Category: Sermons

Blessed rather are they that hear the word of God and keep it.

Blessings!? Where do we see any blessings in this rather dark and dismal Gospel, a Gospel story which I am tempted to call the Gospel of despair? But then, to call it a Gospel is to say that it is, indeed, a blessing, that it is, indeed, good news. So what is the good news in this troubling and challenging Gospel story? The blessing is in what we are given to see about ourselves in our disorder and disarray, ourselves in contradiction with ourselves and God, ourselves in our presumption and pride which separate us utterly from God and ourselves.

“I awoke,” Dante says in the opening and introductory canto to the Divine Comedy, “to find myself in a dark wood,” a selva selvaggio, a wild wilderness, “where the right way was lost and gone,” and yet he says, “there I found a great good.” This is the essential insight of Lent that brings us to the cross of Christ, the paradox that through evil we may learn the good, the insight that God and God alone can bring good out of evil. This, too, it seems to me, lies at the heart of our Lenten considerations about ‘The Comfortable Words and the Literature of Consolation.’ In other words, we are being opened out to the radical nature of the goodness of God which is greater than all and any evil in our hearts. To learn that means confronting the darkness of our hearts. That is the great good of this difficult Gospel story.

But should we want a clearer and more direct affirmation of blessedness, it can also be found in the longer rendition of this Gospel story. Already a rather long Gospel, it was for centuries upon centuries even longer by way of what follows upon the rather cryptic and gnomic ending that we heard this morning that “the last state of that man is worse than the first.” What follows immediately upon those words is Jesus’ encounter with a woman in the crowd who blesses Jesus by way of reference to Mary, his mother, with the words, “blessed be the womb that bear thee and the paps that gave thee suck.” Jesus replies “blessed rather are they that hear the word of God and keep it.”

It is worth noting that this Gospel passage both in its present form and in its longer form does not appear in the Revised Common Lectionary used in many of the contemporary liturgies; perhaps because it is just too difficult and dark, too challenging. And yet the words of Christ to the woman in the crowd illumine the deeper meaning of the Gospel and the Lenten project. It is about our hanging upon the words of Christ and learning more and more about ourselves even in the darkness of our sins. But that means learning about the light and life of Christ who alone overcomes our darkness and conquers our death. Our blessing is found not in ourselves, certainly not in the forms of self-contradiction, and certainly not in terms of our presumption and pride.

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“Yet the little dogs eat of the crumbs which fall from their masters’ table”

Matthew’s account of Jesus’ encounter with “a woman of Canaan” is masterful. There is a perfect equipoise between her three statements and the three statements of Jesus. And yet, the encounter also reveals the silence of Jesus. To her first request for mercy, “he answered her not a word.” That silence marks the turning point because she does not turn away and even refuses to be sent away and continues persistently to persevere in getting Jesus’ attention.

It might seem that what is at issue is how we get Jesus’ attention. But that is to miss the real power and truth of the dialogue. Ultimately, it is about God’s attention and care for us and about our attention to God intentionally and with strength. In a way, this Gospel story for The Second Sunday in Lent is about our active attention to God. It means perseverance, indeed, great perseverance. Nowhere is that shown more wonderfully than in the story of the Canaanite woman. Here is the story of a strong woman and a story about the strength of faith. She holds on to what she senses and knows about God in the person of Jesus Christ.

No story in the Gospels suggests so much about the necessary interplay of our humanity with God in Christ. In the story, it seems that what drives the entire argument is the perseverance of the woman who seeks the healing of her daughter “grievously vexed with a devil,” itself an interesting malady. It is a malady of the soul, a torment of the mind, not altogether unlike the forms of mental instability and confusion which belong to our culture. And, to be sure, the Canaanite woman here is a great exemplar of the true meaning of faith. She recognizes something divine in Jesus which alone can provide the healing she seeks for her daughter. The healing she seeks is entirely psychological and spiritual, not physical.

The point is that she will not be put off but persists in her quest to get Jesus’ attention. As it turns out, she actually has Jesus’ full attention. The problem is that the others, such as the disciples, don’t. She has Jesus’ attention so much that he insists on her articulating the full meaning of her request. He has heard about her daughter in her opening question to him. “But he answered her not a word.” Why? Because it is not simply about her and her daughter. It is equally about the nature of God’s engagement with our humanity seeking our good in his glory. It is a lesson about the universality of Christ’s mission which is through Israel but not confined to Israel.

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“And him only shalt thou serve”

The temptations of Christ belong to the logic of redemption, to the Passion of Christ. Christ wills to be tempted for us even as he suffers for us on the Cross. The accounts of the temptation show us the intensity of the encounter. There is a real struggle, a struggle for what is good and right that is greater than anything we can imagine because we have become so used to giving in and going along with the things that draw us away from our true happiness and good which is found in the will of God.

The story of “The Temptations of Christ” is about our temptations as endured and overcome by Christ. As the Fathers so often observe, Christ is our Mediator who not only overcomes our temptations but also gives us an example for doing the same. The temptations belong to the reality of the human condition. They take us back to the Fall and they point us to the Crucifixion. Strange as it may seem to say there is something good and necessary about temptation. Why? Because what is good and true has to be known as good and true and willed as such.

The temptations comprehend all of the temptations known to us. All temptation, in other words, is brought in under the three temptations of Christ as presented by Matthew and Luke, even though the second and third temptations are reversed by them. Luke presents the second temptation of Christ which Matthew presents as the third. Yet whatever the order they are, by all accounts, a summary and comprehensive view of our temptations. They put us to the test about what truly defines us. They do so after the fact of our awareness of our separation from the goodness of God. In a way, the temptations raise the question about what is the good.

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“Humble yourself in the sight of the Lord”

“Fire ever doth aspire, / And makes all like it selfe, turnes all to fire,/ But ends in ashes,” the poet, John Donne, notes in a poem celebrating married love. His point about love and about marriage is that it is not wanted that it should end in ashes. God seeks something more for us.

Ash Wednesday marks the beginning of Lent, a beginning not an ending of the pilgrimage of love. We begin with ashes. It is not wanted that we should end in ashes. Ashes are the proverbial and biblical symbol of repentance which is always about how we turned back to God. They are part and parcel of the project of how, through penitence, “new and contrite hearts” are “created and made in us.” It means “the lamenting of our sins and the acknowledging of our wickedness”. How will that be realized except through humility?

We are turned to the dust of creation in the words that belong to the Imposition of Ashes, the words of the Penitential Service. “Remember O Man, that dust thou art and unto dust shalt thou return,” words which are said at The Imposition of Ashes. Note the connection between words and actions. We are reminded of the dust out of which we have been formed, the dust of creation which connects us to every other living thing. And the ashes? They remind us of our sins and follies which in acknowledging signal that we are seeking something more. There is something more than dust and ashes in the mystery of Lent.

We are the dust into which God has breathed his spirit. The dignified dust of our humanity is about who we truly are in the sight of God. The ashes remind us of our sinfulness, to be sure, no way around that necessary but saving truth, but even more they remind us of the possibilities and the necessities of repentance. “Turn thou us, O good Lord, and so shall we be turned.” That is the Scriptural basis for the prayer for grace “to decline from sin, and incline to virtue; That we may walk with a perfect heart before thee.”

Ash Wednesday launches us upon an upward journey that seeks the attainment of virtue that belongs to who we are in the sight of God and speaks to our care and service of one another. It can only happen by recalling us to our creaturely origins and to our Fall from grace into a world of dust and death, of suffering and sorrow. The only antidote and the one which is prescribed on this day is humility: ashes in the form of the Cross upon our foreheads. Love recreates us in love and for love.

It is not about boasting of our humility, the kind of Uriah Heep humility which is really self-promotion (there is no one so humble as I!). No. It is about the real humility which on the very ground of creation does not presuppose or presume any standing with God and knows instead its own failings and misery. Humility looks to God. That is the point really of the words of The Epistle from St. James. Humility not presumption is the key to the journey of Lent.

“Humble yourselves in the sight of the Lord”

Fr. David Curry,
Ash Wednesday, Feb. 14th, 2018

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“And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three:
but the greatest of these is charity.”

These wonderful words we hear on Quinquagesima Sunday, Love Sunday as it is sometimes called because of these words. They are words which catapult us into Lent and which capture the real vocation and character of our life together. Our churches are to be communities of love, the places where we participate in nothing less than the divine love shown to us so paradoxically and profoundly in the way of the Cross, in the pilgrimage of Lent. Charity means love. Lent is really nothing more than the concentration of the Christian life as the pilgrimage of love.

Paradoxically and yet providentially, Ash Wednesday this year falls on February 14th. Whatever one makes of Valentine’s day – and there are a number of different accounts – it has entered into the imaginary of the Western Church and extends into the secular world where it now dominates; in part, as an economic generator for chocolatiers, vintners, florists, and various aspects of the silk industry. It speaks to modern romanticism and eroticism.

These, too, are forms of love which ultimately belong to the deeper and profounder forms of love highlighted in Paul’s great hymn to love from 1st Corinthians 13 and signaled in the great Gospel story from St. Luke about our “going up to Jerusalem” with Jesus. That journey instructs us in the lessons of love about which we are blind, like the disciples who hear what Jesus says about the meaning of the journey explicitly in terms of his passion and death but “understood none of these things,” and like the blind man “sitting by the way-side begging” and incessantly calling out to Jesus. What does he want? “Lord, that I may receive my sight.” To know our blindness is the necessary condition for our coming to see. In a way, what drives the Lenten journey, here imaged as “going up to Jerusalem” is desire, itself a kind of love. The point is about our seeking what God seeks for us with all our heart, mind, soul and strength; in short, love.

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“Now the parable is this: The seed is the word of God.”

“He spake by a parable: A sower went out to sow his seed.” Matthew, Mark, and Luke all tell us this parable but only Luke explains that “the parable is this.” In other words, Luke provides us with a deeper understanding of the meaning of this parable and, by extension, all the parables. Parables are stories with meanings, usually of a moral sort. They all work by way of analogy, making a likeness between one thing and another. They only work because we sense or grasp the analogy and its application to our lives.

But there is a paradox about the parables, it seems to me. Far from being easy and self-evident, they require considerable reflection and even explanation. We don’t always get the message. This parable reveals wonderfully that paradox in the realization that something is being made known that not all will understand. “Unto you it is given to know the mysteries of the kingdom of God,” Jesus says to the disciples (literally, the learners) only to go on to say “but to others in parables; that seeing they might not see, and hearing they might not understand,” a point which both Matthew and Mark also make. In Matthew’s case, it refers to a passage from Isaiah about hearing and not understanding because “this people’s heart has grown dull,” “their ears heavy of hearing,” and “their eyes closed.” But only Luke gives this fuller explanation of the parable, making explicit what we might say is at least implicit in the other Gospels.

It is his directness of expression that is noteworthy. It conveys the idea that perhaps in the explanation of the parable we just might hear and understand rather than be left in our ignorance and indifference. In other words, this parable in Luke’s telling suggests a kind of necessary interchange between story and meaning, between parable and instruction. That is the challenge to us. It speaks to our desire to learn which Luke here somehow wants to encourage and promote. Those that “are the good ground” as Luke alone explains “are they which in an honest and good heart, having heard the word, keep it, and bring forth fruit with patience.”

While his treatment of the parable of the sower and the seed has its parallels with Matthew and Mark, the emphasis is significantly different. It emphasises explicitly the meaning of the seed. Matthew later explains that the seed is “the Son of Man.” Luke here says “the seed is the word of God” and further provides a fuller explanation of the analogy between ground and soul: “they which in an honest and good heart”.

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“They brought him to Jerusalem, to present him to the Lord”

It is a double-barrelled feast; a feast at once of Christ and of Mary. All the festivals of Mary are tagged to the feasts of Christ, but here uniquely they are together in one. This is signaled explicitly in the Luke’s first sentence of this evening’s Gospel reading in the words “purification” and “presentation”. A most intriguing scene, it is also rather complex. The celebration itself is more familiarly called Candlemas, acknowledging the words of the aged Simeon who sees in the infant Christ the fulfillment of Isaiah’s prophecy about Israel’s vocation to be “a light to lighten the Gentiles and the glory of thy people Israel.” Few passages concentrate so wonderfully the interdependence, connection, and difference between Judaism and Christianity in the interweaving of the particular and the universal.

Candlemas marks the transition from the light of Christmas to the life of Easter. It reminds us that the twin centers of the Christian contemplation are Bethlehem and Jerusalem, each bound up in the other, each incomprehensible without the other. Once again we are presented with something very different from a linear narrative. Instead, the focus is doctrinal. With Candlemas, we learn with Mary about the deeper and truer significance of her holy child. Throughout the Christmas and Epiphany mysteries, Mary has been very much in the picture both in the paradox of virgin and mother and in the activity of “pondering in her heart all the things that are said” about the child Christ.

Here on the fortieth day after Christ’s birth and in accord with the cultural and religious custom of Israel, she and Joseph are in Jerusalem “to do for him after the custom of the law” – honouring God for the gift of the first-born male. It is also “when the days of her purification, according to the law of Moses, were accomplished” – forty days after childbirth. This has its later expression in the little service “commonly called The Churching of Women,” a service of “Thanksgiving After Child-Birth” in the Prayer Book (pp.573-575), a service that also acknowledges the frequent loss of children in childbirth. These are very real human realities and experiences. Both presentation and purification are in keeping with the customs and practices of Israel and yet both presentation and purification open us out to something universal and for all.

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“Go ye also into the vineyard”

In the western imagination, perhaps nothing speaks more profoundly to the idea of civilisation and culture than vineyards. In a way, they epitomise our humanity’s proper relationship to nature and to the theme of cultivation and learning. Scripturally speaking vineyards, too, are an important image about our relationship with God.

The older classical and catholic patterns of reading the Scriptures in the course of the year are intentionally instructive. With the older “Gesima” Sundays, there is a turn towards the human soul. They mark the beginnings of a kind of inwardness that has very much to do with the classical traditions of moral philosophy. The “Gesima” Sundays provide a catechism, an instruction, about the virtues. The virtues are the qualities of excellence belonging to the ancient Greek and Roman understanding of the good of human personality but which undergo a kind of sea-change, transformed by the three Christian ‘graces’ of faith, hope and love.

In the imagery of the “Gesima” Sundays, the Gospel readings from Matthew and Luke locate our humanity first, in a vineyard, secondly, on the ground, and thirdly, on the road to Jerusalem. Viewed in conjunction with the Epistle readings from 1st and 2nd Corinthians, they comprise a short treatise on the virtues of temperance and justice today in the Epistle and Gospel respectively, the virtues of courage and prudence on Sexagesima Sunday, and through the Epistle and Gospel of Quinquagesima Sunday, the realisation of their transformation into forms of love through the theological virtues of “faith, hope, and charity” or love which is the basis of the Christian pilgrimage of life concentrated for us in the season of Lent.

The Latin terms Septuagesima, Sexagesima and Quinquagesima are, I suppose, a bit intimidating and a bit of a mouthful, but they are easily explained. These three Sundays orient us towards Easter, marking the week of the seventieth day, the sixtieth day, and fiftieth day before Easter, for which the Quadragesima, meaning the forty days of Lent, prepare us. The terms reflect in part some of the history of the development of the forty days of Lent in terms of the number of days allowed in each week as a break from the rigour of the Lenten fast. They are simply the three pre-Lenten Sundays which prepare us inwardly for the Lenten pilgrimage by recalling us to the virtues as the active principles that belong to the Christian journey of faith. Critical to this instruction is the recognition that by themselves, as Augustine memorably put it, the virtues are but splendid vices, meaning that the journey of the soul to God cannot be undertaken simply by us alone but only by way of Christ in us; in short, by grace perfecting nature, by the virtues transformed into the forms of love. The point is that something is required of us; we are not simply passive beings, mere automatons, if you will.

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