Category: Sermons

This is the first of three addresses that Fr. David Curry presented at the 2016 Lenten Quiet Day on 12 March 2016. The second is posted here and the third here. Audio files will be posted in the next day or two.

Into the Hands of the Father
The Prodigal Son: Rembrandt’s Painting and Henri Nouwen’s Reflections
Lenten Quiet Day sponsored by the PBSC NS/PEI
Saturday, March 12^th, 2016
(Fr. David Curry)

Address # 1

Maggie Ferguson’s article “How to Have a Good Death” in the Economist journal Intelligent Life canvasses the various aspects of contemporary culture about approaches to death and dying. Among those is a story told by Jane Millard, a canon in the Church of Scotland, about a woman who was dying.

She was very afraid of dying. “I don’t want to die. Him upstairs will get a big stick and shout at me, tell me to go to hell. I’m frightened. I don’t want to be shouted at.”
And I hugged her, bereft of anything theological to say that sounded real, and she snuggled in.
“Talk to me,” she whimpered.
“There was a man who had two sons…” and I told her the story of the prodigal son and loving father.
“Will you be with me when I die? Be sure and tell me that story”
So I did, about an hour ago, now we are waiting for the undertakers.

Such is the power of the parable of the prodigal son in the Lenten journey of our lives into the hands of the Father. For Lent merely concentrates for us into the span of forty days the whole meaning of the Christian pilgrimage which is about our homecoming, about our being gathered into the hands of the Father. Nowhere is that story better depicted in art, perhaps, than in Rembrandt’s great painting, The Return of the Prodigal Son, the inspiration for Henri Nouwen’s thoughtful and reflective meditation on the parable. The painting hangs in the Hermitage in what was known then and is known now as St. Petersburg having been acquired by Catherine the Great in 1776, some one hundred and eight or nine years after Rembrandt painted what was probably his last painting before his death in 1669.

Rembrandt’s painting captures that intense and intimate moment of the son’s return to his father. It is the homecoming of the son. A powerful moment, it both conceals and reveals the larger story. As found in the 15^th chapter of St. Luke’s Gospel, this parable is the third of three parables that are all about redemption, about being lost and then being found: the parable of the lost sheep, the parable of the lost coin, and the parable of the lost son, the prodigal son. If we were to imagine these parables as being depicted in art, they would form a triptych, such as are found on many altars in Europe; in short, three panels with the two side panels framing the central panel. That central panel, it seems to me, would have to be a depiction of the prodigal son. It is the most intense, the most dynamic and the most compelling of the three parables. The homecoming of the Son to the Father is the very nature of the Christian pilgrimage, the journey of the soul to God, we might say. The wonder of the painting is the miracle of the parable. We have a God and Father to whom we may return. The painting captures the deep compassion of the Father for the wayward son. The truth of our humanity is ultimately to be found in the embrace of the Father’s love, no matter how far and wide we have strayed. Ultimately, we live in the total and unconditional love of the Father.

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“Be it unto me according to thy word”

The Feast of the Annunciation of Mary, more often than not, falls within the Lenten season. This year it coincides with Good Friday which it did as well in 1608 occasioning a marvelous poem by John Donne about that conjunction of themes: Christ’s coming to us through Mary’s great ‘yes’ to God and Christ’s going from us in his death at Calvary, “Th’ Abridgement of Christ’s story, which makes one/(As in plaine Maps, the furthest West is East)/ Of the ‘Angels Ave,’ and Consummatum Est.”

Mary plays an altogether crucial role in the divine project for the renovation of our humanity, wounded and broken by sin, restored and renewed by grace. She is not only the Mother of God, the theotokos, as orthodox Christianity insists, the one through whom the Son of God becomes the Son of Man, she is also the one who “mothers each new grace” in us, as the poet Gerard Manley Hopkins puts it. She holds “high motherhood/towards all our ghostly good/ And plays in grace her part/About man’s beating heart.” Such words speak to our endeavours to ponder the mystery of Christ’s Parable of the Prodigal Son. It is the Story of Homecoming, the homecoming which speaks to all our souls. At the heart of all homecomings is the love of the Father.

Yet, as paradoxical as it might seem, it means to ponder as well the mystery of the Mother of God, the one who embodies the very truth of our humanity considered simply in itself in relation to our life with God. “Behold the handmaid of the Lord,” Mary says. We behold her who says, “Be it unto me according to thy word.”

The Father’s love embraces the returning son of repentance as well, as we shall see, the resentful son of duty. The Father’s love calls them both back to home. Yet, there can be no home without the Mother, too, I would suggest.

The preoccupations about gender have created a whole lot of sturm und drang for contemporary Christianity, especially the way the dignity of our humanity, as understood in the pageant of human redemption, has become dominated by the human rights agenda. Because the parable seems to be about a father and two sons, it might seem that mothers and daughters and women in general are somehow left out of the picture. This misses the point and overburdens the reading of Scripture with a contemporary concern which gets in the way of the profounder meaning and teaching of the parable which speaks intentionally to the whole of our humanity. The parable is not about rights and privileges so much as it is about the deeper justice of God which is love.

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“Lazarus, come out”

Passion Sunday marks the beginning of what I like to call deep Lent in reference to an older term, Passiontide, where already there begins to be a more intense focus on the meaning and purpose of Christ’s Passion. The Cross is veiled in Passiontide. Why? Because we see, as it were, but in “a glass darkly”. We are like the mother of Zebedee’s sons. We think that we know what we want but in truth we don’t. We enter into the Passion of Christ so that we may be called out of our ignorance and folly and into what God seeks for us, the redemption of our humanity in and through the Passion of Christ. Our Lenten meditations this year have been on the Scenes of Bethany, looking at the significance of Bethany in the pageant of Lent and now especially in terms of the Passion of Christ.

We go up to Jerusalem by way of Bethany. Luke names it as the place of departure for Christ’s Palm Sunday entry into Jerusalem and the place of our Lord’s Ascension; the place, in fact, of the comings and goings of our salvation. Bethany presents, as well, the very character of our Christian lives in the forms of loving attention to God’s Word and Son and loving service in the Body of Christ. The work of Martha’s hands finds its true meaning in the collectedness of Mary’s heart.

John tells us that Bethany is the village of Mary and Martha; that Bethany is where Christ raised their brother Lazarus from the dead; and that Bethany is where Mary anointed Christ’s feet with the oil for his burying. The Passion and the Death of Christ, the Resurrection and the Ascension of Christ, and our life together in Christ are purposefully and profoundly signified in the scenes of Bethany. In short, Bethany plays the fugue of our salvation in the interplay of action and contemplation, in the counterpoint of Passion and Resurrection, the cross and the glory.

Bethany, quite simply, is the place of the preparation for the Passion. There we begin to see the point of the Passion. The point is the Resurrection in and through the Passion. The Resurrection is present in the Passion. Easter is not some sort of fairy tale ending to an otherwise tragic story, any more than our spiritual life is merely the icing on the cake of our everyday lives, something nice, perhaps, but not essential, an added dimension, an afterthought, as it were. No. It must be the essence of our lives if it is to be our life at all, the “one thing needful”.

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“Truth, Lord; yet the little dogs eat of the crumbs
which fall from their masters’ table”

What’s this? Have I got the wrong Sunday? Am I having a senior’s moment? Didn’t we have that Gospel story and text two Sundays ago? We did and no, I am not losing it – at least not any more than usual! It’s just that this text also speaks to our readings today. It illumines an interesting sacramental emphasis to the traditional Gospel readings for the Lenten Sundays which culminates on this Sunday at the same time as today’s overtly sacramental Gospel reading catapults us ahead to Maundy Thursday, to the beginning of the Triduum Sacrum, to Christ’s Last Supper. That event anticipates and inaugurates the sacramental life of the Church established through his sacrifice on the Cross.

The Gospel readings for the Lenten Sundays anticipate the concentration of the Lenten journey in the events of Holy Week. There is, too, a sacramental focus to the readings which belongs to the form of our participation in Christ’s sacrifice. “We go up to Jerusalem” sacramentally, it seems to me, journeying in the wilderness and contending against temptation including the temptation to “turn stones into bread,” learning instead to live not “by bread alone but by every word that proceeds out of the mouth of God,” as we heard on The First Sunday in Lent. Yet that is the basis for the sacraments, too. The Word of God made flesh takes bread, gives thanks and breaks it, saying “Take eat; this is my Body.” We are not to tempt God, to put him to the test, but to worship him and serve him. On The Second Sunday in Lent, we learn from the Canaanite woman precisely about the goodness of God in Jesus Christ through her incredible insight into how God provides for us through the struggles of our lives, learning through a kind of humility that even the crumbs which fall from our master’s table are enough to sustain us and to bring healing and salvation to our wounded and broken souls.

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“You have striven with God and with men, and have prevailed”

Words from The Book of Genesis (Gen. 32.28), from the classic story of struggle, Jacob wrestling with an angel, wrestling with God, it seems, and by virtue of prevailing becomes Israel, one who strives with God. It is all about the struggle, the jihad.

The word, jihad, in its proper spiritual sense, is about the struggle of the soul in relation to the will of Allah, the will of God. So, too, for Christians and Jews, there are the struggles of the soul with respect to God and our life with God in prayer and praise, in service and sacrifice. The struggle means acknowledging our own faults and shortcomings, our sins, to be blunt about it, which is only possible through the prior recognition of the goodness of God. The struggle is “to decline from sin and incline to virtue”; the struggle, quite simply, for “holiness” as Paul tells us. We “are called,” he says, “to holiness” which is the quality of God in our very being. It is a constant struggle intensified for us in the disciplines of the Lenten journey. Lent is about embracing the struggle.

But what kind of struggle? Will it be a struggle which diminishes and destroys or the struggle which dignifies and ennobles? In any event, the struggle is defining. It is nothing less than a “striv[ing] with God and with men,” as the Genesis story reminds us. The struggle, the jihad, is altogether defining. It is ultimately about character and virtue.

This is what we see in the story of the Canaanite woman. We see her perseverance. She tenaciously hangs on to what she believes about Jesus. She senses in him the presence of God in whom there is health and salvation. She seeks in him healing and grace for her daughter. She seeks it by the only means we can receive it – through the prayer for mercy and help. This is no weak and wimpy prayer; this is the prayer of a strong woman who, like Jacob become Israel, will not let go. That tenacity of spirit, that persistent willfulness about what is objectively perceived, that willingness to hold on belongs to the truth of Israel but finds its expression here in one who is from outside Israel, a non-Israelite, yet one who strives with God and breaks into the very heart of God in Jesus Christ.

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“For he himself knew what was in man”

Jesus “himself knew what was in man,” John tells us. It is a perplexing and yet an illuminating comment. It comes in John’s Gospel just after the wedding feast at Cana of Galilee, just after the casting out of the money changers in the temple at Jerusalem, just after the prediction of his death and resurrection imaged in terms of the destruction of the temple and its being raised up in three days, just after “many believed in his name when they saw the signs which he did” when he was in Jerusalem at the Passover feast. About those “many [who] believed in his name,” John tells us, “Jesus did not trust himself to them, because he knew all men and needed no one to bear witness of man; for he himself knew what was in man” (John 2. 24,25). Wow.

“He himself knew what was in man.” And what is in us? As the context reveals, what is in us is the spectacle of deceit and distrust. “O put not your trust in princes nor in any child of man; for there is no help in them” (Ps. 146.2), the psalmist observes and reminds us, too, that “vain is the help of man” (Ps.60.11). So what is in us? Not much. Even more, there is nothing. And even more than nothing, there is the will to nothingness in us that is a disillusioning and destructive spirit. There is nothing in and of ourselves but the will to nothingness. It is really nihilism.

This is to speak in a kind of contemporary language, the language of a kind of existentialism, the language of the despair of reason and knowledge, the language of the triumph of the will to power over the will to truth, the language of atheism. But, such a way of speaking has its biblical basis, it seems to me, in the rather dark and bleak readings for The Third Sunday in Lent upon which Jesus’ word from John provides such an important commentary. Jesus “himself knew what was in man;” it is not a pretty picture.

The remarkable epistle reading from Ephesians and remarkably even more disturbing gospel story from St. Luke speak directly to the climate of disillusionment and despair in our contemporary culture, and yet offer the real and true remedy to our fears and worries; in short, they provide the counter to the culture of nihilism. “For ye were sometimes darkness,” as Paul puts it.

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“You have striven with God and with men, and have prevailed”

Words from The Book of Genesis (Gen. 32.28), from the classic story of struggle, Jacob wrestling with an angel, wrestling with God, it seems, and by virtue of prevailing becomes Israel, one who strives with God. It is all about the struggle, the jihad.

The word, jihad, has been largely hi-jacked, if you will pardon the expression, in the contemporary discourse about Islamist terrorism and by the continuing and constant confusions in the Middle East. Yet, in its proper spiritual sense, jihad is about the struggle of the soul in relation to the will of Allah, the will of God. So, too, for Christians and Jews, there are the struggles of the soul with respect to God and our life with God in prayer and praise, in service and sacrifice. The struggle means acknowledging our own faults and shortcomings, our sins, to be blunt about it, which is only possible through the prior recognition of the goodness of God. The struggle is “to decline from sin and incline to virtue”; the struggle, quite simply, for “holiness” as Paul tells us in this morning’s epistle. We “are called”, he says, “to holiness” which is the quality of God in our very being. It is a constant struggle intensified for us in the disciplines of the Lenten journey. Lent is about embracing the struggle.

But what kind of struggle? Will it be a struggle which diminishes and destroys or the struggle which dignifies and ennobles? In any event, the struggle is defining. It is nothing less than a “striv[ing] with God and with men,” as the Genesis story reminds us. The struggle, the jihad, is altogether defining. It is ultimately about character and virtue.

This is what we see in the story of the Canaanite woman. We see her perseverance. She tenaciously hangs on to what she believes about Jesus. She senses in him the presence of God in whom there is health and salvation. She seeks in him healing and grace for her daughter. She seeks it by the only means we can receive it – through the prayer for mercy and help. This is no weak and wimpy prayer; this is the prayer of a strong woman who, like Jacob become Israel, will not let go. That tenacity of spirit, that persistent willfulness about what is objectively perceived, that willingness to hold on belongs to the truth of Israel but finds its expression here in one who is from outside Israel, a non-Israelite, yet one who strives with God and breaks into the very heart of God in Jesus Christ.

(more…)

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