“Mary the first theologian of the Incarnation” – The Reverend Canon Maggie McLean, Missioner

Many of our Christmas cards might make birth in the first century seem a holy, simple and painless event. But, as we know, birth then – and birth in the Holy Land now – is far from safe or certain. Mary had a lot to think about.  

According to Matthew, Joseph wanted to dismiss her quietly; for her own good. I wonder how often down the ages, and still today, men have discarded their responsibilities, telling themselves: ‘it’s for her own good’.  

By contrast, in the Gospel reading we have just heard from Luke, Mary is portrayed as a confident young woman, travelling in haste to visit her also-pregnant cousin, Elizabeth.  

It is a meeting of great joy and affirmation when, in Elizabeth’s womb, John the Baptist leaps at the sound of Mary’s greeting. Theologically it’s as though John’s work has begun already, enlivened by the approach of Jesus – stirred into action in the presence of the one whose way he is destined to prepare.  

Of course, it is not uncommon in the later stages of pregnancy to feel the movement of a baby. For a mother it is a deep and somehow unexpected experience. A reminder of human life hidden within a human life. Almost 30 years ago, when I was pregnant, I would sometimes feel my child move while standing at the altar. I was aware of the life within in me, while I held in my hands the spiritual life Christ offers to each of us. 

We mustn’t think of Mary’s pregnancy as some sanitised and celestial form of an Air B&B for the Divine. It’s fine that the Orthodox churches often talk about Mary as ‘God-bearer’.  But if it is a Christian doctrine that the conception of Jesus was highly unusual, nothing suggests that Mary’s pregnancy was strange or unexpected. Consequently, I believe that Jesus wasn’t some divine spark sheltered in Mary’s womb. The incarnation includes the physical development of Jesus through all the usual stages of human change and growth. To put it more plainly – it means that Jesus was being co-created. 

It is this which brings God closer to us than we are to ourselves. Not an external, exterior, distant God – but God in Christ who has relinquished power in order to serve and to save.  

For that reason we must never forget the physicality of our faith at this season as the theologian John Bolland writes: “the Word becomes flesh so that the Word might be more easily – and literally – grasped: skin on skin, warm to the touch, pulsing with life”.   

Jesus is born as one of us. This is the starting point for the whole of the Christian faith. 

The saviour who passes through the broken waters and the blood of birth to bring new life to the world. It is painful and messy and traumatic – as many births are – but the Word made flesh is the spiritual life for all who put their faith in him.  

Our Gospel this morning ends just before Mary offers her magnificent, moving and revolutionary hymn of praise to God: the Magnificat. It is a song of reversed fortunes, where the proud are defeated in the imagination of their hearts, and the powerful are pulled from their thrones. But more than that, it is a triumphant declaration of a woman doing, and being, and speaking her own work of theology. Because of the outrageous hope that God has spoken into the life of Mary, Mary is liberated to praise a God who chooses what the world considers weak, in order to shame the strong. In recent weeks I have been moved by several examples of courageous women who have refused to be silent. Not least by the extraordinary, astonishing, and impressive Gisèle Pelicot. 

As we approach Christmas, we might be tempted to look upon Mary as the vessel of God’s salvation. The one chosen to carry Christ to birth. But Mary is so much more than that.  

She is the first theologian of the Incarnation. The first to perceive and understand the revolutionary change which God is bringing to the world. The first to worship and adore the child whose greatest desire is to lift up the lowly; to scatter the proud; and to empower the silenced to speak. 

‘The Upside-Down Kingdom’ – Canon Peter Collier, Cathedral Reader

May I speak in the name of the one God who is Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

So we come again to the year’s end, the liturgical year, which means that today we are celebrating that Christ is King.

My first experience of monarchy was in 1957 – I was 8 years old, the Queen came to Hull and amongst the places she visited was a children’s home with which my father had some connection, and so we were there beside the steps as she went up into the building – almost touching distance. There was great excitement. Later in the day we went out to the village of Paull, beside the Humber estuary to watch as the royal yacht Britannia made its way out to sea to take the Queen on a state visit to Denmark. As you may gather it is a memory that has lived with me vividly ever since.

Some of you will have been here when the Queen visited York – perhaps in 1988 when she formally reopened the south transept after the fire, or perhaps when she distributed the Maundy money in 2012. Some of you I know were here on one or both of the King’s recent visits. Some of us had the privilege of being introduced to him. All these experiences shape our view of monarchy.

I know there will be different views amongst us today about monarchy. I wonder what is your image? According to Wikipedia there are 43 sovereign states that have a monarch as their head of state – most now have restricted powers, limited by their country’s constitutions, but there are still a few, a handful, where the monarch has absolute power. I expect many of you are enjoying the new series of Wolf Hall where we see the Henry VIII style of kingship wonderfully played out by Damian Lewis. Now there was a king. “off with her head”, meant the head rolled.

And Pilate had that sort of power – in his case it was power delegated from the emperor – but still power to decree life or death – no appeals, no stays, no convention on human rights there.

And he had all the other trappings of absolute power – a palace, wealth on display, all the resources he needed, and armed soldiers to enforce his bidding. That’s what kingship meant to Pilate.

And now he has been told that this man who is produced in front of him in chains claims that he too is a king.

And they have a discussion about kingship.

It is striking that the place in the gospels where this discussion about kingship takes place is not at the transfiguration, nor the resurrection nor the ascension, nor any other place where glory is on display. No, it is in the shadow of the cross. Jesus is a prisoner, accused of treason and facing a death sentence.  And there he has a discussion with Pilate about whether or not he is a king and, if so, what is the nature of his kingship.

What Jesus says about his kingdom – is that it is not from here; it is not of this world.

How can Pilate be assured of that? “Well” says Jesus “if it was a kingdom like the kingdoms of this world, like your kingdom Pilate – then my followers would be fighting to protect me from you because that is how kingdoms operate in this world”.

That was true then and it has been true ever since.

Earlier this year I read Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English People, which takes us from the Roman conquest to the middle of the 8^th century. Covering the Anglo Saxon period when there were several kingdoms on this island. And I could not believe the number of battles that there were between various kings, often between people who were blood relatives.

Only last weekend we were remembering those who died in the two world wars of recent memory.

And in addition to the warring kingdoms of nations we now need to add the corporate kingdoms of business and enterprise. They also have real power in this world, power which they use to get yet more power, as they build their brands and their businesses in competition with one another.

So whether it is clans, tribes, nations, corporations – all under their kings wage war of one sort or another – it is all about conflict, about winners and losers.

Jesus says to Pilate – that is not what my kingdom is about. You want to know what it is about – well it is not about conflict but about truth. That’s what I came for – to testify to what is ultimately true. And my followers are those who listen to me to get that truth.

The truth which Jesus spoke about again and again is counterintuitive to the received ways of doing things – basically it is about turning the world upside down. In Acts 17 we read that when Paul and Silas went to Thessalonica it was said “these people who have been turning the world upside down have now come here”. And what lay at the root of that?” As the Thessalonian mob said “they are saying there is another king named Jesus”.

His mother Mary when told of his coming also spoke about things being turned upside down, about the God who looked upon her lowliness and who would thereafter scatter the proud, put down the mighty, send the rich away empty, and who would lift up the humble and meek and fill the hungry with good things.

Jesus himself often spoke in ways that were counterintuitive –

About greatness – he said whoever is humble like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.

About leadership – he said it was about washing feet, and about service.

And as to how you should respond to being wronged – you should forgive – How much should we forgive each other – is it as much as 7 times? – “no” he said, “70 times 7’.

And so we could go on.

None of this makes sense by the standards of the kingdoms of this world, but it is what God’s kingdom is about. And when you hear it and hear about it and when you see it, you know it makes sense. You know it is the truth about how we should be living in this world.

But it is a challenge to all those received ways of working, and if you challenge the status quo of the powerful, they will try to silence you.

And for Jesus being true to that kind of kingship led to the cross.

Of course the ultimate truth is that it will not always be like this. One day he will reign in power. Daniel looked forward to that day as we heard in our first reading.

It spoke about one like a human being, or as some translations say “the Son of Man”, coming with the clouds of heaven, being presented to the Ancient of Days. “And to him was given dominion and glory and kingship, that all peoples, nations, and languages should serve him. His dominion is an everlasting dominion that shall not pass away, and his kingship is one that shall never be destroyed.”

Whilst that is then, that is not now.

Now we are still in this world, some of us have had and some of us do have positions of authority and so have power over other people; the expectation we have grown up with and that others have is that we can use that power to achieve what we want to achieve. And of course as we have been reminded in the last couple of weeks any abuse of power in the church can be so damaging. This morning, on this Feast of Christ the King, Jesus challenges us to live counterintuitively and counterculturally in his upside down kingdom.

Of course there will also be those here who have been on the wrong end of the exercise of power and authority. And for those there is real comfort in this gospel account too. We know that King Jesus has been there. And as his followers we are one with him – or you might say he is with us where we are – whether misunderstood, rejected, accused, powerless, or abused. He knows it, he gets it, and through his resurrection life and his transforming love can change our lives beyond measure.

Amen.

‘The Heart of Faith’ – The Reverend Canon Maggie McLean, Missioner

When I am in the Minster, or just walking past it on the outside, I often hear words of admiration. “What an amazing building!”; “How did they build that without a single computer!”; “Look at the glass – it’s so beautiful!”. Perhaps those who have been coming here for several decades stop being awed by this magnificent structure – but I doubt it.

No matter how often you see it, it is always impressive. And no matter how well anyone thinks they know the Minster – every nook and cranny – we all, still, discover new things.

Big buildings, especially big churches and cathedrals, are designed to make us catch our breath. To speak in the materials of this world about another world and a different Kingdom.

To lead us to think beyond the materials from which they are made and to glimpse the glory, the peace, the splendour and the light of what is yet to come.

At the start of today’s Gospel, the disciples of Jesus are impressed by the Temple. Perhaps, like the Minster, the fact that people could bring together such a weight of things was almost beyond belief. “Look, Teacher, what large stones and what large buildings”. However, Jesus isn’t impressed. He knows that all kingdoms and empires come to an end. And, when they do, all their splendour turns to dust.

Later, from the Mount of Olives, the sight of the Temple still dominated the view of Jerusalem. A small group of the disciples are eager to know when this destruction will take place, and what will be the sign that it’s about to happen. Jesus answers that it will come, but not necessarily when we think it is due. The trouble we see around us in the world are the ‘birth pangs’ of what is to come.

As we know all too well, conflict and trouble have always been part of the sorry history of humanity. We long and pray for peace; but live alongside the reality of conflict. We all strive, as much as we can, to offer our small contribution to make the world a better and more loving place. That’s our calling and our mission, no matter how little we think we can achieve. We must “seek peace and pursue it”.

Today we will be baptising Ben into the faith at whose heart is the peace of Christ. It is this peace which we are called to seek, and to live out in our lives. This is partly why I love the heart that is depicted in stone and glass in the West window of the Minster. You can look round and look. In the vastness of this building something as human, and as hidden as a heart, is given pride of place. As if to say, no matter how impressive the building, God’s temple is found in the steady beat of a faithful heart. In lives which, even when these stones are turned to dust, are destined to dwell in immortality.

We have seen in the last few days how the Church can fail, all too easily, to put at its heart the love; care; compassion; and wisdom, the world should expect. This failure comes at a cost which is paid by the victims and survivors of abuse. Splendid buildings are not enough to safeguard the lives God loves, and that we – too often – have harmed. To change requires a determined heart, and the tenacity not to ignore the voices and signs of injury.

In a moment in this service Ben’s Parents and Godparents will be asked a very simple question:  ‘Do you turn to Christ?’. To turn means to set out in a new direction, and to follow Christ into all the mess and joy that life brings. We all know that life seldom unfolds in the ways we anticipate. We don’t know what the future will hold for Ben. What we do know, is that Christ promises to be there with us. In happy times and challenging times. To stir our hearts into life and know God’s love deep within our being. It is because God loves us that baptism is given as an unconditional sign of blessing. That through its waters we are born into a new community which has – and will – change the world for the better. It is this faith and hope which is the light carried in the heart of each and every person who comes to be baptised. It is the love which alone will last in both this world, and the next.

‘Seek him that maketh the seven stars’ – The Very Revd Dominic Barrington, Dean of York

Seek him that maketh the seven stars and Orion and turneth the shadow of death into the morning.

Much of the gospel of Matthew depicts the growing tension between Jesus and the Jewish religious leadership of his time, especially in the person of the Pharisees. While this theme is not absent from any of the four gospels, it has a particular resonance in Matthew, the tone of which suggests that the context of this particular gospel may well have been set in a community of Jewish Christians which had separated very painfully from the synagogue, given how much opprobrium is directed at the ‘scribes and Pharisees’ nearer the end of the gospel.

The section of the gospel read as our second reading depicts the split with a painful and clear dichotomy – one that might have felt all the more poignant if we had heard the verses immediately preceding. For the very last verses of chapter eleven present us with Jesus at his most consoling, inviting all those who are ‘weary and carrying heavy burdens’ to come to him for rest. And then, so Matthew tells us, ‘At that time’  – at that very time – Jesus finds himself going through the cornfields, needing to satisfy the weary burden of human hunger – only to have the Pharisees accuse him of breaking God’s law.

And that’s not an accusation which plays well with Jesus, who has left behind the ‘gentle and humble’ persona depicted only a few verses earlier. As is often the case, when Jesus has an argument about the Law thrust at him, he gives back as good as he gets – indeed, he gives back rather better, throwing a line from Hosea at those who would condemn him, to top off a legal counter-argument in which he emerges as the victor.

Seek him that maketh the seven stars…

And that’s not enough. With a very clear sense of the growing division and enmity, Matthew tells us that Jesus then enters their synagogue (that possessive pronoun telling us all we need to know about the level of tension and division now in the air). And here the stakes are raised – raised from hunger to sickness and deformity. “Is it lawful to cure on the sabbath?”, they demand…. and, again, Jesus gives those who love to uphold the Law a lesson on what it might mean, properly, to do just that.

A lecture, and an action, that leave them conspiring ‘how to destroy him’. An attitude that simply encourages Jesus to cure ‘all’ of the ‘crowds’ that have begun to follow him, in the context of which Matthew aligns Jesus for us with that famous but shadowy figure from second Isaiah – the Suffering Servant – whose service and compassion for all people will enlighten the nations and bring justice to all.

Seek him that maketh the seven stars…

It is good – very good – this evening, to welcome members of York Medical Society to join us at this service, worshipping here at the Minster, as is their custom, on the Sunday following the feast day of St Luke, labeled in the New Testament as being the ‘beloved physician’.

Founded in 1832, the Society, so its website explains, exists to offer medical professionals ‘an environment removed from the workplace, and a rare opportunity to socialize across specialities in relaxed surroundings’. For those of us not privileged to belong to this wonderful body, I can reveal that in the coming weeks, they will be having a talk about the history of the universe; a talk on the state of nature in North Yorkshire; a Christmas wreath-making workshop; and – I am most envious to report – both a wine-tasting for the imminent festive season, and also (most dear to my heart) a whisky tasting.

One would have to be living with one’s head in the clouds not to be aware of the many pressures that the medical profession faces in the current climate. The extraordinary years of the pandemic (in which, so appropriately, we stood on the streets to applaud the NHS), and the challenging economic reality this nation faces does not, I suspect, make the working life of our guests this evening always feel a bundle of laughs. So it is good that they model for themselves and the rest of us, the need to find that bigger picture in which they can relax, they can form friendships beyond their immediate work environment, in which they can grow, and in which, perhaps, they can even Seek him that maketh the seven stars.

Our medics are not the only group gathered here this evening who meet together regularly for reasons that blend vocational activity with relaxation, and – at least in some cases – the chance to sample the odd alcoholic beverage. Some of you may be aware that our visiting choir this weekend is the choir which formed me both as a musician and as a Christian. In my school days the director of this choir was also the Director of Music at a nearby grammar school, and it was his rather heavy-handed suggestion that persuaded me to darken the doors of a church for the first time in my life, and I guess you could say that it ‘took’, and after a mere 18 years of singing in Kingston I found myself moving onwards to theological college, to do my own seeking of the one that maketh the seven stars, and here I am today.

Of course, when I joined All Saints choir back in 1975, Jonathan Dove’s uplifting anthem that we have just heard was still some twenty years in the future, for he is a mere three years older than I am. So it is not a work I have ever had the pleasure of singing myself, but I am deeply grateful that it was chosen to round off this weekend of choral excellence by my old friends. For, in Mr Dove’s choice of text, we have the challenge that is at the heart of our second reading, and – indeed – I think we have the challenge of how we live out our entire lives encapsulated in just two well-chosen verses of scripture – verses that tell us to Seek him that maketh the seven stars.

Conflict dogs and divides the communities of the world, and even those communities that strive to be religious, explicitly following God’s command and God’s call, are far from immune, as that portion of Matthew shows us so clearly. In about a month’s time, our politicians will be debating Kim Leadbeater’s private member’s bill to legalise assisted dying. In addition to the debate and division I imagine we will see on the floor of the House of Commons, I am quite certain that the rooms of the York Medical Society, and many other spaces occupied by healthcare professionals will be divided by this debate – as, most certainly, will be many parts of the church of God (only yesterday, the deans of England’s cathedrals, were being asked to sign a letter on this subject). People will not agree, and it is possible heated words will be exchanged as law, vocation and ethics mix together in a complex fashion.

And that is just one topical and clear instance of why it is important to hear the call of that glorious anthem to which we have just listened, which encourages us to emulate Jesus in working out properly and fully (by which I mean doing so much more than just quoting a particular legal formula) that God would have us do in the living out of our lives and the challenges we will face.

That is why it is, truly, so important to seek the maker of the seven stars and Orion, for it is only God who possesses the gift that ‘turneth the shadow of death into the morning’. That’s not always easy to do – far from it – for in truth, despite Matthew’s bitter depiction of them, I am sure the Pharisees were keen to obey and follow God, even though they disagreed so violently with Jesus. But it is only when, in fellowship with those around us, whether in societies, in choirs, or in any other walk of life into which God calls us – it is only when we respond to that call to seek the maker of those seven stars that we will find ourselves able to say (and perhaps even to sing) yea, the darkness shineth as the day, the night is light about me. Amen.

Sermon: Choral Evensong on the Nineteenth Sunday after Trinity – The Reverend Canon Maggie McLean, Missioner

May I speak in the name of the blessed trinity, one God in three persons.

As I have recently been reminded, being ill isn’t fun. Not only is sickness painful and debilitating, it interrupts plans; brings work to a halt, and – perhaps – isolates us from others. It is why the people who have the skill and patience to care for the sick is so important. Important to particular individuals and also important to society as a whole. If we haven’t already drawn on the services of the NHS or St John’s Ambulance, we all know that such a time will come.

Recently I visited a member of the Minster congregation. A woman advancing in years, she shared with me an experience she had here in the Minster while singing the hymn that began our service this afternoon Immortal Invisible, which contains the words: ‘We blossom and flourish like leaves on the tree we wither and perish but nought changes me’

She had suddenly been struck by these words and said to me:

“I decided I was in the withering phase, not yet the perishing phase”. It made me laugh out loud but also prompted me to reflect on my own physical and mental phase of life – If you’re interested I think I’m mid-leaf!

I hope you had chance, before the service, to read the introductory notes. The Order of St John has a long and noble history. The values, character and commitments of the Order goes back a long, long way. You may also have reflected, as I did, how little seems to have changed in a thousand years. That we are still talking about, and doing what little we can to help, a situation that has at its heart the city of Jerusalem.

It was in this city that the Order of St John, known as the Hospitallers, began to care for pilgrims. As it says in the Order of Service, “their work was centred around the care of the sick and the poor of all faiths – treating Christians, Muslims, and Jews alike”.

The word ‘hospitaller’ still exists, remarkably, in at least one hospital in the UK. The chaplain at St Thomas’ in London still carries the title ‘hospitaller’. At the Reformation, when the old monastic hospitals were dissolved, their many different chaplains were pensioned off and retired. However, when the institutions were re-founded in 1546, out of all the clerical roles that once existed, it was the ‘hospitaller’ who survived. Perhaps it was because this was seen to be the most practical, and the one closest to meeting both the physical and spiritual needs of the sick.

Today, we see all too clearly that health is effected by many different things. In Gaza, Israel and Lebanon, conflict has led to homelessness, an increased risk of disease and the emotional strain of an uncertain future. This is also true of many other parts of our world, including Ukraine and Sudan. As the World Health Organisation declared in 1948, health is about more than the absence of disease. It is about effective and caring communities; about spiritual wellbeing; and the prospect of a safe and stable future.

It can be no surprise that this kind of definition came out of the ashes of the Second World War. A time when Europe and many other regions of the world had experienced the worst effects of destruction and deprivation. To care for the sick without discrimination or prejudice is one of the founding principles of all the professions that serve in health care. Like the Order of St John, this is a commitment built upon our sense of common humanity and compassion.

While it may seem – understandably – that religion is part of the problem and not the solution, that would be a rather partial view of history. Despite the difference between faiths there have been many places in which different faiths have lived together constructively. Six years after the founding of the Order of St John, in 1076, Al-Nasir, the Muslim Ruler of present day Algeria, wrote to the Pope asking him to appoint a bishop for the Christians living in his Islamic domain. Pope Gregory VII responded positively to the request, writing:

‘one should not do to others, what one does not want done to oneself. You and we owe this charity to ourselves especially because we believe in and confess one God, admittedly, in a different way, and daily praise and venerate him, the creator of the world and ruler of this world.’

It seems to me that today – and in any era – Pope Gregory’s phrase is an excellent one: “we owe this charity to ourselves”. Beyond war, disagreement or difference, the fruit of the Gospel is healing, in all its many forms. It is, if you like, even in our self-interest to care for people whose faith or identity is different from our own.

When Jesus tells the disciples ‘to cure every disease and every sickness’, he doesn’t say ‘of the Jews’ or ‘of the Samaritans’ or ‘of the Gentiles’. He simply says, ‘every disease and every sickness’ – regardless of who is experiencing it.

So, as we give thanks for the Order of St.John this day and all those involved in health care let us not  forget that we have a duty of care too to all our brothers and sisters of whatever faith, so that we can sing out with confidence ‘brother sister let me serve you, let me be as Christ to you’.

This is our individual and collective calling.

‘When he was in the house, he asked them, “What were you arguing about on the way?”’ – The Very Revd Dominic Barrington, Dean

When he was in the house, he asked them, “What were you arguing about on the way?”

When I was interviewed for the position that I now hold as Dean of York, I was asked a question which rather surprised me. It was about misogyny – specifically, about what I would do if I were at a meeting or social event as the Dean of York, and someone were to make a manifestly misogynistic remark in front of me.

I think I must have raised my eyebrows when this was put to me (coming from a city like Chicago, it did feel a little surprising), because one of the panel, looking at me, added, “this is Yorkshire, you know…”

Well – I leave you to make up your own mind about whether or not the question identified a valid concern, but I will say that both Alison and I have occasionally been surprised by remarks that have been uttered either to us or in front of us that have reminded me of this moment in the interview. And it is particularly sad to note that sometimes such remarks have been about Dean Viv, who was, of course, the first woman to be the Dean of York, holding the post from 2012 to 2018.

All of which is to say that I realize that there may be some people around this great cathedral whose views on what roles are appropriate for women and what roles are appropriate for men might feel – shall we say – traditional. People, perhaps, who believe they understand exactly what the author of the Book of Proverbs was on about, when describing that figure that he calls a capable wife – the sort of wife who will be supportive of her (evidently more important and capable) husband – her husband who is busy being a mover and shaker at the city gates, taking his seat among the elders of the land.

But there will be others, I suspect, for whom this passage can feel a particularly blunt reminder of the patriarchal culture in which the books of the Bible were brought to birth, and who will be wondering why on earth, in today’s world, it can be a good or appropriate thing to legitimize these seemingly outdated words by reading them out loud and calling them ‘the Word of the Lord’?

Of course, we should take note that the words we heard translated as a ‘capable wife’ – the Hebrew phrase eshet Chayil – are also often rendered as ‘woman of valor’. And perhaps that helps a little – perhaps that enables us to give thanks that in today’s world most professions have seen women reach the very top ranks, even if society is still male-dominated.

Perhaps that enables us to give thanks that there are now 35 female bishops in the Church of England – even though I still regularly hear conversations in which people – well, men – mutter worriedly about whether we are ‘ready’ for a female archbishop, at the point when either of the current postholders might retire.

Perhaps it is good, though, to champion the idea of the ‘woman of valour’ and rejoice that we can, at least, uncouple such a notion from the distinctly ‘wifely’ feel of the translation which we heard read just now.

But actually even saying that is to miss the point, and, in my opinion, to fail to understand what the author of Proverbs is really pointing us to.

During the time we were living in Chicago, Alison and I were privileged to be invited to dinner one Friday evening at the home of a very distinguished orthodox rabbi. When we took our place at the table, I was surprised to discover that the weekly liturgy that heralds the arrival of the Jewish sabbath includes the recitation of those verses about the capable wife that we just heard from Proverbs.

Curious to know the relevance of this passage to the celebration of the arrival of the sabbath, I asked the rabbi why these particular words were read. And I suppose that – to my shame – I was anticipating a trite reply about the role of a good Jewish wife, and how she is there to support her husband and family. After all, my not very well-informed perception of orthodox Jews made me think that in a setting which seemed to traditional and conservative, it might be very natural to hear a remark or two along the lines of ‘a woman’s place is in the home’.

However, I was gently put in my place when the rabbi explained that this famous passage was read each sabbath in order to help Jews welcome the feminine presence of God into their home. For, as the rabbi reminded me, the attributes of the one God are both masculine and feminine, and neither should be ignored or prioritized at the expense of the other – rather, both should be welcomed into one’s home and one’s life.

Furthermore, he reminded me that this passage about the eshet Chayil is the last word – the climax of the book of Proverbs, and more than that, in the original Hebrew it is an acrostic, with each verse beginning with the next letter of the alphabet. A fact that suggests it might well have functioned as a liturgical or catechetical text – something which everyone in the community was encouraged to learn, to recite, to live by – women and men alike.

Certainly, in this early example of what we call Wisdom literature, after some thirty chapters of wise advice about how to live life – advice with something of a masculine feel to it – when, by way of climax, the author wants us to understand values and attributes that are exceptional, he presents us with a woman of such remarkable abilities and graces that we see in her nothing less than a feminine personification of the divine. A feminine personification of the divine to encourage us, to inspire us, and to challenge us.

And when we read today’s gospel passage, we are reminded, all too clearly, how much we need to be challenged – just as we need to be challenged when we find ourselves witnessing or hearing language or behaviour that is sexist, or racist, or ableist, or homophobic, of which in any other way disparages and denigrates some of God’s beloved children who are our siblings in Christ.

For throughout Mark, the depiction of the disciples cannot be said to be complimentary. Their almost constant failure to grasp even the most basic essentials of Jesus’ teaching permeates the entire gospel narrative, and this morning’s passage shows the Twelve as little more than grumpy and embarrassed teenagers caught out after an utterly inappropriate argument about greatness and importance.

An argument, moreover, set in the context of an even more awkward moment around a similar theme, which we heard one week ago as last Sunday’s gospel reading. For last Sunday, our gospel found Jesus and the disciples in Caesarea Philippi, where Jesus demands that his closest friends tell him who they think he really is. A moment which starts well – with Peter acknowledging that Jesus is the Messiah – but a moment which then ends badly, as Peter reacts negatively to Jesus predicting his Passion and death – which then ends so badly that Peter is addressed – and addressed very publicly – as Satan.

Well today, we are a little bit further on in Mark’s narrative, and we come to Jesus’ second prediction of his Passion and death… a prediction which proves to be a curtain-raiser for this egotistical dispute among the disciples. A dispute about – of all fatuous, ridiculous, and offensively irrelevant topics – a dispute about which of them was the greatest.

Jesus is attempting to show them that, despite being the Messiah, the Christ, his sense of ego is of such little relevance to him that he is prepared – that he is expecting to suffer and die to demonstrate the truth about God’s love to the wider world. But his closest friends and followers – they can only talk about their own egos – unaware (that at least for those of us who speak English), the word EGO should really be understood as an acronym for Edging God Out. And, of course, when Jesus demands to know what has been going on, they lapse into the sullen and embarrassed silence that is a particular gift of young men.

And the tragedy is that this was not what Jesus wanted of them. It was not what Jesus wanted of them and it was not what Jesus wanted for them. For Jesus wanted them and needed them to be the best versions of themselves that they possibly could be, for – strange to say – he needed them, truly, to become nothing less than what the author of Proverbs referred to as being a ‘capable wife’. For these men in whom Jesus – incredibly – believed so much, these men were to become the foundations of what you and I now call ‘the church’, that body which is also known as the bride of Christ.

Because, for the Christian, it is the Church of God that must, surely, be the real woman of valour. And that means, quite simply, that the virtues and attributes of which we heard read just now, those hallmarks of valour that are the very climax of this great book of Wisdom, they should be the aspiration of all God’s children that claim to be the church.

Because the capable wife is called to do her husband good and not harm, which is – or ought to be – the vocation of the Church. That capable wife is called to let her works praise her in the city gates. That is, or should, be the call of the Church of God – and therefore the call of each and every one of its members. It should not be worked out in the kind of petty arguments like the one where Jesus says to the embarrassed disciples, “What were you arguing about just now?”

Because whether male or female, young or old, gay or straight, our aspiration corporately and individually, needs to take us beyond the petty squabbles we just witnessed of Peter, James and John and all the rest of them. Jesus believed in them, nevertheless, and loved them, just as he believes in and loves each one of us, despite our own failings. And that is why Jesus calls us, as he called them, to be the best version of ourselves that we possibly can be. Because when we don’t then we end up – like the disciples in this morning’s gospel – we end up ‘arguing on the way’, and there is already, surely, too much argument in the world without us adding to it.

Just before the final blessing, as we are getting ready to be sent back out into that argumentative world, having been fed on the Body of Christ, and having been confirmed anew in the reality that our call is to be the Body of Christ, we’re going to sing the well-known words of the Victorian priest John Ernest Bode. Words he wrote to celebrate his three children being confirmed in 1869, when – doubtless – he hoped and prayed that his children would grow in the Christ-like vocation of being the best version of themselves that they could be.

I hope and pray that we, too, can lay aside the things over which we indulge in arguing about ‘on the way’, that we can hear again the call that we should all emulate the divine ‘woman of valour’, so that we can genuinely sing and pray:

O let me see thy footmarks,

and in them plant mine own;

my hope to follow duly

is in thy strength alone;

O guide me, call me, draw me,

uphold me to the end;

and then in heaven receive me,

my Saviour and my Friend. Amen.

Sermon: Choral Evensong with commemoration of the Battle of Britain – The Reverend Canon Maggie McLean, Missioner

May I speak in the name of the Blessed Trinity, One God in three persons.

A few months ago I visited the town of Guernica, in northern Spain. It is a name that will be familiar to many, sadly, due to the destruction that fell upon it on one sunny day in 1936.

It was market day, and the town was packed. German and Italian planes began to bomb the town in support of General Franco’s attempts to gain control over an area renowned for a spirit of independence and resistance. Guernica is the spiritual centre of the Basque region.

The first target for the bombing was the town’s water supply. This meant that efforts to extinguish the fires that came as the result of bombing were futile. Anticipating that people would flee the town into the countryside plans were made for fighters to circle the main bombing zone, strafing the fields with machine gun fire. Those who planned the bombing knew that the town had no resources to defend itself from aerial attack. There is no doubt that the plans for that day had been made with every anticipation of what would take place, with the intention of causing the maximum level of destruction. As one of Franco’s generals put it the day after the attack:

“It is necessary to spread terror. We have to create the impression of mastery, eliminating without scruples or hesitation all those who do not think as we do.”

This is a very candid explanation of what was intended. To get rid of everyone who didn’t toe the line or see the world as General Franco believed it should be understood. Today Guernica is a living memorial to the disaster of war and the evil that sought to extinguish every independent thought and aspiration for freedom and peace. Of course, all these terrible events were a shadow of the global catastrophe which would unfold a few years’ later in the second world war.

Today we commemorate one of the most significant episodes of that war, the Battle of Britain. Had Britain lost that conflict there is no knowing what the consequences would have been. Certainly, if Britain had been beaten and occupied, freedom of speech and independence of thought would have been supressed with both violence and determination. As Churchill famously said after the moment when the RAF prevailed over the attacking forces: “Never was so much owed by so many to so few.”

Those few taking part were not only British pilots but air crews from many countries, in fact one fifth of Fighter Command’s aircrew came from overseas and 16 nations were represented in its squadrons. A total of 126 New Zealanders, 98 Canadians, 33 Australians and 25 South Africans participated. They were joined by three from what is now Zimbabwe, a Jamaican, a Barbadian and a Newfoundlander. Though their countries were neutral, 10 Irish and 11 United States citizens also fought in the Battle of Britain. Many of these personnel made the ultimate sacrifice in protecting the United Kingdom.

At the same time, it is important to remember that all the efforts of the months in which the Battle of Britain took place required wide support. Both in the production of materials for the war effort, and the logistics of moving supplies to where they were needed, a great many people were required to support what the few could achieve. The list of supporting roles for the Battle of Britain is very extensive. They range from the Balloon Command to the Anti-Aircraft Command; from the Observer Corps to the Operations Staff. Often those taking part included women serving in the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. Without doubt, many tens of thousands of people stood behind the 3,000 pilots who took part in the Battle and ensured its success.

In a much earlier conflict, the Duke of Wellington said famously: “Believe me, nothing except a battle lost can be half so melancholy as a battle won”. War comes with a huge cost for all involved, whether ultimately victorious or not. It isn’t difficult to understand why so many people strive to achieve peace rather than face the alternative. Whether in Guernica, or on this Battle of Britain commemoration, contemplating the sacrifices of war should fuel our desire for peace.

While thinking about memorials to war the WWI poet Siegfried Sassoon composed the poem entitled ‘At the Cenotaph’. Here he imagines the Prince of Darkness standing, respectfully, at a war memorial and praying:  “Make them forget, O Lord, what this Memorial Means”. Sassoon’s point is that we must not forget. We mustn’t forget the cost; the sacrifice; or the shadow of war that stretches so far into the future. Because when we forget we risk repeating the tragic conflicts of the past. Commemoration honours the dead, but it must also remind us that the risk of war continues ……something we are seeing today, tragically, in various parts of the world.

In our second reading today we heard the succinct and striking summary of conduct which Jesus taught: ‘In everything do to others as you would have them do to you; for this is the law and the prophets’.

It is our task – the task of the living – to honour those who have lost their lives in service to their country, and to do to others as we would have them do to us. To take this moment of memorial and commemoration and aspire for a better world. A world that befits the sacrifice that others have made, so that we might live.

‘Are Christians Cannibals?’ – The Reverend Canon Maggie McLean, Missioner

Title: Are Christians Cannibals?

Preacher: The Reverend Canon Maggie McLean, Missioner

Date: Sunday 18 August 2024, Sung Eucharist on The Twelfth Sunday after Trinity

There is a story told of an enthusiastic vicar who was planning a special service for his church. He went about this very carefully, preparing a printed liturgy that contained everything needed for the service. On the day when the service took place all went well until a certain point when the order of service said: ‘the organ will now play”.

There was a pause. The vicar looked at the organist and raised an eyebrow. The organist was sat with her arms folded and, when she responded to his enquiring look, she said: “I know – I’m waiting for it to play as well”. Of course, such a thing would never happen at York Minster.

Perhaps, in this story, the organist was feeling unappreciated, but it’s also true that we sometimes expect people not simply to respond literally to what we say, but to grasp the meaning which we intend the words to carry. Taking things literally, and missing the point, is a device used by St John time and again in his Gospel. You might recall the story of Nicodemus meeting Jesus at night. Jesus talks about being born again and Nicodemus wonder how an adult can re-enter the womb in order for this to happen.

There are many, many examples of this in the Gospel of John including the one in our reading today. Jesus has been talking about the gift of his body and blood in the Eucharist. He has said very clearly: ‘I am the bread of life … whoever eats of this bread will live for ever’. He goes on to make this even clearer:

‘Unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in me’.

Over the years I’ve read many, many books and articles of theology. And, while I’m sure this has shaped my thinking, I can’t say that I remember the title or author of very many. Perhaps only a few. One that does stick in my memory had a tile in the form of a question and this was: ‘Are Christians cannibals?’ It’s not hard to see, on the basis of today’s Gospel, why some people have asked that question. In fact, in the second century, it was one of the rumours taken up by the Roman authorities to persecute the Church. Looked at from the outside, and taken literally, the words of Jesus seem to suggest some very peculiar behaviour. Consequently, as is the habit of John, the crowd listening to Jesus take him at his word and: they ‘disputed among themselves, saying, “How can this man give us his flesh to eat?”’

Not an unreasonable question.

Jesus is pointing to a greater truth than the superficial meaning of his words. It’s little wonder that the people are startled. In the Jewish scriptures blood is the life of an animal, and it was forbidden to consume the blood of sacrifices. Jesus comes to offer himself as a sacrifice but, unlike the offerings made in the Temple, we are invited to receive the fulness of Christ as both body and blood. There is something here that is more than the simply repetition of a sacrifice to satisfy a God who is displeased at our behaviour.

Understanding this requires us to move beyond the surface of the words. We need Wisdom. Wisdom to see more deeply into the significance of the words Jesus uses.

We must move beyond immaturity and “walk in the way of insight”. Insight which sees beyond the surface and sees the greater truth beyond the words.

I always love the very Anglican solution to the question of ‘how’ the bread and wine become for the us the body and blood of Christ. Rather than attempting some narrow and doubtful definition many Eucharistic prayers say simply: “may they be to us the body and blood of Christ”. How that key word “be” is understood is a matter of faith and wisdom.

St Paul tells the Christians at Ephesus that “the days are evil”. I imagine that it has felt that way for Christians across all the centuries, and many will feel it to be true today.

Thankfully Jesus is Wisdom made flesh and, in him, we are fed with the life that steers us through the dangers of our time. We need to see beyond the surface of words and discern the truth that lies within. To help us remain alive to this task we are offered spiritual food. The vitality of Christ offered to us in Holy Communion. An invitation expressed so beautifully in the Book of Proverbs with which I end:

‘Come, eat of my bread

and drink of the wine I have mixed.

Lay aside immaturity, and live,

and walk in the way of insight.’

‘Placing trust in what you have reason to believe is true’ – The Reverend Canon Maggie McLean, Missioner

Title: “Placing trust in what you have reason to believe is true”

Preacher: The Reverend Canon Maggie McLean, Missioner

Date: Sunday 4 August 2024, Evensong on The Tenth Sunday after Trinity

I don’t know how attentive you were during the second reading but there was the repetitive use of the phrase ‘By faith’. Again, and again the author tells us that “by faith Abraham”; By faith Isaac”; “By faith Jacob”; “By faith Joseph”; “by faith Moses” and so it goes on. I counted eleven uses of this phrase across these few verses.

Faith doesn’t always get a good press and I’m sure there are people who would much rather have a list of figures who acted “by reason”.  Perhaps most significantly, people are rightly concerned if faith is seen to lead to injury. In the case of Abraham, the idea that someone might be tested by God to sacrifice their child seems, and is, horrific. It’s why the Bible should always be read with care. Plucking out a verse here or there can do a great deal of damage. That’s why it’s important that the Bible is shared and understood in community – in the Church – and not simply on an individual basis. Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s important that we all read the Bible ourselves, but I also believe it matters just as much that we discuss it with other people. Perhaps I can illustrate that with a rather well-known story of a young man who felt certain God had called him to be a vicar.

He’d read his Bible and said his prayers and, somehow, he was even given permission to see the Bishop. When they met the young man told the Bishop how God was wanting him to be a vicar, and get ordained. Perhaps he didn’t quite admit it to himself, but somewhere deep inside he even had a sneaking hope that the Bishop would just agree and ordain him there and then!

The Bishop sat and listened.

The Bishop thought.

Then the Bishop spoke:

“I’m very pleased to hear that God is calling you to ministry. Now I suggest you go home, and when God has told me that you should be ordained, I’ll give you a call”.

In the Anglican expression of Christianity, faith is never without reason. The centuries have taught us that we must use the intelligence God has given us, in conjunction with the Bible we inherit, to discern what God is calling us to do. The error of the young man was to believe that God’s call is individual, isolated and untested. The bishop put him right.

It isn’t always easy, and it won’t always be what we want to hear, but faith and reason must test each other, and our discernment is forged in a community. And discernment requires wisdom.

In our first reading from the book of Job, Job uses the idea of mining, and the people who work deep within the darkness of the earth, as a metaphor of the search for wisdom. When Job has finished speaking about all the amazing work of the people seeking gold and silver, he asks the seemingly simple question: “Where then does wisdom come from?” His point is that wisdom is about as hard to find as the precious metals buried in the earth.

It doesn’t come easily – it requires commitment, work and skill.

The answer for Job is that God is the one who knows where wisdom is to be found.

It’s in our relationship with God that we can bring together faith and reason, tradition and wisdom. And we find God individually and together.

The American theologian J P Moreland put it like this:

‘In Scripture, faith involves placing trust in what you have reason to believe is true. Faith is not a blind, irrational leap into the dark’.

“Placing trust in what you have reason to believe is true”.  Across all that long litany of people who acted “by faith”, it was not without reason or without wisdom. The prophets who were guided by God, chose a path which was different from the ways of the world. It was a path determined by a faith that grew in community, grew in relationship with God, and sought wisdom in deciding how to act.

Today we are also called and invited to make that same journey, using both faith and reason to build peace in a troubled world for all God’s children.

‘People don’t need another Sermon!’ – The Reverend Canon Maggie McLean, Missioner

Title: ‘People don’t need another Sermon!‘

Preacher: The Reverend Canon Maggie McLean, Missioner 

Date: Sunday 28 July 2024, The Ninth Sunday after Trinity

Sometimes people who come to Church regard this as a dangerous time of the year.  There’s every possibility that the Canon has been on holiday, and sermons become wistful recollections of something interesting that happened to them on vacation! Many years ago, relatives and friends had a habit of inflicting their holiday snaps on those closest to them and, in a similar way, clergy often bring their holiday musings home to share with a captive congregation. Perhap ssermons are the equivalent of our theological postcards.

Anyway, I’d hate to disappoint.

So….On our recent holiday in Spain, staying in the city of Salamanca, we visited the Dominican monastery of San Esteban.

Given our responsibilities in York, it’s always interesting to visit other locations that combine the role of a living place of faith with the understandable interest of tourists to see somewhere of historic significance.  The Monastery of San Esteban does this very well. While an ordination service was taking place in the Church of the Monastery, we were able to wander through the cloisters of this amazing place of faith and stunning architecture which began to be built in the 16^th century. It has connections with one of the most significant spiritual guides of Christianity – St Theresa of Avila. It was at the monastery that Theresa made her confessions to Dominican Friars and discussed theology.

Today, visitors to the monastery have the opportunity to hear St Theresa make her confession. In a tiny cell off one of the cloisters, I entered a small space only to find a video of St Theresa awaiting me – and she then shared her thoughts, spirituality and theology.

It was a wonderfully creative and moving experience. In her day, Theresa saw a lot that was wrong with the church and worked to reform it. There is always a risk, in every age, that the Christian church becomes inward looking and disconnected from the needs of humanity.

I am fond of saying, in this pulpit, that York Minster does not contain God. Of course, I don’t mean that God isn’t here, but rather that the Church isn’t some kind of holy container for everything that’s sacred. We need the church, and we also need a God who is active far beyond the walls of any institution, however sacred.

In our Gospel reading this morning we are reminded that we often find Jesus attending to the basic nature of human need. The people are hungry. It’s as simple as that.

They don’t need another sermon;

or extra prayers;

or even a miracle of healing.

They need bread.

And it is into this basic necessity of life that Jesus intervenes.

People have followed Jesus because they are fascinated by what he’s doing, but they haven’t thought very much about the implications of walking a long way from home. It is close to Passover and Jesus wants to feed all these people who are beginning to have faith in him. What happens next is a lesson for all of us. Jesus doesn’t magic bread out of thin air, he begins by asking what food there is – however little. And little it is; five loaves and two fishes. A ridiculous amount of food to feed so many. But what is put into the hands of Jesus is given with love;

it is then blessed and broken; it is shared and, by the end, there is far more leftover than there was at the start. Whatever has taken place it was, without doubt, miraculous.

We believe that God is alive and active in the world.

That’s why we come to church – not to find a God who is contained here, but to offer our thanks and worship for the God who is everywhere and especially with those in need. Through the witness of the Church we find that we are the means by which the hungry are fed, and the wounded of the world find that they are not alone. It is into these situations of basic human need that God calls us to be present – even as Christ was with the multitude that was hungry.

St Theresa of Avila described with simplicity, clarity and passion what that means for each of us. She put it like this:

“Christ has no body now but yours.

No hands, no feet on earth but yours.

Yours are the eyes through which he looks compassion on this world.

Yours are the feet with which he walks to do good.

Yours are the hands through which he blesses all the world.

Yours are the hands, yours are the feet, yours are the eyes, you are his body.

Christ has no body now on earth but yours.”

Your hands and my hands. The eyes and the feet of Christians everywhere. We never have too little not to offer something. It might seem small to us – but let us offer it into the hands of God, and see what happens when Christ breaks it and blesses it for the healing and salvation of the world.

‘In the days of King Herod of Judea’ – Canon Peter Collier KC, Cathedral Reader

Title: ‘In the days of King Herod of Judea’

Preacher: Canon Peter Collier KC, Cathedral Reader 

Readings: Judges 13:2 -7, 24-25; Luke 1:5-25

Psalm: Psalm 71

Date: Sunday 23 June 2024, The Eve of the Birth of St John the Baptist 

May I speak in the name of God who is Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

“In the days of King Herod of Judea”. One of the things about Luke’s writing, which is very often about miraculous and other worldly things, is that he always grounds what he is describing in its real, historical, and political context. So here in Ch 1, it is “in the days of King Herod of Judea”. Similarly, in chapter 3 it begins “in the 15th year of the reign of the Emperor Tiberius”. Luke knew that any work of God, any experience of God is, always rooted in a real place and time. So for us today, living Christ’s story is done here and now in the days of a conservative government, a labour controlled local council and whatever other political context you want to give, as well as your own family and other social contexts. Because our experiences of God as we follow Jesus Christ here and now can happen only in those real-life contexts.

“In the days of King Herod of Judea” there was a priest named Zechariah and his wife Elizabeth. Let’s look for a moment at their here and now. Zechariah was a priest from, as they would say, “up north”. He came to Jerusalem twice a year when it was the turn of his division of priests to do their Temple ministry for a week.

Zechariah was married to a priest’s daughter, so would be regarded as especially blessed. Their piety as a couple was well known. They kept the laws and followed all the relevant regulations. They were faithful people.

But they were childless, and they were now both getting on in age; their days were almost over. And that absence of children was a source of much pain and grief to them. Elizabeth in particular would have felt ashamed amongst other woman, as the law seemed to say that if you were faithful then you would be fruitful and have families. And she would have been very self-conscious of how others viewed her, and what she sensed they were saying about her behind her back.

But let’s be clear about this – suffering pain is not sin. And many today suffer pain in their families, or perhaps because of their families or maybe because of how other people look at them. Feeling different, feeling excluded is a common experience, especially in a religious environment. And it can be very painful. I expect there will be many here this evening, who feel real pain for some such reason. And if you take nothing else away tonight it should be that to be in pain is not to sin. Because like Zechariah and Elizabeth we can remain faithful and trusting in God whatever we are going through in or families, in our church, and whoever is running the country.

“In the days of King Herod of Judea”, Zechariah was about to have a remarkable spiritual experience. God who seemed to have been silent for 400 years, was about to speak prophetically to Zechariah through the angel Gabriel. It happened on what was a very significant day for Zechariah. Significant because he had drawn the lot that day to offer the incense at the altar. According to Jewish oral tradition, a priest could only do that once in his lifetime. So for Zechariah as a priest this would have been the most important moment in his whole life.

And as he came to offer the incense, there suddenly appeared an angel. And whatever else he might have expected at that great moment it was not that. And he was terrified. But the angel spoke, and said “Don’t be afraid; your prayer has been heard.”

I am confident that the prayer that was referred to by Gabriel was not a prayer for a son, but the prayer that he and the nation prayed day after day, longing for God to come as he had promised and once again redeem his people. In a couple of chapters’ time Luke will also tell us about Simeon, whose song – the Nunc Dimittis – the choir has sung again tonight, and of 84 year old Anna. He tells us that they both spent their time in the temple praying for God’s salvation to come. And the answer to Zechariah’s prayer is that God is about to come and redeem his people and that Zechariah and Elizabeth are to have the Elijah like child who will come and prepare the way and get people ready for the Messiah to come. And so, says Gabriel, they and many others will have a lot of joy because of what this child, their child to be, will do.

Now Zechariah cannot get his head round this, it is all too much for him. How can this happen he says. I am old. My wife is getting on in years. I just don’t get it! I can’t get it!

The angel responds by saying that he had come directly from God to tell him this and because he hadn’t believed it, he would now be mute until the child was born.

Now all this would have taken a little time and it meant that he was in the sanctuary longer than people expected and they began to wonder what was going on. And when he did come out, obviously he couldn’t tell them what had happened and it must have been a very weird sight as he tried to indicate in some sort of basic sign language what had happened. They realised he had had some sort of extraordinary spiritual experience, perhaps a vision. Of course later he would be able to write down what had happened, and no doubt when he got home at the end of the week that’s what he would do to break the news to Elizabeth.

And as we know in due course it all came to pass.

Spiritual experiences can have many different effects, sometimes quite dramatic as with Zechariah or you perhaps remember in the Old Testament, Jacob when he wrestled with God went away limping. Sometimes as here there is an impact that is visible to other people. Though more often that is not the case.

But when we do have an experience of God very often it takes time to work out what has happened, what it means and how we move forward from there. Zechariah needed time to do that processing – there were to be a lot of implications to what he’d just been told – a baby when it was really time for grandchildren, the boy would have to grow up with them, there were special instructions about the diet – no alcohol whatsoever. And what about all that lay ahead for the boy as the Elijah like prophet; how different their lives were going to be from now on. There was an awful lot for Zechariah to process.  And God gave him time, time when he couldn’t talk but could do a lot of that internal processing.

And when we have any experience of God in our lives we need to pause and reflect and process what it means.

So on the eve of the feast of the birth of John the Baptist what are we to make of all this? What impact might it have on our lives in the days not of King Herod of Judea but of King Charles of Windsor? What are our circumstances? Our here and now? Are we feeling excluded and consequently experiencing pain? Are we open to experience God in new ways? And are we making space to process what we do experience of God, day by day and week by week?

May it be so for his name’s sake. Amen.

‘If anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation’ – The Very Revd Dominic Barrington, Dean

Title: ‘If anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation’

Preacher: The Very Revd Dominic Barrington, Dean

Date: Sunday 16 June 2024, The Third Sunday after Trinity

If anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation.

Hector Pieterson died 48 years ago today. Had he lived, he would now be sixty, and, one hopes, beginning to contemplate plans for retirement. He might have had a successful career, a loving spouse, children and possibly grandchildren, in whom he might have found joy and pride. But it was not to be. And the reason it was not to be – the real reason – was quite simply that he was black.

The apartheid government of South Africa had implemented the compulsory use of Afrikaans in schools across the country, refusing to heed the desire of the majority of black schools that tuition should be in local languages, and not the language felt to be ‘the language of the oppressor’. Across Soweto, students from many schools protested, and into the midst of peaceful demonstrations, came fierce police brutality resulting in at least 176 student deaths.

Of this tragedy, Hector became the icon, captured in a famous photograph as he was carried, dying, in the arms of a friend, with his elder sister running alongside. A tragedy fuelled, at least in part, by the strongly propagated teaching of the Dutch Reformed Church that apartheid was divinely ordained and set out in the Bible – a teaching that encouraged and emboldened the South African government in this abhorrent era.

And yet, If anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation. And that means we need a new way of thinking about things…

For the sixty-six books of the Bible, of course, can be understood and interpreted in so many ways, and are redolent of images, not all of which seem to make a great deal of sense. You will find ample proof of this in the Great East Window, most of which is devoted to recounting the narrative of the Revelation to John in 81 remarkable panels of glass that are one of the greatest highlights of this magnificent cathedral.

But, remarkable and exquisite though John Thornton’s breathtaking window is, the bizarre and complex imagery of Revelation has ensured that its message of encouragement to a community of persecuted Christians in the very late first century has been consistently misinterpreted in all sorts of weird and not very wonderful ways – some of which have been downright dangerous, especially when the religious fundamentalism they create gets mixed with political fundamentalism.

Interpretation, of course, is at the heart of our gospel reading this morning, which also contains some less flamboyant but nevertheless rather challenging assertions. For while the science of agriculture is understood in a far more complex manner in the modern age than in first century Palestine, to depict a farmer watching plants ‘sprout and grow’, and to say, ‘he does not know how’ would have done a great disservice to those who tended the land in Jesus’ own day. For you may be assured that two thousand years ago, they understood the importance of ploughing, of weeding, and most certainly of watering.

If we should wonder, therefore, what is going on, the answer is at least hinted at in the curious paragraph that ends almost an entire chapter of agricultural parables in Mark chapter four. In this editorial note, picking up a similar text inserted into the longer Parable of the Sower which immediately precedes this morning’s section of this chapter, we learn that only Jesus’ disciples are privileged, at this point, to get a clear explanation of what he is talking about.

And, if it were the case in Sunday School, that you were simply told that a parable is a story based around one easy-to-grasp, straight-forward image, we need to accept that this is an over-simplification that simply does not work all the time. For if it was a straight-forward truth that parables use one easy to understand illustration to make one simple point, then the confusion and lack of understanding that pervades this part of Mark’s gospel would simply not be the case.

Indeed, if you scroll back a few verses in this chapter you will find Jesus explaining that he speaks in parables precisely to cause mis-understanding, quoting the prophet Isaiah, and saying, “everything comes in parables; in order that ‘they may indeed look, but not perceive, and may indeed listen, but not understand; so that they may not turn again and be forgiven.’”

And, in the passage we just heard read, Mark’s editorial remark clarifies that the word – and even outside the Fourth Gospel our ears should prick up at the use of this term – Mark clarifies that the word is spoken to people ‘as they were able to hear it’.

So what is going on?

How could people not understand the basic point Jesus is making about the universal mission of the kingdom of God offering shade, shelter and protection to all who seek it?

Or, perhaps more worryingly, how could almost fifty years of the offensively vile apartheid regime in South Africa be propped up by theological arguments propounded by a major Christian denomination justifying its evil and often murderous behaviour?

What – to get to the root of what is going on – what does it take ‘to be able to hear’ Jesus’ teachings in a manner that elicits an appropriate response? A response that – in the context of South Africa of fifty years ago produces a Tutu-like condemnation of apartheid, rather than the faux-theological justification for it that so stained the Dutch Reformed Church of that time.

Of – if we were to borrow the language of the better known Parable of the Sower which immediately precedes this morning’s gospel – why is it that only some seed falls on fertile ground, while other seed lands, unproductively, on the path, or amongst thorns, or on rocky ground?

A clue to the answer, I would suggest, is to be found in the words we have just heard from Saint Paul. Words penned by him at a very low point in his life, castigated and criticized by his beloved Corinthians who, now that he no longer is living and teaching among them, have come to regard him in a very harsh light that clearly has stung Paul very deeply.

And thus, from a section of this letter which speaks of the pain and risk of human vulnerability, Paul is, as it were, getting back to basics, and speaking of the call and of the demands of love – of divine, selfless love. Of the love of Christ which, so he passionately believes, is what urges on both him, and others who truly know they are called by God. For, as Paul has come to know in the very depths of his being, the love of Christ has consequences, because, as he says so powerfully:

We are convinced that one has died for all… so that those who live might live no longer for themselves, but for him who died and was raised for them. From now on, therefore, we regard no one from a human point of view.

The issue at the heart of the call of today’s readings from Scripture – the issue at the heart of our response to the Good News of the gospel – is about God’s love, and our response to it. It is about whether we have the great-heartedness to open our lives to God in the manner in which Paul did in such a remarkable and surprising manner.

For when we first get to know Paul or Saul, he has a very rigid view of who is ‘in’ and who is ‘not in’. At least in a religious sense, the Saul we first meet in Acts has an apartheid-like view of those who are acceptable to God. An apartheid-like view that saw him approve of a murder even more violent than the murder of young Hector Pieterson in South Africa, as he stood by and watched the stoning of Stephen – something which, at first, propelled this zealous Pharisee into active and harsh persecution of the first Christians.

But then, on the road to Damascus, Paul loses his sight as he encounters the risen Christ, but perhaps – to pick up the language we are using this morning – perhaps he gains his hearing, as he encounters the true breadth, depth and height of God’s love

And thus, as he writes so profoundly to his erstwhile friends in Corinth, he has learned that if we hear the words of Jesus properly and take them into our lives, From now on, therefore, we regard no one from a human point of view…

Young Hector Pieterson died an evil and tragic death because those in power in his native land did not regard him, and all those whose skin colour was different to theirs, as God regarded him. Their actions were actions urged not by the love of Christ, but by the worst sinful instincts of human greed and hatred – sinful instincts that, in other parts of the globe lead to similar suffering and death right now.

As we gather today to feed on the Body of Christ and to be transformed anew into being the Body of Christ, let us never forget that Christ died for all, precisely to ensure that we who live might, indeed, ‘live no longer for ourselves’, but strive to look at the world and its children as God looks at us, so that, truly, in Christ there might yet be a precious new creation. Amen.