Category: Sermons

“There came a sound from heaven, as of a rushing mighty wind …
and cloven tongues, like as of fire…”

Pentecost. What does it mean? The fiftieth day after Passover, after Easter. What does it signify? In the Christian understanding, it signifies the Descent of the Holy Spirit upon the disciples to give birth to the Church.

What? Was there no Church before Pentecost? Yes and no. The Church is present yet hidden in the history of Israel as “the People of God,” a people defined by the Law, the Old Testament or Covenant. The Church is present, too, in the Incarnate Christ of the New Testament. But now, at Pentecost, the Church is present and empowered in a new way. How? By the Descent of the Holy Ghost or Spirit, sent from the Father by the Son, sent by the Father in Jesus’ name. A powerful pedigree and a moving and powerful scene. No Trinity. No Church.

Luke tells us about the event of Pentecost. At once exhilarating and strange, we all catch, I think, something of the ecstatic and experiential wonder of the event. “A sound from heaven, as of a rushing mighty wind,” and “cloven tongues, like as of fire,” lighting and resting upon each of the disciples, inspiring them, it seems, for “they were all filled with the Holy Spirit, and began to speak with other tongues,” the Spirit giving “them utterance,” it seems. A curious, yet awe-inspiring event. Everyone speaking in other tongues – other languages – but all singing from the same song-sheet, all singing “the wonderful works of God.” Somehow the confused babble of the nations has been converted into a unity of praise. That surely is a marvel. But what, really, are we to make of it? At the time, some thought they were drunk!

Peter, in the passage which immediately follows this morning’s lesson, is quick to respond. “These men are not drunk, as you suppose, since it is only the third hour of the day;” it‘s a long time before happy hour, after all! Yet, it is a curious scene. It seems, well, rather unsettling, and, yet, John tells us in the Gospel that this unsettling Spirit is God the Holy Ghost, the Comforter. Is this what we should expect will happen to us at Pentecost? What does it all mean? What kind of birthday of the Church is this?

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“The end of all things is at hand.”

This might seem rather stern and threatening. The Gospel reading, too, talks about hard things, like persecution and death. But it also tells us about the coming of the Comforter. Somehow, the sense of “the end[ing] of all things” is not just frightening judgement but joy and mercy. Comforting, somehow.

We meet in the Ascension of Christ. I am struck by how relevant and powerful the fundamental creedal principles of the Christian Faith often are with respect to the issues of our post-Christian and post-secular culture. It shouldn’t be surprising, of course, because what we have before us is precisely a way of thinking that empowers and informs a way of living. That is the important insight of the ‘perennial philosophy’ expressed in one way or another in all of the great religions of the world.

In the Christian understanding, the doctrine of the Ascension is especially suggestive and important about our understanding of our humanity and our world. The Ascension signals the completion of the mission of Jesus Christ. He has come forth from the Father and has come into the world and now he leaves the world and returns to the Father. In those motions, we see the comings and goings of God in which there is both revelation and redemption. These comings and goings open out to us a spiritual and intellectual understanding of human life and of the world in which we find ourselves. Christ is not some will ‘o the wisp who comes and goes without reason or purpose.

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“He ascended into heaven”

A creedal teaching, the Ascension of Christ is one of the most overlooked feasts in the life of the Christian Church. Its meaning, however, is quite radical. In a way, it brings to a kind of completion the radical meaning of Christ’s resurrection.

Death and resurrection constitute the fundamental pattern of Christian life but without the Ascension to say that is to say very little. What the Ascension reminds us is our home with God. The Ascension of Christ is about the homecoming of the Son to the Father which establishes our homeland of the spirit. The Fathers of the early Church grasped this point ever so strongly. The Ascension, as Leo the Great puts it, is “the exaltation of our humanity.” In Christ’s Ascension, the heaven of God becomes our homeland.

The Ascension marks the culmination of the Easter Season. It inaugurates a new spiritual outlook, but one which forever remains grounded in the pattern of death and resurrection. We have an end with God and that homeland of the spirit is something which we participate in now through prayer and praise and through the sacraments.

We ascend in the Ascension of Christ. Somehow we are caught up into that heavenly motion. How? Through prayer, the very thing that has brought us to the Ascension of Christ. “We ascend in the ascension of our hearts,“ as Augustine remarks. The Ascension signals the purpose and meaning of Christ’s being with us. Nothing need stand between us and God except the barriers which we create ourselves. Prayer as the lifting up of our hearts places us in the divine will for our humanity and world. He has the whole world in his hands; never more so than at the Ascension when the Son returns to the Father having accomplished all that belongs to the redemption of the world.

It is in prayer and praise that participate in that work of cosmic redemption and are gathered into the heavenly community. We ascend in the Ascension of Christ.

“He ascended into heaven”

Fr. David Curry
Ascension 2011

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“In the world ye shall have tribulation, but be of good cheer,
I have overcome the world”

Jesus’ words are strong and wonderful words. They capture an important feature of the Christian understanding, one which, perhaps, we have forgotten. The Resurrection changes how we look on the world and on our experiences in the world. The Resurrection is cosmic in scope. The celebration of human redemption equally embraces the idea of the redemption of the world. That is really what is meant by the term ‘overcoming’.

Today is, or was, commonly called Rogation Sunday. Rogation is about asking. Prayer, in its most basic sense, is about asking. To ask for something recognizes that you don’t have something which you need or would like to have. The idea of asking is itself a kind of reality check on the human situation. It recognizes that we are incomplete. Asking means looking to another for what we do not have but want and need. The ultimate Other is God. Asking is a fundamental feature of prayer. And of the possibilities of education, of learning, too. The passionate desire (eros) to know means recognising that you do not know.

Asking is complemented by another fundamental feature of prayer, namely, praise. Prayer and praise are important features of Rogationtide. Prayer is to be understood in a much bigger and broader sense than what we might ordinarily think. Prayer is large in its scope. As Richard Hooker puts it, “prayer signifies all the service we ever do unto God.” In other words, prayer in its largest sense embraces the whole of our lives. Our lives are to be understood as lives of prayer and praise.

The liberating factor is that prayer and praise place us with God. Nothing need stand between us and God. Why not? Because of Christ’s death and resurrection. We are, you might say, freed to God. Prayer and praise are about that freedom.

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“What mean ye by this service?”

It was the Exodus text that framed our Holy Week reflections. But it extends, I think, into our Eastertide meditations, particularly today. What do we mean by this service of Morning Prayer, I wonder?

So much is set before us in the readings and the canticles, the hymns and the prayers. In the ten-second sound bite culture of our consumer world and day, it must seem to be altogether too much. So I want to try to help you understand a little bit of what we are doing in this service and to see if we can’t begin to appreciate what God is doing for us and with us in this service. It is really all about our life with God in the mercies of Jesus Christ.

St. James, in the epistle reading at Holy Communion for today, exhorts us to “receive with meekness the implanted word.” Meekness or humility is about our openness to God’s word. The psalmist notes that “blessed are all they that fear the Lord and walk in his ways” (Ps. 128, vs.1). Fear, of course, means holding God in awe and wonder because God is God, we might say, and far more than we can desire or imagine. In the Scriptural view of things, there is something wonderful about God making himself known to us, about God’s revealing his will and presence to us.  Our first lesson this morning from The Book of Exodus reminds us of both. At issue is whether we are open to his word and will and presence.

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“Nevertheless, I tell you the truth; it is expedient for you that I go away.”

There is a great fearfulness in our own age and culture. It goes beyond the ceaseless spectacle of a world of wars that is constantly before us in such things as the unrest in the Middle East or in the parade of natural catastrophes such as floods in Manitoba and fires in northern Alberta. It concerns the emptiness within the soul of a culture when it can no longer say what it is that is worth living for, when it can no longer identify the principles and the ideals that dignify our humanity.

When we can no longer say what makes life worth living for, then there is certainly nothing worth dying for either. There is nothing to give your life to. There is only the emptiness within, a darkness inside, out of which comes such frightening and senseless acts of violence, death and self-destruction that have become a regular feature of our world. The essence of such acts is their meaninglessness born out of a sense of the meaninglessness of contemporary life. As the philosopher, Peter Kreeft, has noted, the fear for our culture is not the fear of death as it was for the ancient cultures of Greece and Rome, nor is it the fear of Hell as it was for the mediaeval cultures – Christian, Jewish and Islamic; no, it is the fear of meaninglessness itself. There is no objective truth to which we should conform ourselves and hold ourselves accountable. This is our fearfulness, the fearfulness we have to confront and overcome.

We confront it in the Gospels. Jesus confronts our fearfulness. The Gospel of the Resurrection is especially about his overcoming of our fearfulness. The message of the angel to the women, coming early to the tomb and finding it empty, was “be not afraid”. Jesus comes into the midst of the disciples whether they are huddled behind closed doors in fear or on the road to Emmaus in flight from Jerusalem in fear.

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“I am the Good Shepherd”

The image of Christ the Good Shepherd is one of the great and most familiar images of care. At once a commonplace, it is altogether radical in its meaning. The root of care is cure. The care, we might say, is in the cure.

Jesus says, “I am the Good Shepherd.” What distinguishes good shepherds from bad is care. The Good Shepherd cares for the sheep. The meaning of that care is that he lays down his life for the sheep. There is sacrifice – the total giving of oneself for the good of another. It is what we have been privileged to see in Holy Week, on the one hand, contemplating the utter failure in and of ourselves to seek the good of one another and, on the other hand, contemplating the sacrificial love of Christ who alone accomplishes what belongs to our eternal good.

The Good Shepherd, and this is the great and wonderful paradox, is also the Lamb of God. His sacrifice is the cure for our sins but it also imparts his care for our lives. The pastoral ministry of the Church is rooted in this sense of care which is often called “the cure of souls.” It goes beyond the superficial and external matters of comfort and ease and convenience to address the distempers of our souls, the disenchantments of our hearts and the despair of our lives. There is no pastoral care without the naming of the cure and there is no cure without the acknowledgement of our need to be cured in the very root of our being. Once again, it belongs to the pageant of Holy Week to point this out to us. But it also belongs to the parade of Eastertide to show that sacrificial love is a living love. It belongs to the divine life of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, the divine love that has been made visible in the passion and crucifixion of Christ and in the wonder and triumph of Christ’s resurrection.

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“Your sorrow shall be turned into joy”

Eastertide is the season of joy. The joy, of course, is not just for a season but actually underlies the true nature of our spiritual pilgrimage for the entire year and for the whole of our life. The joy is the joy of the resurrection. Every Sunday, in the Christian understanding of things, is a celebration of the resurrection. In some sense, Christians should not so much be “surprised by joy” as defined by joy.

The joy of the resurrection is not simply or primarily something emotional and psychological, a state of feeling or euphoria. It is something inward and spiritual. It has to do with our understanding of Christ’s death and resurrection. It is something that has to be taught in order to be felt, we might say. There is the constant necessity of being reminded, time and time again, about the victory of Christ over sin and death. The resurrection is the radical triumph of Christ over the very things that make human life tragic and meaningless. We have to think it and live its triumph.

The joy of the resurrection does not eclipse the realities of human suffering and death. Neither does it deny the realities of good and evil. Quite the contrary. The resurrection is about facing those realities and seeing them in a new light of understanding. That new light of understanding is our life with Christ and in Christ lived out in his body, the Church. It means that we look on sin and suffering and death differently. We are no longer to see them as ultimately defining and defeating. “Death be not proud,” as the poet, John Donne, puts it, because death no longer has anything to be puffed up about; indeed, “Death, thou shalt die.” Death has been changed by virtue of the resurrection.

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“The Good Shepherd giveth his life for the sheep”

In our social culture today is Mother’s Day but in the culture of the Church it is Good Shepherd Sunday. The Eucharistic gospel which orders our reading and thinking about the Scriptures on The Second Sunday after Easter is the passage from John’s Gospel about Jesus as the Good Shepherd.

A familiar image, even too familiar, perhaps, Christ the Good Shepherd is almost a commonplace theme. And yet, we fail to appreciate its radical meaning.

It is not by accident that this Gospel is read in Eastertide, in the season of the Resurrection. That helps us to realize its radical intent. Christ the Good Shepherd is the Lamb of God. Christ the Good Shepherd “giveth his life for the sheep.” The image of Christ the Good Shepherd cannot be understood apart from the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead. The Resurrection is about our freedom from sin and death but only through Christ’s death and resurrection.

Exodus is one of the Old Testament books which belong to our Eastertide thinking. It is about liberation. There is an important parallel between the Exodus and the Resurrection, between the liberation from captivity under Pharaoh’s bitter yoke and the greater liberation from sin and death. In both cases, there is the necessity of learning.

The lessons are not always easy. We are not always ready learners. Today, in the Exodus lesson we confront a certain aspect of ourselves. For an ancient story, what we confront here about ourselves seems positively contemporary. There is always time for whine in Canada, it seems, to use the old cliché!

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“The same day at evening … came Jesus and stood in the midst”

There is something quite intriguing and compelling, I think, about the accounts of the Resurrection presented to us in the Gospels. They show us how the idea of the Resurrection takes hold of the minds of the disciples and, by extension, our minds. Such is the living power of the Resurrection for each and every generation.

Today is the Octave Day of Easter. It is as if time has stopped and we are still in the moment of the great mystery of God’s great redemptive act, the act of the Resurrection. It is the same day as last Sunday. It is as if the liturgy has not stopped but has continued. That is the meaning of an octave, just like in music, where the first note and the eighth note are the same note except for the upward progression through the scale.

And so here we are in the mystery of the day of Resurrection, but it is the evening. Jesus comes and stands in the midst of the disciples. They are in fear and they are behind closed doors. There is the surprise and wonder of Christ’s sudden appearance. There is the greater surprise and wonder, I think, about what Christ says and does here. At the heart of it all is Christ in their midst.

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