Maundy Thursday: Do this in remembrance of me

Sermon by the Revd Dr Brutus Green

Based on readings: Exodus 12:1-14, 1 Corinthians 11:23-26, John 13:1-17, 31b-35

People don’t like ambiguity. Some time ago Rhiannon decided to become a vegan. As a loyal husband I was supportive. I made the hard decision to become bi-vegan. With a heavy heart I resorted to eating food with no animal products in at all;  but I also ate meat and fish and dairy. Bi-veganism, which I’m hoping will become a major trend, is about saying “yes” to things. Including lamb. But generally people have expressed surprise and confusion on me coming out as bi-vegan, which I maintain even though Rhiannon is now merely vegetarian. People know what a vegan is, and a vegetarian, and when one treats all God’s creation with love and appetite. It’s a simpler world when you’re either one thing or the other. A lot of the issues over gender and sexuality I think can be attributed to this. Facebook famously offered you 58 possibilities including “Agender, “Androgyne” or “Androgynous”, “Gender Nonconforming”, “Pangender”, and “Bigender”. A lot of people, especially the gender anxious, would rather that men be men and women be women as near to stereotypes as possible. Then you know where you are. And everyone is headed to the right cubicle.

This sort of anxiety is equally strong in religion. Jesus’ beef with the authorities is, more often than not, about their scrupulousness to the letter of the law, over the spirit behind it. Unsurprisingly these same issues get replicated within the Church. On the one hand you’ll always get the purists who want black and white boundaries, the ins and the outs, the sheep and the goats. Then you get all these difficult cases that don’t fit, the situations where compassion and common sense ask for a more liberal interpretation.

The New Testament clearly presents two sacraments that we can be sure are efficacious — baptism and eucharist. For the purist you only get one chance at baptism — the one-time-only soul-airbrush. So the purist, the anxious Christian, might expect that any sin post-baptism suggests an unregenerate — and so unredeemable — soul. Hence, for a time, believing Christians put off baptism till close to death. You want to be sure about something like the fate of your eternal soul. But time of death is a difficult call to make and does not make for a long and glittering career of discipleship. So the Church decided upon an extra sacrament of penance and reconciliation to ensure that that deathbed confession holds water. And although the Anglican Church went back to just 2 sacraments at the Reformation; many still hold to this third sacrament and in every Eucharist you’ll find near the beginning a penitential rite and the words of absolution. 

There are, however, no sacraments in John’s Gospel. This is often a great surprise to people. But no, there’s no last supper as recorded in the other Gospels. No “This is my body”; no “do this is remembrance of me”. In fact curiously John places all the events of Holy Week slightly earlier. While the others have Jesus arrested after he’s celebrated the Passover meal with the disciples as the last supper, John places the crucifixion just before the Passover; the symbolism being that Jesus is now the new paschal lamb, able to ward off the angel of death in perpetuity. Likewise Jesus is not baptised by John the baptist in this Gospel and only passing references are made to baptism. This is not to suggest though that John was somehow unaware of the two sacraments evidently practised since the beginning of the Christian church. The reading from 1Corinthians, one of the earliest Christian documents, gives St Paul’s account of the Last Supper as it was passed to him and in un-Pauline words gives an impression of an early Christian liturgy. In fact the words of institution that have been used since, except in translation, are unchanged to this day.

It has been suggested that St John was aware of and wary of pagans who were usurping and perverting Christian rituals. Christianity was by necessity secretive in its origins so it may be that he wished to disguise the Church’s practices within the text of the Gospel. “Let the reader understand…” So instead in the Gospel we have events with sacramental overtones. In tonight’s Gospel we have the scene of the last supper. But instead of describing the last supper John describes Jesus washing the disciples’ feet. And in this act of ritual washing he says: ‘Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.’ And earlier at the feeding of the 5000, Jesus’ famous line “I am the bread of life” with the explanation: “Whoever eats of this bread will live for ever; and the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh… Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood have eternal life, and I will raise them up on the last day” followed later by his claim “I am the True Vine.”

What emerges from this Gospel then is not liturgical, as actions to be repeated: ‘Do this is memory of me’ but rather sacramental. We don’t have descriptions of the actions of baptism and eucharist, but we have the theology: that Jesus is identifying himself with the bread and the wine; and that it’s by being washed and by eating and drinking that the Christian and Jesus are brought together. For John’s community which would likely never have met Jesus while he was alive this is key. For people who have not met Jesus John is explaining how they too can share in the risen life. For the anxious this identification is necessarily literal. Roman Catholic teaching on the Eucharist insisted that the bread and wine was quite genuinely changed into flesh and blood.

I’m reminded a little of the story of Oedipus and Thebes. Here, Thebes was losing a Theban a day to the Sphinx because they couldn’t answer the Sphinx’s riddle. The riddle was: What has four legs in the morning, two at midday and three in the evening? Oedipus finally solves it and destroys the sphinx. The answer is a man, crawling first as a baby, then standing, then walking with a stick in old age. It’s not that the riddle was especially hard, but just that the Thebans had no understanding of what a metaphor is. Oedipus did, but then Oedipus had other faults which come to light a few years down the track.

Now a lot of blood has been shed on the question of whether Jesus intended these words literally or metaphorically, and the anxious will always insist that it’s literal, for the surety that it definitely works. For my own mind I am not so anxious to think it matters, as long as you consider that God is present in the taking of communion and understand that its intention is to join you to the spiritual life of Christ. I am though always shocked and appalled by churches that do just pour blessed wine down the sink. For a start, what a waste of good port!

But the Church is right to insist on the importance and maintenance of the sacraments. At times in the Church of England, the Eucharist has been occasional and when we have these promises of the assurance of God’s presence with us, it seems strange to limit our participation. And the Eucharist has the advantage of being non-verbal and non-intellectual. There may be consolation in meditating on the presence of Christ in the sacraments but there is also a simple grace in the physical acts of eating, drinking and washing; they are acts in which even the simplest of us can participate.

And part of the joy of each Eucharist is, as the Eucharistic prayer says, that we join our voices with all the saints and angels; that these words have been said for 2000 years repeating Jesus’ words that he spoke on this night. And, if you’ll allow me, I’ll finish with a passage from Dom Gregory Dix’s majestic work on the history of the Eucharist. It was the favourite passage of a friend of mine, also a priest, and captures the weight of tradition as he reflects on Jesus’ command: “Do this in remembrance of me”:

Was ever another command so obeyed? For century after century, spreading slowly to every continent and country and among every race on earth, this action has been done, in every conceivable human circumstance, for every conceivable human need from infancy and before it to extreme old age and after it, from the pinnacle of earthly greatness to the refuge of fugitives in the caves and dens of the earth. Men have found no better thing than this to do for kings at their crowning and for criminals going to the scaffold; for armies in triumph or for a bride and bridegroom in a little country church; for the proclamation of a dogma or for a good crop of wheat; for the wisdom of the Parliament of a mighty nation or for a sick old woman afraid to die; for a schoolboy sitting an examination or for Columbus setting out to discover America; for the famine of whole provinces or for the soul of a dead lover; in thankfulness because my father did not die of pneumonia; for a village headman much tempted to return to fetich because the yams had failed; because the Turk was at the gates of Vienna; for the repentance of Margaret; for the settlement of a strike; for a son for a barren woman; for Captain so-and-so wounded and prisoner of war; while the lions roared in the nearby amphitheatre; on the beach at Dunkirk; while the hiss of scythes in the thick June grass came faintly through the windows of the church; tremulously, by an old monk on the fiftieth anniversary of his vows; furtively, by an exiled bishop who had hewn timber all day in a prison camp near Murmansk; gorgeously, for the canonisation of S. Joan of Arc—one could fill many pages with the reasons why men have done this, and not tell a hundredth part of them. And best of all, week by week and month by month, on a hundred thousand successive Sundays, faithfully, unfailingly, across all the parishes of Christendom, the pastors have done this just to make the plebs sancta Dei—the holy common people of God.

Palm Sunday: Look on death and believe in life

Sermon by the Revd Dr Brutus Green

Based on readings: Luke 22:14-23:56

The Passion narrative leaves us at the threshold of Holy Saturday. Jewish days, following Genesis, begin in the evening: ‘And there was evening and there was morning, the first day.’ So as Good Friday ends at the tomb in the light of the dusk we are at the beginning of a long day.

As we approach the end of this story, we are confronted with the uneasy feelings left by betrayal, injustice, suffering and death. But the close of Saturday promises a new beginning — a new creation, a liberation and a putting to right of the world. Here is the world we inherit and in which we mostly live. Between the memory of suffering, of a generation, a nation, a person whom we have loved and lost, with the fearful knowledge that we are the inheritors of this broken Good Friday World; and the promise, we dare to hope in, that the fragile meaning and uncertain hope will emerge with the dawning of a new day. Saturday is of course the final day of creation, the Sabbath on which God rests.

At any time the grief of the pieta, the silence of the tomb may threaten to choke us with the fear of Good Friday’s return. What makes Christians different, what marks us out from secularism, which can only ever look backwards to the ambivalence of history, is the belief that love is somehow eternal. What is sewn in love on Good Friday in Christ, for us, is reaped in joy on Easter Sunday. The agony of the darkness of noon is pregnant with glimpses of light from the coming morning. And for our pilgrimage on Holy Saturday, this means that all our grief and suffering is shaped by and may be borne in the hope of resurrection.

John Donne wrote that ‘No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less’. Perhaps it’s only part of our Euroscepticism, but the madding crowd of urban life has diminished our connectedness with one another, and we have largely displaced death out of sight to hospices and professional care.

Reading the Passion is an invitation to draw us back to solidarity with those who suffer, to connect us with one another, and remind us of our common mortality; to help us consider our humanity and draw us towards God revealed in Christ through this story. In the same sermon Donne writes that ‘any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind’. How much more then does Christ’s death diminish us when we reflect upon it? And so as we reflect on this memento mori, we might listen for the bells ringing out in Putney Vale and the shadow of death, with Donne’s injunction: ‘never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.’ 

It is not easy to look upon suffering. Typically we avert our eyes or walk on more quickly. Today we are invited to dwell on those most human of matters; to look on death and believe in life. Christianity is the only religion to have at its heart a story of utter godlessness, suffering and pathetic humanity. To this day we remain surrounded, should we have eyes to see, by the same enduring godlessness, suffering and pathetic humanity. The challenge we face is to see in it the revelation of divinity and to be inspired through it to love God and to serve our neighbours.

4th Sunday of Lent: State of the union

Sermon by the Revd Dr Brutus Green

Based on readings: Isaiah 43:16-21, Philippians 3:4b-14, John 12:1-8

“Do not remember the former things or consider the things of old.  I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?”

An ambitious prophecy of Isaiah, who I’m sure knew, then as now, that getting the people to understand that God might be doing a new thing is no easy business. That the jackals and ostriches of St Margaret’s – you know who you are – do not always take kindly to this new thing, preferring the safe territory of former things and things of old. I can joke about this here because actually if there are jackals and ostriches they are keeping their heads low. What struck me in the parish profile and has been confirmed in the last six months that there is a desire in this parish to grow, to do new things, to engage more, and the versatility to adapt to the strange ways of this new interloper and his wayward family.

And this has been a very significant year, with a great deal of change, some significant trials and challenges, which are not yet all overcome, but also some great steps forward and some wonderful moments of celebration. On coming into post on 20thNovember, there was good news and bad news. The bad news was that having been assured that the building was in good order at interview, dry rot had appeared and I had a mere week of grace before a gathering cloud of scaffolding appeared. 

The good news was that the parish had been led through the interregnum by an outstanding team headed by Janice, Mark and Hilary, Helen running the office, and the lively Community Development Team, chaired by Andrew. A huge amount of work had gone into setting up the appointment with Sarah’s excellent parish profile and then arranging for the parish visit and interview process. In the meantime Laura had run the parish’s first Alpha course, which brought together a new and diverse group of people. Then the CDT led the parish’s St Margaret’s Day with glorious weather, 2 baptisms, and a wonderful picnic. After the Summer we continued with a very colourful, welly-wearing, beautifully decorated Harvest, and the centenary anniversary of the end of the First World War.

My introduction to the parish arrived with a well-attended and organised licensing service, led by Bishop Richard. Helen, as usual, performed wonders in putting on a delightful reception with Sarah.  After that it was into the Advent and Christmas whirlwind, kicked off by an excellent Christmas Tree festival, with Laura, Helen and Becky on the Jingle and Mingle, Jo doing the leg-work with the Christmas Trees, and Helen, Jo and Geraldine heading up the Saturday Fayre. Over the weekend most of the congregation contributed in many and varied ways, not least Father Christmas, and it was a wonderful way to get to know both the congregation and people across the parish. The Christmas season brought in many of our local schools, as well as our local funeral directors, and took me out into the community, including some fun carols at Ashmead care home. We brought back the Nativity Play and our Christingle proved more popular than ever. Mark put on a very fine carol service and our Christmas services recorded a record attendance in recent years. 

Then we eased into the New Year, christening the vicarage with a parish-housewarming and our first Epiphany Carols, for which the choir were superb and gave us a chance to bring out the sherry. Our events continued with Mark running our pub quiz in church.  We split the money between the Roof Appeal and Trinity Hospice, raising over £1000 for each, and having a fantastic evening. Our Pancake day drop-in brought in lots of new families and signalled the beginning of Lent. Clare then ran a superb World Day of Prayer multi-media service, which brought in a good congregation from across local churches. We also drew in good numbers from Churches Together in Putney and Roehampton earlier during the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity and it’s exciting to see a real energy behind this movement.

In general, our ministry with children has been gently building, through our new playgroup “little Maggies” which began a few weeks before Christmas, our new open-door policy and a rejuvenation our children’s work led by Ben and Bryony, assisted by Charlie (who has now moved on to pastures new) and with the return of Jo. Importantly, Sunday School has now realigned with our main service and the children show-and-tell at the end of every service, rejoining us for communion as we come together as a church family. The introduction of a children’s choir led by Rhiannon and Ben has also brought a little more sparkle into our Sunday mornings. With our increased focus on our work with children we have also updated our policies on safeguarding and engaged with wider training, making sure our volunteers have had the correct training and clearance and running a safeguarding here course at St Margaret’s, overseen by safeguarding officers Natasha and Helen.

Liturgically, our Sunday mornings have become more consistent, which was a primary aim of mine coming into post. Our all-age services continue but linked with appropriate festivals in the church year. The building works have brought the altar forward, to unanimous approval, linking the congregation with the liturgy and creating a more accessible service. Here Mark has stepped in fabulously and provided a Dais which transforms the worship space and is in perfect keeping with the building.

Perhaps the most immediately noticeable change has been in our new website and branding. Laura has done an incredible service to the church here in replacing what had become an obsolete and distracting page and providing us with a simple and highly effective site. But the branding goes further and has given us a chance to reflect on our mission and purpose, as developed in the parish profile, consider how we better connect with the community, and grow in faith and confidence looking forward.  With this has come a decision to move to single-use orders of service at the 10am, which again make our services more accessible and straightforward, and we have off-set environmental costs by moving the office to 100% recycled paper. 

Lent has given us a chance to begin some Christian education and we’ve had a really well attended admission to communion course that has provoked lively discussion, hard-fought memorising of prayers and commandments and a good introduction to the fixtures and architecture of the church. Our Lent course has been fascinating in thinking through the spirituality of the different parts of the church and speaking frankly about what we believe, how we worship and why.  This Lent has also given me the chance to get out into the community, connecting with several local schools and charities through assemblies and events, as well as a local Muslim community, whom I’ve joined for a lunch and more recently a vigil remembering the tragic killings in Christchurch.

Music is gaining ground as a priority. Epiphany carols has made an excellent addition to our liturgical year and we will build on this in the summer with a Whitsun carol service. The choir are a huge addition to our Sunday services and we will look to increase the regularity of their appearance moving forward. It’s an important part of our mission to enhance the cultural life of the parish, and last night our silent film, with live improvisation was a really exciting new adventure and speak to anyone who is there, they’ll tell you just how good it was. We will look to further expand our hosting of concerts. Mark put on an excellent show in November and we have begun a collaboration with the Royal Academy of Music, the first concert from which will be in May. 

For the PCC, there’s been a reawakening of subcommittees: Fabric and finance, the Community Development Team, Children and Youth, Design and Media and Liturgy and Education, all of which have already been building the vision of the next steps for St Margaret’s. There’s also an active pastoral team that works hard to make sure we continue to minister to all our congregation and parish, and I’ve had the privilege of taking a significant number of funerals in the last few months, whilst also looking forward to a ministry in weddings and baptisms in the summer. I can only thank the PCC from the bottom of my heart for the support I’ve received coming into post, for their openness and trust in what I feel has already proved a dynamic phase of life for the church.

St Margaret’s is growing. On recent years the last quarter has seen a rise in adult attendance of 20% with many more children and the highest week on week attendance in over ten years. I believe this is largely due to the energy created by the CDT in connecting more with the community, a greater openness, inclusiveness and accessibility in our day to day approach, and the positivity and welcome of the congregation. Nothing would be possible without the backroom work of Helen in the office and the attention of Janice and a few other stalwarts in keeping on top of things, from faculties to the silver, the flowers and the linen. St Margaret’s is a team. Everyone has a role to play but despite the financial and fabric challenges we’ve faced over the past two years I believe that right now we are in an excellent place to grow in faith, in numbers and in service, and to have a wonderful time in the process. The next year is going to see some exciting projects coming together. Obviously we need to complete the work in hand and this will require more fundraising. We also have a busy summer ahead with the Dover House Estate centenary and St Margaret’s Day. As amazing as it sounds plans are already moving forward on Harvest and Christmas already so we can count on being well prepared.

But my main goal for the next year is to start work on our gardens and outside area. I believe the technical word is our ‘curtilage’. We are a community church and our outside area is the first thing that people see and understand what we’re about by.  At the moment the garden at the side of the church are a wasteland, and there is huge potential for doing more. Lighting is an issue and we’ve been waiting to address the bent spikes of the delapidated fencing for a long time. St Margaret’s in the past has had a reputation for being a green church and I think we can develop this. So this project provides a great opportunity to connect with schools and community groups, to use the space for education and make it beautiful, more accessible and safer. To create a space that is a sanctuary and an attraction, that speaks to our care of creation and our welcome and hospitality to all God’s creatures.

There are many other things that I would like to say to you but you cannot bear them now. Helen and I have a joke in the office that most mornings we get to lunch and think: “well I wasn’t expecting to be doing that this morning.” But we will continue to develop our music and our ministry to young families. We will offer more and varied services and groups to reflect on our faith, our vision and our mission. We will connect more with local businesses, charities and institutions. We will grow and prosper, in faith, in friendship and in fun. And we will look forward positively to the opportunities that the next year will bring.

See, I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?

Mothering Sunday: Gone a-mothering

Sermon by the Revd Dr Brutus Green

Based on readings: Exodus 2:1-10, Colossians 3:12-17, Luke 2:33-35

Today is Mothering Sunday — Importantly, we should try to avoid any ghastly Americanisms — like referring to it as Mothers’ Day. Before Mothering was a thing this middle Sunday of Lent was known as Laetare Sunday from Psalm 122, in Latin Laetatus Sum: A Royal favourite — I was glad, popularised by Mr Parry —which provided the old introit for this Sunday. Being the middle of Lent, though, it’s also known as ‘Refreshment Sunday’ and a good opportunity to take a hard-earned break for all your solemnity, austerity and Lenten devotion. For this reason in the sixteenth-century, your domestic staff were given the day off to go back to their families. People would return to their “mother” church, usually the church where they were baptised — going ‘a-mothering’; one of the few times in the year that families were actually able to get back together.

Children and young people were also given a day off because at that time they would often have jobs, usually from the age of around 10, unlike the present slackers, Gen-Z who would probably complain that it was against their human rights or something. Their little hands were useful for cleaning and fixing in factories, but equally they’d work in the country: bird scaring, sowing crops and driving horses, or holding doors down the mines, or as errand boys and chimney sweeps in the cities. Often they’d pick wildflowers along the way thus beginning the tradition of giving flowers to mothers…

And while Mothering Sunday slowly diminished over the centuries and disappeared from sight, it was reinvigorated in 1920s by Constance Penwick-Smith so it’s largely her we have to thank for bringing it back. Father’s Day, an infinitely holier and more important feast has been celebrated since the Middle Ages on March 19, St Joseph’s Day, though as usual the Americans got it wrong and put it in June.

But mothers are important too. The time I have most been in peril — and there are many — was rock climbing on the Gower near where I grew up. My elder brother, who is also a good bit taller than me, had gone ahead and before I knew it we were ascending a vertical cliff with nothing but the sea below crashing against the rocks. Well I was struggling a little having something less reach than the man ahead, but growing up as one of three boys there is no turning back or being beaten by a sibling. That is simply unacceptable. So I was out of my comfort zone. But as I swung myself up for the next handhold I suddenly came face to face with an enormous spider. Now I am quite arachnophobic. Less now than I was, but I remember a school 'friend' chasing me round the classroom with a money spider. It was that sort of school. So this was pretty much my worst nightmare. Half way up a cliff with my hands full so to speak. Face to face with the devil himself. My instinct was to let go; which would not have been a good idea. And I remember distinctly, wishing I was back with my mum at home having a cup of tea in a lovely calm house. It's funny really but the feeling was so strong and the image so strong, that I almost felt I could close my eyes turn back time and be back with her sitting on the sofa. A little like the prayer of the Hail Mary: “Mother of God, pray for us, now and at the hour of our death.”

Now there are two possible Gospel readings for Mothering Sunday. Both are terribly short. Presumably in case you’re running an all-age service. But both are also essentially about Mary grieving at the crucifixion. Which is a challenging theme for an all-age service. There is the one I read earlier. Jesus is a little boy but the old folk predict he will change the world, but with the line, 'and a sword will pierce your own soul too’. The other is literally two lines from the crucifixion where Jesus is entrusting his mother to his friend.

So, oddly, Mothering Sunday comes in Spring, the cold has gone and we’re thinking about all the little lambs coming into the world, the children do a little song, and it's all lovely; but the lectionary writers have not forgotten it's Lent and so the experience of motherhood they relate it to is the death of her son.

And if you think about it the two iconic images of Mary are firstly her with the baby on her arm; the subject of a million paintings and icons. And then her at the pieta; again, millions of paintings and icons; post crucifixion, Jesus is once again in her arms, again as most vulnerable humanity, but now as a broken adult. There’s a circularity here that Freud will pick up on 1900 years later between the womb and the tomb, two inescapable images of the Western idea of motherhood.

And we see that at the most pressing times in our life, when we're under the most pressure or threat, at the major events, we return to the place and people that are most important to us. The memory of the safe space, the recognition of dependable love draws us back.

What we can see the church doing on Mothering Sunday then is trying to draw people back to what's really important.  Because it's not enough that you think of what really matters when the chips are down and your life is on the line.  Why would you not always put the most important things first all the time.

Jesus of course remained close to his mission throughout.  We don't really see him go off message. And, of course, to the end he stays close to his mother.

Which reminds me of one of Rhiannon's favourite jokes:

A woman goes to her rabbi and says, “Rabbi, I've done everything right, I brought up my son in the faith, gave him a very expensive Bar Mitzvah and it cost me a fortune to educate him.  Then he tells me last week, he’s decided to be a Christian. Rabbi, where did I go wrong?”

The Rabbi says 'Funny you should come to me. I also brought up my Son according to the Law,  paid for an expensive education, sent him to college, and now he too is a Christian.”

“What did you do?” the woman asks the rabbi.

“I turned to God for the answer.”

“What did he say?”

He said,  “Funny you should come to me...”

So Mothering Sunday. A good day to take an interval, a half time break in Lent, or maybe, if it's been a bit shakey, a time to start again and try to get through to Easter. A time to bring the nest back together if you can; to stay safe and avoid spiders. And to remember and give thanks for what's most important in life, which may include our mothers, amongst other things.  Amen.

3rd Sunday of Lent: Grace is enough

Sermon by the Revd Dr Brutus Green

Based on readings: Isaiah 55:1-9, 1 Corinthians 10:1-13, Luke 13:1-9

Do you presume yourself to be worthy of God?

Or do you despair of not being good enough?

While I was training for ministry I spent just over a month in Ethiopia. There was some very pleasant sightseeing; I went up to see the churches at Lalibela which are literally hewn out of the rock and deserve to be named as one of the wonders of the world.  I ate the local thick spiced pancakes, drank coffee from its origin, and read Gone with the Wind by candlelight in restaurants at night.  But I was also helping the Anglican Bishop with an education course and some translation workshops and drove out with a small team to Gambella on the Sudanese border.  After the two-day drive through the majestic Rift Valley we arrived, only to have to lay low in a hotel for a couple of days after a hostile take-over of the Anglican allotment.  Here I encountered a new level of church politics, as we learned that the land had been seized by the local church because of tribal interests.  It later emerged that at the equivalent of a PCC meeting the question of murdering the overseer of the Anglican development project had been discussed, on the grounds of his (relatively) large income and tribe.  It’s a bit like our churchwarden Janice, who suspiciously isn’t here this morning, sneaking out to murder the vicar of St Mary’s because they’ve got that pleasant view overlooking the river.  The decision went against this proposal, not on the grounds of Scripture, morality, or anything approaching charity, but simply through fear of an escalating backlash.  I’m looking forward to Any Other Business at the PCC meeting on Monday.  If you get a phone call from the police later in the week, Janice was particularly noticeable this morning, handing out leaflets, making coffee and playing the organ.

I bring this up because in today’s reading St Paul is tackling the fact that Christians aren’t always perfect.  There were in the Corinthian church a number of issues that actually might have made even that PCC in Ethiopia blush: a man sleeping with his step-mother, another with prostitutes, members of the congregation taking each other to court, warring factions, women speaking in church; some truly astonishing behaviour.

So here Paul takes us back to Moses’ Exodus and outlines four ways in which the people received God’s grace:  the protection of the cloud and the famous crossing of the Sea, which he describes as being baptised into Moses; and then spiritual food and drink: the Manna, and the water that springs from the rock in the wilderness.   There’s a clear parallel with the Christian church in the sacraments of baptism and eucharist.  And yet we’re told God was not pleased with most of them, and many were ‘struck down in the wilderness’.

If you like a bit of etymology the word translated here as ‘struck down’ is ‘katestropheesan’ - literally ‘down-turned’, as in over-turned; but the word has a life of its own in our language as ‘catastrophe’.  And as you heard the passage, they were all under the cloud, all passed through the sea, all were baptized, all ate the spiritual food, and all drank the spiritual drink.  All received grace, and yet many were found wanting, many were catastroph-ied.

So against the four experiences of grace, St Paul gives us four temptations that misdirect human will: Idols, immorality, testing God and complaining.

The threat of idols doesn’t really speak to us today.  This is a time when all public life, as well as religious groups and the private life of families involved religion.   Whether it’s a public holiday, another religion or just going for dinner at a friend’s house, there was probably a religious element.  Given that the favourite local god for Corinthians was Aphrodite, goddess of lurve — that’s l-u-r-v-e — this could be a particular problem. I’m sure those dinner parties happen in Putney. My advice is to keep your keys in your pocket.

Which leads us to the second temptation: immorality.  Corinth at the time had a culture of sophistication and instant gratification.  You might say they were the hipsters of 2000 years ago, but with less good social media. (But you get the impression they would have taken easily to Tinder.)

This is a serious problem for Paul because of temptation three: putting the Lord to the test.  Paul is teaching a message of grace and like the Church of England today, he’s encountering large amounts of indifference if not hostility, so he wants to make his message attractive.  And the Gospel is — literally — Good news.  You have to do nothing.  Grace is free.  That’s got great marketing value in a decadent culture.  But what Paul’s confronting here is the sin of presumption.  His church have figured that if they’re already saved they can live how they please, grow beards and wear scarves no matter the weather, as they’re already under God’s protection.

To be fair, the church faces this in every generation.  How do you communicate that grace is free but never cheap? That if you haven’t allowed grace to change you, you’re missing something.  Effectively, you haven’t been brought up well enough to write a thank-you note.

And of course even for us who come to church, it can so easily become a hobby, a club, something nice for when you’re retired like gardening — or moving to Hove.  Paul, who has found his entire life turned upside-down by his encounter with Christ, is not prepared for casual Christians: ‘Seven whole days, not one in seven, I will praise thee — as the seventeenth-century poet George Herbert would later write.   When all are baptized, all receive the Eucharist, how do you communicate the life-changing seriousness of the Gospel?  You don’t want a church of Oscar Wildes attesting that they intend to die as a Christian, though they could never live as one.

The final temptation is complaining.  Something to remind your partner of if they’re giving you a hard time at lunch.  But this is the complaining of Israel as they moaned the whole way through Exodus — why have you brought us out here only to be slain by the Egyptians?  Why have you brought us in to the desert only to starve to death?  It’s the sin of despair.  So if the third temptation is ingratitude, this temptation is to give up and believe that grace is not sufficient for you.

In a sense both of these are about what we hope for.  Presumption is the self-willed anticipation of what we hope for.  Despair is the self-willed anticipation of failure.  Both are refusals to let grace be grace; to let God be God; to insist on our control of the future.

We’re not here really talking about our earthly life.  Probably most of the Israelites were not terrible people, and could have hoped for better than to be catastrophied.  That slightly odd Gospel reading is saying that the poor Jews murdered by Pilate, and the unfortunates the tower collapsed on, were not worse people than anyone else.  Bad things happen to everyone.  We muddle along in our self-interested, distracted way and try largely to avoid tragedy.  But in our faith God is more interested in how able we are to trust him, to let go of the need to control the future — to find more ways of protecting ourselves, or to give in to despair.

The Gospel message here is something more like — do the right thing and put others first.  Trust you’re in God’s hands.  Find grace where you can, especially in the sacraments, and our spiritual food and drink.  That doesn’t mean you’ll make it out alive; no one makes it out alive.  But you will be living your best possible life; and whether you live 20 years or 100, in the eyes of God, it’s only a breath: ‘For my thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways my ways, says the LORD’.  That’s not an easy thought, but grace is free, never cheap. 

So while we’re in this desert of Lent, let’s avoid idols and immorality, with the Putney fast set; but have hope that neither presumes too much, nor despairs in duress — but trusts God even in catastrophe.  And whether you survive it or not, know that his grace is sufficient for you.  Amen.

2nd Sunday of Lent: Mission and Commitment

Sermon by Anne East

Based on readings: Psalm 27, Philippians 3: 17 –  4: 1,  Luke 13: 31 – 35 

“Today, tomorrow, and the next day I must be on my way.” Jesus leaves Galilee and starts on his journey towards Jerusalem – a place where great prophets of the past had been ignored, reviled or killed. Jesus was journeying towards the same end – and he knew it.

A group of Pharisees have come to him and warned him to leave Galilee because Herod wants to kill him. What is peculiar about this is that up to now the Pharisees have not been Jesus’ friends! We can only speculate, guess at their motives for example, perhaps they want to drive Jesus out of the area where Herod has jurisdiction into Jerusalem where Pilate is in charge – some political agenda there, but Jesus makes it clear that he is not going to take their advice, he’s going to make the journey in his own time. He will continue what he is doing, whichever authority he is upsetting, he will not stop his ministry – he will go all the way to the top, to the capital city even though he knows what awaits him there.

“I must be on my way” - casting out demons and performing cures, teaching and demonstrating God’s love, the mission and commitment at the centre of Jesus’ work.

This season of Lent gives us the opportunity to think about our Mission and Commitment – as we pass through the weeks leading to Easter, the rhythms of our church calendar: our Lenten study groups, the young people who will be preparing for admission to Communion, our Annual Church meeting, the election of new members of the PCC.  Lent is an opportunity for deeper reflection on what it means to live as children of God in this place and the wider community.

Paul, writing to the early church at Philippi urges them to follow him in pressing on towards their goal, and directs them to look at each other for examples of how to live the gospel. “Look to those in your midst, who live according to the gospel’” .

Be imitators of Christ, yes, but also learn from each other. I think that’s particularly wonderful, and I want to say how much I learn from the faithfulness and loving kindness of individuals and community here. ‘Ultraiea’ ‘Onward and upward’, is the old pilgrim cry as they meet each other on the Path. Onward and upward for us too, we must be on our way.

The Christian life is often referred to as a ‘journey’ – the early followers of Jesus were called ‘people of the Way’. The Way, the Path, The Road . . I wonder what mental picture you have of that Path? Is it an open road? A narrow lane? A path across a field, where you can see your destination in the distance, or through a wood, where it is difficult to see because the light is restricted though the trees? Perhaps it is all of these at different times. I’ve heard people talk about keeping on the straight and narrow, but that’s not an image I find particularly helpful – in fact I’d go so far as the say it is singularly unhelpful! That sounds like a very limiting, constricting image of God. (Remember Jesus said, “I came that they might have life and have it abundantly!” – the straight and narrow does not strike me as being ‘abundant’)

I want to offer you this morning a different image of this path – and that’s a path that is on the edge, the edge of a cliff, the edge of a mountain. Boundaries bring safety, so if you like closure, clear beginnings, neat endings this ‘edge space’ will be particularly demanding. But that’s where Jesus was going – to the very edge, the Garden of Gethsemane, and the Cross.

When we are on the edge path, we see the land shifting. As I walk on a familiar stretch of the Cornish Coast Path I see changes on that edge, between the landscape and the seascape, constantly evolving as storm and wind, sand, stone and tide engage with each other. Sometimes the change is dramatic – as when there is a landslip, a section of land falls into the sea, as recently near West Bay in Dorset.

In the political landscape too - in this country and others – the land is shifting, we are walking on the edge. But edge-space can also be a place of transformation and change. Walking the edge is not an ever-shrinking and narrowing path but a journey into an ever-widening space with a possibility for good.

I pray that we can feel that -  In a world teeming with broken relationships, personal disappointments, public scandals, political games, cultural disrespect, increased terrorism . .the edge and its shifting landscape can be a scary place.  Trust is difficult. We find that expressed many times in the Psalms, the song book of the Hebrew Bible, Jesus’ hymn book if you like. He quoted Psalm 22 on the cross, “ My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

I commend to you Psalm 27, which we heard read this morning. It expresses this fear of abandonment: “Do not hide your face from me. Do not forsake me.” The Psalmist gives voice to the fears and uncertainties within us over which we have no control, and it balances those against the assurances of divine help: “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?”

There is a gritty honesty in this Psalm as it moves back and forth between fear and trust.  Like many Psalms it is in two sections and within the sections you have parallel thoughts expressed (it follows a poetic form). What I find I find really interesting is that is starts with trust and affirmation – God is light, salvation, stronghold, God protects, teaches, leads – and then moves into doubt and uncertainty. “Do not cast me off. Do not give me up!” That’s not neat! You really want it to be the other way round – to begin with wavering doubt and move into certainty.

But life isn’t neat, we are walking on the edge and the land is shifting. In Lent we hold fear and faith, doubt and trust together. Let us be a community where we can talk honestly about these things – a safe space to ask the questions and learn from each other. And to pray together. Learning to hold doubt and faith together takes patience – and this last verse of this psalm holds all the other verses together: “Wait for the Lord, be strong and let your heart take courage; wait for the Lord!”

Jesus faced the ultimate challenge, he experienced fear and grief, suffering and death. He held them and transformed them. This Lent, as we walk on the edge, may we see it as a place of transformation, for individuals and for community. Navigating pain, learning from each other, developing our Christian life – making a difference in the world. ‘Today, tomorrow and the next day, we must be on our way.’

1st Sunday of Lent: Enter the Desert

Sermon by the Revd Dr Brutus Green

Based on readings: Deuteronomy 26:1-11, Romans 10:8b-13, Luke 4:1-13

Today we are at the beginning of Lent; so I want to think about how we too can enter into the desert, the wilderness.

In the third century AD there was a striking development in Christianity. Because of persecution Christians took themselves off to live in the desert. Later, after the persecutions stopped, more went into the desert anyway to test themselves, as martyrdom became harder to arrange. This wasn’t then a physical escape for these esoteric characters. They entered the desert to combat themselves. The way of life they developed became the foundation on which the great monastic orders, the Benedictines, the Dominicans, the Franciscans, built. Monastic communities are actually in vogue again — as our lady Madonna might say — but the wisdom of the Desert Fathers, as these men are called, has an enduring quality — not in a pompous, academic or pious way — but because there’s just a lot of good common sense, and a dash of humour.

One story tells of a tempestuous monk who became frustrated with how easily he became angry. Since he couldn’t find peace he took himself off to live in isolation in a deserted cave. He thought if I have nothing to do with others I won’t be tempted by anger. One day, he filled his water jug, but managed to tip it over. A second time he filled it but, clumsily, again he tipped it over.  The third time, again, he put it down and over it went. In a rage he smashed it. Then he realised that he’d been tempted by the devil. So he returned to the monastery, as he understood that conflict is to be found everywhere, even on your own, but so too is patience and the help of God.

Aside from the actual physical challenge of desert life, for the wandering Arameans, for Jesus in today’s Gospel, the desert is a symbol of escaping worldliness — and for Lent — of giving things up, of discipline, preparation for Easter. But the desert isn’t a “retreat”, it’s an advance to battle, a chance to confront yourself.  So the Desert Father Evagrius tells us:

‘If a trial comes upon you in the place where you live, do not leave that place when the trial comes. Wherever you go, you will find that what you are running from is there ahead of you. So stay until the trial is over, so that if you do end up leaving, no offence will be caused, and you will not bring distress to others.’

We don’t solve our problems by running away from them. But space and reflection can help us to understand what’s going on, and to begin to rectify the situation.

T.S. Eliot who often wrote about the desert, accuses:

you neglect and belittle the desert.
The desert is not remote in southern tropics
The desert is not only around the corner,
The desert is squeezed in the tube-train next to you,
The desert is in the heart of your brother.

The desert is a metaphor for the confrontation ultimately faced by everyone in finding ourselves alone with God. A moment which can equally be found in the Sahara, or on a crowded train rattling through East Putney.

I have spent a little time in deserts. The two most striking things are firstly, the scale of it; and in the vastness of the geography, the featureless distance, the full complement of stars above, and your smallness and insignificance. And, secondly, the exposure; the lack of shelter, of cover from friends or enemies, of food and water. It’s a very natural place to think on our mortality and place in the world. 

TE Lawrence wrote of the Arabs’ experience of the desert, that there was: ‘just the heaven above and the unspotted earth beneath.  There unconsciously he came near God… [in] its open spaces and its emptiness [he was] inevitably thrust upon God as the only refuge and rhythm of being.’

If we don’t have the means for taking ourselves off to an actual desert, then at least we have Lent to offer us this space. On Ash Wednesday we were marked with ashes and told “Remember you are dust and to dust you will return.” The desert puts life in perspective. This might all sound very bleak, but TE Lawrence also remarked on how the Bedouin embraced the desert precisely for its austerity, for the nakedness of the soul within it, because ‘there he found himself… free.’ The beauty of the desert is its simplicity.  It’s a return to the basics.

Consider this from John the Dwarf, another Desert Father:  ‘we have exchanged the easy yoke of self-accusation for the heavy yoke of self-justification’.  Self-accusation initially may feel like a hard thing.  And it is hard — to admit our failings, to say we’ve made a mistake, to give up our pride in being clever, successful, perfect.  Self-justification on the other hand seems easy — to spin the stories we tell about ourselves so that we cover over our faults and mistakes; to make ourselves look good in the mirror and to the world.  So easy that it is the natural state of pretty much everyone. We’re all young, bright and popular right? But it’s a heavy burden.  To always be right, on track, successful, ahead of the game; to live up to our own and other people’s expectations can be intolerable.  It’s exactly this burden of self-justification that is the cause of most breakdowns — when the sheer weight of expectations becomes so unbearable and so impossible to sustain that our temper or our ego or our emotional wellbeing splinters.

Self-accusation, though, while seeming hard — hard to admit, embarrassing or humbling — is a liberation.  It’s the easy burden.  Because when we don’t have to be perfect, when we can admit we’ve got it wrong, the pressure we’ve created for ourselves evaporates. And we can finally stop pretending. Have we ‘exchanged the easy yoke of self-accusation for the heavy yoke of self-justification’? In Lent we might well ask this question.

Being a Xennial, I’m reminded of the 1999 film, Fight Club, which gives a kind of contemporary account of what entering the desert means. There’s a renunciation of the world.  As the main character says, “The things you own end up owning you”  and “It’s only after we’ve lost everything that we’re free to do anything.” The characters take a somewhat violent path after leaving their normal work routine, but like American Beauty (released in the same year), the point is that the characters step out of a life which is grey and deadening to the soul, and find strength and purpose in a simpler and less conventional lifestyle.  By stepping out of unhappy routines they also discover who they really are, the good and the bad.

It should be added, in contrast to the above films, that the point of the desert experience is to return us as socially useful, more in tune with ourselves and others. Death and dismemberment; joining a Fight Club, may prevent this. But this is another surprise of the Desert Fathers. For men and women who went out in search of isolation, they returned, formed communities or offered services which placed other people far above themselves.

One of my favourite stories is of Abba Bessarion. When a priest turned out someone, who had committed a grave sin, Abba Bessarion got up and followed him out. He said, “I too am a sinner”. Then there is Abba Poemen, who was questioned:  “If I see my brother sinning, should I hide the fact?” He replied:  “At the moment when we hide a brother’s fault, God hides our own. At the moment we reveal a brother’s fault, God reveals our own.”

Coming to terms with ourselves, confronting ourselves, should leave us less self-centred; less neurotic; less insecure of our possessions and place in the world. Part of the freedom of the desert is to be less attached to our needs and desires and free to to care for others.

So Lent is a chance for us in these forty days to try — perhaps solidly on one point — perhaps a little here and there — to enter into the desert; to think about the big things, which are also the simple things; to spend some time alone with just our self and God; to allow ourselves to be a little exposed. But also perhaps to find a little freedom, escaping some of the social, domestic and personal pressure we put on ourselves. And perhaps we can, like Jesus, also put the noise of consumerism and carnality behind us for a while, with all the temptations of the devil; and recalling the line earlier from Romans; in simplicity find that:

‘The word is near you, on your lips and in your heart.’
And the devil will depart and the angels minister to us. Amen.

Ash Wednesday: Misery and Mercy

Sermon by the Revd Dr Brutus Green

Based on reading: John 8: 2-11

This is the Gospel of Christ, but it’s not the Gospel of John.  It’s rare that Biblical scholarship is unanimous but you won’t find many commentators trying to defend it as original to John, no matter which century you turn to.  The language is not Johanine, we hear of the Mount of Olives, and Jesus disputes with ‘the scribes and the pharisees’, unmentioned in John but common in the other Gospels; it awkwardly interrupts the flow of the text, which seamlessly flows around it,  and it’s missing from almost all the earliest manuscripts. 

Is it then discredited and to be ignored?  Well, no.  In fact, there are even more good reasons for paying careful attention to it.  The style is very much like Luke’s Gospel and in some manuscripts it’s placed as Luke’s twenty-first chapter.  The recording of Jesus in confrontation with religious authorities places it among the most credible accounts of Jesus’ life and teaching, and the attention to detail suggests an eye witness account.  But actually what stands most to its credit is just how surprising it is.  The suggestion of Christ’s mercy cutting through such an obvious case of caught-red-handed, of its summary dismissal of human justice in what looks clear cut, is a threat to all authority.  That it’s a woman, someone who’s little more than property, with no legal voice, strengthens it further.  Female sexuality was firmly under the thumb, at the disposal of men.  This story liberates the woman.  It’s a dangerous text.  

And for the emerging church with its many disciplinary issues, which we regularly hear about in Paul’s letters, it’s a text that gets a little too close to the bone. How will it be read?  How will we maintain the ethics and credibility of our new faith if the hoi polloi get wind that the mercy of Christ may exceed all the law, the teaching and authority of men? So we have to thank the scribe who sneaks it in here,  because in it we have a record of one of the most striking, comforting and challenging teachings of Jesus.

But what is going on here?  We’re told first of all that this woman is caught actually ‘in the act of adultery’ — in flagrante delicto. Presumably we can imagine then she is somewhat immodestly dressed, caught no doubt somewhat off guard, and her public humiliation is only a foretaste of the hoped for violence.

And the verdict is already given.  When you heard this story, as you probably have done many times before, did you assume she was guilty?  Did the marvellous moral that Christ acquits even the most heinous sin, obscure the fact that no evidence is given, that this is a lynching.  Did you also - without thought - pass judgement on the humiliated woman?  And there are gaps.  Where is the man?  After all it takes two to tango - adultery is a team game. 

As it stands with no mention of the offending man at all, it's suggestive of either a set up of some sort, or worse of a much darker violence heaped again upon this woman.  This terrible use of the girl is even more evident as their actual goal is to trap Jesus.  Either he condones circumventing Roman law and punishes her according to Jewish Law, blasting his undeniable popular reputation for liberalism and kindness; or in the very temple itself he denies what the Jewish Law demands. 

There’s a suggestion here of Jesus’ ironic parodying of man’s justice. He looks away, writing in the dust, as in a Roman court the accusation would have been written impartially in the ledger;  with his finger twice, perhaps suggesting the Law of Moses, written on the two tablets of the Ten Commandments. Is he positioning himself as the new law giver?  Is he suggesting that human law is dust?  Vanity blowing on the wind? Is it simply time wasting, or an eye witness account of one of Jesus’ tics? Is he overcome with emotion, unable to look upon either the murdering crowd or the exposed humiliation of the woman?

We have in his riddling response — that the guiltless should throw the first stone — perhaps a suggestion of an answer, for he immediately begins his writing in the sand again.  He doesn’t look up.  He doesn’t attempt confrontation.  There’s something impartial in the action, which faces human judgement and says, yes, yes, but who are you to demand punishment?  In the heat of conflict he holds up a mirror to the conscience of the would-be-murderers. 

The episode is a criticism of all occasions of so-called human justice — of every time we’ve been involved, as an individual, as a community, as a nation, where violence is committed in the name of justice.  This isn’t to dismiss the importance, the necessity, of human justice, but it shows that it’s ugly, that everyone’s diminished by it, and that we must bear its burden every time it’s deployed.

At the end the woman and Jesus are left alone, the oldest — the wisest or the most burdened — having left first.  Jesus and the woman.  As St Augustine says ‘relicti sunt duo miseria et misericordia’ — there are left the two — misery and mercy:  “Woman, where are they?  Has no one condemned you?”

This story has always moved me —  it’s an emotionally involving story.  The question to ask though is — who are you identifying with here? As you heard it, your subconscious may have been running with a modern day parallel in thinking of the atrocities that happen to women still today, 

still all the time.  You may have seen in the angry mob an angry mob in Yemen or India. Perhaps you’re thinking of Harvey Weinstein, “Me too” and the exposure of exploitation in Hollywood, Parliament and elsewhere. You probably identified first of all then with the woman.  Your own secret faults may also have come to mind, perhaps regrets, perhaps residual guilt of damage done or secret shame. 

One of the most profound spiritual experiences I’ve ever had, though, occurred to me when I realised that although I did empathize with the woman I also strongly identified with the crowd of men.  Because actually we all enjoy a bit of rough justice. There’s a part of us not unhappy to see another suffer, lose, fall behind; the whisper of justice in your head as someone you don’t like trips up, the thrill of schadenfreude as Richard Dawkins failed to remember the full title of On The Origin of Species. Executions have long been a mainstay of popular entertainment, and little has changed in the bullying morality of the press and social media.

But this was not my spiritual experience.  I’m aware of at least some of my shortcomings and while ill-equipped to always deal with them, I’m not so proud as to deny them.  But what I noticed was that the rage of the crowd with which I identified was mostly directed at myself. Because all of us are angry with ourselves — rock in hand angry with ourselves. Most of us at some point judge ourselves and find what we see wanting.  Failed ambitions, disappointing relationships, not what we expected when we expected, not as good, clever, successful, pretty as the guy — or girl — over there. Part of it’s pride, part vanity and envy; part of it frustration, part guilt, part unreasonable expectations.  And we can find each of these looming over the prone body of our vulnerable soul. 

Jesus does not claim the woman hasn’t sinned.  He tells her not to sin again.  She isn’t left necessarily happy or even relieved.  She's left in a state of repentance thankful for mercy. Like the crowd, like us, she has sinned — not necessarily adultery, but we all fall short. 

Like the men who excised this story from some of the early manuscripts because it was too threatening, too permissive, and in doing so continued the violence of the crowd to this woman.  Like them, like the woman, we all live in glass houses.  But our aim for Lent is to be like her, to find ourselves alongside Jesus, and to one by one let the jeering crowd of clamouring anger depart from us, one by one, frustration, disappointment, guilt, vanity, pride. 

Lent is a time for giving things up. So this year perhaps you could: Give up self-righteousness. Give up self-judgement. Give up self-hatred. Give up anger. Give up resentment. Give up bitterness. Watch them walk away, starting with the eldest.  ‘Relicti sunt duo miseria et misericordia:’ ‘There were left, the two, misery and mercy’

Left with Jesus you will find no one left to condemn you. ‘Go, and do not sin again.’  Amen.

Part 4: The Church

Sermon by The Revd Dr Brutus Green

Based on readings: Exodus 34:29-35; 2Corinthians 3:12-4:2; Luke 9:28-36

“We few, we happy few, we band of brothers”

“We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender”

“I have a dream… that one day right here in Alabama little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.”

It’s striking that most of the really hair-raising speeches, are built around the sentiment of communion.  Whether it’s a small group facing the odds — like Russel Crowe shouting “as one!” Or times of national peril that require common cause — or the call for reform, to acknowledge those whom society has neglected; what stirs the hearts of men and women is common identity, cause, and solidarity; the call to communion.

These last four weeks I have been thinking through the creed, the foundation of our faith.  What I hope I’ve communicated is that the Christian faith is not about propositional assent.  Jesus did not walk around saying “Well guys, if you can sign up to these four statements you’re golden.”  The creed, like Jesus, wants you to see the world in a particular way.  It’s about vision.  

So when we say I believe in God the Father we’re looking at the world as a creation; everything matters, has purpose and meaning.

Our belief in God the Son is our ability to see this purpose, the hidden meaning of creation, as compassion.  I’m using the word compassion partly because Love can be understood as a bit fluffy and emotional, like a millennial safe-space.  In past weeks I’ve used the words “solidarity” and “service”.  Compassion comes from the Latin, meaning literally ‘to suffer with.’ So through ‘com’ we get that sense of being alongside, and passion reminds us of the events of Holy Week which are now fast approaching. ‘Compassion’ conveys that sense of solidarity and reminds us of the cost of service and care.  The cross makes visible this fullest expression of putting others before yourself.  And the resurrection shows this compassion to be honoured eternally by God.

Last week I described the Spirit as the transforming power of compassion in creation and ourselves.  That we can find in ourselves and the world something bringing people together, enabling us to give more and forge the common good.  And that as we are able to embody this self-giving-love in thought, word and deed, we are becoming the person we are meant to be — discovering that meaning in our lives.  You might say that as we become more and more human — able to embrace a wider circle of people as those we’d treat as brothers and sisters — we become more divine.  Closer to God.

So what I’ve tried to do in these last 3 weeks is to outline what it means to believe in God.  That we should banish from our minds thoughts of Gandalf, or stars, or even some great rushing wind or force.  God is not a thing.  And instead take an awkward sideways glance at the person next to you, or think back on your strongest memories.  God is there in the places you love and where you’ve been loved.  Those times in your life you’ve sensed the greatest meaning and connectedness.  And at times of your greatest need, God can be very clear in the face and actions of your brother or sister.  But actually God is there even in those most desolate places, woven in the fabric of the universe, sometimes hidden, but waiting to be revealed.  God is in the vision that it takes to look at that difficult place and still know compassion.

The final part of the creed deals with the Church.  Despite the visible fractures, we believe in one church, which reminds me of the classic church joke, where the bloke’s being show round heaven and asks the angel why there’s a walled off section with some dodgy music coming — and he says” shhhhh — that’s the charismatics — they think they’re the only ones here.”  As Jesus says, ‘In My Father’s House there are many rooms’ and for now it’s sometimes best some people are kept apart.

The Church is also holy, which means set apart.  For my recent birthday I was delighted to receive a play mobile Noah’s Ark.   Noah’s Ark, presumably because of the animals, remains an enduring favourite, and this will hopefully serve us through a number of bath times.  But less commonly known is that Noah’s Ark gives us the blueprint for Church architecture.  The nave, such as you’re now sitting in, derives from the shape of a ship, an ark of salvation, and shelter from the storm.  The greek for church is ecclesia - which literally means ‘called out’, as we’re called out from the world into this gentle vessel.

The Church is also catholic which means ‘universal — for everyone’, as in “her taste in men was truly catholic.”  Rhiannon’s favourite story is shocking her mother that she was dating a priest.  When Rhiannon tried to reassure her that Anglican priests can marry, her mother could not hide her disappointment: because sure it’d be scandalous but at least he’d be Catholic.  That’s not the sort of Catholic we’re talking about here.

Finally the Church is apostolic, which means there’s continuity from Jesus, through the apostles and the centuries of bishops to today.  To be clear, when we say Church here we are not talking just about the Church of England.  Rather that we believe the Church of England to be part of the one holy catholic and apostolic Church.  There are other churches, though they don’t have such colourful orders of service.

The point of entry into the church is baptism, which is why it’s specifically mentioned in the creed.  Baptism marks a turning point, a change of direction.  It’s the declaration that you’ve turned to look at the world through the eyes of compassion. 

At my ordination at St Paul’s I don’t remember the sermon, but I do remember something that Lucy Winkett said to us as we were taking our oaths in St Vedast next door.   She said sacraments are the public demonstration of things that are already the case.  The visible sign of an invisible grace.  This was no doubt intended to calm some nerves, but what we’re doing here each week, in rehearsing the same words, is testifying to our common cause, which is our belief in a thing called love — making visible that invisible grace.  And the point of liturgy, of these words that have been repeated in every language for centuries, is to allow us to come together and support one another in maintaining this vision and ethic of compassion.  And in the words, in singing together but most of all in sharing one bread and one cup there is that call to communion; a solidarity between us here and now, an act that connects us with the past and the church to come; and with Christians across the world.

But while the great speeches evoke solidarity by reminding us of the greatness of the victory that is to come, the history of our nation, the truths universally acknowledged, the solidarity of the church is based on an admission of weakness.  Baptism is a turning from failure.  The body to which we belong as we come to communion, is not perfect; it’s not a strong body — it’s a broken body.  When the priest declares in communion we are one body, it’s at that moment the bread is broken, because the body in which we share is one broken by the demands of compassion.

So being part of the church is not a question of qualifying or passing some test or criteria — like joining a church school.  It’s by the admission of weakness, of need for healing.  And that should be the enduring image of the church as a people who come together not as strong individuals who together make an even stronger body — but as imperfect, fragile people who by serving each other can become whole.

The image of heaven and hell that sticks with me was one described to me as a child.  Hell it was said was a great meal in a banqueting hall, where everyone was trying to eat with metre long chopsticks.  The impossibility of getting food to your mouth was an enormous and impossible frustration.  And everyone was starving and dreadful.  Hangry.

Heaven is the same situation.  Only in this banqueting hall the guests are using their chopsticks to feed the person sitting across the table from them.  All are eating and having a lovely time.

So if belief in God is about seeing the world as created, and in that seeing the meaning and ethic as being rooted in compassion, and a presence with us that is moving us to greater service; then the church is the community that believes that by embodying this ethic and faith in compassion we can become more like God and the people we are called to be.  And as a church built on solidarity, amid the turbulent waves of pressure and distraction of this life, we’re learning to serve better the needs of our church and community.  And as these great speeches which have brought out the best in humanity have advanced the idea of solidarity and called us to communion, we might paraphrase another great speech of the twentieth century and ask not what the church and Christianity can do for us, but what can we do for our neighbour?

Amen.

Part 3: God the Holy Spirit

Sermon by The Revd Dr Brutus Green

Based on readings: Genesis 2:4b-9, 15-25 Revelations 4, Luke 8:22-25

There’s a story behind the journey of everyone who’s made it here this morning.  Ask yourself — for a moment — what’s brought you here? Perhaps your parents brought you to church as a child? Maybe the joy of singing?  Memories of frosty mornings processing into school and college chapels; church has always felt like a part of who you are.  Perhaps there was a moment it felt like Jesus, the Bible, the church opened up and let you in?  An experience that altered the course of your life; perhaps it pulled you back from a brink; or brought a new joy.  Perhaps it was curiosity?  You had difficult questions and coming here gave voice to them, and the beginnings of answers.  Perhaps your children dragged you here?  The promise of free childcare, and a little cultural education for them.  Or is it the enticement of a cup of tea and a chat? Perhaps the love of someone else for whom this matters more?

I first came to church as a child, carrying candles and singing with gusto; confirmed too young because it made sense to get all three boys done together.  The story my parents love to tell is how the bishop disapproved mightily of my name, arguing that Brutus is a pagan name.  He suggested that I take his name, David.  Likely he would be equally disappointed by Rhiannon, a goddess queen, and our son, Oberon — a fairy.  I was reminded of this at my licensing when among several names, the bishop called me by his own name!  When I’m bishop I'll just call everyone “Brutus”. 

But then, in a decade of teenage rebellion, which began early at 9 years old, I rejected religion, because on discovering the harder parts of life I found there were questions, which no one would answer.  Despite that I went to university to study theology and realised that, amazingly, these questions had been discussed for thousands of years and actually if you can put aside your teenage angst the case is quite compelling.  As it happens there was a girl I was studying with (cherchez la femme — as the French say).  She was brought up on the mission-shaped flirt-to-convert strategy, and convinced me to go to church, although it was an odd church because there was a “popular music guitar band”, and the service stopped halfway through for donuts.  But after the halftime break, I found myself overwhelmed by a sense of the presence of God like a vision.

I’ve doubted many things since.  That church collapsed a few years later unable to cope with their pastor’s untimely death.  I’ve seen a great deal of harmful theology, some manipulative prayer groups, more political divisions than the Labour Party, and at times I’ve found church very difficult.  It was actually choral music that eventually brought me back years later.  But I’ve never doubted that initial moment dividing a man walking into a church an atheist and stepping out a Christian, with a vocation to serve God.

This isn’t your story, and there’s more to mine.   After all, it’s at least seven years since I was 19.  But something has drawn you here today, either for the first or the thousandth time, and like Adam and Eve in our earlier reading, that story has been formed and shaped in some way by God.

Two weeks ago I began by suggesting that to believe in God is to acknowledge a creator, whom we call Father; and so to believe in God is to say there’s a design to life.  The world has meaning.

Last week, I suggested that to believe in God the Son, is to say that this meaning is love.  That the teaching of Jesus, the miracles, his passion and death are a demonstration in word, act and life that God is revealed in human solidarity.  The resurrection, then, is the vindication and revelation that this love endures eternally.  That the meaning of the world, that which will always remain, is love. 

Today, I am suggesting that to believe in the Spirit is to say that this love is shaping the world, and where we allow it, this love is transforming our lives.

Now I’m not saying that the world’s getting better; though that’s an interesting question.  The nineteenth-century was largely optimistic. Probably not if you worked in a factory, but in science and technology it was felt that humanity was mastering the world; that democracy, education and medicine were leading to a bright new future.  The great Christian philosopher Hegel, described this as Geist, the unfolding Spirit that’s bringing us to a time of enlightenment.  Unfortunately, the twentieth-century came as a bit of a disappointment.  The post-war philosophy was existentialism, dominated by unhappy Frenchmen, who mostly thought the best course of action was checking yourself into Dignitas.  I’m always pleased when the French win a 6 Nations game; they need a bit of cheering up.  Interestingly, if you’ve come across Stephen Pinker, you’ll know that there are more people advocating optimism again.  If current affairs are not already disappointing them, I suspect eventually history will.

But when I’m talking about love shaping the world, I don’t mean that the world’s improving.  I mean that there’s a natural pressure of love; that if the universe has been created and revealed to have love as its meaning and calling, then, for all the forces at work there is a  gravity towards compassion.  It may at times be barely recognisable.  We may see only nature ‘red in tooth and claw’ as Tennyson wrote; but the love at the centre of creation is always at work in the hearts of those whom it’s calling.  And I think perhaps here we get to the core of what the Spirit is, as the shaping force of love in creation.  

Christianity teaches that evil is always only a lack of, or imperfect love.  So love of country is right and good.  Love of your country that lacks any love of other countries and becomes a hatred, has become evil.  Love of Fulham Football Club is good and as God intended; but if it pushes out love of other football clubs, such that their fans become the object of hatred and violence, then you’d better move to Millwall.  But at the same time love does not work simply by abstractly deciding to love everyone.  The worst crimes in history have been accomplished by socialists advocating total equality, but who found they could also sacrifice individuals to the greater collective good.

The Spirit asks us, like St Paul, to widen our hearts.   We begin by loving our families, our community —  but by widening this love to include an increasing circle we can expand our love indefinitely.  If you can love the stranger pressed uncomfortably close to you on the tube, such that you take an interest in his pomeranian and wish him good luck as he steps off into Parson’s Green, you are winning at love.

Between the wars, a German philosopher called Martin Buber, wrote a short little book called ‘I and Thou’, which provides the simplest explanation.  He argued that there are two types of relationship in the world:  ‘I and it’ and ‘I and thou’.  I—it relationships are where we relate to other people as objects to be used, negotiated, avoided or assisted. I—thou relationships are where we engage with people in a personal way — through friendship and love.

There’s a constant pressure to treat other people as objects; too little time to be mindful of others. We mostly don’t have the energy to empathise, especially if they’re driving in front of us, have irritating children, or have views which don’t match our own.  At the point of irritation, we immediately make people an ‘it’.   We lose interest in their well-being, stop caring and treat them, not necessarily unfairly, but with detachment.

With our close friends our relationship is I-thou.  We empathise and have the imagination to see their viewpoint.  We recognise that forces outside of them have created those rough edges; so we find it easier to forgive and to accept.  It’s the work of love to find more people who are ‘thou’ and not ‘it’.  It’s the work of the Spirit to enlighten us to see all creation in this relationship of attention, and not just as resources to be used and things in our way .

I began by talking about vocation, about the journey which has shaped us to be here at St Margaret’s today; how we’ve been drawn to church; to a belief-system built on developing love; to follow a person who in life and death taught the ideal of self-sacrificial love and exposed human politics for its instrumental unkindness. You will find in this journey, those moments, those relationships, which have taught you to love better; which lead you to recognise a world, a set of values, a meaning outside yourself, which draws you into relationships of love with creation, God and your neighbour. This is the transforming work of the Spirit.

To believe in God, the Father, is to acknowledge that the world has meaning.

To believe in God, the Son, is to know this meaning is love. 

To believe in God, the Spirit, is to allow ourselves to be shaped by this love.  Amen.

Part 2: God the Son

Sermon by The Revd Dr Brutus Green

Based on readings: Jeremiah 17:5-10, 1Corinthians 15:12-20, Luke 6:17-26

So today we have the problem that sequels are rarely as good as openers, especially in trilogies; with the exception, of course, of the Godfather, Star Wars and Aliens.  Aliens of course is pertinent to today, thinking about the Son, as it’s largely a reflection on motherhood —  I made Rhiannon watch four of the films during our pregnancy, which, as a way of preparing for childbirth, was far more helpful than NCT classes and hypno-birthing.

Now last week, in discussing how to approach God the Father, I suggested we begin by seeing the world as created, and how that leads us to acknowledge a creator; not as a being like you or I, but as seeing within the world a joy, a gift, a sense of truth, beauty and love that points to a source of goodness from which everything comes. Not to look to God as another being, but rather as the meaning that stands behind what we value. That where we begin to see universal values of judgement, from where we acknowledge some things as true, beautiful or good, we see the creator.

We’re on easy ground here. This sort of God, philosophers like. And we can talk across religions with this God. From Yahweh to Allah to Brahman this God fits across languages and cultures; this God is transcendent, while still suggesting some fixed principles as to what it means to be human and in the world.

But today we are at the Second person of the Trinity. And the Son makes everything difficult. [As you’ll know if you’ve had children.] That Jesus existed is not in question historically; neither is his basic character and mission. For millenia people have found his teaching relevant and impressive, which is no small matter. And we should not underestimate the novelty and clarity of his teaching. For what might seem to us simple and obvious even after its widespread acceptance continues to challenge and correct.

Perhaps you saw the BBC’s recent Les Miserables; or sing to yourself Anne Hathaway’s (or Susan Boyle’s) rousing if vitriolic “I dreamed a dream” in the shower every morning. Even in a country that had been Christian for 1800 years, the characters representing Christianity, the Bishop and Jean Valjean, feel the force of society’s antagonism in characters like Javert and Thenardier, representing merciless judgement and self-promotion. The quality of mercy is not strained, but neither is it commonplace.

Jesus teaches to look beyond rules to the human; his persistent demand for humility, honesty and compassion, mean that he speaks as a reformer in every age and culture. We have a snapshot of the central section of his teaching in today’s Gospel, known as the Sermon on the Mount. The Gospel writers deliberately mimic the Old Testament story where Moses comes down from Mount Sinai with the Ten Commandments to teach the Law. This for the disciples is the New Law. Only it’s not really a law at all. It’s an attitude and it relates very closely to the prophets as they describe the new relationship that is coming between God and God’s people.

So in Jeremiah we have: “But this is the covenant that I will make with the house of Israel after those days, says the Lord:  I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts; and I will be their God, and they shall be my people.”

And then in Ezekiel: “A new heart I will give you, and a new spirit I will put within you; and I will remove from your body the heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh. I will put my spirit within you…  and you shall be my people, and I will be your God.”

In the Sermon on the Mount Jesus articulates what it means to have this new heart and new spirit. The New Law he is giving is not rules but the attitude and character of the new people of God. To follow Jesus is to recognise our poverty, our weakness, our lack; and to recognise that this is where God is found. His essential teaching is that God is with those who suffer,  mourn, and struggle. He’s teaching a solidarity of humanity. That wherever we look in the world and see difficulty, that’s where we should be because that’s where God is.

Which is certainly not to say God is miserable or when you see someone unhappy it’s a sign of great godliness; but in their struggle, pain and grief — where they’re most essentially human — that is where they’re closest to God. That is where our Christian duty is to be alongside them and praying with them and for them.

The ancient hymn ‘Ubi Caritas et Amor, Deus Ibi est’ translates ‘Where Love and Charity are, there is God.’ But to get beyond the fluffiness of our thinking about love and the the impersonal, paternal bent of charity, a better translation would be: ‘Where there is human solidarity, that is where you find God.’

This is the New Law. The sequel to the Ten Commandments, the Law 2.0.

But while many would sagely nod their heads at this great reformer, this genius of moral philosophy, that is obviously not where as Christians we stop. Because Christians assert that Jesus is God. Now this is one of those statements that is deceptive in its simplicity.          I think the way children take it is commonly the way people understand it. God is synonymous with authority. Saying Jesus is God is really saying that in his teaching he has authority.

But it’s more than this. God, I’ve been arguing, is the meaning to which all creation points. That all the glimpses of eternity that can be seen within nature; the beauty of art and creation, the truth that is understood in moments of clarity; the big moments when we recognise what’s important, what endures; the truths of human conscience, which recognise right and wrong in ways which go beyond culture and background.

That transcendence is fully present and revealed in Jesus. The meaning of the world is somehow given in this one human life.

Now doubtless this seems odd and you have to ask, why this person?Why just one man? Why a man even? It’s known in the business as the “scandal of particularity”. Why should eternal truth be revealed to such a limited audience and geography?

But this itself reveals the nature of the divine. That a peasant from a remote, unimportant nation; a tortured and executed criminal; an ordinary, marginal figure — is the person in whom is revealed the measure of the universe.

As I’ve said before, Christianity is not an abstract religion. It claims everyone has that divine spark. Every person matters. The person who seems like nothing, whose life can be extinguished arbitrarily; in him, the divine love is revealed. Which means you and I, in this small nation, have the attention of God. In our poverty, our suffering, our difficulty, God is there. And if we are caused to lose everything for love of our brothers and sisters, God will make himself known and ain’t no bushel going to hide that away.

So yes, it is all unlikely, improbable, miraculous even. But if that message of Christianity is true; if every human life matters and God is to be found in solidarity with our difficulty; that glorious ethic which has moved the souls of so many great people, the Martin Luther Kings, Mother Theresas, Dietrich Bonhoeffers and Edith Cavells; then should we be surprised that God reveals himself in this way and not with some tremendous show of shock and awe?

In John’s Gospel you will read of signs of increasing wonder, water into wine, feeding the crowds, healings and resurrection. But this is not where God truly, openly displayed. That is reserved for the cross, where there is no miracle; where solidarity with human suffering is raised as a sign to all the world.

The resurrection, then, is the vindication of this. As St Paul in the New Testament lesson says: ‘if Christ has not been raised, we are of all people most to be pitied’ Because if death is the final end we are back with the atheists: then all this world is tragedy and there is no redemption. This great love sees no justice, no restitution, no value, no meaning. But when we consider those great sacrifices made in War and Peace, the assassinations, the torture the terrorism; we can choose to believe and hope in a restitution such as will recompense our many tragedies a thousand-fold. That the solidarity with humanity taught by Jesus and shown on the cross is but a glimpse of the great overcoming of evil by good; and the final truth that love wins.

This will always be the testing point of faith; not in abstract ideas, but in the practice of solidarity and love.

You may find Christ an easy presence with you, or a distant figure on the edge of history; he may be a figure you can wrestle with, like Jacob and the angel; but it’s by your ability to follow him in finding solidarity with the suffering people of the world that your faith will be proven. It is by your love for your brothers and sisters that God in Christ is made known.

To believe in God the Father, is really simply to believe that there is a meaning to life.

To believe in God the Son is to believe that the meaning to life is love.

Amen.

Part 1: God the Father

Sermon by The Revd Dr Brutus Green

Based on readings: Isaiah 6:1-8, 1Corinthians 15:1-11, Luke 5:1-11

What we heard in the New Testament reading is probably the oldest recorded Christian creed.  The words and syntax are unlike Paul’s other writing, and have that familiar propositional formula, so it’s likely Paul’s repeating a formula, widespread across the fledgling Church.

Now Creeds have a variety of uses. Early creeds state: these are the beliefs that hold us together as a community. By the time we get to the Nicene creed in 325AD, which we’ll say today, it’s still defining what it means to be a Christian, but it’s also saying what puts you outside the Church. So at the end of this creed (though happily not included today) you get ANATHEMAs; which basically mean’s “you’re out”: so Anathema be he who says that Christ did not suffer; anathema be he who says that Christ did not rise again…

So creeds define the boundaries of belief and groups. But for most Christian history creeds have been sung; And this is where they’re at they’re best — when they have become an act of praise acknowledging the place and work of God, rather than a barrier to keep people in and out. Hymns also do exactly this. Primarily they’re acts of praise, and a focus for the soul’s attention to the divine, but they’re also framed in the truths with which we define our faith. 

So in this little hiatus between Epiphany and Lent I thought we might consider the creed in four parts over four weeks, the Father, Son, Holy Spirit and the Church.

So we begin with the Father.

The creeds all begin something like: we, believe in one God, the Father almighty… which is not to say that this one God is the Father almighty. Poor syntax causes confusion! So when we come to the creed shortly everyone MUST breathe after I believe in one God.  Because, this in itself is a significant and stand alone statement. The modern translation confuses the matter.

Because a couple of lines later we have: “We believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ,” which rather implies that our one Lord Jesus Christ is a thing separate from God. The older translation was far preferable which just continued: “And in one Lord Jesus Christ.” If you were to shorten the creed you would just put: “I believe in one God, the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, and in the Church.” So you see, even today, poor syntax creates heresy.

Now someone told me earlier in the week that they believed in Jesus but not God, which struck me as quite odd and almost certainly a misunderstanding of both. So I’d like to think for a moment just about what it means to believe in God.

I think my tutor in Cambridge put it best when he said that the problem with atheists is that they don’t deny enough about God. Atheists don’t deny enough about God.

You see the common way of believing things is to count them. What do I believe in? Well there’s Helen and the 47 things currently lying on her desk, one church, two halls, 35 memorial plaques and 432 pieces of scaffolding… and I’ll keep counting and if I had world enough and time I could count all the things in the universe. And when I finish, says the Christian, I’d say, oh and one more thing, God. Now here the atheist bristles, puts up her hand, and declares, “OBJECTION!” To which God (being judge) says “over-ruled!”

No — that is the wrong way to think about God. God is not one more thing. He is not santa, your idealised father, or anything else. So in this the Atheist is right — there are not x billion things and one more which is God. God is not a thing. He doesn’t exist in the way that chairs, greyhounds and oak trees do. We can talk about all such things because they have matter, they start and end, one can usually point to them, because they are created things which belong to the universe. 

The atheist says “there are a certain number of things in the universe which one can wave a stick at and after I’ve travelled all the way around the place I still will not have found this God-thing with which to wave my stick.” 

But the Christian should not wish to say this. Because the first thing that is asserted of God, the Father in every creed is: “maker of heaven and earth”. In fact it’s the only thing that is said of the Father. The point is that just as you’d be very unwise to saw off a branch on which you’re standing, so too you cannot create something in which you’re already residing.

In simple speech: for Christians, God is not part of creation.

It makes no sense to refer to God as male, as good, as being one.

In fact it really makes no sense even to say God exists.

I’m not being liberal here, I haven’t stepped back into the 60s and I’m not going to start talking about the death of God. It’s a language issue.  I can talk about dogs existing.  My parents’ old dog Henry who sadly passed away many years ago no longer exists — at least on this plane. Zizi does exist. He’s at home getting some cheese out the fridge. My imaginary dog who is a greyhound-tyrannosaurus Rex cross does not exist — otherwise he would be terrorising New York. But these are all things within our world which we can see or imagine. Our language applies easily to things we know, we can grasp, draw and get our heads around, they have number, gender, shape and size.

We can’t do this with something outside our universe. Language deals with things we know; the context we live in.

Imagine for a moment a good chair, a good radio and a good dog.

Why is the chair good? Because it’s solid, attractive, comfortable. Why’s the radio good? It picks up signal, has many stations, perhaps it’s two way, has an elegant design. And the dog? Because he’s loyal, faithful, clean, doesn’t steal cheese from the fridge. The meaning of the word “good” overlaps very little between these different contexts.  Now try and apply it to a context outside of space and time where is referent is God, who is, as we sang earlier, “Immortal, Invisible” and a bit of a mystery.

So the point is Atheists deny too little about God. Because they assume they can describe God, they can define the ground, draw a picture of God, and then perversely say, “actually no — God’s not really there.” Whereas the Christian must say — with humility — I don’t have the vocabulary to really say anything about God, at all — and I recognise that all my language and thoughts fall short.

But what the Christian can say is this: I believe that the world was created. This isn’t a statement about God at all — it’s a statement about the world, but a hugely significant one. And this is the real difference between Christians and atheists. Atheism denies that the world is created. It denies that the universe and you and I have any intrinsic or higher purpose. So there can be no redemption, no design, no future, no justice outside our brief life.

The Christian says I believe we are created; that there is some intent; that you and I have some purpose — though we may not know it; that what is true, good and beautiful is discoverable and we’re made to pursue this; that we matter — that there’s a future in which there will be justice and that our meaning will become clear.

Now it may seem that this comes down to belief in some sort of object or agency, but actually this belief, or unbelief in God is really about how we see the world. When we say ‘I believe in God’, we’re really saying: ‘I think there’s a point to all this’.

And, vitally, where atheism sees a bunch of organisms, selfish genes, some interesting sociological behaviour, herd instincts and historical anachronisms; the Christian sees the children of God, the imperative to love one another, the struggle of good and evil, the fellowship of the Church, born of communion in the sacrifice of Christ.

Believing in God means seeing the world and other people as meaningful, valued, created, and not random.

So that’s why that first statement of belief in God, is that the Father — a simple metaphor — is the maker of heaven and earth.

And it works backwards. We see a heaven and earth that is made, and so acknowledge the Father.

Now my hope is in these four Sundays just to give you a little more confidence in saying the creed. The ideas expressed in creeds are not as simple as they first appear. But they’re worth bearing with.

And it’s not: “If you don’t accept this, you can’t join in.” What we believe is not the be all and end all, but I think we in the Church of England become quite reticent to talk about our faith, and often that results in us not really giving enough thought to what we believe. My hope in the weeks to come is that we might put out into the deep waters and let down our nets for the catch, just to spend a little more time with these central ideas of our faith. 

Amen.