Category: Sermons

If I must needs glory, I will glory of the things which concern mine infirmities

Courage and prudence are transformed into humility on this Sexagesima Sunday. We are turned not to the vineyard of creation but to something more basic and more humbling. We are turned to the dust and ground of creation with the parable of the sower and the seed. For courage can be at once unwise and destructive, brave but foolish, if it is not tempered by prudence, by practical wisdom; in short, if it is not aware of human limitations, of our own weakness and infirmity.  And prudence can be too cautious and timid unless tempered by courage. Both need justice and charity, love.

We are turned to the ground. “Remember, O man, that dust thou art.” God formed man from the dust of the ground breathing his spirit into us and so we become living beings. In being turned to the ground we are in effect being turned to God and to our connection with the created order. Only so can we begin to reclaim the dignified dust of our humanity. Only so can we be the good ground instead of the waste-ground of the wayside, the rocky ground, or the thorny ground, all of which signal something of the nature of our  falleness and our incompleteness, of folly and sin.

The parable is more than an image, more than an illustration. In Luke’s account, Jesus tells the parable but then provides the interpretation. This shows something of the radical meaning of the Gesima Sundays. They are about an awakening to the inner qualities of grace in us. That awakening means teaching and learning. Thus Paul provides a lesson about the correctives to courage and Luke about the deeper meaning of prudence. In both there is a kind of humility that recalls us to God in the very circumstances in which we find ourselves, a kind of awakening to ourselves in relation to God and creation.

Courage, in the sense of being bold and in calling attention to how well we have persevered in the face of animosities and persecution, can lead to an insidious pride which elevates us above others. We claim a particular identity which we then extol over others. It can easily become the kind of ‘look at me, look at me’ narcissism of our contemporary culture. This is the danger of incurvatus in se, our being turned in upon ourselves but not to the grace of God in us. Instead of self-awareness there is an ignorance of self in our shallow thoughtlessness, in our inconstancies and inconsistencies, and in our worldly preoccupations and distractions as presented in the images of the ground of the way-side, the rocky ground, and the thorny ground.

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Go ye also into the vineyard

In the bleak mid-winter, it must seem strange to be talking about vineyards. Yet, our province increasingly abounds with more and more vineyards, not to mention hops and craft beer! And while this seems to be a new phenomenon, we should remember that over a thousand years ago, the Maritime provinces, as we call them, were known by the Norse explorers as Vinland – Wine Land. The Medieval Labours of the Months tagged to the signs of the Zodiac sculpted on many a medieval cathedral portal or depicted in stained glass windows or painted in Books of Hours recall us to a profound connection to the land, a connection to the seasons and the human labours that attend them. February is often depicted as a time to sit by the fire while March is the time to tend the vines. Yet that labour too will vary across Europe in accord with climatic zones and climate changes. So perhaps the idea of going into the vineyard even in February is not so strange after all.

It is here an image for the spiritual life and for our reading in the vineyard of the text, the Scriptures. Reading nature in the Book of Nature, and reading the Scriptures means learning about God revealed and made known through both. It is not by accident that the Sunday and Daily Office readings begin today with our reading through Genesis. The point is the connection between land and God. In thinking about creation and about the land we are recalled to the Lord of the vineyard who is the Lord of our souls. Isaiah speaks about Israel as the Lord’s vineyard – something of God’s planting from which God seeks the fruit of righteousness and holiness. It is an image of the greatest intimacy; indeed, a love song. “My beloved had a vineyard … He looked for it to yield grapes, but it yielded wild grapes … he looked for righteousness, but behold, a cry!” Isaiah explains the image. “For the vineyard of the Lord of hosts is the house of Israel … he looked for justice, but, behold, bloodshed.”

It is in that context that perhaps we can begin to appreciate the radical meaning of the Gospel for Septuagesima Sunday which inaugurates the season of pre-Lent. In so many ways, it marks the beginning of the struggle to internalize what we have been given to see about Christ in the fullness of his divinity and in the revelation of God’s will for our humanity. The Gospel of the labourers in the vineyard belongs to that task and challenge. It makes the point that the justice of God is far more and far greater than the justice of man and yet belongs to the divine good for our humanity, a greater form of goodness than what belongs to the limits of human justice.

Last Sunday marked the interesting conjunction between Candlemas and the end of the Epiphany season, thus pointing us towards Lent and Easter. Apart from that providential coincidence of considerations, it was also the day that one of the great men of letters, the Franco-American scholar, literary critic, writer and philosopher, George Steiner died. In 1974, he gave the Massey Lectures entitled “Nostalgia for the Absolute.”

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When Jesus heard it, he marvelled

From the “beginning of signs” which we heard last week, we come not to one but to two miracles and to what is, perhaps, an even greater wonder. Jesus marvels at what the Centurion says. Why? Because his words are such a profound illustration of divine grace at work in human hearts.

From that “beginning of signs” to the double healing of the leper and the servant of the Roman centurion, we come to the penultimate Sunday of the Epiphany season this year, a season which varies in length along with the Trinity season according to the movable date of Easter. At the very least there can be two Sundays after Epiphany or at the very most, six Sundays. This year we split the difference with four, though next Sunday will be somewhat eclipsed with Candlemas. The double healings in today’s Gospel are epiphanies, to be sure, and emphasize, yet again, the sense of the universality of Christ in his divinity, the sense that what is made manifest is for all people. It is for Jew and Gentile, for young and old, for Europeans, Asians, Africans, and the peoples of the Americas; in short, there is a global reach to the Epiphany idea that the “infinite power, wisdom and goodness” of God is known, glimpsed and participated in universally through the distinctives of culture and language. In a way, Jesus himself seems to marvel at that realization.

The exchange between Jesus and the Centurion is undoubtedly a critique of Jewish chauvinism – the idea of the superiority of one culture over another – but that doesn’t justify in the least the kinds of Christian chauvinism that have bedevilled our world as well. To be sure, Jesus here contrasts the faith of the centurion with that of Israel. Is his remark a criticism of the leper who from within Israel, it seems, said, “Lord, if thou wilt, thou canst make me clean”? Such a statement, surely, is just as wonderful as the centurion’s “speak the word only”. In a profound sense, these two miracles complement one another. Each are a kind of Epiphany marvel, an opportunity to delight in the insight of each about “the infinite power, wisdom and goodness” of God for our humanity. They both sense this. I find it hard to choose one over the other.

Jesus marvels at the centurion’s insight because it so refreshingly captures what also properly belongs to the Jewish relation to God’s will for our humanity (and not just for Israel). His remark is not directed, I think, against the leper whom he has cleansed but against the people of Israel in their complacency and spiritual chauvinism. He is making an important but general observation that challenges us about God’s will for our humanity.

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There was a wedding in Cana of Galilee

This story, like the story of the boy Christ being found in the Temple teaching and learning, is essential to the meaning of the Epiphany, itself the season par excellence of teaching and learning. But teaching and learning what? About God and man but with a new and distinctive emphasis upon the divinity of Christ as revealed through the humanity of Christ.

This story, like the story of the boy Christ at the age of twelve, is an epiphany, a making known of the essential divinity of Christ. “Did ye know not,” he says in the Temple, rather challengingly, and we might think even rather abruptly to his mother, “that I must be about my Father’s business?” meaning, of course, the will of God. In relation to that exchange we are told that “his mother kept all these sayings in her heart.” It is a wonderful phrase that complements and builds upon the Shepherd’s Christmas where Mary is said to have “kept all these things and pondered them in heart.” What things? All the things that were said about the infant, the unspeaking child Jesus. But in the story of the boy Christ, “his mother,” Luke tells us, “kept all these sayings in her heart.” What sayings? All the things Jesus himself is saying. Wonderful. Mary keeps in her heart both what is said about Jesus and what Jesus says to us.

We are called to be Marian in the sense of attending to what is said about Jesus and what is said by Jesus and to let that define and dignify us in spite of our sins and follies. In so doing, we open ourselves to the miracle of God’s grace at work in our lives, not only perfecting and restoring our wounded humanity, but in signalling the joy of redemption, our joy in the things of God without which we are radically incomplete.

This brings us to the Gospel reading for the Second Sunday after Epiphany, to one of the quintessential stories of the Epiphany, to the idea of miracles that teach as distinct from things that amuse and entertain. It is about attending to what Jesus does.

Miracles are an important aspect of the Christian Faith despite the long, long legacy of skepticism about miracles. They aren’t an article of faith so much as an aspect of our thinking about God in relation to us and our world, to what we might call the mystery of life itself; the miracle par excellence, we might say. We live in a world which desperately wants miracles and yet despairingly rejects the very idea of miracles. The great miracle is creation itself, our life as grounded in the Creator’s gift of life. Today’s Gospel helps us to appreciate the miracle of the gift of life, a miracle which challenges the destructive narcissisms of our culture and age.

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They found him in the temple

“They found him in the temple,” Luke tells us. The only question for us and for our world is “will we?” Nothing highlights better the symbolic significance of Epiphany than the story of Christ as a boy of twelve being found in the Temple. Doing what? You might ask. Asking and answering questions, teaching and learning, we might say. Nothing counters more completely the anti-intellectualism of our contemporary age. If anything we are in flight from thought and its demands. Epiphany suggests otherwise.

The Magoi of Anatolia, “wise men from the East”, as Matthew tells us, show us something of the universal desire for truth. They reveal the eros to know as Plato and Aristotle suggest about the desire to know truth in accord with each of our capacities to know. At issue is whether those capacities are alive in us or not.

Luke’s account is the only story of the boyhood of Jesus in the canonical Gospels. There are various stories invented much later that seek to fill in the gaps between the nativity stories in Matthew and Luke and the stories of the ministry of Christ as an adult, stories which, in my view, diminish and distort both the humanity and the divinity of Christ presented in the Gospels. Only Luke gives us this rich and powerful story of Christ as a boy of twelve. It is, we might say, his bar mitzvah. It marks the transition from boyhood to manhood, to the responsibilities of adulthood and conveys to us the idea of maturing in faith.

But even more, it highlights the important Epiphany theme of teaching, of the idea of things being made known to us about the nature of God through the humanity of Jesus. Here Jesus is found in the company of the learned doctors of the Jewish Law, the Law or Torah of our humanity, we might say, at least in terms of its concentrated form in the Ten Commandments, something given and yet given for thought, known and grasped as belonging to universal reason. Christ is placed with the doctors of the Law in the temple of Jerusalem, a place dedicated to the honour, the glory, and the truth of God. There is a rich significance to these allusions. That Christ is found in the temple amidst the doctors of the Law is not accidental.

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One thing is necessary and Mary hath chosen the better part

The rich fullness of Christmas is often matched by a frantic busyness like Martha in the story of Mary and Martha, “anxious and troubled by a multitude of things” (Luke 10.41). The anxiety of Martha is literally about being too careful, too full of cares and worries. Not that there aren’t care and worries, to be sure, especially in the confusion and nonsense of the disordered world of the past two decades. But there is a wonderful counter to our fears and anxieties, of busyness and worries in Jesus’ gentle response. One thing is necessary.

What is that unum necessarium, the one thing necessary? What is “the better part” chosen by Mary? It is another Mary who shows us what is the unum necessarium, the one thing necessary, the Mary of the Christmas story, the Virgin Mary through whom God becomes man and dwells among us. This is the Mary of the Gospel reading today on what is the Second Sunday of Christmas and the Eve of the Epiphany. The one thing necessary is our contemplation of the wonder of Christ’s holy birth. We contemplate the wonder of God and of God with us just as the Magi-Kings will fall down and worship offering gifts which teach the wonder they acknowledge. Christ is God, and King, and Sacrifice.

Both stories of the Marys are told to us by Luke. “Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart.” What are all these things? They are “those things which were told them by the shepherds who went “unto Bethlehem” to “see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us.” The Mary of the Christmas story shows us what belongs to the true response of our humanity to what is made known to us by God with us. God speaks to us in human vesture even through the unspeaking Word and Son of God in the infant Christ. What is said about him belongs to who he is for us even as the unspeaking babe of Bethlehem. An infant is one who cannot speak. Mary’s attitude is the essential attitude of faith. It is contemplative wonder at all that is said about the child Christ.

This does not deny or diminish the importance of human actions and busyness. It does however challenge us about our busyness and our practical activities by reminding us that ultimately they are grounded and have their real truth and meaning in the activity of contemplation which is the highest activity of our humanity. This redeems our everyday busyness from its frantic mindlessness and frightening emptiness.

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His name was called JESUS

The descriptive titles for today are a bit of a mouthful: “The Octave Day of Christmas and the Circumcision of Christ being New Year’s Day,” and, as if to underline the titles, we have not one, not two, but three Collects! All this belongs to the rich fullness of the Christmas mystery and yet that rich fullness, so theologically significant and doctrinally suggestive, centers on the name of Jesus, literally highlighted for us in Luke’s account by being printed in capital letters. JESUS. In the digital culture, it is a shout-out.

We learned via St. Matthew’s Gospel on Sunday that his name means ‘saviour’; “for he shall save his people from their sins.” Yeshua – Joshua – Jesus, saviour. It is a compelling and intriguing term, a name with an explicit meaning, a name signifying the divine purpose of Christ’s holy birth, a name named by the angel, named by Joseph, and now named by Mary herself. It is a name worth pondering upon, in the manner of Mary and Joseph, in contemplative wonder.

The rich fullness of images which belong to the crowded cluster of things in the Bethlehem scene all center on Jesus and on who he is for us. Emmanuel means God with us and that, too, is said, of the Son brought forth of a Virgin. But what God with us actually means takes on a much fuller meaning with the actual name, Jesus, saviour. It speaks of redemption and of what God seeks for our humanity which is nothing less, it seems, than our actual incorporation into the life of God through God speaking divine things to us in human ways. Such is the incarnation. The deeper reality of this divine speaking humanly, and resoundingly, we might say, is seen in the particular feature of Christ’s circumcision. At once a required ritual belonging to Jewish religious identity, it also signals the reality of Christ’s humanity. It belongs to the rituals of the Jewish Law and yet speaks universally to the redemption of the whole of our humanity.

That is salvation. It is accomplished in and through the sacrifice of Christ, in and through his taking our sins upon him and saving us from all that diminishes and destroys the real truth of our humanity which is found in Christ. God with us means God giving himself for us.

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When the fullness of the time was come,
God sent forth his Son, made of a woman

There is a rich fullness to Christmas, a fullness of images seen and heard, in crècheand carol, in sacrament and word. It highlights an important feature of the Christian faith. It is about the fullness of images rather than an emptying of images. But the images of Christmas are not nothing. They are not mere images, empty signs; rather they are signs that signify a fullness of meaning. They have, as it were, a sacramental quality to them. They point to the reality of Emmanuel, “which being interpreted, is,” as Matthew states, “God with us.” All of the images of Christmas dance and swirl around the mystery of God and of God with us; the idea of the sign and the thing signified have very much to do with our incorporation into the life of God through Christ’s incarnation. Such is “the fullness of the time.”

This has a profound significance for how we think about what it means to be human. God’s intimate engagement with our humanity in Christ’s holy nativity signals something profound about our humanity. It signals that our humanity finds its truth and fullness in God. As the reading from Galatians indicates, this means a certain preparation and readiness through God’s will at work in time and, more importantly, in the intersection between time and eternity captured, I think,  in Paul’s rich phrase “the fullness of the time.” It suggests a certain moment of rightness, of the making adequate of our humanity for this realization in time that gives time and our humanity its truth and meaning. The concept of “the fullness of the time” also applies to humankind historically in terms of cultures and individual lives.

“There came,” T.S. Eliot says in ‘Choruses from “The Rock,”’ “at a predetermined moment, a moment in time /and of time,/ A moment not out of time, but in time, in what we call history:/ transecting, bisecting the world of time, a moment in time but not like a moment of time,/ A moment in time but time was made through that moment:/ for without the meaning there is no time, and that moment/ of time gave the meaning.” As he explains, “it seem[s] as if men must proceed from light to light, in the/ light of the Word,/ through the Passion and Sacrifice saved in spite of their negative being; /Bestial as always before, carnal, self-seeking as always before,/ selfish and purblind as ever before,/ Yet always struggling, always reaffirming, always resuming their/march on the way that was lit by the light; /Often halting, loitering, straying, delaying, returning, yet following no other way.”

For there is no other way than the way of God despite our “negative being” and our wandering ways of deceit and confusion, of certainty and uncertainty, of sin and folly. God makes our way to him through the way of his coming to us at “the fulness of the time.” This is the wondrous mystery which we behold in the Christmas scene of the Word made flesh, of the babe of Bethlehem wrapped in the swaddling bands of our humanity, “incarnate by the Holy Ghost of the Virgin Mary.” Christ is “that pure one,” as Irenaeus so beautifully puts it, “opening purely that pure womb which regenerates men unto God and which he himself made pure.” “Made of a woman,” says Paul, “made under the law, to redeem them that were under the law, that we might receive the adoption of sons.”

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