Sermon for the Feast of St Bartholomew – The Reverend Canon Timothy Goode, Congregational Discipleship and Nurture

Acts 5.12–16; Luke 22.24–30

‘…they even carried out the sick into the streets and laid them on cots and mats, in order that Peter’s shadow might fall on some of them as he came by.’

May I speak in the name of the living God, who is our creator, sustainer and redeemer.

Today we are keeping the Feast of St Bartholomew, one of the most elusive of the apostles. His name is always listed among the Twelve, but little else is said of him. There are no recorded words, no sermons, no miracles in his name. He slips through the pages of the New Testament like a figure at the edge of the stage.

Was he Nathanael, the sceptical but sincere Israelite whom Jesus praised in John’s Gospel? Tradition has often thought so, but Scripture does not confirm it. All we really know is his name – and yet for two thousand years the Church has remembered him, carved him in stone, honoured his feast, and prayed in his name.

Bartholomew is, in every sense, the apostle of shadows. Hidden, half-known, easily overlooked, and yet enduring. And perhaps that is his gift to us.

In our readings this morning the apostles appear in two very different lights. In the Book of Acts, Luke shows them radiant with charisma: the sick are laid out in the streets in the hope that even Peter’s shadow might fall upon them and bring healing. The atmosphere is charged with wonder, expectation, and spectacle.

But in today’s Gospel Luke paints a starkly different picture. Here we find those same apostles caught in dispute, arguing over which of them should be considered the greatest. And into their rivalry Jesus speaks a word that overturns their assumptions: ‘The greatest among you must become like the youngest, and the leader like one who serves.’

Humility and service on the one hand; power and rivalry on the other. And there in the middle, we find Bartholomew, the apostle who’s always there but hidden, named but not noticed.

Luke’s image of Peter’s shadow is an arresting one for a shadow has no substance, it has no voice of its own, it holds no permanence. And yet Luke describes how people hoped Peter’s shadow might heal. What on earth was this power that he was describing?

At first, it does seem decidedly strange, even magical that Peter’s shadow might have the power to heal. But the power behind Peter’s shadow has nothing to do with Peter: shadows only exist when a stronger light is shining. They are not self-generated. Shadows are the evidence that light has fallen on something real. Peter’s shadow was cast not through his own power but was cast because the power of Christ’s light was shining through him.

Bartholomew’s life as an apostle mirrors that of Peter in that respect. Unlike Peter, he casts no great figure across the New Testament, and yet the light of Christ fell on him too, and his shadow has in been remembered for centuries.

But of course, not all shadows we see offer healing and hope. There are more sinister lights that cast shadows we know only too well. The brooding shadow of violence falling across war-torn streets. The shadow of displacement hanging over refugee camps. The shadow of poverty stretching across food banks and empty cupboards. The shadow of climate breakdown darkening fragile ecosystems. The shadows of loneliness in care homes, of despair in hospital corridors, of shame in places of addiction.

These shadows are heavy, oppressive, frightening. And yet even they remind us that shadows are never the whole story. For every shadow is cast by light. The question for us is whether we are positioning ourselves close enough to the true source of the everlasting and redemptive light – the light of Christ – so that that shadow may be cast as a sign of healing and hope.

The poetry of R. S. Thomas reflects so much on the shadows of this world and the shadow Christ’s light casts. In his poem The Coming, he imagines God showing the Son a broken shadowed world, scorched and scarred:

And God held in his hand

a small globe. Look, he said.

The Son looked. Far off,

as through water, he saw

a scorched land of fierce colour.

The light burned there; crusted buildings

cast their shadows; a bright serpent,

a river, uncoiled itself, radiant with slime.

On a bare hill a bare tree saddened the sky.

Many people held out their thin arms

to it, as though waiting for a vanished April to return to its crossed boughs.

The Son watched.

Let me go there, he said.”

Here, R.S. Thomas offers us a glimpse of the world as Christ saw it – blistered, fragile, full of longing and despair, full of brooding and oppressive shadows. And yet Christ’s response is not hesitation but resolve: “Let me go there.”

The Christ we follow does not seek earthly power or glory. He chooses the brooding shadows – the places of frailty, obscurity, pain and longing, to cast his light of healing and hope. And Bartholomew, the shadowy apostle, reflects for us that same light. His greatness is not found in fame but in faithfulness, not in being seen but in letting Christ’s light pass through him, quietly, without drawing attention to himself.

And that is the hope of this feast. For many of us, life can feel shadow-like too, ordinary, hidden, unseen. We may wonder what difference our small acts can make in a world so vast.

But Luke in his Book of Acts reveals that even a shadow can heal. What matters is not how brightly we shine, but whether we stand where Christ’s light falls. What matters is not recognition, but faithfulness. What matters is not the noise we make, but the shadow we cast in the light of Christ.

Bartholomew, whose feast we celebrate today – the apostle we hardly know – inhabits all that we learn within today’s readings. Luke in Acts reminds us that God works through shadows. Luke in his Gospel teaches us that greatness is found in service, not status. R.S. Thomas gives us a Christ who chooses the brooding shadows of the world.

So, us not shrink from the shadows, nor dismiss the hidden callings that go unnoticed. For it is in the shadowed places that the Church continually relearns its dependence on Christ’s light alone.

In Bartholomew’s witness we are being offered a pattern for our own discipleship: to choose faithfulness over fame, steadfastness over spectacle, so that Christ’s light may shine through us. And when Christ’s light casts its shadow – in the places where we work, where we rest, and where we have our very being – it will be where kthat shadow lands that the hope and healing of God will be revealed for all to see.

Amen.

“Jesus came bringing not peace but division” – Canon Peter Collier, Cathedral Reader

In the first chapter of Luke’s gospel Zechariah prophesies that when Jesus comes, he will guide our feet into the way of peace. When Jesus was born, the choir of angels sang about peace on earth. Jesus often said to people such things as – go in peace and sin no more; peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. In a few minutes time we will do what we do week after week – we will share the peace with one another.

So what are we to make of our gospel reading this morning when Jesus said – do you think I have come to bring peace on earth? No, I tell you but rather division.  And if that is not enough, he also says I have come to bring fire to the earth.

The Message translation of these verses says this: “I’ve come to start a fire on this earth – how I wish it were blazing right now! I’ve come to change everything, turn everything right side up – how I long for it to be finished! Do you think I came to smooth things over and make everything nice? Not so. I’ve come to disrupt and confront!”

As we have reminded ourselves so often as we have been working our way through Luke’s gospel this year, Jesus had set his face to go to Jerusalem and Luke recorded that journey. As Jesus travelled, there was an increasing sense of an impending crisis, which would eventually centre on him and lead to his death. Conflict was very much in the air.

Of course, there were those who couldn’t get enough of him – his teaching, his miracles, his healings. At the beginning of this chapter we read “the crowd gathered in thousands, so that they trampled on one another”.

But there were others who were stirred by his words and actions to hostility. The reason for that is very clear – Jesus constantly challenged them and all that they stood for. They were the people in authority, they had real power. Anything that disturbed the status quo, and in particular their status quo, was a threat to them and their position. That group included the scribes, the priests and the Pharisees; and in due course the Roman civic authorities also turned against him.

What was it that caused this division? It was the coming of the kingdom of God. That kingdom, as proclaimed by Jesus, challenged their seemingly ordered way of life, and all that made for the status quo of how everyone lived. Jesus was saying that there was an alternative way – and that led to division.

Last Sunday we were asked to think about where we were laying up our treasure. Jesus had been saying that people should not worry about their life, what they would eat, what they would wear, because life was more than food and clothing. He said that the nations of the world strive after these things, but that they instead should strive for his kingdom. People were of course looking for security. Whether they were in authority or very much under authority – all were concerned to build for themselves a level of security now in this world.

But Jesus said that rather than focussing on this world and its received values, they should be getting ready for the coming of the King, and his kingdom.

And he told his listeners to read the signs of the times. “You all know how to read the signs that tell you what weather is coming” he said; “why can’t you read the bigger signs about what’s happening in the world?”

The reference to divided households is a quotation from Micah chapter 7. As Micah surveyed the world of his time, he saw that everything was falling apart. Everything that should give stability was failing. The rule of law, fundamental to fairness and justice, was corrupted because the judges were being bribed. Families, which should give social stability, had become completely dysfunctional with relationships turned upside down. Micah imagines himself walking in the field after harvest and he can find nothing left to eat or drink – no good thing has survived.

Jesus invited his listeners to look around at the signs in both their civic and religious worlds. Yes, there was a form of peace – the pax Romana – but at what cost? Nations and communities were oppressed to keep the peace, forced to abandon their own cultural practices, and to use a language which was not their own. And it was all made possible because of the slavery to which something like 5 million people across the empire, about 15% of the population, were subject. This could not and would not last. And in their religious world, people lived completely under the heel of the scribes and pharisees, who had built a whole set of detailed rules and regulations about how you must live. And woe betide you if you stepped outside those rules.

Jesus confronted all this, and as he proclaimed the Kingdom of God, he brought a judgement against those worlds and their requirements. Time and again he confronted the Jewish authorities and challenged their rule-based way of life, as he proclaimed and demonstrated the love of God that was unconditional, accepting, and inclusive.

That not only challenged the position of the authorities, but it liberated those who had struggled under those rules. Jesus always associated himself with those who were on the wrong side of the social divides of his day. Those who were unclean, he touched and restored to wholeness. He gave value and dignity to those who were despised – such as women, tax collectors and others generically described as sinners. He spoke of and demonstrated the eternal and inclusive love of God for all people. And that led to division. You accepted it or you rejected it; you could not sit on the fence.

So what does Jesus say today to the nations of the world? We spend our time building security for ourselves as we see it. Security is of course relative, depending on your circumstances, but for us it has much to do with possessions, net worth, and the protection of what we have managed to build up. For us it comes in all sorts of shapes and forms – a home, an income whether earned or otherwise to provide for our needs, savings for a rainy day or a holiday, a pension of some sort for future security, and health to maintain and even enjoy all of that. And of course we want our children and families to enjoy that kind of security too.

And so often that leads to a structured and tiered society in which, depending where sit, we enjoy different levels of security. Many of us here, but by no means all, will have a significant sense of security. And security is often associated with power and authority, in a chicken and egg sort of way.

For many people whatever security they did enjoy was shaken five years ago by the pandemic. And the levels of fear we experienced then have not gone away. And our world has become increasingly driven by fear, as the political rhetoric divides and polarises. You are always on one side or the other of so many issues. You only have to look back over this week – I expect most of you will have heard about Chris Kandiah, the Christian theologian who spoke on Thought for Today about attitudes to refugees and foreigners and it led to a huge row with the BBC withdrawing that part of the programme.

There are many issues today where Jesus and his gospel bring division, when he confronts those who are in power and who have authority. Archbishop Tutu once said that “when people say the bible and politics don’t mix, I wonder which Bible it is that they are reading”.

So still today Jesus come to us with his fire? Fire is not all destructive. It can refine, reveal, and renew. You will know that those who live or work in the forests sometimes start controlled fires in order to clear out the dead wood. You may have seen television programmes showing how remarkably quickly new life springs up where the fire has been.

As we follow Jesus, as we allow his word to penetrate our lives, we will inevitably find that he comes to disturb us in our established patterns of thinking and living which we think give us security.

He calls us to understand our times and to read the signs. And he calls us to belong to his kingdom and to live by the values of that kingdom where, as we walk with him day by day, we allow his unconditional love for all to shape how we think and live.

Amen.

“What we treasure shapes our lives” – The Reverend Canon Maggie McLean, Missioner

In our Gospel Jesus couldn’t be clearer about one characteristic of human nature. That what we treasure shapes our lives. Last Sunday we heard about the rich man whose treasure – his wealth – was so great that it couldn’t be contained. He had to build new barns to house it all. This week Jesus continues this teaching with further reflection on treasure and what it means. Jesus could hardly speak more plainly: ‘where your treasure is, there your heart will be also’.

We seem to live in a culture that is fascinated by this kind of treasure. The TV schedules are full of programmes about what motivates people and their ambition to find the Holy Grail of whatever it is that motivates them. The perfect food; or house; or journey.  The question Jesus is asking us in today’s Gospel is about our desire. About what we value and set our hearts upon.

The poet RS Thomas captures this experience in his poem ‘The Bright Field’. According to Thomas what matters in our life’s journey is to be alert and ready for that moment when we encounter our true treasure. And we can only do that if we stop worrying about the past and give up our fantasies about the perfect future. What matters is ‘now’; and being ready to see the everyday miracles that God brings into our lives. Of course, for Jesus, this treasure is about more than the ambition to possess a ‘thing’, however perfect. Because all things ‘wear out’. Nothing we can possess or attain in this life lasts forever. Jesus wants us to seek what won’t wear out, or rust, or decay.

There’s a story told about a very wealthy man who dies and goes to heaven. When he arrives St Peter greets him and asks an angel to take the man to his heavenly dwelling. As they set out they pass many palatial homes, but the angel says that his home is further on.

The wealthy man thinks that his home must be even more magnificent than these houses, because on earth he was a very important person. However, as they go on the houses become less magnificent. He begins to get worried. From handsome large dwellings they move into an area with shacks and very basic accommodation. The angel then points to one of these and says: ‘there – that is your home for eternity’. The man is indignant. He shouts: ‘How on earth can this be right?’. The angel paused before replying, ‘but we aren’t on earth’.

The problem, as the angel went on to say, was that they could only build with the material the rich man had provided. And, in heaven, that material is the substance of our generosity on earth.

Unfortunately, despite his wealth, the rich man had given away very little.

Jesus reminds us that all our treasures on earth eventually wear out.  The things we try to possess rust and decay. Shrouds don’t have pockets. ‘We brought nothing into the world, and we take nothing out’.

Living with the reality of our humanity is the calling we each face, and we have choices. The question Jesus puts with complete clarity asks each of us to consider what constitutes our treasure. What stirs us to move mountains, or spend all our strength and determination?

These are big questions.

In fact, they are dangerous questions.

Writing some years ago Rowan Williams quoted the author Annie Dillard. Dillard compares the church to a cruise ship, but one where everyone is having a nice time and not worried too much about where the boat is heading. On this ship she finds that Christians are not ‘sufficiently aware of the conditions’.

And goes on to write:

Does anyone have the foggiest idea what sort of power we blindly invoke? … The churches are children playing on the floor with their chemistry sets, gently stirring elements they don’t fully understand.

It is madness to wear straw hats to church; we should all be wearing crash helmets. Ushers should issue life preservers and signal flares; they should lash us to our pews. For the sleeping god may awake someday and take offense, or the waking god may draw us to where we can never return.

‘Where is your treasure?’ is not a small question.

Being alert and ready is not a small calling.

We do not worship a small God.

Amen.

“Whom are we really following” – Canon Peter Collier, Cathedral Reader

The church at Corinth was a very divided community, it was full of different factions. And people were very conscious of which group they belonged to – some said they were following Paul, others said that they preferred to be identified with Apollos and yet others said their hero was Cephas (better known to us as the apostle Peter). We don’t know much about the details of the differences between the groups, but that doesn’t matter, because each generation has its own divisions, factions and camps. And the fact that we don’t know their detailed differences means that we cannot escape Paul’s point by saying “well our differences today are not what he was talking about”. Paul was spelling out a principle that remains good for all times and about all differences. Today our church, the Church of England, remains divided over a number of factors: issues about women in leadership of the church, issues of gender and sexuality, questions in relation to what we should be doing about reaching net zero, and big questions about money – where it should come from and what it should be spent on, and those are just four of the matters that divide our church today, as you can see clearly on social media.  

In the part of the letter that comes immediately before what was read to us in our second lesson Paul has been saying that no one has anything that they had not been given and if what they have is a gift what have they got to boast about? It is not anything they have achieved or earned – it is all gift.   

And from there he launches into a strong criticism of them and their attitudes. He says that each group keeps on about their own particular gift saying that because we’ve got this we’ve got everything. To which Paul says with a heavy dose of irony – you do indeed have everything! You are exceedingly rich! As rich as kings! And you can imagine them as they hear that being read out, revelling in it, puffing themselves up more and more, in what they see as their splendour and spiritual affluence.  

At which point Paul draws a contrast with himself and the other apostles, saying that they are at the other end of the line. 

The line he has in mind is one his readers would have been familiar with. What he says would bring to their minds images of the emperor returning from a military campaign. A great triumphal arch would have been erected at the entrance to the city and the emperor or king would then pass through the arch in triumph with his victorious army following behind. The soldiers would be carrying all the booty they had captured. Then at the end of the line would come the bedraggled and weary prisoners, awaiting execution or sale into slavery. This was of course before the age of any Geneva Conventions!

Paul says that just as you see yourselves and your group as kings at the front of the line, we apostles know that we are at the back. We are seen by all as foolish, as weak, and we are held in disrepute. He says his own daily experience is of being hungry, thirsty, poorly clothed, beaten and homeless. 

But he says that against that daily experience of being rejected and persecuted, his response and that of other true apostles is always to respond in ways that are truly countercultural. When they are reviled, he says they bless their revilers; when they are persecuted, he says they go on and on and do not give up; and when they are slandered, he says they speak back kindly. Although he knows that they themselves will always be seen and regarded as just rubbish. 

So what is this all about? What does it mean for us in our day when we don’t need such processions to know that our army has been triumphant; today we see the outcome of wars on our screens as it is happening. 

What this is all about is how we see ourselves, and how we relate to other people. And those two things are always connected to each other. 

Right at the heart of our reading Paul says about himself that he is a fool for the sake of Christ. In other words, his attitude to himself and others is dictated by his being a follower of Jesus Christ. And after all it is Jesus whom we follow not Apollos, Peter, Paul, or any of our twenty first century faction leaders. It was Jesus, who was himself reviled, beaten, spat upon, and crucified. And Paul had no expectation that in following Jesus he could expect anything different; he expected to be treated as Jesus had been treated. But the flip side was that when he Paul was abused, like Jesus, he would never give like for like, but would respond as Jesus had responded. 

And so for us – we are unlikely to experience the sort of opposition and persecution that Paul did as he travelled round the Mediterranean. We know that he was shipwrecked, beaten with rods three times, flogged five times with thirty nine stripes, in and out prison, and more.  

We may not get anywhere near that, but we do and will have people who tease us, criticise us, or put us down. And our natural response is to want to hit back in some shape or form. But if we are primarily following Jesus then we are learning a different way of responding – namely by being kind, saying good things about other people, and hanging on in there through all that we are on the receiving end of. 

Is that weakness? It may sound like it. Far from it! It takes determination and courage to live like that. And we cannot do it in our own strength, but only by the grace of God and in the power of the Holy Spirit. 

And that kind of living is to be applied in all our relationships with other people – those closest to us in our families, our neighbours, those we work with and socialise with, as well as those we worship alongside and those from whom we differ on any particular issue. 

In all those situations we will be tempted, I imagine on almost a daily basis, to retaliate in some way in response to what others say or do to us. But as those who are now living our lives walking alongside Jesus Christ, we will be modelling our walk and our talk on the pattern of His life. 

 And when you begin to live like that it plays right into our divisions and factions. They are of course real and sometimes there are real issues of truth and error. However, when we recognise that as followers of Jesus everything we have has been given to us, we have nothing that enables us to say we are better than anyone else. And so we should always speak well of one another and to one another. That is what shows we are truly following Jesus Christ. And that pattern of relating builds the kind of communities that our world so desperately needs and that leads to peace and justice. 

Amen 

“making peace through the blood of his cross” – The Very Reverend Dominic Barrington, Dean of York

Through Christ God was pleased to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, by making peace through the blood of his cross.

Last Tuesday morning, on the last morning of the meeting of the General Synod of the Church of England here in York, Archbishop Hosam, the Anglican Archbishop in Jerusalem, addressed the General Synod and spoke about the mission and ministry of the diocese that he leads in a rather troubled part of the world.

He spoke of the 35 institutions his diocese runs – institutions principally concerned with healthcare, with education, and with hospitality. He spoke about the 28 congregations in his charge. “These,” he said, “our arms of ministry in which we show our faith in God through action and ministry. Healing the sick and teaching reconciliation with peace and justice,” he said, “is at the heart of our ministry.”

And do we know why?

Saul of Tarsus, who we also come to know as Paul, discovered in a blinding revelation, so the Acts of the Apostles relates, he discovered that in Christ all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, as we just heard read – and Saul-turned-Paul realized that this astonishing statement had implications – implications that fundamentally changed his life, changed his understanding of discipleship, of action, and of prayer.

Paul’s ministry was extraordinary and extensive and he gathered his own band of followers and disciples around him. And – probably – after his death, one of his own disciples wanted to pick up the baton, to carry on with the good work and share its mission with others. And thus this anonymous figure – in all probability – wrote to the church in Colossae, wrote the letter to the Colossians to remind them (and anyone else who might just be listening – like you and me here this morning) that Christ is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation… He himself is before all things, and in him all things hold together. He is the head of the body, the church… [and] in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell.

And if that isn’t remarkable enough, through him God was pleased to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, by making peace through the blood of his cross.

So, in other words, for Archbishop Hosam, and for the 35 institutions that he leads, working in those precious areas of ministry, in that troubled region. For them and for their staff, they must be Christ-like – whatever the cost – because, as the author of the letter to the Colossians makes so clear – Christ is and therefore must be at the centre of everything.

In an interview with the Church Times after his talk to the Synod, Archbishop Hosam developed the theme of what it must mean to be church in a difficult environment, what it must mean to be church in a time or war. How are we called to act as church? How do we proclaim God’s holy message? His answer was, “We are committed to reconciliation and peace-building… The ministry of presence and the ministry of resilience… We live and embody the gospel.” And he does that, and his team around him do that because, as we heard, we are now reconciled in Christ’s fleshly body through death.

And it isn’t, in a sense, just Christ’s death. It’s a call to set aside the values of human comfort and safety. We certainly know if we watch the news that the ministry of the diocese of Jerusalem comes at one hell of a cost. The Ahli Hospital – the Anglican hospital in Gaza City – that hospital has been attacked six times during the war between Hamas and Israel. Its emergency department was bombed on, of all days, Palm Sunday.

And just this past week, while Archbishop Hosam was in York, to wake us up to what is going on out there, just this past week while the Anglican archbishop was our guest, the one Roman Catholic church in Gaza City was bombed by Israel. Its priest was injured along with several others, and two people were killed – Saad Salameh, the church’s janitor, and an elderly lady called Fumayya Ayyad –whose younger brother, it just so happens, is the senior doctor, the medical director, of the Ahli Hospital in Gaza.

Years ago now, back in 2014, I visited Gaza. I was there after the last military campaign between Hamas and Israel, a campaign which at the time seemed horrifying, but really is like a children’s tea party when compared to what has happened since the terrible Hamas attacks on October 7th, 2023, and all that has followed. But I found myself, on this visit, in a war zone looking at the ruins of indiscriminate violence and bombing. It was, for somebody who has led a very innocent life in military terms, it was all very shocking. And on the last of my two nights there, having dinner with the staff of the Ahli Hospital, I found myself sitting next to this extraordinary doctor.

And Dr Maher asked me a very simple question. “Do you know,” he said, “the secret of a good life?” I didn’t dare answer, because I knew that my attempt to have a good life would sound comfortable, would sound selfish. I simply waited for him to offer me his wisdom. And he said, “It’s very simple: just make sure your neighbour has a good life.”

A remarkable statement even then from one of the tiny minority of Christians in the enclave that is Gaza – surrounded by so many Muslims, a small number of whom would actually gladly have eradicated the Christian presence. And all of them surrounded by Israel. “Make sure your neighbour has a good life,” said this doctor. And he said it, I am sure, because, In Christ God was pleased to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, by making peace through the blood of his cross.

And so to hospitality. And so to that well known and well misunderstood brief little story of the two sisters, Martha and Mary. They come in a very improbable place in the gospel if you look at the action that is going on. In Luke’s gospel, Jesus takes nine chapters, from chapter 9 to chapter 18, to get from the Galilee in the north of Israel down to Jerusalem. Luke traces a journey during which Jesus teaches and preaches and performs miracles – Luke paints this journey step by step, adding to the drama that will unfold when Jesus gets to Jerusalem on what we call Palm Sunday.

And yet, because Luke has a point he needs to make for us, Luke grabs Jesus’ arrival in Bethany, at this house – Luke grabs it and yanks it chronologically completely out of place. Because Bethany is a suburb of Jerusalem. Jesus is nowhere near there. But theologically, this story comes in a very important place.

Regular listeners, as it were, might remember that last Sunday we heard the famous parable of the Good Samaritan read here in York Minster, and read in churches around the western world. That ultimate parable about action – about doing something, about being practical, about getting of your backside or getting off your horse and helping somebody. And if you come back next week, whether to the Minster or to any church in the western world, you will hear Jesus telling his disciples how to pray. Next week’s gospel begins with Jesus teaching the Lord’s Prayer. Jesus, in a sense, making sure that whatever else his followers do, they are fervent in prayer.

And in between these two so significant passages, comes, ripped out of geographical sense, comes the brief story of Jesus rolling up in the house of Martha and Mary. And this story has been subject of all sorts of interpretation, some of which have stopped us looking at what’s really going on. Martha, for instance, isn’t necessarily tied to the kitchen stove in a frantic way, because she is clearly a house-holder who has resources. Jesus didn’t rock up on his own – he had quite an entourage traveling with him.

But Martha clearly thinks that she is doing everything that counts as discipleship herself, and she has the nerve to criticize Jesus. It’s not directly Mary she’s criticizing – she’s criticizing Jesus. Because she wants to get Mary to see what is going on. It’s one of those moments when she can’t see the wood for the trees. She’s forgotten why she is busy.

But, as Colossians reminds us, you do need to be busy. We are ‘holy and blameless, says the author of Colossians, when you continue securely established and steadfast in the faith. Both of them are doing the right thing. But Martha is forgetting the right reason.

Saint Augustine, 1500 years ago, said “Martha was absorbed in the matter of how to feed the Lord; Mary was absorbed in the matter of how to be fed by the Lord. Martha was preparing a banquet for the Lord, Mary was already revelling in the banquet of the Lord.”

And it’s when we take those two sisters together – when we reconcile them – they serve as the example, together, of discipleship lived out in action and prayer. Because it’s through action and prayer together that we can be good disciples in a world where the ministry of reconciliation needs to be paramount.

At the end of his interview with the Church Times, Archbishop Hosam said, “I’m an Arab, but not Muslim . . . I am a Palestinian, but not a terrorist. And I am an Israeli, but not a Jew,”

“If,” he said, “if I can reconcile myself as both Palestinian and Israeli and Arab and Christian, surely that means that we can live together as Israelis and Palestinians?”

And that principle, that principle we see in our Scriptures this morning, applies to us and our attempts properly to be disciples. This morning we are being asked, asked by those two sisters, asked by Paul and whoever came after him that wrote to the Colossians, asked by Archbishop Hosam and Dr Maher, asked, really, by God, the very simple question: Is Christ central to us? Because, in Christ, God was pleased to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, by making peace through the blood of his cross.

And so the baton gets passed down. From Jesus himself to Martha and Mary, to Saul-turned-Paul and those who followed him, so very visibly to Archbishop Hosam and Dr Maher in Gaza. The only question now, this morning, is whether Christ is central to our lives. And if he is – what are we going to do about it? Amen.

“Echoes of that endless light” – The Reverend Canon Maggie McLean, Missioner

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

Recently I was in the city of Tromso, in Norway. During our stay we decided to go to a concert we’d seen advertised.

It wasn’t surprising that the concert was to be performed in Tromso’s cathedral – but it was a little unusual that it didn’t start until 11 pm. As I did, you might wonder why the starting time was quite so late. Well, it seemed to me that it was kind of the opposite of a midnight mass. Once a year we have a service in the Minster that starts very late in the evening, which whilst inside is full of light, outside we’re in the depths of winter.

In Tromso, at this time of year, the sun never sets, because Tromso is well inside the Arctic Circle, which means that for several months, the sun never goes down. It seems that the citizens like to celebrate this special time of endless light by holding some events late into the night and so when you emerge from the cathedral, after midnight, the sun is still shinning.

Of course, the opposite is also true.

For months of the year the sun never rises. I can’t quite imagine what it must be like living with that experience. When the first sunrise of the new year is weeks and weeks away, and only a brief twilight marks the place where the sun should be.

All this reminded me that the Bible, based in the experiences of a particular place, draws a lot on the imagery of light and darkness; the sun at noon; dusk and dawn. Scripture takes the experiences people have of the natural world and uses these in different ways to communicate divine truths. So, for example, when Jesus dies on the cross on Good Friday, an unexpected darkness appears at noon and lasts for three hours.

In our first reading, when Jacob was at a crucial juncture in his life, and wrestled with a stranger all night, the conflict endured “until daybreak”. It is as the sun rises that Jacob becomes Israel and is blessed by God. A new day; a new name; and a new purpose.

We’ve just heard our fabulous choir sing Parry’s setting of Milton’s ‘Blest Pair of Sirens’. It ends with that vision of heaven which draws on so many Biblical references about the life to come, where one day we will all: “sing in endless morn of light”. If “endless morn” is heaven, then we can all probably guess what the Bible associates with perpetual darkness. It’s not good. Either it is an image for hell, or a state that arrives in advance of the apocalypse.

In the book of Revelation, depicted in the centre of our Great East Window, the darkness of human folly and failure is contrasted with the Son of Man whose “face was like the sun shining with full force”.

The text of the hymn we are going to sing in a few moments was written by a vicar who was very preoccupied by the “end times”. John Mason was alive in the 17th century and might seem an unusual source for a hymn we sing at this Evensong each year. He was a Calvanistic Anglican, suggesting he was both very earnest and rather severe. Mason suffered pains in the head and became so sensitive to sound that even the noise of his own footsteps caused him pain. He experienced terrifying dreams and hallucinations and became convinced that the personal reign of God on earth was about to begin.

And yet, despite this, throughout all his suffering and unusual religious beliefs, Mason has left us a poem of profound verse and theological depth. Perhaps it’s a good reminder that when God chooses an instrument, no matter how humble the vessel, words and music of sublime quality can be the result. In his poem Mason reflects on the brightness of heaven and the human longing for just one glimpse of celestial light. Whatever Mason had to give, he feels it is ‘cold and dark’ compared with the brilliance of God’s presence. Nevertheless, he offers what he has, and that’s all any of us are asked to do.

In his own way, like Jacob, Mason wrestled with God in his prayers; in his preaching; and in his writing. He certainly wasn’t perfect, and neither are we. But when we let God into our lives there’s no telling what God will do. In Jesus Christ we see the pattern and character of God’s fulness – at once surprising and improbable. All because, as Mason puts it, this is a Being beyond the limit of our imagination. This is a God who is like “a sea without a shore”. A brilliance of sunlight that never sets; and cannot be contained.

I want to end by giving thanks for the voices and dedication of our choir. Their music has carried us through seasons of celebration and contemplation, offering a foretaste of that “endless morn of light” which, in faith, we anticipate.

Each anthem, psalm, and hymn they have shared has enriched our worship, lifting our thoughts beyond the everyday and reminding us of the beauty and hope at the heart of our faith.

As some move on and others remain, may all who have sung here know the deep gratitude of this community. Wherever you go, may you each find the same glimpses of divine brilliance that their singing has brought to us. For it is through such gifts, humbly and joyfully offered, that we experience echoes of that endless light which no darkness can overcome.

Amen.

“Touching the Wounds of God” – The Reverend Canon Timothy Goode, Congregational Discipleship and Nurture

She had endured much under many physicians and had spent all that she had; and she was no better but rather grew worse.

May I speak in the name of the Wounded and Risen Christ, who breaks every boundary and makes holiness dwell in breaking flesh. Amen.

Tonight, in our readings we have heard two stories unfold slowly in the shadows of suffering and hope. In Genesis, a servant waits beside a well. In Mark, a haemorrhaging woman reaches out after twelve long years of pain. Both are stories of seeking, of navigating vulnerability in a world where power hides behind certainty.

But what if we read the woman’s story not as a miracle proving Jesus’ divinity, but as a direct confrontation with every theology and practice that has ever named some bodies unworthy or unclean?

For through this lens this woman is already whole before she is healed. Her bleeding body is not a problem for Jesus to fix but a body made sacred by its endurance, holy by its reaching and powerful by its protest. Mark tells us she had suffered under many physicians, spent everything, and only grew worse. This then is more than a medical issue, it is structural. This woman’s body has been managed but not honoured, treated but not healed, consumed but not understood.

Under Jewish purity law, she is deemed unclean. Not just ritually but symbolically. Not only is she barred from the temple, but she also dares to press through the crowd as an unclean woman and touch the hem of Jesus’ garment, from below, in trepidation. In that moment, the story turns everything that we think we know about holiness and the body upside down.

Nancy Eiesland, in The Disabled God, writes that in the resurrected Christ, disability is neither cured nor erased; it becomes part of God’s own embodied reality. ¹ The risen Christ still bears wounds, not as flaws but as testimony. Christ is recognised, not despite the wounds, but because of them and that changes everything.

The Church still reads stories like this one through the lens of restoration, as if divine love is about returning people to a so-called normal. But Jesus, in his resurrection, is not restored to Greco-Roman perfection. He is risen, wounded, scarred. Our Christian anthropology is not the imperial perfect body of Rome; it is the risen body of Christ.

Thus, Jesus’s recognition of the woman is the high point of her healing. Her healing is that Jesus sees her. But the healing does not end there. The crowd is also healed of their prejudice through witnessing Jesus’s recognition of her.

For Jesus stops and Jesus sees. “Who touched me?” is not asked from ignorance but from invitation. He wants the crowd to turn. He wants the invisible to become visible. He wants to dismantle a culture of purity and perform a moment of profound mutual recognition.

And he calls her “Daughter.” Not sentimentally but politically. That word places her right back where she belongs, back within the covenant community. It declares that her body, with all its history of bleeding, belongs fully within the Body of Christ.

The theologian Deborah Beth Creamer calls for us to resist the “limits-as-problems” paradigm, the view that limitations are deficits to overcome. ² In this encounter, Jesus doesn’t solve her life. He interrupts the world that deems her unworthy. Her healing comes through the delay, through the fragile pause, through the risk of being seen.

And when she steps forward, she becomes prophetic, not because she is fixed, but because she testifies.

So too with Christ. The risen body of Jesus is not idealised but made prophetic, scarred, resistant to sanitising.

And in response we must ask: how often does the Church sanitise the gospel by demanding conformity? How often is inclusion reduced to physical access, rather than a reformation of theology?

The risen Christ haunts our churches not as perfection, but as a scandal of grace. Not idealised flesh, but the wounded body of God.

To live as Christ’s Body therefore is to be seen, re-membered, not as a uniform whole, but a gathered, storied, scarred community. Each body, each story, each wound becomes part of the testimony.

The theologian Thomas Reynolds puts it this way: the Church must be a place where “belonging precedes conformity.”³ That reverses the purity logic that exiled this woman. She belongs not because she is cured, she belongs because she is seen.

And in a world obsessed with perfection, being seen in one’s difference is holy ground.

So, who are the bleeding ones in our midst? Who dares to reach from below, in trepidation, only to be met with silence?

What would it mean for the Church to be interruptible like Jesus, to pause its liturgies and agendas for the voices long unheard?

Would we recognise the touch of the one who presses through our ableist theology, our sanitised icons, our inaccessible pews?

Would we recognise Christ when he bleeds?

Would we recognise resurrection, not as restoration to an idealised normal, but as a public display of scars, as the holiness of a life interrupted?

Because resurrection doesn’t return us to what was. It does not erase our woundedness. Resurrection re-members us into something new.

Not perfect. Not polished. But risen. And the wounds remain. Amen.

‘The doctrine of Trinity Sunday’ – Canon Peter Collier, Cathedral Reader

Trinity Sunday

Our service began as it does week by week with the words “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit”; it will end with the words “the blessing of God Almighty the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit …”.

So, Father, Son and Holy Spirit are clearly at the heart of our Christian worship. And as soon as I have finished speaking, we shall affirm together the Nicene Creed. During the summer months of the year 325 (that is 1700 years ago this year) a Council of around 200 bishops was summoned by the Emperor Constantine to meet at Nicaea in modern day Turkey to resolve various issues in the church of their day. One of those was two thirds of the doctrine of the Trinity, as they decided what it is the church believed about the relationship between the God the Father, and God the Son in Christian teaching, and they put together what we call the Nicene Creed.

Today is Trinity Sunday – it is the only feast day dedicated to a doctrine rather than a person, such as last Wednesday when it was Barnabas, or an event such as last Sunday when it was the coming of the Holy Spirit.  But Trinity Sunday is purely about doctrine.

No wonder it is a Sunday when no one wants to preach. Thank you, James!

The story is told of a Japanese man politely listening to a Christian trying to explain the idea of the Trinity. He was puzzled and responded – Honourable Father, very good; Honourable Son, very good; Honourable Bird I do not understand at all.

The word Trinity is not in the Bible. It was Tertullian, who lived just over a hundred years before that Council met, and who at the time when the Bible was being translated into Latin, was the first person to use the word trinitas when speaking about Father, Son & Holy Spirit. And he it was also who introduced the idea of ‘persona’ to distinguish between the three of them and who said that although there were three persons they were of one ‘susbstantia’ – substance. Now that is something that is difficult to understand, and it is not for nothing that we refer to it as a mystery.

Many people have come up with images to help us understand what is going on. Tertullian himself used the image of a plant: where the Father is the deep root, the Son is the shoot that breaks forth and the Spirit is the force which spreads its beauty and fragrance across the earth

St Patrick of Ireland, perhaps not surprisingly, said that it is like the shamrock where we have three individual leaves, but all part of one and the same plant

Now the point about Christian teaching – doctrine – is that it is not there to turn us into theologians, but rather to turn us into disciples.

The concept of the Trinity helps us to understand and experience God’s presence and activity in a very rich way. We see that there is a real depth to who God is. God is and always has been a community. God is a living relationship and so that immediately takes us into the realms of complexity and diversity. If complexity and diversity are there in God, they will also be there in God’s world and in God’s church – and so it is. And to that I will return.

Lest you think that this is all some clever middle eastern idea, dreamt up by some bishops in the desert, you will I am sure have already noted that our two scripture readings this morning link into that theme of the relationship within God. In Romans 5 Paul is coming to a high point in his letter. The chapter begins ‘therefore’, and whenever you see the word therefore in the Bible you should look to see what is there for. In the preceding four chapters Paul has been spelling out our human predicament of being separated from life with God and there being nothing we can do about it – religious ritual doesn’t help, trying to keep God’s law doesn’t work, and so God sent his Son to suffer and die so that we could receive as a gift God’s life. And now he summarises that in chapter 5. Simply put he says – we are now at peace with God the Father because of what Jesus the Son has done; and the way we experience that is because the Holy Spirit has taken God’s love and poured it into our hearts.

Each of Father, Son and Spirit playing their part in enabling us to receive that gift of new life.

And lest we think that three part drama is something Paul dreamt up, we see that in our gospel reading in John, Jesus himself speaks in a similar way. He is saying to his disciples that there is lots he would like to tell them, but they simply wouldn’t be able to cope with it yet. He is of course referring to his death on the cross and his resurrection. However, he says there will come a time when the Holy Spirit will guide them into all they need to know. The Spirit will do that by taking what the Father has given to the Son, and will make it known to Jesus’ followers. Truth here is not a matter of facts or accuracy. In John’s gospel truth is always to do with God and being like or consistent with who and what God is like.

We are still there, as we were throughout the Easter Season, with our gospel readings being taken from what Jesus did and said in that upper room where he washed his disciples’ feet and prepared to give up his life and die for them. This is the pattern of truth into which the Spirit was going to lead them as the Spirit made sense to them about the things that were to come – the things to come are not things such as the date of the second coming but about what is to happen to Jesus. Without the Spirit giving them an understanding of that it would all be utterly baffling for them. We know that whenever Jesus spoke about his death, about the cross, they either rejected it or were completely confused by it.

And when Jesus speaks as he does here about being glorified – in John’s gospel glory is always related to the cross.

So this is all about the Spirit giving them to understand the nature of God’s self-giving love – entering not only into our world in His Son, but in some way taking our sin and death and overcoming it so that we can receive and enjoy the life of God – and that life will lead us to a similar pattern of foot washing and suffering!

So just as the love of God is seen in the relationship between Father, Son and Holy Spirit, we now are drawn into that relationship – into community with God – to live with them and become like them

That is why back in Romans Paul speaking about this trinitarian work, speaks of the Spirit pouring that God style love into our hearts which will inevitably lead to suffering but suffering which we will be enabled to endure with hope.

And that is how we learn to live with all the complexity of the world and the church in which we live. If there is complexity and diversity in God, then you will expect it in the world God has made; and you will also expect it in the church he has redeemed.

Many of us like simplicity, and struggle with the complexity we find in the world around us.

Diversity too can be threatening – whether it is diversity of race, class, status, affluence, sexuality, or anything else. Such differences can be threatening. Why can’t everyone be like me, or like us?

So often we want our religious truths to be pure and simple too.

But in our own complex lives we can discover God in all our own diversity: in the highs and the lows, the good and the bad. God who is in the midst of our mistakes, our pain, our depressions, our illnesses, in the most fractured places of our lives, and even in our deaths. There we can find a God who is walking alongside us rather than one who is distant.

We find a God who loves us and saves us in the ways only a complex and diverse God can.

Let me end on a different note. If you are troubled that all this imagery is rather masculine – Father and Son – in the book of Proverbs we have the idea of Wisdom (and as my wife always reminds me wisdom is feminine!). As you may know many commentators have linked the idea of wisdom in Proverbs to that of the Logos in John chapter 1. The Word that was with God and the Word that was God. In Proverbs chapter 8 we read about wisdom also being there when the world was made – and a more literal translation of vv 30 and 31 would be “I was having fun, smiling before him all the time, frolicking with his inhabited earth and delighting in the human race”. That was wisdom’s experience of being there with and in God when the world was made, bringing us an image of God in relationship – secure, joyful, creative, dancing and gambolling or frolicking.

That same God has taken our pain into the midst of that relationship and has experienced separation within the family of God because of our sin. But the Holy Spirit now leads us to see that the truth is that ultimately love has triumphed and that love of God is now being poured into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, so that in all our diverse situations and circumstances we find a God who draws us into God’s very family.

Amen

“Who are you, Lord?” – The Reverend Canon Timothy Goode, Congregational Discipleship and Nurture

“Who Are You, Lord?”

May I speak in the name of the living God, who is our creator, sustainer and redeemer. Amen

What does it mean to meet the risen Christ — and be forever undone? For this morning we are being offered two seismic encounters with the risen Jesus: Saul of Tarsus on the Damascus Road and Simon Peter on the shores of Galilee. In both, we find a single terrifying truth: to meet the risen Christ is not to be affirmed but to be utterly undone and remade.

Saul’s first words when flattened by the blinding light are raw and trembling: “Who are you, Lord?”. Peter, meanwhile, when he realizes that the stranger on the beach is Jesus, throws himself into the sea – a reckless and almost desperate act. Both men, giants of faith, respond not with polished prayers but with confusion, fear, and vulnerability. Why? Because the risen Christ comes not to decorate our old lives, but to dismantle and rebuild them afresh.

When Saul is confronted on the road, he is, by his own standards, a success: “as to righteousness under the law, blameless”. His entire identity – religious, political, cultural – is founded on zeal for God as he understands Him. Yet Jesus says, “I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting”, and in that moment Saul’s world utterly collapses. All his knowledge of God,  all his mission, all his certainty  –  all of it exposed as enmity against the very God he thought he served.

Likewise, Peter, after his threefold denial, is confronted with a threefold question: “Simon, son of John, do you love me?”. The questions burn; each time Peter must relive his failure. The risen Christ does not offer Peter a private absolution and a pat on the back. He insists Peter walk through the fire of truth before he can be entrusted again: “Feed my sheep.”

Karl Barth writes in Church Dogmatics, “Man must lose himself in order to find himself”. In both Peter and Saul, we see that exact pattern in action: the necessary disintegration of the old self to make room for the new. Resurrection is not the polishing of our existing lives but the beginning of something wholly other.

Paul would later write, “I have been crucified with Christ; and it is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me”. And yet we so often imagine conversion as a gentle invitation, a soft whisper. But not for Saul and Peter. Meeting Christ is a violent dislocation. It is a kind of death.

In his book The Cost of Discipleship, Dietrich Bonhoeffer puts it with grim clarity: “When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die” . Saul dies on the Damascus Road. Peter dies on the beach. But both rise again into new lives not their own: Saul as Paul, apostle to the Gentiles; Peter as shepherd of the broken body of Christ.

But we must not romanticise this death. Let us not forget that Saul is blinded. Peter is humiliated. Resurrection life demands first a profound unmaking. Jesus does not meet them in triumph; he meets them in collapse.

Even after their conversions, Saul – now Paul, and Peter would wrestle with the radicality of Christ’s call. Peter must learn to eat with Gentiles; Paul must learn that God’s power is made perfect in weakness. Their lives will be shaped by constant confrontation with the risen Christ, ever larger and more unsettling than they expected.

Fleming Rutledge, the American episcopal priest and author in her book The Crucifixion notes, “The living Christ is not a tame deity but the Lord of the cosmos who meets us always as one we do not know, and yet who knows us infinitely better than we know ourselves.” To meet him is to have every safe and manageable idea of God shattered.

“Who are you, Lord?” is not a question we will ask once. Its asking is the lifelong posture of the disciple. It is the humility that realises Christ is always more than we have yet seen. Peter’s restoration and Paul’s commissioning are not moments of closure but openings into ever deeper journeys of being undone and remade.

It therefore matters deeply that Jesus entrusts the care of his flock not to the unbroken, but to the broken — Peter, who failed; Paul, who persecuted. As Rowan Williams reminds us, in his book Tokens of Trust,  “The Church is what happens when people are overwhelmed by the act of God and have nothing left to be proud of.”

The Church is not a fellowship of the adequate. It is the living testimony that the risen Christ meets failures and zealots, cowards and persecutors, and transforms them into witnesses. This is our hope, our calling, and our peril.

And so we return to the beginning: What does it mean to meet the risen Christ? It means to be forever undone, and, in that undoing, to be remade for his glory.

This morning, Christ asks us:

“Do you love me?”

“Who are you, Lord?”

Our answers will not be tidy. They may be soaked in tears or faltered with doubt. But Christ does not seek perfection. He seeks those who are willing to be unmade, that he may fashion them anew and make them his own.

Amen.

“Because Christ is risen indeed. Alleluia!” – The Reverend Canon Timothy Goode, Congregational Discipleship and Nurture

Sermon for the Eve of the Feast of St George – 27^th April 2025

Alleluia Christ is risen. He is risen indeed Alleluia!

May I speak in the name of the living God who is our creator, sustainer and redeemer. Amen.

In December 2016, a suicide bomber attacked St Peter and St Paul’s Church in Cairo, killing 29 people – mostly women and children. Amid the wreckage, a young girl was spotted walking past the scorched sanctuary, clutching a small wooden cross. “She carries it every day,” said an elder of the church. “Her parents told her: If they come for you, don’t be afraid. Hold the cross tight. And remember who you are.”

She had seen such violence and fear, but what she held so tightly in her hand, and in her heart, was so much stronger: What she held was a witness.

Because Christ is risen indeed. Alleluia!

The prophet Jeremiah, all the witnesses named in tonight’s reading from the Letter to the Hebrews, St George, and the girl in the bombed-out wreckage, each were witnesses to the cost of faithfulness.

So, let me ask on this second Sunday of Easter: What is the cost of this faithfulness – and are we prepared to pay it?

This question is not a theoretical one. Certainly not for the Coptic Christians of Cairo. Not for Jeremiah the prophet, nor the martyrs in Hebrews, nor for St George for that matter. And not, ultimately, for us.

Yes, Easter is a season of joy – but resurrection isn’t the opposite of suffering. It is God’s answer to suffering. And it’s not a cheap answer either. The open wounds of the risen body of Jesus Christ testifies to that.

Because Christ is risen indeed. Alleluia!

In our first reading, Jeremiah’s faithfulness comes at great personal cost. “Why is my pain unceasing?” he laments (Jer. 15:18). Speaking God’s word has not made him triumphant; it has made him lonely. Yet he continues: “Your words became to me a joy and the delight of my heart” (Jer. 15:16). Not joy as comfort, but joy as fire – a holy fire that sustains us when all else is stripped away.

The theologian Walter Brueggemann calls the prophet “one who carries in their body the anguish of God.” To be a prophet and witness is a painful vocation. But in Easter light, we know it is a vocation that is not in vain. For God’s anguish leads not only to the foot of the cross, but onwards to its ultimate destination, to the empty tomb, to resurrection light.

Because Christ is risen indeed! Alleluia!

In our second reading from the Letter to the Hebrews, we heard a roll call of faithful witnesses: some were victors, others were victims, each one, according to the writer of the Letter to the Hebrews “Of whom the world was not worthy” (Heb. 11:38). Yet none of them received the fullness of what was promised – “so that apart from us they should not be made perfect” (Heb. 11:40). Resurrection does not mark the end of Jesus’ story, rather it marks the beginning of the Christian story, of our story.

Because Christ is risen indeed. Alleluia!

St George, whose feast day is tomorrow, stands among those witnesses. Not as some mythical dragon-slayer, but as a martyr. He was executed by the Roman Empire for refusing to renounce Christ. His legend has unfortunately been distorted into nationalism, but the truth is that St George died for a kingdom not of this world and his faithfulness cost him everything – but not even death had the final word.

Because Christ is risen indeed. Alleluia!

Easter is the ultimate sign, the ultimate articulation that the grave is not the end. The cost of faithfulness is real – but the reward is not a medal or a certificate, it is the promise, the sure and certain hope, of the resurrection, of the life beyond death. The path towards resurrection does not bypass or avoid pain and suffering but it is a journey that ultimately leads us to joy.

Hebrews urges us: “Let us run with perseverance the race set before us, looking to Jesus” (Heb. 12:1-2). This is the very Jesus, who endured the cross so that we could all experience resurrection joy. The risen Christ bears his wounds, but he is no longer bound by them.

Because Christ is risen indeed. Alleluia!

As late German theologian Jürgen Moltmann puts it: “The resurrection of Christ is not the consolation for suffering; it is the protest of God against suffering.”

Easter doesn’t erase the cost of discipleship – but it declares death defeated, the silence of the tomb broken, and the wounds of Good Friday transfigured by the light of Easter morning.

This is the hope that sustained Jeremiah. This is the hope that gave St George courage. This is the hope held in her hand by that little girl in Cairo. And it is the hope that empowers us not just to endure, but to run the race that is set before us.

Because Christ is risen indeed. Alleluia!

So, what is the cost of this faithfulness?

It may cost reputation. It may cost comfort or security. For some, like St George, it may cost life itself. But the cost is never the end of the story. Because, as the writer of the Letter to the Hebrews reminds us, Jesus endured “for the joy set before him.”

And that is that joy? It is not only a distant reward in heaven. It is the joy that breaks into the present – in every act of justice, every word of truth, every sign of love stronger than death.

Because Christ is risen indeed. Alleluia!

It is the joy of the risen Christ, who declares: “Behold, I make all things new” (Rev. 21:5).

Easter does not remove the dragons we face – whether systems of oppression, personal loss, cultural hostility, or even our own demons. But it declares: they will not win.

Because Christ is risen indeed. Alleluia!

As Kathleen Norris, the American poet and essayist, writes, “Faith is not about being sure where you’re going, but going anyway.”  For to be faithful in Eastertide is to live with the wounds and still sing the song of joy. To run the race, with our attention firmly fixed on Jesus – not because the way is easy, but because he has already completed it, and travels with us still.

So we return to our question: What is the cost of this faithfulness – and are we prepared to pay it?

Are we prepared, like Jeremiah, to speak the Word that wounds us?

Are we prepared to be like the witnesses mentioned in the Letter to the Hebrews, whose devotion to God was such that they chose to make the ultimate sacrifice rather than betray their beliefs?

Are we prepared, like George, to defy empire in loyalty to another kingdom?

Are we prepared, like the girl in Egypt, to hold tightly to hope when all around is violence?

Are we prepared, like Jesus, to bear the cross – and still speak of joy?

Because the world needs witnesses. The world needs prophets. The world needs resurrection people.

So, my friends, let us run the race together. Let us endure. Let us live out in word and deed the hope of the risen Lord, so that it may be said of us: “Of whom the world was not worthy.”

Because, Alleluia. Christ is risen. He is risen indeed. Alleluia. Amen.

“Do not fear, for I have redeemed you. I have called you by name, you are mine.” – Reverend Canon James Milne

At Choral Evensong one Sunday afternoon in March 1977, the Choir of St Paul’s Cathedral sang, as the Anthem, words spoken by Jesus to his disciples on the night before he died and set to music by the Romantic German composer Johannes Brahms as part of his German Requiem: “Ye now are sorrowful, howbeit, ye shall again behold me, and your heart shall be joyful.” 

The hauntingly moving treble solo was sung by Robert Eaton, a thirteen-year-old chorister, who was known for his infectious laughter and for having incurred the wrath of the Master of the Choir for carving the name of his beloved football team – Brighton and Hove Albion – onto the lid of the Choir Practice Room piano. The preacher at Evensong that day was John Collins, who served as a Residentiary Canon of St Paul’s for some thirty-three years from 1948 to 1982, during which time he campaigned tirelessly against racial inequality, global poverty and the proliferation of weapons of mass destruction. He was a founding member of the charity “War on Want” and the first ever meeting of the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament was held in his home in Amen Court. What, you may ask, was the response of this radical cleric, never afraid to speak truth to power, to Robert Eaton’s singing? He ascended the pulpit, only to leave it a few moments later, having announced to a startled congregation that nothing he could possibly say could follow what they had just heard. In so doing he expressed what the congregation knew in their hearts, that they had experienced something extraordinary and life-changing though what, they did not know. What the Master of the Choir knew was that a private recording had been made of that performance to which he and others could listen, to recapture something of that beautiful moment.

In later life Robert Eaton moved to New York where he married and where, whilst working as a trader on the one hundredth and fifth floor of the North Tower of the World Trade Centre on 11th of September 2001, he was tragically killed in a wicked act of terror. As his family and friends mourned his death, the sound of his voice, preserved on that childhood recording, broke into their grief: “Ye now are sorrowful, howbeit, ye shall again behold me, and your heart shall be joyful. Yea, I will comfort you, as one whom his own mother comforteth. Look upon me; ye know that for a little time labour and sorrow were mine, but at the last I have found comfort.”

It is often suggested that when we worship time is bent. Both the past and the future break into the present and by so doing each is changed. For those present at Choral Evensong in St Paul’s Cathedral one Sunday in March 1977, the true meaning of that extraordinary moment finally became clear. It had been extraordinary, because Robert Eaton was singing his own Requiem and offering something by which his family and friends might in all their anguish and sorrow receive some small comfort and hope, as might many more besides for that recording survives to this day. You too can listen to it.

At Evensong last Sunday afternoon, the Sunday of the Passion, the Dean spoke powerfully of those who sing a love song for their beloved out of the deepest and most tragic grief and by so doing proclaim that love, not violence or terror, will have the final say. What song, I wonder, are we called to sing this Easter Day? Is it not the song of Isaiah fulfilled in Resurrection of Jesus: “Do not fear for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.” Is it not the song of St Paul the Apostle, a man only too aware of his need for grace and transformation: “To someone untimely born, he appeared also to me.”

As Easter People we are called to proclaim (with every waking breath) that through the death and resurrection of Jesus there is joy and new life even if, for a time, there is sorrow and despair. We proclaim this song, not that we might blot out or belittle the anguish and sorrow of our world, but because our faith teaches us that these songs of comfort and hope are never lost but, once uttered, remain for ever to bring light in moments of darkness and to transform our sorrow. If words spoken in anger and through hate can haunt us years after they were uttered, how much more can words of comfort and hope reach into our present from the past enabling us to embrace the future trusting that the death and violence of this world will never have the final say? “Ye now are sorrowful, howbeit, ye shall again behold me, and your heart shall be joyful. Look upon me; ye know that for a little time labour and sorrow were mine, but at the last I have found comfort.”

Our world, despite the many sorrows and challenges that beset it, is today being changed because our forebears, young and old, had the courage to be an Easter People proclaiming songs of comfort and hope. I pray that we may we have the courage to follow in their footsteps this Easter Day, for in so doing lies the transformation both of our present and of our future. Amen.

‘Let me sing for my beloved my love-song’ – The Very Reverend Dominic Barrington, Dean of York

Let me sing for my beloved my love-song…

Smadar Elhanan was the youngest of four children – the only daughter, much adored by her three elder brothers, and her parents Nurit and Rami. Her name, in Hebrew, means ‘the grape of the vine’, and is a reference to the beautiful poetry found in the Song of Solomon. In the best possible way, she was the ‘princess’ of her family, and lived a happy life in Jerusalem, until just after her 14^th birthday, when two Palestinian suicide bombers detonated their bombs in West Jerusalem’s equivalent of Oxford Street, killing five people instantly, including Smadar and two of her friends of the same age.

Speaking of that terrible day, her father, Rami, says, “You find yourself running crazily through the streets, going from one police station to the next, one hospital to the next, until eventually, much later in that long accursed night, you find yourself in the morgue and [a] terrible finger is pointing right between your eyes and you see a sight that you will never, ever, be able to blot out.”

Let me sing for my beloved my love song…

In the year that Smadar was murdered, another beautiful baby girl was born in Jerusalem: Abir Aramin. Her parents, Salwa and Bassam felt the same delight that had been true once upon a time for Rami and Nurit. Fast forward ten years, and young Abir was standing with some friends outside the gates of her school in Anata, a troubled district of East Jerusalem, well known for clashes with soldiers of the IDF. And, on this most terrible of days, one such soldier deliberately shot her in the head with a rubber bullet. A day or so later, she died in hospital.

Let me sing for my beloved my love song…

It is easy, of course, to sing a love song when all is going well. But Nurit and Rami and Bassam and Salwa will not be the last parents, in the Middle East, in Ukraine and Russia, or across this broken planet, who will have to sing the heart-rending love song of grief – of a grief of separation so awful and profound that it surpasses decent imagination.

Grief of this kind is stark and ultimate. Forty years ago, 39 soccer fans were killed and hundreds more injured at Heysel stadium in Belgium. A monument erected to those who died then has inscribed upon it Auden’s poem Funeral Blues – the poem made famous from its use in Four Weddings and a Funeral, which laments so bitterly the death of a beloved:

He was my North, my South, my East and West,

My working week and my Sunday rest,

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.

For nothing now can ever come to any good.

At the start of Holy Week, on the day when we have heard already in our morning worship the account of the Passion and death of Jesus, we might feel it is apt for us to be ‘in tune’ with such grief. But I want to suggest this evening, that it is not enough simply to acknowledge the pain of such grief – the pain that is inherent in the eternal story of the Passion of Christ.

For our readings tonight issue us a challenge – a challenge demanding of us that not merely do we enfold the grief of the Passion into our lives, but that we work out what God is calling us to do with it.

In other words, we must ask what it means to say that, in Auden’s terms, you should put out every star, that you should pack up the moon and dismantle the sun and pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.  What does it really mean to say that nothing now can ever come to any good?

And the answer to that question sits in that most stark and pointed parable that was our second reading. A parable that infuriated its hearers and, despite their high calling, made them bent on revenge and murder. And what a strange parable to tell… a parable that is strange, and which is almost nonsensical…

The landowner leases his vineyard to some tenants, and they default on the rent, and abuse his servants. So, eventually, he sends his son, in the hope that he will be respected by the tenants in a way in which the servants were not. But what do the tenants say? Nothing about respect or honour – instead they say This is the heir; come, let us kill him and get his inheritance.

Let us kill him and get his inheritance….? Really?

While life in the 21^st Century has many differences to life in the First Century, the rules of inheritance were not that different. The tenants’ plan is nonsensical, as Jesus points out: the tenants will be put to death and the vineyard will be leased to other tenants. So what on earth are the tenants thinking? The idea would have been as ludicrous to the first audience of this parable as it is to us today. Why do the tenants think they have any chance of succeeding in this misguided, murderous scheme?

There is but one answer that can make sense of this parable – there is only one state of affairs that can underpin and account for the tenants’ seemingly bizarre behaviour – behaviour that is both murderous and suicidal. The tenants must believe that the landlord is dead.

The tenants believe the landlord is dead, and thus the inheritance is up for grabs if his son is killed as well. And given that this is a parable and not a news report, what Jesus is saying to the face of these religious leaders – who were already far from happy with his behaviour – Jesus is looking them in the eye, and saying to them, “You behave as if the God you claim to worship is dead.”

Because, if God is dead, then anything goes. And, if anything goes, then Auden is right, and nothing now can ever come to any good. Once you recognise that this underpins the logic of the tenants in the vineyard, you are hardly surprised that the scribes and the chief priests want to ‘lay hands’ on Jesus there and then.

And if we live in a world in which God is dead, then we live in a world in which the strongest and the richest and the loudest and the most bigoted will have the upper hand. And, if the world seems like that, what love song can you possibly sing then?

Isaiah’s prophecy of the vineyard is one of the most powerful passages of the Hebrew Scriptures. It is powerful in its condemnation of the behaviour of the people of Israel – the people who should have been God’s pleasant planting, but who produced bloodshed not justice. Isaiah is naming and shaming the people of God with a vision of the destruction of the city of Jerusalem and of the Temple – a prospect, symbolically, that could even be said to represent the death of God. And what love song do you dare sing then?

And by the time Jesus is telling his listeners this most powerful of parables, have no doubt that the game, as it were, is up. He knows that he is in the end game, and that the death which he has predicted not once but three times is looming. This is a man who knows that those who act as if God is dead will have no compunction whatsoever about killing him. And what love song can you dare sing then?

Those who grieve tend to make good footage for journalists. Those who grieve with real dignity make good examples for the world around them. But those who use and channel their grief, not to deny it, but to turn it into a power for good, do more than that – they change the world around them. Which is why Rami, the grieving Israeli father, and Bassam, the grieving Palestinian father, joined a remarkable organisation called The Parents’ Circle, to ensure that the tragic deaths of their daughters would not be in vain.

In this extraordinary organisation, alongside others, both Arab and Jew, who have suffered similar bereavements, they speak together as a double act, a double act of people who the world would expect to hate each other, but who, instead, claim each other as blood brothers moulded together in a love that surpasses the evil which killed their precious children. They speak together of a love-song that says that in the Holy Land and across the world, it does not have to be like this. They speak together in a way that counters those who act as if God is dead, and which demands the listener to recognise that reconciliation and peace must have the final say.

As Bassam says: ‘The year Smadar was murdered, Abir was born.  But what I didn’t know when Abir was killed is that she and Smadar would keep on living.  And we will not let other people steal their futures.  Try shutting us up, it won’t work.  [Our] grief, the power of it…is atomic.  To live on in the memory of others means that you do not die’.

That is the kind of love song we should sing for those who are beloved. That is a love song that sings of God, even in a world where we it can appear that God is dead.

For Auden – well Auden would have been right. It would have been fine to put out the stars, and the moon and the sun. If loves does not last for ever, then turn them all off.

But the love song of Passiontide, the love song of Holy Week, our love song this week is a song we will sing and sing and sing – even when God will die in front of our eyes. For the love song of the washed feet and the broken bread of a Thursday night, the love song of the scorching heat and the agonized death of a Friday afternoon – the love song that gets sung as darkness covers the whole land – that love song will get sung again as the first lights of the newest dawn the world has ever known breaks on a Sunday morning.

What song will you sing for your beloved this week?