Category: Sermons

Hereby we know love

God invites us. “Come, for all things are now ready.” That is at once a privilege and a wonder. To what are we invited? To love imaged as a banquet but as signifying the real meaning of our lives. In the Christian understanding it is about our life in Christ. “Hereby we know love, because he laid down his life for us: and we ought to lay down our lives for the brethren.” The love in which we abide is sacrificial love. That love is active and alive in seeking the Good, the goodness of God and that self-same goodness for one another.

Do we accept the invitation? Do we embrace the demands, indeed, the commands of the divine love in which is all our good? Well, that is the problem and the challenge. It is the problem of sin. “But whoso hath this world’s good, and seeth his brother have need, and shutteth up his heart against him: how dwelleth the love of God in him?” This is the problem of our indifference towards one another which separates us from the love of God, illustrated so powerfully for us in last Sunday’s parable, the parable of Lazarus and Dives. It is really all about what is alive in us.

Those lessons are again concentrated for us and developed more fully in this Sunday’s readings. The Epistle instructs but also convicts; the Gospel illustrates profoundly our refusals of the invitation to love and live yet emphasizes the divine commitment to our good. As such they are powerful persuasives to the truth of our lives in Christ.

The paradox is that we are commanded to love. This seems counter-intuitive. How can love be forced or coerced in us and still be love? It can’t. What we encounter is the absolute nature of God’s love as the truth for us. That love is constant and unconditional. It is not changed by our refusals; we are. We encounter simply what God seeks for us even in the face of our disorderly and distracted hearts. Yet “if our heart condemn us, God is greater than our heart.” It is one of the great teaching insights into the nature of God opened out to us in John’s First Epistle, itself a veritable treatise on love as Trinity and our abiding in that love. “And this is his commandment, That we should believe in the name of his Son Jesus Christ, and love one another, as he gave us commandment.” Notice the double emphasis on commandment. What does it mean? Simply that we should want what God wants for us.

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“Herein is love”

“Our life and our death are with our neighbour,” says St. Anthony the Great, according to Athanasius’ biography of the Desert Father. Anthony was an important figure in the development of Christian monasticism. Heaven and Hell, we might also say, are with with one another. Today we are given a vision of both in the Epistle and Gospel. Heaven is the love of God in us in our love for one another and Hell is our indifference to one another and thus to God.

How we think about death and dying says everything about how we think and deal with one another. The great pageant of literature and philosophy which presents us with the images of the after-life are entirely about life itself and about how we think and live with one another. That is really the main point about such great works of literature like The Epic of Gilgamesh in Enkidu’s vision of the afterworld as the house of dust, Homer’s Odyssey in Odysseus’ journey to Hades to speak with Teiresias, Plato’s Myth of Er in the Republic, Vergil’s sixth book of the Aeneid, St. John the Divine’s Revelation, Dante’s great summa, The Divine Comedy, Milton’s Paradise Lost, Goethe’s Faustus, the novels of Charles Williams, and many, many more. They are really profound teachings about our humanity in its relation to God and to one another. Such teachings are wonderfully concentrated for us in John’s little treatise on love in his First Epistle and in Luke’s profoundly poignant Gospel story about Dives, the rich man, and Lazarus, the poor man.

That there is a kind of role reversal in the Gospel highlights the significance of our thoughts and actions towards one another. As we saw last Sunday with Nicodemus, we have to learn to think upward, to think into the things of God. The rich man utterly ignores Lazarus lying “at his gate full of sores,” hungry and destitute, bereft of human company. It is the dogs who “came and licked his sores,” the dogs who show the compassion and charity that humans ought to show to one another. In his indifference to Lazarus, the Gospel suggests, there is equally an utter indifference to God, to the truth of our lives as lived with God and with one another. That indifference is nothing short of Hell. The Gospel highlights the “great gulf fixed” between heaven and hell. In our refusals to love one another, we separate ourselves from the love of God, the love that John saysis God. Hell is our refusal to let that love live in us.

These lessons follow directly and rightly upon the celebration of the mystery of the Trinity, the mystery of God as love: not just our love for God, not just God’s love for us, but God as love. In the Epistle we have the familiar mantra of the Trinity Season. “God is love and he that abideth in love abideth in God and God in him,” as found in our liturgy as one of the sentences for the Offices. The King James Version uses “dwelleth” for “abideth.” Without that love, we are nothing. We are Hell.

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“How can these things be?”

This might well be our question after such a challenging, demanding and dauntingly robust exercise as saying together the Athanasian Creed, one of the three great Creeds of the Christian Faith! But perhaps the question helps to awaken us to the wonder of God.

“Blessed be God that he is God only and divinely like himself.” A phrase used by John Donne as a kind of meditative mantra, it captures something of the mystery and the wonder of this special day, The Octave Day of Pentecost, commonly called Trinity Sunday. And it is a most holy and special day, one of the most holy and special of days because it is, first of all, unique and, secondly, the ground and basis of all our days and all our life. It is simply a forthright celebration of God.

Trinity Sunday celebrates God himself, we might say, Deus in se, as distinct from thinking about God in relation to us, Deus pro nobis, which so easily turns into our concerns and our interests and our ways of thinking and doing which so easily becomes the basis for our thinking about God. It is as if God is made in the image of our thinking rather than our being made in the image of God and participating in the life of God. Trinity Sunday challenges us precisely on that score. “He therefore that would be saved, let him thus think of the Trinity,” as the Athanasian Creed puts it. To think God as Trinity is to think God in himself and only through that to begin to think God in relation to us.

The doctrine of the Incarnation, the doctrine of the redemption of our humanity, the doctrine of the Trinity: these are the three great and essential dogmas of the Christian faith, and the greatest of these is the Trinity, we might say. The distinctive and essential way of thinking God in the Christian understanding, it is the doctrine through which Christians can respectfully engage the other great monotheistic religions of Judaism and Islam, however much the Trinity is repudiated and denied by them, as well as engaging the other religions and philosophies of the world. In other words, the Trinity is not some speculative add-on to the other fundamentals of the Faith. It is the fundamental and essential doctrine without which all of the other principles of Faith are really meaningless and empty.

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“And they were all filled with the Holy Spirit”

Pentecost is a fascinating spectacle, perhaps even more fascinating than the fashion ‘fascinators’ of yesterday’s beautiful and moving royal wedding, a scene at once of pomp and circumstance and of piety and devotion, of joy and love. There is more to it than simply what meets the eye. Even more so with Pentecost.

It begins with the titles: “The Day of Pentecost Being the Fiftieth Day After Easter commonly called Whitsunday,” which at once recalls an ancient Jewish festival celebrating the first-fruits of the harvest of grain fifty days after the Passover and the Christian festival of Christ’s Resurrection, Christ being “the first-fruits of them that slept”. Pentecost has very much to do with the life of Christ in us, it seems, but that life is one that draws us into the very life of God as Trinity, the point which the Gospel makes clear. Through the coming down of the Holy Spirit, the Comforter, Jesus says, “we,” meaning God, “will come unto him,” meaning those who “love [Jesus]” and “keep [his] words.” Only so will we find our abiding in the love of God.

The liturgical colour for this day in the tradition of the Church is red and yet Pentecost is commonly called Whitsunday, literally, ‘White Sunday’. That seems confusing and paradoxical. Why Whitsunday? Because this day, too, like Easter is about new life and new birth, a day in which baptisms and confirmations also took place, a day when souls were joined to the great spiritual company of the Church Universal “having washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb,” recalling Christ’s sacrifice and our participation in the work of human redemption. The colour red also refers to the tongues of fire which came down upon the disciples gathered in Jerusalem. And so it becomes the symbolic colour for the Apostles, meaning those who are sent having learned the things of God.

And if that is not confusing enough, we have the whole fascinating spectacle of Pentecost as “a sound from heaven, as of a rushing mighty wind” and “cloven tongues, like as of fire,” “rest[ing] upon each of them.” Wind and fire are strange and evocative images, elusive and yet significant, that speak profoundly to the spiritual mystery of God. There is more to Pentecost than what meets the eye. More than appearance there is the reality of Pentecost and its meaning for us in our lives, our lives in the spirit, our lives as spiritual beings. The Holy Spirit is often symbolised as a dove, the dove of heavenly peace. The presence of the Holy Spirit with us and in us is symbolised as wind and fire; not to be sure, the winds of war and destruction nor the fires of technological progress which equally enchant and destroy us. No. It is the wind and fire of God that transform us. These are all images that teach and act as metaphors and similes for the reality of the Spirit.

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The end of all things is at hand

“The end of all things is at hand,” Peter tells us. It sounds rather ominous and threatening yet the central message of this day is all about our joy and delight in God and in the redemption of all things to God, the one who is without end. Such is the radical meaning of the Ascension of Christ and his Session, his “sitt[ing] at the right hand of God the Father Almighty” as the Apostles’ Creed puts it. That idea of having an end with God is part of the Ascension theme of Christ’s homecoming and thus our home. In our secular culture in Canada today is Mother’s Day. In Britain and in other parts of the commonwealth, Mother’s Day was on Mothering Sunday, the Fourth Sunday in Lent when we were reminded that “Jerusalem which is above is free which is the mother of us all.” In a way, the theme of home and especially the role of mothers is gathered into the radical meaning of Christ’s homecoming.

What do the Ascension and the Session really mean? They proclaim Christ as Pantocrator, as the ruler of all things. Several years ago, travelling in England and visiting a number of Cathedrals and Churches, I was struck with how many of them had icons. Icons are a particular feature of the churches of Eastern Orthodoxy and embody a kind of sacramental sensibility. They draw us into the mystery of God’s engagement with our humanity and our world. They suggest something which belongs to the Ascension of Christ, a way of seeing ourselves and our world in God.

It is that orientation and understanding that is so critical and necessary for our church and world, for our souls and our lives. Some of you will have noticed that we have an icon here at Christ Church in the crossing just in front of the organ pipes. It is an icon of Christ Pantocrator, Christ the Ruler of All, already pointed to in the theme of this morning’s gradual psalm, “for God is the King of all the Earth.” The Icon presents an image of Christ holding an open book. The words are written in Russian in the Cyrillic alphabet. The open book symbolizes the idea of Christ Pantocrator as Teacher. Other icons depict Christ as holding a closed book, symbolizing Christ Pantocrator as Judge, albeit the merciful judge of all creation.

The Ascension and the Session of Christ are what we celebrate on this day. They affirm in the fullest way possible the idea that who we are is found entirely in God through the redemptive work of Christ. We are gathered to God in Christ and live in that understanding. That requires our constant learning about what that means. Hence the significance of Christ Pantocrator as Teacher. Our lives are gathered into the life of Christ and thus into the rule of his life in us. Our vocation is to be the learners of Christ. Disciples, after all, means learners.

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Why stand ye gazing up into heaven?

The question seems to capture a critical commonplace about religion: gazing into the heavens instead of paying attention to the things of the world, religion as utter nonsense and of no earthly value. In a way, it is partly true, at least in the sense that religion, in this case the Christian religion, is not to be measured by the world. Though the World Council of Churches famously (or infamously) once opined that the world sets the agenda for the churches, this is at best highly questionable. To be sure, the Church in the form of the churches finds itself in the world but it is not of the world. World improvement is not exactly the role and purpose of the churches, however much the churches have contributed to the stability and order of human communities in the world at times.

The paradox is great. The Church in being true to God contributes to the world but cannot be defined by the world and the world’s agendas. The paradox is poignantly manifest in The Feast of the Ascension of Christ. It marks the culmination or fulfillment of the doctrine of the Resurrection. The overcoming of sin and death is about our being restored to fellowship with God signaled in the homecoming of the Son to the Father in the Spirit. In the going forth and now the return of the Son to the Father, we have the highest expression of human dignity and truth. We have a home with God now in the world because of Christ’s being “at the right hand of the Father.” His going from us into heaven establishes the real truth and meaning of our lives spiritually and sacramentally.

The Ascension is cosmic in scope and signals the redemption of the world and our humanity by the gathering of both to God. We live in that understanding and that orientation. Our liturgy is really the liturgy of the Ascension. “Lift up your hearts!” In prayer and praise we participate in the return of all things to God from whom all good things to come. The whole point is about the world and our humanity in God, not God in the world and in us. It is a question of emphasis and direction.

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

Jesus’s words seem to imply a conflict between the things of the spirit and the things of the world. But that would be, I think, a mistake. Rogation Sunday is really part and parcel of the Easter message which is not about a flight from the world but the redemption of the world. That is an essential feature of redemption, about our being returned to God and abiding in his love. We only live when we are alive to God. Our relation to the world belongs to that understanding. The world is God’s world. Redemption cannot be a negation of creation but its fulfillment.

Rogation Sunday provides us with a wonderful theology of the land. We are greatly exercised and concerned about our relation to the land, to what we call the environment. But how we use words greatly affects our thinking and our living or acting, a point which The Epistle of St. James clearly indicates. “Be ye doers of the word and not hearers only.” What does it mean to be a doer of the word? It means actions, yes, but actions that are themselves words in motion. We are to act upon words that are heard and if heard, then words that are spoken and proclaimed. The Epistle points us to a fundamental feature of the Christian religion and beyond, namely, the idea of a way of life predicated upon a way of thinking.

What kind of way of life? A way of life which embraces an ethical approach to the land in which we are placed. Rogation refers to prayer, to the prayer of asking. That immediately challenges our assumptions about our relationship to the land and to one another by bringing both into relation to God. It challenges the various assumptions that belong to our understanding of ourselves in relation to the natural world.

Eight years ago in 2010, someone somewhere schlepped off a farm one day and moved into a city and suddenly the world tilted and changed. Globally speaking, 2010 marked the moment, statistically, when there were for the first time in history more people living in urban settings than in rural places. This profound shift has lead to a raft of different questions and concerns, one of which is what is called the ‘nature deficit,’ a sense of disconnect with the natural world. This modern malaise is wonderfully captured in Gerard Manley Hopkins’ poem, God’s Grandeur.
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In the world ye shall have tribulation;
but be of good cheer, I have overcome the world

Jesus’s words seem to imply a conflict between the things of the spirit and the things of the world. But that would be, I think, a mistake. Rogation Sunday is really part and parcel of the Easter message which is not about a flight from the world but about the redemption of the world. That is an essential feature of redemption, about our being returned to God and abiding in his love. We only live when we are alive to God. Our relation to the world belongs to that understanding. The world is God’s world. Redemption cannot be a negation of creation but its fulfillment.

Rogation Sunday provides us with a wonderful theology of the land. We are greatly exercised and concerned about our relation to the land, to what we call the environment. But how we use words greatly affects our thinking and our living or acting, a point which The Epistle of St. James clearly indicates. “Be ye doers of the word and not hearers only.” What does it mean to be a doer of the word? It means actions, yes, but actions that are themselves words in motion. We are to act upon words that are heard and if heard, then words that are spoken and proclaimed. The Epistle points us to a fundamental feature of the Christian religion and beyond, namely, the idea of a way of life predicated upon a way of thinking.

What kind of way of life? A way of life which embraces an ethical approach to the land in which we are placed. Rogation refers to prayer, to the prayer of asking. That immediately challenges our assumptions about our relationship to the land and to one another by bringing both into relation to God. It challenges the various assumptions that belong to our understanding of ourselves in relation to the natural world.

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“Ye believe in God, believe also in me”

The most provocative, the most challenging, and the most controversial of Jesus’ so-called “I am” sayings in John’s Gospel, at least with respect to interfaith dialogue is where Jesus says, “I am the way, the truth and the life.”

Yet the things which Jesus says and does are the works which manifest the truth and the life and the way of God. And how are we to participate in that? Through prayer. “If ye ask any thing in my name, I will do it.” All prayer is about nothing less and nothing more than asking the Father in the name of the Son by the power of the Spirit. All prayer gathers us into the fundamental orientation of the Son, “because I go unto my Father.” Here again, and providentially, we have the recurring Easter refrain, “because I go to the Father.” Everything is rooted and grounded in the life of God, the holy and blessed Trinity.

Are there not other ways to God, the ways belonging to other religions, for example? No doubt, the other great religions have much to offer in the way of wisdom and truth, and wonderfully and profoundly so, it seems to me. Each of them, whether it is Judaism or Islam or Buddhism or Hinduism and so on, has important and distinctive insights. So, too, does Christianity. The point is to be able to respect the integrity of each religion and not reduce them all to some common political, social or psychological idea, subjecting them, in other words, to some feature or other that contemporary secular culture finds amenable with itself. The point for Christians in honouring what is distinctive about Christianity is not to deny and diminish the claim that Christ is “the Way, the Truth and the Life,” but to connect other insights to that idea and to realize that there can and must be a respectful dialogue among the religions of the world only in and through what belongs to each.

The centrality and the uniqueness of Christ is an essential doctrine of the Christian Faith. For Anglicans, this is captured in Article XVIII of the Thirty-nine Articles; the only anathema in all of the articles concerns the denial of the centrality and the uniqueness of Christ. It is only through the centrality and the uniqueness of Christ that Christians can and must engage the religions of the world as well as the forms of contemporary culture.

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