Category: Sermons

“No-one can say JESUS IS LORD but by the Holy Spirit”

There is something quite wonderful and compelling about this morning’s readings as difficult and challenging as they may be. They remind us in no uncertain terms of the creedal form of reading the Scriptures, reading the Scriptures through the Creeds. Here we are in the midst of our summer sojournings in the land of the Trinity, as it were, and yet here is something which recalls us at once to the Advent of Christ and to the Passion of Christ; in short, to the creedal principles of our Christian lives. Paul is emphatic. “No one can say JESUS IS LORD, but by the Holy Spirit.” The capitalisation is a form of emphasis.

It is one of the earliest creedal statements from within the Scriptures themselves and which goes to the question of being able to say what is the Faith. It is a Trinitarian statement really, the nucleus of what we proclaim more fully in the great Catholic Creeds of the Church which come out of the Scriptures, out of such words as these, and which return us to the Scriptures within a pattern of understanding.

“Concerning spiritual gifts … I would not have you ignorant,” says St. Paul. “Now there are diversities of gifts…” and he goes on to list them. They are gifts which arise out of this fundamental proclamation, out of what we have been given to say about God by God himself. “No one can say JESUS IS LORD but by the Holy Spirit.”

The diversity of gifts belongs to our life with God in the communion of God, the Trinity. The different gifts are about his grace in our lives. To esteem them is to honour him. This is something communicated to us by the grace of God with us, Jesus Christ, God’s Word and Son. To confess Jesus as Lord acknowledges him as “I am who I am,” as God with us, God in the very flesh of our humanity, God made man. Only so can he be Lord. In Jesus the Old Testament mystery of God’s name, “I am who I am,” is opened to view, explored and explicated in terms of the spiritual relation of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost. God’s relation to us radically depends upon his self-relation, upon the communion of God with God in God, the communion of the Trinity. Such is the heart of the Christian religion and the burden of our proclamation in which we are privileged to participate. For if we cannot proclaim with clarity the God of our salvation, then we cannot participate with charity in the divine life opened to us through Christ’s sacrifice.

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“Brethren, I would not that ye should be ignorant”

The readings for the Ninth Sunday after Trinity are the least favourite for preachers, it seems, particularly the Gospel, and, perhaps, the least favourite of readings, too, for you. And yet, these readings from 1^st Corinthians and Luke 16 belong precisely to the pattern of themes of the Trinity Season with its emphasis upon the relation between the theoretical and the practical, between our thinking and our doing, wonderfully captured in the Collect. They provide us with a necessary challenge and as Paul suggests it has to do with our ignorance.

Ignorant of what? Ignorant of what belongs to the nature of our identity in Christ. But, we are, I am afraid, only too ignorant. And because of our ignorance, we are easily “overthrown in the wilderness” of our lives, both individually and corporately. The good news is that even the things of our ignorance can be used to bring us to understanding, to the understanding of the good and to the doing of all “such things as be rightful”, as the Collect puts it.

In the witness of the Scriptures, we have the stories of the ignorance of our humanity written out for us to read just so that we will not be ignorant. “These things”, Paul tells us in First Corinthians, a people remarkable for their willful ignorance, “were our examples”. What things? The things belonging to our identity in the body of Christ which we ignore and deny. But in making such things known to us, we may learn “not to lust after evil things, as they also lusted” and to avoid idolatry. He has in mind the stories of Israel’s wandering in the wilderness; in particular, the stories of disbelief and complaint on the part of Israel towards Moses and more significantly, towards God.

Paul is doing two things here. First, he is saying that these formative stories of the people of Israel are things from which we can learn. They are “our examples”. Secondly, he is saying something even more significant. He is saying that we are in these stories. The Old Testament stories, he is saying, actually belong to the story of our life in Christ. One of the forms of our ignorance is that we do not or cannot think this but it is a profoundly Christian point-of-view. Paul sees in the wilderness journeys of the ancient people of Israel something which anticipates and participates in the definitive journey of human redemption signaled and accomplished in the passion of Christ.

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“You have received a spirit of sonship, in which we cry aloud, Abba, Father”

“All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well”, Dame Julian of Norwich, the famous mystic and theologian said in the 14^th century. Hardly a time one might think of as being well and good. It was a time when northern Europe was convulsed by plagues and death was rampant and regnant. Is her famous saying simply a kind of desperate optimism? Or is it based upon a deeper understanding of the world and our humanity in relation to God?

I think it is the latter. It is a profound insight into the idea of Divine Providence which always sees the goodness of God at work in everything. It belongs to the radical idea of God himself. Perhaps, therein lies our modern dilemma. We have lost the confidence in thinking God and his ruling providence. We are too much enamoured of our own desires and fantasies in the projections of our will and power upon the world and upon ourselves. Therein lies the way to misery because we have forgotten God and find ourselves in what Amin Maalouf rightly calls a “disordered world”.

This morning’s readings help us to think about Divine Providence in challenging ways. The passage from Paul’s letter to the Romans locates our Christian identity in Christ’s sonship and makes it clear that our being “children of God” requires the idea of suffering with God, suffering with Christ. Somehow even suffering becomes something good and not just an evil. We are the “children of God” who are the “heirs of God and fellow-heirs with Christ”, Paul says, “if so be that we suffer with him” for only so can it be “that we may also be glorified with him”. Powerful words that counter the prevailing assumptions about suffering and death in our world and day. They are words, too, that are based upon the idea of God and God’s Providence as being the real truth of human experience.

But how can we think this? Only because of the witness of the Scriptures to the story of Jesus Christ. Notice that what Paul is saying goes beyond the simple oppositions of flesh and spirit. Led by the Spirit of God, the Spirit of the Father and the Son, we learn about our essential sonship precisely through what happens in the world of human experience. We are not in flight from the world and the flesh as if it were something evil. That would be a kind of Gnosticism. No. What changes is how we see ourselves in the world. We are, Paul is saying, to know ourselves in Christ and he in us. That changes how we experience the world and ourselves. It makes it possible to live in a principled way in a fallen and dismal world and even in a fallible church where councils have and may err, particularly when the forms of our spiritual understanding and identity are forgotten or compromised.

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“I have compassion on the multitude”

Compassion. It is a rich and wonderful word and one which is frequently bandied about in the therapeutic culture of our world and day. What does it mean? Literally, it is about suffering with others or at least being able to identify with the sufferings of others. The word is used a number of times in the Gospels where it takes on a much more radical meaning than its use in our contemporary culture. In the Gospels the word is used entirely with respect to human redemption. As such it extends beyond any worldly sense of sentimental kindness. It speaks to the radical healing and restoration of our wounded and broken humanity. It is really about “the quality of mercy which is not strained”, as Portia puts it in Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice. In other words, it is not limited or constrained by the finite world of our everyday experiences, our experience of suffering and pain. No. This mercy seasons or perfects human justice and human care. How? Because compassion in the Christian perspective cannot be understood apart from the passion of Christ.

Compassion belongs to the idea of redemptive suffering. What is that about? Simply this. God and God alone can bring good out of evil, out of our evil. That, too, by the way, is why Jesus can command us to love our enemies as we heard last week. Compassion belongs to the radical goodness of God which is greater than all and every evil. To let that idea take a hold of our minds and souls changes us and allows us to face the hard and harsh realities of a world of suffering, both our own and that of others.

Christ is said to “have compassion” or says himself that “I have compassion” a number of times in the Gospels, sometimes in relation to the healing of infirmities or illnesses, sometimes in relation to the raising of the dead, as in the story of the widow of Nain where Christ’s compassion upon seeing her leads to the restoration of her only son, and sometimes in relation to our humanity collectively speaking as in the stories of the feeding of the multitudes in the wilderness. Yet, most importantly, the word is used to establish an ethic of compassion for us in the powerful parable of the Good Samaritan.

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“Now if we died with Christ, we believe that we shall also live with him”

Friends and enemies. Life and death. Peter and Paul. There is richness to our reflections this morning. The Sixth Sunday after Trinity falls this year within the Octave of the great feast of St. Peter and St. Paul, a feast which reminds us ever so strongly of the apostolical and catholic character of the Christian church, her very being, we might say. And yet we seem to confront a series of opposites. There could be, it seems, no greater contrast than between Peter and Paul, the one a poor fisherman, the other, a proud scholar. And yet, as Augustine argues, “they were as one”. What unites them? Christ Jesus. What does that mean? It means that Christ Jesus has overcome all the oppositions, enmities and animosities that are present in the world and in our souls. Such is the strong and rather special teaching of the Gospel. “Love your enemies”, Jesus says, commanding us to do what seems to be utterly impossible especially in a world increasingly defined by strife and tension, uncertainty and conflict, a world of many, many hates. How can we love our enemies? Because Christ loves us.

The truth and unity of the church is found in the confession of Christ and that makes all the difference. “No one can say, Jesus is Lord, except by the Holy Spirit”, Paul will say, even as Peter famously confesses to Jesus, “Thou art the Christ, the son of the living God”. “Flesh and blood”, Jesus will say, “has not revealed this to you but my Father who is in heaven”. One of the most dominant metaphors for God in the Old Testament is God as the Rock, the rock which like a father has begotten you, the rock which like a mother has brought you to birth, as the Song of Moses in Deuteronomy puts it. “That rock was Christ”, Paul proclaims, having in mind the wilderness journey of Israel and the stricken rock out of which comes life-giving water. The image is at once static and solid and dynamic and life-giving. Christ, too, is the stricken rock out of whose wounded side water and blood pour forth, the symbols of the sacraments by which we live from him who died and lived again. Jesus will say to Simon Peter, “you are the rock upon which I shall build my church”.

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“Master we have toiled all the night, and have taken nothing”

Nada, nothing, nihil, ouden. Simon Peter’s word captures the empty nothingness of our culture and our church. Nihilism is the default position of both. We have toiled or worked, everyone thinks and says. But to what end? Nothing. What does that mean? It means the discovery that our labours, our work, if measured in worldly, practical and economic terms, and in social and political terms, have really all come to nothing. There is only disappointment and uncertainty, fear and anxiety and a whole lot of anger and despair. Just consider the remarkable state of affairs politically, socially, and, economically, in England and the United States. Ask yourself what that is all about. Recognize that while there are many, many factors, much of the phenomenon in England about the European Union and in America about the presidential election is the profound disconnect between a great number of people and their ruling elites. I think that is a fairly obvious and rather banal observation, hardly controversial.

Take it one step further and ask why. The answer, equally obvious, is that there is an obscene concentration of wealth in the hands of a very few and no hope whatsoever especially for a younger generation or for anyone else for that matter. And no, they are not simply spoiled millennials. The folly of the entitlement culture is deeply entrenched and runs across generational lines whether it is about education or health care, to name but two concerns. The problem is a world caught between the largely unregulated market economy of neoliberal capitalism, on the one hand, and the leviathan of the modern market state, on the other hand. Either in collusion or in competition, they contribute to a world of vast inequalities of wealth and a denigration of human labour; in short, to a profound unease. We have begun, it seems, the summer of our discontent.

We face a world where humans increasingly do not matter and the more that people invest themselves in technology as the solution the more alienated and empty and inhuman our world becomes. There is literally nothing to live for in the dystopia that we have created and in which we are all implicated.

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“What went ye out for to see?”

He catches our attention. We are even drawn to him, attracted by something strange and yet compelling. “What went ye out for to see?” Jesus asks, highlighting the strange and yet compelling character of John the Baptist whose nativity we celebrate in the week of the summer solstice, the week of the longest day of nature’s year. His feast prepares us for our being with the one who comes to be with us everlastingly.

The figure of John the Baptist frames our summer sojourning; his nativity marks the beginning of summer, and his death, “The Beheading of John the Baptist”, coming at the end of August, marks the end of summer, at least in Maritime terms!

Birth and death. Summer and winter. This summer’s birth points us to the winter’s birth of Christ, whose greater nativity signals all the summer of our lives in the grace of God towards us. That is the point of John the Baptist. He points not to himself but to Christ. The Nativity of John the Baptist signals the preparations which God makes for his coming into our midst as the Incarnate Lord in the Nativity of Jesus Christ.

But beyond the reminder of God’s coming to us, there is the purpose of his coming in us – the motions of his grace taking shape in our lives. From that standpoint, the strange and compelling message of John the Baptist is constant and necessary; he points us to Christ, yes, but as well to Christ in us.

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

It is a powerful and a familiar image, I think, that speaks rather profoundly to our current distresses within and without the institutional church, distresses which are really about our collective blindness about what it means to be the church as much as anything else.

The confessing church is, I think, what we are called to be regardless of the circumstances of each and every age and culture. What undermines our confidence in the Faith, however, is the overwhelming desire to accommodate the faith and the church to the prevailing winds of the contemporary culture. This means to forget that we have a teaching and a way of thinking and being that can speak to our world and day but not if we are taken captive to the underlying assumptions belonging to its agendas. It is after all a post-Christian and post-secular age. The institutional church is, I fear, completely compromised. For Anglicans in Canada, it seems, going along with majority opinion in the secular culture on the questions of the day appears to be the main concern and probably so for most of you.

I am not much interested in mere morality. That can only lead to the kind of dogmatic judgmentalism and hypocrisy so clearly indicated in today’s Gospel. On all of the moral questions of our day, the greater question is about the doctrine of God as grounded in the doctrine of revelation. This is always the question to some extent. But the church is in ruins because the scriptures have been reduced to a heap of broken images. It is an image from T.S. Eliot’s poem, The Waste Land.

The first section of his poem is entitled, The Burial of the Dead, which intentionally recalls the Order for the Burial of the Dead in the classical Book(s) of Common Prayer. So, too, today’s epistle reading is familiar as being one of the traditional readings in the Burial Office.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

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