Category: Sermons

“He hath done all things well; he maketh both the deaf to hear
and the dumb to speak”

In the days of the closing down of summer, to use Alistair MacLeod’s compelling phrase and image, the title of his most reflective short story, we make a turn to new beginnings, to the renewal of patterns and programmes in our various lives. On the Sunday after Labour Day, in the Maritimes, at any rate, the cottages have begun to be closed down for the winter, schools and colleges have resumed, vacations are over and done, and even summer seems already a distant and nostalgic memory. We are back, it might seem, to our usual lives.

But are we? Is it really about merely returning to the drudgery and the boring sameness of week after week, day after day, even Sunday after Sunday? It needn’t be, it seems to me. Not only are there the beginning hints of changes in the air but there are the deeper challenges of the Scripture readings. This Sunday marks the notional mid-way point of the Trinity Season and it signals important things to us. We are being challenged to be open – “Ephphatha”, Jesus says, in one of those rare but precious moments where Aramaic appears in the Scripture and is immediately translated by the Evangelist, in this case Mark, into Greek. For us, of course, there is the further translation into English, yet the Aramaic word remains in our text, a quiet witness to another aspect of the reality of the Incarnate Christ. His spoken words were in all likelihood Aramaic, a variant of Hebrew, but we only know his words through the Greek and subsequent translations. His saving word for all humanity is revealed through a particular culture and language; the universal in and through the particular.

“He has done all things well”, Mark concludes, having detailed a healing miracle. What is that all about? In a way, we are being opened to the very thing that St. Paul is saying in the Epistle reading from 2^nd Corinthians. “The letter killeth but the spirit giveth life”.

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“Love your enemies”

You’ve got to be kidding! How utterly impossible and totally improbable! Why, we have the hardest time loving our wives, our husbands, our children, our parents, our friends; only, perhaps, our pets. What can it possibly meant to love our enemies? And yet, this is precisely what Jesus commands. A command, we might say, that is one of the distinctive features of Christianity and reveals the essential heart of the Christian Faith.

Enemies. What does that mean? Who are our enemies? Sometimes words reveal themselves. English is a bit of a mongrel language, taking words and bits of words from everything and everywhere. In its historical development much is owed to two streams: the one, Germanic, as in Old English or Anglo-Saxon; the other, latinate, via the influence of the French language, especially after William the Conqueror, 1066 and All That, as it were. Words like friends and enemies, for instance, derive from each stream respectively. Friend connects with freund in modern German, for instance; enemies from ennemis in French but looking back to the Latin, inimicos. We may speak in English, for instance, of being inimically opposed to something or other, meaning strongly opposed, even hostile.

In the French word, ennemis, you can hear the word amis, meaning friend just as in the Latin, inimicos, you can just make out amicos, again friend. This is even more pronounced in Spanish where the word for enemy is enemigos where amigos is clearly part of the word. What does all this word stuff mean?

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“Apart from me ye can do nothing.”

“I am the vine, ye are the branches … abide in me,” Jesus says, in what is known as the last of his famous “I am” sayings in John’s Gospel. For “apart from me ye can do nothing.” The truth and meaning of who we are is found in our being in Christ, our lives enfolded and engrafted into his living word and truth. This second lesson speaks profoundly and provocatively about the nature of our abiding in Christ. In some ways, the image is the greatest of the images of our incorporation into the divine life through the sacred humanity of Jesus Christ. We live in him and he in us.

But how? Only by attending to his word. It may be, as Peter points out to Jesus in the remarkable Eucharistic gospel for Trinity V, that “we have toiled all the night long and have taken nothing; nevertheless, at thy word, I will let down the net.” “At thy word” is the note of saving grace, the note of the means of our abiding in Christ. His word lives in us if we will let it.

The trouble is that we often refuse to hear. We reject the word and truth of God. What that means is shown in the first lesson from The Book of the Prophet Jeremiah. Jeremiah, a prophet whose word and presence is unwelcome to King Jehoiakim, has dictated to Baruch, his scribe, “all the words of the Lord which he had spoken to him.” He has written them on a scroll, presumably of papyrus. Then Baruch reads the words of Jeremiah first “in the hearing of all the people,” then, before the court officials, and then, before the princes. Clearly deeply troubled by what they hear, the princes bid Baruch and Jeremiah go into hiding. Finally, the scroll is read before the King. Is he moved to listen to the word of the Lord from the prophet Jeremiah? Not in the least.

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“Nevertheless, at thy word, I will let down the net”

Just another fishing story, it might seem. Jesus, standing by the lake of Gennesaret first teaches “the people who pressed upon him to hear the word of God,” using a ship as his pulpit, it seems, and then bids Simon Peter to “launch out into the deep and let down your net.” Peter’s response captures an essential aspect of human experience. “Master,” he says, “we have toiled all the night, and have taken nothing; nevertheless, at thy word I will let down the net.”

More than just another fishing story, the miracle here is not just in the amazing catch of fishes that broke their net and almost sank their ships. Neither is it just about the call of Simon Peter and James and John to catch men for God. No. This gospel story also speaks to the fears of our contemporary culture in profound and wonderful ways. It addresses the very modern concept of the empty meaninglessness of life.

Sometimes our fears define us and our world and culture. As the philosopher and Christian Peter Kreeft notes, the fear of the ancient world was the fear of death, the fear of the Medieval world, the fear of Hell, but the fear of the modern world is the fear of meaninglessness. “We have toiled all the night, and have taken nothing.” There is nothing and we are nothing, it seems and this has been a feature of modern literature as, for instance, in Ernest Hemingway’s 1933 short story, A Clean Well-Lighted Place, which is about facing the empty nothingness of life.

It is all nada. “Nada y pues nada y nada y pues nada” – Nothing and nothing then nothing and nothing and then nothing – as the older waiter observes, thinking about an old man in the café, perhaps a survivor of World War I and its atrocities in the face of which there is no answer, no meaning just the utter meaninglessness of war and destruction, of death and despair, and in the old man’s case, an attempted suicide. Has anything really changed? we might ask, as a passenger plane is shot down in the Ukraine, as girls from a boarding school are abducted and remain in captivity in Nigeria, as humanitarian disaster after humanitarian disaster unfolds for countless millions of people displaced by wars and conflicts beyond their control. Hemingway’s short story marks the first time the Spanish word nada which means nothing was used in English.

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“We…groan within ourselves”

Groaning is not the same thing as whining. We are rather good at whining and complaining. So what is our groaning? They are our prayers, the deep, heartfelt yearnings of our souls that far outrace the explicit thoughts of our minds. And yet, without a commitment to the articulation of the yearnings of our hearts and the stirrings of the thoughts in our minds, we remain in the uncertainty and the folly of ourselves, subject to a host of arbitrary and incoherent moods and fancies. Increasingly, it seems, our lives are but some celluloid or cyberborg fantasy. We live in the fiction of ourselves, the makers of our own unmaking. As the poet, philosopher, and Kentucky Farmer, Wendell Berry remarks, “the next great division of the world [may well] be between people who wish to live as creatures and people who wish to live as machines.”

The note of suffering and groaning confronts the tendencies of our age and culture directly. Neither are welcome concepts to a culture caught in its illusions. But do we have the capacity to see our own illusions? Or are we more quick to point out the deficiencies in others? In other words, “pull[ing] out the mote”, the insignificant speck that is in another’s eye while being blind to “the beam”, the great log, that is in our own eye. Hypocrisy is where we are and where we begin. The blind leading the blind is not just about the clergy, though you could be forgiven for thinking that.

The Gospel for today complements the Epistle. It illumines an interesting feature of the Epistles and Gospels in the Trinity season. The Gospels function as illustrations of the Epistles. In this case, we are given a powerful image of hypocrisy in the proverbial parable of “the blind leading the blind.”  And what is that parable largely about? The blindness of our judgments and the wonder of God’s mercy. “Judge not” but “forgive and be forgiven.”

How is that even remotely possible?  Only by the mercy of God. How do we know that?

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“For God resisteth the proud, and giveth grace to the humble.”

Humility is not only the counter to pride; it is the condition of our access to God’s grace, the necessary condition of our being raised up or exalted, albeit “in due time” and not without “hav[ing] suffered a while.” Grace is what truly and rightly defines and dignifies our humanity. The Epistle and Gospel for today speak profoundly to lessons which have ever to be learned and relearned, again and again, and certainly for us in our world and day.

Just recently, The Economist magazine included an insert from its sister magazine, Intelligent Life. The first article asked the question “What is the deadliest sin?” and provided a series of very thoughtful reflections by a number of notable writers and thinkers on envy, pride, ingratitude, greed, gluttony, sloth and lust. Not bad. Six out of the classical and traditional seven deadly sins! Though ingratitude is a serious problem it is not one of the seven deadly sins classically speaking. It is wrath that is the one sin that was curiously omitted. I say ‘curiously’ since wrath is such a dominant feature in the destructive nihilism of contemporary culture and so it seems odd that it should have been left out. There are no end of examples of wrath in our contemporary world, after all. But what is more remarkable is that the very idea and language of sin and of the seven deadly sins should be the subject of a sophisticated contemporary journal.

It suggests at the very least that the moral discourse about sin which is part and parcel of the Christian faith is very much needed in our present times and is there to be recovered and reclaimed. Pride, as the novelist Will Self points out, “is so much a part of every one of us that we can’t see how deadly it is – it inheres in our very self-consciousness, and has metastasized through the body politic.” That is a profoundly theological view. He goes on to argue that “pride is paramount” in the modern economy, in what he calls “the commoditisation of pride,” the sense that we think we deserve what we want “because we are worth it.” Even more, he shows how pride “is the three-personed god we have made of ourselves,” which he describes wonderfully as “the Big-I-Am; King Baby, Me-Me-Me,” what he calls “the true trinity of the modern psyche.” Utterly remarkable. The descriptive force of this is undeniable but what is the prescription? Humility.

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“Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God”

St. Peter and St. Paul are the twin pillars of the Christian Church. Outstanding figures in the New Testament, their ministry and life are rather more amply set before us than many other New Testament figures. They require our consideration.

Peter is traditionally seen as the presiding authority at the Council of Jerusalem which legitimates the apostolic mission of Paul who will become the Apostle to the Gentiles. The Book of the Acts of the Apostles provides the conciliar decision in the form of a letter, the first ecclesiastical decree we might say, directed to the missions among the non-Jewish or gentile communities. Its claim is that “it has seemed good to the Holy Spirit and to us to lay upon you no greater burden than these necessary things.” A most remarkable and potent statement. It does not mean that what seems good to us is what is simply and absolutely good to the Holy Spirit; such has been the problem of many a church gathering, especially in our own confused and troubled times. But it does suggest the nature of our participation and engagement with God; particularly, our thinking upon what God has made known to us. And yet the specified “necessary things” must give us pause. They are to “abstain from what has been sacrificed to idols and from blood and from what is strangled and from unchastity.” What does that have to do with us?

These are moral directives that speak to the both the Hebraic world in its adamant and strong prohibition against idolatry and to the Hellenistic world of the great variety of pagan cults; they also include matters of sexual immorality. Both idolatry and immorality deny the absolute truth of God. That truth, now manifest in the humanity of Jesus Christ, suggests a further moral imperative, namely, a new sense of moral freedom and responsibility, and, most importantly, a call to holiness of life. What underlies these “necessary things” is the recognition that God’s will revealed through the law and the prophets of Israel now has its realization in the Lord Jesus Christ. What is of interest is that both Peter and Paul are present at this Council. It is the only time in the Scriptures that we see them together.

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“Behold, I give you a wise and discerning mind.”

Dreams and visions. It is hard to know what to make of such things. They might seem so subjective and impressionistic, so removed from what is actual and real, as we might assume. In one way, that is true, at least when we look at the form in which ideas are conveyed rather than the ideas themselves. But if we look instead at the ideas themselves then perhaps, just perhaps, even in our dogmatic and empirical attachments to material reality, we might discover wisdom and truth.

And wisdom and truth are what are at issue on The First Sunday after Trinity. Wisdom and truth guides and directs our judgments and our actions. The Eucharistic readings, the epistle from The First letter of John that “love is of God” and Luke’s Gospel about the parable of the rich man, Dives, and Lazarus, are all about living the vision that has been opened out to us. “Behold, a door was opened in heaven,” as we heard on Trinity Sunday.

The point of an open door is that you go through it. The vision is to be entered into and lived. Our failure to do so creates the “great gulf fixed” between the rich man in the torments of Hell and Lazarus in the bosom of Abraham. Hell, as always, is about our own choosing; signaled in the parable by stepping over and ignoring Lazarus “lying at his gate full of sores and desiring to be fed with the crumbs which fell from the rich man’s table”; only the dogs attend to Lazarus, it seems. It is quite a powerful image and one which conveys great wisdom as parables so often do.

Like dreams and visions, the parable opens us out to a larger understanding of reality. In ignoring Lazarus, the parable suggest, we are blind to the things of God which have been opened out to us. The door “opened in heaven” is about what is revealed and made known to us. We neglect such things at our peril. The further paradox is that in neglecting the things of God and heaven we wreak havoc on our lives with one another. We cut ourselves off from the only reality that there is. The dreams and visions are what are truly real.

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“Behold, a door was opened in heaven”

We have just recited “The Creed of St. Athanasius, commonly so called”! Now that was quite a spiritual and intellectual work-out, wasn’t! Imagine doing that once every month as well as on this day, Trinity Sunday! I don’t imagine many places are using it even on this day. It challenges the anti-intellectualism of our church and culture. And yet, it provides us with a wonderful way to think the mystery of God, the mystery that we can only think and only be constantly thinking; the mystery that we can never ever exhaust. We need this marvelous parade of paradoxes to glimpse and behold the inexhaustible mystery of God.

The Creeds themselves, of which the Athanasian Creed is one, are wonderful distillations of the scriptural witness to the living reality of God revealed and therefore given to be thought. The Athanasian Creed, admittedly awkward for use liturgically and not exactly twitterable, nonetheless provides a wonderful way of thinking and reasoning upon the mystery of God. “Let us thus think of the Trinity,” it says (now that could be tweeted!), means think of the Trinity in this way, the way of affirmation and renunciation of images, positive and negative theology, that catapult us into the spiritual reality of God and in which we discover the deeper truth of our humanity. The mystery of the living reality of God is being opened unto us. Think God, love God and be with God in his being with us!

It was behind closed doors, literally and figuratively, that Jesus made known to us his resurrection. But it is not only behind closed doors that the things of God are made known to us. Through the incarnation and manifestation of Jesus Christ, through his passion and death, through his resurrection and ascension, through the sending of the Holy Spirit, “a door was opened in heaven” and we behold the glory of God in the fullness of his revelation. God makes himself known to us.

Trinity Sunday sets before us the vision of God which is the end of man. “The end of man is endless Godhead endlessly possessed” (Austin Farrer). Trinity Sunday, we might say, is the great Te Deum Laudamus of the Church. We proclaim God as the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. We proclaim what we have been given to behold through the fullness of the scriptural witness to God’s revelation. It is what we have been given to proclaim and in which we are privileged to participate.

We meet together in the glory of the revealed God, the glory of the Trinity. All our beginnings and all our endings have their place of meeting in the Trinity. It is, we may say, the one thing essential. No Trinity, no Christianity. “No one can say ‘Jesus is Lord’, except by the Holy Ghost” (1 Cor.12.3). To say “Jesus is Lord” is to make a Trinitarian statement. It is the burden of the Church’s proclamation.

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