Easter

                                            Rise heart;  thy Lord is risen.  Sing his praise
                                                                                  Without delays,
                                            Who takes thee by the hand, that thou likewise
                                                                                  With him mayst rise:
                                            That, as his death calcined thee to dust,
                                            His life may make thee gold, and much more just.

                                            Awake, my lute, and struggle for thy part
                                                                                  With all thy art.
                                            The cross taught all wood to resound his name
                                                                                  Who bore the same.
                                            His stretched sinews taught all strings, what key
                                            Is best to celebrate this most high day.

                                            Consort both heart and lute, and twist a song
                                                                                  Pleasant and long:
                                            Or since all music is but three parts vied,
                                                                                  And multiplied;
                                            O let thy blessed Spirit bear a part,
                                            And make up our defects with his sweet art.

                                             I got me flowers to straw thy way;
                                             I got me boughs off many a tree:
                                             But thou wast up by break of day,
                                             And brought’st thy sweets along with thee.

                                            The Sun arising in the East,
                                            Though he give light, and th’ East perfume;
                                            If they should offer to contest
                                            With thy arising, they presume.

                                            Can there be any day but this,
                                            Though many suns to shine endeavour ?
                                            We count three hundred, but we miss:
                                            There is but one, and that one ever.

George Herbert

Pedicures and the grace of God – John 13.1–35

Maundy, as I’m sure you’ve all heard before, came into the English language from the Latin word Mandatum which means 'commandment'. It is associated with this particular day because of the gospel reading we heard a moment ago, and that some words from it were traditionally sung as people’s feet were being washed – “A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another as I have loved you.”

Jesus’ words haunt Christianity – the Christian community is to be characterised by a quality of love which is genuinely unique. But which of us, in our experience of the community which Jesus founded, the church, wouldn’t feel some hesitation in describing it with that daunting, four letter word, love? We know that the church ought to be a loving place, but love often seems to elude us.

I have to confess that the rite of foot washing is not one of my favorite rituals. Deep down, I’m rather glad that the medieval church hesitated from making it a sacrament. And I was even more glad when I discovered that it would be bishop Ian and not me presiding this evening! It’s true, that the foot as a symbol of filthiness is not as redolent as it once was. In ancient times, when people wore open sandals and walked on dusty streets,  feet would have been truly filthy. But socks and shoes and daily showers make feet less unpleasant than they once were. But even so, the thought of washing someones feet makes you think… what if their athletes foot is flaring up? What if they have a verruca, or some other unpleasantness on their feet? There are good reasons why, in the ordinary run of things, we don’t go round fondling each others feet, because whilst it is less unpleasant than it used to be, it is still unpleasant.

Which is why foot washing is a good symbol of love. Love is hard. Genuine love costs. Love is most truly shown in our willingness to do the really horrible things. We can understand this by analogy with our own experience of romantic love. In Louis de Bernières’ novel Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, Dr Iannis finds out about love affair his daughter, Pelegia, has been having with an Itallian Army Captian, Corelli. She tells her father that she and Corelli are in love, and Dr Iannis shares his wisdom with her:

“Love is a temporary madness, it erupts like volcanoes and then subsides. And when it subsides, you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion… Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away… your roots grew towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossom has fallen from your branches you find that you are one tree and not two.”

Love is what is left over when all of the euphoria and beauty of your first encounter dissipates and all that's left is the hard work of forgiveness, service and care. So to wrap a towel around your waist and wash feet, enacts love when love is hard.

But as hard as it is to genuinely love one another and serve one another in the way envisaged by Jesus, as easy as it is to be put off by people’s corns and unpleasant toenails, I don’t think it is the hardest thing Jesus asks us to do. Because it is possible to motivate ourselves to wash each others feet, to do the really horrible things, out of a misplaced sense of heroism, or devotion to our christian duty. We feel that this is simply what Christians ought to do, and so we put a peg on our noses and do it.

But in Jesus teaching to his disciples, there is something still harder… letting your feet be washed. Letting yourself be served. Those of you who are having your feet washed, when you heard the news that you were in the hot seat, how did you feel? You might have wanted to get on the phone and book an emergency pedicure? I remember that on my retreat before my ordination as deacon, bishop Christopher washed my feet. I made sure I packed my special toe-nail clippers that weekend! I wanted to make sure that my feet looked suitably diaconal, feet of dignity, befitting a man about to be ordained.  It can be profoundly uncomfortable letting someone do something for you as personal as washing your feet, and we see this discomfort in the way Peter responds to Jesus. He didn’t grumble when he was told to wash other people’s feet. But when Jesus knelt down to wash him, he was indignant. “You will never wash my feet Lord”. “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me”, Jesus replies.

I think this is one of the principle difficulties we all have with God. We find God hard to relate to, not because we are sinful and we know it, but because all to often, we feel too righteous to receive God’s love as a gift. We feel too holy to receive his grace. I mean, we are the holy ones aren’t we? We’re the ones who  rock out to church on a Thursday night in March when everyone else is at home. Foot washing might be hard, but we are the kind of people can accept the burden. We’re up to the task. When I wrap a towel around my waste and wash feet with this as my motivation, I do it because I feel like I have something to offer, some contribution to make which will make the world a better place, bring light and love into the lives of others, and will prove that I am worthy of God’s love. But the truth is that we have nothing to offer, except for filthy feet. We need to receive God’s grace before we can ever hope to give it. 

But the good news is that, when Jesus takes us and washes us, he can transform our tainted offering into something truly beautiful, something by which God’s grace and mercy can touch lives, and lead them to the one who can make us clean.

Becoming Small

I've been reading Karl Bath's little commentary on Philippians – This excerpt from his comments on Philippians 2 stood out for me:

"Paul sets over against [the self assertion of the Philippians] the fact that Christ does not make any such 'noli me tangere' out of his equality with God. He has no need to, because he is sure of his being equal with God. It is for that ver reason that he can also empty himself of the 'form of God', as it is presently put. 'He was in the form of God.' The expression therefore does not denote the same as 'equality with God'. En morphe theou hyparchein means to be God in outward appearance, immediately and directly knowable as such. Christ is God like that. Nothing prevents his being so only like that, mutatis mutandis like the people of Philippi who certainly not only are what they are but would also like to be seen for what they are, each in his own right, with his own point of view, with his own value which, in order to be value, of course seeks also outward credit.

But now, says Paul, Christ does not regard his equality with God in such a way as to cling to the form of God, or be bound to it. He is so much God's equal that he does not by any means have to make of his equality with God a thing to be asserted tooth and nail—not because he could also give it up, but because his possession of it (in contrast to the best that they can possess) is beyond dispute. When we are absolutely sure of a thing, we have no need to lay hold on it in the robber-like fashion described. To the extent to which two lovers, for example, really belong to each other, they can also give themselves freely, without fear of loosing themselves. So too the Son of God certainly does not give away his equality with God, does not give it up, but he does let go of it. From now on he is equal with God in the obscurity of the form of a servant. He is in humility the highest. The robber-like bearing, the half-anxious, half-greedy graspingness, the assertiveness and vanity of those in Philippi betrays the uncertainty of their possession. Christ, being equal with God, has no need to assert himself in that or to cling to it, but can renounce the outward appearance and credit that correspond to such being, without surrendering the being itself—indeed, in order precisely thereby (vv. 9 ff.) to bring it into credit."

(Karl Barth, The Epistle to the Philippians, 62–63) 

Jesus encounters the darkness – John 9

A sermon preached at St Saviours Guildford on Sunday, 24 February 2013.

If you prefer listening to reading, you can hear the sermon here

We all know the type, the kind of person who has an instinctive ability to locate the button which makes me so angry that I think my head is going to explode, and who also has an utter inability to leave the button well alone.

Button pushers, we all know them, some of us might be them, we could all do without them. But here is the strange thing, Button Pushers are sometimes helpful. Take Jesus, for example. Have you ever wondered why Jesus performed so many of his miracles on the Sabbath day. I mean, if there was a big, red button which you didn’t want to press in first century palestine, it was the one marked ‘Sabbath Day’. But Jesus seems to be magnetically drawn to this particular button. Sure, the miracles he performed on the Sabbath were examples of divine compassion and love, they were good and beautiful works, but, couldn’t he have waited a day? Did he have to break Sabbath Laws? Make no mistake, that is exactly what Jesus has done in our reading. By Jesus’ day, good people, out of a desire to show love for God and diligence in keeping the law, had broken down the command to keep the Sabbath day holy into thirty-nine prohibited activities, one of which was kneading, which included any mixing of a liquid with a powder to make a paste… and that is exactly what Jesus did on this particular Sabbath. He spat on some mud and made a paste and smeared it on the blind man’s eyes and told him to go and wash in the pool of Siloam… and in doing that he pushed the big red button marked ‘Sabbath day’. 

Jesus seems to have brought division and an angry response wherever he went and whatever he said in John’s gospel. He had only just narrowly escaped being stoned to death in chapter eight because he claimed that he was worshipped by the patriarch Abraham. And now he provokes another confrontation. I suppose, if we are looking for an encounter with Jesus in this story, the encounter isn’t primarily with people, the encounter is with something much bigger, it is with darkness. John starts his gospel by telling us that the light sines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it. In this chapter, just before Jesus makes the mud and smears it on the blind man’s eye’s, he echoes that theme, ‘so long as I am in the world, I am the light of the world’. In this story, ‘light’ and ‘darkness’ become embodied in the characters and the way they respond to Jesus. This is story about the light of the world, invincibly encountering darkness, and we see that encounter in two ways:

The religious authorities

The healing itself, which brought physical light to the man born blind triggers a religious controversy. Clearly, suspicions had been raised when the healed man had spoken to his friends and neighbours about ‘the man called Jesus’ who had given him the gift of sight, so they brought the man to the Pharisees, the religious establishment of the day, to be questioned.

And so we have the two facts on which this religious trial rests: Work on the sabbath day is not allowed, but a miracle had been performed which was so exceptional that nobody had ever heard of anything like it (v.32). And the question is, which of those facts will be the focus of attention? Now that question might seem easy for us to answer today – clearly, people trump rules don’t they? I mean, certainly rules which don’t matter all that much, like being diligent in keeping the Sabbath day? It is easy for me to think that I would focus on the life giving miracle, and not on the broken rule, because in this instance, the rule doesn’t matter all that much to me. I don’t get particularly worked up over the Sabbath – perhaps I should! But what if the rule which had been broken was more significant to me? How would I react if the works of God seemed to be challenging some of my most deeply cherished religious or theological or moral views? I hope I would be keen sighted enough to discern what God was doing and courageous enough to  keep in step with him. But I know that there would be a good chance that I would be on the side of the Pharisees. 

The Pharisees, you see, were good devout people, they were serious about their faith, they were people who, in many ways, I think we would see eye to eye with. They believed in God, that he had revealed himself to Moses, that his will is enshrined in scripture, and that the response believers should make to show their love for God who has saved them is to be serious about walking in the will of the Lord. They knew how life should be lived. The attitude of the religious authorities is one of certainty, and I think that's where the problem lies, and that is where we can subtly change our behaviour. In verse 24 they say, ‘Give glory to God! We know this man is a sinner.’ In effect they were saying: ‘Give glory to God: Agree with us’. They were so convinced that they knew how God would act, that they were unwilling to see the works of God presented before their eyes. They were so sure that they know who God was that they were ignoring God in their midst.

It’s important that all of us who are serious about following Jesus, who are serious about giving glory to God, are never so sure that we leave no room to be silent and awestruck by God’s grace. None of us ever has such a firm grasp of who God is or what God does that there is no room left for growth, for challenge, for amazement. For the Pharisees, a little ignorance, a little confession of need, a little space for God to be God could have changed the direction the were walking in. But instead, they go deeper and deeper into the darkness, retreating from the light who has come into the world. They go from division among themselves (v. 16) to ever greater certainty that they are right. As they evaluate Jesus and his works, they remain closed. They think they see clearly, but by judging the Light of the World, they are moving to a deeper darkness. May God save us from knowing too much!

The man born blind.

But hear we have the blind man. The creator of the universe, who in the beginning took dirt and formed it into a human being and breathed life into it, that same creator now takes the dust of the earth, and uses it to bring about a new creation, to bring life and light where there had been darkness and despair.

But at the same time as the Pharisees are retreating from the light, the now healed man embraces the light more and more. He starts off not knowing very much at all, but he has a very basic certainty – which goes to show that it is not always a bad thing to be sure of your self: ‘I don’t know whether he is a sinner, one thing I know, I was blind, now I see’ (v. 25), whatever the religious authorities did to him, however they tried to pull rank on him, or call him a sinner, or make out that he was stupid, they couldn’t take that one thing away from him. He knew that Jesus had brought him light. He is certain of that one thing. At the heart of every disciple is, I think, a very simple experience of God’s grace. Maybe not an experience which provides all the answers, maybe it leaves us with even more questions than before. The likelihood is that the more we step into the light of Christ, the bigger our questions get and the more acutely aware of our ignorance we become. But there is still that basic certainty. Not a certainty that means we have understood God, or that we have God neatly packaged up, but a certainty that can see the difference God has made in his lives and can say, ‘I was blind, but now I see. I know that much’.

I remember hearing the story of a miner who had become a christian. His colleagues thought that it was all rather pathetic and teased him about his faith. ‘You don’t believe in all that nonsense do you? Surely, you can’t believe that Jesus turned water into wine?’ ‘I don’t know whether he turned water into wine’, the man replied, ‘But in my house, he turned beer into furniture.’ He wouldn’t speak beyond what he knew, but he did know the difference Jesus had made in his life. ‘I don’t know whether or not he is a sinner. One thing I know, I was blind, now I see.’

But Jesus also gives increasing clarity to the man’s spiritual vision. Did you spot how the way he speaks about Jesus progresses as he comes under more and more pressure? He starts in verse 11, simply by saying ‘The man they Called Jesus’. By verse 17 he is calling Jesus ‘a Prophet’, someone who represents God and authoritatively speaks his word. Ten verses later Jesus has become someone who might be followed as a disciple, and the man indicates that this is exactly what he is ‘do you want to become his disciples too?’ (9.27). In verse 33, the man confesses that Jesus is ‘from God’. And by the end of the chapter, he not only calls Jesus ‘Lord’, and acknowledges him as ‘The Son of Man’, he falls on his knees in worship (9.38). His interrogators may have ordered him to ‘give glory to God’ by disowning Jesus, but the healed man glorifies god in the only way he knows how – by worshiping Jesus. The kind of spiritual sight which we see in the healed man begins and ends in worship, in the acknowledgement that true light doesn’t belong to us as a possession, but comes to us as a gift.

And the light really does come to him. After he has been accused, and written off and excommunicated, expelled from the community which provided him with some meagre support, Jesus comes and finds him (v.35). The man doesn’t go looking for Jesus. Jesus the good shepherd, whose sheep hear his voice and answer his call. The shepherd who searches for the one, beloved, lost member of his flock. Jesus finds this man, and welcomes him. That is the deepest truth of the Christian experience: Jesus. Found. Me.

It’s quite strange to pick this chapter of John’s gospel as an example of an ‘encounter’ with Jesus. Because for the vast majority of the story, Jesus is nowhere to be seen. He leaves in verse seven, so Jesus isn’t actually present when the miracle takes place. We are reminded of Jesus’ absence in verse 12, where the healed man says he doesn’t know where Jesus is, and we don’t see Jesus again right until the final scene of the story in verse 35. Surely, there are better examples of encounters with Jesus? But in another sense, ‘encountering Jesus’ happens throughout the story. He is encountered, not in person, but in the life of the man whose world has been transformed and been made new and beautiful because of his encounter with Jesus Christ. It is his testimony, his transformed life, which is impossible to argue against cogently. In his life we see the invincible light of the world bringing healing and joy and welcome and acceptance. And I want to close by saying that the same can be true for each of us: Jesus, the light of the world, will encounter people through our transformed lives, and we will encounter him in the lives of others, if we have eyes to see.

The greatest resolution

Austin Farrer for the start of Lent...

"If there are any of you determined to live a more Christian life, there is one resolution you need to make which is, out of all proportion, more important than the rest. Resolve to pray, to receive the sacrament, to shun besetting sins, to do good works – all excellent resolutions; but more important than any of these is the resolution to repent. the more resolutions you make, the more you will break. But it does not matter how many you break, so long as you are resolute not to put of repentance when you break them, but to give yourself up to the mercy which will not despise a broken and contrite heart... it remains true [of us] that... in [our] natural being, there dwells no good thing. Saints are not [those] who store goodness in themselves, they are just [those] who do not delay to repent, and whose repentances are honourable. The saints have tried God's patience to the utmost, they have explored illimitable mercy."

(Austin Farrer, The Brink of Mystery, p. 17) 

Shriven or Fat?

Five years ago I lived in Italy for a little while. In February 2009 I took a trip to Venice during Carnivale. Now, I have to admit, I find the whole mask wearing thing a bit creepy. Every time I went out, there were people wearing strange outfits and bizarre masks. It’s amazing how unnerving it is not to be able to see the faces of the people around you. Carnivale was a big party. The whole city was involved, and it all got me thinking about the meaning of the word Carnivale.

The word ‘carnivale’ was probably formed from the words ‘carne’ – meat, and ‘levare’ – to remove. Some think that the word may have different origins, but, seeing as carnivale always marks the approch of lent, the sentiment of preparing for a time of fasting by ‘removing the meat’ seems fitting. The climax of Carnivale is, of course, Mardi Gras, which simply means, ‘Fat Tuesday’. Having ‘lavared’ your ‘carne’, now, on the last day before lent, you make sure you use up any fat you have in your house in preparation for the start of the lenten fast on Ash Wednesday. Of course, in Italy and other Catholic countries, the word has now become synonymous with a great big party.

In Britain, we have nothing quite as extravagant or joyful as ‘Mardi Gras’. We have Shrove Tuesday, whose chief enjoyments consist in running around, flipping pancakes, and maybe dousing one with lemon and sugar before eating it. It all seems pretty dour, but I quite like it that way. To be honest, I think I would prefer a damp pancake to a street party. But then again, I think I would prefer almost anything to a street party! I'm not sure my time in Italy changed my British penchant for gloom. It is just possible that this delight in the dismal, goes way back into the history of the collective British psyche. Take the word ‘shrove’. It comes from the old English word ‘to shrive’ which means ‘to confess your sins to a priest’. On the continent, the day before the start of lent is marked by the last party before a time of slightly fewer parties (and a fair bit of sorrow for all the overindulgence). In Britain, we like to get on with our repentance early!

It is good to keep Lent seriously. We all know we are not as good as we might be, even if we don’t like to admit it. Lent is a time to be honest with ourselves and God, and to focus on the aspects of our lives in which we would like to bear a greater resemblance to Jesus. It is good to have a time of self denial, where we focus on those who have nothing, and remember how fortunate we are. But it is also useful to remind ourselves that, whilst abstinence can be good, it is not the only story God wants us to hear. It is ok to be shriven on Shrove Tuesday, so long as we remember that (by and large) the things we enjoy are enjoyable because God made the world good. So this Lent, may our abstinence lead us into a greater enjoyment of God’s good creation.

Bleeding glory – Luke 9.28–36

 

‘Identity’ is very important. Governments invest huge amounts of money in developing ever more sophisticated identification documents. My passport can now work with a computer to recognise my face! And for this privilege, I had to pay £72! Then there is Identity theft, which is big business. Criminal gangs rifle through waste paper looking for information about us which can be used. And those lovely e-mails telling you that you have won the albanian lottery, or the helpful phone-calls from the Microsoft protection centre informing you that your Windows computer has a virus… I have some bad news… they may not be helpful and kind. They may, in fact, be from people who want to steal your identity, and probably your money too. Being able to prove who you say you are is very important.

Luke knew the importance of identity too. The ninth chapter of his gospel, which we have snippet of this morning, starts with a very powerful man asking a question about identity (9.7). Herod the Tetrarch had heard reports of Jesus and the twelve apostles he had just sent out to heal and proclaim the kingdom, and was perplexed. He had just had John the Baptist executed, but some people were saying that he had been raised from the dead. Others were saying that Elijah or one of the prophets had returned. Herod wasn’t convinced by these stories. Who, he wondered, could this Jesus he was hearing about be?

Peter thought he could answer that question: ‘God’s Messiah’, he said (9.20). But he had only begun to imagine what this might mean. And so Jesus filled in the picture. The Messiah would be rejected and suffer and be killed and be raised on the third day. The identity of the Messiah was way beyond what any of the disciples were prepared to imagine. Peter and the other disciples, despite making a good start, were hardly any clearer about Jesus’ identity than Herod.

It is only after we have the question posed by Herod and half answered by Peter, that we come to the mount of transfiguration. At last, the moment when all will be made clear. Jesus takes Peter, James and John to the top of a mountain to pray, and something that can only really be marveled at happens. As Jesus was praying, his face and clothing were visibly transformed. It is as though, for a moment, the veil of heaven is drawn back, and Jesus can be seen as he truly is. At last, we think. This is the Messiah we want! A shining face, glowing clothing, having intense, meaningful discussions with two of the most significant figures from Israel’s history. This is a Messiah who you can really worship!

But if we were merely to come to that conclusion, we would be paying as little attention as Peter James and John. Did you spot what these immensely privileged disciples were doing whilst their Lord was talking with Moses and Elijah? They were dozing, ‘Weighed down with sleep’, or possibly even ‘drunk with sleep’ (9.32). Peter, James and John were only partially aware of what was going on. The translation we have in the NRSV doesn’t quite do justice to this. It reads, ‘But since they stayed awake’, but the tense of the verb ‘awake’ in greek stresses the beginning of a new action. So a better translation is something like, ‘when they were beginning to wake up’.

Why did Luke tell us about these napping disciples? I think it is to show us, as clearly as he possibly could, that the three witnesses of the transfiguration failed to understand the most significant part of the event, and instead, fixated on the least important aspect. Peter, the spokesman for the three disciples, fixates on the glorious, shining Jesus, the Messiah they had all dreamed of, and he wanted to preserve that moment by building shelters for them to stay in. What the three disciples had missed, though, was the conversation between Jesus, Moses and Elijah. We read that they were ‘were speaking of his departure, which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem.’ The word Luke used for ‘departure’ is literally ‘Exodus’. The Exodus was the story of how God delivered his people from slavery in Egypt, leading them through the sea, from death in Egypt to new life in the promised land. The discussion was about Jesus’ death to save his people, his resurrection to bring us new life. For Jesus, the transfiguration both confirmed who he was, and assured him that the path he was about to take to Jerusalem was God’s will. Here, on the top of the mountain, the Law and the Prophets agree that the Messiah will bring about a new Exodus for his people, and the Father adds divine approval. We are to listen carefully to the Son, because the teaching he offers leads us to know God more truly.

If we aren’t listening, if we are half asleep, the transfiguration confirms everything we expect God to be. Glorious, powerful, shiny. The kind of deity that we want to set up a shrine to. But if we stay awake and listen attentively we’ll realise that true glory isn’t found in the glowing face. It is found in the journey to Jerusalem, in the path of suffering to free his people. As one preacher put it, ‘Glory doesn’t shine, it bleeds’ (Debbie Blue, Sensual Orthodoxy).

Where do we expect to find glimpses of holiness? Beautiful worship? Exquisite music? A serene, ancient church? Perhaps we glimpse holiness in nature, when we look at a night sky or a sunset. Some people go on pilgrimage to holy places, or join religious communities. Some lock themselves in libraries to study the deep things of God. There are many ways we try to feel in touch with the spiritual, in which we experience the sacred, but the transfiguration challenges us, not to look for or hold on to the holiness that we expect to find, but to listen to the Son, to follow him  on the way of the cross, and to go on learning from him. Learning to see the God whose strength is revealed in the weakness of the cross may lead us to the same awed silence we see in the three disciples on the mountain top.

Bonhoeffer – The Calling of Matthew

"Jesus went out again beside the lake; the whole crowd gathered around him, and he taught them. As he was walking along, he saw Levi son of Alphaeus sitting at the tax booth, and he said to him, ‘Follow me.’ And he got up and followed him." 

(Mark 2.13,14)

The call of Jesus goes forth and is at once followed by the response of obedience. The response of the disciples is an act of obedience, not a confession of faith in Jesus. How could the call immediately evoke obedience? The story is a stumbling-block for the natural reason, and it is no wonder that frantic attempts have been made to separate the two events. By hook or by crook, a bridge must be found between them. Something must have happened in between, some psychological or historical event. Thus we get the stupid question: Surely, the publican must have known Jesus before, and the previous acquaintance explains his readiness to hear the Master’s call. Unfortunately our text is ruthlessly silent in this point, and in fact it regards the immediate sequence of call and response as a matter of crucial importance. It displays not the slightest interest in the psychological reasons for a man’s religious decisions. And why? For the simple reason that the cause behind the immediate following of call by response is Jesus Christ himself. It is Jesus who calls, and because it is Jesus, Levi follows at once. This encounter is a testimony to the absolute, direct, and unaccountable authority of Jesus. There is no need of any preliminaries, and no other consequence but obedience to the call. Because Jesus is the Christ, he has the authority to call and to demand obedience to his word. Jesus summons men to follow him not as a teacher of a pattern of the good life, but as the Christ, the Son of God. In this short text, Jesus Christ and his claim are proclaimed to men. Not a word of praise is given to the disciple for his decision for Christ. We are not expected to contemplate the disciple, but only him who calls, and his absolute authority. According to our text, there is no road to faith or discipleship, no other road – only obedience to the call of Jesus.

  And what does the text inform us about the content of discipleship? Follow me, run along behind me! That is all. To follow in is steps is something which is void of all content. It gives us no intelligible programme for a way of life, no goal or ideal to strive after. It is not a cause which human calculation might deem worthy of our devotion, even the devotion of ourselves. What happens? At the call, Levi leaves all that he has – but not because he thinks he might be doing something worth while, but simply for the sake of the call. Otherwise he cannot follow in the steps of Jesus… When we are called to follow Christ, we are summoned to an exclusive attachment to his person. The grace of his call bursts all the bonds of legalism. It is a gracious call, a gracious commandment. It transcends the difference between the law and the gospel. Christ calls, the disciple follows. That is grace and commandment in one.”

(Dietrich Bonhoeffer, The Cost of Discipleship, 15–16)

Two went up into the Temple to pray...

                                                 Two went to pray? Or rather say

                                                 One went to brag, th' other to pray.

                                                 One stands up close, and treads on high,

                                                 Where th' other dares not lend his eye. 

                                                 One nearer to God's altar trod,

                                                 The other to the altar's God.

Richard Crashaw 1613–1649 

How silently...

Word came of a royal pregnancy, and the world was on fire with the news. St James’ palace announced that the Duchess of Cambridge was in hospital with severe morning sickness. They had to make the announcement earlier than they would have liked, but as soon as the news was out, there was scarcely a corner of the world which didn’t know of the royal pregnancy. The media had shouted it everywhere. It is hard to imagine news like this not spreading like wild fire.

But how silently, how silently the wondrous gift was given on the first Christmas day. I’ve sometimes wondered what Phillips Brooks meant when he wrote those words. It is of course possible that he was simply peddling the classic, sentimental picture of Christmas: The blessed mother, so virtuous that she scarcely felt any pain during child birth, but quietly delivers her child. The infant Lord, so splendiferously holy that he doesn’t cry or scream, but lies there, quietly gurgling, emitting a strange, etherial light. It’s the image of the Bethlehem stable found on thousands upon thousands of Christmas cards up and down the country, and which, we too, have represented in our own, beloved bucolic Christmas shed. If our statue of Mary is anything to go by, she has easily beaten Megan Fox, having lost her baby weight a matter of minutes after giving birth!

It is possible that Phillips Brooks meant us to think of Jesus birth that way. But I like to think that he knew better than that. Real babies don’t come without pain. Real infants don’t keep blissful silence. “The little Lord Jesus, no crying he makes”!? Pull the other one. How silently he came, but not in an otherworldly sense. Silently in that hardly anyone noticed that the greatest gift had come from heaven to human beings. Silently in that the Bethlehem advertiser wasn’t on the doorstep to report the news. Silently in that this birth was completely ordinary, just like millions of other births throughout history. There are many children whose lives get off to a worse start.

It is the ordinariness of this birth which Luke’s story captures so wonderfully. Politicians have plans to count up the inhabitants of the world, hoping to get a good idea of available wealth so that tax revenue can be maximised. A man travels to his home town, just like many other people, taking his fiance with him. He arrives to find a crowded town and makes his way, probably not to a commercial inn, but to the home of a relative to find lodging in their guest room. But the room was already filled with other relatives who had also made the journey to Bethlehem. So Joseph and Mary were were put up underneath the living quarters, where the animals might have slept, and the baby was found a feeding trough to sleep in. There isn’t anything too unusual about this scene, certainly nothing to betray the significance of the events.

When the infant Lord of all creation receives visitors, unlike Matthew, who has Jesus visited by members of a royal court, Luke’s visitors are ordinary working men, going about their ordinary business, perhaps gathered round a fire, playing games or music. Think of a night-watchman playing cards with his colleagues as they kept half and eye on their CCTV monitors. It was these ordinary people to whom the only royal announcement came on that beautiful, awesome night. Not to Augustus, or Quirinius, or Herrod, but to the kind of people you might meet at the pub. And it’s these ordinary people who, if we had read on a few lines, are themselves made God’s messengers: after the had seen the child,  they made known what had been told them about this child; and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds told them. (Luke 2.17–18)

A second century bishop, St Irenaus once said, ‘Just as the skill of a doctor is revealed in the care of his patients, so the nature of God is revealed in the way he relates to us’. And so at Christmas God is revealed to us as the lover of the ordinary. He is born in an ordinary place, in the ordinary way, he reveals his glory to ordinary people, and he asks for our ordinary lives to proclaim the good news of his love to a waiting world.

Jesus was baptised... as a baby?

The year of Luke has barely started, and I'm already having a gripe at the lectionary. For those who had more than enough the last time I wen't ballistic at the lectionary compilers, please forgive this additional outburst. I was doing some forward planning with our parish administrator this morning, and something struck us as rather odd about the chronology of the readings for the next month or so. Allow me to demonstrate:

Christmas day   –   Jesus' birth (Luke 2.1-20)

1st Sunday of Christmas   –   The twelve year old Jesus is found in the temple (Luke 2.41-52)

Epiphany   –   The infant Messiah is revealed to the Gentiles (Matthew 2.1-12)

Baptism of Christ   –   Jesus is baptised by John in the river Jordan (Luke 3.15-22)

3rd Sunday of Epiphany   –   The wedding at Canna (John 2.1-1)

4th Sunday of Epiphany   –   Jesus teaches in the Synagogue at Nazareth (Luke 4.14-21)

Candlemas (if transferred to the Sunday)  –  The infant Jesus is presented in the temple (Luke 2.22-40)

Sunday before Lent   –   Jesus is transfigured (Luke 9.28-43)

That is a really strange chronology. Jesus is born, and then is found reasoning with teachers in the temple. Next Sunday he is an infant again, being adored by the Magi. The next Sunday he is being baptised (yes as a grown man). You then ge a couple of weeks of 'grown man Jesus' texts. But then Candlemas arrives and you are back at an infancy text. The next week, inexplicably, Jesus is transfigured.

I really cannot help but think that all of this shows how the church calendar consistently mangles the narrative of the gospels. I often hear laments about how people don't know the basic gospel story anymore... perhaps the reason for that can be found at our own doorstep? When Jesus is baptised before he is presented in the temple, confusion is completely understandable. I don't even want to think about how the feast of the naming and circumcision of Jesus can come after he was found in the temple as a twelve year old! 

I know that the lectionary is not supposed to be chronological, and that there are difficulties with easter changing date every year. However, if your study of the gospels comes solely, or even mainly through Sunday worship, the odds of having a pretty weird understanding of the events of Jesus' life are huge.

God Sings in Advent – Zephaniah 3.14–20

I think it is fair to say that we live in a world which people afraid a lot of the time. The shocking news on Friday of the murder of twenty primary school children and six teachers in Connecticut in the USA, reminded everyone of how dangerous the world can be and how fragile human life is. That the hands of one man could end so many lives, barely begun, certainly fills me with fear. Fear of what human beings are capable of. Fear of what the response to all this might be, with people calling for teachers to be armed to defend their pupils.

Sometimes our view of God reinforces our general state of fearfulness. Advent is a time when we dwell long and hard on the coming judgement, when God will make all things right and just and true. But the world we live in isn’t just and true and good. I am not just and true and good much of the time. If God is coming as judge, what will happen to me?

It’s in the middle of this season where we are asked to think about the coming judgement, that we read a remarkable passage from the prophet Zephaniah. This Sunday, the third Sunday of Advent in year C, is the only chance we get to read the words of this Old Testament prophet on Sunday mornings. Zephaniah lived in the seventh century BC. Moral, religious and social corruption had chipped away at the life of the southern kingdom of Judah for almost fifty years under the reign of two terrible kings, Manasseh and Amon. Judah had become a wicked society, full of idolatry and the abuse of the poor. Zephaniah’s prophecy doesn’t take long to read through. It is only three chapters long, and it is full of God’s judgement, of fear and impending doom. 

But right at the end of the book is this joyful prophecy. Zephaniah tells us of the day of the Lord: a day of singing, a day when God’s judgement on his people has come to an end. Where Israel is no longer paralysed with fear. A time when arms that hung limp with terror can be raised up in praise to God. A time where God’s love will cause the people to rejoice and grow in strength, because God has come to live with his people.

Zephaniah is very carefully spelling out the hope of Advent. It is the hope that, however horrendous the world sometimes seems, judgement is never the last word. That God will come to save us and that we should not be afraid.

We live in a world of fear: ecological, environmental, political and economic fear. The media thrives on terrifying us on a daily basis. Depending on what news paper you read, you might have heard that the world will be coming to an end this Friday, according to an ancient Mayan calendar. Unless, of course, you live in the small french village of Bugarach, whose residents will be rescued by aliens. It is all quite ridiculous, but silly stories like the Mayan calendar apocalypse give voice to the deep, underlying fear which we all experience. 

So the question I want to ask is this: in a world permeated by fear, what would it look like if the church placed less emphasis on the fearful, terrifying God of judgement, and more on the God who rejoices and sings over us (Zeph 3.17). In the Hebrew scriptures the word most commonly used for God’s love is hesed, it means an unfailing, steadfast love and fidelity. It is as much a matter of the will as of the heart. It is a beautiful word which reminds us that God’s love for us is not dependent on how lovely we are. But in Zephaniah’s song, a different word for love is used. Zephaniah uses the word ’ahaba, a passionate love which delights in the beloved with songs of adoration. It is a beautiful word, because it reminds us that however bad we feel, however much we feel morally ugly, God finds us beautiful, and a delight to behold.

Perhaps the calling of the church in our day is to not be overcome by fear, but to rejoice, because God has come to be with us in Jesus Christ. It’s right to observe Advent properly, to prepare ourselves for Christ’s coming, and to try not to arrive at the manger too early. Advent is, after all, a time of waiting. But we’re not waiting to find out whether God loves us or not. We wait for our lover to return home. We wait for Jesus’ return with confidence and hope, rather than panic and fear. When God came among us in human form, when he united heaven and earth in his own person, he was singing a song of delight in his creation.

As we move further through December, the world is getting physically darker and darker. As it gets darker, we string up lights on trees and in the high street. In a way we try to battle against the darkness; to proclaim that light has come into the world and the darkness has not and never will overcome it. We are full of joy and excitement about Christmas. But I think when you scratch the surface, Christmas cheer soon disappears. We often feel a lot of Christmas anxiety: Are the family going to get on at the big get together? Will they like the gift I bought for them? Where on earth am I going to find the time to do everything that needs to be done? How am I going to pay off that credit card bill in January?

Advent is a time when we don’t have to burry those fears we have. It is a time to be honest about the things that trouble us. But as we feel the darkness around us, it is also a time to  listen to and rejoice in God’s song: ‘Do not fear, O Zion; do not let your hands grow weak. The Lord, your God, is in your midst, a warrior who gives victory; he will rejoice over you with gladness, he will renew you in his love; he will exult over you with loud singing as on a day of festival.’ (Zeph 3.16–17)

Brother Martin on Zephaniah 3.14 & 15

"The Lord has taken away the judgement against you." That is, "He does not want you to rebuke yourselves anymore. He does not want you to hate yourselves anymore. Rather, he loves you like a beloved daughter. You have a God who is a very gentle Father, and no longer a judge who wants to terrify your conscience with the law."

(Martin Luther,  Lectures on the Minor Prophets)

Being a Pastor – Gregory the Great

“Our Lord said to his disciples, ‘See, I am sending you out like a lamb among wolves.’ There are many people, when put in positions of authority, who became hard and severe. Relishing the chance to tear their subordinates to pieces., and using their power to terrify and hurt those whom they are called to serve. There is no love in their hearts because they always need to be in control: they forget that they are called to nurture their people as a parent. They exchange humility for pride in the positions they occupy, and though outwardly they may sometimes appear indulgent, inwardly, they are full of anger. It is of them that in another place in the Gospels our Lord says: ‘They have come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravenous wolves.’

My friends, we should remember that we are sent as lambs among wolves, and must therefore guard our innocence lest malice overtake us. Those who undertake any pastoral office should never be the cause of evil, and should actually be prepared to have to endure it. By gentleness they must soften the anger of the violent: wounded ourselves by ill treatment, we can bring healing to other sinners. If on a particular occasion a zeal for justice requires a display of severity, then let severity have its source in Love and not in brutality. In this way, authority is demonstrated outwardly, and inwardly we experience a true paternal love for those in our care. This is what our blessed Master was teaching us when he himself demonstrated that his was no selfish love, being unconcerned with worldly honour or ambition.

Our Lord Continues: ‘Take neither purse, nor bag for the journey, nor sandles, and greet no one along the way.’ We should have such confidence in God that though we have no material security, we will never lack the necessities of life. Such confidence obviates the necessity of spending time in the pursuit of temporal goods when we should be securing eternal goods for others. We have no leisure for idle conversation in our calling; rather we hurry along the path of preaching.”

(Homilies on the Gospels, Number 17  'On the Pastoral Office',  Sections 4 and 5)

The coming of the Son of Man — Luke 21.25–36

As I speak there are 22 days 13 hours and about forty minutes until Christmas. If you haven’t done it already, you have less than a month to get all your gifts, you have slightly over two weeks to get your Christmas Cards together if you want to send them second class, and Christmas Pudding… well, you can forget about making one now! Last week was Stir Up Sunday, the point of no return for Christmas Pudding makers! The countdown has started and the next few weeks are sure to be some of the most frenetic of the year. And whilst it can be hard waiting for christmas, particularly if you’re a kid, I am sure that we are all glad that we have just a little bit more time before it arrives.

To be honest, it is quite good that Christmas is predictable. Every year, the same date. How can you possibly prepare for a big celebration if you lack even the most basic details, like when it’s supposed to be! Imagine how you would feel if you knew that all your friends and family we going to turn up at your house, and you had to prepare yourself and your home to entertain them all, but, nobody was prepared to tell you when they might descend upon you. All you know is that it’s going to happen.

Advent feels a lot like that. Everything we say and do in worship points us to the future. Not to the baby in the manger but to the return of the king. Just listen during the Eucharistic prayer, “Confident that your promise will be fulfilled, we now watch for the day when Christ our Lord will come again in glory.” We are supposed to be preparing for something, the event to which Christ’s coming at Christmas directs us, for his second coming. But the details of this advent, when it will be and what it will look like, slip through our hands like sand.

The gospel reading for today is tantalising. On the face of it, it appears to offer ‘signs’ which will help us, or some future generation, work out when Jesus will return. And just like observing a budding tree tells us that summer is a coming in, so observing these signs tells us of God’s coming kingdom. In the USA there is almost an industry which specialises in speculating about the signs of the end of time. But when you read this passage more closely, there are some big problems with reading this as Jesus’ roadmap for the apocalypse.

The main hint that there might be more to this reading than appears at first comes when Jesus says to his disciples, “Truly I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all things have taken place.” (Luke 21.32) Now that is a very tricky verse. If Jesus is talking about his second coming, then it looks like he might have made a mistake. The first generation of Christians lived and died, and Jesus didn’t return. Subsequent generations have come and gone, and Jesus hasn’t returned.  And there have been lots of wars and natural disasters since the first century. There have been plenty of ‘signs’ of the king’s return, but still, we’ve been waiting rather a long time. So did Jesus make a mistake? Has Jesus made a massive theological blooper? Well, I don’t think he did. And before you commit to thinking that I have gone out of my mind, let me explain why.

It all hinges on the word ‘generation’. When I hear ‘generation’, I usually think of a group of people born roughly at the same time, like ‘Generation X’. Either that or it sometimes means a period of about 30 years, so you might talk about a famous scientist and say ‘She was the kind of mind that comes once in a generation’. But the writer of Luke’s gospel uses ‘generation’ in another sense. We often hear Jesus talking about ‘this generation’, and he doesn’t have kind things to say about it. There was a crowd who were constantly badgering Jesus to perform miracles, treating him like a circus magician, and Jesus says to them, “you faithless and perverse generation” (Luke 9.41). A bit later in Luke’s gospel, Jesus tells a story about an unjust steward who cheats his master to build up his pension pot. Breathtakingly, Jesus commends the steward saying, “for the children of this age are more shrewd in dealing with their own generation than are the children of light” (Luke 16.8). For Jesus, ‘generation’ is often used to refer to the attitude of opposing God’s rule, people who are keen to have Jesus perform magic tricks, but who do not want to take up their cross and follow him.

I think that it’s quite possible that Jesus is using ‘generation’ in this way in our gospel reading. So rather than making a prediction about the world ending within thirty years, Jesus might be saying something like this: “Don’t be fooled, God’s kingdom won’t come easily. God’s purposes will be opposed, his love will be rejected. Don’t expect a golden age. The generation which opposes God will be around right to the very end, but even so, God hasn’t deserted the world, his rule is very close.”

Gloomy message, hey? Where is the Christmas cheer? But in our desire to be constantly cheery, might we be missing something really important? When God was born as a human being on the first Christmas day, a radical chain of events was set in motion which will lead to God’s final triumph over all the forces of evil. All injustice, all cruelty, all selfishness and violence will one day dissolve away as God’s kingdom comes in all its fulness. God’s becoming a human being and living  with us, and dying and being raised for us and ascending to heaven has consequences for humanity. 

Those times when we tolerate injustice, when we are happy to see one group of human beings trampled under the feet of others, when we use violence or cruelty to get our way. Those types of behavior which we all from time to time engage in are shone on by the floodlights of God’s kingdom. And we’re beckoned to, to live the life of the future in the present. Jesus calls us in a sense, not to look for signs of his coming, but to be signs of his coming. Whilst we are trying to get the last of the Christmas shopping in, and making sure we don’t miss the nativity play, and trying desperately not to get fed up with it all, Advent points to the future and asks us to think about the end of time, and how we should live in the light of God’s coming kingdom.

Jesus’ message to us is that, if we genuinely seek to live the life of God’s kingdom, to be a sign of his good, just and peaceful reign over all things, life may very well be difficult. The old world does not easily give way to the new. The fact is that life isn’t always like a Christmas party. Faith doesn’t always, or even often, lead us to the crib, with the infant Lord quietly cooing.Very often, faith leads to conflict and trouble. When everything seems to be going wrong, should we freak out and panic? Should we pour ourselves another drink, and try to ignore it (Luke 21.24)? When things seem difficult, God and his rule are very close. At that time, Jesus says, ‘stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near’ (Luke 21.28).

Christ the King: John 18.33–37

I want us to start with a game. Who remembers Who Wants to be a Millionaire? It was a quiz show from the late 90s. At the start of each game you had to put a list of things in chronological order, or something like that. So I want us to do that this morning with Christian Festivals! Here are the four festivals which I want you to put in chronological order with the oldest first: Corpus Christi, Easter, Christ the King, Christmas/Epiphany…

Those of you who put Easter as the oldest festival are correct. We first hear about it in the second century, it was probably a combined celebration of the death and resurrection of Jesus, and it’s the only Christian festival which can have any claim to go right the way back to the time of the apostles.

Did anyone have Christmas and Epiphany next? They probably have their origins a bit later. Whilst Christians had always celebrate the birth of Jesus, Christmas itself became popular around the fourth century as an attempt to offer a christian alternative to winter solstice festivities, particularly the celebration Natalis Solis Invict, the birthday of the Invincible Sun on December 25. The first recorded celebration of Christmas was in the year 336 in Rome. Epiphany is probably a bit older, possibly going back as far as the end of the Second Century.

Then there is Corpus Christi, the feast giving thanks for the sacrament of Holy Communion, now that’s an interesting festival. You have to wait until the mid thirteenth century for that. An Augustinian nun, Juliana of Liège, had a vision which lead her to campaign for the institution of the feast. In 1264, pope Urban IV made Corpus Christi a feast.

What about Christ the King? Now, you would have thought that Christians had been honouring of Jesus the king for a long time. I mean, the gospels are all about Jesus the Messiah, the king, aren’t they? But despite it seeming quite natural to have a feast like this ‘Christ the King’ is a relative latecomer as far as the church calendar goes. It was in 1925 that Pope Pius IX instituted it. It took 1925 years for the church to need the feast of Christ the King as she needs it today. On the first celebration of Christ the King, Mussolini had been the leader of Italy for three years and an upstart called Adolf Hitler had been out of jail for almost a year after his failed attempt at leading a revolution in Munich in 1923, what we sometimes call the ‘Beer Hall Putsch’. Radical right wing philosophy was growing in popularity throughout Europe. And whilst all this was happening, the world was languishing in one of the deepest economic depressions of history. Despite the dire circumstances, despite the growth of fascism and the posturing or world powers, christians decided to re-focus on Jesus Christ, that he is the true king of the universe, despite everything pointing to the contrary.

We find that tension, between the way things appear and what is really going on in our gospel Reading. We find a beaten Jew on trial before a Roman governor who thinks he is the most powerful man in town. Later on in chapter 19 of John’s gospel, pilate says to Jesus, ‘don’t you realise that I have the power to free you or crucify you?’ (19.10). But despite Pilate’s inflated sense of self importance, he appears in our reading as a rather pathetic character. We begin to see John’s critique of human power and authority.

In this reading John shows us that Power is Precarious: If you were to read back a few verses, you would find Pilate constantly hopping backwards and forwards between his palace and a the Jewish leaders who have stayed outside to avoid defiling themselves before the passover. Pilate, desperate to avoid a rebellion in his province of the Roman Empire, is caught between the truth as he sees it, that there is no basis for a charge against Jesus (18.38) and what the Jewish leaders want. Not that Pilate isn’t suspicious of Jesus. His question ‘Are you the king of the Jews?’, is almost certainly a way of asking Jesus whether he poses a threat to the Roman state. Jesus’ response is particularly pointed, ‘is that your own idea’, he says, ‘or did others talk to you about me?’ To put it another way, ‘Is it you that has a problem with me, or have you been put up to this?’ Jesus is pointing out that the all powerful Pilate is being manipulated by the people he governs. Power and authority are very attractive, but are also very precarious. It is utterly impossible to exercise power by yourself, there is no such thing as a good leader without good followers. Pontius Pilate is a slave to the people he governs.

In twenty first century Britain we have, generally speaking, learnt that power can’t be held by a small group who have absolute authority. But sometimes we are tempted to have the kind of ‘strong’ leadership which commands our obedience. This temptation is present in the church too. I personally, was greatly disappointed with the way the Synod vote on the ordination of women bishops turned out on Tuesday, but I have to constantly remind myself that the way for the church to finally find its way to fully honouring the vocations of women is not through political manipulation, it is not through occupying the precarious ground held by dictators. We won’t find the unity of purpose we all desire by getting judges or politicians to enforce our will on others. We have to make the decision not to behave like this whatever our beliefs about women bishops are. The moment we start trying to use politics to enforce our will on others is the moment we cease to resemble Jesus Christ.

Jesus is a king alright, but nothing like any king you will ever find on earth. His Kingdom is not from this earth, building its foundation on coercion and manipulation. But it is a kingdom for this world. A kingdom which, when it comes, transforms and beautifies the world. His kingdom is a kingdom of truth. ‘What is truth?’ Pilate asks; What is really real? For Pilate, respect, honour and political power were real. For the Jewish leaders religious cleanliness, ritual and fidelity to an ancient tradition were real. Perhaps the Church of England needs to ask itself this question today. What is really real for us? Intriguingly, John doesn’t give us an answer to Pilate’s question, he doesn’t tell us what truth is. Instead he presents us with a person, Jesus who is the way, the truth and the life. His kingdom of truth isn’t manifested through violence and coercion. The symbols of this reign are a towel and a bowl of water to wash dirty feet. They are a cross and a crown of thorns with which he suffered for us. The extent to which we are part of Jesus’ kingdom of truth will be show by the way we seek to use power. For our good, or for the good of others?

Why a bad theology of the eucharist cannot excuse sexism

As I write this, there is a timer on a new website, Yes2Women Bishops (by the way, great campaign, you should all sign up), telling me that there are seven days, twelve hours and thirteen minutes until the General Synod of the Church of England votes on the legislation to allow women to be ordained as bishops.

The decision of General Synod is of particular interest to the church which I serve as curate as our congregation is somewhat divided over the issue. As a supporter of the ordination of women, I have been fascinated by some of the reasons I have heard people advance over the last couple of years, arguing for very strong protection for traditionalists.

The most intriguing of the arguments I have heard is the argument about ‘sacramental assurance’. This argument is intriguing on one level because it is only made by those who have a very specific understanding of the efficacy of sacramental grace and the instrumental causality of the priest (so not by conservative evangelicals, for instance). The argument goes like this: Jesus intended his church to have certain assured channels of grace, where material elements combined with physical and verbal rituals combine to being about a spiritual effect. These channels are called sacraments, and the only way for us to be sure that they channel the grace they promise is by ensuring that the sacraments themselves remain precisely the way which Jesus intended them to be. So a eucharist which uses Fanta and M&Ms cannot be a sure channel of grace because Fanta and M&Ms weren’t mandated by Jesus. 

So far this looks reasonably normal, albeit with the rider that most people don’t think of sacraments this way. But it becomes more complicated when it comes to the ministers of the sacrament of the eucharist. In the Anglican tradition, the proper minister of this sacrament is an episcopally ordained priest. There isn’t the space here to enter into the rights and wrongs of the idea of ‘apostolic succession’ (Personally, I cannot resist thinking about this as the 'contagious disease' understanding of ordination. It is like catching a cold, one carrier passing the virus onto the next. It all seems, rather problematically to paint the Holy Spirit out of the picture), suffice to say that this is part of the CofE’s understanding of ordination. So you get grace from the sacraments so long as certain conditions are met including the unbroken chain of episcopal ordination. Now here comes the traditionalist sucker punch: women were (supposedly) never ordained. So by ordaining them, the conditions which guarantee grace through the eucharist are being tinkered with. No male only priesthood, no guarantee of grace. 

If you want a fuller statement of the argument from someone who clearly finds it more convincing than I do, why not read this letter by Simon Killwick written to the Church Times, if you aren’t a Church Times  subscriber, you can find it reproduced here.

Traditional anglo-catholics clearly regard this as a knock-out argument. It is so deep within the corporate psychology of such groups that, to argue against ‘sacramental assurance’ is to argue against the whole corporate spirituality of anglo-catholicism. Not being one to shy away from controversy, here is my attempt:

My basic concern is with the language of ‘sureness’ in connection with sacraments. There is a strange tendency within traditional anglo-catholicism to exaggerate sacramental causality to the exclusion of any real involvement of faith. The language of ‘sacramental assurance’ depends on this understanding: It is not good enough that God’s grace is given to us through sacraments, we have to be absolutely sure that we are receiving God’s grace through the sacraments or else some dire fate might await us. This sureness comes through the performance of a certain ritual by a certain class of people who are connected in an unbroken chain to the apostles and ultimately to Jesus.

My difficultly with this is that faith as the means of receiving God’s grace is utterly diminished. Ultimately, sacraments aren’t the stuff of sureness. They are the stuff of faith. If you want to be sure, beyond any shadow of doubt that you are receiving Jesus, for goodness sake, don’t come to the eucharist! How can anyone be sure that they receive the gracious presence of Jesus in the eucharist? We can’t. The eucharist doesn’t appear to us as a supernatural thing. To our senses, bread and wine remains bread and wine, however much bling you dress it up in. For this reason, Thomas Aquinas, whose ‘catholic’ credentials cannot be doubted, wrote these words:

“Praestet fides supplementum / Sensuum defectui” 

“Let faith provide a supplement / for the failure of the senses”

If anyone suspects that poetic expression is obscuring clarity in this instance, Aquinas’ discussion on the receiving of the sacrament in the Summa Theologiae (III.80) is even more enlightening. The first article asks whether there are two ways of eating Christ’s body, ‘sacramentally’ and ‘spiritually’. Aquinas almost certainly has in mind his earlier article (III.73.6.sc) and his use of the established distinction between sacramentum tantum (the sign alone) and res et sacramentum (the reality and the sign). Here, as when Aquinas uses the same distinctions in relation to baptism (III.66.1), the sign and the reality signified exist semi independently. In III.80.1 the ‘sacramental’ eating is clearly the eating of the sacramentum tantum. Aquinas maintains that it is entirely possible to receive the eucharist in a physical way alone (i.e. just consuming the outward sign, the bread and wine). The spiritual eating, or effect of the sacrament, is to be joined with Christ ‘through faith and charity’. To sum up this strange bit of mediaeval theology, Aquinas says that the spiritual effect of the eucharist does not come automatically, merely by eating. Sacramental grace has to be received by faith.

So I think there is some value in stating that sacraments are not the stuff of ‘sureness’ but the stuff of ‘faith’. Anyone who comes to the eucharist in the hope of receiving Christ’s life comes with faith; faith that God is operating through these material things. If someone thinks that God is unable to operate if a woman is presiding at the supper, they lack faith that God can work through a woman. I would say that this is both a very deep lack of faith in God's grace (we only ever receive Christ in the eucharist because God is a God of grace), and betrays a deep seated sexism. Believing in the legitimacy of the ordination of women is not about rights, it is about faith. You cannot avoid being a sexist by adopting a bad theology of the eucharist.

The Windows

                                            Lord, how can man preach thy eternall word?
                                                              He is a brittle crazie glasse:
                                            Yet in thy temple thou dost him afford
                                                              This glorious and transcendent place,
                                                              To be a window, though thy grace.

                                            But when thou anneal in glasse thy storie,
                                                              Making thy life to shine within
                                            The holy Preachers; then the light and glorie
                                                              More rev'rend grows, and more doth win:
                                                              Which else shows watrish, bleak, & thin.

                                            Doctrine and life, colours and light, in one
                                                              When they combine and mingle, bring
                                            A strong regard and aw: but speech alone
                                                               Doth vanish like a flaring thing,
                                                               And in the eare, not conscience ring.

George Herbert, The Temple