Category: Sermons

“Be not anxious”

I have to admit, nothing makes me more anxious than this text! And not just because it falls this year at that time when we are getting back to our regular patterns and routines, to the beginning again of our various programmes with all of the anxieties and worries, the busyness and the annoyances, too, that attend such things. Why, then, the anxiety about not being anxious? Because it is so easily said and yet so greatly misunderstood. To be sure, we are rightly exhorted not to be anxious not just once but actually three times. To be sure, we are given powerful illustrations and reasons not to be anxious. “Behold”, “consider”, “seek” – these are the strong verbs which counter explicitly and wonderfully all our anxieties. They recall us to the great doctrine of the Providence of God. And yet, what makes me anxious, year after year, is how we fail to get this central teaching, the deep doctrine, the critical understanding, that is, in fact, the only true and real counter to the anxieties and the cares, the fears and the worries of each and every age.

That central teaching is further illustrated, I think, both in the Epistle reading and in the Gospel by way of other texts. “God forbid that I should glory,” St Paul tells us, “save in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ.” He goes on to say, that “neither circumcision availeth anything, nor uncircumcision, but a new creation.” That is the key phrase, a new creation. Something has changed; the old has become new. There is a new creation. Such is the radical meaning of human redemption. It is entirely about a new creation. We are a new creation in Christ. We forget this at our peril. And in the Gospel? Well, just ponder the weight and meaning of the final coda: “Be ye not anxious about the morrow; for the morrow shall take care for itself: sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.”

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“And one turned back… giving him thanks”

God is extravagant with his mercies; we are miserly with our thanks. There is something profound and wonderful in this quintessential gospel that speaks so wonderfully to this time of transition from Summer to Fall, and especially on this Labour Day weekend. Nothing quite so transformative, in a way, than thanksgiving, the counter to all the tedium of our endless complaining, the counter, too, to all the despairing fatalisms of our world and day. Thanksgiving  is our true and freest labour. We are, I think, a long ways from the suffering of the lepers – the outcasts and rejects – of the ancient world and, yet, there are the fears and anxieties of our own times that beset us and trouble us and which separate us from God and from one another.

There were ten “that lifted up their voices, and said, Jesus, Master, have mercy on us”. But only “one of them when he saw that he was healed, turned back and with a loud voice glorified God and fell down on his face at his feet, giving him thanks; and he was a Samaritan”. In short, there are many who cry out for mercy but few who return to give thanks. To cry out for mercy, it seems to me, is itself a great matter, a matter of honest realization about ourselves and the human condition. But to return – literally, to turn back – and to give thanks, well, that is something even far more amazing.

Repentance and thanksgiving go together. Both are a return to God, a turning back to the one from whom we have turned away in one fashion or another and turning back to the one upon our whole being depends. Redire ad principium. Repentance and thanksgiving are both about returning to the very principle of our being and knowing, to God in whom we find our truth and life.

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“Brethren, I would not that ye should be ignorant”

Ignorant about what? Ignorant about what belongs to the nature of our identity in Christ. But, we are, I am afraid, only too ignorant. And because of our ignorance we are easily “overthrown in the wilderness” of our lives, both individually and corporately. The good news is that even the things of our ignorance can be used to bring us to understanding, to the understanding of the good and to the doing of all “such things as be rightful”, as the Collect puts it.

In the witness of the Scriptures, we have the stories of the ignorance of our humanity written out for us to read just so that we will not be quite so ignorant. “These things”, Paul tells us in his to First Letter the Corinthians, a people remarkable for their willful ignorance, we might say, “were our examples”. And they still are “our examples”. What things? The things belonging to our identity in the body of Christ which we have ignored and denied. But in making such things known to us, we may learn “not to lust after evil things, as they also lusted”. He has in mind the stories of Israel’s wandering in the wilderness; in particular, the stories of disbelief and complaint on the part of Israel towards Moses and, more significantly, towards God.

Paul is doing two things here. First, he is saying that these formative stories of the people of Israel are things from which we can learn. They are “our examples”. Secondly, he is saying something even more significant. He is saying that we are in these stories. The Old Testament stories actually belong to the story of our life in Christ. Paul sees in the wilderness journeys of the ancient people of Israel something which both anticipates and participates in the definitive journey of human redemption signaled and accomplished in the passion of Christ. He is providing an interpretative approach to the reading of the Scriptures.

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“You have received a spirit of sonship”

It was the year 524. The place was a northern Italian town called Pavia. There, in prison, languished a scholar named Boethius, falsely accused of treason against the Arian king, Theodoric the Ostrogoth. Boethius would be brutally killed. But not before writing, while in prison, one of the great intellectual and spiritual classics of the West, The Consolation of Philosophy. It, along with Boethius’s theological works, would have an enormous influence upon the development of European culture and understanding.

The word “person” for instance, so much in vogue in our own culture in the discourse of natural rights and identity politics, has its roots in the definition of person that Boethius provided in his treatise about the humanity and the divinity of Christ, Contra Eutychen.  Distinguishing between nature and person is essential for understanding the unity of God and man in Christ and for thinking about the unity and difference of God as Trinity, the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit; in other words, Boethius developed a concept that serves to illuminate an understanding of the names of God revealed in Scripture as the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. From such language and terminology for God, there is the natural application of the term to our humanity, especially since for Boethius, following Augustine, man is imago Trinitatis. Being made in the image of God means being made in the image of the Trinity. Such are some of the fruits of his labours by which he is known.

We have, perhaps, as a church and culture forgotten all this. There is something entirely providential in being reminded about the legacy and deeper meaning of such terms as person, defined by Boethius as “an individual substance of a rational nature.” For it reminds us that the language we use about ourselves has its roots in language about God; the two are inseparable. And isn’t that central to the Christian witness in the contemporary world? Namely, to proclaim that our humanity is radically incomplete without God, in this case, that even our language of political and social discourse is grounded in theology? “You have received a spirit of sonship,” Paul proclaims, and from that, and only from that, we might say, flows the true meaning of our actions. “By their fruits ye shall know them.” We are at once our actions and yet more than our actions.

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“I have compassion on the multitude, because they have now been with me
three days, and have nothing to eat”

Seven loaves of bread and a few small fishes. Compassion is dietary light, it might seem, perhaps a Gwyneth Paltrow special. Yet,  the story of the feeding of the multitude in the wilderness compels our attention. It is actually part of a kind of New Testament conundrum: there is the story of the feeding of the five thousand and the feeding of the four thousand almost juxtaposed, side by side. There are a host of intriguing differences which suggest some sort of larger design and purpose rather than incompetent mediocrity and forgetfulness, as if confused about a single event and how to tell it.

But without getting into the intricacies of comparing the accounts of Mark and Matthew in relation to Luke and John about these double miracles with differing figures – five thousand, four thousand, seven loafs, five loafs, seven baskets left over, twelve baskets left over, to mention a few – what does this story really signify?

I think it is captured in Mark’s succinct phrase. “I have compassion on the multitude,” Jesus says. In a way, these remarkable stories are all about the compassion of Christ, the Son of God, in whom we learn the love of God for our wounded and broken humanity, even more, for our humanity in its disarray, our humanity lost and hungry in the wilderness.

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

It is, to my mind, a powerful picture and an enchanting scene. Jesus sits down in a boat which he uses as a pulpit for teaching those that “pressed upon him to hear the word of God,” then bids Simon to “launch out into the deep and to let down [the] nets.” There is the intriguing response of Simon Peter. “Master, we have toiled all the night, and have taken nothing; nevertheless, at thy word I will let down the net.” It captures a marvelous moment and one which speaks to the existential despair of our age as well as providing the exact counter to our sense of futility and hopelessness.

What follows is equally marvelous. Having let down their nets, “they inclosed a great number of fishes, and their net brake.” Another ship is beckoned to come to their aid and yet the catch is so overwhelming that it “fill[s] both the ships, so that they began to sink.” It is a great marvel and it sparks a further response from Simon Peter: “depart from me, for I am a sinful man, O Lord” to which Jesus replies, “fear not, from henceforth thou shalt catch men.” We are very much in the presence of God, it seems. The story marks Luke’s account of the call to discipleship of Simon Peter and the others.

In God’s Providence, this Gospel story read on The Fifth Sunday after Trinity coincides with Petertide, the Church’s celebration of St. Peter and St. Paul, the twin pillars and princes, we might say, of the Apostolic Church, so outstanding and so incalculable is their witness. Their joint commemoration is a kind of accident of history, on the one hand, and the providence of God, on the other hand, having to do with the coming together of their bodies to a common place of burial in the sixth century, long after their martyrdoms in Rome. Yet there is something fitting about their being commemorated together. It speaks to the truth and unity of the Church’s mission and life.

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“And thou, child, shalt be called the Prophet of the Highest:
For thou shalt go before the face of the Lord to prepare his ways”

The Feast of the Nativity of St. John the Baptist falls immediately after the Summer Solstice, the longest day and the shortest night of nature’s year, and points us to the Winter Solstice, the shortest day and the longest night of nature’s year, that falls just before the Nativity of Christ at Christmas. The interplay of natural and spiritual themes is an intriguing feature of the Christian religion and speaks to a number of other interactions as well, not least between prophecy and fulfillment. The whole significance of John the Baptist lies in his mission. He is sent to prepare the way of the Lord, the way of God’s being with us in the intimacy of the humanity of Jesus Christ.

We are, I suspect, at once very leery and all too gullible about signs and portents; quick to jump to conclusions about the coincidence of events in our own lives, claiming some special blessing from God, but much more reluctant to acknowledge the same reality in the experience of others. It is, I suppose, a feature of our age: insecure in our narcissism, and skeptical, if not altogether suspicious, about others. Yet the story of John the Baptist is a major part of the New Testament witness. The child of an older woman, Elizabeth, thought to be long past the age of child-bearing, and of an old priest, Zechariah, who is rendered dumb for challenging the very idea of the birth of a child in their dotage, John the Baptist’s birth itself is a kind of preparation and foretelling of the birth and ministry of Christ. In a way, that is the whole point. Summer points to winter only to open us out to the eternity of God’s good will and purpose for our humanity and for our world in the Christ who comes into our world.

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“Be ye therefore merciful, as your Father is also merciful.”

Known as the Mercy Gospel, this gospel passage has been read for centuries on this day. Paradoxically, it seems to me, the mercy lies in the realization that we are all hypocrites! The parable Jesus tells is precisely about that. And yet, this is the good news!

The text about the blind leading the blind has become a commonplace in our world; we are quick to use it in relation to political and institutional leadership, but we forget that we are included in its range. The blind who are the leaders lead the blind who are the followers. In other words, this parable forecloses on our tendencies to judge and condemn one another as if we stood upon some superior platform. Quite the opposite, the parable goes on to suggest.

“Thou hypocrite, cast out first the beam out of thine own eye, and then shalt thou see clearly to pull out the mote that is in thy brother’s eye.” This is a devastating reality check. We are utterly blind about ourselves. I love the language of beam and mote; more modern translations of log and speck just don’t have the same resonance. Think of the massive oak beams of this Church and, then, think of the tiny dust motes dancing in the morning light and you begin to get a sense of the contrast and the problem. And so, what is to be done?

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