Category: Sermons

Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him?

Love gives without expectation of return simply because love is its own reward. The Gospels teach us to love for love’s sake. Love is its own reason. What does this mean?

It means that love cannot be a matter of calculation – giving with the expectation of receiving in return. For then we limit love. We put limits and restrictions on our love and the love of others. It is a poor and impoverished kind of love which constrains and restricts the boundless love, the unlimited love, the love-without-counting-the-cost kind of love shown to us in Jesus Christ.

Does this mean that love is crazy, irrational and without reason? No. Love is its own reason and that reason is known and named. “And this is his commandment, that we should believe in the name of his Son Jesus Christ and love one another, as he gave us commandment.”

Christ’s love draws us into the company of the Trinity and into the Communion of Saints. The love that is without calculation is the infinite love of God. In this Gospel parable, Jesus uses a finite quantity, seventy times seven – you can do the math – to indicate an infinite quality that is beyond counting. The quality of love is something infinite. It is something of God in us. The love that is of God is always with God and with God all things are beyond mere calculation.

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“After this I beheld, and lo, a great multitude, which no man could number”

“I believe … in The Communion of Saints”. Do we? And where is that in the Creed which we just said? “And I believe in One, Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic Church;” that’s where. The Communion of Saints, professed in the Apostles’ Creed, is intimately connected to the “One, Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic Church”, professed in the Nicene Creed. We forget this at our peril.

The Feast of All Saints’ teaches an important lesson, especially for a world fixated on the present and pressing pragmatic and practical concerns that belong to the culture of instrumental reason. It is not that such things don’t matter but that they aren’t everything. The great Feast of All Saints’ reminds us that there is more to reality than meets the eye, that we are part of innumerable company united by one thing, the love of God in Jesus Christ. It is a powerful and important message. It places us in a great company. We are, as The Letter to the Hebrews points out, wonderfully “compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses.”

There is more to reality than meets the eye, even in the culture of scattered minds and in the season of scattered leaves. Thank God. But here is the point. We are not alone. We are part of a spiritual fellowship which is not to be defined or confused with the culture of our world and day. For contemporary Christianity, which has been taken captive by the cultures which it itself has produced, this is a salutary and timely reminder.

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“Arise, and go down to the potter’s house”

“Arise, and go down to the potter’s house,” God says to Jeremiah in The Book of Jeremiah, “and there I will let you hear my words.”(Jeremiah 18.1-2)

Jeremiah’s image of the Potter and the Clay is a commentary on the foundational stories of Creation and the Fall in The Book of Genesis. In Jeremiah’s view, God is the Potter and we are the clay. He shapes us and not otherwise. The struggle of our age, perhaps, is to overcome the dogmatic skepticism which refuses to the Potter what belongs to the “rational” clay of our humanity, namely the acknowledgment that we are the creatures whom God has made.

Left by itself, the idea that we are the vessels whom the divine Potter has made and shaped would be an unbearable truth. It would be unbearable because scripture and experience reveal us to ourselves as just so many broken pots – broken through no fault of the Potter but because of ourselves and because of the things which can just ‘happen’ to us. Both are things which belong to the reality of the Fall, the reality that we are not at home in the world and with one another because we are not at one with God.

At this point the image of the Potter and the Clay deepens into mystery. We are broken pots because we have failed to will the intent of the Maker. Something is required of us. We are not simply passive receptacles of God’s will and purpose – unassuming, inert and unmoving clay. No. We have to will the shape that the divine Potter wants for each of us. The quality of our being in Christ, in the Christian understanding of things, is about how the divine Word takes shape in us to his glory and for our endless good.

And yet, that we are but so many broken pots also would remain an uncomfortable and inescapable truth were it not for the grace and mercy of God. A deeper humility, a profounder openness to the Poet/Maker and Shaper of Souls is required of us. Jeremiah hints at this. “The vessel he was making of clay was spoiled in the potter’s hand, and he reworked it into another vessel, as it seemed good to the potter to do.”

What is the grace and the mercy? It is the deep and simple truth of God with us, God made man, the Potter who becomes himself the clay.

‘Twas much that man was made like God before, but
that God should be made like man, much more,

as the poet/preacher John Donne puts it. But it is another preacher, John Hackett, who drives the point home even more surely, perhaps.

The Potter may make what vessels do like him best out of his own clay. But how strangely was the wheel turn’d about when the clay did make the Potter; was it not enough to make man after the image of God, but moreover to make God after the image and likeness of man? Was it not enough that the breath of the Lord should be made a living soul for man, but that the eternal word of God should be made flesh…O that as the Word was made flesh, so our stony hearts … may be made flesh.

“How strangely was the wheel turn’d.” The Word made flesh, the clay-shaped Potter, enters into the struggles of our lives and turns the wheel about to shape his redemption for us and in us. He turns us to himself.

We live by the Word of God written and said and by the Word of God made flesh. For then we are in the hands of the Potter who has himself become clay to reshape us “as it seemed good to [him] to do.” Such is the nature of redemption itself.

Our Churches are Potter’s houses, the places where we are being shaped in the things that belong to our lives in Christ. Sunday after Sunday, as it were, we “arise and go down to the potter’s house” where the divine Potter says, “I will let you hear my words,” words which shape our lives and days to his endless glory and praise.

“Arise, and go down to the potter’s house”

Fr. David Curry
AMD Service of the Deaf
Christ Church, Windsor
October 25^th, 2009

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“Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth”

“Have you considered my servant Job?” God asks. He has but have we? The Book of Job is a wonderful drama, almost a play, that bids us consider the relation of human suffering to the goodness of the created order and the goodness of God. Job has become proverbial for his sufferings, the so-called patience of Job. His sufferings, we might say, are ‘biblical’ in proportion. He suffers the loss of everything in terms of family and wealth and sits on a dung heap, afflicted by boils, on the one hand, and afflicted, too, it seems to me, by the so-called comforters, on the other hand. They have become as proverbial as Job’s patience.

The times are never so bad that a good man cannot live in them. There is the question, of course, about what it means to be a good person. For Christians there is no goodness in us apart from the goodness of God declared most fully in Jesus Christ. But the point is that the quality of the times in which we live cannot be the measure of virtue and character. No. It is rather the setting in which virtue is shown and character is proved. The question is whether we will be defined by circumstances or defined by grace. By grace, we mean the highest perfection of human virtue which is God’s work in us, come what may in the world around us.

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“The wedding is ready”

What does it mean to be ready for the banquet, for the wedding feast? What is the wedding-garment without which, it seems, we are not ready; without which, it seems, we are out even when we think we are in; without which, it seems, we shall be “cast into outer darkness” where “there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth”? It is a frightening prospect.

The times are never so bad that a good man cannot live in them. There is the question, of course, about what it means to be a good person. For Christians there is no goodness in us apart from the goodness of God declared most fully in Jesus Christ. But the point is that the quality of the times in which we live cannot be the measure of virtue and character. No. It is rather the setting in which virtue is shown and character is proved. The question is whether we will be defined by circumstances or defined by grace. By grace, we mean the highest perfection of human virtue which is God’s work in us, come what may in the world around us.

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“Then opened he their understanding, that they might understand the Scriptures”

We have had occasion to remark upon the significance of St. Luke as the Church’s spiritual director for over half the year in terms of the quantity of the readings from his Gospel appointed to be read at Holy Communion. We have had occasion, too, to mention the quality of those readings, captured best, perhaps, in Dante’s evocative phrase about St. Luke as scriba mansuetudinis Christi, the scribe of the gentleness of Christ. How wonderful then that his feast day should fall upon a Sunday and command our attention in our weekly celebration of Christ’s death and resurrection. That is, after all, the main focus of each Sunday’s worship. The intent is the deepening of our understanding of that fundamental mystery of Christian faith and identity.

Consider the Gospel reading from St. Luke appointed for today. “He opened their understanding, that they might understand the Scriptures.” But then, what is that understanding? “Thus it is written, that the Christ should suffer, and rise again from the dead the third day; and that repentance and forgiveness of sins should be preached in his name among the all nations.” Powerful words which provide us with a sense of the tenor of his Gospel. Death and resurrection, repentance and forgiveness. Could anything be more concise, more clear, and more complete?

We know precious little by way of biographical detail about St. Luke. As the Collect notes, his “praise is in the Gospel”, meaning that St. Luke is mentioned in the Scriptures of the New Testament, quite apart from the attribution of the third Gospel and the Book of the Acts of the Apostles to his mind and pen. Our Epistle reading specifically places him in the company of Paul. “Only Luke is with me,” he says in the context of a discourse about evangelism.

The Collect identifies St. Luke as both “an Evangelist, and Physician of the soul”. A healer, to be sure, but by way of something which must strike us as rather strange. The healing is by way of “the wholesome medicines of the doctrine delivered by him”. Healing by way of teaching? I wonder what sense we can make of that.

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“So shall my word be that goeth forth out of my mouth”

There is something quite pleasing and aesthetically delightful about Harvest Thanksgiving. In our rural farming communities, Harvest Thanksgiving serves as a kind of testament to the hard work and labour of those who work on the land. It speaks to a sense of identity and vocation. The fruits of creation and human labour are gathered into the Church in a kind of celebration. How wonderful it is to see the things of the natural world, transformed by human labour and industry, brought into the holy places! We are taught by pumpkins and, perhaps, even by zucchini, that the natural world, and that world as transformed by human endeavour and enterprise, exists for God. Harvest Thanksgiving reminds us of the profoundly spiritual nature of our very existence.

Harvest Thanksgiving is a wonderful counter to our contemporary confusions about our world and day and about ourselves. Are we really supposed to believe, as some evolutionary biologists and physicists (though certainly not all nor many) would have it, that the world and all the things in it are just the result of the random coming together of various bits of matter? In other words, that there is no purpose to nature, just blind chance? And therefore no goodness to nature either? There can be no morality in any meaningful sense in such a view. Each thing just happens to be in the way in which it has come to be. But, then, how to speak of one thing as distinct from another? How does one know what and when something is anything as opposed to being on the way to becoming something else or to mere nothingness? These fruits which you see before you have an extraordinary elusive character to their nature, it seems!

Thanksgiving is a fundamental feature of the great religions of the world, particularly of the religions of the revealed word such as Judaism, Christianity and Islam. Through the Word revealed, nature and human life are understood to have a purpose, a destiny and a direction. We have an end with God. Harvest Thanksgiving reminds us that pumpkins and squash, cucumbers and gourds, apples and pears, are all part of that spiritual end and purpose that belongs to creation itself. Creation exists for something beyond itself. And our western secular cultures, too, (the idolatry of instrumental reason notwithstanding), retain a strong sense of purpose and direction critical to ideas of the self, even if God has been long forgotten and dismissed.

The proper term is Providence. There can be no Harvest Thanksgiving without the idea of the Providence of God written for us to read in nature and in human lives but, much more clearly and fully, in the Holy Scriptures. (more…)

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“Friend, go up higher”

It is one of my favourite Scripture texts. It’s not about ambition or pretension. It’s about the hope of transformation. It counters completely the dumb-down aspects of an anti-intellectual culture, such as ours, and conveys the sense that we are, indeed, called to something more, that we have a destiny beyond what we know is before us but will not face, namely, the grave and gate of death. And it signals ever so profoundly the necessary condition of soul for the realization of God’s will and purpose for us in our lives. The necessary condition is humility.

Here is a Scripture reading in which the operative words are “friend” and “go up higher”. We have just had a visible demonstration of this in the baptism of Brennan Isaac. He has been made – there is no other word for it – a friend of Jesus. He has just been called up higher but only through the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ; such is the heart of baptism. We are identified with Jesus in his free-willing identity and sacrifice for us.

Jesus calls us “friends”. He does so not merely by way of a parable but more directly. He calls us friends at the height of his passion, on the night of our betrayal. There is an anticipation of that in the context of this gospel parable where Jesus is being watched critically and being challenged hypocritically by the Lawyers and Pharisees. This is the wondrous thing that passes human understanding. God has made us his friends when we were his enemies! This turns the ancient world on its head. It turns our modern world on its head. We live in a rather hopeless and fearful world. Here is the antidote to our hopelessness and fear. It challenges us so that it can redeem us.

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Dancing with Angels

Have you ever thought about the title of a book that you might like to write? You know, where you say, “I’d like to write a book with this title?” Sometimes certain phrases and ideas catch us that way and you say, “that would be a good title for a book.” Well, for me, one title of one book that strikes me that way would be “Dancing with Angels.”

Dancing with angels is, I think, a way of speaking about what we do every day in our spiritual and intellectual lives whether as students or teachers, priests or parishioners. Angels are very much about the principles of the understanding, the intellectual and spiritual principles that belong to our understanding of the human and the natural world. They remind us that there is more to reality than what meets the eye. They speak, in a kind of way, to that common feature of our humanity, our loneliness, or what Alistair MacLeod calls our “inarticulate loneliness” out of which comes the struggle to articulate and communicate. The angels remind us that we have dance partners in the pursuit of understanding and in the struggle to act rightly and to be good.

In the year 1257, perhaps even what has come to be known as Michaelmas term, at the University of Paris, Thomas Aquinas, affectionately known as Doctor Angelicus, the angelic doctor, undertook in the Quaestiones Disputatae de Veritate, “Disputed Questions on Truth,” the question “Can a man be taught by an Angel?”(Q. 11, art.iii). Angels can teach us, he says, not by supplanting what is given by the light of nature or the light of grace, the human and the divine respectively, but as he says, by “moving the imagination and strengthening the light of understanding.”

Angels help us to understand the terrible, hard and harsh events of our own world and day. After all, will we really even begin to comprehend the terror of terrorism, for example, merely through the lenses of social and economic determinism? Don’t we need the spiritual wisdom which talks about the struggles between the good and evil which we are afraid to name, the spiritual struggles which the religions of the world in their truth and integrity contemplate and know?

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“And when the Lord saw her, he had compassion on her”

The great poet, Dante, speaks of Luke as “scriba mansuetudinis Christi”, the scribe of the gentleness of Christ. The phrase has always stayed with me. Luke is our primary spiritual director, if you will, during the long green season of the Church year, the Trinity season. By far and away, the largest number of gospel readings are taken from his gospel for what amounts to almost half of the Church year.

Dante, it seems to me, has grasped the signal note of St. Luke’s gospel and perhaps, nowhere is that idea of the gentleness of Christ more wonderfully signaled to us than in today’s gospel.

There are only three times in the New Testament when Christ meets us as mourners. There is the story about the raising of Jairus’ daughter who had just died. There is the story about the calling out of Lazarus’ who had been buried for four days. “Behold he stinketh”, Martha cries out, alerting us to the realities of death and decay and as well to how far gone we are in our sins. And there is this story, the story of the widow of Nain when her only son is being carried to the burying ground. In short, the encounter with the newly dead, the dead and buried and the just about to be buried. But here, in Luke’s gospel, the encounter is with the chief mourner, the widow of Nain, whose only son has died and is being carried out of the city to the place of burying.

In all three scenes, Christ meets us as mourners. We are in the presence of death, after all. He enters into our grief and into the intimacy of our sorrows. But the point of all these encounters is that Jesus is not just another sorry soul, not just another weeping mourner, not just another voice to add the cacophony of our sorrows. No. In each case, where he meets us as mourners, there is a word of saving grace and glory, a word of resurrection in the place and in the face of death.

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