrote our Old Testament reading and our Psalm today would have recognised their experience. The readings we heard were written in troubled times, from troubled hearts. “O that you would tear open the heavens and come down” cried Isaiah, as he looked at the ruins of the nation of Israel, which had been hammered into the ground by the Babylonians. The Psalmist howls at God too, wondering where he has got to. “How long will you be angered, despite the prayers of your people? You have fed them with the bread of tears.” For all the despair and fury in these words, the fact that they were uttered at all is an expression of faith. You don’t shout at God and demand that he acts if you don’t think he’s there, or don’t think he cares.  That’s why it’s ok to be angry with God when we need to be. He doesn’t mind us shouting at him – he only minds when we ignore him and hide from him. These Old Testament writers expected that, sooner or later, God was going to do something decisive to help them. They just didn’t know what, or when.

For Christians, even if we struggle to understand the Second Coming literally, it expresses something that is vital to our faith. It says that we believe that God cares, that he hasn’t abandoned his creation, but wants to heal it and bless it. That’s true all year round, but our focus on the Second Comin in Advent challenges us to trust that statement of faith. Can we believe in God’s love even when there is no sign of it in our lives at the moment? Can we hold onto hope even when everything around us speaks of despair? Do we really think that God is in charge?

So Advent is about the past; we remember God coming to us in the baby of Bethlehem. And it’s about the future; trusting that God in his majesty has our lives in his hands and will deliver us from our troubles in one way or another. But Advent is also about the present, about what we do now, while we are waiting. After all, the present is the only time we can do anything about. The past is gone, the future is yet to come. The present is the only moment in which we can act. So there’s a third focus to Advent, a third sense in which God comes to us, and that is here and now, minute by minute, day by day, if we have our eyes open to see him.

Someone once said that Advent is about the God who comes to us in history, in the past, in majesty, in the future, but in mystery now, threading himself by his Spirit into our daily lives. History, mystery and majesty.

Now is the moment for mystery. That’s why Jesus reminds his followers to stay awake, to watch. “You don’t know when the master of the house will come, in the evening, or at midnight, or at cockcrow, or at dawn”   he says. The night was traditionally divided into four watches of around three hours each at the time of Jesus, from six at night to six in the morning. Whatever time of night it is, Jesus is saying, however deep the darkness, the job of the doorkeeper is to watch out for the moment when the master shows up so he can let him in. In the same way, we’re called to be on the lookout for God, not out of fear, but in joyful anticipation, because when God shows up in our lives, in our church, in our world, when God is at work, good things start to happen. Life bursts forth from death, love overcomes hatred, hope defeats despair. We may need sharp eyes to see the small signs of his presence, but if we’re not actively looking, if we’re not awake, we may miss him completely.

What sort of things do I mean? What sort of things do we need to be on the look out for? It may be somebody coming up with small idea which could easily be squashed or ignored. We had a great evening yesterday singing carols in Seal High Street as the lights were switched on. Lots of people said how great it was as a way of bringing the village together. That initiative started as one person’s idea. We have JD O’Brien to thank for it. But others encouraged it and helped it to grow, sensing that the God who loves communities was in it. God showed up, along with the rest of the crowd, and drew people a bit closer together. It is one in a number of small initiatives that we’ve been part of in Seal over the years, which have helped us to build relationships and make links between people, bringing God’s blessing to them, perhaps easing someone’s loneliness just a bit. But to spot those opportunities we have to have our eyes open, and trust that if we act lovingly, God will show up.

Or there was the person who told me the other day that sometimes in worship she has a sense that there is more going on than is apparent on the surface. It would be easy to just put that down to a stirring bit of music, or a well-worded prayer, but in noticing it, she recognised that in that moment God was at work here, for her, but maybe for others too. “The Lord is here”, “His Spirit is with us”, we say, but do we believe it?

Pastoral conversations often leave me with the feeling that I’ve been standing on holy ground too, that something special has happened, that God has shown up with new insights and something has shifted.  

God can come to us in many ways, if only we have the eyes to see them.

Advent means coming –God comes to us, in the past, the present, and the future, in history, in mystery and in majesty. God comes in history in the child of Bethlehem. He comes in majesty at the end of time, whatever we understand by that. But between those two comings, he comes in mystery, popping up in our lives in the people we meet, the situations we deal with, the worship we offer. Our task is to wake up and notice him, to begin every day in expectation that we we’ll see him at work and to end every day recognising where that has happened and giving thanks for it. If we do that, then every day can be Advent, a day when God comes to us, showing up in our lives to bless and to heal us, and through us to bless and heal others too.

Amen


Sunday, 26 November 2017

Christ the King

Matthew 25.31-46, Ezekiel 34.11-16 & 20-24
The part of Matthew’s gospel which includes today’s reading also has messages about what happens when we fail to prepare contrasted with those who are ready when the time comes. There are the foolish bridesmaids who had no oil for their lamps which they carried to meet the bridegroom and missed out on their opportunity unlike those who carried flasks of oil with them. Then last week there were the slaves given talents by their master, one of the three failed to put his to work and was cast out as a result. Today we hear of sheep and goats and it’s about being prepared to use our understanding of who God is to his glory as opposed to being unprepared for his judgment.
Jesus’ words could be taken as a provocation to take economics and politics seriously because when their power is in the wrong hands the effects on millions of people can be devastating. There’s a message that it’s simply not acceptable to ignore those in need, poverty, oppression or sickness. To do so makes us unrecognisable as Christians. The way we organise society is at the heart of Jesus’ message and nothing could be further from God’s kingdom than disregard for our most vulnerable members.
Angus Deaton the Nobel-prize winning economist (not to be confused with Angus Deayton the comedian) offers some rare positive facts on global poverty. Because bad news dominates our headlines and critics are often seen as more morally engaged not many people are interested in hearing stories of steady progress, it’s really rather dull isn’t it. However over the past 20 years global poverty has halved but only 1 person in 100 knows this if asked. Even our churches focus so much on the places of extreme poverty and need that it’s something we rarely hear. In 1820 more than 90% of the world’s population lived on the equivalent of extreme poverty in 2015 it was less than 10%. It’s important that we don’t believe that our world is on a one way trajectory to misery, poverty and oppression as it creates a feeling of hopelessness and apathy which achieves nothing. People are being helped and positive outcomes are happening, it’s just rarely news worthy.
So everything is OK then? We wish. The United Nations back the positive statistics but point out that while this is a remarkable achievement, one in five people in developing regions still live on less than $1.90 a day (the official definition of extreme poverty), and there are millions more who have little more than this daily amount, plus many people risk slipping back into poverty. Impacts of climate change, war and economic crisis still impact the poorest the most.
For such people it’s hardly the abundant life that we know Christ desires for all humanity. Our reading from Ezekiel tells us that the God we worship is one who longs to rescue lost sheep and bring them to safety and peace, but it also tells of his displeasure with the strong who deliberately deprive those in need, who keep taking more than they need even if they can see the cost to others around them. When all this is considered it’s hard not to reflect on the way we live. We hear from the prophet that God is on the side of the sheep who are pushed away from their share by the fat and strong. That he seeks to bring healing to the victims, the oppressed who have suffered due to the greed of others restoring body, mind and spirit.
Of course if you are living in extreme poverty statistics showing a positive trend are not going to offer much comfort. It’s a bit like being told that life spans are lengthening, it offers no comfort to someone who loses a loved one prematurely.
How we help those in need is both easy but also incredibly complex. On one level we can respond to many good charities giving our time and/or money, we truly would have to walk around with our eyes closed to be unaware that there are many in need of help. Perhaps we are the generation least able to say ‘Lord when was it that we saw you hungry or thirsty’ or in need, as pictures are beamed not only into our homes but onto screens of all sizes in so many places.
It must be a common occurrence to feel that our little bit of help won’t change much but we have heard a hard hitting message in today’s gospel that doing nothing is not an option for a Christian. I don’t see this as salvation by works but an overcoming of barriers which obstruct our recognition of Christ in each other. Recognition that Jesus is not a distant deity but the suffering, unjustly treated, victimised and ultimately crucified human being. God has chosen a human suffering figure to illustrate what kingship is truly all about. Jesus is telling us that in caring for the poor, the sick and the imprisoned we are serving God.
As intelligent people we need to use our God given brains to recognise our opportunities to do so. Lord Bird, founder of the Big Issue recently pointed out how expensive it is to be poor in our own country. For example if you live in social or other rented housing and pay your rent on time for many years this isn’t recognised for a credit rating yet those who pay their mortgage on time build up a positive credit history, a digital identity and access to credit on the best terms rather than using loan sharks or getting terrible deals on basics like white goods.
Christian Aid has a tax justice campaign aimed at greater fairness for countries rich in minerals who are not benefitting as they should. We can lobby and support such actions and ensure that we pay our own taxes to fund essential services which often help those in greater need. Strong legal systems upholding the rule of law offer the best hope of justice to the poorest and are to be highly valued. Jesus’ message probably leaves many of us feeling guilty because we know in our hearts that we could do more yet we are unlikely to ever feel we do enough. Whilst some seem to have an incredible caring capacity many people with busy lives struggle to know what they should really do.
Should we be running up to poor looking people and asking whether they live on less than $1.90 a day and then telling them they don’t meet the definition of extreme poverty if they shake their head? A lot of the commentaries I read on today’s gospel make it sound like serving those Jesus describes as an easy, almost cosy thing to do that leaves both sides with a nice warm feeling. I’ve been inside prison and actually some of the people are actually quite scary and it wouldn’t be easy to spend time with them. I tried to help someone coming out of prison and he shoved it back in my face. I’ve lent money to poor people and they have neither thanked me nor paid me back. I’ve visited the sick in hospital and had to leave them to go and throw up. I know that many of you will have had experiences that have been equally discouraging. Quite frankly I can see why sheep are used in the story because they often seem so much more straightforward than people, perhaps some literalism is in order and a bit of shepherd work would be easier!
Yet many people serving others accept this as normal and expect nothing else going go on with their work day after day, the Salvation Army comes to mind. It can sometimes be hard to see Christ the King in the face of those we try to help. Yet we must persist, even if it means finding new ways to serve each other which are more sustainable for us personally often using our strengths, skills, influence or wealth.
Compassion and care for the poor and vulnerable needs to become natural to us so that we try to make it part of all we do. We should care for the poor and vulnerable because in doing so we reflect God’s glory, compassion and unconditional love. We could even sense the nurturing of our own souls.
Care for the poor across the globe is one of the things that the church has done well for a long time from Victorian schools to support for refugees and something we should proudly seek to sustain. As we celebrate ‘Christ the King’ today if we understand our role as subjects in his kingdom the vision that Jesus wants us to work towards becomes clearer and by playing our part we become more Christ like.
When we care for those in need, we are implicitly caring for God. God feels the pain of the vulnerable but even more the joy of their restoration to wholeness. The sick, weak, young and old can must all be held highly valuable and worthy of protection and service in the life of our churches.
A final thought. Is all this stuff good news? It certainly is for many but as mostly comfortable Christians is it good news for us here today? Where do we see ourselves and God in these situations? I think Jesus’ words we heard are disturbing, challenging and yet hopeful which makes it highly worthy of personal, prayerful reflection.
Amen
Kevin Bright 25/11/17

Sunday, 19 November 2017

Second before Advent: God's Treasure (Breathing Space evening sermon)



This morning at our All Age Worship, I asked people to think of what they wanted to give thanks for today. They came up with all sorts of suggestions ; family, friends, faith, the glories of creation, work and community. But I’m not sure they knew quite where I was going with this line of questioning. After all, what did thanksgiving have to do with the Gospel reading we’d heard, the parable of the Talents? We all know what talents are. The ability to sing or dance or juggle. Surely the message of the parable was simple. We all have special skills. We should use them, not bury them.

That’s a perfectly good message, but I don’t think it’s the message of this parable.

To Jesus’ first hearers, a talent wasn’t something you went on a talent show to display. It was a unit of measurement often used for weighing precious metals. A talent was about 4 stone, or 28 kilogrammes. Gradually it became a unit of currency, and it represented a lot of money. A talent was worth about 15 times the annual salary of an ordinary working man. 

So this is a story about a seriously rich man. He gives one slave 5 talents to look after ; that’s 75 years’ worth of wages . The second gets 2 talents – 30 years’ worth – and even the third slave is entrusted with 15 years’ worth. All of them are given a huge amount. The master doesn’t say what they’re to do with it, but the first two trade with it and double their money.

The third slave though, is afraid, and we probably sympathise. Trade is risky. Investments can go down as well as up. What if he loses it all? He believes, rightly or wrongly, that his master is a harsh man - he doesn’t want to risk a penny of what he’s been given.  So he digs a hole and buries it.

But when his master comes home he is furious. He could at least have invested it with a banker, where it might have made some interest! he’s told, before being unceremoniously thrown out. It probably seems unfair - and I think Jesus means us to feel that way. I think he means to play on our empathy for this slave whose fear has made him too cautious to do anything at all with the treasure he’s been given.  

The disciples who first heard this story – Jews like Jesus -  had grown up knowing that God had given them great treasures as a people, things they gave thanks for. They gave thanks for their law, the law God had given them to help them live together well. They gave thanks for the covenant relationship he’d called them into – they would be his people and he would be their God. They gave thanks for the Temple in which they encountered him. All this, and more, had been entrusted to them. They knew it was precious beyond measure. But what should they do with these treasures? There are tensions throughout the Hebrew Scriptures about this. Should they make their treasured inheritance available to others, take it out into the world and share it? Or should they guard it carefully, make sure no one got their hands on it, in case it was polluted or damaged?  Should they keep gentiles out of the Temple, exclude them from the covenant, nit-pick over the law, even it became a burden rather than a blessing in the process? Some Jewish people, like the Pharisees and the Essenes, urged separation as the way to holiness. Others said that God wanted the knowledge of him to spread out in to the world “as the waters covered the sea,” and never mind the risk of their faith changing in the process.

Christians have often fallen into the same dilemma. Often they have thought – “better safe than sorry, stick to the old ways, just in case we provoke God into anger.”  When we think like that all we are doing is digging a hole for our faith. Should we be surprised if the church shrinks as a result and the stingy message we preach is rejected.

Jesus’ parable isn’t about those special skills we now call “talents”. It’s about treasure and what we do with it, about what it means really to “treasure” something. It encourages us to take a look at ourselves. Are we over-cautious, over-anxious, so afraid we’ll get it wrong that we daren’t do anything?  I don’t think it’s just about religion, either. It’s about the whole of life, all those things we value and give thanks for.  It’s about our families, friends and communities. How do we “treasure” them and let them be places where God’s kingdom grows? How can we “treasure” creation, so it is a blessing for everyone? How can we “treasure” our work, so it doesn’t just keep the wolf from the door, but become a place where God is at work too?  Are we prepared to be open-handed and whole-hearted in what we do, or are we too afraid of falling flat on our faces to have a go at anything new?   


Jesus calls us to trust the generosity of God.  He’s not the harsh master the slave in the story fears. He’s the  God who gives of himself again and again, from an immeasurable source of love. He is the God who even gives his own son, even though we kill him, and who  who longs to enrich us day by day with his treasures, and through us to enrich the world. Amen 

Sunday, 12 November 2017

Remembrance Sunday: A little child shall lead them



Isaiah 11.6-9, Mark 9.33-37

In early September 1939 the largest mass movement of children that has ever taken place in the UK got underway. It’s estimated that at the start of WW2 something like 1.5 million children were evacuated from their homes to areas thought to be safer. I know that there are people here this morning who have personal or family experience of being evacuated or receiving evacuees. Some children were even sent overseas. My grandmother thought very seriously about sending my mother, aged 7, and her 5 year old sister from Plymouth to family members in South Africa, to escape the bombing in Plymouth, only changing her mind when several ships carrying evacuees were torpedoed. There were agonising choices to be made.

For some who were evacuated, their time away from home was wonderful; new experiences, perhaps better homes and lives than they had known, fresh air and space. For others it was misery, put more or less at random in the homes of complete strangers who might or might not treat them well. Many evacuees were brought home within weeks; their families missed them too much. But others never really came home at all. Family bonds were broken during the war, parents were killed, homes were destroyed. There was no one and nowhere to return to.

At home or evacuated, war left its mark on the children who lived through it. Food was rationed. Nights were interrupted by air raid alerts, and you never knew what the next day would bring. A  clergyman I worked with, who’d been a child in London during the war, once told me how it became routine for him to go into school in the morning and find a desk empty, a friend no longer there, killed in the previous night’s raids. He recognised the impact it had had on his ability to form friendships for ever after.

Mercifully, children growing up in the UK don’t have to endure things like this now, but that’s not the case for children in other parts of the world. UNICEF estimates that there are currently something like 28 million children around the world who have been driven from their homes by war. 28 million children. I’ll repeat that number because you may wonder whether you heard it right. Some have become refugees in other countries. Others have been internally displaced, seeking shelter in other parts of their own countries, often in overcrowded camps, without access to health care and education. And of course many more children are still in warzones, some of them even forced to fight themselves. That 28 million is just the ones who’ve got away.

It’s natural and right, on Remembrance Sunday, to think of and give thanks for members of the armed forces who gave their lives in war.  Their names are the ones recorded on our War Memorials. In modern wars, though, far more civilians are killed than military personnel. While wars were once predominantly fought between armies on battlefields, or warships on the ocean, now they are often fought  through aerial bombardment and drone strikes carried out from a distance, or by guerrilla forces fighting street to street in towns and cities. It’s estimated that something like 80 – 90% of the casualties of modern warfare are civilians – and many of them are children. Adults declare war, but children suffer the effects. And as they grow up, the things they’ve seen don’t leave them. The trauma of war can leave them anxious and insecure or bitter and angry, fuelling another cycle of violence in the next generation.

Children are often overlooked in times of war, but the Bible readings we heard today both put children right at the centre of the story. In the reading from Mark’s Gospel Jesus takes a little child and literally stands it in the middle of his fractious, squabbling disciples. They’ve been arguing among themselves about which one of them is the greatest, and Jesus was obviously very aware of this.

His disciples had imagined that the Messiah, God’s chosen leader, would be a great military or political leader. They’d come to the conclusion that Jesus was this Messiah, and they were longing for him to show his hand. They were sure that through him God would throw out the occupying Roman forces, and usher in God’s new kingdom, a kingdom like the one their great King David had ruled over. They imagined crowns and thrones, and power for those who were closest to the new king. But who would be greatest among them when that day came, the right hand man?

They’re obviously embarrassed when Jesus calls them out on this. They didn’t realise he’d been listening. Deep down they know it is a silly thing to argue about – as most of our arguments are. “What were you arguing about ?”  he asks them. But he doesn’t press them for an answer. Asking the question is enough. Instead he simply takes a child, a small child, and puts it in the middle of them. Look at this child, says Jesus. The kingdom of God isn’t about sitting on thrones and wearing crowns. It’s not about throwing your weight around and having people bow down to you. If you want to know what the kingdom of God is about, what really matters in it, then this child is it.

What did Jesus mean?

The key thing we need to know is that, at the time of Jesus, children were even more vulnerable than they are today. There were no child protection laws. There was no United Nations Declaration of the Rights of the Child. Childhood wasn’t sentimentalised, or regarded as a special, more innocent time of life. Children were entirely at the mercy of their fathers, who had power of life and death over them. They weren’t really counted as of much worth until they got to an age when they could work.  I am sure that many were loved, but they were essentially powerless, and whenever they are mentioned in the Bible that’s what we’re meant to keep in mind. The Gospels sometimes call them “little ones”, but that phrase doesn’t just include children. It is anyone who is disempowered in some way – by old age as well as youth, by disability, gender or social status. “Little ones” are the ones at the bottom of the heap, left to fend for themselves.

It’s sometimes said that you can tell how civilised a nation really is by the way it treats people like these. In the Kingdom of God, says Jesus, they come first - not out of kindness, or worse still, pity, but because they are the place where God’s work starts.  The Kingdom of God isn’t built by mighty armies that conquer and subdue by force and terror. Its greatness isn’t shown by splendid robes and golden crowns. It is seen when the needs of the marginalised and vulnerable “little ones” are centre stage, rather than being shoved to the periphery. 

Jesus tells stories in the Gospel about the Kingdom of God being like a tiny seed or a grain of yeast, something almost too small to see, but which can grow into a great tree or raise an entire loaf, given time. Littleness matters to him. He pays the ultimate price for standing up for the “little ones” in his society when he’s crucified like a worthless criminal on the waste ground outside Jerusalem. But he never turns back from his commitment to them. Miss these people out, says Jesus, and you miss out on God, because they are where he is at work, they are where his kingdom begins.

Detail from “The Peaceable Kingdom” by Edward Hicks 1780-1849
“A little child shall lead them,” said Isaiah, in the passage our Cubs and Beavers read to us. That passage is often called the vision of the “Peaceable Kingdom”. It was written at a time of great conflict and turmoil for the Jewish people, who’d been crushed by the Babylonians. It looked like it was all over for them, but God hadn’t forgotten them, says Isaiah.  There could be a better future. But it wouldn’t be a future in which the powerful lorded it over everyone else. It would be a time when rivalries and divisions were put to an end, even in the animal kingdom. Wolves and lambs would live in peace. The picture on the service sheet  is a detail from a painting of this scene  by Edward Hicks , a Quaker living in Pennsylvania in the early 1800s. He despaired, as we all do sometimes, when he looked at the world around him. Even among his Quaker brothers and sisters, bitter squabbles and rivalries often took hold, as they do in any close community.  He painted many versions of this scene – he’s famous for it. But each one is slightly different, and experts reckon that the differences between them probably represent the ups and downs of the relationships in the community around him.

In the version I’ve given you, I think that lion looks as if his patience is starting to wear thin with the child who is pulling at his mane, and the leopard seems to be about to lose it too. They’re holding it together, but only just. Maybe it’s hard for them to give up the instinct to snarl and snap, to make themselves feel big and secure by making other animals feel small and afraid.   Hicks’ picture is a reminder that peace isn’t something we can ever take for granted. It takes hard work from all of us for it to thrive. It takes a commitment to respect one another and to refrain from throwing our weight around. It takes the courage to trust that we have enough of what we need so we can hold it in open hands and feel safe sharing it. We may not think that anything we do will make much difference to the course of world history, for good or ill, but the truth is that the seeds both of peace and of conflict are sown in the tiny, everyday things of life. They’re sown in our relationships and attitudes, our prejudices and fears, the decisions we make, consciously or unconsciously, about who we’ll listen to and who we’ll dismiss. Small things matter. Small people matter. The little things are the big things, or they will become so one day.

On this Remembrance Sunday, may we keep in mind God’s children, his little ones, and the littleness that is in each of us if we are honest, the part of us that’s afraid, insecure, not sure which way to turn for help.  And may that little child, outside us and within, lead us in the paths of peace, for all our sakes.
Amen



Sunday, 5 November 2017

Bible Sunday: Let the Word of Christ dwell in you richly

Audio version here 


Over the last week or so you may have seen events and articles commemorating the 500th anniversary of the Reformation. In a way, it’s a bit of an arbitrary date. What this anniversary has actually marked is the moment when, on Oct 31st 1517, Martin Luther, a German Augustinian monk, nailed 95 theses – 95 statements – to the door of a church in Wittenberg. They were statements expressing his disagreement with the Catholic belief in indulgences. An indulgence was a formal declaration granting “time off” for people in purgatory, an intermediate state between heaven and hell where the soul was thought to be cleansed. Prayers, pilgrimages and good works could all reduce the time you’d have to spend there after death, according to Catholic doctrine. It was always a bit of a dodgy proposition – there’s no Biblical basis for it – but it was when indulgences started to be sold on an industrial scale for cold, hard cash that opposition to the whole system started to build. Luther wasn’t the first to challenge the sale of indulgences – that’s why I said that this is a rather arbitrary date to fix the start of what we call the Reformation. Over a century earlier, the English priest, JohnWycliffe, had criticised them, and his followers, radical Christians who were scathingly called Lollards – babblers – had kept up the criticism since then, and been persecuted savagely for doing so. Luther’s 95 theses, nailed to the Wittenberg church door, were just another step in a long, slow process of reform, which would eventually lead to the foundation of Protestant Churches across Europe.

The thing that fuelled this reforming urge, both for Luther and the earlier Reformers, was the Bible. It was Paul’s letter the Romans which did it for Luther. As a conscientious monk – perhaps too conscientious – he’d tried so hard to live the perfect spiritual life that it had nearly broken him. “How can I be saved?” was his anxious question. As he read Romans, he was reminded powerfully that salvation was a gift from God. We’re saved by grace, by God’s loving decision and God’s loving action, not because of what we've done or ever could do. That wasn't a new idea, but things like the sale of indulgences had obscured it, because they gave the impression that God’s love could be bought or earned.  

Reading the letter to the Romans opened Luther’s eyes afresh to this central message of the Gospel.  And if it had opened his eyes, he knew that it could open the eyes of others too. But how would ordinary people ever discover this liberating message for themselves? Luther could read Latin, Greek and Hebrew. But most ordinary people never heard the Bible in a language they could understand. If you’d come here to Seal church at any time before the Reformation, the service would have been in Latin, including all the Bible readings. I don’t know how good your Latin is, but my guess is that most people here would have found it pretty hard to follow. It might seem crazy to us now to make it so hard for ordinary people to understand the Bible, but in a sense, that was the whole point.

You see, the Bible is a dangerous book. It’s full of dangerous ideas. It tells us that we are all equal in the sight of God, that God “casts down the mighty from their seats and exalts the humble and meek.” That’s good news for the humble and meek, but you can see why the mighty might not be so keen on it. As well as that, people were genuinely afraid that if untrained people read the Bible they might get it wrong, and imperil their immortal souls as a result. Better to leave the Bible in the hands of those who knew what they were doing with it, or thought they did!

No wonder the powers that be were worried when people like Wycliffe and Luther translated the Bible to make it accessible to all. Luther reputedly went down into the marketplaces of the town where he was staying and spent time listening to the way people actually spoke to each other, catching their idioms and rhythms of speech so that his translation would communicate with them, and it soon caught on. Back here in England Wycliffe had made a translation into English a century earlier. It had been banned – the penalty for owning one was death – but it had circulated widely and now William Tyndale began to make a new translation which, like Luther’s, captured the speech patterns of ordinary people. Tyndale paid for his presumption with his life, since Henry VIII was still staunchly Catholic at this stage. But ironically, less than two years later, after Henry’s break with Rome, he ordered that every church in the land should have its own English Bible, in a translation which was mostly Tyndale’s. Tyndale is said to have prayed as he died, “Open the King of England’s eyes”, and it seemed as if God had done just that.  

Those who’d feared that giving people access to the Bible in their own language would spark revolution were right to be afraid, because it did. It changed the world.  

I’m glad that today we have a Bible we can all read, but for all that, though, I’m not sure that Protestants have really been any better at truly “hearing the word of the Lord” than their Medieval Catholic brothers and sisters were. Anyone who knows me will know that I am pretty passionate about the Bible, and pretty passionate about finding ways of helping people read it. There’s the “Story of the Week” each week on the pew leaflet, the Good Book Club each month which discusses those stories. There are Home Groups, Lent and Advent material for reflection, and all sorts of other things. I care about this book immensely, but I’m also clear that the squiggles on these pages are not, in and of themselves, the word of God. God may speak to us through them, through the stories of those who have struggled with faith before us and left us this record, but he can’t be confined by this book, any more than he could be boxed up in the rituals of the Catholic Church, and when we forget that we soon get into trouble.

At the Reformation, Protestants knocked the statues of the saints off their pedestals, but often they then put the Bible on those pedestals instead. They insisted that every stroke of it had come straight from the mouth of God and should be obeyed as unquestioningly as Catholics had been expected to obey the Pope. Read it correctly – that is, the way those in charge told you to read it – and all would be well. They accused Catholics of idolatry, but then set about making an idol of the Bible instead. That’s a very dangerous thing to do. You can construct a justification for almost anything from the Bible if you pick the right verses; slavery, the oppression of women and LGBT people, imperialism and racism, even child abuse. The Bible gives very clear instruction that rebellious sons should be put to death (Deuteronomy 21.18-21), but I think you’d rightly get into quite a lot of trouble now if you obeyed that particular injunction. That’s why I think it is really important that we grasp that that this book, this physical object, these squiggles on these pages are not in themselves the Word of God. We can be enlivened, enlightened, challenged, comforted, blessed and transformed through them. We can feel God’s breath coming from the pages, but we mustn't mistake the creation for the Creator. The Bible is a precious treasury of wisdom, story, worship, warning and inspiration, but if we truly want to hear the word of God through it, we’ll need to work a bit harder than just lifting proof texts from here and there and assuming we've found simple answers to life’s complicated problems.

“Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly”, said Paul to the Colossians in the reading we heard today. I love that verse, because it’s a reminder that God wants his word to dwell in us, to make its home in us, to intermingle with all that makes us who we are and enrich us in the process. The “word of Christ” that Paul refers to here wasn't a book. It can’t have been, because this book didn't exist when he wrote to the Colossians. The Gospels hadn't been written yet. Paul’s letters were just scraps of paper circulating around the churches he’d founded. It would be centuries before the list of books we now find in our Bibles were finally agreed on, let alone bound in one volume like they are today.  

So, when Paul talks about the word of Christ, he isn't talking about words on a page, but something far more diverse than that. The people he was writing to expected God to speak to them in all sorts of ways; through the Hebrew Scriptures, but also through each other as they gathered together and shared in the fellowship of their churches, through prayer and prophetic utterance as well as through the stories they were told of the life of Jesus. It may all sound frustratingly vague. They, like we, would probably have like to have a neat list of rules, all bound up in one slim volume, to which they could effortlessly refer – that’s how the Bible ended up on that pedestal at the Reformation. But the truth is that if we try to treat the Bible that way we have to ignore its complexities, read only those verses that suit us, and when we do that, we lose its richness too. The only measuring stick the early church had to determine whether they were hearing God’s word, God’s guidance for their lives, was the measuring stick of love. Did what they were hearing build love and draw them together, or did it bring hatred and stir up division?  

I’m glad that here at Seal there are so many ways in which we can encounter this precious book, brought to us at so great a cost by those Reformation translators. But I hope that we’ll always have the courage to bring our own brains and hearts to it as we read it and hear it. It’s only when we do that the Word incarnate can speak through the words on these pages. It’s only when we do that that God can come to dwell richly in us and in our community bringing us his life, his love and his peace.

Amen.