Category: Sermons

“The words that I have spoken unto you are spirit and life”
(John 6. 63)

“Prayer the Churches banquet, Angels age,
Gods breath in man returning to his birth,
The soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage”

These are the opening lines of a wonderful poem by George Herbert called Prayer (1), a poem which presents a collection of images, biblical and natural, domestic and exotic, historical and experiential and which ends with two words, “something understood.” Prayer is something understood in and through the images of our journey in faith to God and with God.

It speaks, I think, to the rich marvel of today’s readings from Galatians and the Gospel according to St. John. There is a banquet in the wilderness. “Prayer the churches banquet” happens in the wilderness of human experience.

The theme of the wilderness is a fundamental feature of the season of Lent. By extension, the wilderness is a profound and important metaphor for the journey of our souls in faith.

The wilderness in the biblical accounts is the place of revelation: God reveals himself to Moses in the burning bush in the wilderness as “I am who I am.” The whole exodus is about the going forth of the people of Israel into the wilderness. There the Law is given to them. The wilderness is the place of the giving of the Law and the context of the giving of the Law is liberation; the law itself is about a greater freedom, a freedom to God. “I am the Lord thy God who brought thee out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage,” the Ten Commandments begin.

This sense of liberation ultimately finds further expression in Paul’s evocative description of Jerusalem as the city which “is above”, which “is free” and which is “the mother of us all.” This passage takes us back to Quinquagesima Sunday where Jesus tells us that “we go up to Jerusalem.” What does that mean? It means learning to live from God’s Word and will.  It is in the wilderness that the people of the Hebrews become the people of the Law, after all, learning what it means to be God’s people, defined by the intellectual and spiritual realities of God’s word and will. How much more so when we are in the wilderness with Christ, learning about the darkness of our sinful hearts and about the light of Christ’s love?

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“God, be merciful to me a sinner”

The theme of divine mercy triumphs over human presumption and folly. Divine mercy, however, makes no sense whatsoever if we do not know ourselves to be, in fact, sinners. In a way the shadows of the Cross reach backwards as well as forwards. We are illumined, paradoxically as it may seem,  by the shadows of the Cross.

There is the grace of revelation and the grace of redemption and nowhere, perhaps, is that seen more wonderfully than in the 18^th chapter of the Book of Genesis both in terms of this morning’s lesson and in terms of what precedes it, namely, the encounter between God and Abraham under the shade of the oaks of Mamre, a scene in which God gives the promise of a son to Abraham and Sarah in their old age, the proverbial ‘promised son’. God appears to Abraham in threefold aspect and Abraham prepares a meal for them and waits upon them. The scene becomes the basis for the icon of the Trinity in Eastern Orthodoxy, an image at once of the Eucharist and the Trinity, the communion of our humanity with the communion of God. All under the shade of the oak of Mamre for such is the grace of revelation which in turn signals the grace of redemption which is what we see in the story which immediately follows and which is our first lesson this morning.

We are presented with a most remarkable exchange between Abraham and God about human wickedness and divine mercy, about the power of righteousness and the powerlessness of sin. The question has to do about Sodom and Gomorrah, cities which are the proverbial images for all that is wicked and perverse, a wickedness and perversity that has very much to do with our hearts of judgment and self-righteousness.

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“He that is not with me is against me: and he that
gathereth not with me scattereth”

It is an intriguing and, to my mind, a terrifying Gospel. It signals the moment of the most intense kind of darkness in the Lenten journey, at least before the heart-rending darkness of Holy Week. And yet, there is a great good for us in the discovery of the “dark wood” of the soul, as it were, a light in the darkness. It is about awakening to the light of Christ without which we are simply in darkness and despair. It may be, like Dante, that we shall discover there “a great good” precisely through the darkness of the “dark wood” of the soul.

The Gospel shows us the picture, the terrifying picture, of the despairing soul. And what is at the center of that darkness and despair? Simply ourselves as divided against ourselves. Simply ourselves as presuming upon ourselves to fix ourselves and everything else around us. Simply ourselves, too, when we are buried in our own griefs and sorrows for that, too, is really all about us. The devil is in us when we forget about who we truly and fundamentally are in the sight of God. We become the enemies of God, our souls divided against ourselves because we are separated from God.

This is the great truth and insight of the great religions. Our humanity is radically incomplete without God. That basic insight is intensified in the Christian understanding; we are more than merely incomplete, we are destructive and dangerous to ourselves and to others. This is where Jesus’ stark words come fully into play. “He that is not with me is against me.” There is, we might say, no neutral ground, no place for indifference. It is a matter of being with God or being against God. Without God there is simply a great emptiness within the human soul, a God-shaped hole, we might say, in our very being.

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This is the second in a series of four Lenten devotional reflections given by Fr. David Curry on The Kiss of Judas: Themes of Betrayal & Forgiveness in the Scriptures. The first is posted here.

UPDATE (22 Mar.): The four addresses have been compiled into a booklet, which can be accessed here.

“Judas, betrayest thou the Son of man with a kiss?”

There is something wonderfully appropriate about commemorating St. Matthias in the course of our Lenten Programme on the Kiss of Judas. The Feast Day for St. Matthias is February 24th which this year fell on a Sunday in the season of Lent. The Feast of St. Matthias frequently, though not always, falls within Lent; sometimes it coincides with the pre-Lenten season of the Gesimas. But whether during the Gesimas or in Lent, if the 24th is a Sunday, the celebration of St. Matthias is transferred to the following Tuesday. What makes this wonderfully appropriate, even providential, is that the story of St. Matthias is directly related to the story of Judas. Matthias is the apostle chosen to take the place of Judas, the betrayer of Christ.

The readings for the Feast of St. Matthias are wonderfully illuminating about this connection to Judas. The lesson from Acts tells the story of Judas’ reaction to his betrayal – his self-destruction by falling headlong, bursting asunder and all his bowels gushed out (other accounts have him going out and hanging himself) – and the subsequent decision to choose another among those “which have companied with us” (Acts 1.21) and with Jesus “to be a witness with us of his resurrection” (Acts 1.22). The story of Matthias is about the one chosen by lot to take the place of Judas the betrayer. The Gospel from St. John is the last of the seven ‘I am’ sayings in which Jesus identifies himself in relation to us as the vine; we are the branches (John 15.5). We live from him. The image is inescapably sacramental and recalls us to the night on which he was betrayed, the night in which he institutes the form of his sacramental presence with us.

The kiss of Judas marks the greatest betrayal, one that gathers into itself all of the forms of betrayal. Not least is the idea of the betrayal of brotherhood and fellowship, betrayals that are related to our betrayals of ourselves and God. In a way, those aspects of betrayal are captured best in the Old Testament story of Joseph and his brothers and in the New Testament story of Peter’s betrayal of Christ. Both stories bring out the nature of betrayal and the prospect of forgiveness through contrition and repentance; paradoxically, the very things refused and denied by Judas himself.

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“O woman, great is thy faith: be it unto thee even as thou wilt.”

It is called The Prayer of Humble Access, one of the beautiful prayers of the Anglican liturgical tradition.

“We do not presume to come to this thy table, O merciful Lord; Trusting in our own righteousness, But in thy manifold and great mercies. We are not worthy So much as to gather up the crumbs under thy Table. But thou art the same Lord, Whose property is always to have mercy…”

The prayer echoes explicitly the Gospel for this day, the story of the Canaanite woman who approaches Jesus so resolutely, so determinedly and yet so humbly.

There are two words which stand here in a complementary relation. They are the words “humble” and “access.” Humility is the condition of our access to God. What the prayer expresses is a fundamental attitude of Faith. It is not our presumption, our “trusting in our own righteousness,” but our humility, our trusting in the “manifold and great mercies” of God. Against everything that is thrown at her, she has a hold of this one thing – the mercies of God in Christ Jesus. To have a hold of that is humility. She presumes upon nothing else and it is this that gains her access to the heart of Christ.

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“Have mercy on me, O Lord”

An appropriate text, I suppose, for anyone about to preach!

Dust and ashes, temptations, heartfelt desire. Such are the strong images that are before us in the early days of Lent. The dust of creation and of our common mortality and the ashes of repentance on Ash Wednesday, the temptations that challenge the truth of very being and belong to the disorders of our hearts on the First Sunday in Lent, all these raise important religious and philosophical question about human desire, “for where your treasure is, there will your heart be also” (Mt. 6. 21). Unlike the Buddhist annihilation of desire, Lent seeks the redemption of desire. Nowhere, perhaps, is that seen more wonderfully and powerfully in this Gospel story for the Second Sunday in Lent. “Have mercy on me, O Lord, thou Son of David,” the Canaanite woman cries unto Jesus.

It is the recurring refrain of the Lenten season and so, too, of the pilgrimage of our lives, echoed in the liturgy of the Church: “Kyrie Eleison” – “Lord, have mercy upon us.” Is it about groveling and wallowing in self-pity? Is it about a sense of self-denigration and self-degradation – putting ourselves down, making ourselves feel miserable, the proverbial beating up on ourselves? No, emphatically no. For such things are, to be rigorously truthful, all about pride – the pride which cuts us off from truth, the truth of God and the truth about ourselves both in terms of our God-given capacities and potentialities and our all too real sins and wickednesses. We are too much with ourselves.

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“Have mercy on me, O Lord”

It is the recurring refrain of the Lenten season and so, too, of the pilgrimage of our lives, echoed in the liturgy of the Church: “Kyrie Eleison” – “Lord, have mercy upon us.” Is it about grovelling and wallowing in self-pity? Is it about a sense of self-denigration and self-degradation – putting ourselves down, making ourselves feel miserable, the proverbial beating up on ourselves? No, emphatically no. For such things are, to be rigorously truthful, all about pride – the pride which cuts us off from truth, the truth of God and the truth about ourselves both in terms of our God-given capacities and potentialities and our all too real sins and wickednesses. We are too much with ourselves.

Far from being a plaintive cry of the weak and the pitiful, “have mercy upon me, O Lord” is the strong prayer of the honest soul. Nowhere does the strength of that honesty appear more forcibly and clearly than in this gospel story. The prayer for mercy is incredibly insistent. The Canaanite woman in the story won’t give up and won’t shut up. She is like the blind man whom Jesus encounters on the way to Jerusalem who also cried out to Jesus “have mercy on me” that he might receive his sight. He, too, would not be silenced but “cried so much the more, Thou Son of David, have mercy on me” (Luke 18. 39).

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UPDATE (22 Mar.): This is the first of four Lenten reflections on The Kiss of Judas: Themes of Betrayal and Forgiveness in the Scriptures. The four addresses have been compiled into a booklet, which can be accessed here.

“Judas, betrayest thou the Son of man with a kiss?”

They are haunting and troubling words. All of the Gospels identify Judas in one way or another as the betrayer of Christ, the grand paradigm in a way of all betrayal. Luke alone has Jesus address Judas with this telling question in the very moment of his being taken captive (Luke 22.48), a chilling moment of truth and its betrayal. Mark, with admirable economy of expression, has Judas simply tell the crowd “whomsoever I kiss, that same is he; take him, and lead him away safely.” Whose safety, we may ask? “And as soon as he was come [Judas] goeth straightway to him, and saith, Master, master; and kissed him” (Mark 14. 44-45). Matthew identifies Judas outright as the betrayer. “Now the betrayer had given them a sign, saying, The one I shall kiss is the man; seize him. And he came up to Jesus at once and said, Hail, Master! And he kissed him” (Matthew 26. 48-49). Only John says nothing about the kiss of Judas, though he is very clear about Judas’ betrayal.

Luke gives us this most intimate moment of betrayal, a moment made ever so memorable by its intensity and its intimacy. It has, to be sure, captured the imagination of the artists, though depictions of the betrayal, like the crucifixion itself, are relatively rare at least in early Christian art. Apart from a few sarcophagi, the earliest artistic representation in a Church appears in Ravenna, Italy, at the Church of Sant’Apollinare Nuovo in a lovely mosaic dating to the sixth century. But perhaps the most arresting artistic representation of the betrayal is Giotto’s fresco in the Scrovegni Chapel in Padua (1305/6). In a way it has become iconic. There are other representations to be sure – by Duccio in Sienna, Fra Angelico in Florence, and, later in the sixteenth century, Caravaggio in Rome, to name but a few – all of which connect the betrayal with violence as well. “Are ye come out as against a thief, with swords and staves, to take me?” Jesus says, (Mt. 26.55, Mk. 14.48). There are representations in stone and wood and in stained glass, too, scattered among the Cathedrals and churches of Europe and beyond. But one could hardly say that there was an excess of artistic representation of this momentous scene which is such a telling moment in the life of Christ. There is, after all, a disturbing quality about such a theme.

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“Then was Jesus led up by the Spirit into the wilderness,
to be tempted by the devil”

The Christian season of Lent traditionally begins with the temptations of Christ on the first Sunday of Lent. The whole idea of Lent, the quadragesima, is derived in part from Christ’s going into the wilderness and fasting for “forty days and forty nights.” It recapitulates the themes of the Exodus journey of the ancient Hebrews; the forty years of wandering in the wilderness of Sinai. It takes on a symbolic significance. At once a liberation from the yoke of slavery under the Egyptians, it was also a time of testing, and, above all, a time of learning. Learning what? Simply what it means to be the people of God, defined ultimately by God who reveals himself and his will in two ways: first, in the burning bush, and secondly, in the Ten Commandments, the moral code for our humanity, if you will.

These are astounding stories. And in a way they are recalled and reworked in the story of the temptations of Christ which sets us upon the Christian journey of life, a journey into the greater promised land of our redeemed humanity, our humanity forgiven and restored, like the paralytic in the lesson from Matthew’s Gospel, our humanity called and empowered, like Matthew, to follow Christ at his word to challenge and proclaim the new reality of God’s absolute mercy for our wounded and broken humanity. Somehow in the season of Lenten fasting we are also reminded of the joy of the new life of redemption. “Can the wedding guests mourn as long as the bridegroom is with them?” Jesus asks. It is a provocative question which calls attention to something new and wonderful in Christ which at once corrects and completes all that belongs to the rigour of the law and to the disciplines of Lent.

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“Thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and him only shalt thou serve”

The Christian season of Lent traditionally begins with the temptations of Christ on the First Sunday of Lent. The whole idea of Lent, the quadragesima, is derived in part from Christ’s going into the wilderness and fasting for “forty days and forty nights.” It recapitulates the themes of the Exodus journey of the ancient Hebrews; the forty years in the wilderness of Sinai. It takes on a symbolic significance. At once a liberation from the yoke of slavery under the Egyptians, it was also a time of testing, and, above all, a time of learning. Learning what? Simply what it means to be the people of God, defined ultimately by God who reveals himself and his will in two ways: first, in the burning bush, and secondly, in the Ten Commandments, the moral code for our humanity, if you will.

These are astounding stories. And in a way they are recalled and reworked in the story of the temptations of Christ which sets us upon the Christian journey of life, a journey into the greater promised land of our redeemed humanity, our humanity forgiven and restored.

(more…)

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