Simeon took him in his arms: A Sermon for Candlemas – Canon Victoria Johnson, Precentor
Title: “Simeon took him in his arms”
Preacher: Canon Victoria Johnson, Precentor
Date: On the Feast of the Presentation of Christ in the Temple 02.02.23 4.00pm
Readings: Hebrews 2:14-end, Luke 2:22-40
‘Simeon took him in his arms and praised God’.
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen.
The old man carried the child, yet the child ruled the old man.
The old man carried the child, yet the child ruled the old man.
This beautiful sentence was traditionally used as an antiphon at the first evening service for the Feast of the Presentation, and it articulates the relationship between the child Jesus and the old man Simeon, creator and created.
It might look like Simeon is holding the child, that Simeon the elder has all the power and strength- and the child is weak and new in nature: but in an example of the divine dis-ordering of our human assumptions- the child is in fact upholding the ancient one and upholding the whole created order, the universe and all that is made.
When Simeon took the child in his arms, he was fully aware of this dynamic, for he was righteous and devout, and the Holy Spirit rested upon him. As he held this child, as he was praising this little being, he could see the fulfilment of God’s promises: salvation for all people, a light for the nations, he could see the glory of God there in his hands.
He had spent a lifetime preparing for this, and when the child was brought into the temple, he had eyes ready to see that God was indeed with him and with everyone. He saw that this little child was the one who would lead everyone into a Kingdom of peace, where the wolf will lie down with the lamb, and the leopard will lie down with the kid.
As Simeon sees the dawn of this new kingdom breaking in, he can now be released into eternal life. “Lord, now let your servant depart in peace,” he sings, “your word has been fulfilled.” He breathes a sigh of relief. Winter is over. Spring has come.
In the orthodox tradition, this elderly man, who had spent years and years in the temple waiting for the consolation of Israel, is called ‘Simeon the God receiver’.
Simeon and Anna the prophet had been anticipating this day for what seemed like an eternity, they were ready to meet God and receive God.
As Christians, we know who this child is and we too are called to hold this child of light in our hands, and in our hearts and on our lips- we are called to be God-receivers like Simeon was. But in this child, Simeon also sees suffering, betrayal, pain, and he sees that this child will cause division, no one will be able to hide from the purity that this child will bring, and the inner thoughts of many will be revealed.
To hold this child in our arms is a risk- it is to be seen in all of our murkiness as well as all of our magnificence. Courageous is the person and humble is the heart, which carries this child, and lets him be their king.
Like a beam of pure light, this child will expose sin, and hatred and injustice, human hearts will be opened, all desires will be known and no secrets hidden. Before this child we will be transformed, we will be changed, we will be made new.
Are we ready to receive him? Are we ready to let this child rule over us? Are we ready to let this little child lead us, and expose our weaknesses and vulnerabilities, are we willing to carry this child in our arms when he becomes the man nailed to the hard wood of the cross, wearing a crown of thorns?
The old man carried the child, yet the child ruled the old man.
Beset by human pride and earthly glory, we often think we are the ones in control. We think we rule God. We think God conforms to our expectations and our wishes. How often do we fail to see God before us, because we doubt the ways in which God is revealed?
God in a child? God in the little, the lowly, the poor, the weak, the vulnerable, the excluded? Are we ready to be God-receivers when God is presented to us? What do we need to put down in order to pick up this child and receive God’s light? Power, money, status, pride, hatred, guilt? We have Lent to work some of this out.
The child seems to be saying: put all that down, hold me in your arms and let me uphold you for all eternity. All those other things that hold us and hold us back, disintegrate under the light of this baby.
This child of light sets us free from those heavy burdens that we carry in our arms, the things that we are held and enslaved by, even the fear of death itself.
We hold out our hands this evening to receive the light of Christ found in bread and wine and we receive consolation for all of our waiting:
To hold Christ in our arms, as Simeon did, is to be upheld by Christ and subject to his just and gentle rule.
To hold Christ in our arms, is to put our lives into his tiny hands.
To him be glory for ever, Amen.
Betwixt and Between – Canon Missioner Maggie McLean
Title: “Betwixt and Between”
Preacher: Canon Missioner Maggie McLean
Date: Fourth Sunday of Epiphany 27.01.23 4.00pm
May I speak in the name of the Holy and Blessed Trinity. One God in three persons. Amen
It might be helpful, thinking about our first reading tonight, to provide a bit of context.
Immediately before the start of this passage, Jacob has tricked his father Isaac into blessing him – and not his older twin, Esau.
When Esau learns this, Jacob is in mortal danger. So their mother gets Jacob sent away. It is while making this journey of escape that our reading from Genesis takes place.
We might say that Jacob was betwixt and between. He’d left the life he had, because of what his deception had caused, but he hadn’t yet arrived at the next chapter of his story. We can only guess of what his state of mind must have been. Behind was hatred and danger; ahead was an unknown life and, perhaps, a fresh start.
In some ways it doesn’t feel at all surprising that Jacob, in this situation, has an unusual experience while sleeping under the stars.
I don’t know about you, but for me it’s often been when things seem least certain that our awareness of God becomes most vivid.
One of my favourite places in the world and a place a return to often if the Island of Iona which is off the coast of Mull. Many will know it at first hand, a place of retreat for many, and a Holy place which is home to the Iona Community. George Macleod, who led the work to rebuild the abbey on Iona and was responsible for the creation of this
religious community, described Iona as a ‘thin place’ where our sense of God, and of the spiritual realm, breaks through.
It seems that Jacob finds himself in a ‘thin place’. Between the turmoil of his leaving, and the uncertainty of his arriving, the veil between earth and heaven is parted for a moment. In this most unpromising place, with only a stone for a pillow, Jacob dreams of a ladder – a bridge – connecting heaven and earth. It is a connection busy with angels and, remarkably, Jacob finds God standing beside him. In this place of uncertainty – this thin place – God assures Jacob of a prosperous future. When he awakes Jacob knows he needs to honour the place and mark it as holy.
I think many of us know, from experience, that thin places aren’t always remote Scottish islands or abandoned places in the wilderness. Sometimes that sense of the veil parting, a momentary glimpse of God, happens towns and cities. We know it happens for many people who visit the Minster.
Maybe what matters most when it comes to this experience is our spirituality, not our physical location. It’s the ‘betwixt and between’, what some call the liminal, which opens our hearts and minds to the presence of God.
In our second reading today St Paul couldn’t have been in a more different place than Jacob. He’s in jail, ‘a prisoner of Christ Jesus’, in the middle of a city, surrounded by people – probably even sharing a cell. An old man, not knowing what his immediate future would be. This is also a ‘thin place’, where Paul feels close to God and writes of love and freedom.
Jacob describes his experience as a gateway. Wherever we find our thin places, they become a door to a richer experience. It’s hard not to think of Philip Pullman’s ‘subtle knife’ that cuts a way between one world and another. Yet in a spiritual sense we rarely (if ever) control the moments when we encounter this opening of a door. Like Jacob, they come to us unbidden and may be startling and surprising.
Sometimes though – as with the Minster – there are places where that glimpse of God may be more frequent, and we may all have a particular place to go where that sense of connection between worlds is more common.
Connection is an interesting concept in this experience. Because, generally, I’ve been speaking about parting and opening – a pulling aside of the here and now to see something else. In his liminal state Jacob has this unexpected vision, but what he sees and hears also connects his past to the future. The God who stands beside him is the God of his ancestors – and also a God who vows to be there for his future, and for the future of his children’s children.
Writing about Celtic spirituality Esther de Waal talks about ‘a union of the sacred and the secular, material and spiritual, ‘the ability to hold things together’. It’s something we see in the intricacy of Celtic art and symbols – the fabulous designs in things such as the Book of Kells.
The season we are in now, Epiphany, fits well with this idea of thin places. Moments when any of us can sense God’s presence with an unexpected clarity, and feel that the veil between this world and the divine parts. But these fleeting glimpses can also be times of connection when, perhaps, we see a link between the past and the future in a way we never imagined.
It is good to put ourselves in the way of these experiences but also, like Jacob, to be open to the unexpected and the unlikely. To be alert for God wherever we find ourselves, and to know that God comes to us in the people and places we least expect.
Steer into the distress – Canon Missioner Maggie McLean
Title: “Steer into the distress”
Preacher: Canon Missioner Maggie McLean
Date: Third Sunday of Epiphany 23.01.23 4.00pm
The movement in our Gospel today is extraordinary, and not really explained. At the start there is fear; withdrawal, and darkness. By the end, just a few verses later, there is teaching; proclamation and healing.
It seems that the first reaction of Jesus on hearing about the arrest of John the Baptist is to hide away from the authorities. He leaves Nazareth and withdraws to ‘Capernaum by the sea’ – (which sounds a bit like Whitby) but was, according to the prophet, a place where ‘people sat in darkness’. Perhaps, if word came that they were out to get him, a quick dash to a boat would secure his escape?
It sounds a very unpromising moment in the career of Jesus the Rabbi.
The charity The Samaritans have a phrase they use in their training, which is to ‘steer into distress’. Most of us in general conversation try to avoid difficult topics. When things get too raw, or too real, we change the subject. The phrase used by The Samaritans is the right one for their work – to give people the opportunity to say how they really feel. To see difficulty as something to be explored, not brushed under the carpet.
In going into Galilee Jesus steers into darkness. At least, from the perspective of King Herod and the Roman Emperor he served, Capernaum was one of the dark places – somewhere the civilising light of Rome hadn’t fully reached. Somewhere very different from Jerusalem.
On the edge of Empire Jesus begins to proclaim the Gospel. If John went to preach in the desert of the wilderness, Jesus chooses the bustle of the town to preach God’s Kingdom. For some people towns and cities are also deserts – and here Jesus will encounter those who are alone in a crowd; abandoned in the midst of community; despised because of illness; or treated with contempt for their poverty.
Into this darkness Jesus comes as a beacon of hope. As people encounter him lives are transformed. The oppressed are brought comfort, and their oppressors are met with harsh words and reminders of God’s love for the least. People are healed, and the message of God’s love and longing for the lost sheep is made clear.
It seems to me that one of the most important things the Church does, in being faithful to Jesus Christ, is to affirm the humanity of all God’s children. In God’s eyes there are no ‘lesser people’, or those for whom the love of God is qualified.
At its best the Church reflects the open affirmation Jesus embodied for so many people. People who feel of less value in human society. In him, in the Church, people are children of God and have a dignity beyond human reproach.
I know that in recent days, following the statement from the House of Bishops, there will be those who feel the Church has not gone far enough in affirming the dignity of people who are LGBTQIA+. I suspect that there will be many people who, despite the Bishops’ intentions, continue to feel that they are not fully valued in the life of the church.
I can’t help but draw parallels with the debates regarding the ordination of women in the 1980’s, debates that ate into the heart of my identity and soul too. Debates that because they were about me and people like me, could never be heard in the abstract. The small steps the institutional church made towards ‘inclusion’ always felt inadequate until full equality could be achieved.
Making people feel ‘less than’ is something that the institutional church should rightly apologise for and that’s why this debate and action by the Church cannot stop – we must continue to ensure that no one who is part of Christ’s body every feels that they are a child of a lesser God.
Valuing people who feel on the edge of the community – or pushed out of it – is the central message contained in the life and ministry of Jesus – a ministry that begins here in Galilee. But in order for that ministry to develop, to grow and to prosper, Jesus needs disciples to support his mission.
This isn’t done by a class or a qualification. Jesus calls people to be with him. Day and night, day in and day out. It is by sharing his life with the disciples that they begin to understand the scale and significance of what he has come to do. Discipleship was never a Sunday task – or a Sabbath obligation – it was 24/7. Across three years these close followers come to see how Jesus sees, serves and loves the world.
That’s why prayer, service and Bible reading are so important for Christians today. Like those first disciples, we are called to keep company with Christ. Sometimes we’ll say stupid things to God, or be angry or be disappointed. There’s nothing wrong with that. The Bible is full of people who aren’t happy with God but who, like the disciples, somehow manage to keep their faithfulness and continue to follow. The important thing is that we remain in relationship with God.
As we continue to journey through the season of Epiphany we are reminded that Jesus is a light for the whole world to see. The Messiah who steers into our darkness and seeks those who are shunned or excluded. And this is the work of the Church, our work, if we want to continue our discipleship with Christ. A discipleship fed by keeping company with Jesus, whether in joy or sorrow – a relationship that is living and, we hope and pray, bringing light into the dark places of our world.
Fourth Sunday of Advent – The Alternative Annunciation – Canon Victoria Johnson, Precentor
Title: “The Alternative Annunciation.”
Preacher: Canon Victoria Johnson, Precentor
Date: Fourth Sunday of Advent 18.12.22 4pm
Readings: Isaiah 7. 10–16, Romans 1. 1–7, Matthew 1. 18–end
And they shall name him Emmanuel, which means, ‘God is with us.’
In the name of God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Amen.
Almost three thousand years ago, a prophet called Isaiah came before King Ahaz. King Ahaz of Judah was in trouble, in the midst of a foreign policy crisis he had nowhere to turn. Isaiah told the king that God would give him a sign.
‘Look’ said Isaiah, gazing into the future, ‘a young woman is with child and shall bear a son and his name will be Emmanuel – which means God is with us.’
King Ahaz looked for the sign, and so did generations after him: kings, princes, ordinary men and women, they all looked for the sign that God was with us. The whole earth was waiting, spent and restless looking for the one who was to come. Waiting for Emmanuel.
About eight hundred years later, we meet Joseph. According to Matthew’s Gospel, Joseph was a descendent of Ahaz the King, of the house of David, a branch of Jesse’s line. But Joseph’s life seemed a long way from royalty. He was a quiet man, we never hear his voice in scripture- he worked with wood and was respected in the village for his devotion to the law of Moses.
Imagine him nearing home at the end of the day, seeing Mary sitting outside. They were soon to be married. But then imagine how his face must have dropped when she told him her news. We don’t know what was said but we can assume that Joseph found himself in the midst of his own personal crisis. Like his forbear Ahaz, he had nowhere to turn. He too, needed a sign.
He eventually decided to walk away from the shame and bury his grief for all that he had lost, and as Matthew records, he planned to dismiss Mary quietly. Little did Joseph know that he was in the midst of the very sign that everyone was hoping for.
In a dream, a voice spoke clearly to him: ‘Joseph, Do not be afraid! This baby is from God, this is the baby of whom Isaiah spoke, and you are to name him Jesus, which means ‘the one who will save’. The world needs this child more than you can ever know. This child is the sign the world has been waiting for.’
From the moment of this alternative annunciation, God would be with everyone in their joys and in their sorrows too. God would hear the secrets of the human heart, the prayers uttered from doubtful lips, God would walk with his children on their life’s journey from first breath to last. God would be with the raging, the abandoned, the lost. God would whisper to the grieving and comfort the distressed. God would be the morning light and evening star. God would send a bright beam of light on the dark places of this world and anyone who felt imprisoned by fear, or loneliness, shame or sadness would be set free all because of this baby, the one who will save.
The incarnation of God, was not neat and tidy, God didn’t enter into a perfect world, and though it was prophesied it was not predictable. God did not work through the usual channels of power and privilege but embraced the very ordinary struggles of what it is to be human. The cosmic miracle, of God coming to us, was to be made real through the faith and courage of a young woman called Mary, and through her, God became part of Joseph’s life when he was least expecting it, just when his own world being turned upside down- I suppose that’s the same for all of us.
We may experience many unexpected annunciations, signs and moments of clarity and vision but these moments do not always align to the times when everything is going well. God didn’t come to confirm us in our comfortableness or reward us for our achievements, God didn’t choose the usual or the expected conventions, God comes to us all and shows us through love that we all belong to Jesus Christ, whoever we are, wherever we are on life’s journey.
Where is God this week? Presumably God is at all those carol services and Christmas celebrations and in all those glitterball moments, but I know God is there with the refugees, in the queues for the foodbanks, in the communities mourning children fallen through ice, in asylum processing centres, in the war zones, on the picket lines and with those waiting for a diagnosis, with those who put their last pence into an electricity meter, with those in the midst of impossible decisions who feel like their world is crumbling around them. This is where God is.
In a poem by Malcolm Guite, chosen by His Majesty, the King for a carol service in Westminster Abbey this week, we are reminded of where God is:
We think of him as safe beneath the steeple,
Or cosy in a crib beside the font,
But he is with a million displaced people
On the long road of weariness and want.
(From The Refugee, Malcolm Guite)
When we least expect it, God comes to us, not always in an obvious way, but kind of like a surprise, a piece of unexpected news, a sign, that we have unknowingly been waiting for. God is there in the doubts, in the rollercoaster moments of life, in the shocks and the sadness. When all seems lost, there is hope sitting beside us. What would Joseph say if he knew his story, told on the lips of millions of children, had become the ‘sign’, – the sign of God’s love for the world and the hope of all people? A sign still being revealed to generation after generation in a multitude of ordinary ways.
It seems that God’s strength is to be found in our weakness; God’s glory can be found in the scars of hands which have been nailed to a cross, the power of God’s love is to be found in the risks that are taken with it, and the gift of God’s truth can sometimes be found in the shadows and the unspoken stories of our lives and what happens between the lines. The annunciation was not only Mary’s story. As we have heard recorded in Matthew’s Gospel, it was Joseph’s story too. And, surely it is ours. God is waiting to be born in us today, can we say ‘yes’ as they did, and make him welcome?
We still wait for the day when the sign given two thousand years ago will come to fulfilment, when the Lord will come again to draw all things to himself, and complete what has already been begun through the birth of a baby, the one who will save, the one they called Emmanuel, God is with us.
Sermon preached at Choral Evensong with the Chorister Bishop Ceremony – Second Sunday of Advent – Canon Victoria Johnson, Precentor
Sermon preached at Choral Evensong with the Chorister Bishop Ceremony
Preacher: Canon Victoria Johnson, Precentor
Date: Second Sunday of Advent 2022 04.12.22 4.00pm
Readings: Psalm 8, Isaiah 61:1-3, Mark 10:13-16
In the name of God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Amen.
We have actually warned the Archbishop of York, that there is going to be a brief disturbance of Episcopal forces here at York Minster this afternoon! And I have to tell you, he was very, very encouraging! And we are also very grateful to the Bishop of Selby, for being here with us, and for his willingness to be temporarily deposed from his seat!
Today, we are doing something which hasn’t happened in this cathedral for many hundreds of years. This is not a new thing, but an old thing we are making new. In Medieval times, the Chorister Bishop Ceremony took place on or around the 6th December, the Feast of St Nicholas. St Nicholas was a 4th Century Bishop in Turkey, who was known for his care and concern for children and from whom the tradition of gift giving at christmas was extended. The Feast of St Nicholas was very much a day for children and you don’t need me to tell you how St Nicholas is depicted in popular culture today and how his legacy continues accompanied by sleighs and reindeers and with the ability to deliver gifts down the narrowest of chimneys!
Across Europe, from around the 12th Century, children in churches and cathedrals were elevated to the office of Bishop on the Feast of St Nicholas and were often drawn from the choristers of the choir. The Chorister Bishops of York Minster would hold office from the Feast of St Nicholas until Holy Innocents day on the 28th December. They would preach sermons, lead services, distribute gifts to the needy, and ride around the diocese on horseback, extricating money and taxes from parishioners with pugnacious determination. I hasten to add, we are not expecting our Chorister Bishop and her Canons to do this today!
In our historical archives, the names of these young bishops have been recorded from 1416 until 1537 -when the custom was banned by Henry the Eighth. It was said that the Chorister Bishops had a propensity to become unruly and disruptive at times, and perhaps the King, (sat comfortably on his throne), felt a little threatened.
So, today is not a first. We are simply renewing a tradition of the church in this place and seek new meaning in it for today. And we are not alone, a number of other cathedrals around the land have resurrected this tradition too.
The first Chorister Bishop in York, since 1537, will be vested in the robes of a Bishops office: a cope and a mitre, made by our needlework volunteers, and will be given a Crozier (based on a shepherd’s staff), made by Becky, one of our stonemasons, who has also made a pectoral cross to match, both of these things so beautiful as to rival any bishop’s: and when fully vested, the Bishop will deliver a Charge, on behalf of children everywhere. When we talked about this ceremony with the choristers, we asked them to consider what the world might need to hear, what the church might need to hear, on behalf of children everywhere.
What we are doing, we cannot deny, is pretty subversive. We are turning the usual order of things upside down, but in this season of Advent, I want to suggest that is exactly what we are called to do.
It should be clear to all of us, that sometimes the world really does need turning upside down. It feels a little bit like we’re living through such times at the moment. Those who have, have more -and those who have not, have less. The proud and powerful are very proud and powerful, and the lowly are well, lowly, ignored and silenced.
At times like this, throughout history, some people have been called by God to speak out to remind us that things don’t have to be this way. In the church we call them ‘Prophets’- these are the people who tell it like it is and call for a change, these are the voices crying out in the wilderness and saying it doesn’t have to be like this, they remind us of the best of our humanity: and remind us that sometimes the world really does need turning upside down. These are the ones who climb to a high mountain, and lift up their voices, and cry out- be not afraid, behold your God!
Today on the second Sunday of Advent, we particularly remember the prophetic voices of those who speak truth to power and say ‘hey- hang on! This isn’t showing humanity at its best- we can do things differently, we need to change’. Why do the rich always have to be rich, why do the powerful and proud always have to be first in the queue and get special treatment?
About two thousand years ago, a baby was born, born without power and authority, born in a stable because there was no room at the inn. We hurtle towards the celebration of his birth on 25th December, and we note that of all the ways God could have chosen to illustrate God’s power and authority, God did this- becoming little and poor. How strange, how subversive that God would give up everything to become tiny in what would be the greatest upheaval and distortion of power in human history.
At the moment of his beginning his mother also proclaimed this truth: ‘He will scatter the proud’, she sang, ‘and put down the mighty from their seat, and will exalt the humble and meek’.
And then this baby grew up, and said ‘I am turning the world upside down, the last will be first and the first will be last. Let’s build a new kind of world, a new kind of kingdom, and the only way to enter this kingdom of faith, hope and love, is to become children’. Jesus really was turning everything upside down.
This Gospel message is the one we are gently embodying today as we bring back to life an ancient ceremony that happened here in this Cathedral over 500 years ago, when children were given power and authority. For a little time, the usual authorities laid down their staff and their mitre and their platform, and different voices were given a chance to be heard.
If you’ve ever been part of any kind of community, or if you’ve ever chaired a meeting, you will know how often the same people to take the floor, or the same people have their say, the loudest voices, the usual voices. We might suggest that a good chair, a good leader, is one who can open up the conversation and ensure that everyone has a chance to contribute; a good shepherd is one that goes after the one lost sheep.
As we go about our business this coming week, as we listen and watch and take note of the world around us, might we be more observant about who gets to speak and who doesn’t? Who has power and who doesn’t? Who is seen and who isn’t seen- in our own communities, and churches, and across society itself?
I am looking forward to hearing what the Chorister Bishop and her Canons think we need to hear. I hope we will be challenged. I hope we will listen. I hope that this gesture reminds us of the Kingdom we claim in Jesus Christ: a kingdom of justice and mercy, where the last will be first and the first will be last, a kingdom where the proud are scattered in their own conceit and the humble lifted high; a kingdom we can only be part of if we become a like children to the glory of the one and only living God, who is Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Amen.
A prayer from the fourth Century:
Blessed be he who in his love, stooped down to redeem us!
Blessed be the King, who made himself poor to enrich the needy!
Blessed be he who came to fulfil the types and emblems of the prophets!
Blessed be he, whose glory the silenced sang with loud hosannas!
Blessed be he, to whom little children sang new glory in hymns of praise!
Blessed be the new King who came that new-born babes might glorify him!
Blessed be he, unto whom children brought faltering songs, to praise him among his disciples!
Blessed be God forever.
Ephraem the Syrian (c306-73)
Advent Sunday: Don’t Miss Christmas – Canon Missioner Maggie McLean
Judging by the crowds in York, lots of people still have things to do before Christmas. Adverts show us images of perfect celebrations, with fabulous clothes and the finest food.
We can all be tempted into this conspiracy of the ideal.
On Advent Sunday it might feel that we must see the approach of Christmas in a particular way. That there’s a template we must follow to ‘get it right’. It feels like we are being told, one way or another, that we have to conform to this illusion.
But today the Advent liturgy should lead us to pause if we think we’ve got our celebrations all wrapped up.
Because Advent is here to shake up what we think we know. Advent is here to stir us out of the sleep of certainty and to discover, or rediscover, that God outmanoeuvres our determination to see the world in a particular way.
Picture those early Christians in the city of Rome. New converts, new communities of faith, close in time to the events of the Gospel. Yet even for these fresh-followers of the Way, St Paul needs to remind them: ‘you know what time it is… it is the moment for you to wake out of sleep… the night is far gone, the day is near’. We don’t have time to sleep, because what God wants the world to become is already breaking through – like the first glimmer of light in the East – God is calling us.
Our Great East Window behind me tells the story of the themes bound up with Advent.
It’s not a season for the faint-hearted. All of us pass through life, to different degrees, on auto-pilot. We decide that we know how our local streets look; the way people behave; the conversations we expect. Our world only becomes distinct when things change suddenly or new people enter our circle of friends. Compare, for example, when you visit a place for the first time, you drink it in. We look up and down and all around. Strangeness can stimulate our interest, our awareness.
By contrast the familiar can enter our blood and become the everyday; the routine and the expected. Scientists say that how we see the world is generated from memory far more than it is from sight. If you’ve been watching the recent BBC adaptation of the book telling the story of the birth of the SAS, you can see how easy it is to distract and confuse people when they think what they’re seeing turns out to be very different. It’s why spies are so successful. More often than not, we see what we expect.
Today all our readings challenge that familiarity.
It’s no surprise that Advent has a lot do with shaking and stirring. The Church is reminding us that our God is a God of surprises. The biggest of which comes at the end of Advent with a birth and a family far from home.
So what’s the most important characteristic for a Christian in the season of Advent? I think the answer is captured neatly, and with complete conviction, by Dietrich Bonhoeffer:
“The celebration of Advent is possible only to those who are troubled in soul, who know themselves to be poor and imperfect, and who look forward to something greater to come”.
Advent is a season when we are called to wake up to a world that can and will be changed. In these days up to Christmas we don’t settle for a world as if it’s all that could be. In the face of injustice and suffering we believe that it can be different – can be redeemed – and we ask God to guide us, to play our part in helping this Kingdom come. The words in Isaiah describe this emerging transformation as an end to violence: ‘nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more’. It is a time when the world is changing, and we must dispel our own illusions to follow God more faithfully.
If we’re asleep it’s hard to hear that call, and work for that Kingdom.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be stretching the idea too far to say that Advent is like waking up through a cold shower. An experience that alerts all our senses and shocks us out of complacency. As dramatic as a flood, and as sudden as the arrival of an unexpected guest.
Advent demands that we are alert and attentive – prepared for a God who ‘scatters the proud in the imagination of their hearts’. Because we need to see past the reality we think is there, and begin to see our own lives, and the world around us, as God calls it to be.
The poet Stewart Henderson captures this with insight and economy in a poem entitled ‘Don’t Miss Christmas’. Because there’s a real risk, every year, that we seem hell-bent on missing what it’s all about – as Isaiah asks elsewhere: why ‘spend money on what is not bread, and … labour on what does not satisfy?’ In his own way Henderson sets this as a challenge for us all:
Don’t miss Christmas –
the magic of it all
our brittle, gift wrapped anthem
sleeps in a cattle stall
as the poor and lost and starving
weakly start to sing
it seems only desperate subjects
recognise their King.
We are given Advent to use. But we can only use it if we are prepared to see ourselves, and the world around us, with fresh eyes. To ask to be shaken out of complacency and made alive to the world as God calls it to be. Perhaps, as both Bonhoeffer and Henderson suggest, in this work, our need is far more important than our ability; our questions much more hopeful than our answers.
Evening Prayer: Lament and Hope – Canon Missioner Maggie McLean
Preacher: Canon Missioner Maggie McLean
Date: 30/10/22 4pm Evening Prayer
Title: Lament and Hope
In our readings today two ideas are held together. Against a background of suffering and loss we hear promises of hope – of resurrection.
The passage from the Book of Lamentations is the bit most people go to as a beacon of hope in the midst of suffering. The rest of this short book of the Jewish Scriptures seems pretty depressing:
‘The roads to Zion mourn,
for no one comes to the festivals;
all her gates are desolate
her priests groan;
her young girls grieve,
and her lot is bitter’
Elsewhere:
‘My eyes are spent with weeping;
my stomach churns’.
In striking the balance between grief and hope, Christians are sometimes accused of skating over the need for lamentation. To rush, as it were, from Maundy Thursday to Easter Day. It seems to me that in our Old Testament we find plenty of examples where the full force of despair and tragedy is given voice. The Psalms are one example where we find emotional honesty about the suffering of God’s people, while at the same time never wholly abandoning hope.
It would seem that we have no shortage of things to lament today. We had hardly emerged from COVID, when war erupted in Ukraine. Now there is the cost of living crisis and the far reaching experiences of climate change, with the inevitable consequences for rising temperatures; rising sea levels; and the prospect of the world’s poorest communities being hit hardest.
If we aren’t lamenting it means that we are avoiding this reality. In a way parodied by the Monty Python team many years ago, the non-lamenting person is like the Black Knight who fights King Arthur. The Knight begins to lose, and when a limb is cut off he replies: ‘Tis but a scratch’ and carries on. Eventually all his limbs are lost. To any viewer, what we see is the Black Knights constant denial of reality.
We could ask, in our second reading, why on earth Jesus is weeping. Surely he knows what he’s going to do – and that Lazarus will be alive again with his sisters? Why is there any need for this demonstration of feeling?
It seems to me that the response of Jesus is very much about the moment. He sees in his encounter with Mary, and with all those who are grieving the loss of Lazarus, the acute pain of human parting. Emotionally Jesus is ‘with the people’. He inhabits their feeling and knows, whatever may happen to Lazarus, that bereavement is part of the cost of what it means to be human.
As the Gospel tells us, Jesus was ‘disturbed in spirit and deeply moved’. He isn’t only lamenting to death of his friend but the sorrow which this has brought to so many people.
Recognising the pain of the world isn’t a luxury or indulgence. Unless we see, name and experience what is happening, we risk becoming the Black Knight – always in denial and, because of that, neither learning nor changing.
But in order to understand what we must lament, we need to know what’s happening in God’s world – the world entrusted to our care. That’s partly why I think it’s so important that Anglican churches around the world are linked and connected. When it comes to anything, whether the climate or the economy, we are all in it together. Actions in one place have consequences in another. Perhaps the starkest evidence of that, and one of the most disturbing, is the recent discovery of micro-plastics in breast milk. How we live never was, and certainly isn’t now, a matter for us alone.
We are accountable to one another; we are called to lament together, to pray together, to act together and, hopefully, to rejoice together.
The word is very near you – Canon Victoria Johnson, Precentor
Sermon for Bible Sunday
Preacher: Canon Victoria Johnson, Precentor
Date: 23/10/22
Title: The word is very near you
Readings: Isaiah 45:22-end, Romans 15:1-6, Luke 4:16-24
In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
On this Bible Sunday it might be worth noting that the Bible is right there at the centre of what is left of our parliamentary democracy! ‘Except the Lord build the House, they labour in vain that build it. ‘ Words from Psalm 127 are inscribed in the stone floor of the Central Lobby, at the very heart of Britain’s Parliament. In addition, rather than actually swearing at each other, Members of Parliament generally swear on the bible after a general election, I’ll just leave that there.
The words of the bible can be found running like gold threads through our language, our culture and our traditions. Quotes from the bible are peppered through the work of William Shakespeare and a scriptwriter for EastEnders has said that many of the storylines are inspired by the drama of biblical narratives.
The Bible was written over a period of around fifteen hundred years and started around 4000 years ago. It is in fact a library of 66 individual books of history, poetry, parable, myth and of course eye witness narrative accounts of the life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. For the Christian, the scriptures are inspired by God and through them the Holy Spirit brings us closer to Jesus so that we may embrace and for ever hold fast the hope of everlasting life. It’s much more than just a book for us.
For us, it’s a source of prayer, it’s the book that we gather around as we prepare to share in bread and wine- word and sacrament forever bound. The bible is shown reverence in our worship: The Gospel book is carried in by the Deacon, “This is the word of the Lord”, we say, and we mark the words of the gospel in our liturgies with light and incense and in procession, they are read in the midst of the people to remind us that the word is very near to us. The community of faith is drawn together through the story of salvation by a God who longs to communicate to the world through the lives of his chosen people.
What do we learn about God’s word in our readings today?
In the Book of the prophet Isaiah we hear of the word of God that shall not return –it is simply given. Isaiah later describes the word of God like the rain that waters the earth making it bud and sprout, providing seed to sow and food to eat.
So is my word that proceeds from my mouth, God says, it will not return to Me empty, but it will accomplish what I purpose, and prosper where I send it. Here is an image of the word bringing life.
Paul’s letter to the Romans is clear that what has been written is there for building up, and for encouragement, so that through the word we might have hope and live in harmony with one another. In the Gospel we hear of Jesus standing up in the temple to read from the scroll of the prophet Isaiah of the vision which he is now going to embody in word and in deed.
His mission from God is to bring the words of the prophet Isaiah to life; to inhabit them- to bring good news to the poor, release to the captives, sight to the blind, freedom for the oppressed. In Jesus, the scripture is fulfilled and the word is made flesh. God is with us. And that is perhaps the focus of our reflections. The word of God has a purpose, to liberate, to set free, to raise up, to comfort, to challenge, to encourage, to bring new life, like the rain that waters the earth, it is seed for sowing, food to eat.
500 years ago, things were rather different. The bible could only be heard in church, and then only in Latin. Those in power in church and state, denied the people access to the Bible because it would diminish their authority. But there was a certain William Tyndale, a priest, who, in an argument with a clerical colleague said “If God spares my life, in years to come, I promise that a boy that drives the plough shall know more of the Scripture than you do!”
Tyndale made it his life’s mission to translate the scriptures into English and let the word of God dwell in the hearts of each and everyone so it could do its’ work, so they could meet Jesus for themselves. Tyndale was burnt at the stake for this ambition.
Tyndale’s earliest translations of the bible were shipped over from Germany, where he was in hiding, and smuggled into England in beer barrels and bags of flour. Small groups of Christians would get hold of copies and read them in secret. The bible was contraband. Illegal.
But the floodgates had been opened. God’s word had got out, it was accomplishing that which was purposed, falling like rain upon the earth. Ordinary people were hearing the word and living out the word and sharing the word with others, all of sudden they had a Gospel to proclaim and for the poor, and the powerless and the weak and the oppressed, the words of Jesus Christ spoken in the bible were very good news indeed. The first time the English bible was read in public, people queued to get into the churches to hear it. The word of God was like food for the hungry who had longed to taste its sweetness.
When the bible is read with eyes to see, and ears to hear it can be life giving and liberating, it can change the world. It contains words of hope and comfort and yes- challenge too. But the trajectory of the scripture always move towards one conclusion: the love of God, made real in Jesus Christ bringing love for the whole of creation, like the rain that waters the earth it is liberating, it builds-up, it encourages. Rather than trying to impose our world view on the scriptures or use them to proof-text our own prejudices, if we let the scriptures speak to us in community and learn from them, they can be completely transformative and we can find within them the God of Love.
The word is very near to you; it is in your mouth and in your heart so you may obey it, says St Paul. Listen to God in Christ speaking to us through each and every one of the holy and hard won words of scripture, read, mark, learn and inwardly digest them, and may these words live within us and among us – and may we continue to proclaim them to a world which is longing for love and still hungry for good news.
A Harvest-Shaped Heart – Canon Victoria Johnson, Precentor
Sermon Preached on Sunday 2nd October 2022, Harvest Festival and Thanksgiving for the Life of Francis Jackson
Preacher: Canon Victoria Johnson, Precentor
Readings: Nehemiah 5:1-13, John 9
Title: A Harvest-Shaped Heart
Date: 2/10/22 4pm Evensong
Do you have a harvest-shaped heart?
Today we’re giving thanks for the bounty of the earth, and the gifts that it affords us. We reminisce about apples, potatoes and carrots, ploughing fields and sowing seeds, we have in our minds eye harvest displays and sheaves of corn – but do we have a harvest-shaped heart?
A harvest-shaped heart will shine a light on many things, just as the harvest moon causes us to look upon the world differently.
In his poem, Harvest Moon, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow suggests that in the light of a Harvest Moon- all things are symbols, we see things in a new way. The external shows of nature, he says, have their image in the mind, and I would say, make their mark upon the human heart. To celebrate the harvest is to respond not just with apples or turnips or pumpkins, but with the heart.
Julian of Norwich, the great medieval mystic and theologian, learned to look upon the world in this way. She held a hazelnut in her hand and said: “And in this God showed me a little thing, the quantity of a hazel nut, lying in the palm of my hand, as it seemed. And it was as round as any ball. I looked upon it with the eye of my understanding, and thought, ‘What may this be?’ And it was answered generally thus, ‘It is all that is made.’ She was seeing the world with a harvest-shaped heart.
Such a heart, takes us beyond a romanticised view of country life, a genuine harvest heart, will help us see the challenging realities of wealth and resource in our own society, it will help us value the earth and all that is in it from acorns to armadillos, and it will shape our own attitude to giving in the service of others.
Some don’t have enough to eat, we are told. Some are having to sell everything they own just to get by, some are having to borrow money at high interest just to survive.
Though this could easily be describing the state of modern Britain after a mini budget which has crashed the pound in the middle of a cost-of-living crisis, it in fact summarises the plight of a people whom the prophet Nehemiah is called to serve around 450 years before the birth of Christ. He is appalled by the disparity between the haves and the have nots. Brothers and sisters, (all equal under God) – are divided by wealth, some starve whilst the nobles and officials take interest from their own people.
Nehemiah the prophet attends to what he sees with his harvest-shaped heart. His conscience cannot let this inequality define his community nor his humanity- ‘this thing you are doing is not good’ he tells those who do well by making others poor. This is not the way of God. God’s love embraces all that is made.
So, he seeks out justice and mercy for everyone -so that everyone can reap the benefits of the fields, and olive orchards and vineyards. These symbols of nature reveal the intentions of the human heart, whether to keep all for oneself and ones’ own prosperity, or whether to give away for the good of all.
Today we give thanks for the grain, the olives, the oil, the fruit, but a harvest festival also sharpens our vision to see that unless the spirit of the harvest flowers in our hearts, there will always be those who reap the benefits of a harvest and those who don’t. The harvest itself becomes a symbol of divine gift and human generosity.
As the harvest moon baths the earth in a new light, so the light of Christ helps us to see the world differently. Through him we are given insight, and we might pray today that our eyes may be truly opened and our hearts stirred to such generosity, that we may learn to give and not count the cost. Perhaps it takes mud and earth and soil, smeared over our eyes to help us see.
Imagine you have an apple tree in your garden, the boughs are heavy laden, there is almost too many apples for you to pick- do you squirrel them away for yourself or do you go to your neighbour and share the harvest?
If you are in receipt of a bounty- a harvest heart will lead you to share it with others whatever that bounty may be. Even if you have a little, a kindness shared is a sign of a harvest-shaped heart.
Whatever you have, there is always something to give. Can we share the fruits which Christ brings to fullness in each one of us? What is the harvest you are called to share with others?
If you have a beautiful voice- do you sing to yourself or sing with and for others and to the glory of God? Francis Jackson, our beloved organist emeritus had a gift for music, he didn’t hide his gift away, or keep it for himself. The fruits of his gift were shared lovingly and generously with the whole church.
We reap the benefits of his generosity today on what would have been his 105th birthday. We will all shortly sing his music which has long been paired with the words of the hymn: For the Fruit of his Creation which remind us that a harvest thanksgiving- always moves us towards a generous heart. His namesake, St Francis of Assisi, whose feast day is notably tomorrow: said this: ‘Remember that when you leave this earth, you can take with you nothing that you have received – only what you have given: a full heart, enriched by honest service, love, sacrifice and courage.
Francis Jackson is remembered here today for what he gave, to glory of the living God. The better part in life, is always about what we give, not what we get: what we share, not what we squander. In Christ, we are known by our fruits: in other words, we are known as his disciples, by what we give and by our harvest shaped hearts.
Thanks be to God.
Our duty and our joy – Harvest Eucharist Canon Missioner Maggie McLean
Preacher: Canon Missioner Maggie McLean –
Title: Our duty and our joy
Date: 2/10/22 11am Eucharist
May I speak in the name of the Holy and Blessed Trinity. One God in three persons. Amen.
It might feel odd to some people for us to be offering thanksgiving today. So much of our focus in recent days has been on difficult news. The continuing war in Ukraine. Terrible storms in the USA and in other parts of the world. And, at home, a cost of living crisis with new energy prices that began yesterday. It isn’t hard to imagine people asking: “why on earth should we give ‘thanks’”?
Of course, difficulties and suffering are not new. The Bible contains many, many accounts of people facing pain and the horrors of war. And we pick up a little of this in our second reading this morning from Philippians. When Paul In the letter tells this community to ‘stand firm’; to ‘hold fast’; to ‘beware of the dogs’ and the ‘enemies of the cross’. It’s not difficult to infer from this that life was proving very hard for this early church.
Persecution was a real and pressing danger. Into the midst of this suffering Paul seeks to lift up the hearts of the people when he says: “Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice”.
When we are mired in difficulty it becomes all the more important to grasp a sense of perspective. An awareness of the bigger story in which our present sufferings are set. This isn’t to diminish the reality of hard times, but to remind us that hard times are not here forever.
It might help to reflect on this through the main prayer of thanksgiving which we use here every Sunday at Holy Communion. I’m talking about the Eucharistic Prayer. The word Eucharist itself simply means ‘thanksgiving’, and it’s at the heart of what we do in this Minster day-by-day, every day of the year. We give thanks.
As we will hear again today this great thanksgiving prayer begins with the statement that offering thanks is ‘our duty and our joy’.
It seems to me that the way in which we give thanks needs to hold those two words together. Duty and joy. Sometimes we give thanks because we are overflowing with joy, and joy leads to thanksgiving and praise. We sense it in the words of St Paul when he combines his encouragement to ‘rejoice’ with a reminder that ‘the Lord is near’.
It can be wonderful when we offer thanks and praise in sheer gratitude and love for the sense that our lives are held in the hand of God. It’s impossible to read Philippians and not catch a sense of this infectious excitement and expectation. But we also know that it isn’t always like that. Sometimes we might find ourselves here before God, not because of joy but because of duty. ‘Duty’ can feel a far less exhilarating sensation. While joy might make us feel elated and unthinkingly thankful, duty comes with a strong sense of obligation.
If we do our duty it is carried out because of commitment – not always because we feel like it at the time. Just as with the promise made by the late Queen, duty can steer a steady course across the years. On many occasions that might also involve joy – but duty underpins us, even when joy seems far distant and unavailable.
As we celebrate Harvest there will be countless people who are rejoicing. People who are thankful for the gifts of creation that sustain our lives.
Thankful for new life born into the world.
Thankful for families, friends and those who love us.
Thankful for the life of Francis Jackson and the legacy of his music which continues to inspire and give joy and sung in this Minster here today.
Thankful simply for the beauty we can see in the world around us.
On this Sunday as on every Sunday, we offer our great thanksgiving holding together the experiences of duty and joy. Out of these experiences we offer God our worship, not blind to the suffering there is in the world, but open to a God who takes what we offer, and transforms us. Transforms us so that we become people who work with God to change the world in which we live.
That’s why, here at the Minster, our harvest thanksgiving is linked to projects that help meet the needs of communities challenged by suffering. Worship reminds us of all that falls short of the love of God, not least ourselves. And worship inspires us with the hope that our world is being changed.
At times we may struggle to see that, and like the church at Philippi we may need encouragement to be steadfast, and to rejoice. To recognise in the Gospel that our God is more than food in the wilderness; and never less than the bread of life.
Lazarus: ‘The One Whom God Helps’ – Rev’d Canon Dr Peniel Rajkumar
Title: Lazarus: ‘The One Whom God Helps’
Preacher: Rev’d Canon Dr Peniel Rajkumar
Date: Sunday 25 September 11am
Be present with us Jesus Christ the living Word, and speak to us now through your life-giving and life-changing word.
Moral questions around wealth and poverty have persistently challenged the Christian conscience. What better passage to help us reflect on this theme than the parable of Lazarus and the rich man. The parable in my opinion offers us some useful frameworks to reflect upon riches and poverty.
So, where do we start? Perhaps the name Lazarus itself – which is commonly understood to mean “the one whom God helps”. And who does God help? The one who is excluded from the tables of prosperity, whose poverty is so tragic that he dies longing not for a place in the rich man’s table but for the crumbs that would fall under it.
The first framework that the parable offers for us to reflect upon wealth and poverty, is the framework of a compassionate God, whose identity is rooted in justice. We find a God who indicts a world order which allows the rich to remain rich and the poor to remain poor, and thinks it can carry on with business as usual unmindful of those who like Lazarus die of poverty, starvation, malnutrition, homelessness and unemployment.
This is also the picture of God that permeates the Christian scriptures. Some of you may be familiar with an experiment that Jim Wallis, the founder of Sojourners, a Christian organisation concerned about social justice, carried out a few years ago – in fact several years ago. Keen to identity what the bible says about God’s concern for the poor, about wealth and social justice Wallis and his friends started cutting out relevant passages from an old bible. They were surprised at what they ended up – a ‘bible full of holes’, which somebody called a HOLE-Y bible. And that is what a Christian gospel that does not pay attention to the poor and questions of social justice can become – a HOLE-Y gospel.
The second framework that the parable of Lazarus and the rich man perhaps opens for us in our reflections on wealth and poverty is the framework of relationships. The primary failure of the rich man in this parable seems to be his failure to see Lazarus as his neighbour. To be more precise he fails to SEE Lazarus at all.
And if we pay careful attention to the text the rich man does not land up in Hades because he did something outrightly wicked to Lazarus. He is there because he did nothing. I find it fascinating that when the rich man is languishing in Hades Abraham tells him that all Lazarus received during his life was evil – almost implying that the rich man’s silence in the face of Lazarus’s suffering was evil.
It is ironic that Lazarus only ever becomes visible to the rich man, when he is seen as someone who can be instrumentalised to serve his needs – his need for a drop or water, or for someone to warn his brothers.
Such objectification of the poor is in some way the sin of the present global system which has successfully sold to us the logic that the most guilt-free way to think of profits and prosperity is to separate it from questions concerning our relationships with other people and the planet.
Therefore, thinking of poverty in the context of relationships is important. However, it is not an easy choice to make, because at the heart of this choice is also the choice to give up one’s own power and privilege. Therefore, for many the easy way out is, like the rich man, to shield ourselves from the disruption that comes from making space in our lives for the poor. And that is the challenge that comes out of the parable today, a challenge that can only be lived out by God’s enabling grace.
Let me end with a poem written by Eddie Askew, who served many years ago in my part of India with the Leprosy Mission, who captures poignantly the challenge ahead of us.
Lord, what do you want?
Another hour at work?
A bit more in the collection plate?
A smile, a cheque
When the Oxfam man comes around?
I reckon I can manage that,
If it’s clear that’s what you ask.
And in the giving I’ll get a bonus too.
I’ll feel good, having made the effort.
Feel more than good, as I stand
Warming my hands at the fire of self-satisfaction.
Can we leave it that way, Lord?
I’ll do my bit and you’ll do yours.
My little world secure, unshaken.
The even progress of my life
Undisturbed by earth tremors of real commitment.
Many do less.
But as I’m tempted to relax,
I feel uneasy.
I’m only playing games.
Hiding the face of my selfishness
Behind gestures of goodwill.
Counting to a hundred and hoping I’ll not be found.
Your words cut deep.
Slice through the skin of my hypocrisy.
Lay bare the truth inside.
Your loving hands reach down to take,
Not the small things I offer
In the hope they’ll be enough,
But me. No less.
My world rocks in the earthquake of your approach,
The impossibility of your demands.
But as I let go, surrender,
I find a new stability,
As I stand, hands empty, in your presence.
Your love seeps through the cracks in my ego, and
Fills the empty spaces with your grace.
Today may the just and compassionate God of Lazarus fill those empty spaces in our lives that long for answers to difficult questions with grace. Amen.
Let God be your light – Canon Victoria Johnson, Precentor
Title: Let God be your light
Preacher: Canon Victoria Johnson, Precentor
Date: Sunday 11th September 4pm
Readings: Psalm 121, Isaiah 60 and John 6:51-69
In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
From the Book of the Prophet Isaiah:
Nations shall come to your light,
and kings to the brightness of your dawn.
It was just the day before yesterday, when King Charles III, in his first address as King, spoke of his mother as a light. In our sorrow, he said, let us remember and draw strength from the light of her example.
Our late Queen Elizabeth, was a luminous person, giving out light and warmth, and we have perhaps seen that ever more keenly these last three days as we mourn her loss and reflect upon her life. She was a part of all of our lives, there is no-one here, who has not known her-she was a living light among us, constant, unfading, without shadow or turning.
It often seemed that this light came from within and she let this light shine through her whole being, and through her every action and word. This light was seen as she went about her official duties of state and of church, and it was seen just as clearly, as she took out a marmalade sandwich from her handbag when Paddington came to tea. What was this light? Where did this lightness come from? How did she shine so?
The whole nation continues to give thanks for the light of her example over ninety six years, and her example as a monarch of unequalled service, for seventy years. A person of light who embodied those words from Matthew’s Gospel, which we hear in the Service of Holy Communion from the Book of Common Prayer, words which are said just as the table is prepared and the offering made, words I’m sure she knew very well: ‘Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father which is in heaven’.
Amongst all the good works that the Queen carried out in her life, there is one of her works we must never forget. In some ways it was the foundation of all else and intrinsic to who she was.
She was someone whose life and work pointed to God. She began, she continued and she ended her reign in Christ. She was always sharing the light of the one who said ‘I am the light of the world’. She was an evangelist, and even in the hardest moments of her life, she turned towards the good news. She was the kind of person who, in the darkest of times, would always look to the light.
She was always honest and unashamed about her faith and why it meant so much to her, she was not afraid to say what gave her hope and strength, and what enabled her to walk in the light of the Lord.
Every Christmas, year after year, she was open hearted about the God whom she loved and wanted to share that love with others. As Queen, she knew herself to be one under authority, and so she knelt before the throne of God’s grace, and woke every morning looking to the sun of righteousness, looking to the light.
When the Queen was Princess Elizabeth, when she was just thirteen years old, she gave her Father a poem. The poem was called God knows, by Minnie Haskins, an English Poet and Academic.
And her Father, King George the Sixth, read out part of that poem on Christmas Day 1939, as this nation began to come to terms with a Second World War.
One can imagine young Elizabeth holding out a piece of paper and saying ‘read this, it might give you hope:
I said to the man who stood at the Gate of the Year,
“Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown.”
And he replied, “Go out into the darkness, and put your hand into the hand of God.
That shall be to you better than light, and safer than a known way.”
It seems that even as a girl, Queen Elizabeth knew that when God was your light, all would be well and all manner of things would be well. Putting your hand into the hand of God would be better than light, and safer than a known way. All fears, all hopes, all longings, all sorrows, could be given to God, and through every change and every chance, God would guide everyone through the unknown and unchartered waters ahead.
In the life of Jesus recorded in the Gospel of John that we have heard this evening, we hear that life for his followers was not always easy. Some had already fallen away and turned aside. Jesus asks them plainly ‘Do you also wish to go away?’ Simon Peter answered him, ‘Lord, to whom can we go? You have the words of eternal life.’
When we face challenge and difficulty, sadness and sorrow, when we face change and vast oceans of unknowns, to whom can we go? Where do we turn? Where can we find the answers? As we stand in this moment of history, where each day seems to bring change and uncertainty, to whom can we go?
A young girl from the past extends a hand of kindness to us today, and offers us some words, ‘read this, she says, it might give you hope: “Go out into the darkness, and put your hand into the hand of God. That shall be to you better than light, and safer than a known way.”
What young Elizabeth knew, and what Queen Elizabeth knew, was that it is in God that we find hope. We are sustained by the living bread of Jesus Christ, come down from heaven, who said ‘I am the Bread of life’.
We find our hope in the light of Jesus Christ who said ‘I am the light of the world’,
It seems all we have to do is put our hand in his and take another step.
All we have to do is let Jesus Christ lead the way.
Let us pray
Merciful Father and Lord of all life, we praise you that we are made in
your image and reflect your truth and your light. We thank you for the life of our late Sovereign Lady QUEEN ELIZABETH, for the love she received from you and showed among us.
Above all, we rejoice at your gracious promise to all your servants, living and departed, that we shall rise again at the coming of Christ. And we ask that in due time we may share with your servant Elizabeth that clearer vision promised to us in the same Christ our Lord. Amen.