“The people which sat in darkness have seen a great light”

The Gospel says nothing about shillelaghs or about shamrocks or even about snakes. It does say something about places on a sea-coast, about the preaching of Christ seen as the fulfillment of Isaiah’s prophecy about light to those in places of darkness, about repentance, about discipleship, and about healing and salvation; in short, about all the things that belong to the evangelium – the good news that is the meaning of the word, gospel. Something of that sensibility belongs to the Feast of St. Patrick, the outstanding Apostle to Ireland, the bearer of the light of the Gospel to the pagan darkness of the Gaels.

It was Chesterton’s great quip: “For the great Gaels of Ireland [meaning the gaelic],/Are the men that God made mad./For all their wars are merry,/ And all their songs are sad.” Much of that remains true but through the missionary zeal and pastoral patience and understanding of Patrick, happy songs, the songs that belong to the divine comedy of Christianity are also heard and sung, known and loved. In How the Irish saved Civilisation, the writer, Thomas Cahill, notes that Irish and civilization are words which are “seldom coupled,” but if there is any justice in making such a connection, and I think there is, then much of the credit must go to Patrick.

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“For here have we no continuing city, but we seek one to come”

Rare are the occasions when we have a reading at Holy Communion from one of the major writings of the New Testament, The Letter to the Hebrews, but when we do they are of the greatest significance. Once in the Sundays in Lent, next Sunday, Passion Sunday, for instance, and twice during Holy Week, the epistle reading is from Hebrews. And, of course, it provides the great epistle for Christmas, too, and on a few other occasions as well, such as in the Octave of All Saints’. How splendid, then, is the course of the readings at the Offices which allow us to savour somewhat more fully the richness of this almost impossibly rich and perplexing epistle. In a way, it is one of the most theologically demanding works of the entire New Testament. And that’s saying a lot!

This year at Morning Prayer, we have had the privilege of reading from Hebrews a little more extensively as well as the great joy of reading one of the most outstanding narrative sequences in The Book of Genesis, the story of Jacob or Israel. In a way, The Letter to the Hebrews provides the most wonderful Christian commentary on the whole of the Old Testament and, indeed, particularly with reference to Genesis.

“Let brotherly love continue”, our reading from the 13^th chapter begins. Indeed, “let brotherly love continue,” and should we ever be under any delusion about how hard that is, we have only to consider The Book of Genesis! In a way, it is about the antithesis of brotherly love! Cain kills Abel; that’s just for starters; Abram and Lot, who are kinsmen, get into tussles over land; and, then, there is the most extraordinary sequence of stories dealing first with Isaac, the promised son, and then Jacob and Esau, twin brothers but at odds with one another; and then, the story of Joseph and his brothers who sold him into slavery. Apart from Isaac, it might seem that it is altogether about brothers. Upon closer examination, of course, there is the curious business of Ishmael, a step-brother to Isaac by way of Sarah’s servant, Hagar. In short, it is all about brothers whose relation to one another exhibits the greatest confusion, ambiguity, tension, and animosity imaginable. You would almost think it was Hants County! Or anywhere, really!

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“Gather up the fragments that remain, that nothing be lost”

The gathering up of the fragments, κλασματα, literally, the broken pieces, the left-overs of the picnic in the wilderness with Jesus, signals the nature of redemption itself. It is about the gathering up of the broken fragments of our lives. The gathering is about the coming together, literally, a συναγωγη, of our wounded and broken humanity in the wilderness of the world. But a gathering to what end? That nothing be lost. Such is the picture of redemption.

The gathering of the broken fragments of our lives is about our being gathered to God. Such are the Lenten mercies of Christ on this day which is known by various names. It is known as “Mothering Sunday” because of the Epistle reading from Galatians which identifies Jerusalem as “the mother of us all.” The nurturing, caring mother is the image of the Church that nurtures and cares for us with the things of heaven. It is known, too, as “Refreshment Sunday” because of the Gospel reading from John about the feeding of the multitude in the wilderness and the further provision for us in “the gathering up of the fragments that remain.” And, finally, it is known as “Laetare Sunday” because the Introit psalm for the day at Holy Communion, Psalm 122, which begins “Laetatus sum”, “I was glad when they said unto me, ‘We will go unto the house of the Lord.’” That psalm belongs to what are called The Psalms of Ascent, the songs of the going up to Jerusalem. They are the songs of the pilgrimage of our lives.

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“For he himself knew what was in man”

Jesus “himself knew what was in man,” John tells us (John 2.25). It is a perplexing and yet an illuminating comment. What is in us? Not much, it might seem from this gospel story, other than the will to nothingness, that is, a disillusioning and destructive spirit. In a way, John’s insight complements the story which Luke tells. There is nothing in ourselves but the will to nothingness.

This is to speak in a kind of contemporary language, the language of despair. But, such a way of speaking, has its biblical basis in this remarkable and remarkably disturbing gospel story that speaks, on the one hand, so directly to the climate of disillusionment and despair in our contemporary culture, and yet, on the other hand, offers the real and true remedy to our fears and worries.

It is, to my mind, the darkest moment in the pageant of Lent before the darker realities of Holy Week. In a way, this gospel story for The Third Sunday in Lent corresponds to the darkness of Tenebrae on Wednesday in Holy Week. “How lonely sits the city that was full of people,” Jeremiah laments, even as we find ourselves in utter desolation here in Luke’s gospel.

The Lenten Sundays anticipate the grand and disturbing events of Holy Week. If the Third Sunday anticipates the shadows and darkness of Tenebrae, then the Fourth Sunday, with its story of the feeding of the crowd in the wilderness, anticipates Maundy Thursday when we are with Christ in the Upper Room and where he gives himself to us as bread and wine, anticipating his passion and resurrection.

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“For ye were sometimes darkness,
but now are ye light in the Lord”

It is, to my mind, the darkest moment in the journey of Lent, at least before the dark intensities of Holy Week. Not only are we still in the company of demons and devils but that sense of struggle against the spiritual forces of evil has become intensified in the strongest way possible. Jesus, who in the gospel performs a double healing, at once exorcising a devil and making one who was dumb to speak, is accused of being in cahoots with Beelzebul, the prince of the devils. No good deed goes unpunished, it seems. Doing good he is accused of being evil. He is accused, actually, of being demonically possessed.

What is good is called evil. It is the perfect picture of sin and evil really. Nothing in themselves, sin and evil are privations of what is good and true. The interchange between Jesus and his detractors here is most instructive. He reminds them about Beelzebul, an ancient name for the devil, a name which literally means “the Lord of the Dwelling” but which can also mean, “Lord of the Flies”, suggesting death and decay. Lord of the Flies, of course, is the title of a famous novel by William Golding, a novel written in the period of the cold war which examines “the darkness of man’s heart.”

Some accuse him; others want more signs and wonders from him, “tempting him,” as the gospel so tellingly puts it. Jesus’ “knowing their thoughts,” Luke tells us, points out the obvious contradiction. He plays upon the name of Beelzebul, with its suggested cognates of kingdom and house, to show the folly of their accusation and the consequences of their rejection. A kingdom, Baal or Beel, “divided against itself is brought to desolation”. A house, Zebul or Zebulon, “divided against itself falleth”. If Satan who is Beelzebul, the Lord of the house of rebellion, is divided against himself, how can he stand?

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