Epiphany loneliness
Sermon by the Revd Dr Brutus Green
Readings: Matthew 2:1-12
In TS Eliot’s best poem, near the end, he meets a ‘familiar compound ghost’, a sort of personification of the poets who have gone before him. And the figure speaks saying:
Let me disclose the gifts reserved for age
To set a crown upon your lifetime's effort.
With this poem Eliot is bringing to an end his career as a poet, which has of course already climaxed with the West End smash musical Cats. From there he turned to writing idiosyncratic plays that no one performs anymore. But in our youth-dazzled culture it’s worth remembering there are gifts reserved for age. And some tasks, some crafts, require a lifetime’s effort. In some of the key moments remembered in the Epiphany season, here with the Kings, later in the temple with Simeon, we see the older generation welcoming the one who is to come. And we see this disclosing of the gifts reserved for age – the wisdom of the magi - in the reading of the stars, the famous gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh, recognising Jesus (as the hymn tells us) as king, priest and sacrifice; and in Simeon’s prophecy – the gifts reserved for age – for a lifetime of prayer and faithfulness, the vision to see God. The gifts reserved for age prepare the way of the Lord.
Dante’s great poem, the Divine Comedy, begins:
Midway in the journey of our life
I found myself in a dark forest,
for the straight way was lost.
Dante had been one of the 6 city rulers of Florence, but was then exiled – never to return – and lost everything. But out of a midlife crisis and the loss of all his dreams he wrote Europe’s greatest poem, and received this vision of heaven, which reformed his own path. A gift reserved for age and suffering.
Age and experience are what make people interesting. Not always. But interesting people usually have age and experience. And as the dreadful virus has robbed so many people of grandparents, we will spend this year mourning the loss of age and experience. And in the terrible compromise every family has known between enjoying their elder statespersons and protecting them; we will perhaps appreciate more age and experience. And not especially those who have changed the world, the celebrity deaths of 2016. The wise men pass quickly from the Gospel story as cameos.
And
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
But as fathers and grandparents, friends we value them in the love they make known in our lives. This week we have lost two of our longest standing church members, Jack and Jean. Each shared their gifts with us and their children have also played prominent roles; it’s too little celebrated that churches are one of the few places where generations meet and contribute equally. The gifts reserved for age: For wisdom and for running up and down.
So today we are remembering those gifts reserved for age which come with the passage of time. For friendship and shared company that spans decades. For the sharing in worship which sustains this community, linking past and future, and the world to come, as the Eucharistic prayer calls us all to the feast that joins earth and heaven, with all the saints and angels. Our Magi who continue their journey now by another road.
I broke my phone-screen walking Zz a few weeks ago, who leapt at a frisky whippet. Like most people’s it still works but is covered in a spider’s web of hairline cracks. It feels like a metaphor for society at present. Unless you are American which is more like your phone falling down the toilet. But I’m sure some will feel that words like communion, fellowship, the concept of ‘online-community’ are a little hollow. And while some will feel it’s irresponsible to keep churches open, I’m also mindful of those for whom church may be spiritually or mentally necessary; especially those who are alone and unsupported.
It occurs to me that at this time, for some, loneliness may have become a more serious threat than the virus. Part of the problem with loneliness is that it’s not talked about. It has a stigma. Being lonely must mean you’re not popular; not fun. It might suggest you’re a bit needy, a bit dependent. We might associate it with odd children or teenage boys. As a problem it sounds like something that could be fixed with a good deodorant. The truth is deeper and more serious. It’s also more prevalent. It is possible to be lonely even within a busy household, because loneliness is the result of insufficient connection. It is felt every time we are misunderstood, unacknowledged, underappreciated or unrecognised. But it’s sharpest when we’re alone, as so many are today. Theologically, it is crucifixion.
As the Gospels progress we see a growing divide through Jesus’ ministry with those around him. The disciples misunderstand; they vie for power and position; they betray, deny and finally abandon him. The crowd turn from ‘Hosanna!’ to ‘Crucify!’ in less than a week. Pilate can’t understand him. The Jewish authorities deliberately misunderstand and misrepresent him; this is the loneliness of the Gospel. As we heard at Christmas in a verse rarely commented upon: ‘He came unto his own, and his own received him not’ (Jn 1:11). Which will become: ‘My God [even], My God, why hast thou forsaken me’ (Matt 27:46). The story of our redemption is a story of loneliness. For Jesus this is because the truth of who-he-is is entirely at odds with what he shows the world to be. We have only to look at the White House to see that even now the world is armed against truth and love.
For us, it’s more often the personal prisons of our private worlds. The anxiety that’s developed within us; the craving for affirmation that creates a false image of ourself; the fear and difficulty of communicating with others. Dare we be totally honest with others? Do we trust and respect others enough to be open with them? Here begins loneliness. And every note of falseness in ourselves, in others, in the world, is a step towards loneliness. Our respite from that is the people we love. Where we are loved despite our faults, or better, because of our faults, where we are truly seen, we are not lonely. Age and experience can take this from us, just as distance and vulnerability can separate us. This is the loneliness of this winter.
TS Eliot in his poem of the magi has them ask:
were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth
and death,
But had thought them different
Jesus is marked from the beginning as different: a king, but not accepted; a priest, not recognised; a sacrifice. And so begins the loneliness of the Gospel.
The truth that put Jesus at odds with the world is that God loves all of us, not for the self we project but for the complicated and hidden creatures that we are. Which is to say he loves us in our loneliness. So whether you have 5000 followers or 5, whether your Instagram profile is you including warts, or the fantastic hyper-you you’re desperate for people to see, or if you don’t know what Instagram is; God is with you in that loneliness.
But let us in these weeks to come reach out. Our Liverpudlian director of music has COVID in Bath so is with us only online, but to quote another scouse musician: It’s just you; You’ll do. So let it out and let it in. Let us love one another. And for all those whose age and experience has brought a new isolation, who brought gifts, reserved for age, years ago at the birth of a child, Whose journeys have been a lifetime’s effort, and for those who grieve someone who saw and loved them. Let us return the gifts of epiphany with the love of the child the Magi of old came to adore. Amen.