Category: Sermons

“Be it unto me according to thy word”

Shadows are a feature of Luke’s account of the Passion and complement the ancient service of Tenebrae on the Wednesday of Holy Week. It is a largely the psalm offices of the Triduum Sacrum sung in anticipation of the three great Holy Days of Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Holy Saturday. Through the psalms in particular there is a kind of shadowing forth of the events of the Passion and their meaning.

The Psalms are the Prayer Book and Hymn Book of the Church. How to read them? How to pray them? Sometimes as the words of Christ to us; sometimes as our words to God; sometimes as our words of violence and vengeance. Yet the psalms help us to enter more fully into the Passion of Christ. They are super-charged with a feeling intensity and a deep insight into both human character and God. Their intensity is complemented by The Beginning of the Passion of our Lord Jesus Christ According to St. Luke, and especially, it seems to me, the scene of Christ’s agony in Gethsemane.

Luke looks at things in a more inward way. He provides us with an imaginative feel for what is going on inside the heart of Jesus. With Luke, more than any of the Evangelists, we feel the Passion of Christ. “Being in an agony, he prayed more earnestly; and his sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling down to the ground.” It is a most compelling and powerful image that suggests something of the mind of the Evangelist, the mind of Luke, who is so powerfully moved by the scene itself. He paints a picture of the agony of Christ.

It is Luke, too, who gives us an even more intense understanding of the Peter’s betrayal of Christ. “The cock crew,” Luke tells us in an economy of expression. “And the Lord turned, and looked upon Peter.” It is an exquisite moment. What is the look? A look of contempt, of judgement, of despair? No. I think it is the look of loving compassion. “For this is a true saying, and worthy of all to be received, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.” Peter, remembering the word of the Lord and so confronting his threefold betrayal, himself as a sinner, “went out and wept bitterly.” Just so do we learn how to be defined by the word of God. Sometimes it is through our tears. Discovering something of the deep love of Christ in the shadows of our lives. We see “in a glass darkly” but at least we see. Here is a look that springs from the heart of Christ in his suffering for us.

“Be it unto me according to thy word”

Fr. David Curry
Wednesday in Holy Week, 2018

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“Be it unto me according to thy word”

Somehow out of the spectacle of violence and cruelty a good and great word emerges. Not from within Israel but from the centurion present at the awful events of the crucifixion itself. Christ, in Isaiah’s words “neither turned away back” but “gave [his] back to the smiters”. He endures the shame and the spitting, the cruel actions that belong in one way or another to all of us. He does so in Isaiah’s vision out of trust “for the Lord God who will help [him].” Not us, it seems.

At this point in The Passion According to St. Mark, we can only behold what human sin and wickedness accomplishes, on the one hand, and what comes out of that spectacle, on the other hand. We go through the gruesome charade of his trial before Pilate and Pilate’s betrayal of his own truth and conscience, being “willing to content the people,” the mob, that is to say, and so releasing the murderer Barabbas and delivering Jesus into our hands of vicious violence. We witness the mocking and the scourging of Christ at the hands of the Roman soldiers in the Praetorium. Thus Jews and Romans have their hand in this outrage but only to make us realize our place with them.

There is no one to help. No one to stop the horror. Even the cross bearer, Simon a Cyrenian, is compelled to carry his cross. And even as crucified, we cannot let him alone, but are in the crowd of the passers-by who mock and deride him along with the chief priests. It is an ugly, ugly scene which reveals the ugliness of ourselves both in our thoughts, our words, and our deeds. And that is the point.

Out of the intensity of this scene comes one word from Christ, the great and troubling yet profound word, the cry of dereliction. At once quoting the very first verse of Psalm 22, it is a prayer. Not to the Father, but to God. It is as if the horizons of our lives have narrowed down and there is an eclipse of any personal relationship. In the agony of the crucifixion, he cries out “My God, My God, why hast thou forsaken me?” It is the only word from the Cross that is a question. Yet questions belong to our acknowledgement of truth. His word is a prayer to God, a prayer that as a question reveals the utter intensity of the Passion and its truth. This is not play-acting. It is suffering in its truest and deepest form: the sense of utter abandonment and loneliness.

Christ voices what belongs to all of the lonely sufferings of our world and day. But he voices it to God and that makes all the difference. The Centurion senses and knows this, seeing somehow a great good that emerges out of such a great horror. His word becomes our word; “Truly this man was the Son of God.” He gets it. Will we?

“Be it unto me according to thy word”

Fr. David Curry
Tuesday in Holy Week, 2018

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“Be it unto me according to thy word”

Again which word? And which word will be the word of comfort to us on Monday in Holy Week? Yet, Hosea bids us “take with you words and return to the Lord.” “Hear what comfortable words our Saviour Christ saith unto all that truly turn to him.” So we are being turned but only to confront our afflictions; our sufferings are born in him. “In all their affliction [our] he was afflicted,” Isaiah proclaims. “In his love, and in his pity, he redeemed them.”

Such is the power of love even in the face of our unloveliness. From the intensive reading of St. Matthew’s Passion on Palm Sunday, we turn to The Passion According to St. Mark on the Monday and the Tuesday of Holy Week. It begins with “an alabaster box of ointment of spikenard, very precious”, broken open by a silent and unnamed woman and the ointment poured out upon his head. It ends with the tears of Peter confronting his betrayal of Christ. And in between? The spectacles of betrayal beginning with the Last Supper, the agony of Gethsemane, the kiss of Judas and his being taken captive and the interrogation at the hands of the high priest. All pretty intense.

All our noisy, busyness, and bother circle around the quiet steadfastness of Christ which stands in stark contrast to the discord and disarray of our human emotions. In one way or another our animosities and interests are all directed at Christ. Only the broken alabaster box of ointment and the tears of Peter remind us of love learned and expressed through our encounter with Christ. The unnamed woman’s act is spoken against by others, thinking it a waste of the ointment, to which Christ memorably replies. “She hath wrought a good work on me: for ye have the poor with you always, and whensoever ye will ye may do them good; but me ye have not always. … she is come aforehand to anoint my body to the burying.” And the tears, too, are tears of repentance and that is a great good.

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“Be it unto me according to thy word”

Which word? “Hosanna” or “crucify”? Palm Sunday marks the beginning of Holy Week, a week in which we immerse ourselves, especially in the classical Anglican understanding, in all four Gospel accounts of the Passion. These are further complemented by important and intriguing lessons and epistles as well as by the Office Readings of this week. To attend to these readings is to fulfill the Marian definition: “be it unto me according to thy word.”

Today is Palm Sunday but in a kind of providential wonder it is also The Feast of the Annunciation of the Blessed Virgin Mary; though the celebration of that feast is deferred until after Easter on April 10th. As Luther notes, “Mary does not want us to come to her but through her to Jesus.” For over a millennium and a half, March 25th marked the beginning of the year, a year which is constructed entirely around the story of Christ: his coming to us, his going from us; his being with us. Aspects of that sensibility are readily apparent. We call the ninth month of the year, September which actually means the seventh month; the tenth month, October, means the eighth month; the eleventh month, November, means the ninth month; the twelfth month, December, means the ten month. All of this makes sense when you realise the significance of March 25th as The Feast of the Annunciation and therefore as marking the very beginning of the Incarnation of Christ. Nine months from today will be Christmas.

The Angel Gabriel’s salutation to Mary and her active acquiescence to the will of God as the God-bearer, or Theotokos, marks the radical moment of the Incarnation. Her Annunciation is his conception, humanly speaking, in her womb. That it seems to contradict the natural order of things is precisely the point. God is the God of nature but that does not tie him down to nature; in his sovereign freedom he acts in other ways not to destroy nature but to perfect nature. In a way, there is nothing more fitting than the concurrence of Mary’s Annunciation with Palm Sunday and Holy Week.

Through Mary’s ‘yes’ to God at the Annunciation, Christ has “tak[en] to himself our flesh, and by his incarnation [has made] it his own flesh ha[ving] now of his own although from us what to offer unto God for us” (Hooker). Without that understanding, Christ’s Passion, Death and Resurrection are utterly meaningless, a gruesome tale of cruelty and wickedness but of no redemptive truth or value. In a way, the whole history of the development of the Canon of the Scriptures and the Creeds, the whole history of the Church, arises from pondering on the mystery of Christ’s Passion and seeing in it the utter goodness of God and his will for our humanity.

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This year’s Lenten Quiet Day was cancelled due to poor weather conditions, but Fr. David Curry has compiled the addresses he was to deliver into a pdf document, which can be downloaded by clicking on the cover posted below.

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`“Ye know not what ye ask.”

The Litany is quite a work-out, a spiritual work-out, we might say. In a way, it is about learning what to ask for and about what prayer itself means and looks like. It belongs to our life with God in Christ. “Prayer signals all the service that ever we do unto God”, as Richard Hooker notes. “Teaching bringeth us to know that God is our supreme truth; so prayer testifieth that we acknowledge him our sovereign good.”

This brings out an important point. Our good – our blessedness – does not lie simply or primarily in our knowing that we know God, a kind of self-consciousness, as it were, but rather in God himself. Prayer then is more than a self-reflective exercise; it is about “acknowledg[ing] him [as] our sovereign good.” That is the point of the Litany. It is grounded in God and grounds the whole of our life in God and with God. It is, to be sure, a kind of intellection, an activity of the understanding in which all the various aspects of human life are gathered to God in prayer. There is in the Litany a going out from God, revealed as Trinity scripturally and credally, and a return to God in and through the sequence of intercessions “for all sorts and conditions” of our humanity.

Our praying the Litany this morning complements the Epistle and Gospel readings. The Epistle from Hebrews is a tour-de-force of theological thinking about the mediatorial role of Christ. He is, to use the later and necessary theological language, both God and man, who in his pure and true humanity effects human redemption from sin and death. “By his own blood he entered in once into the holy place, having obtained eternal redemption for us.” Such is the nature of his being “the Mediator of the new covenant.” What is that new covenant? Our life in God and with God in Christ as no longer defined by sin and sorrow, by death and despair. How is it accomplished? “By means of death,” by means of Christ’s sacrifice on the cross.

And yet this is something which we see “but in a glass darkly.” Its full meaning and truth are veiled and hid from our eyes. We know it, of course, at least partially. The cross is veiled before us, but we know it is there. The point is that we don’t really feel its meaning deeply enough. And that has to do with us, with the state of our souls, with the nature of our self-awareness or lack thereof. We both know and do not know ourselves.

But we think we do. We think we know what we want. We think we know what is best for our children and for one another. That is what makes today’s Gospel so challenging and so compelling. It simply points out that we really don’t know completely and fully what is good for ourselves and for one another. In a way, the Gospel challenges and counters our ambitions, our desires for what we think is the good for us and for one another. We are very much like “the mother of Zebedee’s children,” who seeks prestige and prominence for her two sons, James and John; in short, power and position “in thy kingdom.” In such a request we understand a very common desire and one which drives so much of our world. ‘Look at me, looking at you, looking at me’ is one way of capturing the narcissism of the contemporary world and a feature of the selfie culture. We want power and prestige; ‘like me on Facebook! On Snapchat! On Instagram!’

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“For he himself knew what he would do.”

This powerful Gospel story speaks profoundly to the nature of the Christian pilgrimage of faith. We are, to be sure, in the wilderness of modernity, but wilderness itself is such a significant image about sin and alienation. It is in the wilderness of our lives and experiences that we may learn the greater goodness of God. In the wilderness of our own insufficiency and incompleteness, we learn about God’s Providence and his provision for us.

God, and God alone, makes something out of nothing. God, and God alone, makes something great and wonderful out of such meagre provisions as “five barley-loaves, and two small fishes.” As Andrew says to Jesus, “what are they among so many?” We confront the radical insufficiency of our humanity considered in itself. On the one hand, this challenges the hubris and presumption of our technocratic culture in the idea that we can endlessly manipulate and dominate nature for ourselves without consequences for either ourselves or nature; on the other hand, this confirms our deepest uncertainties and fears precisely about our humanity and our domination of the world and ourselves which leads to a kind of paralyzing pessimism, to our dread and despair. This powerful story counters both our presumption and our despair.

In a way, this is the point of the story in John’s account of the miraculous feeding of the multitude in the wilderness, a Gospel story which along with the Epistle gives rise to the wonderful ways in which this Sunday is known as Mothering Sunday, Refreshment Sunday, and Laetare Sunday, the latter indicating the idea of rejoicing drawn from the introit anthem marking the mid-point of Lent which was Thursday past. None of these designations make much sense apart from these readings. It is also underscores the important point about rejoicing even in the midst of suffering which has been an emphasis in our Lenten Programme on The Comfortable Words and the Literature of Consolation.

Jesus asks Philip about the great company “whence shall we buy bread that these may eat? (And this he said to prove him”, John suggests, adding “for he himself knew what he would do.)” John’s parenthetical remark opens us out to the radical meaning of God in Christ and Christ in us. It is about what he wants for us.

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