Category: Sermons

“For without me me ye can do nothing”

There is something rather terrifying about the feast of St. Matthias. He is the apostle chosen by lot to go “into the place of the traitor Judas,” as the Collect puts it. The Lesson from Acts is no less clear: one is chosen “that he may take his place in this ministry and apostleship, from which Judas by transgression fell.” That one is Matthias, now numbered with the eleven, making the eleven twelve.

We know virtually nothing about Matthias. Which is fine. It is more than enough to contemplate the idea that he has been chosen to take the place of the betrayer of Jesus. Yet it must seem an uncomfortable thought. Betrayals are difficult but necessary things to behold. To take the place of the traitor, it seems to me, must mean contemplating the betrayals in our own hearts. For it has to be said that we are all the traitors of Christ. We are all like Judas.

Such is the deep and grim reality of sin. Matthias is chosen to take his place. Not to be another traitor but in the face of human treachery and deceit to be a man of faith, steadfast and sure. “There is no art to read the mind’s construction in the face” Shakespeare’s King Duncan, in the play MacBeth, says about the first Thane of Cawdor who was a traitor to the King. “He was one,” the King says, “upon whom I built an absolute trust.” At just that moment, MacBeth appears, MacBeth whom the King had just appointed the Thane of Cawdor in the place of the traitor. MacBeth would prove to be the far greater traitor. And unlike the first Thane of Cawdor who confessed and repented, it will not be said of MacBeth, as it was said of him, that “nothing became his life like his leaving it,” meaning a kind of nobility achieved through repentance and confession.

No. Matthias stands in the place of the traitor Judas but not as another traitor but one who knows the treachery of human hearts and the need for heavenly grace. And that, it seems to me, is the point of the Gospel reading that accompanies the lesson from Acts. Jesus says, “for without me ye can do nothing.”

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“For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also”

Where are our hearts? Ash Wednesday is the stark reminder that our hearts are in disarray, in darkness and confusion, in sin and folly. We don’t like to hear this perhaps and yet the message of Ash Wednesday is the strength and comfort of the Christian Gospel. It convicts us, to be sure, but only so as to set us on the path of redemption.

Year in and year out, it seems. The path is at once easy and hard, the ways at once difficult and yet altogether possible. It is about the grace of Christ in us and through us in the course of our daily lives.

Welcome deare feast of Lent: who loves not thee,
He loves not Temperance, or Authoritie,
But is compos’d of passion.

Wise words from the poet of the Anglican spiritual way, George Herbert. He has put his finger on the challenge of Lent. It is to be welcomed, even loved. Why? Because of the importance of temperance – one of the four cardinal virtues and the one which speaks directly to the matter of self-control – and because of the necessity of authority. As he rightly intuits, it is hard to imagine which we reject the most, the idea of temperance in the culture of self-indulgence, or the idea of authority in the culture of the tyranny of our own subjectivity; in short, “you are not the boss of me!” It is, I fear, the underlying mantra of the culture of arrested adolescence. Lent provides a counter to these disorders and disasters, a welcome counter, as Herbert suggests.

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“I will show you a yet more excellent way”

That more excellent way is Paul’s great love-song. The image of our lives together as a body encompassing diverse gifts and distinct parts where each works for the good of the whole has its ultimate perfection only through the activity of love, the perfecting virtue. Without love, we are nothing, he says, but “sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal”, lives that are “full of sound and fury/ signifying nothing” as Shakespeare puts it in MacBeth. Charity is love, love in its profoundest sense, love as “setting love in order” and bringing to perfection each and every part of the complex of the body, each and every form of love. Ultimately, that body is the body of Christ, the Church, the body within which every other body, both individually and collectively, finds its place and voice.

Love is motion towards another. It does not arise simply from ourselves. For in ourselves our love towards one another is always suspect and self-serving; in short, selfish. It is always less than what it should be, even less than what we want it to be. The poverty of our own loves convicts us. In ourselves, our loves, our desires are incomplete, dangerous, destructive and even quite deadly. “We see in a glass darkly”, incompletely and confusedly, especially about our loves, it seems.

We have to learn this in one way or another. At the same time, we have to learn the greater lesson of the perfecting grace of Christ. Christian love is not about comfort and convenience. It is about sacrifice and commitment. The love of Christ would teach us about the true love of God in and through the forms of our unloveliness but only so as to set us right in love. Without the love of God – so clearly and strongly indicated on this day – there could be no journey, no pilgrimage, no Lent; in short, no love. Without love we are dead.

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“Go ye also into the vineyard, and whatsoever is right I will give you”

Septuagesima, Sexagesima and Quinquagesima are the three Sundays of Pre-Lent. They remain only in the Book of Common Prayer; no longer even part of the contemporary ecumenical landscape. And yet, they teach us something quite profound. They recall us to a moral discourse which is part and parcel of the larger life of the Church and which connects us to the traditions of moral philosophy in antiquity which is also part of the heritage of Jews and Muslims.

That moral discourse is about the four cardinal virtues, anciently understood to be the defining elements of human character in the pursuit of excellence. Those four cardinal virtues are temperance, courage, prudence and justice. They are activities of the soul with respect to every aspect of our lives; principles, we might say, that are cultivated within the soul and which guide and govern the whole of our lives. It belongs to the sophisticated wisdom of the ancient Greeks to understand that the inward aspects of our being determine our outward actions; these are the virtues that define the ancient sense of dignity and respect.

Temperance is about self-control, particularly of our appetites and emotions, “subduing the body” as Paul puts it. Courage is about our hearts in the face of each and every challenge and hardship of life. Prudence is about the right exercise of our reason; practical wisdom, as it were. Justice, the greatest of these four is about the right ordering of all the parts of the soul – body, heart and mind.

To ponder the four cardinal virtues themselves would be a wonderful thing but these three ‘Gesima’ Sundays (which are terms of temporal reference pointing us towards Lent and Easter; in short, the weeks of seventy, sixty, fifty days before Easter) are about something more and something greater. They point us to the radical transformation of these worldly or natural virtues of human excellence by God’s grace. In other words, the cultivation of the four classical or cardinal virtues in our souls and in our lives belongs to human redemption, to the ultimate perfection of our humanity as found (to use Augustine’s terms) not in ‘the City of Man’ but in ‘the City of God’ which of course becomes the pattern for our lives in the world. Jesus’s parable is about the kingdom of heaven, imaged as a householder hiring workers for his vineyard. This belongs to the Christian transformation of the ancient moral wisdom. The cardinal virtues all become forms of love; ways in which we participate in God’s love written out for us to read in Jesus Christ.

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“What manner of man is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?”

“When icicles hang by the wall,/ And Dick the Shepherd blows his nail,/ And Tom bears logs into the hall,/ and milk comes frozen home in pail,/ When blood is nipped and ways be foul” … “When all aloud the wind doth blow,/ And coughing drowns the parson’s saw,/ And birds sit brooding in the snow,/ And Marion’s nose looks red and raw,/ When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,/ Then nightly sings the staring owl,/ Tu-who/ Tu-whit, Tu-who – a merry note,/ While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.” Ah, winter, at least as Shakespeare envisions it in Love’s Labour’s Lost, a wee bit threatening but mostly manageable, even “a merry note”.

How do we think about winter? Is it something that we dread and fear? Something from which we seek to flee, seeking out some warmer clime, fleeing the bitter cold as if fleeing from discomfort if not from death itself? Or is winter, as another poet, William Cowper puts it, the “king of intimate delights”? Certainly, the season and experience of winter varies from place to place, from culture to culture, and even from age to age. “Winter in Venice”, Adam Gopnik observes, “is very different from winter in Whitehorse”, or, for that matter, Windsor! It is “a truth”, as Alden Nowlan, the Canadian poet from Stanley, just down the road from Windsor, puts it in a poem entitled “January Night”, “that all men share but almost never utter. This is a country where a man can die simply from being caught outside.” Winter has to be respected.

But how we think about winter is part of a larger question about how we think about nature and how we think about the created order. In other words, it belongs to how we think about God and about creation and redemption. This Gospel story speaks directly to those ideas and extends them into the world of our hearts and minds as well. There is a storm at sea and all seems lost. Jesus is with them, asleep. He seems indifferent to the fearful fatalism of the men. They awaken him: “Master, carest thou not that we perish?” It isn’t a request for anything to be done; only a wake-up call to our imminent death and destruction in the storm.

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“I saw a light above the brightness of the sun”

Saul, the Persecutor of the Way – it wasn’t even known as Christianity at this point – becomes Paul, the Apostle to the Gentiles. As with the idea of the Epiphany itself, the Gospel goes viral through Paul’s conversion; it becomes for all peoples everywhere. The Conversion of St. Paul is a signal moment in the break-out of the Gospel to the whole world.

With the Conversion of St. Paul, the Gospel of Jesus Christ first captures the world’s attention, for he will take it to Caesar, as it were; second, it captures the world’s imagination, for his writings form not only such a large part of what we call the New Testament but also provide much of the impetus towards the possibility of a Canon of Sacred Texts; and third, it captures the hearts of the world’s people for all times and in all places. Something of the Conversion of St. Paul moves in the conversion of the nations, in the conversion of souls in every age, and even more, in that re-consecration of heart and soul to the things of Christ at times of reform and renewal.

Paul tells us about his conversion, not just once, not even twice, but actually three times. But before we complain that seems somewhat excessive, let us remember that we find these accounts, not in his hand, but in the Book of the Acts of the Apostles, from the hand of another, probably Luke. The poet/preacher John Donne reminds us of the observation of Chrysostom and Jerome that “the Book is called the Acts of the Apostles; but…it might be called the Acts of St. Paul, so much more is it conversant about him, then [sic] all the rest”.

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“They found him in the Temple, sitting in the midst of the doctors,
both hearing them, and asking them questions.”

Epiphany is, par excellence, the season of teaching. It begins with the Magi-Kings bearing gifts to the Child Christ, gifts that primarily teach; “sacred gifts of mystic meaning,” as one of the hymns puts it. And then, there is this Gospel story, the only Gospel story about the boyhood of Jesus. He is found in the Temple in Jerusalem by his parents. He is with the doctors, the teachers of the Law. He is both listening and asking questions and providing answers. He is at once both student, humanly speaking, and teacher, divinely speaking. Epiphany is about what God makes known to us through the humanity of Jesus Christ.

This Gospel story challenges us about education. It does so from within the meaning of the story of the Epiphany itself which is primarily about adoration, a concept which we have, perhaps, lost or forgotten in our contemporary culture and which then affects how we think about education, about teaching. Education, too, is often described as a kind of journey, an adventure in learning, and so forth. But what kind of journey?

There is a journey to be sure, the journey to and from Bethlehem by the Magi-Kings. And there is a journey to Jerusalem and, ultimately, back to Nazareth in the Gospel story of Christ teaching in the Temple.

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“Lord, I am not worthy that thou shouldest come under my roof,
but speak the word only and my servant shall be healed.”

Mean thoughts, mean words and mean deeds result in a mean world of mean people. How great the contrast with healing words and deeds that arise from healing thoughts?

Words can make or break our day. A word spoken in kindness and truth can build us up and encourage us. A word spoken in disdain and hate can unsettle and disturb us.

Here is an Epiphany story of two miracles. It is simply about the power and the truth of the Divine Word which challenges us about our thoughts, our words and our deeds.

Two miracles. Miracles, we have suggested are part of the teaching programme of the Epiphany season. They belong to God’s will and purpose for our humanity, to our being able to take delight and find joy in one another and in God’s world. All the healing miracles of the Gospel point to that picture of the restoration and perfection of our humanity. They signal the idea of creation redeemed and sanctified. But only through the encounter with Christ. Only through the manifestations of his essential divinity communicated through his perfect humanity.

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“This beginning of signs did Jesus in Cana of Galilee
and manifested forth his glory and his disciples believed on him.”

Epiphany is the season of teaching, we have said. It is, also, it seems the season of miracles. Epiphany abounds with the miracles of Jesus. Is there a connection? Yes. The miracles teach. They belong to what is being made manifest, to what is being made known to us about who Jesus is and what he means for us. Importantly, the miracles reveal God’s will and purpose for our humanity.

Yet, miracles may trouble us. Some have thought of them as being little more than the stuff of superstition and nonsense. Thomas Jefferson, for example, in the almost typical exuberance and arrogance of the reason of the Enlightenment, took his scissors to the New Testament and cut out of it all the miracles, leaving merely a kind of core of moral teaching as he thought. But this, I am afraid, to have missed the whole point of the miracles. Without them we miss the greater story of God’s will and purpose for our humanity and our world. After all, as theologians like Augustine pointed out long ago, the great miracle is the miracle of creation itself to which the miracles recall us in one way or another.

The miracle stories of the New Testament open us out to the truth of God as Creator, Redeemer and Sanctifier and, perhaps, nowhere do we see that more clearly and more profoundly in this Gospel story of the Wedding Feast at Cana of Galilee where Jesus turned the water into wine. John tells us, and it is something he is at pains to tell us, that this was “the beginning of signs” which Jesus did, the first of the miracles as it were. I think he wants us to appreciate how much this Gospel story makes manifest – there is that Epiphany word again – the true meaning of all the miracle stories.

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“They found him in the Temple, sitting in the midst of the doctors,
both hearing them, and asking them questions.”

Epiphany is, par excellence, the season of teaching. It begins with the Magi-Kings bearing gifts to the Child Christ, gifts that primarily teach; “sacred gifts of mystic meaning,” as one of the hymns puts it. And then, on the First Sunday after the Epiphany, we have this Gospel story, the only Gospel story about the boyhood of Jesus. He is found in the Temple in Jerusalem by his parents. He is with the doctors, the teachers of the Law. He is both listening and asking questions and providing answers. He is at once both student, humanly speaking, and teacher, divinely speaking. Epiphany is about what God makes known to us through the things of humanity.

This Gospel story challenges us about education. It does so from within the meaning of the story of the Epiphany itself which is primarily about adoration, a concept which we have, perhaps, lost or forgotten in our contemporary culture and which then effects how we think about education, about the teaching. T.S. Eliot’s marvelous poem, The Journey of the Magi, begins with an arresting quote from the 17^th century preacher and divine, Lancelot Andrewes.

A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long  journey;
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.

Eliot goes on to reflect on the nature of the journey, talking about the hardships of the way, “the camels galled, sore-footed and refractory,” though the biblical account makes no mention of any camels, about the recalcitrance and uncertainty of the servants, and about the unfriendly reception in the towns and cities along the way; in short, “a hard time we had of it,” referring to the journey. About that journey, he says,

All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death?…

He reflects on the ambiguities of life and death that somehow belong to the uncertainties of the journey. Birth and Death. Our lives, too, are often described and spoken about as being a kind of journey. But what kind of journey? Education, too, is often described as a kind of journey, an adventure in learning, and so forth. But, again, what kind of journey?

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