Category: Sermons

Ephphatha, that is, Be opened.

It is an Aramaic word translated by Mark into Greek and by extension for us into English, all the while keeping before our hearts and minds the original word, Ephphatha. Aramaic was probably the language which Jesus himself spoke. The Christian Scriptures as a result retain a handful of Aramaicisms.

The story in which it occurs is unique to Mark, though the Greek word translated into English as “Be opened” is the same word used by the other Evangelists, especially by Luke in the Resurrection accounts about how Jesus opened the minds and opened the understanding of the Scriptures to the disciples. And so too something is being opened to us.

Guarda è escolta. Look and listen, Beatrice tells the pilgrim Dante in the poet’s great poem, the Purgatorio of the Divine Comedy. Look and listen to what? The pageant of Revelation in a sacramental form. It is not too much to say, perhaps, that Mark’s story here is the scriptural fons et origo of such imagery. For here is a story which speaks directly to the meaning of the Scriptures and in a way that is inescapably sacramental. In other words, we are being reminded of an essential feature of our own Catholic and Reformed Christian tradition, namely, the interplay between Word and Sacrament, the Word audible and the Word visible.

There is a kind of wonder in encountering this story in the midst of the Trinity season. It is one of the few Gospels from St. Mark in the classical eucharistic lectionary during the Trinity season; there are only three Gospel passages from Mark out of twenty-four or twenty-six Sundays. It speaks, I think, wonderfully and directly to our current confusions and uncertainties which are really about a kind of closing of our hearts and minds. “Ears have they and hear not; eyes have they and yet they see not.” Here we are being opened. Opened to what? What is it that we do not hear and see? What is it to which we are closed in our hearts and minds? To the presence and truth of God in our lives. We are closed to the very principle of all life, God. Here we have a powerful story about what God seeks and wants for us: our being opened to his transforming grace in our lives.

Here is a story, too, which reminds us of both the power and the limitations of language. You might say that the power and the truth of language actually is found in our recognition of its limits. Such is the meaning and nature of translation. Translation opens us out to the Word behind the words, if you will. It is an important feature of Judaism and Christianity that there can be and must be translation. And yet that doesn’t excuse us from appreciating and even learning other languages, even ancient languages. It means, however, that truth is not the sole property of any one language.

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“How can any one satisfy these men with bread here in the wilderness?”

It is a good question and one which haunts our age of extreme affluence, on the one hand, and extreme poverty, on the other hand, an age of extremes despite the claims to the reduction of universal poverty overall which may indeed be true but tell that to those in radical need! But the Gospel speaks to another kind of poverty which underlies each and every other form of poverty. It is spiritual poverty, the poverty that belongs to our neglect of God and as a consequence to what God constantly provides for us.

In a way, the Gospel presents to us a fairly common biblical theme, the idea of God feeding his people in the wilderness journey. What is that journey? It is about our life to God and with God in the learning about the will and purpose of our life with God. This Gospel story explicitly recalls the provisions which God makes for his people in the wilderness of Sinai. Tough lessons actually. There is a certain reluctance among the children of the Hebrews to accept the discipline, the learning. The lessons are more intellectual and spiritual, we might say, than simply material.

And therein lies the difficulty. It is the constant temptation to measure the reality of God by way of our immediate material concerns. It is not that they don’t matter; they do. It is just that they are subordinate and depend upon something far more radical. The physical and material world is not nothing but neither is it everything, a point which the teaching of the Law of Moses makes clear as does the Gospel of the Resurrection. It is in the light of those ideas that we best make sense of this Gospel pericope. It recalls Deuteronomy’s claim that “man cannot live by bread alone but by every word which proceeds out of the mouth of God.” That does not deny the need for bread – for food – but it conditions that need by placing it squarely within the providence of God revealed in the Word of God as Law. There can be no bread without the Word of God in creation.

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“Love your enemies”

It remains to be seen for whom this shall be harder, for Silas, for you, for the grandparents, or even a great grandmother? It is, after all, all theology, as it must be. At least there is a party after!

“Love your enemies.” Is this one of the so-called values of the so-called West? If so then hardly one which we live up to in a world of ‘them’ and ‘us’, whoever ‘them’ and ‘us’ are. A hard saying, and yet one which articulates with remarkable directness and clarity an insight fundamental to the various traditions of philosophical religion. It speaks profoundly to our common humanity, to what transcends the tribalisms of culture, nation, family and religion and to the problems of identity and belonging that divide us into ‘them’ and ‘us’. A hard saying but no less true for being hard. Hard sayings are de rigueur.

The hard sayings of Jesus challenge us about belief as distinct from belonging. “I am the bread which came down from heaven”, Jesus said but the response? “This is a hard saying; who can listen to it?”, they said. The consequence was that “after this many of his disciples drew back and no longer went about with him.” Enmity and division where truth and unity are sought. Yet, “love your enemies”!

Hard sayings trouble us. But they belong to the truth of our humanity. “Ye must be born again”, Jesus tells Nicodemus in the great gospel for Trinity Sunday. “How can these things be?” Nicodemus asks. Is not birth hard enough on its own? But to be born again? “How can a man be born again when he is old? Can he enter the second time into his mother’s womb?” Nicodemus takes the statement literally to which Jesus responds by explaining the difference between flesh and spirit and their relationship. “Ye must be born again” means something of another order just as the wind blows where it wills and you cannot tell “whence it cometh and wither it goeth; so is everyone born of the Spirit.” This, it seems, is the hard saying. “How can these things be?”

And so for Silas Barry King today. He is born again. Born into the mystery of God with us. And such a rebirth, such a new birth, is of another order and one which transcends all of the divisions and enmities of our world and day. “Love your enemies” is the Scriptural phrase which captures the great and powerful logic of reconciliation and unity that belongs to philosophical religion. It means an entirely different outlook, an entirely different way of thinking. It has entirely to do with our incorporation into the mystery of God. It means being born upward into what has come down to us. Such are the motions of grace about the heavenly things that have been told to us. “No one has ascended up to heaven, but he that came down from heaven, even the Son of man, who is in heaven,” as Jesus patiently but firmly explains to Nicodemus.

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“Love your enemies”

“Love your enemies”, Jesus says, not “Don’t worry, you don’t have any enemies”. For he knows only too well about our enmities and hatreds. Yet, “love your enemies”, he says. How absolutely impossible! How utterly improbable!

Why, we have the hardest time imaginable loving the more obvious and, dare one say, more ordinary objects of love: our friends and family, our country and world, our God and Saviour. How can it be that we should be commanded to love those that have set their faces, even their hearts, and souls and bodies against us? Yet, the demands of the Gospel are precisely impossible because our ordinary loves are equally impossible. They are all the places of our enmity, too.

Our enemies, after all, are rarely far-off and faceless. They are frequently only too close at hand. Their faces are only too often mirrored by our own. It is we who are at enmity with ourselves, with one another and with God. It is no good pretending that our hearts are not touched by such enmities when our hearts are precisely the places of enmity. But it is precisely in the face of these enmities – these animosities in the soul – that we are bidden, indeed, commanded to love.

The demands of the Gospel are just so radical because they take us to the root of all love without which we cannot love. They take us to the root from which we must learn to love. And that is why Jesus can demand such impossibly high standards of perfection for our lives – because he takes us to the root of all love which must blossom into the perfection of fruitfulness in our lives.

The command to love our enemies is not just an heightened expectation, something more added on, an optional extra, as it were. To the contrary, it belongs to love’s very nature. It is where love most shows itself to be love; where love shows itself to be most free; where love shows itself to be most perfect and complete. For as the Epistle reminds us, “love your enemies” takes us to the Cross as the place of death and life; “love your enemies” recalls us to our baptism by which we are identified with Christ in his Cross-given grace for us. This radical love is nothing less than Christ’s love in us. What is impossible for us on our own account is made possible in us. “Likewise reckon ye also yourselves to be dead indeed unto sin, but alive unto God through Jesus Christ our Lord.”

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“Master, we have toiled all the night, and have taken nothing;
nevertheless, at thy word I will let down the net”

Nada, nothing, nichts rien. A powerful word, it captures something of the dilemma of modernity – the sense of nothingness, of emptiness. Is “at thy word” the counter? Or does it reveal a deeper problem? Does “at thy word” mean that suddenly we will have everything? Yes and no. The danger lies in what we think “at thy word” means.

The danger is in our thinking. If “at thy word” means a logic by which we acquire things then reason has become something merely instrumental, a means to an end. But what kind of end? An end where everything is turned into things. We not only get things – a full net of things – but our thinking turns us into things. And this is a greater nothingness, our greater nothingness, the loss of our humanity. It is a betrayal of the deeper kind of thinking that this Gospel along with today’s Epistle presents to us. If we think “at thy word” means getting things then we have missed Peter’s command to “sanctify Christ as Lord in your hearts”.

In the Christian understanding, Christ is the Logos, the Word and Son of the Father. But as Word, he is not the means to our domination and manipulation of the world. That is exactly our contemporary problem. It is a problem about how we think about thinking. If we turn reason into a tool, then we become things at the expense of our humanity. We dismiss and ignore all the qualities of life signalled in the Epistle that are true blessings, blessings rooted in the compassion of Christ, the truth of God who is the author and meaning of all life. Life is more than things. It is our evil to turn reason into a machine-making thing.

The point of the Gospel is that Christ wants more for us than a net full of things. Ultimately, he has come that we “might have life and have it more abundantly.” That abundance of life does not mean an abundance of things. It has entirely to do with the quality of our life with one another that turns upon our life with God in Christ. It has entirely to do with the power of the Good alive and at work in us. It is altogether about a meaningful life, a life lived to and for God and with God.

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“Can the blind lead the blind? Shall they not both fall into the ditch?”

It is a familiar image and one which appears in the New Testament both in Luke and Matthew; in Luke in the form of a question and in Matthew in the form of a statement. The context of Matthew’s use of the image is the tension between Jesus and the Pharisees. His statement is an indictment about leadership which is also the common way in which this image is understood. We use it to talk about a lack or a problem about leadership. That implies that reason and understanding are important qualities when it comes to political life and to the life of institutions.

Luke’s interrogative use of the image is more intriguing since it is set in the context of mercy and forgiveness and serves as the entry point to the problem of hypocrisy, the problem of judgement. In a way, as his interrogative approach suggests, the image is being applied to all of us – to our judgments that stand over and against others and reveal our blindness. For Luke, the blind leading the blind is not simply about others; it is about us.

The idea and image are not limited to the Christian Scriptures. It is an important aspect of Buddhism in its reaction against and rejection of Sanatana Dharma, Hinduism. The Buddha comes to reject the leaders and teachers of Hinduism directly. The Canki Sutta, recalling, it is claimed, Buddha’s rejection puts it this way. “It is like a line of blind men, each holding one to the preceding one; the first one does not see, the middle one also does not see; the last one does not see. Thus, it seems to me that the state of the Brahmans is like that of a line of blind men.” It is a devastating critique of the Brahmin class, the teaching class of Hindu religious philosophy which is found in the Pali Canon, in a text set down before the time of Christ but sometime after the actual life of Siddhartha Gautama.

And yet, within Hinduism itself there was, far earlier, its own self-critique found in the Upanishads which speaks about the blindness of those who claim to know. “Fools, dwelling in darkness, wiser in their own conceits, and puffed up with vain knowledge, go round and round, staggering to and fro, like blind men led by the blind.”

The idea and image receives its most moving visual expression in Pieter Brueghel the Elder’s famous and unique 1568 painting of The Parable of the Blind leading the Blind. (more…)

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Rejoice with me.

“I must have always wanted to rejoice”, Hagar Shipley Currie (no relation), a ninety year old lady says in Margaret Laurence’s Canadian classic novel, The Stone Angel. She is dying and yet in the days and weeks leading to her death, she is beginning to come to a better understanding of who she truly is. It is a kind of confessional moment, a conversion of the understanding. “Pride was my wilderness”, she realizes. She has recognized that she has been like the literal stone angel, a monument erected in memory of her mother but as an expression of the pride of her father in the cemetery in fictional Manawaka, Manitoba. The angel is literally doubly blind; as stone it literally cannot see and its eyes as carved do not even convey the illusion of sight.

Hagar comes to realize that she, too, has been doubly blind; blind about herself and about the needs of others. She was lost in the wilderness of pride but now is found. The catalyst for this self-discovery was the verse of the familiar hymn, All People That on Earth Do Dwell, Rev’d William Kethe’s sixteenth century paraphrase of Psalm 100. The melody and words were composed and written within ten years of each other. The tune, usually attributed to the French composer Louis Bourgeois, first appears in the 1551 edition of the Genevan Psalter; the words may have been composed by Kethe, himself a Scot, while in exile in Europe at the same time. The first verse provides the moment of self-understanding for Hagar.

All people that on earth do dwell,
Sing to the Lord with cheerful voice;
Him gladly serve, his praise forth tell,
Come ye before him, and rejoice.

The fifteenth chapter of St. Luke’s Gospel tells three interrelated parables, the parable of the lost sheep, the lost coin, which we heard this morning and the lost or prodigal son.^[1] In each case, the parables end on the strong note of rejoicing, signifying the greater nature of the return to wholeness and completeness, to family and community, to self and God. What makes the return possible is the point presented in the first two parables where what is lost is found because, and only because, of the movement of God towards us imaged in terms of the shepherd leaving the ninety and nine sheep and seeking out the one lost sheep and the woman seeking diligently for the one lost coin. We are the one lost sheep and the one lost coin. The principle of return is emphatically and completely God. Neither the sheep nor the coin have any power of movement in and of themselves.

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“Hereby we know that he abideth in us, by the Spirit which he hath given us”

We have gone, it seems, from the heights of blessedness in the vision of the Triune glory of God on Trinity Sunday to the ground of human existence in all of its confusions and uncertainties both last Sunday and again today.

Trinity Sunday presents the cosmic vision of the whole of creation in its praise of the Triune God, the One-in-Three who is worthy “to receive glory and honour and power; /For thou hast created all things, /And for thy pleasure they are, and were created.” All created things find the truth of their being in the praise of the Trinity. One way to that vision is through the gathering up of the whole pageant of Revelation signaled in the four and twenty elders representative of the books of the Old Testament and the four living creatures signifying the Gospels of the New Testament. It is a remarkable image and one which requires ultimately a change in our thinking, a constant metanoia, we might say; in short, a deeper awareness of heart and mind.

“How can this be?” Nicodemus asked Jesus, only to be told that he needed to think in a new way, not by way of ratio but of intellectus, meaning not in a narrow cause and effect kind of reasoning but in a larger more comprehensive kind of thinking which draws the knower and the known together into one. “Ye must be born again,” is what Jesus had said to him. It means from above and so our thinking must be analogical, a thinking upward towards the goodness and into the oneness of God. But to think upwards on our part is only possible because of the downward movement of God himself. “No man hath ascended up into heaven but he that came down from heaven.” In the lifting up of the one who came down are found all the possibilities and the actualities of eternal life for us.

Thus the Trinity Sunday readings already embrace the downward movement towards our daily lives on the ground where we are placed. The way up is the same as the way down, as I and Evan and others were regularly reminded at the Colloquium and Conference which I attended last week. The phrase is from Heraclitus.

Last week we argued that we are Lazarus, both as lying on the ground “desiring to be fed with the crumbs which fall from the masters’ table” and raised up into the bosom of Abraham, for if we do not see ourselves in Lazarus then we will be like the Rich Man, ultimately lost and in torments. We noted as well the parallel to the other Lazarus, the brother of Martha and Mary, dead and buried but raised up by his friend Jesus. “Lazarus, come out.” May we not say that is the same as “Ye must be born again”? Are these things, too, not the same as the invitation in today’s Gospel, “Come for all things are now ready?”

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“There was a certain beggar named Lazarus”

Lazarus ‘R Us. We are Lazarus. There are two people named Lazarus in the Gospels. The one is the blessed subject of a parable told by Jesus in Luke’s Gospel, the story we heard today. The other is the blessed object of a miracle done by Jesus in John’s Gospel. There is much that is similar about them.

But there is this difference. The one lays on the ground – a beggar in the dirt, unnoticed, at the gate of the rich man – and then dies. The other dies and then is buried in the ground – hidden in the grave for four days. But, then, both are raised up – the one into the bosom of Abraham, the other into the company of his family and friends, among whom is Jesus himself.

What does it all come down to? Simply this. The love of God compels us to love one another where we are – on the ground and even out of the ground, as it were. This is not a may-be but a must-be for our salvation and more generally for the health of our communities and cultures. We are commanded and compelled to love out of the vision of love which has been shown to us. Such was Trinity Sunday when we beheld the strong and defining love of God. “Behold a door was opened in heaven.” “Batter my heart three-personed God,” as John Donne puts it, for only that strong love can move us to God and to him in one another.

When we ignore the stranger in our midst or neglect the beggar at our door, then we deny the God who became poor for our sakes, who came into our midst, and who knocks at the door of our hearts. When we are consumed by envy at the good fortune of others, when we are filled with hatred and wrath for the hurts and injuries inflicted upon us, whether real or imagined, when we are complacent and indifferent to the sufferings of others, then we place ourselves very far from God and do great harm to others as well as to ourselves.

To put it in terms of the parable, there is a great gulf fixed between us and God when we ignore the poor man at our gate, the neighbour close at hand, and our loved ones all around. Then we place ourselves in torment, the torment of our self-willed distance from God. Then we are pretty far gone – like Lazarus in the ground four days, “behold, he stinketh”, says Martha, and so do we in the sins of our indifference and selfishness. But, “Lazarus, come out”, Jesus says.

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