No audio transcript available.

Sunday 11^th Dec 2016; Advent 3 

Isaiah 35:1-10
James 5:7-10
Matthew 11:2-11

A week is a long time in politics: it’s a long time between lectionary readings, too.

Last week, as part of our advent preparation for Christmas, we encountered that mysterious figure, John the Baptist, at the peak of his influence.

And I mentioned that we also know about John from sources outside the Bible. Josephus – the Jewish historian, writing in Rome in 1^st century AD – tells us about John, including that his influence was so great that King Herod was afraid of a rebellion. Which is why Herod locked him up and eventually executed him.

It’s in that prison – a long way from his former fame – where we find John in today’s gospel. And in that dark prison, doubts begin to spring up. Maybe even a full-blown crisis of faith.

Remember last week, he’d announced the imminent arrival of a new Kingdom. That the ‘axe at the foot of the tree.’ But now, contrary to his expectations, it is he who is about to be cut down. The old kingdom still seems alive and well, and he’s the one on death row.

A couple of years ago, Justin Welby, the Archbishop of Canterbury, casually remarked in an interview that sometimes he has doubts. And the press (predictably) went into one of its occasional minor meltdowns. Doubts? An Archbishop? Outright heresy we will accept – even applaud. But doubts?

A few years before that, some of Mother Theresa’s private correspondence was posthumously published, which showed that she too struggled with doubt and darkness. And some prominent atheists labelled her a cynical fraud – only pretending to be a Christian so she could keep paying the bills.

Secular people can seem deeply troubled when Christians express honest doubt. Perhaps there is something in the secular mind that is uncomfortable with doubt – that assumes it’s the same thing as ‘unbelief’.

But the truth is that many secular people also struggle with doubt. It’s not easy to believe firmly and consistently, that we live in a universe without ultimate meaning; that there is no loving creator, or that the only things that exist are those we can measure scientifically.

The fact is, for Christians – and for others – doubt is a normal part of life. And it’s a part of life dealt with honestly and often and without embarrassment in the Bible – as anyone who has read the Psalms will know. Doubt is not necessarily something to be too troubled by.

John is a good example of this. And he deals wisely with his doubts in his characteristically honest and straightforward way. He makes some sensible inquiries.

Doubts that just lurk in the back of our minds, largely unacknowledged, can be very troubling. But much of their power can be taken away when they’re named. For when we acknowledge them, we can also subject them to thought and scrutiny.

The source of John’s doubts seems to do with the fact that Jesus is such a different Messiah to the one he was expecting.

He is probably wondering: ‘Where is the ‘unquenchable fire’ that was supposed to descend upon the wicked? To be more specific – why am I the one in prison? And – the heart of it all – why are you, Jesus, so different from the one I thought I was announcing to the world?’

It’s a question about Jesus’ identity. And so, it’s his identity Jesus addresses, as he speaks to John’s messengers with a paraphrase of the prophesy in Isaiah which is today’s Old Testament reading.

The the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them. And blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me.”

This prophesy spoke of Yahweh returning to his lost and broken people, and healing them – and their land.

And Jesus is saying that all the signs that accompany his ministry – all of the healings – point to the fact that this prophecy is being fulfilled.

Yahweh is returning. Returning to heal, and restore the land and its people; to announce the good news; to usher in a new Kingdom of forgiveness of sins and eternal life.

Everywhere around him were signs that this Kingdom was breaking into the world. That all the signs of darkness – poverty, disease, and death itself – were retreating before the force of a new and more powerful Kingdom.

And Jesus is basically saying to John, ‘You have doubts, and I’m not going to respond to them blow by blow. I’m just going to remind you of what you can already see: that here, in my coming into the world, are the signs of a whole new age.

So don’t get bogged down only by the lingering questions, John. Look also to what is clear: that the time of blessing has arrived.’

John doubted because he couldn’t see how all the pieces fit together. Jesus’ response is not to answer all the details, but to point to key signs and then call on John to trust.

Trust is always at the heart of Jesus’ call to us. Because certainty may be important when it comes to maths. Trust is more important when it comes to relationship.

And this highlights both what we have in common with John, and what we don’t.

One thing we have in common is that we will never find all our questions answered. Many of our questions are the wrong questions.  Many of the answers we probably can’t understand. We are called, not to be paralysed by the things we don’t understand, but to trust based on what we do understand.

To that extent, we are the same as John. But we differ in one important way. Jesus here speaks of John with the highest praise. John is not the typical public figure. He’s no ‘swaying reed’ – moved with the winds of popular opinion. He is no indulgent king living in a palace.

In fact, from a human point of view, there is nobody more significant or greater. ‘Among those born of women no one has arisen greater than John the Baptist.’

Although we read about John in the New Testament, he’s essentially an Old Testament prophet, looking forward to the day of salvation. But he’s the greatest of the Old Testament prophets, because he is the one who distils all their prophecies into one final, definitive arrow pointing to the Messiah.

So from a human point of view no one greater than John has ever been born.

But here’s the twist. The least in the kingdom of heaven is greater than John.

John leaves most of us for dead, in terms of his conviction, his courage, his insight. But John is the pinnacle of the old age. And he could only ever understand Jesus from the perspective of that old age.

But a new age has arrived. And people are responding to Jesus’ announcement of a new Kingdom.

Let this sink in: that those in this new Kingdom who are insignificant; who are slow to understand; who don’t have their lives together – for that matter, those who are most prone to doubt,  are greater even than John. You and I are all greater than John!

Because John at his best could point forward to a Messiah who would bring God’s blessing. But John did not know how that blessing would be won. He could not have guessed at a ministry that was all about mercy. He did not know shamefully – and how willingly – Jesus would die.

He could not have known that Jesus would not only die, but rise. Not only rise, but ascend. Not only ascent, but send His Spirit into his church, and into his world.

By the standards of cricket, the most mediocre test cricketer has reached a higher place than the best club cricketer. By the standards of politics, the one term prime minister has reached a higher place than the most long serving backbencher.

And by the standards of spiritual insight and privilege, the weakest Christian has ascended to a greater place than the most spiritually insightful sage, or the most intelligent philosopher. Because the Christian has heard and responded to the full gospel story. In God’s plan, you and I are more privileged even than John. For John lived in the dying moments of an old age. But we live in the dawning moments of a new age.

I’m quite sure this great man of God was able to see things in his death, with a clarity he’d never fully attained in his life.

But we don’t need to wait that long. For Christ has come. And in the events of his life, we see God with a brilliance that Isaiah, and John could only dream of.

We are a people of joy. For we have seen the full story. And we’ve begun to experience what this story brings: a response of deep gratitude, delight, wonder and worship

Amen.

No audio transcript is available.

Sunday 4th Dec 2016; Advent 2

Isaiah 11:1-10;
Psalm 72:1-7,18-21;
Romans 15:4–13;
Matthew 3:1–12

If you or I met John the Baptist in the street — a man with a leather belt holding on his camel hide tunic, with honey and grasshoppers stuck in his beard, and calling out ‘repent!’—we  would probably assume he was mad, stoned, or both. And we would likely give him a wide berth.  

But the people of his time had a different reaction. We know, even from sources outside the Bible, that he had a large following. Which is why, when he announced to Israel that it was not him, but Jesus who had arrived as the fulfilment of Israel’s hope, it caused such a stir.

And today’s gospel reading contains some words that capture the essence of John’s message.

‘Repent for the kingdom of heaven has come near’’

If we’re tempted to dismiss these words as the ravings of some kind of desert lunatic, we need to be careful. For when, in the next chapter of Matthew’s gospel, Jesus’ preaching message is summarized, these are the words used:

‘Repent for the kingdom of heaven has come near’’

The exact same words.

And so while the ministries of John and Jesus were in many ways very different, these words point to a strong similarity. They both saw that the Kingdom of Heaven was near.

Now we might wonder what this could mean. For surely God is already in charge. So aren’t we all already living within the ‘Kingdom of Heaven’?

Many people – even many Christians – assume something like that. That everything that happens in this world must be part of God’s divine plan, and therefore have his approval in some sense.

Yet these words suggest that the Kingdom of Heaven is something quite different from what you see around you. That this world, for all its many good things, is not the way it’s meant to be. We know this, in our hearts, when we see injustice, or sickness and death.

So this is a message that says, right away, that there is something wrong with things as they are now. And they are words that promise the arrival of something that will heal things, and make them right.

That ‘something’ is introduced as a ‘Kingdom’.

Now all those who heard John’s preaching knew about Kingdoms. For as Jewish people, they knew their history was largely about how their hopes and dreams had been shattered by their terrible kings.  With King David as a notable exception, the reality is that the monarchy for Israel was a serious disaster.

Not only did the Kings of Israel lead the people of God into silly foreign policy decisions, but they also allowed injustice to flourish, and worst of all, led their people away from their God.

So in our Old Testament reading from Isaiah when Isaiah speaks of the ‘stump of Jesse’, he’s acknowledging that the monarchy has failed – and been cut down.

All that’s left is a stump, and a distant hope that another Kingdom would some day grow from that stump. One that would bring peace to a bruised and battered people.

Fast forward to the time of John the Baptist. That hope still lives. And there are a couple of Kings around: King Herod, ruling the local area; and Tiberius Caesar, ruling the Roman Empire.

But no serious Jewish person would find it easy to believe that either of these awful characters represented the Kingdom of God.

So they still hoped. They hoped for a coming Kingdom that would overthrow the unjust Kingdoms of the world, and restore things to their intended order and purpose.

Now this might not seem very relevant to us. Whether we like our politicians or not, they’re not exactly Herod or Tiberius. We basically live very free lives.

But oppression comes in many forms.

I heard of a young person the other day whose mother is an ice addict and prostitute, and whose father is violent, and who has never known a family life that is not characterised by without serious violence and dysfunction. Sure, that kid lives with the same political freedoms you and I do, but you couldn’t say they’re really free.

Even the many of us who are more fortunate can find our spirits ensnared and crippled by subtler things. Things in this world, or in our own hearts, that entangle and dominate us. Forms of oppression that keep us from being the people God wants us to be.

Even now, as we prepare to celebrate Christmas, there is, alongside Christianity, another, parallel religion, gearing up for a busy time of year and competing for our attention.

You see it in the tinsel, the advertising, the sales, the jingles on the radio station.

This other religion is the Kingdom of This Age, and it’s a domain of distorted priorities. And we will see again this year try to turn a festival of deep mystery and wonder and joy, into a wearying, wallet-emptying, soul crushing carnival of exhausting misery for many people.

The Kingdom of This Age includes the Provinces of Rampant Commercialism. Life-Sapping Addiction. Destructive Individualism. Social dysfunction  

This Kingdom always promises life and freedom. But it always delivers enslavement. It chews up our money, and drains away our energy, and steals our joy. And as it insidiously creeps into our lives, we tell ourselves we are free, we are masters of our own fate, we are making our own decisions.

Well we might be making our own decisions. But we’re doing so within a shrunken and distorted view about what is really good for us and our world.

Into Israel’s context of broken dreams and political oppression, and into the messed up Kingdoms of our own time, the voice of John the Baptist speaks words of hope. Yes, this world is a messed up place, but ‘the Kingdom of heaven is near.’

What does this mean for us?

Imagine you are living in Berlin in 1945. Better still, imagine you’ve been part of the Nazi state – say, a mid-level public servant. And you know that it’s all about to come to an end.

The Brits and Americans are invading from the west. The Russians are invading from the east.  You really have 2 choices.

You can cling to your position, continuing to believe that the Third Reich is the way of the future. Or you can come to terms with a new reality, and cast yourself on the mercy of a new leadership.

That seems to be what John is suggesting. Liberation is coming, but you need to make peace with the liberator if you want to share in the good days ahead.

The change will be difficult, and probably humiliating. But under the circumstances, it’s the best thing to do. And it’s the right thing to do.

And this is why the one, clear implication that both John, and later, Jesus, seem to draw about the coming Kingdom of Heaven, is that what it means for us, is that we change sides. Align ourselves with a Kingdom that is not here, but will soon come.  

Or to use John’ word, ‘repent’.

Repenting here isn’t just turning away from little individual vices.  It’s much deeper than that. It’s recognizing that the kingdom of this age is completely wrong.

For Jesus comes and tells us that up is down, and black is white. That enemies are to be loved. That the humble will be lifted up. That the poor, the grieving and the persecuted are blessed. But the proud and powerful will be brought low.

There’s no better proof that up is down, and black is white, than the moment when the gospels show Jesus being crowned as the new king.

For when Jesus is finally acknowledged as a king, it’s with words of mockery. His crown, when he receives it, is a crown of thorns. When he surveys his kingdom, it’s from the vantage point of a cross. And it’s through an agonizing death that life re-enters the world.

This is nothing like we’ve ever known, or could know, by looking at the Kingdom of This Age.

The Kingdom of Heaven is not here. But although just about everyone who has a stake in the way things are, will try to convince us not to think about this, John is right: it is very near.

And just like a bonfire, you don’t have to be in it to feel it. It is close enough to cause the old reality to start to melt and bend and break, as lives respond to the call to repent. And when it comes fully it will burn away all the sin and injustice that had brought so much grief upon the people.

And so while we wait, we pray, ‘Your kingdom come.’

Injustices and evil will continue to occur. The Kingdom of Herod would kill John. The Kingdom of Rome would crucify Jesus.

But in these acts, the kingdoms of this age would show their weakness and insecurity. For in the life of Jesus, a new Kingdom had truly drawn near. And in his death, that Kingdom had achieved its greatest victory.

And in the age to come, that victory will be not just believed, but also seen.

Thanks be to God!

No audio transcript available.

Sunday 27th Nov 2016; Advent 1

Isa 2:1-5;
Ps 122;
Romans 13: 9-14;
Matt 24:36-44

If you’re looking for achievements of the last 100 years, it’s hard to look past the near doubling of life expectancy in the Western world.

Famine is no longer the great killer it was. We’re now more likely to die from obesity than malnutrition. We’ve gone from a situation in which most families knew ‘first hand’ the trauma of infant death, it’s now very rare. In the developed world, only about 1% of babies die before adulthood.

In fact, death can seem so far away as to be not worth bothering about. And some people think they’ll never need to. Google has launched a subsidiary company called Calico, whose mission is to ‘solve death.’

In the last week you might have seen in the news that a court granted permission for a 14 year old British girl who had died of cancer to be cryogenically frozen, in the hope that some day, medical advances could see her cured, thawed, and living a normal life. It sometimes feels as though we’re getting close to the point where the only certainly left is taxes.

On the other hand, so much of our time and energy is spent on the assumption that our time is limited. The extra years we’ve gained are spent desperately trying to work through our bucket list – a list created on the assumption that time is a scarce and diminishing commodity. Despite all the good news, the overall mortality rate hasn’t changed – it continues to hover at around the 100% mark.

So we’re caught between two contradictory beliefs about time.

One: that it will never end – or at least, that it won’t end any time soon. And two: that the grim reaper is right behind us, ready to interrupt our happiness at any moment.  

As the writer of Ecclesiastes says, ‘God has put eternity in our hearts.’ But the same writer reminds us, ‘death comes to all, equally.’ We long for permanence. But we are faced with death.

Advent is a time to think about time, and to remember that Christians have a particular approach to time.

The first clue about this approach comes in the very shape of the Bible. Have you noticed, the Bible isn’t a theology textbook? It’s a story. A story of the formation of a people. Of God’s promises to them and their journey towards fulfilment.  

It’s a story we continue even today.  And is one of the reasons our worship is so visibly connected to the past. We honour the past because we recognize we are part of a large and ancient story that is far bigger than this moment.

But this story also has a future – where the real action is. And this is the chief focus of Advent. For the Christian life is not just a journey upwards to heaven but a journey forwards, from promise to fulfilment. From the failed kingdoms of this age, to a future perfect Kingdom over which Jesus reigns.  

The surprising twist, though, is that this future has already visited us. In Jesus, we saw the Kingdom of God. A new day arrived and for a while the darkness dissipated. And we believe that day will shine again with a brilliance and perfection not even seen in Christ’s first appearing.

If Christianity were a novel, this moment we’re in would be in the start of the final chapter. The climax has already happened.  The crime has been solved. But the details just need to be worked out. The bad guys will soon be arrested and the hero will inherit a vast sum of wealth.

It may yet prove to be a long chapter. But there’s no real doubt about the ultimate ending. And therefore we are a people of hope. We are aware of what God has done for us in the past and aware that God is with us now. But we are keenly aware that God’s greatest delights for us are in the future.  

We are a people who are defined by the fact that we are waiting. And we are therefore called by Jesus to be watchful. To live like prisoners, constantly scanning the horizon, knowing our liberator may be coming any moment.

The people of God did not finish waiting when Jesus came as a baby, nor when he died for our sins. We believe that he will come again, and bring to fulfilment at his second coming what he achieved at his first.

But where this gets very practical is in the realisation that there are different ways to wait. Just because we’re waiting, doesn’t mean we’re doing it right.

In the past fortnight, I’ve had to wait for my internet connection to arrive. I’ve got to say, I haven’t always been a model of patience and grace. And I suspect that’s because we don’t need to wait for very much anymore. We demand fast internet. Fast food. Fast everything. And we usually get it.

Jesus knows we are fickle and easily frustrated and distracted from the goal. He knows we easily lose sight of the future he’s promised, and that we can forget how to wait. And so he warns us to be watchful, so we won’t be caught unprepared.

The book of Romans gives us further instructions on what this should look like. It essentially calls us to live lives in which our future hope is integrated into our present experience.

The night is far gone; the day is near. (13:12)

We are no longer in complete darkness, for Christ, the light of the world, has come. Yet we are not yet in perfect light, for it is still only dawn.

So how do we live? Do we go back to sleep, and act as if it’s not happening?

Not if this dawn is bringing the day of salvation. Not if the dawning day is bringing a stronger and truer and firmer reality than the night that is ending. Not if this coming day requires us to be ready. And not if this future salvation is reaching back into the present to transform us.

For the Christian, waiting is not the same thing as drifting. It is, to put it bluntly, hard work, with serious life implications for us now.

St Paul identifies some of them here.

People living for the light, who are living for the new day that is about to dawn, will put aside the works of darkness. And he names some of the obvious areas which need to be shaped by the age to come. And his list here is essentially the first century equivalent of sex, drugs, rock’n roll.

But he also adds other ingredients too: quarrelling and jealousy. Because we’re not just called to be respectable citizens. The bar is higher than that.

We’re called to be at peace with others, not consumed by the things of this world, and to keep our eyes are straining forwards, looking to a day yet to come.  

Our future hope is to shape our lives in the present. Not just our individual lives, as we seek God’s help to conform to his plan for us. But also our life as a Christian community.

Because although we can’t see the future clearly, the family of the church—if it’s living in light of its future hope—will give a glimpse of the kingdom yet to come. It will do this by being a community with an appropriate moral seriousness and rigour. But also by being a place of love, peace, joy and contentedness.

So the end is not infinitely far off. For this age is like a night that is fading. And yet, our time is not limited. It is just beginning. Because what lies ahead of us is not just the end of a chapter. It’s the resolution of the story that started in Genesis, continued through Israel’s long history, and culminated in God’s entry into the world, in Jesus Christ. And this story that will not end, but will blend into the dawn of a joyful, eternally new day.

May God fill our minds and hearts with this hope, and help us to live lives of expectant, joyful watchfulness.

Amen

No audio transcript available.

Sunday 20th Nov 2016; Christ the King

Jeremiah 23:1-6;
Song of Zechariah;
Col 1:11-20;
Luke 23:33-43

There are many ways Jesus is viewed in society today. But within the church, I’ve encountered mainly two. On the one hand, Jesus is quite simply God – just with a human body. The second person of the Trinity. Fully divine and all powerful. Let’s call this ‘Jesus one’.

On the other hand, there are those who are more likely to look behind the big claims made for Jesus, and look instead at the narrative of his life – the gospels. And what they find there is a man – perhaps some kind of political idealist.  An impressive and charismatic man, and a man whose example is inspiring.  But ultimately just a mere human being like us. We’ll call this ‘Jesus two’.

Which Jesus do you prefer? ‘Jesus one’ or ‘Jesus two’?

It might depend partly on what sort of person you are, and what you feel your biggest needs are. Practical, no-nonsense types, and those who are looking to Jesus to get to heaven, tend to go for ‘Jesus one’. It feels more orthodox and safe.

Those attracted to mystery; who are comfortable for their theology to feel a little edgy; who want someone who can empathise with their sufferings and inspire bold action in the world might feel they connect more with ‘Jesus two’.

What I want you to notice today in our New Testament and Gospel readings, is that Jesus one and Jesus two are both present.  

Let’s start with the New Testament reading, from the book of Colossians, which tells us that Jesus is ‘the image of the invisible God’. This is a stunning claim – that God, whom we might think of as invisible, and therefore unknowable and beyond our grasp, has a visible image. Something through which he can be known. And that image is Jesus. And that all things were created by Jesus, and for Jesus. And that his rule and power are therefore clear and unmistakable. For he is divine.

He is the firstborn of all creation – not that he had a beginning, but in the sense that a firstborn in that culture had a pre-eminent position of significance and authority.

If you’ve read some Dan Brown novels, you might think that the early Christians just saw Jesus as a man, but the church foisted the idea of ‘Jesus as God’ on everyone else through some nasty political power plays in the 4th century.

But notice. Although this passage is found in our Bibles after the gospels, it was actually written before them. It’s among the earliest New Testament literature we have. And what it shows is that from the very beginning, the church understood the Jesus they worshipped was more than a man. He was the very image of the invisible God.  

Then we go to our gospel reading. Here we see a very human Jesus, who is facing the event that, in a sense, defines who we humans are, and shows that we are anything but divine. He’s experiencing a death. Not just any death, but a cruel, unjust, and brutal death, in the presence of criminals, and surrounded by his enemies who are delighted by his pain.

And yet in this dark moment we see those inspirational qualities of uncompromising love, even to his enemies, that has continued to inspire many people who can’t quite swallow the claim that he is God.

As we dwell on this second image of Jesus—stripped of any power, and so pathetically human—it’s important to remember that despite this very human death, there are clear claims throughout the gospels of his authority and power. And eventually the church began to proclaim far and wide that Jesus is Lord, and therefore all must bow before him.

But they weren’t just proudly announcing that their religious views were superior. They were preaching that the Lord of all was the suffering one – the one who subjected himself to his fellow humans, and even his enemies; the one who gave up the trappings of his divine status and subjected himself to humiliation and death.

The Jesus who is worshipped as God, is not a different Jesus from the suffering and dying Jesus. There is no ‘Jesus one’ and ‘Jesus two’. There is only one Jesus. The one who was scourged, and beaten, and crucified and who took our pain and rebellion into his own body, but who was ultimately revealed as God.

It’s when we hold these two images of Jesus together –the perfectly ruling and divine Lord, and perfectly suffering human – that we begin to understand what it means to say he is both human and God.

Taken together, what these passages say to us together is that we don’t have to choose between a divine Jesus and a human Jesus. Indeed, to separate these out is to make the very mistake the creeds are trying to counter.

The creeds of the early church weren’t just attempts to silence free thinkers. Yes, their formation was a difficult and sometimes disagreeable business. But at its heart it was the agonised attempt to express in words, something which isn’t easy to express: that in this human life of Jesus we have BOTH the heights of God, and the depths of humanity.

And so the Nicene Creed we will soon say together describes Jesus as ‘God from God, light from God, true God from true God … of one being with the Father.’ Yet at the same time, it declares that he ‘was incarnate…. and became (not partly but) truly human.’

If we only think about one half of the picture, we might think that the Kingly, divine rule of Jesus is something to fear. That his rule is like the other versions of authority we see all around us.

Or on the other hand, that as much he inspires us, he doesn’t carry real authority. That he’s there to encourage us, but that obeying him is purely optional.

So this ‘Christ the King’ Sunday, let’s be clear what his Kingship involves. Jesus’ rule is absolute and unconditional. His authority is absolute. He commands, he doesn’t suggest.  

And the primary command of all – implied in his whole ministry, and preached with vigour by his first followers– was that we acknowledge him as Lord. That is, surrender, unconditionally, to his rule.

And that would be a terrifying thought, if it wasn’t held alongside this other side of him.

That what ‘submitting to his rule’ means, is receiving the gift of his sufferings, endured for us, and thereby entering into his Kingdom, which is defined not by naked power, but by sacrificial love.

For every other form of rule corrupts and abuses. Even religious professionals, I’m sorry to say, have a long and terrible track record on this front, and not just in contemporary times. Way back in our Old Testament reading, we heard of shepherds who do not attend to the flock, but scatter it.

But we also heard the promise of a new shepherd – one whose rule would be entirely different. Not self-serving, but for the good of his sheep.

Jesus doesn’t say, ‘bow before me as Lord so that I may rule you’, but ‘bow before me as Lord so that I may serve you. So that my sufferings will be for you. And your sufferings can be taken up by me.’

The great challenge of the church is to receive, and then proclaim, the full Jesus, not a half Jesus. To see that in him any rift between humanity and divinity has ended. That restoration and healing and forgiveness of our sins has been achieved. That new life and a new Kingdom, with a new way of living, has been opened up for us.

To finish, we go back to our gospel reading.  Did you notice the criminal dying next to Jesus? What does he ask of him?

Remember me when you come into your kingdom.

There is the acknowledgment of Jesus’ authority. Jesus has a Kingdom. He is a King. And yet this same Jesus is hanging on a cross dying. A strange sort of King.

But it’s because he is this strange sort of King—both divine and human; both immortal and dying—that he can speak the words that could not have been spoken confidently by anyone else.

‘Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise’

Words that show authority even over death, and words that contain the promise of life, that his death secures.

Amen

No audio transcript available.

Sunday 13 November 2016; Twenty-Sixth Sunday after Pentecost

Luke 21:5-19;
Isaiah 65:17-25; 2
Thessalonians 3:6-13

It is wonderful to finally be here among you in beautiful south Canberra (north Canberra’s best kept secret). The only real downside for us in being here has been the whole nasty business of moving house – something we’ve done lots of times before, but which I continue to hate with every fibre of my being.

Apart from all the messiness of boxes and removalists and changing internet plans, there is also the emotionally taxing business of saying goodbye to old places and old friends we won’t see as much anymore.  

But that’s not the only big change recently. You may have noticed there was an election overseas during the week. Personally, I prefer to tread very fairly cautiously when it comes to discussing politics from the pulpit – it’s important to be respectful of difference and the reality of diverse political views.  

However, it’s hard not to at least acknowledge the feeling of shock many of us are feeling in light of the surprise result. For my money, this seems to represent a very definite disruption – and not in a good way – in world affairs. In my more depressive moments, the word apocalyptic has crossed my mind.

Which brings us to today’s gospel reading.

Here, Jesus is speaking of a coming dramatic, disruptive change. Bigger than the election of Trump. Bigger, even, than the McLennan family moving house.

When some were speaking about the Temple, how it was adorned with beautiful stones and gifts dedicated to God, Jesus said, ‘As for these things that you see, the day will come when not one stone will be left upon another; all will be thrown down’.

What he’s describing is the unthinkable ruin of a seeming indestructible reality. He’s speaking inside the precinct of the great Temple. And I agree with those who think that his words here are not a description of the end of the world, but of the end of the Temple. The destruction of Jerusalem and its Temple by the Roman army happened a generation later in AD 70. This wasn’t the end of the world, although it would have felt like it.

For if anything seemed permanent, surely the Temple did. The Temple was the fulfilment of God’s promise to King David – the evidence that Yahweh dwelt with his people. Sure, it had been destroyed before by the Babylonians, but it had been rebuilt with great fanfare, and on a truly gigantic and majestic scale, under Herod the Great. Yet Jesus here, controversially, says it will be torn down.

It’s hard to believe that some things really aren’t permanent. Especially when those things are a given by God and we have received them as tokens of his presence.

As I begin my ministry here, I can’t help but think how the situation Jesus describes applies to the situation the church faces. I commented at my induction on Wednesday night how these are very difficult days for Christian communities, and for Christian ministry. I really don’t think we’ve understood, yet, the extent to which the ground has shifted, and is continuing to shift, underneath us.

The church once seemed powerful and influential. Close to the centre of things. And it seemed so permanent.

But it wasn’t. Under the surface, things were changing.   In the last century, people identifying as Christian have dropped from 96% to 61% of the Australian population.

But if we look at actual church attendance – i.e. those whose Christianity matters enough to get them out of bed on a Sunday – it’s even worse news. In the last 40 years, the numbers have more than halved. And we’re starting to realise that people won’t just drift back into church the way they drifted out; but that we are now on something like an emergency footing – or at least a missionary one.

A whole belief system has dissolved before our eyes. The belief in the goodness of God and God’s creation; the God-given value and dignity of all people; the sense that we can face the future full of hope and joy. These are no longer widely shared beliefs. The great edifice that was ‘the Christian consensus’ – is being pulled down. It’s potentially deeply unsettling.

But if we ever thought the old days were permanent, Jesus punctures our assumptions with the prophetic challenge:

not one stone will be left on another.

The dream of permanence was always and only ever a dream. Pretty much everything that we assume is here to stay will come tumbling down.

And indeed, he says, in the meantime, there is much pain to be endured. Wars. Earthquakes. Famines. Plagues. Persecutions. Betrayals. Bitter family divisions.  Martyrdoms.

How are today’s followers of Jesus to face days of great trial and change? Perhaps by considering yesterday’s followers of Jesus.

I think the essence of Jesus’ words to them here is simply this: in the midst of apparent chaos and dramatic and frightening changes, stand firm. Hold your nerve. Beware of easy, but false answers that might divert you. And above all, do not be terrified.

When we panic, we make ourselves vulnerable to those would-be messiahs – snake-oil merchants, who offer us an easy  way out, but at the cost of our faithfulness to the true messiah.

Jesus says, ‘Do not go after them.’  

When we panic, we lash out and try to impose, or reimpose, our own order on the changing world. But the gospel tells us that all the things we cling to will inevitably crumble to dust anyway – up to and including our own lives.

This was true even for Jesus. Just as the Temple where God dwelt was destroyed, so too, the Temple of his own body where God truly did dwell, was destroyed on the cross.

But by the power of God, out of this death came a new beginning. Isaiah 65 reminds that, even when it seems like heaven and earth are unravelling, God’s promise is that out of the rubble there will be nothing less than the creation of new heavens and a new earth.

There is no going back. The future will look better than the past. It will certainly not look like the past. Death and destruction will open into a new age where sorrow and sadness are banished; an age of peace, where the wolf and the lamb lie down together. A new age that has already been born in the ministry of Jesus.

The good news of the Christian gospel is the freedom from having to control events.  We’re even released from the pressure of needing to flourish, or experience great success.

It can be enough simply to hang on. To stand firm. To remain faithful to the one who promises to remain faithful to us. To recognize that even if everything we know and love sinks under the waves of history, it’s not as chaotic or random as if feels; it’s not outside Jesus’ care or his power.

For he foretold it. He remains the Lord of past, present and future. He is the same yesterday, today and forever. He is the rock that will stand firm when nothing else does.

The times we live in and the changes afoot do seem terrifying. But they are not truly terrifying to the person who sees the new, and bigger reality Jesus unveils.

We see this bigger picture as we celebrate the Eucharist together. Of wine – Jesus’ blood that is poured out, but brings life to the world.  Of bread – Jesus’ body that is broken, yet is the bread of healing and life.

In the face of change, Jesus says,

Do not be terrified. Do not panic. Do not be anxious even about defending yourself. Even if the worst seems likely to happen, entrust yourself to the Lord of history. Follow him trustingly and obediently. And not even a hair on your head will perish. Not by your cleverness or success, but by your endurance – your faithfulness – you will enter into the resurrection life of Christ.

No audio transcript available.

All Saints Day

Daniel 7:1-3, 15-18
Psalm 149
Ephesians 1:11-23
Luke 6:20-31

But see, there breaks a yet more glorious day, saints triumphant rise in bright array…

As we have sung, sainthood bedecks us in bright array and we march triumphant into the place beyond, to that great communion we celebrate today.

In Exalted this week I suggest that there is a confusion in this time of the year and we conflate the three festivals of All Hallows E’en, All Saints and All Souls into one as we remember all who have gone before, whom we call ‘saints’.

But how do you see these people?  And do you see yourself in their midst?

Have you achieved sainthood yet, or are we still waiting?

We tend to think of the saints as those of exceptional holiness whose lives and reputations somehow become elevated in the league tables that are the daily work of those who address such things in the back rooms of the Vatican.  And some have their own feast day, like Peter and Paul, Simon and Jude, and Mary, both in the Valley and beyond.  We honour the memory of others, like the martyrs of New Guinea, killed on the mission field in 1942.

I know I was rather disappointed to learn in 1970 that St Chistopher had been struck off the A list for whom masses might be said when the Roman liturgical calendar was reorganized.  

We like to imagine the saints of the church as holy and flawless people.  I recall as a young boy leafing through the Bible picture book that was an introduction to the tradition long before I could read.  As I moved from one to the other, I remember feeling a sense of awe as I looked at them in the rich coloured plates on page after page.  They were so HOLY.  I longed for such holiness.

Many decades later, I see them differently.  I see them as profoundly human.  Holy, yes, remarkable, most certainly.  But incredibly human for all that.

Consider some of the main players. Peter, the fisherman.  Impetuous, wavering, hugely fallible. Yet used by God as the foundation of the church.

And Paul, too.  The persecutor, an accessory to the murder of Stephen, the first Christian martyr.  

Like you and me, he never met Jesus in the flesh.  His encounters are only with the Risen Christ, the Jesus of the resurrection; like you and me.  Blinded by the light, he submits.  And is transformed by God.

Throughout the scriptures, we see such people.  Look at Mary, a simple village girl whose humility and love of God equip her to say ‘yes’ to the incomprehensible.

And King David, the giant-killer, anointed as king in God’s holy name, from whose line the messiah was to come.  But an adulterer, a murderer whom God rebukes but embraces and uses wonderfully.

Like you and me, these are very ordinary people, flawed people, people with baggage, with history they would rather forget. Great and holy people they may be, but very human for all that. Ordinary people, but mortals of whom much is expected and, used by the grace of God, they achieve extra-ordinary things.

Few of us might expect recognition in such company, but saints we are. The reference in All Saints is not to those who already have recognition. In the NT scriptures, the faithful are referred to constantly as ‘the saints’, as in our epistle this morning.

The hagioi are the believers, not exceptional in their holiness nor even those who have died with a record of outstanding saintliness.

But saints they are, and we are, and holy too, but what is it that makes them so,  that makes us so? Do you consider yourself a holy person?  Well, I look in the mirror and often don´t much like what I see. I know my failings, many of which I may manage to hide from the eyes of others, but I know I cannot hide them from God, who sees all, who knows all, who knows me better than I can know myself.

Certainly, it is not our own virtue, nor even that we baked a thousand scones for the church fête.  No, we are only holy, only saintly because God makes us so. In baptism and in the resurrection, we are made whole again – whole and holy.

As we remember today all who have died in the faith of Christ, members of the communion of saints, let us by the grace of God entertain the possibility of our own inclusion. ‘You are no longer strangers and aliens, but you are citizens with the saints and also members of the household of God’  (Eph 2).

In my struggle to get my small mind around all this, I am encouraged to think again of heaven and earth coming together, a theme of previous weeks.  In that sense, in our communion with the whole company of heaven, we achieve that holiness to which Jesus refers when he speaks of those things in which and through which we are blessed – humility, to know the poverty of the poor and outcast, the capacity to weep with those who weep, to be hungry with those who hunger.  Blessedness does not accompany a sense of personal satisfaction and pride in our comfortable status.

So we remember, at this season of Remembrance, all who put others first, as did Christ, and, thereby, achieve holiness through God’s grace. We shall find our reward among those who really grasp what heaven is – and what it isn’t. It’s not a reward for what we do.  It is a recognition of who we have become.

So we give thanks for that great cloud of witnesses, those who rest in God’s peace and we who await our rest. Let us, in an attitude of gratitude, be assured of the promise of sainthood that God has made and that, even now, we may be numbered among them.

Let me finish with a story, appropriate to the conjunction today of All Saints and Defence Sunday.

Robert Poate was 23 when he was shot and killed in the base camp in Oruzgan province in Afghanistan.  Along with two others he was siting playing cards and having a cup of tea when a rogue Afghan soldier opened fire.

I had the privilege of conducting Robbie’s funeral in 2012. We were all battling the collective emotions of anger, despair and loss and trying, as one does, to make sense of it. In conversation with Robbie’s mother, it was Robbie himself who brought logic to it.

Robbie commanded a Bushmaster, a large armoured military vehicle with 15 personnel aboard, 30000 rounds of ammunition and a few rockets.  His vehicle had been out on exercise a week or so before he died.  As he came over the top of a sand hill, he saw a child, maybe four or five years old, shepherding his goats. Robbie stopped and took a photo on his phone, thinking that no-one would believe that here, where no sensible person would venture to go without an armoured personnel carrier, a young lad was going about his business.

He sent the picture to his family and said “Now I know why I am here, why we are here – so that a small child can shepherd his goats in peace.”

In that spirit of wisdom and revelation, we come so close to God’s purpose and being that we are one with him in the holiness of spiritual wisdom. Saints in heaven and saints on earth.

Peace to those who are far off; and peace to those who are near.

No audio transcript available.

My father was not a tall man.  He stood five feet three in his socks.  He was shorter than my mother and, quite early in their growth, he no longer could look down at his three children.

He was a bit sensitive about it.  One of my earliest memories was sitting on a chair, swinging my legs (I hadn’t caught up to him yet) while he was measured for a suit.  It was in the days when most suits were made to measure and the tailor knelt down and put his tape to my father’s inside leg.

“A bit short in the leg, aren’t you, sir?” said the tailor.  Accurate though his assessment was, it hit a sensitive nerve in my father.

“Huh!” he replied gruffly.  “They reach the ground like everyone else’s”

Perhaps, if, like me, you were brought up as a child on Bible stories, Zacchaeus is one of the unforgettable ones.  You may have sung that odd little song that starts like this:

Zacchaeus was a very little man and a very little man was he.

He climbed up into a sycamore tree for the Saviour he wanted to see.

If the song has a redeeming feature, it comes in the final line:

and what he did for a very little man he can do for me and you.

And probably, like me, the events of that story that stick in your mind are that Zacchaeus was short and that he climbed into the sycamore tree to see Jesus, neither of which really matters except in the margins.

Zacchaeus’ stature only has relevance because it gives Luke a chance to emphasise how keen he was to see Jesus, to the point of climbing a tree.

Perhaps, though, there is a hint in Zacchaeus’ vertical challenge in the Psalm – I am small and of no account – a reminder that we are all small in the cosmic scale of things, and perhaps of little account, but to God, for whom size doesn’t matter, no-one is insignificant, no-one is of no account.  Even the hairs on our head are numbered.

Whoever we are, whatever our stature, whatever other aspects of our being might be worthy of note in human terms and in earthly priorities, God knows us and loves us.

Jesus picks Zacchaeus out. It is Jesus who make the first contact in response to Zacchaeus’ anxiety, one of those uncanny moments that shows how God knows our needs before we ask, even before we can articulate them ourselves.

Zacchaeus has wealth, status of a kind but he is incomplete and he knows it. Earthly concerns do not satisfy his soul and he is anxious to see Jesus, desperate enough to climb the tree.

Like the rich ruler from last week, he is looking for something deeper, something to feed the inner longing we all have as human beings. But unlike last week’s central character, Zacchaeus does not walk away in sadness. He is given and answer and knows how to respond.

St Augustine, who spent his early years exploring all kinds of pathways to fulfilment (remember how he prayed ‘Lord make me holy, but not yet!) defines such a soul as ‘restless’.  

Remember ‘you have made us and drawn us to yourself, and our heart is restless until it finds its rest in you.’   (Confessions, Book 1, Chapter 1)

Jesus draws this restless heart to himself, and as he does so, he demonstrates the embrace of God for the hated and for the outcast, the sinner and the despised one in his society. And he embraces the restless, who seek peace, a peace this world cannot give, a peace to be found in God alone.

God’s love rises above and stands beyond the law and Jesus insists on entering Zacchaeus’ household, on becoming one with him. The result transforms the life of one restless soul and that of his whole family.  And it transforms the contemporary understanding of how God deals with humankind. It is the triumph of grace over law.

It is metanoia, a word which we often find translated as ‘repentance’, but implies much more.  Commonly, repentance we think of as being sorry, but there is no point in regret, in sorrow, if it does not lead to a new way of thinking and, especially, a radically different way of being, of action. Perhaps if we think of it as a transformative change of heart, a renewal, a rebirth, even that lovely phrase from our liturgy ‘newness of life’.

Psychologists use the term to denote a transformation of the psyche, a dissolution of the old into something restorative, a kind of self-healing.  And this is what happens to Zacchaeus, as one commentator puts it ‘by bursting through the religious prejudices that isolated him, Jesus awakens to vibrant life the impulses that had long lain dormant, revealing to him the man he was capable of becoming’.  (GB Caird)

Which of us does not long for such transformation, for the chance to bring to life what lies within us, what enables us to grow into fullness of life.  St Irenaeus said that the glory of God is a person fully alive. In this story, we find the way to such completeness.

And it is transforming, not just for Zacchaeus and his family, but for the prospects of all humankind, for the salvation of the world, as we heard last week.

And this by virtue of his response to Jesus insistence, Jesus inviting himself to come and break bread with this restless soul. It heralds the great commission to the Gentiles, where no-one is beyond the reach of God’s love – Jew or Greek, male or female, slave or free, tall or short, loathed or loved – all made one in Christ’s invitation.

Isn’t that a wonderful invitation, not just for each one of us fallible people, but for the whole of creation.  Just by letting God in.

In our walk in faith, we use religious clichés so readily, don’t we?  If we ‘let Jesus into our lives’…  What does it mean to do that?  Let me try.

When we talk of our ‘relationship with God’ that brings us great comfort and encouragement but I wonder whether it is all God wants of us. Is there more on offer? Jesus says to Zacchaeus ‘I will come into your household and sup with you’.  It is a very intrusive, a very bold suggestion.  Consider it as an invitation to become one of the family.

A relationship with God suggests a kind of separateness, distance even, that doesn’t quite achieve the pinnacle of life with God, expressed particularly in the writings of John, where the hope and the intention is more than relationship, friendship. It is complete union where we become so immersed in God’s being that we become part of God and God becomes part of us.

Like in marriage, where two ‘become one flesh’, for the ancient Hebrews, there is no separation of body from heart, mind and spirit. It is inspirited flesh and incarnate spirit. Perhaps we might think of our being with God in the same deeply intimate union.

And it is there in our liturgy, in that beautiful Prayer of Humble Access ….

Grant us …. so to eat the flesh of your dear Son Jesus Christ and to drink his blood that we may evermore dwell in him and he in us.

As Jesus invites himself to share with us today in his supper to feed on the bread of life, he invites us to oneness with his divine self, to dwell in him and to allow him to dwell in us.

For me that adds a richer dimension to what it means to let Jesus into your life. To be so consumed in his being that we are completely at one with him, always and everywhere. And we shall find peace.  Restlessness will cease as we find rest in him.

Let us, like Zacchaeus, be transformed and renewed as we entertain the real presence of Christ in word, in sacrament and in truth, this and every day.

Be earnest, therefore, and repent. 20 Listen! I stand at the door and knock; if you hear my voice and open the door, I will come in to you and eat with you, and you with me. 22 Let anyone who has an ear listen to what the Spirit is saying.

After all, our feet do reach the ground.