Category: Sermons

“Now it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree
from Caesar Augustus”

A sermon, snowstorms notwithstanding! This is beginning to become a habit. This is the third time in ten days that I have had occasion to say that.

“A decree from Caesar Augustus,” and yet there is a greater decree, a greater Word, a greater command that “has come to pass” and which brings us, like Mary and Joseph, to Bethlehem, if not literally, then spiritually and intellectually. You may hope that it is not to be taxed!

It has often struck me how for Christians the aspect of the holy land has a different connotation and meaning than it does for Jews and Muslims, complicated as that may be for them as well. It is curious in a way because Bethlehem and Jerusalem, to name the twin poles of the Christian doctrinal and devotional imagination, are barely mentioned in the Islamic Qur’an, Bethlehem only once and Jerusalem by name not at all, and, while Jerusalem has a kind of pride of place in the Jewish Scriptures, the place of Bethlehem there is a bit more nuanced, at once “the greatest” and “the least” of cities, for example, providing one of many cases for some creative and imaginative interpretation on the part of Christian commentators, I might add!

The crusades notwithstanding (and that story is more nuanced that some would have us believe), all of the ancient holy places of the Scriptures have taken on a different kind of meaning for Christians. Prince Charles has recently and rightly decried the attacks on Christians in the Middle East, fearing the grim reality of no Christians in the land where Christianity had its birth. True, and yet there is something profound about an understanding which transcends, albeit without denying, the sheer force of locality and place. It is especially part of the story of the Jewish diaspora and an undeniable part of the Christian as well as the Islamic story. There is not only the journey to Bethlehem by shepherds told by Angels and by Magi-Kings led by a star; there is also the flight into Egypt of the holy family and the return of the Magi-Kings “into their own country another way.” Christmas would have us abide in Bethlehem, to be sure, but already the story takes us away from Bethlehem; it suggest another kind of abiding, our abiding in the truth of God wherever we are.

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“And the Word was made flesh and dwelt among us”

Christmas is too much, isn’t it? Haven’t you all said or, at least, thought that, especially in the commercial circus and all the hustle and bustle and tinsel and wrap of the last few weeks and days? What’s all the fuss? Why all the bother?

Because of what we hear and see tonight and I don’t mean Santa Claus and his reindeer and all his elfin minions that, dare I say, look a bit like child labour! No. I mean the wonder we behold in all of the words proclaimed and sung, in all the great parade of images that belong to the mystery of Christ’s Holy Birth. Well, that’s surely what you expected me to say, isn’t it! We celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ, long ago and far away, and yet close at hand in head and heart for each of us now and always.

There is something quite profound and holy in Christ’s birth contained in the rich fullness of the Christmas scene. It is all too much but it is altogether about the muchness of God being with us. There is a fullness of images to Christmas that is altogether more than all our busyness. Here, tonight, in our worship we may find its meaning that redeems our frenetic and frantic activity. How?

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“I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness”

“Christianity,” Ignatius of Antioch observes in his letter to the Romans, “lies in achieving greatness in the face of the world’s hatred.” He was on his way under Imperial Guard to face martyrdom in Rome in the first decade of the 2^nd century. He was no stranger to the world’s hatred. Yet he understood something greater than the powers of the world, namely, the power of God’s Truth and Word Incarnate in Jesus Christ.

He exemplifies something of the prophetic qualities of John the Baptist who in the great Gospel for The Fourth Sunday in Advent reveals the true nature of his ministry and life. He does not live for himself but for another, “the latchet of whose shoes,” he says, he is “not worthy to unloose.” He points not to himself but to Christ, to Christ as the Lamb of God, the one whom, he says, “takes away the sin of the world.”

It is a powerful testimony. Known as the record or witness of John, there is poignancy and an intensity to what we hear and see. In the to-and-fro of questions with the “Priests and Levites from Jerusalem,” we glimpse a spiritual tension and frisson belonging to cultures in their moments of crisis and uncertainty. Who are you and what are you about? they ask, in genuine puzzlement, it seems to me. Their questions serve to bring out the truth of John the Baptist and even more the truth of Christ which he serves. Nowhere is the ministry of John the Baptist more concentrated for us; nowhere does prophecy point us so directly to Christ. In the Christian understanding of things, prophecy finds its fulfillment in Christ Jesus. He is Immanuel, God with us, and that essential insight changes everything.

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This is the second of two Advent Meditations on the theme “Mary in Holy Waiting”. The first is posted here.

“Blessed are those servants, whom their lord when he cometh shall find watching”

Watching and waiting are the spiritual activities of the soul in the season of Advent. They signify our looking towards God, our looking expectantly at the coming of God’s Word and Son. Mary in Advent is in Holy Waiting; a waiting upon the fullness of time, upon the birth of God’s Word and Son through her. Her waiting is the watching and waiting of the Church upon the motions of God’s Word coming to birth in us.

Tonight also marks the commemoration of Ignatius, Bishop of Antioch and martyr. His commemoration complements our Advent programme about Mary in Holy Waiting. One of the Apostolic Fathers, that is to say, one of the early figures of the Christian Church who, whether they knew the Apostles personally or directly (some may have, some may have not), nonetheless preserved and transmitted “the apostolic teaching and tradition between the time of the Apostles themselves and the latter years of the second century” (Max Staniforth, To A.L.M. (Intro) to the Apostolic Fathers).  Ignatius was martyred, c. 115, after an episcopal career of some forty years. A figure of great renown, we actually know very little about him apart from his character that is revealed in his seven remarkable epistles written on the road to his martyrdom in Rome. We do not even know the exact charge which led to his martyrdom.

His epistles bring out, I suggest, the essential Marian quality of watching and waiting upon the Word and Will of God. Three things stand out in his epistles: his embrace of martyrdom; his insistence upon the three-fold ministry of the Church, especially episcopacy; and his emphasis upon the doctrine of the Incarnation against the Jews and the Docetists – the latter being the term for the earliest heresy of the Church, already attacked in the epistles of John, that claims that the human life of Christ is all a kind of play-acting, a sham, a mere appearance in contrast to reality since the idea of God becoming man is abhorrent where matter is seen as evil and spirit as good and pure.

In many ways, Ignatius’ epistles already point in the direction of a creedal understanding of the Christian faith that will emerge more explicitly in the fourth century. The key doctrine for him is the Incarnation which leads to his conviction about martyrdom and about the ordered life of the Church. His epistles breath that positive spirit of living for and with Christ already signified in Mary’s fiat mihi, “be it unto me according to thy word,” the idea of our life with God because of God’s embrace of our humanity. For Ignatius this wonder contributes to a new sensibility, a conviction about immortality such that martyrdom is the necessary witness to the truth of Christianity, a martyrdom which he enthusiastically accepts like Mary’s “be it unto me according to thy word.” In a world of suicide bombers, this may trouble us but if we look more closely we can see how different this Ignatian/Marian sense of commitment and witness is from these contemporary acts in which martyrdom is really an act of terrorism for political purposes to which religious concepts have been sadly twisted and perverted.

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“Go and tell John again those things which ye so hear and see.”

A sermon, snowstorm notwithstanding! Hearing and seeing are the two most intellectual of the physical senses. We use the sense of sight and hearing as metaphors for understanding. “I see what you mean,” we may say to someone in conversation, meaning we understand what they are saying. “I hear you,” we might assert, suggesting much the same thing, an agreement or at least an acknowledgement about the meaning of what is being said.

In a way, such use of language is commonplace and every day. We forget perhaps how profound it is and how it speaks to the very features of our humanity that make us who we are. In the quiet darkness of Advent, we can learn again about the power of words that illumine our minds and encourage our hearts. It is the point of today’s Scriptures and signals the ministry of the Church. It is about preparing and making ready the way of the Lord in human hearts “by turning the hearts of the disobedient to the wisdom of the just” that we may be found “an acceptable people in [God’s] sight.”

Our darkness brought into the light of God is part of the process of learning. Advent is the season of teaching. God as Word and Light “brings to light the hidden things of darkness” and “makes manifest the counsels of the hearts,” as Paul puts it. To what end? That “every one shall have praise of God.” It is not simply judgment but joy and salvation.

The light of Advent teaches us what God seeks for our humanity. That is part and parcel of the power of this Gospel reading and, by extension, part and parcel of the faithful ministry of “the ministers and stewards of [the] mysteries” of God. John the Baptist belongs to that pattern of prophetic preparation for the coming of Christ. He is in prison, the victim of the power politics of his day, a victim of speaking truth to power but, as such, a martyr and a witness to the power and truth of God. His questions illuminate the dark landscape of Advent. His questions point us to Jesus. “Art thou he that should come, or do we seek for another?”

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“The night is far spent”

There are degrees of darkness. There is the literal darkness of the night in the twilight of the year. There is the metaphorical darkness of civilisations and cultures in their decay and disarray. There is the social and economic darkness of communities and families in their distress and dismay. There is the darkness of institutions when they betray their foundational and governing principles. There is the darkness of souls in psychological confusion – distraught, anxious, angry and fearful. There is the darkness of the fear of death. The “far spent night” is the hour of deepest darkness.

In one way or another, these darknesses are all forms of spiritual darkness. They all belong to the darkness of sin and doubt, the darkness of death and dying, the darkness of despair. The darkness of despair is the deepest darkness, the darkness of the “far spent night” of the soul, the darkness of darkness itself, as it were. Why? Because it is the darkness of denial. Despair is the denial of desire. It signals the rejection of the possibilities of light, of faith; the rejection of the possibilities of hope, of what is looked for; and the rejection of the possibilities of love, of what is embraced in the knowing delight of what is good and true, of what is holy and beautiful.

In the oldest literary work known to our humanity, The Epic of Gilgamesh, the hero, Gilgamesh, is changed in his soul and outward aspect by the loss of his friend, Enkidu. He sets out on a search for everlasting life; it is really a quest for wisdom, for he knows, and we know, that is his destiny is not everlasting life but kingship. He is mortal and has to come to terms with his mortality. Wisdom is found in the embrace of the limits of our knowing.

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