Sermon for the Feast of St. Stephen

Blessed in he that cometh in the Name of the Lord

The three holy days of Christmas illumine wonderfully the great mystery of God with us. It is a blessed time but we easily misconstrue the nature  of that blessedness. “Blessed is he that cometh in the Name of the Lord,” Jesus says in today’s extraordinary Gospel. Extraordinary because it is a lament over Jerusalem, a lament about the folly and blindness and wickedness of our humanity, and yet, at the same time, a powerful witness to the very reality of sacrificial love. That is what blessing means here in terms of “coming in the Name of the Lord.”

“Love is in the nature of a first gift through which all gifts are given,” Aquinas notes. We live for the one who gives himself for us. The Feast of St. Stephen reminds us with great clarity about the real meaning and purpose of Christ’s holy birth. He comes as Saviour. He comes as the Lamb of God. He comes as sacrifice. Such is the real and deep meaning of love. To come “in the Name of the Lord” is not to act in our own interest, in our own name. It is to bear witness to another; in short, to God in Christ. A martyr is essentially one who bears witness to the truth of God. In its extreme form that witness is even unto death.

St. Stephen is not only the first Christian martyr but the proto-martyr, the one who shows us the very pattern of witness and sacrifice which is really about nothing more than Christ living in us. Stephen, one of the early deacons of the early and emerging Church, shows us the nature of the diaconate, the nature of the ministry of service. It is about a witness to God in Christ even in the face of ridicule and animosity. He is stoned to death but prays in almost the exact words of Christ on the Cross. “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit,” he says even as Christ had prayed, “Father, into thy hands, I commend my spirit.” That last word from the Cross recalls Christ’s first word from the Cross which shapes Stephen’s last word. “Lord, lay not this sin to their charge,” echoing perfectly Christ’s first word, “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.”

The celebration of The Feast of Stephen on the day immediately after Christmas is no accident of time. Nothing emphasises more completely the deeper meaning and wonder of the Christmas mystery and its application to us in our lives. “In his master’s feet he trod,” as the ancient medieval Carol, Good King Wenceslas puts it, and “on the feast of Stephen”. Christ comes to us so that we may come to him. Our blessedness lies in our coming, our doing and thinking all things “in the Name of the Lord.” This emphasizes yet again the radical meaning of Christmas. It is about the presence of God in our world now and always. It is about our witness to the truth that God is always God and always divinely like himself. Our good is found in him, in the one who comes, in the one who is Emmanuel, God with us.

Like St. Stephen, we seek the echoing of Christ’s words of sacrificial love in us. That is the blessing, the deep blessing of Christmas.

Blessed in he that cometh in the Name of the Lord

Fr. David Curry
The Feast of St. Stephen, 2018

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Sermon for Christmas Morn

And the angel of the Lord came upon them

From the thunderous and majestic words of the great mystery of Christmas night of “the Word made flesh [who] dwelt among us”, we come to the quiet wonder of Christmas morning. A quiet time of contemplation, a time to think with the angels.

The logic of Christmas in the classical Common Prayer tradition, liturgically and theologically speaking, is quite instructive. We proceed from the eternal birth, Christ’s eternal Sonship, on Christmas Eve with its focus on the Incarnation as grounded in the life of God, God as Trinity, to the Christmas of the Angels, as it is sometimes called, who reveal to the shepherds the birth of a Saviour; “a multitude of the heavenly host praising God” in the ringing words of what will become the Gloria. “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.” This in turn leads to the Christmas of the Shepherds on The Octave Day of Christmas who say “Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us,” words which follow directly upon this morning’s gospel. This logic is the reverse of an older and a modern more linear pattern of celebration but as such grounds everything in the life of God. That is the intriguing and important feature and one which redeems all the wonderful complexity of the images of Christmas, both religious and secular in all of their various forms.

Here we have some of the more familiar features of the Christmas story as told by Luke in a remarkable economy of expression. “A decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed” sets Joseph in motion “with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child” to Bethlehem. There “she brought forth her first-born son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.” Such are the basic elements of the story. Matthew will also provide an account read on The Sunday after Christmas but no mention of a manger or ‘no vacancy’ signs at the inn. Only with the story of the coming of the kings after the birth do we even get the mention of Bethlehem. Joseph, though, is told that the Son “conceived in her is of the Holy Ghost” and that his name shall be called Jesus, “for he shall save his people from their sins,” and all this in fulfillment of a prophecy from Isaiah that “a Virgin shall conceive … a Son” who shall be called “Emmanuel” meaning “God with us.” Another layer of essential meaning to the basic story, we might say, without which it is not much of a story. Such things complement the real story of Christmas in John about “the Word made flesh.”

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Sermon for Christmas Eve

When all things were in quiet silence
and the night was in the midst of her swift course,
then thy almighty word leapt down from heaven, from thy royal throne.

I have to confess that this lovely image from the Wisdom of Solomon (18.15) has always captivated my imagination. It captures wonderfully the special mystery of Christmas and complements the extraordinary readings we have already heard. The readings from Hebrews and from The Prologue of John’s Gospel challenge all our conceptions about Christmas. For where in those readings do we hear any mention of a babe born in a manger, any mention of little Bethlehem, any mention of Mary, the Virgin Mother, any mention of Joseph, any mention of ox and ass, of sheep and lambs, let alone camels and kangaroos; well, why not or at least a moose or two or maybe a beaver? And yet, all those images are profoundly shaped and governed by the great thunderous words of The Letter to the Hebrews and by what is, perhaps, the most profound passage of philosophy and theology that has ever been penned, The Prologue of John’s Gospel. It is the great Christmas Gospel.

“Thou hast but two rare cabinets full of treasure,” the poet George Herbert says, and he names them, “The Trinitie, and Incarnation;/ Thou hast unlockt them both,” he says,  “And made them jewels to betroth/ The work of thy creation/ Unto thy self in everlasting pleasure” (Ungratefulnesse). The mystery of Christmas enclosed in a poetic nutshell! But one worth cracking open. We behold simply a double mystery, the mystery of God and the mystery of our humanity. Both are locked up together and both are unlocked to view on this holy night.

What on earth am I talking about, you are asking yourselves or at least you should be. Well, I am talking exactly and precisely about the wonder and the mystery of this holy night, the wonder and the mystery of Christmas. Something has drawn you here. It certainly isn’t the pursuit of profit or prestige. Nothing so contemptible in the contemporary culture than religion, to say nothing of the institutional churches. Certainly no commercial or consumer benefit or gain to be found here; quite the opposite, it might seem that the Church is out for your money, more hands in your pocket than the banks. Just joking. Well, maybe.

No. Something speaks to our souls, it seems to me, that draws us towards the idea of ‘truths held sacred’ and all the more so in a culture of darkness and despair. Our culture, our world, our day. It is not that we are simply too much with ourselves, too much preoccupied with a multitude of worries and concerns, what Jesus names, at least in Tyndale’s early English translation, as our “being carefull,” meaning our being full of cares, our busyness, what has more recently been translated as our anxiety. Mightn’t we say Angst r’ us because we are too full of cares about all the wrong things and in all the wrong ways, especially, perhaps, at this time of year? I leave it to you to fill out the ledger in terms of your own lives. The stress of presents and meals, of travel and plans, of parents, of grandparents, of in-laws, of the neediness of children and childrens’ children; the neediness, let’s face it, of us all. No, the greater problem is that we are sceptical and unaware of what speaks to our darkness and despair.

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Sermon for the Fourth Sunday in Advent

The Lord is at hand

Advent reaches a high note of expectancy just as the questions of the Advent season come to a kind of crescendo on this The Fourth Sunday in Advent. Both Epistle and Gospel open us out to the “bountiful grace and mercy” of God coming to us in the quiet waiting and watching of Advent.

“The Lord is at hand”, Paul proclaims in his Letter to the Philippians and there is in this a wonderful sense of joy. “Rejoice in the Lord alway, and again I say, Rejoice.” God is the Lord and as God he is always at hand, always present, always near. Such is the truth of God. Such, we might say, is the simple “givenness of things”, as the novelist and modern reformed theologian, Marilynne Robinson, so wisely notes. The simple “givenness of things” is about the truth of God in whom all things have their being and their meaning. To be open to that realization is our joy which contrasts completely with the despairing nihilism which sees reality as something into which we are simply thrown, “the thrownness of being”, you might say. As if life and human experience were but an empty nothingness, altogether meaningless and without purpose or understanding. Such a view is utterly dogmatic and narrow. We need the questions of Advent to awaken us out of our various dogmatic slumbers, to awaken us to the divine gift of a world given for thought and delight.

The questions of Advent are more about us, about our understanding of God whose truth and majesty is eternal and as such is always with us. It is you and me who absent ourselves from the idea and the presence of God.

Advent prepares us for the radical Christian understanding of God being at hand, always near and always coming to us. That Christian understanding focuses primarily upon the coming of Christ and as such upon the meaning of God with us in the great defining term, “Emmanuel”, which means God with us. This morning we will sing the greatest of the Advent carols, the Veni Emmanuel, a 12th century medieval carol which enlarges in rich and wonderful scriptural terms the meaning of Christ as Emmanuel, God with us.

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Sermon for the Feast of St. Thomas

My Lord, and my God

‘From darkness and doubt, Good Lord, deliver us.’ It could be a paraphrase of the Litany. We have heard, too, in the Exhortations to Communion about confession, even private confession, as belonging to our coming to Communion, “with a full trust in God’s mercy, and with a quiet conscience,” including “the avoiding of all scruple and doubtfulness” (BCP, p. 91). There is a wonderful paradox that we commemorate Thomas, the one who is known as ‘doubting Thomas’  for through his doubt, our faith is confirmed all the more.

In the time of the longest night in the darkness of nature’s year, we look to the Light of Christ coming in the darkness when we will hear that “the darkness overcame it not.” Likewise with the matters of doubt and uncertainty in our souls. Advent is the season of watching and waiting in the darkness. What do we mean by darkness? Is it simply the absence of light? Are we bereft and left simply with our doubts and fears?

St. Thomas is the saint of the Advent even more so than St. Andrew whose feast usually but not always falls within the Advent season. The Feast of St. Thomas always falls just four days before Christmas; the only variable is whether if falls within the week of the Third or the Fourth Sunday in Advent, or when the 21st of December is the Fourth Sunday in Advent, it gets transferred to the following Tuesday (Dec. 23rd.) In any event, it is always in Advent.

It is significant that the Gospel reading is the Easter story about Thomas’ doubting the witness of the other disciples to the Resurrection of Jesus. “Except I shall see,” he says, except I touch, “put[ting] my finger into the print of the nails, and thrust[ing] my hand into his side, I will not believe.” It is a powerful moment. But behind the closed doors of the Upper Room, Christ appears again to the disciples and, most importantly, to Thomas. “Thomas,” he says, “Reach hither thy finger, and behold my hands; and reach hither thy hand, and thrust it into my side; and be not faithless, but believing.” It is a marvellous moment of truth and of our awakening to truth in the ways that belong to each of our forms of knowing.

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Sermon for the Third Sunday in Advent

Behold, I send my messenger … which shall prepare thy way before thee

Advent is the season of penitential preparation for the celebration of Christmas. Repentance and rejoicing go hand in hand. Both these tonal qualities of spiritual life belong to the theme of preparation signalled so directly in the Collect, Epistle and Gospel for this day and heralded so profoundly in the second Exhortation which you heard this morning. Advent celebrates the motion of God’s Word coming to us in judicio,  in judgement, in mente, in mind, and, ultimately, in carne, in the flesh. That motion is all God towards us; all grace, we might say. The important point of Advent is that grace can never be taken for granted. It requires our attention, our loving attention upon the motions of God’s Word coming to usand being with us. It requires preparation on our part to receive that Word in its glory and truth. Only so is it grace to us.

The preparation is all grace, to be sure, but it concerns our mindfulness of that grace. That is the point of the Exhortation, so rarely read and heard. We are in Advent and yet always “in the mean season”, always in anticipation and expectation of things which remain to be more fully realized in us. As such we are bidden “to consider the dignity of that holy mystery”, the Sacrament of the Altar, “and the need of devout preparation for the receiving thereof.” Devout preparation. It belongs to “the ministers and stewards of [those] mysteries” to “prepare and make ready thy way”, the way of God, in all our hearts “by turning the hearts of the disobedient to the wisdom of the just”. Such is repentance. It is about our being turned back to God from whom we have turned away. It is simply about our complete surrender of ourselves to God’s will for our humanity. Thus the witness of John the Baptist about repentance is wonderfully complemented by witness of the Blessed Virgin Mary whose ‘yes’ to God belongs so completely to the mystery of the Incarnation.

Today’s Gospel calls our attention to the ministry of John the Baptist even as this week also reminds us of the Annunciation to Mary as an essential part of the Advent. “Be it unto me according to thy word”, is Mary’s mantra and the mantra of the Church universal in all times and seasons but especially in this season of the coming of God Incarnate, itself the crystallization of all of the motions of God’s Word coming to us. The preparation is about our mindfulness. It means, as the Exhortation suggests, a certain kind of self-examination, a matter of the inward spirit, a matter of conscience and soul-searching to the intent of the quieting of all our doubts and fears, of all our anxieties and worries, by recalling us to trust in God. The second Exhortationis very precise about what such examination means in terms of seeking reconciliation with one another as belonging to the “full purpose of amendment of life.”

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Advent Meditation: Christ, Light of the World, Part 2

This is the second of two Advent meditations on Christ, the Light of the World. The first is posted here.

“In Thy light shall we see light”

Part Two:

In keeping with the Advent theme of this Sunday and week, we continue to ponder “the things written for our learning,” especially the image of Christ as “the light of the world.” The Christian Faith has this character to it. There comes into the world an idea so real and so totally true that it carries with it its own repudiation and rejection and makes that part of the reality of its own fullness and truth. This is what we have been exploring in terms of the remarkable statement by Christ that he is “the light of the world.”

”He came unto his own and his own received him not.” His own is not simply Israel but all of us in the confusions of our sins, in the darkness of our minds, in the vanity of our lives. “And this is the judgment that the light has come into the world, and men loved darkness rather than light, because their deeds were evil. For everyone who does evil hates the light and does not come to the light, lest his deeds should be exposed. But he who does what is true comes to the light, that it may be closely seen that his deeds have been wrought in God” (John 3.19-21).

”I am the light of the world”, Jesus says, “he who follows me will not walk in darkness but will have the light of life” (John 8.12,13). As Hans Urs Von Balthasar puts it, we do not “think by the light of reason into the darkness of mystery”; rather we think “in the light of the mystery of faith by which we illuminate the darkness of the world”.

The Christian faith takes absolutely seriously the freedom of the will. To take seriously the freedom of the will means to acknowledge the capacity in us all for the refusal of the light. It means a negative definition of ourselves; defining ourselves negatively means defining ourselves against the light of God; in short, to will the darkness – “men loved darkness rather than light”. More strongly put, it means, hating the light both for ourselves and for others. The will to nothingness is the blindness of the soul in the presence of the light. It marks the refusal to be turned to the light, the refusal to be drawn into the light. Such negative definitions of ourselves are a form of denial. It is light refused. Yet Christ is the light refused who uses our refusals to bring us into the light of his presence.

We continue our examination of Jesus as the light of the world by looking at the second passage in which Jesus identifies himself explicitly as “the light of the world”, namely, John 9.5. It accompanies and is part of the story of a healing, the healing of the eyes of the man who was born blind. As with the first story of the woman taken in adultery, so here, too, there is debate and argument.

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Sermon for the Second Sunday in Advent

“My words shall not pass away.”

Here are words “written for our learning” but only through our sitting and listening. Here are words “written for our learning” about hope and comfort in times of darkness, danger, and despair. Here are words audible and written, yes, but also words made visible. “He hath instituted and ordained holy mysteries, as pledges of his love, and for a continual remembrance of his death, to our great and endless comfort,” as the Exhortation so rarely heard so wonderfully puts it (BCP, pp. 88-89). Words written for our learning.

The Exhortation speaks to the character of this Sunday which is sometimes known as Bible Sunday because of the Collect composed by Cranmer. It calls attention to the reason and purpose of the Scriptures. The Sacraments, too, belong to that understanding of the purposes of God for our humanity. If you read the Proper Preface used for Passiontide, for Passion Sunday right through to Maundy Thursday (BCP, p. 80), you will find that the Exhortation draws directly upon it. We give thanks “for the redemption of the world by the death and passion of our Saviour Christ, both God and Man; who did humble himself, even to the death upon the Cross, for us sinners, who lay in darkness and the shadow of death; that he might make us the children of God, and exalt us to everlasting life.” The Exhortation adds only one word, miserable, “miserable sinners.” Sinners in misery because sin is misery.

Yet here is our comfort: “the patience and comfort of thy holy Word,” and the “great and endless comfort” of “the holy mysteries,” the Sacraments which “he hath instituted and ordained as pledges of his love, and for a continual remembrance of his death, to our great and endless comfort.” Word and Sacrament conveying hope and comfort.

The two Exhortations appended to the Communion service underscore an important reformation ideal. Both Cranmer and Calvin sought to increase the frequency of Communion and especially the reception of the Sacrament over and against the practice of Mass in the late Medieval world largely as a spectator event: seeing the host elevated, even through a squint (literally a hole in the wall!), but receiving the Sacrament very infrequently. The insight of the reformers was essentially a Scriptural insight into the purpose of the Sacraments as revealed in the witness of the Scriptures: “Take eat … Drink ye all, of this … in remembrance of me.”  Such is “the memorial which he hath commanded,” (BCP, p. 83). It is about taking seriously the things which have been written. It is about words “hear[d], read, mark[ed], learn[ed], and inwardly digest[ed]” as Cranmer so famously and memorably puts it. Such words are the clarion call and challenge to the recovery of deep reading over and against the superficiality of our digital compulsions, the ephemerality of flickering images.

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Advent Meditation: Christ, Light of the World, Part 1

This is the first of two Advent meditations on Christ, the Light of the World. The second is posted here.

“In Thy light shall we see light”
(Psalm 36.9)

Part One:

Advent is about the coming of God as light to a dark and despairing world. The imagery of light is an important and classical feature of the religions of the world and so too for Christianity. Jesus says, “I am the light of the world.” He doesn’t just say it once either but twice. It is, I think, an extraordinary statement. What can it possibly mean?

To be sure, Jesus is identified as light by others, too, by prophet and priest, by poet and evangelist. “In him was life and the life was the light of men”… “That was the true light, which lighteth every one that cometh into the world”. And as aged Simeon proclaims, echoing Isaiah’s prophecy, Jesus is “a light to lighten the Gentiles and the glory of thy people Israel”.

But when Jesus identifies himself as “the light of the world,” it is something more and something different:  It would seem to be something which he wants us to know. It suggests something which he wants us to know about himself and about the world, and, indeed, about ourselves.

There are things which Jesus wants us to know. The Gospels are at pains to bring those things to our attention. But what Jesus wants us to know does not mean collecting a bouquet of holy facts and figures. It is not about compiling bits and pieces of pious information nor about lining up a series of propositional hoops through which to jump “merrily on high”. Instead, what Jesus wants us to know are the things which belong to our being with him. Such things are relational rather than informational, dynamic rather than static, humbling rather than presumptuous.  And they are inexhaustible. They are the things which we must be constantly learning, constantly engaged with, constantly “being renewed in the transformation of our minds”.

They are the things which are identified and known so as to be proclaimed and celebrated. They are matters of witness. These are connected.  If Christian life is about our witness to Christ, then it is also about our being with him. Both our being with him and our witness to him turn on the substantial matter of who he is and what he means for us and for our world. They turn upon the powerful image of Christ as light.

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