Category: Sermons

“Keep thy foot when thou goest to the house of God”

Perhaps you recognise this text, or perhaps not! Most of you enter Christ Church through the ramp entrance at the back though all of you, at some time or another, have entered through the main door into the narthex of the Church. And just perhaps (and not without a wee bit of irony), you may have looked up and noted the inscription above the second doors leading into Church itself. “ Keep thy foot when thou goest to the house of God.” You may not have noticed them, of course, because you may have been looking down rather than up!

But here we have yet another example of the dangers of being too literal. The text is taken from the most philosophical of all of the books of the Hebrew Scriptures or Old Testament, Ecclesiastes (5.1). What it means, I think, is fairly clear, especially because of the continuation of the passage: “be more ready to hear, than to give the sacrifice of fools.” What it means is to enter into this holy place and this holy service intentionally and thoughtfully; in short, being attentive to the purpose of place and event. Okay, you might think. That’s interesting but what does it have to do with today’s readings, particularly this rather challenging Gospel story about the unrighteous steward? Or is this just a way of avoiding these readings?!

Well, no. The text complements, I think, these readings. Paul would not “that ye should be ignorant” and goes on to speak about what we should know and do, themes captured in the Collect. It is very much akin to what we have in the Gospel where the unrighteous steward having been called to account by his master and who is being fired, undertakes certain actions which are certainly unjust with respect to his master’s property, essentially defrauding him after having dissipated or wasted his master’s goods; and yet, he is praised by his master. Why? Not because of his unrighteousness but “because he acted with prudence.”

This is the key insight of the parable. Jesus uses the example of the unrighteous steward to point out a lack of wisdom or prudence in us; “for the children of this age are in their generation more prudent than the children of light.” Prudence is what matters. Prudence is practical wisdom, “deliberating rightly about what is good and advantageous for himself,” Aristotle says, though not in particular or merely physical respects such as “health and strength,” but in relation to “what is conducive to the good life generally”.

Jesus is telling us that we need to be more attentive and prudent with respect to the ultimate end or purpose of our lives, which is our life as ordered to God which means using the things of the world in relation to our end with God. Thus the Epistle reading ends on an explicitly sacramental note: “the cup of blessing which we bless, is it not the communion of the blood of Christ? The bread which we break, is it not the communion of the body of Christ?” This sacramental understanding is about how the things of the world are transformed into the vehicles of grace. We are meant to be prudent with respect to our life in Christ.

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“Be ye transformed by the renewing of your minds” (Rom. 12.2)

“How came we ashore,” Miranda asks her father, Prospero, in Shakespeare’s play, The Tempest. Prospero replies, “by Providence divine.” It is a wonderful insight into the nature of our lives under the grace of God. He has just been explaining to Miranda how he was once the Duke of Milan and is about to tell her how they ended up on the far off “Bermoothes,” Bermuda. “What foul play had we that we came from thence? Or blessèd was’t we did?” she asks. “Both, both” he says, “by foul play … but blessedly [helped] hither.” And while he goes on to tell her about how he was betrayed by his brother, Antonio, who conspired with Alonzo the King of Naples to overthrow Prospero and seize his dukedom, he confesses his own failings, “having neglected worldly ends,” the duties of his office, which, he admits, “awakened an evil nature” in his brother.

Yesterday was the great summer feast of the Transfiguration of Christ. It is at once a divine vision and testimony to who Christ is in his essential divinity and who he is for us. There is something seen and something heard. A kind of epiphany of the Trinity in the voice of the Father, in the Son transfigured, and in the cloud of God’s spirit, it also points to our transformation, to the nature of our participation in the things of God, “that we being purified and strengthened by thy grace may be transformed into his likeness from glory to glory” (BCP, p. 289). How? By the words of the Father speaking out of the cloud about the Son transfigured before the inner circle of the disciples: “This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased: Hear ye him.” Will we have the ears to hear, the eyes to see, the hearts and minds to know and love and to act upon what we are given to see and hear, to know and love? This is the challenge and question of today’s readings.

The Tempest, too, explores the theme of our humanity transformed by grace, as Ariel’s song puts it, “a sea change into something rich and strange.” How? In part through suffering and by being called to account but all under the theme of Providence which, as Lady Philosophy notes in Boethius’ Consolation of Philosophy, “produces … a remarkable wonder, that evil men make evil men good.” God alone, Augustine notes, makes good out of our evil.

The play begins with a tempest conjured up by the magic of Prospero, itself a form of natural philosophy with the idea of our having a power over nature. By a kind of coincidence, the conjunction of various causes, all of Prospero’s enemies have now come within his reach. They had cast him out of Milan with Miranda and put them on a raft which somehow – such is the wonder of fiction, never mind that Milan is inland and not a port city – traversed the Mediterranean Sea and the Atlantic Ocean. But what do we do with our enemies when they are in our hands? It was Abraham Lincoln, I think, who said that to test a man’s character, don’t make him suffer, give him power. What do we do when we have power over those who have injured us?

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“Blessed is he that shall eat bread in the kingdom of God”

It is true, profoundly true. Why then does Jesus respond to the statement with a parable about our excuses? We excuse ourselves from the heavenly banquet by turning to our worldly interests such that “none of those which were bidden shall taste of my supper.” Strong words that highlight the problem of our indifference. We exile ourselves.

Once again, it seems, like the parable of Lazarus and Dives, the rich man, that we have ignored the truth that is before us and negated the calling of our humanity to abide in that truth. Our preoccupations are with ourselves and to the neglect of others more than perhaps we realize. In a way, these readings counter the tendency to think that salvation or human happiness is found in our choices and actions in themselves. We forget that the ground of all human activity is God. The parable Jesus tells is simply about our turning away from the divine life into which we are constantly invited and turning instead to our own concerns apart from God. In a literal sense, it is about turning to the ground of human affairs as if that were everything, a kind of divinizing of ourselves and our doings.

It is not that the places of our lives, the “piece[s] of ground” upon which we live, and our activities with the living creatures of the land, “prov[ing] five yoke of oxen,” and our lives with one another in such things as marriage, symbolizing one of the sanctified states of life in the world, don’t matter. The question is, in what way? Through our daily lives God is readying us for the fullness of life which is found in him with one another. “Come, for all things are now ready.” Such is the banquet of heavenly love in which we participate now sacramentally. The strong teaching is that our liturgy is not simply an add-on, an extra, an option; rather it is a necessity and for no other reason than that it is about our life with God and in God. When we ignore or neglect that we are forgetting the real truth and dignity of our humanity.

We meet in the Octave of the Nativity of John the Baptist. His whole ministry from the moment of his conception in the womb of Elizabeth to his being beheaded by Herod is about one thing: pointing us to Jesus as the one whom we seek and with whom we dwell. He points us to Jesus so that we can be with Jesus. His ministry is a ministry of preparing the way of Christ by the “preaching of repentance.” That is about a constant metanoia, a constant turning of hearts and minds to God in Christ. Repentance is the counter to all our prosaic complacencies and preoccupations; in short our indifference to the things of God. It means taking the love of God revealed to us in Jesus Christ seriously and joyously out of an awareness of our sinfulness.

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“This commandment have we from him, that he who loveth God love his brother also”

“You have the poor with you always, and whensoever you will you may do them good,” Jesus famously says. But what do we will? It is a disturbing statement. What does it mean? What we will is what we love or desire and what we love or will is inescapably bound up with what we see and know in some sense or other. And what we do or do not do with the poor and with one another belongs to our knowing and loving God. That is the point and the challenge of this day.

The Epistle reading from 1 John 4. 7-21 is a theological tour-de-force. It highlights the mystery of the Trinity for us in our lives together with one another. How? By the necessary interplay of knowing and loving in God and that interplay in turn in our knowing and loving. “He that loveth not knoweth not God; for God is love” (1 Jn. 4.8). “God sent his only-begotten Son into the world, that we might live through him” (1 Jn. 4.9). “Hereby know we that we dwell in him, and he in us; because he hath given us of his Spirit” (1 John 4. 13). Everything is grounded in the mutual indwelling of God as Trinity. We live in the knowing love of God. Our loving is our knowing and vice versa.

The mystery of the Trinity perplexes us, perhaps. We may look askance at it because the images of God as the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit may seem to be mere metaphors that reflect social and political power structures of our devising. This would assume that we make God in our own image and not the other way around. Yet last Sunday made us think upwards not downwards; that is the true meaning of thinking analogically. Father, Son and Holy Ghost or Spirit are not metaphors; they are the names of God revealed by Jesus which open us to the mystery of God as love. “We have known and believed the love that God hath to us. God is love; and he that dwelleth (or abideth) in love, dwelleth (or abideth) in God, and God in him” (1 Jn. 4. 16).

This statement governs our thinking and doing especially in the Trinity season. It governs how we see and deal with one another. “This commandment,” John tells us, “have we from him, that he who loveth God love his brother also” (1 Jn 4. 21). And our “brother” is the other who is inescapably one with us in our common humanity. The brother is the one whom we see and know in some sense or other and whom we are therefore commanded to love. This is a strong ethical imperative, the radical meaning of which is illustrated in the Gospel parable of Dives or the Rich Man, and Lazarus, the poor man.

While the poor man/rich man dichotomy reflects social and economic realities, the paradox of the parable is that it reverses them. The poor man turns out to be rich, and the rich man poor but only because the parable shows that the truth of our humanity is not found simply in matters of material wealth but in how we see and love one another. That turns entirely on our knowing and loving God.

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“Behold, a door was opened in heaven”

It is really a dance, the dance of the understanding. It is wonderfully and powerfully expressed in the Athanasian Creed. It is nothing less than the dance of kataphatic and apophatic theology. These are the theological terms for positive and negative theology, the forms of thinking the mystery of God revealed in the witness of the Scriptures to Christ. God is and God is not like anything else. God is, in short, no thing.

Positive theology affirms something of the idea and nature of God by analogy to created things; negative theology recognizes that God is utterly beyond and other, even not other, non aliud. This is the strongest possible counter to the problem of reducing God to any of the forms of human reason, which would make God a construct of our thinking. The dance of the understanding is the circling around the mystery of God as revealed yet revealed for thought. “He therefore that would be saved, let him thus think of the Trinity”; think of the Trinity in this way of affirmation and negation. This is Thou and this is not Thou. Such is the dance of the understanding.

The Trinity is the central doctrine and teaching of the Christian Faith, but is equally the teaching which provides for and requires a respectful engagement with other philosophical religions. Hegel in the 19th century notes that the doctrine of the Trinity is in some sense adumbrated or shadowed forth in all religions. It is not by accident that the first article of the Thirty-nine Articles of Religion is “Of Faith in the Holy Trinity”. The first hymn in our Hymn Book, too, is a hymn to God as Trinity; the tune is called Nicaea after the Creed and Councils that determined the terms of our thinking the Trinity. Our thinking the mystery is our life. We cannot not think the Trinity. But how? Only by entering into what is revealed for our thinking and in the ways in which we have been given to think it.

“A door was opened in heaven,” John in Revelation tells us; a door not a window. One of the so-called “I am” sayings of Jesus is “I am the door” (Jn. 10.7). We go through the door and into the mystery of God revealed in Christ, at once the Son of man “that came down from heaven” and “who is in heaven.” To think this is to be born again, literally born upward into the things of God as signaled in the Gospel story of Nicodemus coming to Jesus by night.

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“He shall teach you all things and bring all things to your remembrance,
whatsoever I have said unto you”

We get it wrong, I am afraid. Pentecost is not some emotive experiential happening, some happy-clapping affirmation of ourselves in our self-assertions. Just as the Resurrection is not a flight from the world and nature, so too, Pentecost is not the celebration of self-identities.

Pentecost is not the celebration of the diversity of our humanity but its unity-in-diversity as grounded in the life of God. Credally or doctrinally speaking, it marks the descent of the Holy Spirit upon the disciples to become the Apostolic Church. In the Apostles’ Creed, “I believe in the Holy Ghost” is followed directly by “The Holy Catholic Church” and “The Communion of Saints;” these are strong statements about our life together as shaped and formed by the Spirit of God. This is explicated more fully in the Nicene Creed. The Holy Ghost is “the Lord, The giver of Life, who proceedeth from the Father and the Son, Who with the Father and the Son together is worshipped and glorified, Who spake by the Prophets”; after which comes “I believe One, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church.”

These strong statements locate the unity of the human community in the unity of God because the human community has no unity in itself. The Pentecost story is the redemptive retelling of the story of the Tower of Babel. That story, so often misunderstood, is not a just-so story to explain the diversity of tongues and cultures as something evil which assumes that there should be only one language, only one culture, just as in reverse, in our contemporary world, the claim is that an endless and indeterminate diversity of identities is the good. The binary is false. It may be, however, that the levelling nature of our global technocratic world ultimately excites a desire for diversity and difference as a yearning for some sense of what it means to be an individual, a person, but that only raises the questions about the categories of difference and identity and what they mean in terms of our common humanity. Which categories and upon what basis?

The story of the Tower of Babel is really about human presumption and arrogance which results in confusion. Babel means confusion. The confusion arises out of the agendas of dominance and the abuse of power. “Come let us build ourselves a city, and a tower with its top in the heavens, and let us make a name for ourselves.” Such is presumption and arrogance, an attempt to rival God. The divine response is to “confuse their language” which means to return things to a respect for the diversity of tongues which are already God-given out of which we may learn a unity of understanding. Babel confuses the things of God with the vanity of ourselves and our human projects. The confusion is us in our competing assertions for dominance and control of one another.

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“The end of all things is at hand”

The spectre of “endism” hangs over us – an ominous presence of foreboding and despair in our current age. It is an endemic feature of our fragmented world in the sense of the collapse of cultures and institutions that belong to human flourishing and dignity. This is the dominant form of fear that is with us. A deeper fear than the fear of Covid-19, it is the pandemic of fear itself, a fear of death and of the end of the world. “This is the way the world ends/ Not with a bang but a whimper” as T.S. Eliot’s poem The Hollow Men puts it, though perhaps with both a bang and a whimper, we fear.

One hundred years ago, in 1922, T.S.Eliot wrote The Waste Land, his poem on the wilderness of modernity. Composed of five sections, the first one is entitled The Burial of the Dead, an explicit reference to the Prayer Book Burial Office. It presents a telling image of a world and church in ruins.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree give no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you,
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

The images of death and decay are drawn from the poet-prophet of the Exile, Ezekiel, and from Ecclesiastes, the poet-philosopher of the Hebrew Scriptures. Son of man, ben adam, taken from Ezekiel, alludes to our common humanity and to Christ but also to our uncertainties about life and death. “You” – we – “cannot say, or guess, for you know only a heap of broken images.” That, too, is from Ezekiel: “and your altars shall be desolate, and your images shall be broken” (Ezekiel 6.4). His world, too, was a world of ruin and fragmentation, of loss and exile on Babylon’s strand.

It all seems so dark and ominous, so negative and dystopian. Yet the poem offers more than despair and darkness, more than fear and death, and again as drawn from Scripture and as belonging to the life of the Church in all times and all places. It is found in the idea of “com[ing] in under the shadow of this red rock,” an allusion to Isaiah 32.1-2: “a king shall reign in righteousness, and princes shall rule in judgment./And a man shall be as an hiding place from the wind, and a covert from the tempest; as rivers of water in a dry place, as the shadow of a great rock in a weary land.” The images belong to God and his Providence.

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