Category: Sermons

“The end of all things is at hand”

“It’s the end of the world as we know it and we feel fine,” or so Great Big Sea claims. But do we feel fine? Or are we fearful and afraid, worried and, like Martha, “anxious about a multitude of things”? St. Peter’s words sound either a note of foreboding or a note of rejoicing. Which is it? A note of impending judgment or a note of joy, indeed the fullness of joy? Everything depends on what we mean by “end”? Do we mean a sense of judgment and finality or the sense of accomplishment and purpose; in short, do we mean by “end”, death or life?

On The Sunday after Ascension Day, we celebrate two related but almost forgotten teachings – the Ascension and the Session of Christ. What do they signify?

The Ascension signifies the homecoming of the Son having finished his course, having accomplished the will of him who sent him, and now returning to the Father. The whole life of the incarnate Christ is about his going forth and returning to the Father in the power of the Spirit. The Session celebrates the rule of Christ with the Father in the bond of the Spirit over the whole of creation. He is King. “See the conqueror mounts in triumph,/ See the King in royal state,” as one of our hymns puts it. Why? Because in his going forth and return to the Father, he returns all things to their source and end, to the divine life which he shares with the Father and the Holy Spirit.

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“God has gone up with a merry noise/ the Lord with the sound of the trumpet”

It is the psalms, as often as not, that strike the right tone of approach to our liturgical observances. In this case, the high note of rejoicing and delight that belongs to the Feast of the Ascension is nicely captured by the words of the psalmist. “God has gone up with a merry noise/ the Lord with the sound of the trumpet” (Psalm 47.5).

The Ascension of Christ, as The Book of the Acts of the Apostles suggests, marks the fortieth day of Easter. It marks the end, in the sense of the completion, of the Easter season. One of the creedal mysteries of the Christian Faith, the Ascension is often overlooked, perhaps because it doesn’t fall on a Sunday, but on a Thursday. And yet, it provides some very important and powerful teaching.

What is the Ascension about? It is the homecoming of the Son to the Father, for one thing. Jesus in the Rogation Sunday Gospel said “I came forth from the Father and am come into the world: again, I leave the world and go to the Father.” There is a sense of mission accomplished. And that mission concerns our good and the good of the world. In other words, the Ascension brings to a certain completion and fullness the redemption of the world and the redemption of our humanity. The Son returns to the Father, not in flight from the world, as if matter or the physical world were inherently evil, but having accomplished the redemption of the world.

And that is where the Ascension speaks so profoundly to our present-day concerns, fears and worries. You see, the Ascension means that the world and our humanity have an end in God, an end in God in the sense that the meaning and purpose of the world and the meaning and the purpose of our human lives is found in our relation to God in Jesus Christ. Against the perversity and folly of thinking that the world is just there for us to manipulate, exploit or destroy, the Ascension reminds us that the world is God’s world. It exists for his will and purpose. And so do we. Ascension is about the sense that we have an end and a place with God. “I go to prepare a place for you” as Jesus so beautifully puts it.

His going up is his homecoming for us. As the Fathers put it, the Ascension is “the exaltation of our humanity.” In prayer and praise, in the liturgical pattern of our worshipping lives, we lift up our hands and hearts to Christ our Lord and our Redeemer whose Ascension is the fullness of joy and delight to our souls. “We ascend in the ascension of our hearts” as Augustine says, signaling how the whole of our life is about this Godward direction which locates the meaning and purpose of the world and ourselves with God.

“God has gone up with a merry noise/ the Lord with the sound of the trumpet”

Fr. David Curry Ascension ‘09

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The Rev’d David Curry, Rector of Christ Church, preached this sermon for The Fifth Sunday After Easter/Rogation Sunday.

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

We are a practical people, or, at least, so we like to think. And yet, it is about the practical that we seem to have the greatest problems and the greatest worries. Ours is a fearful and uncertain world, a fearful and uncertain world about practical things such as the economy and the environment. Whether anything can or cannot be done about them is our fear and worry.

Behind our practical preoccupations with jobs and the economy, work and the environment, lie a host of assumptions about ourselves and our relation to the world. Some of those assumptions need to be challenged, corrected and overcome. “In the world,” Jesus says, “ye shall have tribulation; but be of good cheer, I have overcome the world.”

Such a statement seems to imply that the world is the enemy. Yet, what is meant here is our attachment to the world seen as standing over and against God; preferring our material comforts and concerns, our immediate practical interests, as it were, to the spiritual and intellectual principles that properly define and dignify our lives. For here is the paradox. There are no practical solutions to theoretical problems and our problems, in a way, are wholly theoretical, by which I mean that they have to do with the assumptions that underlie our practical preoccupations; in short, our attitudes and approaches to our world and day. Our neglect of things spiritual and intellectual results in our fearful paralysis about things practical.

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The Rev’d David Curry, Rector of Christ Church, preached this sermon at St. George’s Round Church, Halifax, for Choral Evensong, Easter IV.

“And there was a certain beggar named Lazarus.”

First, allow me to thank your Rector, Fr. Westhaver for the privilege of being here this evening, and secondly, allow me to compliment the choir for such a wonderful musical offering of the “Five Mystical Songs” of Ralph Vaughan Williams based on the poems of George Herbert.

Given the fears, worries and uncertainties about swine flu and the media attention on King’s-Edgehill School, where I am the Chaplain and teach, it seemed to me that “Touch me not” might not be an appropriate text for the sermon! We will have to make due with “a certain beggar named Lazarus.”

“Lazarus, come out!” Jesus says, but that is to another Lazarus, an actual figure and a friend of Jesus in The Gospel of St. John and not the fictional figure of the parable which Jesus tells which we heard tonight from The Gospel of St. Luke. Lazarus, the friend of Jesus, had been dead four days and buried for three, “Lord, he stinketh,” Martha tells Jesus. It is the setting for Jesus words, “Lazarus, come out;” he is restored to life, a resuscitation anticipating Jesus’ own Resurrection and a sign of divine love. “Our friend Lazarus has fallen asleep, but I go to awake him,” Jesus says, and, lest there be any ambiguity about the phrase, he tells the disciples plainly, “Lazarus is dead.” He goes to awaken him, to bring life and healing, the renewal of fellowship and joy, but only out of the encounter with suffering and sorrow. “Jesus wept. So the Jews said, ‘See how he loved him!’” Healing and resurrection flow out of the generosity and compassion of divine love.

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The Rev’d David Curry, Rector of Christ Church, preached this sermon for The Fourth Sunday After Easter (8:00 am service).

“Noli me tangere” – “Touch me not”

We are all like Mary Magdalene coming to the tomb of Jesus, I suppose. Whatever and whomever we love, we want to hold onto; in short, to possess. Too much of our love for one another is really only for ourselves. Our love is not really for them; it is for ourselves. It is always ourselves – our self-love – which gets in the way of the deeper lessons of love. We have, like the disciples, a hard time letting go.

Yet, love is not love when it is possession. Christ has not given himself for us so that we might possess him. If anything it is the other way around. We belong to him. He does not belong to us. And yet, our belonging to Christ is no possessive love, for his love by which we are his is self-less love. It sets us in motion. And it makes us more, not less, than ourselves. When individuals and churches become obsessed with questions about personal salvation, then they are in danger of wanting to possess Christ and to keep him to themselves, against all others.

But that is not what Christ wants for us. He does not want us to possess him but to enter into the freedom of his love for the Father in the bond of the Holy Spirit. He who cannot be contained by the grave of death can hardly be contained by us.

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“Your sorrow shall be turned into joy.”

There is a sense in which the Christian Faith is precisely the needed corrective to the dreaded fatalisms and fears of our world and day. This has been an extraordinary week of fears and worries of global proportions. “From lightning and tempest; from earthquake, fire, and flood; from plague, pestilence, and famine; from battle and murder, and from sudden death, Good Lord, deliver us,” the Litany would have us pray, and rightly so, precisely in the face of all of those things!

They are before us. How do we face tribulations and hardships, “fear in a handful of dust,” as T.S. Eliot puts it? Fear in the air we breathe and in the hands we touch. How do we face the fears of flu and fire, the fears of a troubled world, it seems, where there is only fear? Well, our Scripture readings speak profoundly to these realities. These realities are not altogether new; it’s just that they are before us in a more concentrated way. We are fearful not just about the world, but more profoundly, we are afraid of ourselves and the destructive nature of our humanity. And yet, we have the hardest time being honest about this.

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“Jesus said, ‘I am the good shepherd’”

It is one of the great and classic images of care. Much beloved by the parade of generations who have gone before us, it appears constantly in glass and stone, in tapestry and mosaic even as the Shepherd’s Psalm, Psalm 23, shapes story and song, prayer and praise. The image of Christ the Good Shepherd is very much with us, even if, as the poet, Gerard Manley Hopkins, puts it, “all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared/ with toil” and the world itself “wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil/is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.” And there is all that sense of unease and fear, alienation and loss because we will not “reck his rod”; that is to say, think or consider the rule of God; in short, his providential care for us so wonderfully captured in the image of Christ the Good Shepherd.

But in the dominance of the therapeutic culture of our day, the all-too-comforting, cloying image of Christ the Good Shepherd, often viewed more like a teddy bear or a “Barney” figure, runs the risk of being co-opted to the religion of sentimentality and feeling, the religion of Hallmark cards and Happy Faces; in short, the religion of “Gentle-Jesus-Come-and-Squeeze-Us-Where-and-When-It-Pleases”! We too easily forget the radical nature of care that this image of Christ the Good Shepherd presents to us. The Good Shepherd, after all, “lay[s] down [his] life for the sheep.” The care of the Good Shepherd has death and resurrection in it. And so it is not by accident that this Gospel is read in Eastertide. The care is not so much comfort as it is challenge. It might even mean “drop kick me Jesus through the goal-posts of life!” Nothing particularly comforting about that!

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“Jesus came and stood in the midst”

The uniqueness and the centrality of Christ is an undeniable and non-negotiable feature of orthodox Christianity. For Anglicans, not only is the uniqueness and the centrality of Christ constantly visible in the Liturgy, particularly, in the Lectionary, the traditional pattern of readings that shape the praying life of the Church, but it is also expressed formally and officially in the foundational and formative documents that define and describe the Anglican understanding of the Christian Faith. The only anathema in the Thirty-nine Articles of Religion has precisely to do with denying the uniqueness and the centrality of Christ with respect to salvation (Art. XVIII).

What does this mean?  It means that for orthodox Christianity, Christ is the Lord and Saviour of our humanity. It means that the wholeness of our humanity cannot be achieved and accomplished apart from our life in Christ. Are there not other ways to God? So ask the religious pluralists of our day. How to answer that question? By pointing out that a proper and principled dialogue with other religions has to begin and end with a respect for the differences between the religions of the world. What kind of dialogue can Christians have with Muslims or with Jews or with atheists if it means being silent about the centrality of Christ? Do we expect Islam to remove from the Qu’ran the passages that deny that God has a son? As the Archbishop of York, John Sentamu wonderfully put it, in addressing a Muslim audience, “I greet you in the name of Jesus Christ, whom you honour as a prophet and we as the Son of God.” I call that honesty, intellectual and spiritual honesty, and the proper way of engaging religious viewpoints. You don’t do it by denial or by woeful ignorance of the principle of your own position.

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“Christ is risen. Alleluia, Alleluia!”

Mary Magdalene came to the tomb, “early when it was yet dark,” John tells us. She “seeth the stone taken away.” And so it begins. She runs to tell the others, apostle apostolorum, an apostle to the apostles, as the Fathers put it. She says “to Simon Peter and to the other disciple” that “they have taken away the Lord out of the sepulchre, and we know not where they have laid him.” He is not there. Who has taken him? Who are ‘they’ that “have taken [him] away”? Confronting something that counters her expectation, she suspects a conspiracy, it seems. Don’t we all? Simon Peter and “that other disciple” run and see. They, too, find only an empty tomb. And so it continues. It is the Resurrection.

With apologies to President Obama, and for that matter most politicians, the Resurrection is change you can believe in. This is what the Gospel accounts show us. In a way, of course, it can only be believed in. There is, after all, no ‘CSI Jerusalem’ with respect to the Resurrection, nor can there be. There is no DNA. There is no forensic evidence whatsoever; not much to go on, it might seem. Folly to even think there could be, it seems to me.

At best, we might say there is only evidence which points to an absence beginning with the stories of the empty tomb. Then, there are the accounts of angels. Ah, an angel told me! Right! Hardly convincing, it might seem, at least to the empirically minded. Then, there are the supposed eye-witness accounts of strange encounters with the risen Christ who appears and disappears behind closed doors. Right! Explicable, perhaps, according to “superstring theory” in Physics, but then one might feel about that the same way the British travel writer, Alexander Kinglake, felt about churches in England, wanting to inscribe upon their lintels the caveat, “interesting, if true.” Perhaps that is where we are with the Resurrection, “interesting, if true.”

If so, why are we here this morning? (more…)

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