John the Baptist, Holiness, and Joy

 

12 December 2021: Advent 3 (Year of Luke).

 

Gathering Prayer

God for whom we watch and wait,

you sent John the Baptist to prepare the way of your Son.

Give us courage to speak the truth,

to hunger for justice,

and to suffer for the cause of right,

with Jesus Christ our Lord.

First Reading (Old/Original Testament): Zephaniah 3:14-20

Canticle (in place of a Psalm): Isaiah 12:2-6

New Testament Reading: Philippians 4:4-7

Gospel: Luke 3:7-18

Reflection

Today’ theme is not hidden from us. Today’s theme is obvious. Today’s theme is John the Baptist. His name in Hebrew was Yochanan. His name in Greek is Ioannes. His name tells us something about the mercy, the grace, the kindness (or even the beauty) of God.

What do we know about John the Baptist?...

Between us, we know that he was a relative of Jesus, his cousin.

He was a priest. As the son of the priest, Zechariah, he was a priest.

He felt compelled to go into the desert. There he wore rough clothing, and ate something that got called “locusts” and something that got called “wild honey”. He came back from the desert, with a message from God. Thus we Christians say: he was a prophet. Jesus at one point says he was more than a prophet, but only after he has said he was a prophet: he was a prophet, and more.

He preached (prophesied) what we’d have to call a fierce message. That the people of faith (the people of the covenant) had lost their way, had fallen into disobedience. They needed to “repent”. This means: they really need to turn around, 180 degrees. They needed – we might say – to start again with their lives. He gave some concrete examples of this (as we have just heard), speaking to soldiers and tax-collectors.

The good news here is that he insisted you could turn your life around. You could do this, by an act of ritual washing. This washing was not a little dab of water, nor a hand-washing splash, but full immersion. You go all the way under. So it’s also a ritual drowning. Let’s not hide that – it is as dramatic as that.

Given all that we’ve said, it’s no surprise that he got into trouble with the authorities. Indeed, he ended up being imprisoned and killed by the powers-that-be. His cousin Jesus could only take to heart how dangerous speaking out – being a prophet – really is.

Here is a question which is not all that easily answered. One that is not all that often asked, truth to tell:

Was John the Baptist a Christian?

I don’t mean: did he call himself a Christian? We are pretty sure he didn’t. The word “Christian” comes later than the lives of John and Jesus. But did he ever actually consider himself – and become – a disciple of Jesus? We are not told. It’s actually tantalising. John gets his disciples to ask Jesus if he is the One who is to come. Jesus replies: look around you. And John receives this message, and thinks…

Well, if he ever had time to think (as he was soon to be killed), the gospels do not tell us what conclusions he drew. They do not tell us if John was convinced that Jesus is the One who was to come.

And yet, even given this ignorance of ours (this ignorance of the Church), we boldly call John the Baptist a “saint”. Without him, the story of Jesus would not be what it is. He is a necessary part of the story of Jesus. He is part of the Christian story. And of course, in this he is not alone. We can – we must – say the same of

·        Miriam and Moses,

·        Sarah and Abraham,

·        the Prophets Deborah and Isaiah,

·        the heroes Esther and David, and so on.

The ancestors from what we know as the “Old Testament”.(1)

I suggest there is a message for us in this, precisely for today. We might summarise it as “whoever is not against us is for us”. But maybe that’s too simple. Certainly, though, we can say: some – many – who are not explicitly in our in-group can be blessed with a holiness we need to learn from. God distributes holiness as God chooses, and not as we’d plan things. So we can – we must – expect holiness in unexpected places.

Today, then, we mark a Prophet never known to be a Christian, that great saint revered in the Church, Saint John the Baptist.

***

There is a secondary theme today. We are roughly in the middle of Advent. Advent is – as I’ve said, though it sounded weird then, as it sounds weird now – a season of reflection, and even of going-without, to help us reflect on where we are in our walk with God. (We go without good things, not to feel bad about ourselves, but to check how dependent we are on our comforts, as a way of seeing where God truly is in our lives.)

In the middle of these seasons of reflection and penitence – Advent, Lent – we take a break. We have a breather. Indeed, even the colour in Church can change, from purple to… rose. Look… We have half managed this today (thanks to a friend lending us their supply of rose). Rose – or pink, to use the normal English word – is close to purple, but lighter. This is a day we can lighten our load. Hay, today is a day when even those who are keeping Advent might allow themselves a mince pie!

Closely related to this is another name for today. Today is Gaudete Sunday – which just means Rejoice Sunday. And that’s because of our second reading, deliberately chosen for today, for our rose – our pink - day. Let us hear from it again:

“Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God.”

How can St Paul - how can anyone – command anyone to “rejoice”? Surely joy is something that comes when it comes. Sometimes – not least in this place – sometimes joy is hard or even impossible to find. I get it. It’s a good point. I tend to put it this way: we do have a duty to do what we can to be ready for joy, to “orient” our lives towards the joy that is, in truth, our birthright.

And there is one hint about how to do that, within the text from St Paul: he tells us to make our requests always “with thanksgiving”. Always give thanks. There is always something to give thanks for. Give thanks for the sheer fact that you are alive. Give thanks that God promises to be with you. Give thanks for the fact that when you give thanks to God, you will be heard. These are good places to start.

So, not as a stern command, but rather as an invitation, today is also a day when we might, in all gentleness tell ourselves: “Rejoice; again I say: rejoice!”

Amen.

(1) In the Orthodox Calendar (New Style) this Sunday in Advent is the Sunday of the Forefathers. 

Prayer from Common Worship: Additional Collects, © 2017, Archbishops Council.

 

You. Are. Saints.

 

Sermon, 31 October 2021

All Saints Sunday

Brothers and sisters, it is good to be back with you. We know each other. For the most part, we know each other. At least, I remember you. Not only that, I remember your priest-in-charge-soon-to-be-rector. Not only that, I remember his predecessor. Not only that, I have met his predecessor’s predecessor. And I have heard tell of other predecessors.

 

What this means is I have a fair sense of some of the themes you may have heard, over the years, on All Saints Sunday. I think one such theme may just be: you are saints. You. Are. Saints.

 

This is at least is how St Paul would see it. St Paul (previous preachers will have reminded you) typically addressed the churches he was writing to as “those called saints in” or “to the saints who are in” the place in question. Concretely, he or his disciple wrote to

·        “those called saints in Rome” [Rom 1.7];

·        “those called saints in Corinth” [1 Cor 1.2];

·        “the saints throughout Achaia” [2 Cor 1.1],

·        “the saints” in Ephesus [Eph 1.1];

·        “the saints in Christ Jesus in Philippi” [Phil 1.1];

·        “the saints” in Colossae [Col 1.1].

So, following St Paul, you, surely, are “the saints in Little Ilford”, or among the saints in Little Ilford.

We who are used to marking out our greatest heroes as Saints-with-a-capital-S sometimes struggle with the idea that we too are called to be saints / called saints / saints. Now, we don’t quite know what St Paul meant. He certainly wasn’t just flattering people. Paul doesn’t flatter; he tells it as it is. The idea may be this: if you are drawn to holiness, then the core of you already is holy. Your vocation in life is to get your behaviour to catch up with this truth.

 

If you are at all drawn to holiness, the core of you already is holy. Your vocation in life is to get your behaviour to catch up.

 

And, by the way, knowing you as I do, I will say you are doing pretty well.

 

Hagioi is the Greek for “saints”. Ayii in the modern pronunciation. It is also the Greek for “holy ones”. It’s an accident of history that in English we have two ways of expressing the one thing: sanctity or holiness, holiness or sanctity. The Hebrew is Kedoshim. That too means “holy ones”, but also “holy things”. In later Hebrew, you’d probably talk about a holy person as a “tzaddik”, more literally a “righteous person”. St Paul writes tois hagiois, to the saints, or “kletois hagiois”. The translation you and I use takes this to mean: “to those called to be saints”, implying that they might not quite be there yet. That’s a possible translation, but so is the simpler “to those called saints/called out as saints” – saints, already.

 

You might have guessed I would bring in a bit of the biblical languages into this reflection. It’s what I do. I did not want to disappoint you. Let me, then, play further to my stereotype. Let me bring some other things I was once known for. I am thinking of:

·        something from the Eastern Orthodox tradition;

·        something from the Jewish tradition;

·        and a failed attempt at a joke.

(You do remember me, isn’t it?)

From the Eastern Orthodox tradition. Within the principal liturgy is a phrase which is easily overlooked: “Christ amazing among the saints”. Christ is amazing among the saints, or amazing in the saints. Surely, we are meant to find the great array of saints amazing. Surely, that array of saints itself shows us Christ. (It doesn’t show us something about Christ; it shows us Christ.) The diversity - the sheer difference of saints - is part of what is amazing. Think about it. If we were to look for one personality type or even one core characteristic or trait that is true of every saint… we’d fail. We’d always fail.

From the activist campaigner to the contemplative hermit,

from the bishop or the statesperson to the holy fool in rags,

saints come in all shapes and sizes.

Staying in the Orthodox tradition,

·        there is Saint Silouan, who had a vision from Christ, who spoke and said to him: “Keep your mind in hell, and despair not”.

·        And we have our old friend (I hope he is still a mutual friend), St Seraphim, who greeted everyone, on every day of the year, with: “My joy, Christ is risen!”

There’s a universe of space between the most austere refusal to despair, and the exuberance of constant Easter joy and fellowship. There’s a space for you. (There is a space for me.)

 

This in turn leads to another truth: sainthood is not repeatable. 

No saint became a saint by rigidly imitating another saint. Not one.

You cannot be a Silouan; I cannot be a Seraphim.

You can only be the saint you are called to be.

Which is to say:

only you can be the saint you are called to be.

The diversity is meant to be, and meant to last.

Christ is amazing in all the saints.

 

And, by the way, knowing you as I do, I will say you are doing pretty well.    

 

From the Jewish tradition. 

From the Jewish tradition I bring you a saying from the Talmud:

“On the day of judgement, a person will be called to account

for every good thing which they might have enjoyed, but did not.”

I think that, too, may be hard for us to take fully on board. We might be called to account for every good thing we might have enjoyed and did not. 

When we think of the saints we record, know, and celebrate, then ascetics take up quite a lot of the list. Ascetics are those who go without, go without excesses and even normal amounts of food,  and even water and sleep,

·        the better to pray,

·        the better to be open to Gd

·        the better to be open to those Gd sends to them,

·        the better to see what happens when you know yourself totally dependent on Gd, cut off from comforts and status.

Well and good. A noble tradition. (I have no word to say against it.)

A tradition that we in the West may be in danger of losing, and that we may need to rediscover, in a way that works.

But!

But it’s not true that to be a saint, you have to be an ascetic.

I say again: saints come in all shapes and sizes; sainthood cannot be repeated. Another way of being a saint is to enjoy good things, truly to relish good things, to make your own good things while praising Gd, as a way of praising Gd. Here is then another invitation: why not become a saint by relishing good things?

 

By the way, knowing you as I do, I will say you are doing pretty well.

 

And so to the joke which fails. I am told the saying I am going to share began life as a joke. But the punchline has been lost. So, in truth, it is a joke no longer. It is now something serious, solemn, and I offer it as such. It’s a question and answer:

“What is the difference between a good person, and a holy person (a saint)?”

“In the presence of a good person, the rest of us feel worse about ourselves. In the presence of a holy person (a saint), the rest of us feel better about ourselves.”

Do you see what this is saying?

It is saying that whatever the (manifold) virtues of the saint, the holy person, the difference the holiness makes is that these don’t come across as competition, as threat, as rebuke, but are swallowed up, are swallowed up in the warmth of the saint, the love – the loving - of the saint, lost in the saints will to comfort, to console, to help, to encourage you.

Saints are always encouragers, never finger-waggers.

“In the presence of a good person, the rest of us feel worse about ourselves. In the presence of a holy person (a saint), the rest of us feel better about ourselves.”

 

Sisters and brothers, here, here too, knowing you as I do, I will say you are doing pretty well.

 

Keep on doing what you are doing.

In all the changes you are making,

in all the changes you are facing,

keep on doing what you are doing.

You, you who are called saints in Little Ilford,

you, you who are amazing in Christ,

you, you who are called to enjoy good things,

you, you who, by being who you are,

make the rest of us feel better about ourselves,

you, you who have been and still are my joys,

keep on!

My joys, Christ is risen!

Amen.

Sermon. Hope, Coping, Courage, Holiness

Sermon. Worcester College, Oxford. 5 November 2017

All Saints (transferred).

Isaiah 65.17-end

Hebrews 11.32-12.2

Do you have a favourite book title (just the title). I do, at least if we stay in the field of theology. It is this: What may we hope for, if hope we may? It’s by German theologian, Friedrich Marquardt. So it’s “Was duerfen wir hoffen, wenn wir hoffen duerften?”. German scholars will have noted - and here grammar pedants may have to close their ears - that it’s actually: “What may we hope for, if hope we might”. There is an extra degree of conditionality, of uncertainty. Now, I am not going to discuss the content of this work, for three reasons: (1) it is in German, (2) it’s three volumes long, and (3) I haven’t read them. If by the way, you thought you just now heard your chaplain mutter “that’s never stopped you before” you are probably right, and so is she. (We studied together some time ago.)

It’s the title itself that haunts me. What may we hope for, if hope we might? A strong case could be made for saying that this is the central theological question. We might say it is the human question. And let me add: it is a question which is always likely to be prominent in a university. Maybe not in the formal teaching, but still very much around, as you are promised so many glittering futures, sold with such force that it would be strange if there were not also anxieties about whether they can be realised. 

What may we hope for, if hope we might? Isaiah, today, gives us the clearest answer possible. We, the readers, are to hope for the very best. A new heaven and a new earth, so brilliant that all that came before will be forgotten. “Jerusalem a rejoicing and her people a joy.” No premature death, but houses, vineyards, food for all. And not only peace between the nations, but even between formally hunting and hunted animals. This is good news indeed, This is the gospel according to Isaiah. 

Did he mean it? Perhaps we need to take a step back, and reflect upon the message of Isaiah as a whole. I will leave for another place the question of how many Isaiahs there were. All commentators would agree that from chapter 40 on, the focus is on the exile of the elite of Judah to Babylon, and their hope of return to the Land of Promise, and Jerusalem in particular. True, the exile drifts out of focus from chapter 56 on. But this still means that at least a lot of the prophecy of Isaiah refers to events which can be dated. 

Forgive me for quoting from Handel’s Messiah slightly out of season, but remember Isaiah says: “Every valley shall be exalted, and ever mountain and hill made low.” (Isa 40.4). In context, this isn’t a free-floating promise. It means that the desert country will be flattened out, so that a super highway can be built, and a highway not just anywhere, but taking people from Babylon to Jerusalem. It’s all about the return of the exiles. 

Now, that journey, from Bablyon to Jerusalem did happen. The exiled did return, in history, around 539 CE. But it was not miraculous in the way Isaiah hoped. The Jews could return home, and indeed could rebuild their Temple. But they had to make all kinds of compromises with diverse greater powers, and they still knew suffering, pain, poverty, death and loss. 

So we can - we must - say that the Hebrew Bible has an excess of hope. It has, in the prophets especially, a firm conviction that a time is coming when goodness will prevail. The People of Israel will flourish. And, as they are a small and insignificant people, if they flourish, it can only be because the wider world also knows the fulness of peace and justice. And/but that hope has to be projected into the future, which over time becomes the distant future, the final future, the end of the age, the messianic era. The Hebrew Bible does not really have a “job description” for the Messiah, but it does have hopes which are yet to be fulfilled, which become “messianic”.

What may we hope for, if hope we might? Following Isaiah, we hope for the very best. But we accept it may come in another age, unknown to us. We hope but we do not - let it be said - expect that superlative flourishing. As Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai taught: if you are planting a tree, and someone tells you Messiah has come, first plant your tree. 

What we may hope for, if hope we might, then, in spite of Isaiah’s beautiful words, is in truth the courage to live in a world still not put right. Which takes us to the heroes of Hebrews, our second reading. The writer of the Epistle to the Hebrews is clear that Gideon, Barak, Samson, Jephtha, David, Samuel, and many others lived courageously. Lived courageously in a world not put right. Indeed in a very wrong world, where there are fires and wars and tortures and persecutions, destitution, affliction and torments. For this writer, though, the world has now, now been put right in Christ. How so? Because Christ “is set down at the right hand of God”. So we have a Great High Priest in heaven, who can and does pray for us. 

Gd shows Gdself utterly in solidarity with us. When we pray, it is not so much an effort on our part, as an entering into the prayer of Gd the Son to Gd the Father. Since we live in that intimacy, it must follow that the future is open, laden with hope. Gd is with us. 

This vision from Hebrews is - you will have noticed - not quite the same as Isaiah’s. It is not so much that the world is put right, but that we can have a dramatically new form of courage, courage to tackle the problems which are still there, because Gd is on our side. 

What may we hope for, if hope we might? Good things in the end, but maybe only courage for now? Can we live for that? I can’t tell you. But a great cloud of witnesses suggests yes. Hebrews has its heroes of holiness. You will have yours, those you know in reality, and those you know virtually. Hold on to these, these visions incarnate of human courage and divine solidarity. Saints, who know what it is to live in in-between times, where the world is still not put right, and who nevertheless get on with it.

Let me tell you of just one. Sister Eugenia. In her 60s she returned from Africa to her native Italy. In a pastoral drop-in she met a woman entangled in trafficking and prostitution, and so a culture utterly alien to the religious sister’s world. She knew nothing. She was ageing, and so was her order. But she felt herself converted by this woman and her plea. Now she runs networks of women between Europe and Africa to disrupt the trafficking. Her motto (I warn you, it contradicts management-speak): we need to look to our poverties, find others who also feel inadequate to the task and get on with it. “We combine our poverties and so they become riches.” Most saints, most of the time, thought what they were doing was “just getting on with it”. 

Somebody one asked: What is the difference between a good person and a holy person? In the presence of a good person, the rest of us feel worse about ourselves. In the presence of a holy person, the rest of us feel better about ourselves. Holiness is not repeatable. You can be holy only in the way you are called to be holy. But holiness is always contagious, encouraging, warm, and for you. What may we hope for, it hope we might? Quite simply, to be a saint among saints. 

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. St Thomas Revisited

Sermon. 3 July 2016. St Michael and All Angels. Little Ilford.

St Thomas

John 20.24-29

Now, here's the thing: when I reflect on St Thomas, I don't actually think of doubt, of 'doubting Thomas'. So I cannot offer you that standard Anglican sermon. You know, the one that insists that the enemy of faith is not doubt, but certainty. That faith and doubt are closely intertwined, and that doubt can bring us closer to Gd. These things are all true (and I know it). But they are not what comes to mind-and-heart for me, when I think of Thomas.

What comes to my heart and mind when I reflect on St Thomas is a question: why wasn't he there? I mean:

• why was he not with the other apostles,
• who were gathered together in secret on the first day of the week,
• who then saw the risen Lord Jesus,
• who breathed the Holy Spirit on them?

Thomas was absent from this life-changing encounter.

We are not told why.

I wonder... why?

I have a notion. A theory. Nothing more than that. But I think Thomas might have been a depressive person, someone who suffered at least at times from depression. Depression - a disability which goes beyond sadness, and even beyond normal human grief. It may be (may, I stress) that Thomas was too desperate to join the others for that crucial meeting:

• they were grieving and bewildered and so sought each other out, for mutual consolation and human warmth;
• he, Thomas, was grieving, bewildered and also depressed. So he did what depressed people often do – he isolated himself.

Why do I say this? Well, there may be hints in the only other times when we encounter Thomas. The first is when news of Lazarus's death reaches Jesus. He calls the disciples to go back with him to Lazarus's home. Thomas alone finds this risky plan acceptable. But note what he says: 'Let us also go, to die with him' (cf. John 11.16). A strange plan to make, surely? But just the sort of thing a depressed person, who may tend to see things at their bleakest, may say. He is saying perhaps: 'times are hard; they are out to get us; we may as well accept death.'

Later, Jesus tells the disciples he is going away to prepare a place for them. He adds that they know the way. Thomas replies: 'We do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?' This is what provokes Jesus into saying 'I am the way, the truth and the life'. But that's another sermon! The point for now is that we are not told the tone Thomas used. Might it not have been in anxiety, even desperation. As if he were saying: 'We are lost. How can you, Jesus, not see that we are lost?'

These are the only other times we meet Thomas in the whole of the four gospels (though there are plenty of later traditions). But there is another thing we do know about him. He had another name. Do you know it...? He was called Didymus. This is just the Greek for 'twin'. Whereas his real name, Thomas comes from the Hebrew Te'om, which means... well, actually that means twin too! So Thomas's very identity is as 'twin'. He is Twin the Twin. Yet we are told not a shred of a thing about his actual twin.

• Has his twin died?
• Is his twin opposed to Thomas or Jesus and his movement - but so powerfully that the opposition still defines Thomas?
• Is there some trauma hidden in Thomas's very name?

We are not told, but it is surely possible.

I'll leave you to decide if these bits of 'circumstantial evidence' add up to a plausible account of how Thomas suffered from depression. I say again it's only a theory (though Church tradition has been known to construct interpretations of the lives of saints out of weaker bits of circumstantial evidence). I will say that, certainly, something was going on to stop Thomas seeking reassurance from being with the other apostles, soon after Jesus's death.

In any event, it's important that we pay attention to what we are used to calling Thomas's 'doubt'.

This isn't philosophical doubt:

Thomas does not say, 'It is impossible for a dead body to come back to life. Convince me!'

And it is not theological doubt.

Thomas does not say, 'The age of the resurrection cannot yet have arrived'.

For that matter, nor does he say, 'Souls and spirits belong in heaven and not on earth.'

No. What he says is very focused.

Here's my translation:

'unless I see in his hands the place of the nails,

and thrust my finger into the place of the nails,

and thrust my hand into his side,

I refuse to trust it.'

You see? Here is no general doubt about the possibility of miracles, or of comforting apparitions, or even of resurrection as such.

Rather, Thomas needs to know that the Jesus the others have seen is the same person as the Jesus Thomas had known in his moral life.

That the risen Jesus truly is the Jesus who suffered.

That the risen Jesus too still has real wounds.

Why?

Because Thomas is close to the reality of human suffering, and so he knows that only a resurrection body which still bears the wounds is one which can really make sense of and make glorious our human suffering.

But for Thomas even to be saying this means he has managed to drag himself into the outside world, into company. And note what then happens. Jesus is indeed there with them all, now gathered as one.

• He does not call Thomas's earlier absence a sin.
• He does not rebuke him for being too overwhelmed (if that's what it was) to join in with the others.
• And he does not condemn him for wanting to know the wounds.

On the contrary, 
he meets Thomas where he is. 
This is a source of our hope. 
He meets Thomas where he is.
Jesus says (my translation):

'Bring your finger here and see my hands,

and bring your hand and thrust into my side'.

Picture the scene, if you can!

Can you see how shocking it must have been?

'Bring your hand and thrust into my side.'

It is not something one says.

Almost: 'Touch my wounds. Grab, fondle, get to know my wounds.'
We don't say this. 

It is an invitation to an intimacy which breaks all convention.

No other disciple is invited to have this intimacy.

Indeed, I don't think there is anything quite like it in the whole of the Bible.

And indeed, even further: if you google 'touch my wounds' – guess what - you get referred back to this story.

So is it really surprising that

when Thomas overcomes his isolation

he is graced by our Lord with a unique encounter of intimacy and welcome

and that frees him to make a unique declaration of faith in Jesus:

he (he alone) calls him 'my Lord and my God'.

'Bring your finger here and see my hands, and bring your hand and thrust into my side.' We cannot quite have that intimacy with Jesus (as he himself notes). And perhaps it would never occur to us to want it. Which is fine, of course. But, if only we refuse to isolate ourselves (in whatever ways we may be tempted to isolate – there are plenty of ways of isolating yourself in company), then we can have the same certainty of intimacy with Jesus. As he says to Thomas: 'Do not doubt, but believe'.

Amen.  

Sermon: Mary: Why the Fuss?

Sermon. 20 December 2015. St Michael and All Angels, Little Ilford.

Advent 4 (Year C)

Canticle: Magnificat

Gospel: Luke 1.39-45.

Just yesterday someone stopped me in the street and said: 'If you're based at St Michael's, you'll know my Mary'. I said there's more than one Mary at St Michael's. So I'd need more to go on. It occurred to me that this is not an unusual position. Indeed, when I was a curate in Lincoln, in one of my churches I had this policy: if in doubt about someone's name, just call them 'Mary'; I'd still be right more than I'd be wrong. While this led to some perturbed looks from some men, it still made sense.

And another thing I have learned this week. A Cornish friend has said that, at one time at least, there was a tradition in Cornwall of calling the mother of Jesus 'Auntie Mary'. Does that sound over-familiar? Well, it's worth remembering that in some African cultures it's utterly normal to address any friendly woman as 'Auntie'. But if it does seem too informal, here is something that is more 'proper': in your standard, classic Church-of-England parish church, it is likely that there will be a side-chapel known as the Lady Chapel. That does not mean and never has meant a chapel for the ladies. It means a chapel named in honour of Our Lady, Mary.

So Marys are important to us, and St Mary is important to the Church. Even if you consider our own Church of England to be 'Protestant' (and let's not go into that just now), we still have a number of Feasts of Mary: her conception, birth, visiting Elizabeth, giving birth to Jesus, taking him to the Temple, and her falling asleep. And with them, supremely, the day once known as Lady Day, marking the Annunciation, when Mary said a huge, universe-changing Yes to Gd, such that in her own body she conceived and carried Gd the Son.

Of course, if we were Catholic, we'd have all these Feasts of Mary, and more. The 1^st January, for example, is the Feast of Mary in her title as the Mother of Gd. And if you were Eastern Orthodox, you'd have other commemorations. One important Festival you might never have heard of is the Presentation of Mary in the Temple. (That's not the Presentation of Jesus by Mary, but of Mary herself, as a young girl.) But, truth to tell, in Catholic and Orthodox traditions, there are also any number of commemorations of Mary, marking her believed appearance at various locations, like Lourdes, or her image in various icons which are held to be miraculous or otherwise specially worthy of honour.

And today – as we have heard and as must now be painfully evident – today we have another chance to focus on Mary This completes our Advent themes: from the ancestors, to the prophets, to John the Baptist... and now to Mary - as the climax of the story which brings us up to the birth of Christ. Mary, the climax of that story, is that important!

Or is she? Why is Mary so important in Christian thinking and through the Christian year? One answer was once radical but is now rather commonplace. It says this: it is because so much of the rest of Christian teaching is so very male. If we worship Gd called 'He', and further speak of that Gd as 'Lord' and as 'Spirit' but especially as 'Father' and 'Son', then it's all rather biased towards the male. However much we teach (as we do) that Gd is beyond gender (this argument goes), the maleness of Gd is still reinforced through our prayers, hymns and thoughts. With Mary (I say again: so this argument goes), we have an element of balance.

I think this argument cannot be dismissed. Far from it. But the question may be: is it as simple as that? Does that say all that we need to say about the importance of Mary? I rather doubt that.

But there is one rather strong, and very obvious objection to treating Mary as quite as important as she seems to be from what I've presented. This is the insistence that in the New Testament itself, Mary does not figure especially prominently. She is present, not only at the beginning of Jesus' life (of course), and in his childhood, but also, crucially(!), at the end. She visits Jesus during his adult ministry, and in John's gospel they are both invited to the wedding at Cana, where Jesus performs his first 'sign'. And... and... that's really it.

It follows that we don't have enough to go on to determine her personality. She is not explicitly called especially loving, or motherly, or uniquely holy.

So, why is Mary so important, if the New Testament treats her as of significance, yes, but not compared to a Peter or a Paul or the Beloved Disciple in John's Gospel? Some would insist that we look at the particular texts where Mary is mentioned, especially in Luke – as we have this morning – and John. But actually it goes deeper than any biblical texts.

I believe that Mary is important because the Church in her wisdom took seriously - actually increasingly seriously - the humanity of Jesus. Not only was Jesus human (adjective), looking human and made of human stuff, but he was a human being (noun), a human person, just like you and I are human beings, human persons, save for sin alone. And if Jesus was a human being just like us, then he was 'brought up', just like you and me. He had to be 'brought up' as a baby, infant, and child to adulthood. Then, in his humanity (a humanity just like ours), he learned right from wrong - from being taught. And he learned love - from being loved. To deny this is to deny that Jesus was a human being like us.

You can see where I am headed. The New Testament says that Jesus was brought up by Mary and Joseph. But the bond with his mother is stronger than with his father/step-father. This is for all kinds of reasons, not least because of the time in Mary's womb, and because Joseph drops out of the story altogether. So we find that we must say that Mary taught Jesus, taught the Son of Gd Himself, how to love. And so, if ever there is an imporant saint anywhere, Mary is important.

I for one am actually very pleased that the gospels do not contain detailed stories of Mary and Jesus loving each other. Imagine:

Mary: I do love you, son!

Jesus: And I love you too, mother!

I am so glad you are so very loving!

Mary: But, son, you are a nothing short of a miracle

in your very being, and so easy to love!

Horrible, no? Just imagine how sickly-sweet Christian liturgy might be, if we had such texts. We don't. We are spared that.

But we do still have the assurance - the reassurance – that, however she did it (Mary's way of being a loving mother might be quite different from what we'd expect or hope), Mary loved Jesus into becoming the loving human being who, as Gd's Son, loved the world to his death, and through death to a new creation.

We actually have no reason to think that Mary was meek and mild in the sense of mousey. She who said YES to Gd and the Angel Gabriel, she who sang the fierce battle-cry of the Magnificant (read it again if you wonder why I put it that way), was not some shy, retiring creature. But it is true that much of her story is hidden from us. We see its effects, in Jesus' life, but we do not know the details. As the poet Philip Larkin said, albeit in a very different context, for all of us, 'what will survive of us is love'.

What will survive of us is love. On that note, how can I not end with reference to another biblical Mary – Mary Magdalene. Magdalene, whose name becomes... Madeline. As we as a community still mourn the death of our own beloved Madeline, whose funeral was just two days ago, we know that much of her story is hidden from us. That's the nature of church life; we can share much, but not all. But what is not hidden, what is absolutely visible, evident, and powerfully felt by us, is her love. What will survive of her is love.

Madeline,

Mary Magdalene,

Mary the Mother of Our Lord,

other Marys

... even people with names that don't begin with M...

however hidden our lives from public view and record,

we too can bear Gd, even after the pattern of St Mary, by loving.

By choosing and going on choosing to love.

Let us do so. Amen.