Category: Sermons

“My words shall not pass away”

What strong and disturbing words do we hear in this morning’s gospel! Almost as bad as the evening news or the weather report! “There shall be signs in the sun, and in the moon, and in the stars; and upon the earth distress of nations, with perplexity, the sea and the waves roaring.” Nothing really new about that – same old, same old – other than being far more eloquent than, perhaps, either the news or the weather!

And yet, it must surely give us pause, “men’s hearts failing them for fear”, anxious and worried on account of “looking after those things which are coming on the earth: for the powers of heaven shall be shaken.” There is a profoundly cosmic quality to these Scriptural warning notes which signal the Advent theme of judgment at once coming to us and ever present.

But exactly how, to use Cranmer’s words in his marvellous collect for this Sunday, do such disturbing warnings about judgment provide us with “patience and comfort of thy holy Word”, let alone “hope”? And yet that is precisely Jesus’ claim here. “My words shall not pass away.”

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“And when he was come into Jerusalem all the city was moved
saying, Who is this?”

Who is this? Indeed. For more than a thousand years, St. Matthew’s story of Christ’s triumphant entry into Jerusalem has been read on The First Sunday in Advent. And for more than a thousand years that reading ended with the question and answer: “Who is this? … This is Jesus the Prophet of Nazareth of Galilee.” It was in the sixteenth century that Archbishop Thomas Cranmer included the continuation of the story with Christ’s cleansing of the temple. Why?

Advent is the season of questions, it seems to me, questions which illuminate this season as the season of teaching. We are being taught by God’s Word shining like a light and a lantern into the darkness of our world and day. Questions, it seems to me, are an essential aspect of the teaching. Advent simply abounds with questions, questions upon questions that reach a crescendo of questioning on The Fourth Sunday in Advent. In a way, the questions of Advent recall us to the great questions that belong to the story of creation and redemption. Just consider.

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“Blessed Lord, who hast caused all holy Scriptures to be written for our learning: grant that we may in such wise hear them, read, mark, learn and inwardly digest them …” These familiar words belong to the Collect which Archbishop Thomas Cranmer composed for The Second Sunday in Advent (BCP, p. 97). Taken from the Scriptures, in this case Paul’s Letter to the Romans, the prayer captures an entire pattern of theological understanding that is at once formative and foundational for Anglican doctrine and devotion. Diarmaid MacCulloch, commenting on Gerlach Flicke’s 1545 portrait of Cranmer, which depicts him holding The Epistles of Paul but also with Augustine’s book De Fide et Operibus (“Of Faith and Works”), suggests that this signals Cranmer’s theological enterprise, namely, the recovery of the Scriptures understood through the best of the Fathers, principally Augustine.

The creedal or doctrinal understanding of the Scriptures is a distinctive feature of the Anglican Common Prayer tradition. The rich interplay of Scripture and Creed(s), for example, shapes the worship and liturgy of the Church. The Articles of Religion and the ordination vows of the clergy testify to the centrality of the Scriptures for the teaching and praying life of the Church and express a remarkably sophisticated approach to the reading of the Scriptures in the life of the Church. We place ourselves under the authority of God’s Word Written. But that means that we have to think the Scriptures. “What do the Scriptures say?” (Romans 10.8). Or, as Christ asks, “how do you read?” (Lk.10.26). There is a necessary engagement between God and our humanity through the witness of the Scriptures. Revelation is mediation and requires the fullest engagement of our minds with what the Scriptures proclaim.

The reformed principle of sola scriptura, “scripture alone”, admits of a range of applications but its most basic sense for Anglicans is the primacy of Scripture in determining doctrine, devotion and discipline. “Holy Scripture containeth all things necessary to salvation: so that whatsoever is not read therein, nor may be proven thereby, is not to be required of any man, that it should be believed as an article of the Faith,” as Article VI puts it. The same idea is required of the teaching of the clergy stated in their ordination vows. What are the things “necessary to salvation”? Those things which belong to the articles of the Faith; in short, the Creeds, which are the distillation of the Scriptures, and which speak to the nature of our spiritual identity with God in his self-relation as Trinity and in his relation to us as Creator, Redeemer and Sanctifier. Creedal and doctrinal principles exercise more than a merely formal role; they exercise a formative role in the life of the Church. They should have a definitive voice in the debates and issues of the day.

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“Thou art the man!”

Advent is the season of Revelation. It reminds us that Scripture, as the revealed Word of God, reveals something about our selves and something about God. “Thou art the man”, Nathan says. What does it mean? The story of David and Nathan suggests the interplay of two metaphors of understanding that belong to a theology of revelation. Scripture, we might say, is both a mirror and a window: a mirror in which we are allowed to see the truth of ourselves and a window through which we are privileged to glimpse something of the glory of God. A mirror and a window.

The story of David is not only one of the great narrative sequences in the Scriptures; it is also, as the poet and preacher John Donne suggests, the story of Everyman. “His Person includes all states, between a shepherd and a King”, a poet and a warrior, too, we might add, one who sings and one who acts. In a way, David epitomises the whole of Israel and by extension the whole of humanity. That is partly why the Davidic lineage of Jesus is so important in the New Testament. But David epitomises the whole of Israel and the whole of our humanity, not only in its truth but also in its untruth. “His sinne includes all sinne”, Donne remarks, “we need no other Example to discover to us the slippery wayes into sin, or the penitential wayes out of sin, than …. David”.

We do not have windows into one another’s souls, as that wise woman theologian, Queen Elizabeth the First, observed long ago. We hardly know ourselves. Those prerogatives belong to God and to God alone. “The Lord sees not as man sees; man looks on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart”, it is famously said. It is actually said about David. In the story of David we are given to see the heart of David which God sees and in it we are given to see something about ourselves. In the story of David we are given to see the mirror in which David confronts himself in his sinfulness and the window through which he sees God in his chastening mercy. The mirror which Nathan holds up is the parable which he tells the King, the parable which challenges and convicts. What has David done? Well, everything and more.

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“They desire a better country, that is, an heavenly.”

The Sunday Next Before Advent brings us to the end of the ecclesiastical year and so to the beginning of yet another. It brings us to the end of the Trinity season in a kind of summing up of the whole pageant of grace and it brings us to the beginning of the Advent season when we begin again with the grace of God’s turning and coming to us.

There is something profound and wonderful in these moments of transition, something which suggests the true nature of the dynamic of faith. And yet there is a kind of ambiguity as well. Do we end the year on a note of weariness and exhaustion? Too many books, so little time? “Of making many books there is no end; and much study is a weariness of the flesh,” after all, whether it be books in print or e-books. Are we frustrated and perplexed with the relentless sameness of yet another year, a year in which, once again, there seems to be no progress, no change from the endless and dismal stories of hardship and struggle? If anything, it might seem that there is more grief and trouble, more sadness and dismay. “Everybody knows, that’s the way it goes”, as Leonard Cohen’s song puts it rather cynically. It may seem that we have been “fed with the bread of tears” and have had “plenteousness of tears to drink” as the psalmist puts it (Ps. 80).

Do we end, as Ecclesiastes seems to suggest, simply with the sombre awareness of death and mortality, the feebleness of old age and the barrenness of winter? “That time of year,” as Shakespeare puts it, “when yellow leaves or none or few/ do hang upon those boughs which shake against the cold/ bare ruin’d choirs where late the sweet birds sang,” an image which evokes at once old age and ecclesiastical ruins; a pile of holy stones, a Tintern Abbey centuries before Wordsworth.

Do we end, then, weary and worn with the attempts to take the world by storm only to find that the mysteries of life continue to elude us? If so, then we end well, it seems to me. Because to confront the vanities of our pursuits and ambitions is to stand on the brink of a great wisdom, the wisdom of God which alone can redeem and heal our weary souls.

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“Come and see”

Scripture sounds the notes of an ending and a beginning on this day which is called, in a wonderful combination of prepositions, The Sunday Next before Advent. This day both concludes the course of the Son’s life in us, “the Lord our Righteousness” as we hear in the lesson from Jeremiah, and returns us to the beginning of the course he runs for us, “Behold the Lamb of God” as John the Baptist says about Jesus in the Gospel. The righteousness of Christ, the right ordering of our loves and our lives, is what we have sought in the long course of the Trinity season. The course he runs for us is the way of the cross, the way of sacrifice. We travel with him in that way in the pageant of faith from Advent to Trinity. We begin again even as we end in him.

Such times of transition signal occasions of renewal – a renewal of love, a re-awakening of the soul’s desire for holy things, a divine stirring up of our wills, as the Collect for today reminds us. We come to the Advent of Christ. Advent is the season of God’s revelation, the motion of God’s Word and Son towards us for the sake of our knowing. Our text sounds the measure of the season and beyond the season strikes the note of our soul’s salvation. “Come and see”.

In St. John’s Gospel, this is Jesus’ first statement. It comes in response to the disciples’ answer to his very first gospel utterance, a question which he puts to them and to us, “What seek ye?” They answer with a question that has a twofold significance: “Rabbi (which means Teacher), where are you staying?” Here is no question of idle curiosity, but one which is deep and profound. It speaks about the yearning of our hearts and the desiring of our minds. It speaks about the awakened desire of the soul for God. But how is the question twofold? By its address as well as its request.

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The Rev’d David Curry, Rector of Christ Church, delivered this sermon at King’s College, Halifax, on the Feast of Saint Edmund, 2008.

“Rejoice, inasmuch as ye are partakers of the sufferings of Christ”

November is the grey month of remembering. It embraces at once the great harvest festivals of All Saints and All Souls as well as the secular remembering of those who gave their lives in the service of their country in the great and defining wars of that most bloody of bloody centuries, the twentieth century. It ends with the spiritual summa of the parade of sanctifying grace on the Sunday Next Before Advent that equally brings us, in turn, to the renewed beginnings of Advent itself, the start of the progress of justifying grace, yet again. In between are a host of minor commemorations which provide a kind of meditative faux bourdon, the sweet middle at an interval of a fourth below the melody, a poignant resonance of individual spiritual lives illustrating in a personal way the grander themes of our spiritual remembering.

Edmund, King and Martyr, is one such November commemoration. Along with Hilda, the remarkably tough-minded Abbess of Whitby, two centuries before, whose commemoration was on Monday, November 17^th, Edmund contributes to an early English interlude in our November reflections on the pageant of glory and grace. Edmund was the King of East Anglia, martyred in 870 at the hands of the Danes, raiders whose incursions and visits to the England and other places wrought great terror in the hearts of all who met them. His life complements and illumines the spiritual scenery of the great epic poem of the English language, The Epic of Beowulf.

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“Whose is this image?”

In the contemporary culture of illusions, questions about image are everything. Whether it is ‘American Idol’ or ‘Canadian Idol’ or ‘So you think you can dance, Canada?’, so much turns on our image of ourselves and our sense of how we would like others to see us. In so many ways, it is a dangerous illusion. The dangers are the narcissistic ‘look-at-me-looking-at-you-looking-at-me’ and the soullessness of it all. What is missing, paradoxically, is the very thing for which we are seeking. We are seeking, I think, for some sense of meaning and purpose, some sense of identity and dignity. Our readings this morning speak wonderfully and directly to those deep and underlying desires.

“Our citizenship is in heaven”, Paul tells us. And Jesus asks those who would entrap him, “Whose is this image and superscription?” His question is really about us and recalls us to the deep and wonderful scriptural teaching that to understand our humanity is to understand that we are made in the image of God. For Christians, that image of God has been further intensified in Jesus Christ. He is the express image of the Father, and he is both God and man. And only so, can Paul claim that “our citizenship is in heaven.”

But what does that mean? The Church is always in one way or another counter-culture. Nowhere is that more clear than in these readings which speak directly and as a counter challenge to the dominant aspects of our culture which can no longer really be said to be a Christian culture in any meaningful sense. What defines us? Will it be our social and political convictions, illusions and commitments? Or will it be something spiritual and intellectual, something theological? In a way, it is as simple as that.

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“Greater love hath no man than this, that a man
lay down his life for his friends”

The significance of this day should not be lost on any of us. To remember is to be aware about who we really are. That means, paradoxically, to pay attention to others. It is especially hard in the attention deficit culture. Memory is increasingly the lost and neglected faculty of our humanity.

Remembrance Day is a kind of secular All Souls’ Day. The intention of All Souls’ is to remember our common mortality, to commemorate all who have died and to do so within the greater context of All Saints’, the celebration of our common vocation to holiness. The intention of Remembrance Day in the secular aspect of our culture is to remember those who died for the sake of our political freedoms and civic life.

To say that Remembrance Day is a kind of secular All Souls’ Day is not to say that our remembrance is not religious. It is, and profoundly so. It reminds us of the spiritual and, specifically, Christian principles which underlie the modern national states even in their contemporary confusion and disarray. To remember the fallen is to honour what they fought and died for in far away places and in scenes of absolute horror far beyond our imaging, despite the efforts of the film industry and even the purple prose of preachers.

We remind ourselves of the hell of war and of the destruction and evil which we inflict upon one another. The dust of our common humanity is soaked in blood. But if, and ‘if’ is the big, little word here, if we can remember in a spirit of forgiveness, so much the better. For then our remembering will be joined all the more surely to God’s forgiving remembrance of all our follies, all our sufferings and all our griefs. We will be remembering them in the greater sacrifice of Christ for the whole world, a remembering that enters into all that we do at the Altar.

What we are remembering are the sacrifices for the rational freedoms of our political and social life, to be sure. But what underlies that remembrance is something profoundly spiritual. It is, perhaps, best captured in the scriptural phrase which adorns a thousand cenotaph in a thousand villages throughout the world. “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”

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“If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask God”

In the somber grey of November, in the season of scattered leaves and the culture of scattered souls, God’s Word gathers us and challenges us about the nature of our Christian lives. Should we somehow think that it is enough simply to hear God’s word, then we are rightly and roundly reminded not “to be hearers only” but to be “doers of the word” as well. Likewise, if we should be so foolish and brain-dead as to think that worship and public prayer and all the things belonging to religion are peripheral and really nothing worth, then we are rightly reminded to “receive with meekness the implanted word which is able to save your souls”.

The point is ever so clear. It is almost a commonplace. We are called to be what we believe and that means both hearing and doing; in short, it means both faith and works. Such is the strength of the message of James. It is a kind of sermon, and, indeed, one which complements beautifully The Sermon on the Mount, the gospel which has been read for more than a thousand years on All Saints’ Day.

To suppose that we can absent ourselves from where the Word of God is proclaimed and celebrated is as absurd as to suppose that we can hear and receive that Word without acting upon it. That is the strong message from The Epistle of St. James. He is calling us to scriptural wisdom. “If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask God”. For “of his own will he brought us to birth by the word of truth”. We live from that word of truth.

If anything is lacking from our contemporary world, I fear, it is wisdom. We immerse ourselves in action. We busy ourselves endlessly in the doing of this and that. We are literally afraid to stop and think, to read, let alone to pray. We easily fall prey to the greatest of follies and superstitions. Ours, too, is a most gullible age.

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