It’s been a bit of week! – The Reverend Catriona Cumming

Advent 3 2018 -December 16 2018

10am Matins

It’s been a bit of a week in British Public life.

The latest in a long line of bonkers weeks stretching back for quite a while.

In this febrile atmosphere, cool calm certainty seems unimaginable, perhaps even somewhat naïve.

Wake up and smell the chaos!

At times like this, what do, or what should people of faith, who believe in some kind of order, have to say, or shout into the void?

There is an assurance running through many of the readings in Advent that God has a plan, and that plan is coming to fruition at just the right time. But this seems out of step with what is happening in our world.

In the Old Testament reading, the chapter begins with a hymn of praise to a victorious God, who has done wonderful things,
plans formed of old, faithful and sure.

Delightful, you might think.

But has God noticed what is going?

Is God not paying attention?

The world is going to hell in a handcart!

The promise of the feast of rich food, a feast of well-matured wines,
of rich food filled with marrow, of well-matured wines strained clear is lovely. But while we’re feasting, look at what is going on around us!

Global warming is ramping up.

War and famine still large parts of the world, there are riots in Europe, and political discourse in the United States remains perplexing.

But this is nothing new.

10 years ago if I were preaching this sermon, I would be doing so as the world economy spasmed, and shrank, with dire results for millions of people. 100 years ago it’s less likely that I would be preaching this sermon for a variety of reasons, but if I were, this sermon would come in the context not only of the aftermath of an horrific conflict, but in the midst of a flu pandemic even more lethal.

The struggles human beings have faced down the centuries may have recurring themes.

What we people of faith believe is that God has does something different in mind.

God steps into this human world, and offers something new, something other, something that says that there is another way.

The hope offered to the people of Israel through the Prophet Isaiah, and to all of us in Jesus Christ, is a hope that does not rely on human beings to break the cycle of struggle we seem to be trapped in.

This hope has also endured through the centuries.

It is incredibly powerful.

But it must not be taken for granted, and we must resist the urge to characterise it as, or relate it to, a political cause of outcome.

God is bigger than the mess in which we currently find ourselves.

And because God is bigger than this, we can look to God for rest: respite from the craziness around us.

But more than that.

God offers something new, something different.

Justice. True justice, rather than human justice, which, even with the benefit of hindsight, is inevitably shaped by context, and bias.

There is however a twist to this tale.

Because God uses us, engages us, with our consent, in building God’s kingdom: a kingdom which may share some of the political values we believe our important, but is ultimately richer, and more solid and lasting than any human political institution, nation, or church building.

Throughout history, God has worked through the lives of ordinary human beings, through worship, and scripture, and reason, to bring to light those things hidden in darkness.

God’s timing and God’s plans may infuriate us.

The hope is that amidst whatever chaos we find ourselves in, God remains unchanging: a refuge no matter how crazy the world gets. But God also intervenes, challenges and provokes us to look for better things, and to build God’s Kingdom.

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Bold Hope – The Reverend Deacon Abigail Davison (Curate)

The Reverend Deacon Abigail Davison (Curate)
Sunday 18 November 2018 – 10am Sung Eucharist
Hebrews 10: 11-14, 19-25 and Mark 13:1-8

I’m sure you all keep up to date with the Anglican Communion News Service blog page, but in case you missed it, there was a piece this week from Rev’d Canon Dr Stephen Spencer, who was one of my tutors and vice principal of the college where I trained (he’s now Director for Theological Education in the Anglican Communion). Stephen has a real passion for the Church in Africa and in the article he wrote about being invited to preach in an Anglican Church in Uganda. The Church was made up of South Sudanese Christians, who had been forced to flee the violence in their home and were now living in exile, in a refugee camp. The shelter that housed the Church they had built themselves out of wooden planks and tarpaulin that they’d persuaded some of the UN staff to give them. And yet, in all this, Stephen wrote of the joy the Church had in gathering for worship, a joy that he described as ‘triumphant’.

Here was a triumphant Church, a Church that witnesses powerfully and movingly to the triumph of Christ, gathered in a makeshift shelter, built of bits of wood and borrowed tarpaulin…

It was another Deacon that sent me a link to the article, and I read it while I was trying to work out what I was going to say today. I read the part about the Church building their own shelter and thought to myself “this’ll make a great sermon illustration”! In the gospel reading we’ve just heard, Jesus foretells the destruction of the great temple, and here we have a group of people who have seen everything destroyed, and yet are in themselves an indestructible, joyful, Church. There’s a sermon somewhere in that.

I could have asked of us, are we ready to be the same: could we be that joyful? If, perhaps when, these large stones are thrown down, will people still be able to point to us and go, “ah yes, there’s the Church”?

That could have been a perfectly fine sermon.

But then I read Stephen’s article again, and it wasn’t the joy the Church had that most stood out, it was the hope.

It was a hope so bold that even in the midst of a refugee camp, they would gather and build themselves a church and be joyful, when according to the world, they should have been crying.
I’m sure tears have been shed. I’m sure they still are being shed: hope isn’t about never being sad or about not recognising when things are truly dire, but it is about knowing they will not always be that way.

Joy like that Church had, I think, can only be the result of knowing how sure and how firmly grounded our hope is.

In the gospel reading, it seemed that the disciples were disturbed by the idea of something so seemingly permanent as the great stone temple being destroyed. It was the centre of religious practise for them. But ultimately it was not where their hope, or ours, was grounded.

It was our first reading, the letter to the Hebrews, that made clear where our hope is grounded: it’s grounded in knowing that the Christ saw things through to the end, and beyond. He finished the job. Because of that, we’re told to ‘have confidence’, to ‘approach’ the most holy in ‘full assurance’, to ‘hold fast’ to the confession of our hope. These are bold statements, bold actions. We are called to be surer then we can be even in stone. There’s very little humility there I think. And that’s not a bad thing here: I don’t know that either hope or joy are terribly humble things. They are very very bold things.

Towards the end of the reading we’re told to do one more thing, we’re told to consider how we might ‘provoke’ one another to love and good deeds. Provocation is never an act of humility: our provocation needs to be grounded in our bold hope though. I suspect there are lots of ways we could be provoking each other to love and good needs, but I wonder if the best of them isn’t by example. Are our brothers and sisters meeting today in that makeshift shelter in a Ugandan refugee camp a provocation to us? If they can be that bold in witnessing to the hope they have, then how could we, how should we be responding to that same hope?

To be clear, I am not suggesting that we should be happier because there are people in the world that have it much worse. Maybe there are times when we need to have a sense of perspective, but actually if you’re facing something difficult then you can’t and shouldn’t try to just dismiss it because there are other difficulties in the world: you still need to deal with it prayerfully and practically, whatever that means to your situation. What I’m asking is, can we, as another part of that same Church, be drawn into what they have. Can we be provoked and encouraged into that same joy?

Here is a place to start, here is my challenge, my provocation to you. I know that some of you will just not be in a place where you can do this – please don’t force yourself to.

But can you smile?

It’s the most un-British, un-Anglican thing, I know! But I want you to leave here absolutely assured of our hope. As you come forward to acknowledge and celebrate the sure foundation of that hope [in the Eucharist], then will you join those Brothers and Sisters and be joyful in it: will you smile?

Link to Rev’d Canon Dr Stephen Spenser’s article here

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Remembering Properly – The Reverend Canon Michael Smith (Pastor)

The Reverend Canon Michael Smith (Pastor)
Remembrance Sunday Choral Eucharist 11 November 2018
Hebrews 9.24-end & Mark 1.14-20

Memory can play tricks on us and sometimes it is good that is does. Something very interesting happens around childbirth for example – at the time of the birth of a child most women cannot countenance the idea of going through the same experience again, it is so painful and exhausting. After a few weeks or months, however, the joy of having a baby begins to cloud the memories of childbirth and, for most, the idea of having another baby becomes something to look forward to. It is, of course, very good that our memories sometimes work like this, but we have to be wary of the way memory can be selective.

Today is Remembrance Sunday – we remember those in the armed forces who have died in war. On this Remembrance Sunday in particular we are remembering those who died in the First World War as this is the 100^th anniversary of the end of that conflict. In York we have the great Kings Book of Fallen Heroes to help us with our remembering. In this great book, we have the names of 1,477 people from York who died in the First World War. This book and the names in it have rightly been the centrepiece of our city’s acts of remembrance on this important anniversary.

Part of the challenge we have with our remembering on this day, is that we won! This means that we have a tendency towards concentrating on the victory. We rejoice in the freedoms we have today which are due, in part, to the sacrifice made by those whose names are in our Book of Heroes and hundreds of thousands of others who also fought. Those who died in another war speak to us words that could be said by everyone named in our book, ‘For your tomorrow, we gave our today’. All of this means that we are able to stand upright and proud, we can march about with military bands, members of the armed forces and local dignitaries dressed in their finest and rightly remember and honour all those who died. But if that is all we do, then we are not remembering properly.

To explain what I mean I am going to say something I rarely say, let’s do some maths! Let’s suppose that, on average, each of the 1,477 people named in our Book of Heroes came from a family of 4 and that, on average, each of the 1,477 had 4 close friends, those they went to school with, mates from work. These are, I think, conservative estimates, but if they are even roughly right that means that the deaths of our 1,477 heroes broke the hearts and shattered the lives of around 12,000 other people.

If we are going to remember properly, we have to remember and honour the glorious sacrifice of so many and also remember the pain, devastation, broken hearts and sheer human misery that accompanied those sacrifices.

Of course, another major challenge with remembering properly is perspective. I can remember walking around a German war cemetery in Normandy with one of my young sons and him surveying the sea of dark grey granite crosses marking the graves of thousands of dead German soldiers and asking, ‘Daddy, were all these people baddies?’ That made me think – of course they were not all baddies, they were ordinary people doing their patriotic duty, like our own soldiers, sailors and airman. It’s all a question of perspective.

A while ago I read a book called The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas. It is about an 8 year old boy whose father was a high ranking soldier. The family moved a long way from home to the countryside to live beside what the boy assumed to be a huge farm. There were lots of wooden buildings behind a seemingly endless high, barbed wire fence. The little boy, disobeying his mother, went to explore and began to walk around the perimeter of the fence. As he did he saw a boy, about his age, on the other side of the fence, wearing what he thought were striped pyjamas. They sat, and began to communicate, without words, through the fence which separated them. They met often in the same place, without anyone else knowing and a friendship developed.

That’s the beginning of a beautiful and tragic story which has now been made into a film. Those of you who have read the book or seen the film will know, and others may well have worked out, that the first little boy is German and his family move because his father is put in charge of a Concentration Camp. The boy behind the fence is a prisoner in the camp. This story illustrates the importance of perspective – the father of the German boy, looked at the Jews and other ethnic groups in his Concentration Camp and, like most of his contemporaries at the time, believed that they were the cause of a great deal of wrong in the world and so needed to be destroyed. The man’s son, the young German boy, knowing nothing of the politics and propaganda of the time, looked at the same Concentration Camp and saw only another young boy, very different from himself, but someone with whom he could be friends.

We can’t allow ourselves to remember only the winning and the brave sacrifices and we cannot allow ourselves to be so lazy as to remember only in terms of the goodies beating the baddies.

Jesus, who is the way the truth and the life, calls us to remember properly and fully on days like today, we have to remember and honour the bravery and the sacrifices and we have to remember and mourn the devastation and the agony. Jesus also shows us the importance of perspective, of never demonising those who are different from ourselves. Jesus sat and ate with tax collectors and sinners. He befriended a prostitute. He embraced lepers and mad people. He sat and drank water at a well with a Samaritan woman. He healed the servant of a Roman soldier. He talked late into the night with a Pharisee. All the people he should have hated, all the people he should have steered clear of, all the people who were thought to be unclean, dangerous and cause trouble, all the people categorised by many in his day as ‘baddies’, he sought out, befriended and loved.

The way to ensure that we do not get caught up in conflict or war again is to make sure that we remember past conflicts and wars properly and to take the trouble to see all people as essentially people like us, people with whom we could potentially be friends. The reason why the officers put a stop to that football match that started in no-mans-land one Christmas in the First World War is because they knew that if the soldiers got to know each other and see each other as essentially the same, they wouldn’t be able to kill each other.

Today it is important to remember the past properly, not just the 1,477 people who died, many of them heroically, but the 12,000, whose hearts were broken and lives shattered by their deaths and never to generalise about anyone, even potential enemies, but always be prepared, like Jesus, to make relationships of friendship with anyone, even the most unlikely people. This is the best way to honour the memory of the 1,477 people named in York’s Book of Heroes is to be people, a city and a nation of peace.

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Revealing the ‘hidden saint’ within – The Reverend Canon Michael Smith (Pastor)

The Reverend Canon Michael Smith (Pastor)

Sunday – Ss Simon & Jude – Matins – 28 October 2018

Isaiah 45.18-end & Luke 6.12-16

Today we celebrate the feast day of Ss Simon & Jude. No one is quite sure why they are teamed up for a feast day, it’s possible they were related in some way. They were both members of Jesus’ inner circle of twelve disciples but other than that they seem to have little in common. In the lists of disciples Simon is described as ‘the Zealot’ probably because he was a member of a nationalist resistance movement which opposed the Roman occupation of Palestine. One assumes, therefore, that Simon was passionate and confident, a political activist working for freedom and justice for his people.

There is some confusion about Jude, who may also be the disciple named Judas in the passage from Luke we have just heard, he may also, sometimes, have been referred to as Thaddaeus. He wrote a short epistle which is in the New Testament, the Epistle of Jude. Even though we have some of his writing we know little about him. The letter is all about how what we believe must be manifested in the way we live, we must not fall into hypocrisy, saying one thing and doing another. Despite the fact that we have some of his writing we know very little about Jude, it would seem, reasonable therefore, to conclude that he may well have been a gentle, unassuming and humble person.

So Simon and Jude seem to be two very different people, one probably a fiery, political activist whose faith led him to want to change the world and one a quiet, gentle man whose faith led him to want to ensure that individuals were truly changed by their faith in God.

I think it’s a good thing that we honour two saints who were probably so different on the same day. It is good to be reminded that there is no template for saints. Even a cursory look at the saints, our church’s heroes, reveals that they are all dramatically different. There is impetuous, blundering St Peter, aesthetic, pious, St Francis of Assisi, who gave away everything he owned, courageous and generous St Maximillian Kolbe who volunteered to die in place of another man in Auschwitz, tough and practical Mother Theresa who spent her life caring for the poor and dying in India. It is good to be reminded that every saint is different.

People like me get into pulpits like this on days like today, or later this week, when we will be celebrating All Saints, and say that we should all be striving to be saints. We hear this and immediately begin to think that we have to become something we are not, because clearly we are not saints now. To a greater or lesser extent we are all selfish, jealous, greedy, and inconsiderate to different degrees – we all have many flaws to our characters which result in sin, and we assume this means we are disqualified from being saints. But listen to this, a few words from St Paul’s letter to the Ephesians, ‘may the Father give you the power through his Spirit for your hidden self to grow strong ….’ Ephesians 3v15. Maybe all these flaws we have in our characters are simply covering up our ‘hidden self’ the self we truly are? Maybe saintliness is all about the Spirit of God giving us confidence to let go of all that we cling to that covers up who we truly are? Maybe what we all truly are, is saints? Maybe our ‘hidden self’ is actually our ‘hidden saint’? The more I have thought about this over the past few days the more I think its right. The Spirit of God should give us confidence to be who we truly are, God made who we truly are and therefore that must be good. All we need to be saints is for the Spirit of God to make our ‘hidden self’ grow strong.

So, striving to be saints is not about us trying to become something or someone we are not. It’s not about trying to attain, learn, or understand something we haven’t yet grasped. No! Striving to be a saint is all about trying to uncover who we truly are, trying to uncover the ‘hidden self’ we constantly obliterate either with an image we think we want to project to the world or with sin.

As Archbishop Rowan Williams said in his book ‘Silence and Honeycakes’ ‘At the Day of Judgement …. the question will not be about why we failed to be someone else: I shall not be asked why I wasn’t Martin Luther King or Mother Theresa, but why I wasn’t Rowan Williams.’ P. 95

Today let us rejoice in fiery, idealistic Simon and quiet unassuming Jude. They remind us that saintliness is not one thing. May the Spirit of God give us the courage to reject sin and the image of ourselves we project and allow our ‘hidden self’ to emerge. That ‘hidden self’ is made in the image of God and is unique to each one. It is not just our ‘hidden self’ it is our ‘hidden saint’. May that saint grow stronger and stronger in us week by week and shine God’s light of love into the world.

Let us pray

God of holiness, you send your Spirit into our hearts and by your grace we participate in your love. Like all the saints, make our lives shine with the radiance of your glory that we may choose life over death, hope over despair, freedom over bondage and rejoice in your blessing for all creation, through Jesus Christ. Amen

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The Habit of Art and Being Ourselves – Canon Dr Christopher Collingwood (Chancellor)

Sunday 28 October 2018 – Evensong

Jeremiah 3:11-18 Jude 1-4, 17-end

We live is disturbing and worrying times. It’s as if the global tectonic plates are shifting and opening up vast fissures in all sorts of areas of life. For example, we’re seeing mass migration on an almost unprecedented scale, at least in modern times. Then there’s climate change and global warming, inclining some to suggest that we’ve little more than 10 years to put a strategy in place before it’s too late. The situation in the Middle East, which never seems to be stable at the best of times, is becoming increasingly unstable, with horror stories reaching us daily of brutal oppression in Syria, famine in Yemen, and things like the torture and butchery of a journalist in the Saudi embassy in Turkey. Russia’s flexing its muscles and, some say, deliberately attempting to destabilise the West. Far-Right political movements are on the rise in European countries such as Italy, Austria and Germany, from which the UK’s certainly not immune. Oh, and there’s Brexit! And, of course, there’s Donald Trump!

Americans must be feeling ill-at-ease today. Within the last 24 hours, 11 people have been gunned down at a synagogue in Pittsburgh. Anti-Semitism’s gaining ground in all sorts of places. The parcel bombs, too, sent a few days ago to leading Democrats in the USA have no doubt ratcheted up the tension and fear in that country just a little more. Cesar Sayoc, an ardent Trump supporter with a criminal record as it happens, is alleged to have sent 13 explosive devices to the homes – amongst others – of the former President, Barak Obama, the former Presidential candidate, Hillary Clinton, and the former Vice-President, Joe Biden. Thankfully, they were all intercepted by the intelligence services, so no physical injuries or deaths were caused.

Many have suggested that the sending of parcel bombs is a direct result of a toxic political climate fomented by the President himself. While it has to be remembered that the President wasn’t responsible for sending the bombs, it would be hard to deny that the President’s political rhetoric hasn’t on occasion been inflammatory.

The former CIA Director, John Brennan, remarked that the President had previously subjected the intended victims of the bombs to verbal attacks, and accused the President of hurling insults, telling lies and encouraging physical violence. It’s been remarked that news stories the President disagrees with are immediately labelled ‘fake news’, and many have commented on the invective used to demonise political opponents and others. From the beginning of his Presidential campaign, for example, Donald Trump referred to Mexicans crossing the border as ‘criminals’ and ‘rapists’, before hastily adding, ‘some of them might be good, though’. And it’s the media, above all, which comes in for stick. The President’s referred to the media as the ‘enemy of the people’, as ‘absolute scum’, ‘disgusting’ and ‘very dishonest’. It’s for these reasons that his appeal in the wake of the parcel bombs to ‘all sides to come together in peace and harmony’ might ring just a little hollow.

It’s not only in the USA, though, where a toxic political climate can be found. Here in the UK the rhetoric around Brexit has meant that there’s been little real opportunity for a serious, sensible and intelligent debate about the issues. Such toxicity is to be seen most of all in the Prime Minister’s own party. Tim Shipman, the political editor of a Sunday newspaper reported last week that one Tory MP had declared that Theresa May should ‘bring her own noose’ to a forthcoming meeting of backbenchers, saying that she would be ‘knifed in the front’ by critics of the so-called Chequers proposal. This led one of her backbenchers to claim that the story had been concocted by Downing Street itself in an attempt to gain sympathy for the Prime Minister, something Shipman strenuously denied.

In the context of such toxicity, words heard from the Letter of Jude in today’s second lesson seem like balm to the soul. In contrast to ‘worldly people, devoid of the Spirit, who are causing divisions’, the recipients of the letter are to keep themselves in the love of God and to ‘have mercy on some who are wavering’. Love and mercy seem like good virtues to practise in any circumstances, even and especially, perhaps, in politics.

It would be too easy and not a little complacent to leave it there, though, for toxic climates exist in the Church, just as much as anywhere else. Those who are accused of causing division in the Letter of Jude, those who are described in verses not included in the lesson as ‘grumblers and malcontents, [who] indulge their own lusts [and] are bombastic in speech, flattering people to their own advantage’ aren’t some outside group; they are themselves Christians, members of the church. The Letter of Jude was clearly written in the context of bitter disputes within the Church, disputes between those who would later come to be referred to as orthodox believers on the one hand and heretics on the other. As we heard at the beginning of the lesson, the issue was, as the author states, that ‘certain intruders have stolen in among you, people who…pervert the grace of God into licentiousness and deny our only Master and Lord, Jesus Christ’. It was clearly felt that matters of crucial importance were at stake here, but it’s to the eternal credit of the author that invective, insult and abuse is discouraged. Instead he urges, ‘Build yourselves up on your most holy faith…and have mercy on some who are wavering’.

‘Have mercy on those who are wavering’. We might paraphrase that along the following lines: ‘Be courteous, respectful, gentle, sensitive and generous to those you disagree with. Listen to them carefully. Seek to learn from them where you can, but persuade them otherwise where you think they can learn from you. Above all, have compassion and humility, knowing that none of us is in possession of the whole truth. So have mercy not only on others, but also on yourself. Where you have to part company, do so with kindness and civility, for stridency and rigidity only separate and divide, whereas love builds up and unites, and leaves the door open.

Sadly, the Church hasn’t always adopted such an approach. Even the gospels themselves show evidence of the use of invective against opponents. The Gospels of Matthew and John, for example, both demonise opponents. In the case of Matthew, it’s the Scribes and Pharisees who are the target of harsh language, and in John it’s those referred to simply as ‘the Jews’. This designation in the Gospel of John has been particularly uncomfortable for the Church, because it’s been used as an excuse for anti-Semitism throughout its history. How, in any case, could such invective be attributed to Jesus himself, the one who certainly spoke the truth at great cost to himself, and yet who embodied the virtues of love, compassion and forgiveness?

One possibility is that these two gospels, in particular, reflect the bitter controversies in the latter part of the first century, when it’s thought that Christians began to be excluded from synagogues. The hurt that Christians felt is perfectly understandable, but the language used in Matthew about the Scribes and Pharisees is directly at odds with Jesus’ own teaching in the same gospel, ‘You have heard it said, “You shall love your neighbour and hate your enemy.” But I say to you, Love our enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be children of your Father in heaven’.

Such loving is about more than just the words we use, it’s also about actions, the way we behave. And yet words are hugely important. As the Letter of James puts it:

‘Look at ships: though they are so large that it takes strong winds to drive them, yet they are guided by a very small rudder wherever the will of the pilot directs. So also the tongue is a small member, yet it boasts of great exploits.

How great a forest is set ablaze by a small fire! And the tongue is a fire’.

We don’t know for sure who the Jude was who wrote the letter which bears his name in the Bible. We can be extraordinarily grateful, though, that in this 25-verse letter, matters of significant disagreement are addressed with conviction, yes, but above all with love, mercy and compassion. It’s a model which all of us, both inside and outside the Church, have much to learn from. After all, the words we use and the way we speak can be used either to spread poison, or to be one of the antidotes to deal with the toxicity which affects us all. As the author implies, the most powerful antidote of all is to keep ourselves in the love of God, to let it shape and transform us, so that in our words and actions it is really Christ speaking and acting.

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What happens next…? – The Reverend Canon Michael Smith (Pastor)

The Reverend Canon Michael Smith (Pastor)

Sunday 21 October 2018 10am Choral Eucharist

Ecclus 38.1-15 & John 9.1-12

(York Medical Society in attendance at this service)

It is virtually impossible for me to describe what it is like to suddenly see after being blind since birth. My first sensation, as I washed the mud from my eyes, was a kind of pain. It hurt. My eyes hurt. I immediately shut them again. I felt dizzy and disorientated. When I opened my eyes again all I can say is that it was like someone blowing a horn right in your ear after you had been sitting in silence for a long time – only it was someone shining light in to my eyes.

It had been just an ordinary day. My parents had put me in my prime begging spot early in the morning. I chatted to a few of the locals about this and that and sat the rest of the time just thinking and occasionally I hummed a tune quietly.

Suddenly I became aware of quite a large group of people coming towards me. They stood near me and soon I realised that they were talking about me. I supposed they were a group of students or Pharisees because they were talking about why I was blind – for whose sin was this man’s blindness a punishment, his parents or his own – they mused. For them I was an interesting subject for discussion, not a person. This did not unduly worry me because it happened all the time, I was used to it. And then one of them came close to me. He touched me on my arm very gently and introduced himself. He asked me if I would mind him touching my eyes. He said he was going to give me my sight back. I thought for a moment. Was this some kind of sick joke? Was this someone taunting me – like the children who would laugh at me, hide my stick and kick my begging bowl down the street? But I could sense only gentleness in his touch and sincerity in his quiet voice and so I said that I did not mind. I had nothing to lose. He let go of my arm, there was a slight pause, and then I felt this warm, slightly gritty substance being smoothed over my eyes. He told me to go and wash my face in the nearby pool of Siloam. I slowly made my way there and did as he had asked and it was as I stood to dry my face that my eyes were hit with a thousand tons of brightness.

It took me ages to be able to open my eyes just a little bit and begin to adjust to this new world I had been given – by the time I had begun to get used to it he had gone. I could not understand why he had chosen me. I was not particularly good, I could be short tempered and selfish like everyone else. I was not particularly religious either, certainly I was Jewish, but like my blindness I had no choice about that, it was mine by birth.

I used to think that life was hard and full of problems when I was blind, but on the day I received my sight things got really difficult and complicated. For a start my friends and neighbours, whose voices I knew well, seemed not to know who I was. They were confused. We were all disorientated. They asked me what had happened and I simply explained about the man who had touched my eyes with what I now know was just mud and that I could see ……..

I find it helpful, sometimes, to play with bible stories like this. To put them in context of ordinary people experiencing extraordinary things. One of the most interesting things about healing miracles, like the one we heard in the gospel this morning, is that we rarely hear what happened after the healing. In the passage we heard today we hear of the man regaining his sight, and that’s it. If it was an episode of EastEnders the drums would sound and we’d all wait to tune in to the next episode to see what happened next. Of course the whole of chapter 9 of John’s gospel is about the same miracle, but all we hear about in the subsequent verses are the arguments between different factions relating, mainly, to the fact that the miracle had happened on the Sabbath. That is all very interesting and significant, but for me, the most interesting and challenging aspect of this story is simply never told – what did the healed man do with the rest of his life? Apart from regaining his sight, how did his encounter with Jesus change him?

My version of the story ended with this sentence ‘I used to think that life was hard and full of problems when I was blind, but on the day I received my sight things got really difficult and complicated.’ The healed man had survived into adulthood as a blind man presumably because he had parents who cared for him and because he could make some money begging. All of that would have to change. He could now live independently of his parents if he wanted to. He would have to go out and get a job as well because begging was no longer an option – but what could he do? He had been blind since birth!

If you reflect on nearly all the healing miracles in the gospels and try to imagine, what happened next, it does not take long to conclude that being lame, blind, having leprosy or being possessed was undoubtedly horrendous, but life as someone who could suddenly walk or see, or as someone who used to have leprosy or who used to be possessed, is not without its challenges!

It is very fashionable these days to be dismissive of people of faith. We are talked about by some as people who are living in a fantasy, people who are essentially frightened of dying so believe all sorts of ridiculous things about resurrection and eternal life. What our critics never consider is that being a person of faith is actually quite hard! Encountering God in Jesus, responding to the invitation ‘follow me’, living a new life as someone who has been healed or forgiven is actually very challenging and involves a total re-orientation of your life and a lot of hard work. I believe life is much more challenging for those who live by faith than it is for those who live lives based on their own, often quite self-centred, belief systems. Jesus understood this. Once he met a man who had been lame for 38 years who lived by a pool of water which was thought to have healing properties, presumably in the hopes that one day he would be healed. When Jesus met him he asked him this question, ‘Do you want to be made well?’ In context this, at first, seems like an incredibly crass question to ask someone who had been lame for 38 years, but it was an excellent question. I expect that there are some here in the medical profession who regularly see people who appear to want to be made well, but have actually got so used to their illness or condition that they cannot really imagine living life in a different way so they never really get better.

The point of the gospel story today, and the point of all the stories of people who genuinely encounter Jesus, is that it is a life changing event. After encountering Jesus nothing can ever be the same again. Living as an invited, healed or forgiven follower of Jesus is extremely challenging, but in the end it enables us to live life more fully, enables us to live lives which are enriched and more fruitful because we cease to find our identity in our status, or our abilities, or our disabilities, or our qualifications, or our possessions and discover our true identity as beloved, healed and forgiven, children of God.

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….. and the walls came tumbling down …… – The Reverend Canon Michael Smith (Pastor)

The Reverend Canon Michael Smith (Pastor)

….. and the walls came tumbling down ……

Sunday 14 October 2018 4pm Evensong

Joshua 5.13-6.20 & Matthew 11.20-end

The story of the walls of Jericho falling is one of the best known Old Testament stories. It has been told, retold and sung about over countless generations. Not surprisingly for the Old Testament, the miraculous breaching of the city walls was in the context of a war – God intervenes to ensure victory for the Israelites.

Rather than exploring the meaning and significance of the story as it appears in the book of Joshua, I want to explore walls, and the breaking down of walls, in broader terms.

Any mention of walls today quickly ends up with people talking about the promise made in the Presidential campaign in the USA a couple of years ago to build a wall along the border between the USA and Mexico. The argument for such a wall is that, among other things, it would keep drugs and illegal immigrants out of the USA. The proposed wall would be 2,000 miles long and would cost in the region of $18 billion. It seems ridiculous, but it is worth remembering that the Great Wall of China was built hundreds of years ago and is over 13,000 miles long and it is impossible to estimate how much that cost. Of course, it is not difficult to find people who think building a wall between the USA and Mexico is a terrible idea. Some politicians in the USA and beyond have fiercely criticised the idea and I suspect that if we took a vote here this afternoon the majority of us would be against the building of this wall or the building of any walls between nations – they never seem to help – look at Bethlehem today and remember the rejoicing when the Berlin wall came down.

It is very easy to be critical of the idea of building walls between nations and demonising those who suggest such plans, but the danger is that being critical of others for wanting to build walls between different peoples is a sure fire way of ignoring the way we all build walls to protect what we consider to be ours.

People of faith are great wall builders. We build walls of certainty – I know what God is saying to me, I understand the precise meaning of scripture. We build walls of tradition – we have always done things this way, it would be wrong to change. We build walls of denominations – my version of faith is better than yours, God is obviously Church of England.

Political people are also great wall builders. They build walls of ideology – my world view is more accurate than yours therefore whatever I think will make the world a better place is right. They build walls of fear – if we do not do things my way there will be catastrophe.

Ordinary people in ordinary situations can also be master wall builders. We all have a tendency to build walls of certainty – my version of what I think is true, or want to be true, is the only version, anyone who contradicts it is wrong. We also build walls by belittling or demonising those with whom we disagree – if someone I disagree with is stupid or evil then I do not need to engage with them at all, I can shut them out of my thinking.

Ironically some of the greatest wall builders I have met are people who consider themselves to be liberal. Some of the most disturbing conversations I have had in recent years have been about our relationship with Europe with good, liberal minded people who effectively close down conversations about Brexit by being so sure of their particular view. I am aware of families and relationships which have been put under terrific pressure because of the walls people build around their particular view of Brexit.

Pushing the metaphor to an extreme, I would say that the walls we construct in these ways are made firmer and more impenetrable because many of us reinforce them with the rock solid mortar of social media. With a few ill-considered clicks on a keypad we can fix our views and make our criticisms of others in ways that can cause lasting damage.

Having said all this we have to accept that some walls and boundaries are necessary and important. For there to be order instead of chaos and anarchy, there need to be some walls and borders.

So where do we go from here?

In the summer I went to see ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ at the ‘pop-up’ Globe near Clifford’s Tower. One of the best and funniest sections of the play was the part where Shakespeare has one of the characters play the part of a wall. There was a huge amount of humour in the scene where two lovers seek to communicate through this human wall. This is, of course, a ridiculous premise, but it does, I believe, give us a clue about how we can establish and live with walls and boundaries creatively. The point is that there has to be humanity, humour and graciousness involved. All the walls we erect should have some flexibility and, like the wall in a Midsummer Night’s Dream, they should have ears, so that we can truly listen to the views of others and consider the possibility of changing our own views. We also have to accept that like the city walls around Jericho, the walls we invest so much time and energy in creating, may also be demolished by God. Yes, there is truth in faith. Yes, there is truth in politics. Yes, there is truth in ordinary situations of ordinary everyday life, but no one has a monopoly on that truth. While it is good and right to form and express opinions and views on what is true and right, we must always hold those views and opinions knowing that God has a habit of breaking down the walls we build to protect those views. We should also remember that Jesus developed an entire ministry largely based on breaking down barriers, trampling over social taboos and redefining many of the firmly drawn boundaries the religious and social elite had established in his day.

Let us be wary of walls and careful not to assume the walls we build to protect our views and beliefs are fixed for all time. Like the wall in a Midsummer Night’s Dream, our walls need ears to listen to others with different views in such a way that our understanding of what is true and right might change, develop, mature. We also need to be ready for the possibility that God may destroy the walls we build so that our understanding or our views become totally vulnerable to change. God made the walls of Jericho tumble down, maybe God will make the walls we build in our arrogance tumble down as well?

Let us pray

O God, grant that looking into the face of the Lord, as into a glass, we may be changed into his likeness, from glory to glory. Take out of us all pride and vanity, boasting and forwardness, arrogance and defensiveness; and give us the true courage which shows itself by gentleness and vulnerability; the true wisdom which shows itself by simplicity; and the true power which shows itself by modesty. We make our prayer through Jesus Christ, who is never confined and is the way, the truth and the life. Amen

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The Case of Brett Kavanaugh, Sexual Politics and the Mutuality of Love – Canon Dr Christopher Collingwood (Chancellor)

Canon Dr Christopher Collingwood (Chancellor)

Sunday 7 October 2018 – Sung Eucharist

Genesis 2:18-24 Mark 10:2-16

Who’d have thought that the presidential nomination of a circuit judge to replace a retiring Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States of America would become so contentious, that it would be among the top news stories for days, not only in the USA but in the UK and elsewhere around the world, too? The nomination by Donald Trump of Brett Kavanaugh has inadvertently or even deliberately served, amongst other things, to fan the flames of strong emotion around the issue of sexual politics.

In the middle of September this year, just a little over two months after the announcement of the nomination, Christine Blasey Ford made an allegation of sexual assault against Kavanaugh, which was followed shortly thereafter by two further allegations of sexual misconduct, made by Deborah Ramirez and Julie Swetnick. Prior to the confirmation of the nomination by the Senate, an FBI investigation of these allegations was commissioned by the President, and it became clear that this case was to expose the fault lines in American politics even further than they were already perceived to be. America’s deeply divided about many things, as is the UK, and matters to do with sexual politics lie, amongst other things, at the heart of that division.

Part of the backdrop for this is the #MeToo movement, which arose initially as a result of women in various walks of life coming forward with allegations of sexual impropriety on the part of men. Among the best known among the accused, perhaps, is the American film producer, Harvey Weinstein. There’s been an eruption of anger, frustration and resentment on the part of large numbers of women, who’re no longer willing to put up with the demeaning and abusive behaviour and attitudes of some men towards them. Only the other day, one of our own female staff here told me that when she worked for another organisation, it was made clear that if she wanted to get on, she’d have to sleep with various men to gain promotion. An offer was even made to her to set up such a liaison. Fortunately, she’s a person of great integrity, so she resigned rather than collude and conform. Despite huge advances in Western society in relation to women, misogynistic and patriarchal attitudes still lurk, and they’re deeply unpleasant.

Inevitably, though, there’s also something of a backlash against the progress made by women. At a recent press conference, Donald Trump said that it’s now very difficult to be a man in the face of allegations made by women, because it’s come to be assumed that you’re guilty until proven innocent. Now there may well be more than an element of truth in that. It’s just as much the case, though, that, as a matter of course, women have often been assumed to be making false allegations. Why didn’t the President say that as well? The suspicion lurks that there’s still something of a hidden agenda to reinforce male power and influence. In the end, all of us, men and women alike, lose out in such a climate.

In one sense, there’s nothing new here. Jesus was tested by a question to do with sexual politics, as we heard in the gospel reading. In this case, it had to do with when divorce was permissible. Some Pharisees asked Jesus, ‘Is it lawful for a man to divorce his wife?’ On the surface, this looks like a fairly straightforward question, but notice the way it’s framed: ‘Is it lawful for a man to divorce his wife?’ The question was put by men in a patriarchal society. Women had no rights in Jewish law. In this regard, Roman law was actually rather more enlightened, for female citizens of Rome were permitted to sue for divorce against their husbands. The way Jewish law was practised meant that women were little more than the property of their husbands. This legacy continued until fairly recently even in our own culture and, if you choose to be married according to the order prescribed in the Book of Common Prayer, that’s implicitly the view you’re accepting even today. That’s why the woman is given away by the father to her husband – to be his property. Fortunately, that assumption isn’t to be found in Common Worship.

When the Pharisees came to Jesus, he would have been well aware that there was a division of opinion among them as to the conditions for divorce. Some advocated very easy divorce, while others were more stringent. As far as Jesus was concerned, the debate was framed in entirely the wrong way, for its starting point was an assumption based on an imbalance of power between men and women. Instead, he took them back to the basic premise of all relationships as intended by God: that of mutuality.

When Jesus quotes from the book of Genesis, he clearly has in mind the second creation narrative in chapter two, where we read that a man and woman become one flesh in marriage. There’s an ambivalence there, though, because there’s a subliminal imbalance in the relationship, since the woman is created from the man. In other words, the man assumes priority over the woman.

At the same time, though, Jesus clearly has the first creation narrative in mind, too. When he says that ‘God made them male and female’, he’s referring to the first story, in which we read: ‘So God created humankind in his image, in the image of God he created them; male and female he created them.’ It’s quite clear from this that to be created in the image of God is to be created not only for relationship but as relationship, in which male and female are completely and unambiguously equal. Female isn’t created after male. Male and female are created together at one and the same time. The true dignity of every human being as created in the image and likeness of God lies not in asserting power over and against one another, but in a relationship in which neither can be without the other. As Christian experience and reflection unfolded, so it came to be seen that Jesus himself embodied a love grounded in the life of God as Trinity, the one whose very being is a mutuality and communion of love. To put it bluntly, God isn’t God without this essential relationality, and since we’re created in the image and likeness of this God, we can’t be human without a similar mutuality of relationship. Relationships aren’t or shouldn’t be about power, but about love.

All this is really important when we’re thinking about marriage and divorce. I wonder how many people here this morning have been through divorce themselves and felt not a little uncomfortable as the gospel was read. How many such people feel a sense of guilt and shame, of hurt and failure? The point Jesus was making is that marital relationships aren’t to be seen in isolation. All our relationships, of whatever kind, are grounded ultimately in the reciprocal exchange of love which is God the Trinity, and in that sense it’s not just marriages which fall short; all our relationships do. The real issue is how we deal with this fact.

To insist that there can never be divorce or remarriage runs the risk of preserving a marriage but killing the people. Jesus recalls us to the ideal of marriage not to weigh us down with yet another burden of guilt but to remind us all of our inherent dignity, residing not in power but in love. For some, it’s the very experience of marriage itself, particularly when based on an abuse of power, which whittles away that sense of God-given dignity and worth. In such circumstances, it would seem right to reject the very basis on which the relationship was made. And when things are difficult, as they are for all of us in all our relationships from time to time, marital or otherwise, what’s called for is wisdom and compassion, a gentle acceptance of ourselves as loved, as well as the affirmation, often from others, and the belief, that we’re more than the difficulties which temporarily seem to define us.

Jesus recalls us to who we truly are, whether married or not, and sets before us an aspiration, something to aim at: the perfect fulfilment of every human being in divine and human relationships of mutual love. The ultimate realisation of that aspiration is sometimes enabled, paradoxically, by our experience of failure. This is the mystery at the heart of Christian faith and experience. As is sung in the Exultet on Easter Eve, ‘O happy fault, O necessary sin.’ And if what’s going on in the public arena of sexual politics in the United States and elsewhere is an expression of deep dissatisfaction with asymmetrical relationships based on power, and of the desire for something different, then even the pain and trauma arising from all that can itself in the end contribute to the ultimate fulfilment of God’s purposes of mutual, transparent and power-less love.

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A Great Welcome – The Reverend Deacon Abigail Davison (Curate)

The Reverend Deacon Abigail Davison (Curate)

Sunday 23 September 2018 – 10am Sung Eucharist

James 3:13-4:3, 7-8a and Mark 9:30-37

If there’s anyone in my household who would argue that they’re the greatest, it’s my 2 year old daughter. She’s certain that she’s the greatest at finishing her cereal: she expects a round of applause when she does. Likewise, no one can jump from the bottom step of the stairs as well as she can. And I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to tell you, she might just be the greatest at finding biscuits I thought they were safely hidden. She has no qualms about asking for praise and acclaim for how great she believes she is. And of course, as her mum, I have no qualms giving it.

This probably isn’t the same standard of greatness the disciples had in mind but, from where Jesus is standing, I wonder if it’s not just as absurd.

In today’s gospel reading, Jesus warns his disciples for a second time that he is going to die. Their apparent response is to argue among themselves about their own greatness. In the Gospel reading last week (Mark 8:27-38) Jesus had also warned the disciples what was about to happen, and we heard Peter rebuke him for it. Jesus’ response to this seemed excessive: ‘Get behind me Satan! For you are setting your mind not on divine things, but on human things.’ Maybe it’s in this that we’ve found the route of the problem. The same issue came up in the first reading today, in the letter of James. He puts it just as strongly: ‘Do you not know that friendship with the world is enmity with God?’

I wonder if it was Jesus’ original outburst that made the disciples reluctant to ask him what he meant when he raised the issue of his death for a second time. Instead they seem to choose to overlook his predictions and start this argument about which of them was the greatest. I don’t want to seem too harsh on the disciples: I completely understand why they do, for two reasons. Firstly, the first thing you do when someone says something you don’t want to hear, is (if you possibly can) to pretend they didn’t say it at all (do ask my toddler about this technique, she’s very good at it).

The second reason is this: last week we heard the disciples establish just who Jesus is – he’s the Messiah, King of the Jews, the whole of Israel has been waiting for this! Jesus is now, for the second time, trying to teach them what this actually means. But they already know what it means, in the same way they know what it means to be great. They know this, because they have the likes of Caesar and other great rulers, to show them. When those Kings rode in to take possession of their kingdoms, the people nearest to them got a share in the accolade and the spoils and, often, became known as ‘great’ themselves. At least, for a short time.

The disciples had been promised that the good news was here, and good news looks a lot more like this, then like your king, your friend, dying on a cross.

Here we see most starkly the disparity between the divine and the human, between God and the world. Jesus wasn’t looking to emulate any kind of earthly ruler, and in hindsight we know that fleeting, earthly greatness wasn’t what awaited his disciples either. So what kind of greatness should we be looking to emulate? What does it look like when our standard of greatness is set by God: when it’s divine and not human? It looks, Jesus tells us, like the greatest acting as a servant: it looks like the welcome of a child.

As the mother of a little child, I have some things to say about welcoming little children…

I get a very twee image of this scene in my mind, and I don’t think it’s the whole truth. I picture a young child who is brought in just long enough for Jesus to make his point, then scurries out to play in the street again. That’s not welcome, that’s just saying hello. This is a much more powerful image then that: welcoming a little child is hard work. It means welcoming spaghetti handprints on your walls and grapes squished into the carpet and toys hidden in your dishwasher and all of your biscuits gone! And it can mean weeks without sleep, the long term loss of earnings, and a life that’s lived almost entirely around meeting the needs of someone else, supporting them to be great.

And this is what we’re asked to welcome?

There’s no quantifiable reward to be gained here: nothing that could be measure by the world’s standards. Nothing that will lead to us being regarded as ‘the greatest’. Can you imagine a world leader asserting their greatness by this standard, or promising to make their nation great by using its resources to make other nations greater than it?

Are you ready to give that welcome?

Are we, as a church, ready to give that welcome?

I can’t answer this for you, but what will the rest of your week look like if you offer that welcome? I don’t know either what this church will end up looking like if we offer this welcome, but I am desperate to find out.

Finally, I want to ask, are you in need of that welcome? (And I suspect at some point in our lives, we all are.)

I want to encourage you, if you haven’t received such a welcome, not to be afraid to demand it of us. Because it’s in you we have a chance to welcome Christ himself.

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Grace is not cheap – The Reverend Canon Michael Smith (Pastor)

The Reverend Canon Michael Smith (Pastor)

16 Sunday after Trinity – Evensong

Exodus 18. 13-26 & Matthew 7. 1-14

What do these things have in common – a rubber duck, a kebab skewer, a sock, a light bulb, 104 pennies, 9 sewing needles, and a penknife? No, they are not prizes on a rather disappointing edition of the Generation Game – they are in fact items that have been eaten and swallowed by dogs! I promise I was not just wasting time doing some random Googling when I should have been writing my sermon for evensong, I discovered this fascinating information in the course of writing this sermon! Hopefully, all will become clear…..

When I first looked at the bible readings we have just heard I thought that writing a sermon would not be too difficult. It seemed like the passage from Matthew is full of pithy sayings with plenty of scope for sermonising. To be honest, when I actually began to think harder about what I might explore I found it very difficult indeed. The first few verses of the passage from Matthew 7 begin with ‘Do not judge, so that you may not be judged.’ That is very clear and straightforward but is followed by, ‘Do not give what is holy to dogs; and do not throw your pearls before swine, or they will trample them under foot and turn and maul you.’ As I thought about this I couldn’t help thinking that some significant judgement is required to decide who are ‘dogs’ and who are ‘swine’!

Of course, as ever, I began to make some sense of all this when I remembered to try and read the passage in context. Jesus was speaking at a time when Judaism was exclusive and the language of ‘dogs’ and ‘swine’ was freely used to describe Gentiles. For example in Matthew 15 a Gentile woman approaches Jesus to ask him to heal her sick daughter and Jesus pointedly ignores her and then tells her that he has been sent to the ‘lost sheep of the house of Israel’, and then says, ‘It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.’ The woman is not deflected by this, perseveres with her request and eventually Jesus heals her daughter. So, on this occasion, you could say, he gives what is holy, healing, to the dogs, which is very interesting and very good, but doesn’t really help when trying to make sense of the passage from Matthew 7 when Jesus specifically says we should not give what is holy to the dogs.

Having made a little progress by reading the passage in the context of the time it was written, it is still important to make some sense of these verses today. Perhaps what this passage should be reminding us is that the things of God, what is holy, the pearls of truth we know through Jesus, are both precious and challenging. We talk a lot about the generosity of God’s grace but we have to remember that living in God’s generous grace, is hard. The life of faith is challenging. This is a difficult message when we are constantly trying to engage in mission and call people to join us in the life of faith. Churches are generally falling over themselves to find ways to make the Good News accessible, relevant and attractive – the danger is always that the profound challenges there are in living a life of faith and becoming a follower of Jesus are skated over. Faith can easily become primarily about the things you believe rather than the way you live, the way you relate to other people and the choices you make every day.

What we need, as we grow in faith, is discernment to see the profound beauty and the profound challenge of the gospel. And this is where I justify my Googling; dogs will eat almost anything, they show no discernment – some will eat a lightbulb with the same enthusiasm as a bowl of Pedigree Chum. We have to engage in mission in such a way that we do not make it seem that faith is simple, that following Jesus is easy, that grace is cheap, that faith is just another ‘lifestyle’ choice, something to be consumed with everything else there is on offer today.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the German pastor and theologian who was imprisoned by the Nazis and died in a concentration camp, wrote a book called ‘The Cost of Discipleship’ in which he warns against thinking that grace is cheap. He says, “Cheap grace is the grace we bestow on ourselves. Cheap grace is the preaching of forgiveness without requiring repentance, baptism without church discipline, Communion without confession…Cheap grace is grace without discipleship, grace without the cross, grace without Jesus Christ, living and incarnate.”

As we think about what Jesus said about not giving holy things to dogs and not throwing pearls to swine, Bonhoeffer makes us, first, look at ourselves. Do we treat the Good News as the truly precious and challenging gift that it is or do we treat it as something easy and cheap, something to make us feel comfortable, just something else for us to consume, taking the bits we like and ignoring the bits that are hard and challenging, the bits that involve sacrifice and vulnerability, the bits that lead us to the cross?

‘Do not give what is holy to dogs; and do not throw your pearls before swine, or they will trample them under foot and turn and maul you.’ It would have been easy and comfortable to spend our time worrying about the political incorrectness of this statement when what we should be doing is wondering whether we treat holy things with care and discernment accepting the challenges as well as the blessings they bring. Wondering whether we trample over the pearls we are given with our self-centred arrogance, taking what makes us feel good and safe and ignoring that which disturbs us or involves suffering. The teaching of Jesus in Matthew 7 is hard to read, hard to understand and it challenges us to examine our conscience – are we simply consumers of faith, along with everything else we consume, or do we make ourselves vulnerable to the life changing power of the ‘holy pearls’ of the Good News Jesus shares with us all? God’s grace is not cheap, as Bonhoeffer says, ‘It is the pearl of great price to buy which the merchant will sell all his goods. It is the kingly rule of Christ, for whose sake a man will pluck out the eye which causes him to stumble; it is the call of Jesus Christ at which the disciple leaves his nets and follows him.’

Responding to God’s grace means entering by the narrow gate, as Matthew 7.14 says, it is challenging and costly, but it is the entrance that leads to life.

Let us pray

Lord, your searing judgment penetrates the hidden places of our hearts and minds. Heal the injuries carried that would wound others, confront the prejudices held that would restrict vision, calm the fears that would strike those who would challenge. Transform us in your grace with humility and love, and may all our wrestling with matters of faith, ultimately end in blessing. We ask this for the sake of him who died to bring true peace and blessing to the world. Amen

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The Habit of Art and Being Ourselves – Canon Dr Christopher Collingwood (Chancellor)

Sunday 29 July 2018 – 10am Sung Eucharist

James 1:17-27 Mark 7:1-8, 14-15, 21-23

What, I wonder, are your earliest childhood memories? What’s the first thing you can remember in your life and how old were you?

I have quite vivid memories going back to about the age of three, but one that really sticks in my mind dates from a little later, when I must have been about seven or eight. Most of my early memories have to do with grandparents, and on this particular occasion we were staying with my paternal grandparents in Rugby. I remember going to church one Sunday, as we always did, the building being the sort that’s often referred to as a ‘tin tabernacle’, and I can recall quite clearly the vicar’s sermon. Sitting in the front row were three teenagers, dressed very casually in jeans and open-necked shirts or blouses. The vicar made a point of singling them out as he was preaching, saying that it really didn’t matter what they were wearing; the important thing was that they were there. I’ve very little recollection of anything else he said, but I guess he must have been making a point to those who might have thought that people dressed like that clearly shouldn’t have been allowed to attend a service. This was the sixties, and there was a social revolution, manifesting itself in all sorts of ways, not least in fashion and etiquette. Hitherto people would have worn their ‘Sunday best’ to church, but the vicar seemed to be stating that this wasn’t what really mattered. He didn’t say so in as many words, but what he was suggesting was that it wasn’t the external appearance that mattered, but the intention, the heart.

Does it matter what we wear to church? Do you dress up to come to church or do you come dressed casually? There are plenty of people who just like dressing up and think that church should be something special. Others hate dressing up for anything, and prefer coming to church simply in what they feel comfortable with. Whatever the case, I doubt very much whether any of us would challenge whether this person or that was dressed appropriately. We’d probably argue that this was to miss the point.

Missing the point was the challenge that Jesus made to the Scribes and Pharisees, as we heard in the gospel reading. In this case, it wasn’t about what the correct dress code was, but something of a not entirely dissimilar nature. It had to do with whether certain external ritual actions had to be performed in order to be acceptable to God. The Scribes and Pharisees were unnerved by the fact that Jesus’ disciples didn’t observe the regulations about ritual washing before eating. The charge, in other words, was that they were unclean. Ritual cleansing, however, lay at the heart of the tradition, because it was an outward sign of becoming acceptable to God. The original purpose of things like ritual cleansing was to impress on people the overriding importance of holiness. The problem arises when the sign is taken to replace the reality, when just going through the motions and little more is deemed to be what guarantees holiness. This is what lies at the heart of Jesus’ charge: that there’s more to spirituality than performing the right ritual actions. What matters is what motivates them. When they lose sight of what they’re really for, they just become mechanical and, for this very reason, counter-productive. What matters is the heart.

The problem with obsessing about ritual cleanliness and what’s acceptable to God in terms of the externals is that the attitude that lies behind this can be toxic. It leads to a whole host of binary judgments about who’s in and who’s out, who’s acceptable and who’s not. At the time of Jesus, simply to be sick put you beyond the bounds of social and religious acceptability. This is why Jesus’ behaviour was such an affront to the religious establishment, because he mixed readily with those who were diseased and deemed thereby to be outcast. Time and time again, Jesus recalled people beyond mere external observation to what truly lay at the heart of the tradition, particularly in relation to the prophets.

Nowhere does Jesus actually quote Amos or Micah as he does Isaiah, for example, but he would entirely agree with what they believed God to be saying through them. From Amos: ‘I hate, I despise your festivals, and I take no delight in your solemn festivals. Even though you [make] offerings [to me], I will not accept them. But let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream’ (Amos 5:21-22, 24). And Micah, ‘With what shall I come before the Lord, and bow myself before God on high? Shall I come before him with burnt offerings, with calves a year old?…He has told you what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?’ (Micah 6:6,8). Jesus and the prophets before him affirm that God isn’t concerned with the externals in and for themselves alone, but with what they reveal about who we truly are and what we’re really like. In other words, the externals point to something far more important and less visible: the heart, the very essence, if you like, of who we are. Justice, mercy, kindness, compassion and love, these are things that really matter, because these are what lie at the heart of God and, because we’re created in the image and likeness of God, at the heart of who we are, too. What matters is what comes out of the heart and Jesus suggests that in the end it boils down to love: love God and love your neighbour as yourself. Everything else is simply a gloss on that.

The uncomfortable thing for all of us, of course, is that there’s a disjunction between our outward behaviour and what we profess. To put it another way, our actions reveal our diseased hearts, and this so easily leads to charges of hypocrisy. The charge made by Jesus to the Scribes and Pharisees can be levelled at just about anyone who claims to follow him: ‘You hypocrites. “This people honours me with their lips, but their hearts are from me”’. The Church’s record on child sexual abuse, in particular, makes this charge especially irrefutable in our own day. Even the extraordinarily popular Pope Francis is coming in for a good deal of stick. Having tweeted, ‘Christians aren’t “selling a product” but communicating a lifestyle’, he’s had to change his tweet to ‘communicating life’, because some people were so affronted by what they took to be rank hypocrisy.

We’re all Scribes and Pharisees at heart. Well, that’s only partially true. We certainly don’t live in accordance with who we truly are, but our true nature isn’t corrupted and diseased, it’s actually pure and wholesome. As the great 20th century monk and mystic, Thomas Merton, affirmed, at our very core, we’re untouched by sin; there’s a part of us which is untouched by anything but God. The purpose of all our religious observance is simply to enable us to access this hidden ground of who we are, the heart, and discover it to be none other than love and compassion. As Jesus indicated to the Scribes and Pharisees, true religion is of the heart or it’s nothing. If there’s any real point to the whole paraphernalia of religion, it’s to enable God to facilitate the transformation of our hearts, so that renewed and restored, they finally beat in harmony with God’s own heart of love.

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Religion of the Heart – Canon Dr Christopher Collingwood (Chancellor)

Sunday 29 July 2018 – 10am Sung Eucharist

Canon Dr Christopher Collingwood (Chancellor)

James 1:17-27 Mark 7:1-8, 14-15, 21-23

What, I wonder, are your earliest childhood memories? What’s the first thing you can remember in your life and how old were you?

We’re all Scribes and Pharisees at heart. Well, that’s only partially true. We certainly don’t live in accordance with who we truly are, but our true nature isn’t corrupted and diseased, it’s actually pure and wholesome. As the great 20^th century monk and mystic, Thomas Merton, affirmed, at our very core, we’re untouched by sin; there’s a part of us which is untouched by anything but God. The purpose of all our religious observance is simply to enable us to access this hidden ground of who we are, the heart, and discover it to be none other than love and compassion. As Jesus indicated to the Scribes and Pharisees, true religion is of the heart or it’s nothing. If there’s any real point to the whole paraphernalia of religion, it’s to enable God to facilitate the transformation of our hearts, so that renewed and restored, they finally beat in harmony with God’s own heart of love.

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