Category: Sermons

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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“Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.”

“All the people hung upon his words.” So Luke tells us in his account of Christ’s entry into Jerusalem. These words are read at Evening Prayer on Palm Sunday. “Take with you words,” the prophet Hosea, says, “and return to the Lord.” These words are read at Evening Prayer on Monday in Holy Week.

Words, and our attention to them, are one of the strong features of our Anglican heritage with respect to the observances of Holy Week. The point and purpose of this week has been to immerse us in the totality of the Passion of Christ, reading from all four of the Gospel accounts of the Passion. No other Christian tradition demands quite so much. For the attention deficit culture, it is, perhaps, too much. And yet, so necessary.Along with the Passion, readings from the Old Testament and the New, as well from the Old Testament Apocrypha, such as The Book of Wisdom, offer a rich commentary upon the spectacle of Holy Week. Once again, there is much of a muchness, once again, it is de trop. And yet, so necessary and so instructive.

Holy Week is the spectacle of sin and love, the spectacle of our betrayals, on the one hand, and the redemptive love of Christ, on the other hand. Everything converges on the Cross, “that strange and uncouth thing” as the poet, George Herbert, puts it. And yet, as another poet, John Donne, puts it, himself no stranger to the hideous realities of sin and suffering, the image of the crucified is itself a “beauteous form” that “assures a piteous mind.”

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“A new commandment I give unto you that you love one another

even as I have loved you”

“On the night that he was betrayed,” this night, this very night, Jesus gives us a commandment, an institution and an example. He gives us a commandment that is at once established in the institution of the Holy Eucharist, “do this in remembrance of me,” and expressed in the example of the foot-washing, “for I have given you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you.” Such is the rich fullness of Maundy Thursday, dies mandati, the day of commandment, even a new commandment, novem mandatum, but more than that, the ultimate mandate, ultimatum mandatum. We are accustomed to taking seriously a person’s last will and testament. Here on the eve of his Passion, in the meaning of the events of the Passover, Christ signifies his ultimate will and new testament towards us. Here on this night is the mandate of our Lord’s love, hence Maundy Thursday (from mandatum). (more…)

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The Rev’d David Curry, Rector of Christ Church, preached this homily for Palm Sunday (8:00 am service).

“We have become a spectacle to the world”

“We have become a spectacle to the world, to angels and to men”, St. Paul tells us (1 Cor.4.9). We have become a spectacle, indeed, but what kind of spectacle?

The question is a constant challenge; one which is critically before us in the events of Holy Week, and one which applies especially to the contemporary institutional church. What kind of spectacle, indeed?

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Lenten Meditation on The Seven Deadly Sins
Anger

“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God”

“And when the ten heard it, they were moved with indignation against the two brethren.” The Passion Sunday Gospel names our topic: indignation or anger.

Pride is certainly the deadliest of the seven deadly sins and is what is deadly in them. Envy is certainly the ugliest of the seven deadly sins and is ugly and unattractive to all. But anger?

Well, anger is certainly the most common of all the seven deadly sins. (more…)

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