On the Feast of the Blessed Virgin Mary

 

15 August 2021

Isaiah 61.10-11; Galatians 4.4-7; Luke 1.46-55

 Reflection

Today, in the Church of England (and in many churches which keep a church calendar which includes saints’ days) today is the Feast of Mary, the Mother of Jesus, Mother Mary, the Blessed Virgin Mary.

 

It happens that in the life of the Church over the centuries Mary has sadly been the cause of controversy, disagreement, full-on argument. It may even go right back to the beginning. We know enough to suspect that Mary caused a fuss from the start, as (something like) an unmarried mother. Then, in the early Church, the question was what title Mary might be given, along with her name, Mary. Is she the mother of the human being Jesus? She is that, but is she also the Mother of the Word of God, the Mother of God the Word, the Mother of God the Son? And does this in turn mean that she can and maybe must be called the Mother of God? Not Mother of God in the sense of older than God (that makes no sense) but the Mother of God in the sense that she is the one (the one and only) who bore God, carried and gave birth to God? Overall, the Church decided, yes, she is the one and only who bore God, who carried and gave birth to God.

 

In the Reformation period, the argument took a different form. It was more about how to honour Mary as the one who carried and gave birth to God. Actually, nobody – or at least no Church – taught that Mary should be worshipped and adored. Worship and adoration are for God alone, God Holy Trinity, God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit. But can Mary be honoured, be revered, be venerated? Can Mary be prayed to – not instead of praying to God, but alongside praying to God, as when we ask our friends next to us to pray for us? The wounds of the Reformation are largely healed. But not quite. So this question hasn’t been finally answered in the worldwide Church.

 

I’d add that alongside these formal, articulated arguments, there is another problem - or at least an “issue” - with Mary. In very many cultures, Mary is thought of as a young girl who is demur, who is, well, shy, who never meets your eye, but gazes downwards, unassuming, silent. Perhaps you can imagine the image I am trying to paint here. You are likely to have seen some such paintings, or sculptures. Well, if we think of Mary as demur in this way, let it be said:

 

this is wrong.

 

Think of Mary in today’s Gospel, singing out her own song. It is a song of a world turned upside down. It is a song of God’s victories, God’s own shocking revolution. Mary sees it. Mary sings it. Mary owns it.

 

Think of when we first meet Mary, in Luke’s Gospel, when the Angel Gabriel addresses her and tells her she is going to give birth to Jesus. She says: “Be it unto me according to your word”. Maybe she said that gently. Maybe. But there are other possibilities. Some say that it was more like a huge shout:

 

“YEEEEES!”

This idea – a huge great shout – surely gets us closer to the heart of things. If Mary was fit to carry and give birth to God the Son, she must have been able to say Yes to God (to shout Yes to God) in a unique way. In a way – frankly – we cannot, or do not.

Let’s reflect on this.

Do you say Yes to God?

You are here [in Chapel, or reading this, by choice], and so it is quite likely your first answer will be Yes. Yes, I do say Yes to God. And, whatever has brought you here, that answer is right, is true. But, let’s put it another way:

·        Is your Yes to God pure?

·        Is your Yes to God so full and simple and loving that in certain ways it can carry God in your world and bring God into your world, into your interactions?

That’s a much, much harder question. For all of us. The answer is probably: Sometimes. Usually, our Yes to God is a bit of a mix, a bit of a muddle. It is mixed up with a certain kind of No to God, and the muddle comes out as a Maybe.

 

Maybe I’ll say Yes to God, providing it’s not too hard.

Maybe I’ll say Yes to God, but it will be easier tomorrow than today.

Maybe I’ll say Yes to God,

but not to do that really frightening thing,

that really embarrassing thing,

that really alien thing,

that really awkward thing,

that really risky thing.

I will limit my Yes to God to the ways I am used to saying Yes to God.

Behind my Yes to God, a certain kind of No, or at least Not Yet, is hiding.

 

If it’s easy for me to speak about this mix and this muddle, because, of course (you will know or guess) that it is only too typical of my own prayer life, my own life with God. I do think, for many or all of us, it is easy to fall into these “Maybes” these “Yes-but-Nos” without even recognising it.

 

The life of faith may even be about coming to see them, more and more, and being healed from them.

 

So for some of us at least, it makes good sense to think of Mary as a hero of the Christian faith. As the greatest hero of the Christian faith. It is like saying:

 

I cannot say a full-on Yes to God.

My motivations are always mixed.

What I can do is hold onto the coat-tails of this one,

of the one who is the purest Yes-sayer in the history of the world.

If we rely on our friends to get us through (and we do),

here too is one we can rely on.

 

I don’t know if that makes sense to you.

If it doesn’t, I am really not trying to persuade you.

What I will invite you to do is imagine yourself in Mary’s place,

hearing God’s address to you,

saying: “Carry me in the world”,

and you saying, simply “Be it unto me according to your word”

 

“Carry me in the world.”

“God, Yes.”

 

Amen.

 

Prayers

God who called Mary to carry you in the world,

bless the Church which seeks to worship your Son

and honour the mother of your Son…

 

God who called Mary to carry you in the world,

bless the world as the object of such love from you.

May there be peace with freedom with justice with forgiveness,

with healing for the whole of creation itself…

 

God who called Mary to carry you in the world,

bless this place, and all who live, work, and visit here.

This place is no less an object of your love than any other.

Guide the people who are called to care for us

to do so with all wisdom and compassion.

Be close to those who are feeling desperation of any kind…

 

God who called Mary to carry you in the world,

we know that you love the world in order to heal it,

and heal the world in order for it to know more of your love.

Be present as the Healer you are

to all who are unwell or know dislocation of any kind…

 

God who called Mary to carry you in the world,

we know that you love us not only in this life,

but love us beyond this life,

In ways beyond our imagining.

Be close to all who will die today,

especially those who will die unprepared, alone, in war, or at their own hand.

Among those who have died,

draw those who have shaped us further into your gentle and generous light…

 

God who called Mary to carry you into the world,

may we - each one, your disciple - carry God in the world.

Amen.

Sermon. In Praise of the Coventry Carol: Rejoice in Lamenting!

Sermon. St Michael and All Angels, Little Ilford. 29.12.19.

·       Matthew 2.13-23

In today’s gospel Matthew gives his account of the Holy Family’s escape into Egypt and return to the Holy Land, but with a move to the North, to Galilee and to Nazareth. He tells us quite explicitly that this story fulfils various prophecies. But, over and above that, the story into and out of Egypt resonates with the central stories (central story) of the Old Testament (Hebrew Bible). So, in that way too, Matthew lets us know that Jesus is something like the fulfilment of those earlier stories.

It would be worthwhile setting this out in some detail. But the danger with this particular gospel passage is that we concentrate on Jesus and his family so much that we treat the intervening story as a detail, a little adornment, an aside. And that won’t do. For the intervening story is the slaughter of the innocents. Or maybe that is too familiar a way of putting it. The intervening story is of a powerful man, and the forces of law and order, invading people’s homes, and murdering harmless infants in cold blood.

Surely the most painful story in the New Testament. Worse than the crucifixion? I think so. We are used to thinking of Jesus as having had a brief but fruitful adult life, and we are used to making sense of – or at least trying to make sense of - his death. Here, it’s right in front of our eyes that neither of these things applies. These are infants, cut off, killed, really before their life had started, and for no good reason, for no reason at all, just because of one inadequate man’s cruelty, resentment and fear.

What do we do with this story?

On the one hand, we can take some comfort from the fact that it is likely that this never happened. I mean it probably never happened quite as we understand Matthew as he writes it down (as mass murder). He may have developed and expanded a story, for his own theological purposes. (That idea need not threaten us.) Herod was a Jewish “King” of sorts. But he had his role as a puppet of the Romans. The Romans were brutal. But they were so brutal they would not have been embarrassed about making a record of such an act, which they’d have called an “expedient execution”, no doubt. But we have no such record. We have no other references, anywhere.

On the other hand, we can take no comfort from the notion that the story is quite impossible. It is only too possible. Powerful rulers do misuse their power, do find it convenient to do away with people, to protect their own privileges. They have done so throughout history, and we had better not kid ourselves. Parents have had to mourn the deaths of their children and still do, including their willed deaths at others’ hands – including after killing. So the story fits only too well within the human story.

I am not going to tell you the “secret meaning” of this horrific story. As if I could! I’d like to say something else. If we take this story to heart, what we most need is surely not an answer, still less a justification. What we most need is some way to lament, to feel the pain, and sing it out. To articulate pain and grief.

And the good news is: we can do this. In fact, we English speakers are blessed with an excellent way of doing this. We already have a faultless lament for the Holy Innocents.

That woe is me, poor child, for thee
And ever mourn and may
For thy parting neither say nor sing,
“Bye bye, lully, lullay.”

This is from the Coventry Carol, which comes from the medieval Coventry Mystery Plays. The words are 15^th century, the tune we have for the words is 16^th century. We will hear this later, as our anthem.

It happens to be my favourite carol, although that might give the impression I am more glum than I actually am. I simply think it is musically perfect and the words match. (Yes, brothers and sister, you heard that right: I don’t want to amend a single word! [cf. Advent 3 and Carols]).

For thy parting neither say nor sing,
“Bye bye, lully, lullay.”

Let me add this. I am proud that this is one of our oldest carols. We English-speaking people have this as our heritage. This will to take seriously the story of the murder of the innocents, and offer a fitting lament.

We might even say that lament – songs of grief and the staying with grief – are a central thread of English creative writing. Not a golden thread, but a purple, a dark purple thread.

Shakespeare did it well (of course). We actually heard some of that in St Mary’s Singers’ Carol Concert, a wintery lament:

            Blow, blow, thou winter wind,

                        Thou art not so unkind

            As man’s ingratitude;

                        Thy tooth is not so keen,

Because thou art not seen,

                        Although thy breath be rude.

Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:

Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:

            Then, heigh-ho, the holly!

[Amiens, in As You Like It.]

But the journey of English lament does not stop, and maybe does not peak there. We can plot lament in Shelley, to Auden, to Larkin, to… well, tell me who your favourite English-speaking poet is, and we can look for a lament.

What do you make of all of this? I say: Rejoice! Rejoice in the lamenting! Rejoice that we are so good at lamenting. In this life, we need to lament, not to swallow down but to sing out our pain. And we can.

Moreover, our Bible too in effect says this with great force. If we think of the hymn book of the Bible, the book of Psalms, we find laments. Plenty of laments. How many? In truth, it’s hard to say. In truth, psalms often do “hand-brake turns” when it comes to their themes and moods and tones. From praise to lament to rage to calm to praise, and more, without any intervening stages. So it is notoriously hard to classify individual psalms. But, you know, if wouldn’t be out of the range to say that one third of the psalms are lament, or contain lament.

And our hymn books don’t.

Yes – you knew I’d get some criticism of something musical in somewhere. I dare to think it is valid. I ask: where are our laments, these days? Dare we share with Gd our pain and distress and loss and grief? If we dare not, what does that say about us? If we dare not, what does that say of Gd, of what we think of Gd, of how we seek to treat Gd?

Does this sound like a miserable message for the first Sunday of Christmas? Maybe. I’ll take that. But! But it’s our gospel account today which compels us to at least touch upon such things. So let one of the changes we make in the time ahead be that we look at how we might better offer chances for good lamenting. Nothing is more natural and at times necessary.

We need to be able to lament before Gd. We need Gd to sanctify our pain. For Gd will.

That woe is me, poor child, for thee
And ever mourn and may
For thy parting neither say nor sing,
“Bye bye, lully, lullay.”

Amen.

Sermon. The Blessed Virgin Mary

Sermon. St Mary’s, Little Ilford. 15 August 2019

The Feast of the Blessed Virgin Mary

Luke 1.46-55

“What is the most boring way to begin a sermon on the Feast of the Blessed Virgin Mary?”

“We don’t know Patrick, but we’re sure you’re about to remind us!”

Well, we’ll all have different answers, as we all have a different “back catalogue” of sermons. One, for me, is to begin thus:

“What a tragedy! Christians should unite in admiration for and gratitude to Mary, the Mother of Jesus, for all she accomplished. So how tragic that Christians are in fact divided over her; she is a cause for hostility.” That sort of thing. Usually the preacher goes on to expound their own views of Mary – which turn out to be those around which all Christians should unite.

If we think of Mary as a source of division between Christians, we probably think of rows between Catholics and Protestants. Different answers to such questions as: Was there anything special about Mary’s own birth? Did Mary, after Jesus’ birth, go on to have a normal married life? Was there something special about Mary’s death? What titles can we give Mary? Is she (for example) “Queen of Heaven”, or just a Christian among Christians? Such matters - all of which I propose now to leave to one side.

You may not know that there were controversies about Mary long, long before the Reformation. Already in the early Church, there was a heated debate about titles for Mary. Everybody agreed that Mary was the Mother of the Lord Jesus. So she could be called the “Mother of the Lord”. But could she also be called “the Mother of Gd”? The Mother of Gd.

Brothers and sisters, tonight I can reveal for the first time that this controversy played itself out anew – in this very parish, when I arrived, and Fr Brian and I looked together at the liturgy. We were looking at our services, and in particular the eucharistic prayer, the whole of the prayer over the bread and the wine. You’ll know it ends with mentions of saints. Brian wanted “we, in the company of Mary the Mother of our Lord, St Michael and all the saints, may praise and glorify you”; I wanted “we, in the company of Mary, the Mother of Gd…” and so on.

Brian won. Unsurprisingly. And I did and do take his point. To call Mary the Mother of Gd feels strange. Because, well, obviously, in human life parents are always older than their children; parents come first. So to call Mary the Mother of Gd makes you feel that Mary is older than Gd, which makes no sense at all. In truth, even people (like me) who do like to call Mary the “Mother of Gd” don’t think it’s the best expression. The original Greek is actually Theotokos (I like the sound of the word – you can say it too – Theotokos). It actually means “the Bearer of Gd”, “She who bore Gd”, “She who gave birth to Gd”. You see: Gd is eternal, outside of time; within time, Mary is indeed the one who bore Gd, who gave birth to Gd. I think this is right, and it’s the argument that won in the early Church (and, by the way, Brian would agree).

If it is a cliché to say that Mary should be a source of unity between Christians and it’s devastating that she has been a source of division, then (like so often) it’s a cliché because it is true. In truth, we all have so much to learn from Mary. Mary is present at important moments, without saying a word. She ponders things in her heart. That’s vital in itself. But let us on this occasion look at the four times she does speak.  

First of all, she speaks to the Angel Gabriel, saying, “How can this be, since I am a virgin?” and, then, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.” Here – well, I am going to say it – here we see Mary as a prophet, or like a prophet. When the Word or the Spirit of Gd comes to a prophet in the Old Testament, the prophet almost always objects or raises questions. Mary is the same. But Mary swiftly accepts her vocation. “Let it be with me according to your word…”. Don’t think of Mary here as some shy and timid person. Rather you can imagine her shouting a huge “YES!” back at Gabriel, a Yes that changes everything.

Second, she sings her great hymn of triumph with Elizabeth (which we have just heard): “He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly; he has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty.” No shyness of timidity there. The song of a revolutionary, more like (another true cliché). So, again, I say: Mary the prophet.

Third, the curious incident of Jesus the child left in the Temple. Mary says, “Child, why have you treated us like this? Look, your father and I have been searching for you in great anxiety.” It’s hard not to feel a sense of exasperation here. So here we have a unique story of the family of Jesus, which powerfully shows us just how human they all were. They misunderstood each other; they bewildered each other by seeing things in different ways – just like every other family.

These are the times Mary speaks in the Gospel of Luke. She also speaks once in the Gospel of John. I think you’ll remember where. At the wedding at Cana. She tells Jesus “they have no wine”. She says to the servants: “Do whatever he tells you.” Do whatever he tells you.

Actually, you know, I’d want to say that is a good summary of the Christian Gospel. Come to know Jesus. Be with others who know Jesus (so you check out that you have got it right). Stick with others who know Jesus even when you don’t see eye-to-eye, as getting to know him is not in all ways easy (how could it be? It’s a real relationship!). But it should feel like a party (a wedding feast), this being with Jesus. Go on getting to know Jesus and his party and, then… do whatever he tells you.

This means of course there are as many ways of being a Christian as there are Christians. Each of us is called to be – and called to be only – the disciple Gd wants us, personally, to be. Do whatever he tells you.

I dare to hope that that that is an exciting idea for you (as it is for me). That you have  your own unique vocation; it is yours alone. Your vocation is not limited by human expectations. Not those of the institution, nor of those around you, nor even your own. Go on getting to know and staying with Jesus at his party, and then do whatever he tells you.

Among Mary’s many gifts to us is that she was the first to give this exciting commandment. We can thank her for it. May we all find Mary exciting. Maybe one day we’ll even hear an exciting sermon about her.

Amen.  

Candlemas... and Holocaust Memorial

Sermon. 28 January 2018. St Michael and All Angels, Little Ilford.

The Presentation of Christ in the Temple (Candlemas) [transferred]. 

Sunday nearest Holocaust Memorial Day

• Hebrews 2.14-18
• Luke 2.22-40  

From the Letter to the Hebrews: “Since the children share flesh and blood, Jesus himself likewise shared the same things, so that through death he might destroy the one who has the power of death”. 

And yesterday was Holocaust Memorial Day. 

Either yesterday or a day or so before, we as a nation, in hundreds of different ways, marked - what? - the 

• industrial-scale, 
• technologically innovative, 
• bureaucratically managed 

genocide (mass murder) of six million Jewish human beings, and 5 million other human beings, by the Nazi regime, in the Second World War;

and…

we also marked later genocides in 

• Cambodia, 
• Rwanda, 
• Bosnia 
• and Darfur -

because the slogan “never again” has been just that - a slogan. 

And this list is far from exhaustive; many of us may want to stand with Armenians, who mark their own genocide, still not acknowledged, let alone marked, by the descendants of the perpetrators. 

But this is just a list, albeit a painful one. We cannot truly imagine the deaths - the murder - of millions. So here instead is an image. A true one; it’s on film. It’s 1938. The Kindertransport programme is going ahead. Some Jewish children from Germany and neighbouring countries are allowed to travel to Britain unhindered. It is not a blanket right; the UK government waives some but not all immigration requirements; then, as now, they didn’t want “too many refugees” (even if that means that others die).  

A family scene. Father and mother help their children onto the train with their small suitcases. The parents step away from the train… from their children. They fear - and they know the fear is rational - that if they stay, they they will be killed. The youngest child is just a toddler. The mother hands that one over to an older child. Then, no, she cannot do it. She must care for her tiny one - a mother’s instinct. She takes that one back. But that brings her no comfort, because now the infant is once again at the mercy of the killing regime. So… ... at the last minute, she hands even that one over to the children, abandons even her tiniest, that they might live.

“Since the children share flesh and blood, Jesus himself likewise shared the same things, so that through death he might destroy the one who has the power of death”. 

And Holocaust Memorial is in the air. 

Clearly, one response to this is to abandon faith. To say that the one who has the power of death is as strong as ever, and robust, energetic, and using that power, time and time and time again. I’m serious: this has to be a real, lively option for us. You know, people seldom lose their faith through abstract arguments about “the existence of Gd” (or “the divinity of Christ” for that matter). Usually people lose their faith because there is a “disconnect” (as we now say) - just no point of contact between what they know to be true about the world in all its mess and violence, and what they hear in their places of worship. 

“Since the children share flesh and blood, Jesus himself likewise shared the same things, so that through death he might destroy the one who has the power of death”. Can we connect? 

It might take a little work. Today is after all the Feast of the Presentation of Christ in the Temple (Candlemas). It marks the time when according to Luke, Mary and Joseph and Jesus do what they do in the Temple. (It is not at all clear what is going on, truth to tell, but that is another sermon.) It is the 40th day since his birth. So, indeed, we have a delightful chance to revisit Christmas and the joy of the Christ-child. A time of rejoicing. Not an easy time to think about whether faith makes any sense at all… or whether the world is not thoroughly Gd-forsaken. 

But still we can so think. Simeon blesses the child and mother. And as he is an Israelite, like Jacob/Israel himself, the blessing is not one of unalloyed happiness, but tells it as it is. Most poignantly, of Mary: “a sword will pierce your own soul too”. This is the “promise” of danger and opposition and even death (untimely death) ahead. 

And so too, in the Letter to the Hebrews. What counts is that Jesus shares “our flesh and blood”. And to be flesh and blood is to be mortal, is to be vulnerable.  Again, what counts is that it is through Jesus’ death, that he destroys the one who has the power of death. It is not that death - or the human ability to kill - are taken away. That idea has never had any plausibility in the world. People die; people kill. But death is not what it was before. 

The difference Jesus brings is to “free those who all their lives were held in slavery by the fear of death”. Death is no longer something that need provoke an all-encompassing, all-inhibiting fear. 

Is that the reassurance we need, or just so much religious jargon, from the preacher? 

It’s a not by job to tell you. You must decide for yourself. My task is to invite you to consider it. 
Just please don’t misunderstand: 

what it does not mean is that death has become trivial, because after this life, you get a second one, which is better. No, anything but that. 

It means this: 
that we have - if we make use of it - all that we need to live courageously, in this life, 
whatever life - whatever death - throws at us. 
Because (so the claim goes) we have, in Jesus, 
one sent by Gd 
to live with us, 
teach and heal us, 
pray for us, 
die with us, 
be raised for us, 
to pray again in heaven for us. 
So we have all the solidarity from Gd we might need. 

So live courageously, even in this - Holocaust-embracing — world. 

It is hard. It may be excruciating. But the message here is it can be done.

We can do it

• with the love and wonder of the Christ child,
• with the patience and confidence and prayerfulness of Simeon and Anna, 
• with the courage of Mary. 

I wish us all a blessed Feast. Amen.

Sermon. Lazarus - "he stinketh!"

Sermon. St Michael and All Angels, Little Ilford, 2 April 2017.

Lent 5 (Year A)

John 11.1-45

Today's gospel is very obvious good news. A problem is solved. A tragedy overcome.

• Lazarus has dead.
• Jesus comes along.
• Gd through Jesus raises his from the dead.
• In Jesus, death leads to new life.

There can be no better story. This is the Easter story, anticipated. What's not to like?

That is a fair-enough summary of the gospel today. Sermons throughout the land will be bringing just this story of hope and newness. It's a good outline of the message of the gospel-as-a-whole – not just today's reading, but the Easter gospel - the gospel of Jesus Christ. And, if that is what you need to hear today, good, then hear it please:

In Jesus, death leads to new life.

But... you notice I am not saying 'Amen', and sitting down. My apologies to those who would like nothing more than for me to shut up and sit down (you know who you are and you know that I know who you are). I have not quite finished, because I want to – need to – add that there are other elements of the story of Lazarus for those who have eyes to see. It is not a simple, or a simply happy story.

Let us try to face up to what is uncomfortable in today's story. I'd like to suggest that Jesus behaves in three ways which may challenge us.

First, on being told that Lazarus – Lazarus whom Jesus loves – is ill, how does Jesus respond?... Let's be blunt: Jesus responds by doing nothing. He stays where he is. For two more days.

We, who know the whole story, have an idea why he did this. He did this so that everyone is absolutely sure that Lazurus is really, utterly dead. So when the miracle happens, no one can say it is just a healing of someone at death's door. But note that at the time Jesus responds by doing nothing, no one around him can know why this is.

So (can we see?) there is here, for us, too, among the good news, some hard news. Jesus is free to respond similarly to our own needs (real though they are), by (from time to time at least) doing nothing. For this own hidden purposes.

There's more. On one level, Martha and Jesus have a perfectly understandable discussion about the resurrection of all who have died. Martha, as a good Jew influenced by good Pharisees (that's another sermon right there), says she believes in the resurrection. Jesus says that resurrection is much, much closer than she realises. But at another level, Jesus' message is and remains utterly mysterious. 'I am the resurrection and the life'. Beautiful poetry, no doubt, and much loved in Christian circles. But if I ask you what it means...?

We may come up with the idea that it refers to this or that aspect of later Christian teaching on Jesus. But I for one am unable to tell you what it means. I cannot see what these words add to the discussion about the resurrection, or add to the story.

So (can we see?) there is here, for us too, among the good news, some hard news. Jesus's message to us can similarly be inscrutable, more like a riddle than an explanation.

Third, Jesus loves Lazarus, Lazarus is his friend. Lazarus is about to undergo the hardest and most shocking moment in his life. So, Jesus, Lazarus' friend, will be by his side, talking him through it, encouraging him with friendly words along the way. Right?

Oh, how wrong. Here is the conversation the two of them have: Jesus said: 'Lazarus, come out!'

That's it. No conversation, no gentle encouragement. Just the command. So (can we see?) there is here, for us too, among the good news, some hard news. Jesus is similarly free to relate to us by giving blunt commands. 'Do this!'

So, Jesus is free

• to respond to us by doing nothing,
• to speak things we cannot understand,
• to give simple, unadorned commands.

I do know that this is unlikely to be new information for you. We are used to hearing these things, for we understand that Gd in Christ is in charge and not us, and Christ does not come to us just to reassure us. We know it. But it can be good for us to look it straight in the eye, from time to time, as the harder side of the good news.

But... in truth, these aspects of the story are really the lesser challenges. There are two greater painful elements we must face.

Let us go back to Martha. When Jesus suggests that the stone is rolled away from the tomb, how does Martha – who believes in the resurrection, and who believes in Jesus and his capacity to be the instrument for all manner of miracle – how does she react? With simple faith? With bated breath?

No, with simple disgust: 'Already there is a stench'.

Or (I've come to realise over the years) this is one time people like to Authorized Version: 'by this time he stinketh!' Yes, Lazarus stinketh. He stank. Notice, Jesus does not deny this. A corpse in a sealed tomb, free of fresh oxygen, would by day four, have long begun to decay, to rot. There would have been a stench, we can be sure.

Here is a greater warning for us. Brothers and sisters, the gospel for today, if we can bear it, makes it clear that when Jesus comes to us, to bring new life out of death – by no means only literal death but out of all that is deathly and deadening in us - there is likely to be a stench. All that we have neglected, all that we have locked away (we think safely), will be brought to the Lord. And it will not be pretty. We must be prepared to have others see just how rotten we can be. We stinketh. Gd in Christ can bear that. It does not stop Gd acting to bring that newness of life (Gd does not have a delicate constitution). But can we ourselves bear the stench?

It gets worse. 'The dead man came out, his hands and feet bound with strips of cloth, and his face wrapped in a cloth.' Let us try to picture this. Lazarus lives (great!), but is blinded (his face is covered), and is disabled (hands and feet bound). How would you bind up a corpse? You might just perhaps bind each hand and each foot separately. But why? To what end? Surely, you would bind the easy way, turning the corpse into one, tightly bound shape. In other words, it's like a coffin, only much snugger, with even less room.

So Lazarus comes out, stinking and wriggling, ungainly, comical even. It's his greatest appearance (he's the icon of a great miracle), and he appears at his worst.

I won't labour the point. Here too is a warning for us. In short, if we want Gd in Christ to make a difference in our lives, where we can find we often choose what is deadening and deathly, we had better not care what people think. We had better not have egos, or precious reputations to protect and improve. Gd sees us as we are, loves us as we are. The pressing question is whether we are up to seeing ourselves, smelling ourselves (as it were), as we really are.

• Lazarus,
• congregation of St Michael and All Angels,
• Little Ilford
• humanity

come out!

There is good news for us here. There is hard, challenging news for us here. There is Easter here. But there is more to Easter, and to Lazarus, than a happy ending. Gd raises us from the dead, but raises us as we really are. So be it. Amen. 

Sermon. Mothering Sunday and the Family of the Church

Sermon. 26 March 2017. St Vedast-alias-Foster, London

Mothering Sunday

John 19.25-27

It was the end of a clergy conference. I was waving off a friend. I said: “The Mother of Gd be with you!”. I happened to know that “The Mother of Gd be with you” is a standard Greek farewell. I had a Greek dentist then. He said that when he was a child, he literally couldn't leave the house without his own mother calling out: “the Mother of Gd be with you”. “I Panagia mazi sou!” However, the other clergy friend, to the right of me, looked at me with some alarm. I knew him to be of a Protestant disposition. He asked tentatively: “Do you... pray to Mary?” I said I most certainly did.* To his credit, he didn't walk off, or damn me to hell. Rather, he suggested we talked about it.

I rambled on and on (if you can imagine such a thing). I don't think I mentioned today's gospel passage, although I might have done. There is a school of thought which says that the Beloved Disciple in John stands for all of us. So when Jesus says to him: “Behold your mother”, he is actually saying that Mary is the Mother of the whole Church, from that moment on, and for evermore. Any way, after saying what I had to say, he replied: “So really your argument is that it is like Jesus saying that Gd is the Gd of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, and is the Gd of the living and not of the dead. The saints are alive, and as such we can have access to them.” I was overwhelmed. He added: “When I was in training – at Oak Hill Theological College, mind – I was always taught 'Do not resent the Bible verses which speak against your own views'.” I was the more overwhelmed.

The Mother of Gd be with you.

I am not going to say that that clerical colleague began a devotion to our Lady. I don't think he did. But I did and do. And I add that, of all the things Protestant-minded people can pick up Catholic-minded people, I find quite high on the list is the matter of prayers addressed to the saints. And I have to say I am constitutionally unable to see any problem with it.

There would of course be a huge problem, if Catholics thought it necessary to pray to saints, instead of praying to Gd, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, because Gd as Father, Son and Holy Spirit is (allegedly) too distant, or too angry, or too judgemental (or whatever). That would be as wrong as anything. But of course that is not what Catholics do. Catholics as much as any Christian can make their own the statement:

“Anyone can pray to Gd at any time, in any place, about anything, in any way.”

And/but/and Catholics add that it makes our life richer, and helps us and others to be good disciples, if we also ask our friends to pray for us. We ask our friends to pray for us in this life, and we benefit from that, even if logically our own prayers to Gd should 'do'. And we can ask our friends to pray for us in eternity. The saints in eternity are our friends.

In other words, heaven is full. As well as Gd, there are also our friends, and that is to our Gd. Whater heaven is, it is not like this: not like a prison chapel I know of. Within Lincoln castle there used to be a working prison, now a prison museum. The chapel is distinctive. It was designed with boards which flap around each prisoner (who had to stand throughout). This meant each prisoner could only see the preacher. They were literally boxed in. No! The truer idea is that heaven is full and heaven is a social place, a place to spend time with your friends, and indeed a heaven that can begin now, when we ask our friends (wheresoever they be) to pray for us.

The Mother of Gd be with you.

I find that my theme for this Mothering Sunday is actually friendship. I further find I have no problem with that. For various reasons. Firstly, because the question of whether the theme for today is mothers and motherhood is – well, let us just say it is contested. Secondly, because I must have things to say to those of us who are not mothers, and also for those for whom the whole issue is fraught with discomfort or pain. And thirdly – although I am not a parent myself – I think I know enough about parenting to see what a great joy it can be when a parent and a child recognise that they are not only relatives but also friends. And fourthly, because I happen to agree with Timothy Radcliffe, former Master of the Dominicans, who says that a good summary for the whole of the gospel is: “We are being made capable of friendship”.

Today's interactions between Jesus and his own mother are brief. You might say: How could it be otherwise? Jesus is speaking from the cross; he is being tortured to death. But actually brevity is typical of Jesus' encounters with his mother. Think about Mary's first appearance in this gospel, the Gospel of John, at the wedding at Cana. “Women, what to you and to me?” is one literal translation of what he says there, which is, I think you'll agree, about as blunt as you can be. Personally I am rather glad about this. I mean: Can you imagine what Christian liturgy would be like if we had a string of texts in which Jesus says: “I do love you mother. You have loved me into being the person I am. Without your loving touch, I could not be who I am called to be” and Mary replying “I love you so much, son, knowing from the moment of conception how special you are. Loving you has never been a chore” - and so on. How mawkish would our hymns and texts then be!

It is good to be reminded that we do not really know how Mary and Jesus interacted - I mean: whether or not they would meet our own expectations of what it is to be 'loving'. Perhaps they would not. And yet love each other they did. For if the Church's claims about Christ are true, then is is the case, must be the case that Jesus could fulfil his vocation only if he had a mother who did love him, teaching him human love.

You know, there is a case for saying that today's gospel reading is the very least fitting one if your theme is the standard for “Mother's Day”, that is: if we feel led to think of our biological mothers or those who brought us up. For today's reading can be interpreted as being about the formation of the Church. Jesus, from the Cross, brings the Church into being. Its first two members are Mary and the Beloved Disciple (with the other women presumably joining soon afterwards). The point is that Mary and the Beloved Disciple are not relatives – kith and kin is precisely what they are not. Nor are they brought together because they are alike, sharing gender or thinking the same, feeling the same. What they have in common – all they have in common – is that they are here. They stick with Jesus even to the cross and its agonies. What they have in common is their faithfulness. That is the Church. That is the in-the-literal-sense un-natural family we are invited to join. A family on earth and a family in heaven. The invitation is yours, is ours, now.

The Mother of Gd be with you.

Amen.

* A member of the congregation reminded me of the helpful distinction between praying through the saints, rather than to the saints, which is indeed the standard form of prayers addressed to saints. E.g. "Holy Mary Mother of God, pray for us sinners"; "Through the prayers of the Mother of God, Saviour, save us". However, some Protestants say even to address ourselves (our words/petitions) to departed saints is to cross a line and may take us away from prayers to Gd.

Sermon: Mary, John, Uncertainty and Joy

Sermon. 11 December 2016. St Vedast-alias-Foster

Advent 3 (Gaudete Sunday).

Isaiah 35.1-10

Canticle: Magnificat

Matthew 11.2-11

The late and I would say great composer John Tavener once preached on Mary and the Annunciation in Durham Cathedral. I wasn't there. But a friend said to me that the highlight and good summary of the sermon was...

And Mary said YES [shouts].

I've often wanted to do that for years. Sorry that it happened on your watch, and if it woke you from gentle sermonic slumbers. His point was of course that Mary was a woman of great courage and confidence. Providing, that is, we understand that neither courage nor confidence means she was without fear. For it may well be that her own 'How can this be?', and her pondering things in her heart, had the quality of bewilderment about them. But she was a believer before-its-time in the slogan 'Feel the fear and do it anyway'. And so she could say 'Yes' [soft] to Gd and change not only her life but the world. Not only the world, but her whole life.

In today's Canticle, the Magnificat, we again see Mary as courageous and confident. With or without trepidation, she sees - she really sees as a prophet sees - the world being turned upside-down. The great and the good thrown down and the humble and overlooked raised up. We can have all kinds of discussions about how political the message is really, and what political consequences the Church should draw. But there is no doubt that the Magnificat is revolutionary. It is about a new order already breaking in, to displace, indeed to smash the old order. And, by the way, in this she stands in a tradition with other biblical revolutionary women – I say again, biblical revolutionary women – such as Miriam, Hannah and Judith.

Gd changes the world.

Gd has changed and is changing the world.

It is happening, it is real, it is evident, it is unavoidable.

Mary is confident.

The gospel proper for today says something a little different. Let's be blunt. It says that John, a prophet and more than a prophet, who also saw into the nature of things, was not sure about Jesus. He had to get his disciples to ask whether Jesus was the one to come or not. Jesus indeed gives an answer that (like Mary) says that the world is being turned upside-down. He relates his miracles to certain texts in the Hebrew Bible, principally from today's reading from Isaiah. The blind see, the deaf here, the dead are raised up, the poor have good news preached to them. But – we are not told if this answer convinced John. The silence is deafening.

For John, Gd's actions in the world he knew were ambiguous, and the difference Jesus was making was open to different interpretations. Some people were healed by Jesus. But there are other healers in the world (as Jesus knows). Some people even receive their dead as alive again. But others have experienced that already in the biblical story. Think Elijah. Think Elisha. Other – very many other – people remain blind, deaf and dead.

And all this in the context were the People of Israel, of covenantal faith were still oppressed by an alien and godless power (as John has good reason to see it). Jesus, then, on this reading, may stand in a long tradition of the renewers of hope in Israel, with acts that are healing, glorious and symbolic. But it cannot easily be said that the whole world has been manifestly turned around.

This line of argument is of course that articulated by Jews to this day. Jesus cannot be the Messiah because – look around you – this is not the Messianic Age, which by definition is of global peace, justice, freedom, devotion and feasting. We may have a counter-argument. But we cannot say that this position is simply implausible. It is plausible.

And where are we? By which I mean of course: Where are you? In the middle of Advent hope... and in the middle of parochial hope. Which is to say you are in some senses still in a place of uncertainty. You are looking for renewal. You are on-the-point-of. You are at the threshold. What is ahead is not unclear. Will the world be turned upside-down? Will there be some kind of revolution, such as Mary sang? Or will there emerge a steadier process of renewal, which takes some careful discernment, some process of interpretation, such as John was trying out.

I have no answers for these questions, not being a prophet who sees through to the nature of things. I will share my intuitions – nothing more than intuitions – that the link with the Moot community is a creative one. And that you are, given all the uncertainties and frustrations you have had to deal with over so many months, a community in good health. Resilient. In any event, I pray with and for you, for a good renewal. That Advent hope flourishes into Christmas joy. Speedily.

Today is of course the day to pray that Advent hope flourishes into Christmas joy. It is Gaudete Sunday – Rejoice Sunday. Just as we have a chance to lessen our Lenten fast in the middle of Lent – Mothering Sunday - so also in the middle of Advent, we can moderate that Advent fast we are all keeping (ho! ho! Ho!), and rejoice.

I am not going to seek to 'explain' anything about this rejoicing to you. Except to make one important point that bears repeating: spiritual rejoicing is not the opposite of sadness or depression. It's about an orientation towards joy - which may come naturally to us, or may be hardest thing. But we look for joy.

The word 'Gaudete' comes from what used to be the Introit for today. How else to finish...

'Rejoice in the Lord always; again I say, rejoice. Let your forbearance be known to all, for the Lord is near at hand; have no anxiety about anything, but in all things, by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be known to God. Lord, you have blessed your land; you have turned away the captivity of Jacob.'

To that, let us all, in the spirit of Mary say: Yes [soft]. Amen.