Extracts from Sermons
Sermon preached by The Very Revd Dr Frances Ward for Epiphany 3, 24 January 2021 at St Michael’s Workington
This week has seen the inauguration of Joe Biden as the President of the United States. I don’t know about you, but we found the occasion really uplifting. It seemed that God was extraordinarily present, a very real help in time of trouble. The prayers were prayerful, the oaths taken were sincere, and the poem by Amanda Gorman, inspiring and hopeful. The singing of Amazing Grace was particularly moving.
You’ll know the story of that hymn – how the slave trader John Newton was on a ship full of slaves, mid Atlantic, when a great storm blew up and threatened to overwhelm the ship. He prayed to the Lord, that if he were saved, he would entirely change his ways, and convert from his profits from slavery to become a good man. He made a life-changing vow. The hymn was a lasting legacy of that moment: Amazing grace! How sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now am found, was blind but now I see.
As we watched Joe Biden, the event gave us renewed hope that despite the terrible challenges of Covid, Climate Crisis, a deeply divided nation, that all things are possible with God’s amazing grace. Just as John Newton saw himself clearly for who he was, for his faults and the evil he had done, so we can all begin again, with the promise of God’s grace in our hearts.
Particularly impressive were the oaths that Biden and Harris took – to be loyal to the constitution, to pledge themselves to the common good for all, to work for unity instead of division.
Oaths – John Newton made one, we all make them, at some time of our lives. People made them for us at our baptism, if we were still too young to make them for ourselves, promising to turn to Christ, to reject evil. At confirmation, confirming our faith in Jesus. Then, legal promises at marriage or civil partnership. Such promises, or vows, are binding. We don’t enter them lightly, or selfishly, but reverently and responsibly in the sight of almighty God. They change us – such vows. Because as we make them we offer a public declaration that we intend, very seriously, to be or do something. As I did when I became the priest in charge of these two parishes. I promised before you all, and before the Bishop James and God, that I would serve you to the best of my ability as your priest.
When we make a promise before God, we also ask. We pray for God’s blessing, God’s amazing grace to be with us. So whatever we promise to undertake, we vow to do our best, trusting God to help us with his amazing grace. And we are transformed.
Our readings are all about taking oaths, today, and about God’s blessing when we do. Look at Genesis: We hear how Abram is blessed by the king and priest most high, Melchizedek, signifying his being chosen by God as the leader of the people. And then our other two readings focus on marriage, and how the relationship with God is like the sacred promises made when two people wed. The reading from Revelation describes our faith and God’s grace like that, as a relationship where we come with all we are – symbolised by dressing in our finest clothes – ready to give our best, trusting that God’s grace will be there for us, helping us where we fall short and stumble.
When we come to worship – like now, on this Sunday morning – we are renewing that relationship with God, renewing our vows. We come with a promise in our heart to offer the best of our lives to God, and in trust that God’s amazing grace will be with us in all we do. It’s a special time that lifts us all out of the ordinary and into the extraordinary.
When I was little there was still the tradition of putting on your Sunday best – remember? It went soon afterwards, when we started to tell youngsters – ‘oh, it doesn’t matter what you wear – God is just glad to see you in church. Come as you are!’ And yes, we can all understand that. There’s something important, though, about bringing your best to God, including how you look and dress. Offering our best to God – as the reading has it: ‘For the fine linen is the righteous deeds of the saints.’ And then we hear – ‘Blessed are those who are invited to the marriage supper of the Lamb.’ This service is the Eucharist – like a wedding banquet – here before us – to be celebrated with bread and wine – usually, and we can’t wait for the day – as we gather together physically to affirm our faith in God in worship and love. We should dress up for it, surely, the highlight of the week; an extraordinary, miraculous moment, full of the promise of grace.
The very first miracle that Jesus did was at a wedding. Such occasions lasted for a time, celebrating the vows made – with much wine and jollity all around. Mary, the mother of Jesus, in her thoughtful, attentive way, noticed the wine was running out. Despite his reluctance, she tells the servants to do what he says. And so, to the surprise of everyone, the good wine comes out last, and in abundance. Water into wine. The ordinary into the extraordinary.
And so we are encouraged to consider our lives, and how they are transformed by the grace of God.
There’s a meme going around of Bernie Sanders at the inauguration. He turned up distinctly dressed down for the occasion. Compared with the splendour of Amanda Gorman as she read her poem, and all the other guests in their finery, he was decidedly out of place. It resonated with something else I heard on the radio the other day – of a number of people, during this lockdown, who, instead of slumping in front of their TV screens looking like Bernie, in their tracky bottoms or pyjamas, are dressing up. They are putting on the clothes that they would usually wear for a night out with a loved one – just for the sake of it. Simply to lift their spirits. Peter mentioned last week how many more people are watching our services online – and one reason is, yes, it’s easier, more comfortable. And so it is. But I wonder. How about we see this hour or so of worship each Sunday morning as the opportunity to turn the ordinary into the extraordinary, for the sake of God. There’s a challenge. Why not, next Sunday, get dressed up for worship! Put on your Sunday best! Enjoy the occasion of Candlemas! If you’re feeling brave – why not then post some photos on Facebook?!
For what is more appropriate – when you think of it – than to celebrate God’s amazing grace in our lives than to look and feel as amazing as we can? You’ll know that when we’re down and feeling miserable it’s a good thing to do something positive, something beautiful to stir and raise our spirits. It’s a lesson we’ve all learned through this time of real challenge. That the human spirit can’t be repressed – that joy and gladness can’t be killed by Covid. God’s amazing grace still works among us, transforming our lives from darkness to light. God’s amazing grace opens our eyes to see the good things, God’s good gifts around us – however bleak things can seem.
This week – notice the ways God’s amazing grace transforms us, and our world around. I’m mindful of that wonderful prayer attributed to St Francis, which is all about transformation – from water to wine, from hatred to love, from war to peace. Let’s make it our own, to give us strength through the week to come, with the promise of God’s amazing grace in our hearts.
Lord, make me an instrument of your peace: where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; where there is sadness, joy. O divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console, to be understood as to understand, to be loved as to love. For it is in giving that we receive, it is in pardoning that we are pardoned, and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen.
This week has seen the inauguration of Joe Biden as the President of the United States. I don’t know about you, but we found the occasion really uplifting. It seemed that God was extraordinarily present, a very real help in time of trouble. The prayers were prayerful, the oaths taken were sincere, and the poem by Amanda Gorman, inspiring and hopeful. The singing of Amazing Grace was particularly moving.
You’ll know the story of that hymn – how the slave trader John Newton was on a ship full of slaves, mid Atlantic, when a great storm blew up and threatened to overwhelm the ship. He prayed to the Lord, that if he were saved, he would entirely change his ways, and convert from his profits from slavery to become a good man. He made a life-changing vow. The hymn was a lasting legacy of that moment: Amazing grace! How sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now am found, was blind but now I see.
As we watched Joe Biden, the event gave us renewed hope that despite the terrible challenges of Covid, Climate Crisis, a deeply divided nation, that all things are possible with God’s amazing grace. Just as John Newton saw himself clearly for who he was, for his faults and the evil he had done, so we can all begin again, with the promise of God’s grace in our hearts.
Particularly impressive were the oaths that Biden and Harris took – to be loyal to the constitution, to pledge themselves to the common good for all, to work for unity instead of division.
Oaths – John Newton made one, we all make them, at some time of our lives. People made them for us at our baptism, if we were still too young to make them for ourselves, promising to turn to Christ, to reject evil. At confirmation, confirming our faith in Jesus. Then, legal promises at marriage or civil partnership. Such promises, or vows, are binding. We don’t enter them lightly, or selfishly, but reverently and responsibly in the sight of almighty God. They change us – such vows. Because as we make them we offer a public declaration that we intend, very seriously, to be or do something. As I did when I became the priest in charge of these two parishes. I promised before you all, and before the Bishop James and God, that I would serve you to the best of my ability as your priest.
When we make a promise before God, we also ask. We pray for God’s blessing, God’s amazing grace to be with us. So whatever we promise to undertake, we vow to do our best, trusting God to help us with his amazing grace. And we are transformed.
Our readings are all about taking oaths, today, and about God’s blessing when we do. Look at Genesis: We hear how Abram is blessed by the king and priest most high, Melchizedek, signifying his being chosen by God as the leader of the people. And then our other two readings focus on marriage, and how the relationship with God is like the sacred promises made when two people wed. The reading from Revelation describes our faith and God’s grace like that, as a relationship where we come with all we are – symbolised by dressing in our finest clothes – ready to give our best, trusting that God’s grace will be there for us, helping us where we fall short and stumble.
When we come to worship – like now, on this Sunday morning – we are renewing that relationship with God, renewing our vows. We come with a promise in our heart to offer the best of our lives to God, and in trust that God’s amazing grace will be with us in all we do. It’s a special time that lifts us all out of the ordinary and into the extraordinary.
When I was little there was still the tradition of putting on your Sunday best – remember? It went soon afterwards, when we started to tell youngsters – ‘oh, it doesn’t matter what you wear – God is just glad to see you in church. Come as you are!’ And yes, we can all understand that. There’s something important, though, about bringing your best to God, including how you look and dress. Offering our best to God – as the reading has it: ‘For the fine linen is the righteous deeds of the saints.’ And then we hear – ‘Blessed are those who are invited to the marriage supper of the Lamb.’ This service is the Eucharist – like a wedding banquet – here before us – to be celebrated with bread and wine – usually, and we can’t wait for the day – as we gather together physically to affirm our faith in God in worship and love. We should dress up for it, surely, the highlight of the week; an extraordinary, miraculous moment, full of the promise of grace.
The very first miracle that Jesus did was at a wedding. Such occasions lasted for a time, celebrating the vows made – with much wine and jollity all around. Mary, the mother of Jesus, in her thoughtful, attentive way, noticed the wine was running out. Despite his reluctance, she tells the servants to do what he says. And so, to the surprise of everyone, the good wine comes out last, and in abundance. Water into wine. The ordinary into the extraordinary.
And so we are encouraged to consider our lives, and how they are transformed by the grace of God.
There’s a meme going around of Bernie Sanders at the inauguration. He turned up distinctly dressed down for the occasion. Compared with the splendour of Amanda Gorman as she read her poem, and all the other guests in their finery, he was decidedly out of place. It resonated with something else I heard on the radio the other day – of a number of people, during this lockdown, who, instead of slumping in front of their TV screens looking like Bernie, in their tracky bottoms or pyjamas, are dressing up. They are putting on the clothes that they would usually wear for a night out with a loved one – just for the sake of it. Simply to lift their spirits. Peter mentioned last week how many more people are watching our services online – and one reason is, yes, it’s easier, more comfortable. And so it is. But I wonder. How about we see this hour or so of worship each Sunday morning as the opportunity to turn the ordinary into the extraordinary, for the sake of God. There’s a challenge. Why not, next Sunday, get dressed up for worship! Put on your Sunday best! Enjoy the occasion of Candlemas! If you’re feeling brave – why not then post some photos on Facebook?!
For what is more appropriate – when you think of it – than to celebrate God’s amazing grace in our lives than to look and feel as amazing as we can? You’ll know that when we’re down and feeling miserable it’s a good thing to do something positive, something beautiful to stir and raise our spirits. It’s a lesson we’ve all learned through this time of real challenge. That the human spirit can’t be repressed – that joy and gladness can’t be killed by Covid. God’s amazing grace still works among us, transforming our lives from darkness to light. God’s amazing grace opens our eyes to see the good things, God’s good gifts around us – however bleak things can seem.
This week – notice the ways God’s amazing grace transforms us, and our world around. I’m mindful of that wonderful prayer attributed to St Francis, which is all about transformation – from water to wine, from hatred to love, from war to peace. Let’s make it our own, to give us strength through the week to come, with the promise of God’s amazing grace in our hearts.
Lord, make me an instrument of your peace: where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; where there is sadness, joy. O divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console, to be understood as to understand, to be loved as to love. For it is in giving that we receive, it is in pardoning that we are pardoned, and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen.
The Baptism of Christ
Sermon preached at St Michael’s Church Workington on 10 January 2021
Today, early in 2021, our attention is drawn to baptism, to the Baptism of Jesus. If the elements of Holy Communion are bread and wine, then baptism uses water. Water – so essential to life, so powerful in so many ways. The people of Workington don’t need to be told about the power of water. They know about rivers in flood. About the sea and what it can do.
There’s a word ‘inundate’ which comes from the Latin for wave. If we’re inundated, we’re overwhelmed – the waves are crashing about us, flooding into our boat, or homes, we’re in real danger.
And so our reading from Genesis stirs such thoughts in the mind, for here we have an account of the very beginning of things – a story of God’s creation when ‘the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep.’ God sends a wind which sweeps over the face of the waters. You can see it, can’t you, in your mind’s eye – deep turbulent waters, swirling around, menacing and dangerous. Into this chaos, this terrifying nothingness, God begins by bringing order.
He creates the day and the night, separating the light from the darkness. At least now we can see. At least now is the possibility of enlightenment. The first day dawns, and with it comes a sense of hope. Morning has broken, like the first morning.
The beginning of a new day is like the beginning of a new year. We think of the dawn rising, breaking upon us, of new light coming into the world, of a sense of hope and new possibilities. Just like God, creating night and day, we look forward with a sense that order will come from chaos.
That all feels rather precarious this year, doesn’t it? The year dawns, and the waters continue to swirl, to threaten to inundate us, to overwhelm us. We hear the news of London, where Covid is out of control, where the Mayor has declared a major ongoing incident, for hospitals are, literally, inundated. It’s not as bad here, but it’s certainly bad enough for all of us to stay in our own homes, to exercise extreme care, to have the attitude that we have the virus ourselves, as the numbers continue to increase – cases, admissions, deaths. We are there, in the deep waters of death. It’s a fearful, frightening place to be.
It’s not for nothing that our churches have naves – and another Latin word for you. For nave comes from navis, meaning ‘ship’. Even though we are not gathering for worship each Sunday in our beautiful churches of St John’s and St Michael’s, we are still the church – each a member of the Body of Christ, each belonging to the whole communion, the people of God. We are the Church, worshipping God, in a ship that, like the ark, floats on the waters, safe in God’s grace. And this is the truth of our faith: that nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus. Nothing. We are held in God’s hands and love, whatever happens – through life, through death. To follow Jesus is to trust in the love of God, to have faith that
the darkness, the depths of the deepest flood, the death that comes close – nothing can cut us off from God.
Jesus was a grown man when he came to John in the wilderness, seeking to be baptized. We begin the Gospel of Mark today – a gospel that will accompany us through this year. Mark tells us directly about John who baptised people who were full of fear and a sense of wrong, and were washed clean in the deep waters of the river. Then Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and he too was baptized by John in the Jordan. We’re told how he came up out of the water, and, dramatically, the heavens were torn apart and the Spirit descended like a dove upon him. And a voice came from heaven, ‘You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.’
It’s a powerful moment in the life of our Lord. His baptism would have been a full immersion, down into the dark, swirling waters of the river. Jesus allowed himself to be inundated, to be overwhelmed by the possibility of death. He came close to drowning, perhaps, even, in that moment as he felt death all around him. He entered into the fear of his mortality, into the darkest places of the human condition.
And then, as he comes up out of the waters, the heavens part – the sun breaks through as morning breaks on the first day. And the symbol of gentleness descends as a dove hovers over this man who has come to save the world.
There are other times when Jesus and those around him would hear the words: ‘You are my Son, the Beloved, with you am I well pleased.’ Here at his baptism, and also at the Transfiguration – Jesus is God’s Son, the beloved. He is chosen, and his baptism confirms it, that he is special in God’s eyes.
We share in that special relationship with God as we follow Jesus – because of our baptism. For as water is used over us, in the name of God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, we too are taken down into the deep waters of death, to emerge different, now full of God’s grace, beloved in God’s eyes.
So yes, we may be facing into dark times, with the deep waters of Covid swirling around us. It may make us frightened and anxious. It may even make us sick, even very sick. We may face into death, or see a loved one suffer. But Death is not the final word.
God’s love, shown us in Jesus Christ – who went to the cross to overcome death – is stronger than any fear, any virus, any death. God’s love is there, in the deep waters of death, and is not overwhelmed. We are held in God’s love, now, today, tomorrow and for ever more, as are all those we love.
So do not fear. Take heart. Hold fast to your faith that God is with you, now and always. Have faith that love always triumphs over death and fear.
In our baptism, God’s grace comes, the Holy Spirit descends, we become one in Jesus Christ. This is our reality, and nothing can overcome it. Turn outward in that faith, and think of someone else who may be fearful and scared, and phone them. Have ears to listen, just be there for them. For in that way the light of Christ spreads, as gentle as a dove.
And remember that new years bring new blessings, despite all the challenges and difficulties. And so an ancient blessing to cheer you on your way: The Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord make his face to shine upon you. The Lord lift up the light of his countenance upon you, and give you peace – now, at the beginning of 2021, and always. Amen.
Sermon preached at St Michael’s Church Workington on 10 January 2021
Today, early in 2021, our attention is drawn to baptism, to the Baptism of Jesus. If the elements of Holy Communion are bread and wine, then baptism uses water. Water – so essential to life, so powerful in so many ways. The people of Workington don’t need to be told about the power of water. They know about rivers in flood. About the sea and what it can do.
There’s a word ‘inundate’ which comes from the Latin for wave. If we’re inundated, we’re overwhelmed – the waves are crashing about us, flooding into our boat, or homes, we’re in real danger.
And so our reading from Genesis stirs such thoughts in the mind, for here we have an account of the very beginning of things – a story of God’s creation when ‘the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep.’ God sends a wind which sweeps over the face of the waters. You can see it, can’t you, in your mind’s eye – deep turbulent waters, swirling around, menacing and dangerous. Into this chaos, this terrifying nothingness, God begins by bringing order.
He creates the day and the night, separating the light from the darkness. At least now we can see. At least now is the possibility of enlightenment. The first day dawns, and with it comes a sense of hope. Morning has broken, like the first morning.
The beginning of a new day is like the beginning of a new year. We think of the dawn rising, breaking upon us, of new light coming into the world, of a sense of hope and new possibilities. Just like God, creating night and day, we look forward with a sense that order will come from chaos.
That all feels rather precarious this year, doesn’t it? The year dawns, and the waters continue to swirl, to threaten to inundate us, to overwhelm us. We hear the news of London, where Covid is out of control, where the Mayor has declared a major ongoing incident, for hospitals are, literally, inundated. It’s not as bad here, but it’s certainly bad enough for all of us to stay in our own homes, to exercise extreme care, to have the attitude that we have the virus ourselves, as the numbers continue to increase – cases, admissions, deaths. We are there, in the deep waters of death. It’s a fearful, frightening place to be.
It’s not for nothing that our churches have naves – and another Latin word for you. For nave comes from navis, meaning ‘ship’. Even though we are not gathering for worship each Sunday in our beautiful churches of St John’s and St Michael’s, we are still the church – each a member of the Body of Christ, each belonging to the whole communion, the people of God. We are the Church, worshipping God, in a ship that, like the ark, floats on the waters, safe in God’s grace. And this is the truth of our faith: that nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus. Nothing. We are held in God’s hands and love, whatever happens – through life, through death. To follow Jesus is to trust in the love of God, to have faith that
the darkness, the depths of the deepest flood, the death that comes close – nothing can cut us off from God.
Jesus was a grown man when he came to John in the wilderness, seeking to be baptized. We begin the Gospel of Mark today – a gospel that will accompany us through this year. Mark tells us directly about John who baptised people who were full of fear and a sense of wrong, and were washed clean in the deep waters of the river. Then Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and he too was baptized by John in the Jordan. We’re told how he came up out of the water, and, dramatically, the heavens were torn apart and the Spirit descended like a dove upon him. And a voice came from heaven, ‘You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.’
It’s a powerful moment in the life of our Lord. His baptism would have been a full immersion, down into the dark, swirling waters of the river. Jesus allowed himself to be inundated, to be overwhelmed by the possibility of death. He came close to drowning, perhaps, even, in that moment as he felt death all around him. He entered into the fear of his mortality, into the darkest places of the human condition.
And then, as he comes up out of the waters, the heavens part – the sun breaks through as morning breaks on the first day. And the symbol of gentleness descends as a dove hovers over this man who has come to save the world.
There are other times when Jesus and those around him would hear the words: ‘You are my Son, the Beloved, with you am I well pleased.’ Here at his baptism, and also at the Transfiguration – Jesus is God’s Son, the beloved. He is chosen, and his baptism confirms it, that he is special in God’s eyes.
We share in that special relationship with God as we follow Jesus – because of our baptism. For as water is used over us, in the name of God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, we too are taken down into the deep waters of death, to emerge different, now full of God’s grace, beloved in God’s eyes.
So yes, we may be facing into dark times, with the deep waters of Covid swirling around us. It may make us frightened and anxious. It may even make us sick, even very sick. We may face into death, or see a loved one suffer. But Death is not the final word.
God’s love, shown us in Jesus Christ – who went to the cross to overcome death – is stronger than any fear, any virus, any death. God’s love is there, in the deep waters of death, and is not overwhelmed. We are held in God’s love, now, today, tomorrow and for ever more, as are all those we love.
So do not fear. Take heart. Hold fast to your faith that God is with you, now and always. Have faith that love always triumphs over death and fear.
In our baptism, God’s grace comes, the Holy Spirit descends, we become one in Jesus Christ. This is our reality, and nothing can overcome it. Turn outward in that faith, and think of someone else who may be fearful and scared, and phone them. Have ears to listen, just be there for them. For in that way the light of Christ spreads, as gentle as a dove.
And remember that new years bring new blessings, despite all the challenges and difficulties. And so an ancient blessing to cheer you on your way: The Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord make his face to shine upon you. The Lord lift up the light of his countenance upon you, and give you peace – now, at the beginning of 2021, and always. Amen.
The Feast Day of St John the Evangelist
Sermon preached at St Michael’s and St John’s Churches, Workington
Sunday 27 December 2020
The Very Revd Dr Frances Ward
It’s a rather lovely tradition to give churches the names of saints. Here our two churches are named for the Archangel Michael, and yes, St John the Evangelist – not to be confused with John the Baptist, of course. And what do we know of him?
First of all, it’s always been believed that he wrote the Gospel of his name – the fourth gospel, that wonderful, poetic account of the life and death of Jesus Christ, with its stirring words we hear each Christmas: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God.” For Christmas brings the greatest beginning of all, the birth of our Saviour Jesus Christ, the birth of light, of life, of love in the world.
And here we are, at the very end of the year, the last Sunday which falls on the saint’s day of John.
If you read the gospel of St John carefully, you’ll notice something interesting. Throughout it, John is not named. Reference is made simply by calling him ‘the disciple whom Jesus loved’, the one who bore witness to and wrote the Gospel’s message. John, the Apostle, who is also the Evangelist – the one who brings the message, tells the gospel, and throughout his own gospel, he does not refer to himself.
He has also been thought, in tradition, to have written the Revelation of St John – the final book of our bible – that mystical, strange vision, written on the Aegean island of Patmos where John was exiled. Exiled, not martyred – again, Christian tradition holds that he is the only one of the twelve who was not killed for his faith.
Legends have arisen through the ages, as you would expect. St John is often depicted – as he is in the Lady Chapel at St Michael’s, or on the green chasuble worn on ordinary Sundays through the year at St John’s – holding a chalice, the cup of wine, and from it emerges a snake. A strange image, which speaks of the legend that John was challenged to drink a cup of poison to demonstrate the power of his faith, and because of God’s power the poison did not kill him. And of course, the chalice also recalls the last supper, when John is often depicted as leaning on Jesus, his beloved friend. That friendship is there, too, throughout the gospel.
Remember that famous exchange between Peter and Jesus by the lakeside? Which reverses the threefold betrayal before the cock crew? Jesus tells Peter three times to feed his sheep, to care for his lambs, to follow him. And now Peter draws attention to John – to the disciple whom Jesus loved, who had reclined next to Jesus at the last supper. Peter asks ‘Lord, what about him?’ I wonder why. Why did Peter single out John? Perhaps these two were the closest to Jesus. It was them both, after all, who ran to the tomb after the news that Mary had told that the grave was empty. Peter and John both ran, but John outran Peter at the last moment, to reach the tomb first. And so, now, Peter receives the command of Jesus to be the rock upon which the church is built, and Jesus responds: ‘If it is my will that he remain until I come, what is that to you?’
Peter will go on to be martyred, upside down, the founder of the church. John the Evangelist has another journey to travel. It is he who will write, capturing the story, living on, watching the other disciples martyred one by one, remaining until Jesus comes again. He was to spend his days writing
gospel, and then revelation, anticipating the return – as all the first Christians did – of our Lord and Saviour, the second coming.
On Christmas Day we hear the very beginning of the Gospel of John. If you look to the very end of that Gospel, you will hear the enigmatic words, words that leave us still wondering, still engaged. In the beginning was the word, and now, at the end of the gospel, we are told that there were many other things that Jesus did, so many that the world could not contain all the books that would be written if everything were to be told.
It’s the end of the gospel, and the end needs to be closed, somehow, but how? To this life that never ends.
I’m reminded of the end of C. S. Lewis’ The Last Battle, where he writes those wonderful words, as the children leave Narnia for the final time.
And as He spoke, He no longer looked to them like a lion; but the things that began to happen after that were so great and beautiful that I cannot write them. And for us this is the end of all the stories, and we can most truly say that they all lived happily ever after. But for them it was only the beginning of the real story. All their life in this world and all their adventures in Narnia had only been the cover and the title page: now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story which no one on earth has read: which goes on for ever: in which ever chapter is better than the one before.
Here we are, at the end of 2020, with the last few, final days left to play out. The year turns, and there is no one, I suspect, who will not be glad to welcome in the new. The beginning is in the ending, as the story of another year, anno domini, another year of our Lord begins.
St John the Evangelist might well have expected, all his days, that he would see his Lord, his beloved friend again, as he wrote out his gospels and visions. And indeed, each of us might wonder what it means to say that Jesus will come again. But if we see ourselves caught up in the great story that is the story of God’s love, revealed in the birth, the life, the death of Jesus, then the story never does come to an end, because love never ends.
St John the Evangelist writes of the Word made flesh, who dwelt among us; the Word that was from the beginning, that enlightens the whole world. He tells the great story of beginnings, and endings that are also beginnings, as the years turn. In each year, we are asked to follow Jesus, just as John, and Peter, and the rest did, turning ourselves away from the darkness to the one true light. This we can do in every moment of every day of every year, for that light is eternal, for it is the light of love.
Whatever 2021 brings, as time unfolds, let us turn to the light and abide in the love, the life of Christ as John did and does, now, and for ever more.
Sermon preached at St Michael’s and St John’s Churches, Workington
Sunday 27 December 2020
The Very Revd Dr Frances Ward
It’s a rather lovely tradition to give churches the names of saints. Here our two churches are named for the Archangel Michael, and yes, St John the Evangelist – not to be confused with John the Baptist, of course. And what do we know of him?
First of all, it’s always been believed that he wrote the Gospel of his name – the fourth gospel, that wonderful, poetic account of the life and death of Jesus Christ, with its stirring words we hear each Christmas: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God.” For Christmas brings the greatest beginning of all, the birth of our Saviour Jesus Christ, the birth of light, of life, of love in the world.
And here we are, at the very end of the year, the last Sunday which falls on the saint’s day of John.
If you read the gospel of St John carefully, you’ll notice something interesting. Throughout it, John is not named. Reference is made simply by calling him ‘the disciple whom Jesus loved’, the one who bore witness to and wrote the Gospel’s message. John, the Apostle, who is also the Evangelist – the one who brings the message, tells the gospel, and throughout his own gospel, he does not refer to himself.
He has also been thought, in tradition, to have written the Revelation of St John – the final book of our bible – that mystical, strange vision, written on the Aegean island of Patmos where John was exiled. Exiled, not martyred – again, Christian tradition holds that he is the only one of the twelve who was not killed for his faith.
Legends have arisen through the ages, as you would expect. St John is often depicted – as he is in the Lady Chapel at St Michael’s, or on the green chasuble worn on ordinary Sundays through the year at St John’s – holding a chalice, the cup of wine, and from it emerges a snake. A strange image, which speaks of the legend that John was challenged to drink a cup of poison to demonstrate the power of his faith, and because of God’s power the poison did not kill him. And of course, the chalice also recalls the last supper, when John is often depicted as leaning on Jesus, his beloved friend. That friendship is there, too, throughout the gospel.
Remember that famous exchange between Peter and Jesus by the lakeside? Which reverses the threefold betrayal before the cock crew? Jesus tells Peter three times to feed his sheep, to care for his lambs, to follow him. And now Peter draws attention to John – to the disciple whom Jesus loved, who had reclined next to Jesus at the last supper. Peter asks ‘Lord, what about him?’ I wonder why. Why did Peter single out John? Perhaps these two were the closest to Jesus. It was them both, after all, who ran to the tomb after the news that Mary had told that the grave was empty. Peter and John both ran, but John outran Peter at the last moment, to reach the tomb first. And so, now, Peter receives the command of Jesus to be the rock upon which the church is built, and Jesus responds: ‘If it is my will that he remain until I come, what is that to you?’
Peter will go on to be martyred, upside down, the founder of the church. John the Evangelist has another journey to travel. It is he who will write, capturing the story, living on, watching the other disciples martyred one by one, remaining until Jesus comes again. He was to spend his days writing
gospel, and then revelation, anticipating the return – as all the first Christians did – of our Lord and Saviour, the second coming.
On Christmas Day we hear the very beginning of the Gospel of John. If you look to the very end of that Gospel, you will hear the enigmatic words, words that leave us still wondering, still engaged. In the beginning was the word, and now, at the end of the gospel, we are told that there were many other things that Jesus did, so many that the world could not contain all the books that would be written if everything were to be told.
It’s the end of the gospel, and the end needs to be closed, somehow, but how? To this life that never ends.
I’m reminded of the end of C. S. Lewis’ The Last Battle, where he writes those wonderful words, as the children leave Narnia for the final time.
And as He spoke, He no longer looked to them like a lion; but the things that began to happen after that were so great and beautiful that I cannot write them. And for us this is the end of all the stories, and we can most truly say that they all lived happily ever after. But for them it was only the beginning of the real story. All their life in this world and all their adventures in Narnia had only been the cover and the title page: now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story which no one on earth has read: which goes on for ever: in which ever chapter is better than the one before.
Here we are, at the end of 2020, with the last few, final days left to play out. The year turns, and there is no one, I suspect, who will not be glad to welcome in the new. The beginning is in the ending, as the story of another year, anno domini, another year of our Lord begins.
St John the Evangelist might well have expected, all his days, that he would see his Lord, his beloved friend again, as he wrote out his gospels and visions. And indeed, each of us might wonder what it means to say that Jesus will come again. But if we see ourselves caught up in the great story that is the story of God’s love, revealed in the birth, the life, the death of Jesus, then the story never does come to an end, because love never ends.
St John the Evangelist writes of the Word made flesh, who dwelt among us; the Word that was from the beginning, that enlightens the whole world. He tells the great story of beginnings, and endings that are also beginnings, as the years turn. In each year, we are asked to follow Jesus, just as John, and Peter, and the rest did, turning ourselves away from the darkness to the one true light. This we can do in every moment of every day of every year, for that light is eternal, for it is the light of love.
Whatever 2021 brings, as time unfolds, let us turn to the light and abide in the love, the life of Christ as John did and does, now, and for ever more.
Sermon preached at St Michael’s Church, Workington
Christmas Day - 25th December 2020
The Very Revd Dr Frances Ward
Those of you who are Strictly fans will have enjoyed the bonanza performances of a week or so ago – the grace and elegance of the moves, the brilliant colours and costumes, the glitter and glitz that make the show the phenomenon it is. It never fails to lift the spirits, with its easy banter and familiar format, and judges to boo when they step out of line to critique some poor contestant. If I were to sum it all up in one little word – it would be grace. It gives us a moment of glitzy gracefulness.
And then, from the sublime to the ridiculous – yesterday Peter and I received an email from friends who will remain nameless, and who may not remain friends for much longer – of our faces attached to the bodies of dancing elves – replete in green velvet, silly hats and red and white stripped stockings. There we were, dancing on the beach, dancing under the sea, carried by dolphins, all set to dashing through the snow, jingle bells, jingle bells. Not graceful at all – but delightfully kitsch, reminding us that a little frivolity goes a long way.
It’s been hard, hasn’t it, to hold onto a sense of cheer, of seasonal joy, as this bleak year draws to its close. Christmases past seem a long time ago; Christmas present, and we’re making the best of it under the shadow of the pandemic. Those oh-so-familiar Advent words from Isaiah, telling of a people who walk in great darkness, have never felt so meaningful.
When things are tough we need a sense of fun, a giggle. That’s why we wear Christmas jumpers, hats with pom poms, and seek out the mistletoe. All for a laugh.
Sometimes we get stuck there, though. We are taken in by the marketing tinsel and don’t see that there’s something deeper going on. With the birth of Jesus Christ, each year, we know a profound joyfulness that changes everything – from the smallest atom that
dances at the heart of the world around us, to the stars that dance in the heavens. The birth of a baby, in a stable, sends a tremor of love through all creation.
Grace is one of those words that it’s not always easy to define. Grace. We know it when we see it, though, in the graceful movement of someone who walks, or dances, beautifully. Or when someone does a graceful action or deed – something that leaves behind the crossness, the bitterness, and transforms a situation with a graceful word. Perhaps Her Majesty comes to mind – our Queen, who is always so graceful in everything she does. God save our Gracious Queen, we sing. Her courtesy something to emulate, born of self-control, of years of graceful practice. It’s knowing when less is more.
If we look more closely at the word ‘grace’, we can understand it as connected to the word gratitude, or gratuity – and a sense of ‘gift’ is not far away. We say thank you, graciously, for the gifts we receive – whether or not we’re happy with yet another candle or bar of soap, or pair of socks. We thank the giver with a gracious heart. We give, too, with a generosity of spirit that expresses the love we feel – or at least that’s the motivation that should be there. I know it isn’t always! And why do we give gifts on this day of Christmas? Because the nature of a gift, which is given with a purity of heart and generosity of spirit, is at the very core of the gift we receive – the greatest gift of all – on this day, born in a tiny child, many centuries ago, in a far off land.
God so loves the world that he gives his only Son Jesus Christ to the end that all that believe in him will not perish but will have eternal life. This is the Word that is with God from before the beginning of time, of the Father’s love begotten, the gift of life and light. And so we hear, in St John’s wonderful words, of the light that shines in the darkness, the true light that enlightens everyone. We hear of the Word that becomes human and dwells with us – here and now – and of the glory that we see. The world is transformed by that glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth.
Full of grace and truth. As we gather to worship God today, giving thanks for the ultimate gift – the gift beyond all gifts, we receive God’s grace again in our hearts. God’s active love, Thomas Merton called it. God’s grace that changes everything, bringing light where before there was none, bringing life into tired, old patterns. Feel the grace – as if you were dancing, and be graceful. Let that bitter, critical word die on your lips. Remember that less is more. Find the way to be courteous, kind and gentle in your dealings with other people. Feel the grace, transforming you, body, mind and soul. For we are called to the dance.
I have a number of carols I call my favourites – Of the Father’s Love Begotten; O Little Town of Bethlehem. But perhaps the one that stirs my heart more than any is an old folk song, with Jesus calling us to his dance:
Tomorrow shall be my dancing day; I would my true love did so chance
To see the legend of my play, To call my true love to my dance;
Sing, oh! my love, oh! my love, my love, my love, This have I done for my true love.
Today is the dancing day, when Jesus calls us to join the dance – the dance of God’s grace that fills the world with love, with joy, with peace. The world around us is full of grace and truth, so watch out for the grace all around us, and join the dance. We cannot but smile, with strength to face into any music, when we welcome God’s grace into our hearts, and become full of grace – as graceful as any dancer, on this Christ’s dancing day.
Christmas Day - 25th December 2020
The Very Revd Dr Frances Ward
Those of you who are Strictly fans will have enjoyed the bonanza performances of a week or so ago – the grace and elegance of the moves, the brilliant colours and costumes, the glitter and glitz that make the show the phenomenon it is. It never fails to lift the spirits, with its easy banter and familiar format, and judges to boo when they step out of line to critique some poor contestant. If I were to sum it all up in one little word – it would be grace. It gives us a moment of glitzy gracefulness.
And then, from the sublime to the ridiculous – yesterday Peter and I received an email from friends who will remain nameless, and who may not remain friends for much longer – of our faces attached to the bodies of dancing elves – replete in green velvet, silly hats and red and white stripped stockings. There we were, dancing on the beach, dancing under the sea, carried by dolphins, all set to dashing through the snow, jingle bells, jingle bells. Not graceful at all – but delightfully kitsch, reminding us that a little frivolity goes a long way.
It’s been hard, hasn’t it, to hold onto a sense of cheer, of seasonal joy, as this bleak year draws to its close. Christmases past seem a long time ago; Christmas present, and we’re making the best of it under the shadow of the pandemic. Those oh-so-familiar Advent words from Isaiah, telling of a people who walk in great darkness, have never felt so meaningful.
When things are tough we need a sense of fun, a giggle. That’s why we wear Christmas jumpers, hats with pom poms, and seek out the mistletoe. All for a laugh.
Sometimes we get stuck there, though. We are taken in by the marketing tinsel and don’t see that there’s something deeper going on. With the birth of Jesus Christ, each year, we know a profound joyfulness that changes everything – from the smallest atom that
dances at the heart of the world around us, to the stars that dance in the heavens. The birth of a baby, in a stable, sends a tremor of love through all creation.
Grace is one of those words that it’s not always easy to define. Grace. We know it when we see it, though, in the graceful movement of someone who walks, or dances, beautifully. Or when someone does a graceful action or deed – something that leaves behind the crossness, the bitterness, and transforms a situation with a graceful word. Perhaps Her Majesty comes to mind – our Queen, who is always so graceful in everything she does. God save our Gracious Queen, we sing. Her courtesy something to emulate, born of self-control, of years of graceful practice. It’s knowing when less is more.
If we look more closely at the word ‘grace’, we can understand it as connected to the word gratitude, or gratuity – and a sense of ‘gift’ is not far away. We say thank you, graciously, for the gifts we receive – whether or not we’re happy with yet another candle or bar of soap, or pair of socks. We thank the giver with a gracious heart. We give, too, with a generosity of spirit that expresses the love we feel – or at least that’s the motivation that should be there. I know it isn’t always! And why do we give gifts on this day of Christmas? Because the nature of a gift, which is given with a purity of heart and generosity of spirit, is at the very core of the gift we receive – the greatest gift of all – on this day, born in a tiny child, many centuries ago, in a far off land.
God so loves the world that he gives his only Son Jesus Christ to the end that all that believe in him will not perish but will have eternal life. This is the Word that is with God from before the beginning of time, of the Father’s love begotten, the gift of life and light. And so we hear, in St John’s wonderful words, of the light that shines in the darkness, the true light that enlightens everyone. We hear of the Word that becomes human and dwells with us – here and now – and of the glory that we see. The world is transformed by that glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth.
Full of grace and truth. As we gather to worship God today, giving thanks for the ultimate gift – the gift beyond all gifts, we receive God’s grace again in our hearts. God’s active love, Thomas Merton called it. God’s grace that changes everything, bringing light where before there was none, bringing life into tired, old patterns. Feel the grace – as if you were dancing, and be graceful. Let that bitter, critical word die on your lips. Remember that less is more. Find the way to be courteous, kind and gentle in your dealings with other people. Feel the grace, transforming you, body, mind and soul. For we are called to the dance.
I have a number of carols I call my favourites – Of the Father’s Love Begotten; O Little Town of Bethlehem. But perhaps the one that stirs my heart more than any is an old folk song, with Jesus calling us to his dance:
Tomorrow shall be my dancing day; I would my true love did so chance
To see the legend of my play, To call my true love to my dance;
Sing, oh! my love, oh! my love, my love, my love, This have I done for my true love.
Today is the dancing day, when Jesus calls us to join the dance – the dance of God’s grace that fills the world with love, with joy, with peace. The world around us is full of grace and truth, so watch out for the grace all around us, and join the dance. We cannot but smile, with strength to face into any music, when we welcome God’s grace into our hearts, and become full of grace – as graceful as any dancer, on this Christ’s dancing day.
Sermon preached at St Michael’s Church, Workington
Advent 4, 20 December 2020
The Very Revd Dr Frances Ward
What do you see, reflected in his eyes?
the mother asks a shepherd, drawing near.
Gaze deep, O soul, before the image dies.
The angels sing across the starry skies
to tell the earth of peace, profound and clear.
What do you see, reflected in his eyes?
What do you see, magi, as you are wise;
who know of distance, dreams, and death, and fear?
Gaze deep, O soul, before the image dies.
And what of you? you stable cat, surprised
by all these folk who happen to appear.
What do you see, reflected in his eyes?
Hold tenderly this child who seldom cries
and ponder in your heart, his mother dear;
gaze deep, O soul, before the image dies.
For innocence is born this night, and lies
Before each eager, searching face; each year.
What do you see, reflected in his eyes?
Gaze deep, O soul, before the image dies.
© Frances Ward
Normally, on this Sunday, as we celebrate Advent 4 and light our Advent Candle to hold Mary, the mother of Jesus in our hearts and minds – her role in the events of Christmas as love came down in the birth of the Christchild – we would be enjoying the delights of the Sunday School’s nativity play. Not to be, this year, at St Michael’s, as we all cope as best we can with the latest grim realities of Covid 19. Prayers and commiserations if your plans for Christmas have to be changed at the last minute – but at least Bill Bailey won Strictly! There’s life in us oldies yet!
So something different for our sermon – a poem written with a nativity scene in mind – any nativity scene, for there are countless ones in churches, homes, venues around the world at this time of the year. Our own, now nestling under the altar, draws our eyes to see the stable and the gathered figures. Prompting me to wonder what we would see, if we were to draw near to the Christchild, as the shepherds, the wise men, Joseph and Mary did, all those centuries ago.
If you’ve ever looked into the eyes of a newborn child, you’ll see incredible depths, an unfathomable gaze that returns your attention. Imagine Jesus gazing into your eyes. Imagine what he sees in your soul. All the wisdom of your years; all your regrets, too. Your fears and hopes. Your sense of inadequacy and anxiety.
Your stubbornness, and hardness of heart. Jesus sees all that we are. All our life is laid before him in that moment. We are known fully, the partial comes to an end.
You have a copy of the poem before you. You’ll hear it again, read at the Carol Service on-line on Christmas Eve. Let us draw near, with each person, and discover what we find.
Mary invites the shepherds first to gaze deep into his eyes. Perhaps this is you, hurrying into this stable, this church, not sure what to expect, finding tenderness and holiness that changes your heart. Perhaps you come with a sense of grievance – at the government, at someone else at church, at home. You feel out of sorts, cross. When Mary asks you to gaze into the eyes of this baby, though, it all melts away. You are reminded of a new born lamb, of birth that is always miraculous, that always changes everything.
Those shepherds were alerted to this new birth by the angels – and they are all around us now – as we gather to the crib. Angels who are God’s messengers, who go between God and creature. But they are not above this child; they too gaze into his eyes, and see reflected back such holiness and peace, such glory and suffering that they can only sing Gloria in excelsus Deo. As we sing in our hearts. let’s sing with the angels of peace, profound and clear.
The wise sages come from far away – representing the whole world. They come in recognition that in Jesus Christ is born a King who will die to change things for ever; to undermine the wicked tyrannies of the world. To show forth a kingship that is powerful because it serves others for the sake of the love of God. The magi come with gold for worship – and let us worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness. They come with incense – and may our prayers rise to God, feathers on the breath of God. And with myrrh, which foretells the death that will end death, so let us not fear mortality, but live life in all fullness, now and for ever. Gaze deep into the eyes of Christ Jesus, as the wise men did.
Any stable is full of creatures – the ox, the ass – yes. But also spiders, and mice. So let’s imagine a cat is there too, surprised by these extraordinary goings-on. Cat lovers will know how a cat gazes at you, the personification of inscrutability. What does the created world around us, represented by that cat, see in Christ? For all the natural world around us sings of the glory of God – that natural world that humanity has done, is doing, so much to destroy. Let us turn the year with the challenges of climate crisis in our minds and hearts, resolved to do as much as we can to reduce the damage we do.
And so we return to Mary, who holds the child in her arms. We’re told a few times how Mary pondered these things in her heart, her mind and soul knowing more than most of the holiness of God’s love made human in her baby. Her goodness and readiness to respond to God is there for us to aspire towards. Can we say ‘yes’ as Mary said yes? May our souls magnify the Lord, as Mary’s soul magnifies him.
We come back to us – to me and you. As the Christchild lies before us, how do we respond to the innocence of Jesus, that cuts through all our cleverness, our desires for material stuff, our concern about our reputation, our little upsets and grievances? How do we learn to become a better person, closer to God in our prayers and in our love for our neighbours? We have an opportunity, here and now, as we receive the holy sacrament, to change, to become more loving, more kind and thoughtful. To live life in all its abundance of love, for God and for our neighbours here in church, in this town of Workington, and throughout this fragile planet that is our home.
Hail Mary, full of grace; the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.
Advent 4, 20 December 2020
The Very Revd Dr Frances Ward
What do you see, reflected in his eyes?
the mother asks a shepherd, drawing near.
Gaze deep, O soul, before the image dies.
The angels sing across the starry skies
to tell the earth of peace, profound and clear.
What do you see, reflected in his eyes?
What do you see, magi, as you are wise;
who know of distance, dreams, and death, and fear?
Gaze deep, O soul, before the image dies.
And what of you? you stable cat, surprised
by all these folk who happen to appear.
What do you see, reflected in his eyes?
Hold tenderly this child who seldom cries
and ponder in your heart, his mother dear;
gaze deep, O soul, before the image dies.
For innocence is born this night, and lies
Before each eager, searching face; each year.
What do you see, reflected in his eyes?
Gaze deep, O soul, before the image dies.
© Frances Ward
Normally, on this Sunday, as we celebrate Advent 4 and light our Advent Candle to hold Mary, the mother of Jesus in our hearts and minds – her role in the events of Christmas as love came down in the birth of the Christchild – we would be enjoying the delights of the Sunday School’s nativity play. Not to be, this year, at St Michael’s, as we all cope as best we can with the latest grim realities of Covid 19. Prayers and commiserations if your plans for Christmas have to be changed at the last minute – but at least Bill Bailey won Strictly! There’s life in us oldies yet!
So something different for our sermon – a poem written with a nativity scene in mind – any nativity scene, for there are countless ones in churches, homes, venues around the world at this time of the year. Our own, now nestling under the altar, draws our eyes to see the stable and the gathered figures. Prompting me to wonder what we would see, if we were to draw near to the Christchild, as the shepherds, the wise men, Joseph and Mary did, all those centuries ago.
If you’ve ever looked into the eyes of a newborn child, you’ll see incredible depths, an unfathomable gaze that returns your attention. Imagine Jesus gazing into your eyes. Imagine what he sees in your soul. All the wisdom of your years; all your regrets, too. Your fears and hopes. Your sense of inadequacy and anxiety.
Your stubbornness, and hardness of heart. Jesus sees all that we are. All our life is laid before him in that moment. We are known fully, the partial comes to an end.
You have a copy of the poem before you. You’ll hear it again, read at the Carol Service on-line on Christmas Eve. Let us draw near, with each person, and discover what we find.
Mary invites the shepherds first to gaze deep into his eyes. Perhaps this is you, hurrying into this stable, this church, not sure what to expect, finding tenderness and holiness that changes your heart. Perhaps you come with a sense of grievance – at the government, at someone else at church, at home. You feel out of sorts, cross. When Mary asks you to gaze into the eyes of this baby, though, it all melts away. You are reminded of a new born lamb, of birth that is always miraculous, that always changes everything.
Those shepherds were alerted to this new birth by the angels – and they are all around us now – as we gather to the crib. Angels who are God’s messengers, who go between God and creature. But they are not above this child; they too gaze into his eyes, and see reflected back such holiness and peace, such glory and suffering that they can only sing Gloria in excelsus Deo. As we sing in our hearts. let’s sing with the angels of peace, profound and clear.
The wise sages come from far away – representing the whole world. They come in recognition that in Jesus Christ is born a King who will die to change things for ever; to undermine the wicked tyrannies of the world. To show forth a kingship that is powerful because it serves others for the sake of the love of God. The magi come with gold for worship – and let us worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness. They come with incense – and may our prayers rise to God, feathers on the breath of God. And with myrrh, which foretells the death that will end death, so let us not fear mortality, but live life in all fullness, now and for ever. Gaze deep into the eyes of Christ Jesus, as the wise men did.
Any stable is full of creatures – the ox, the ass – yes. But also spiders, and mice. So let’s imagine a cat is there too, surprised by these extraordinary goings-on. Cat lovers will know how a cat gazes at you, the personification of inscrutability. What does the created world around us, represented by that cat, see in Christ? For all the natural world around us sings of the glory of God – that natural world that humanity has done, is doing, so much to destroy. Let us turn the year with the challenges of climate crisis in our minds and hearts, resolved to do as much as we can to reduce the damage we do.
And so we return to Mary, who holds the child in her arms. We’re told a few times how Mary pondered these things in her heart, her mind and soul knowing more than most of the holiness of God’s love made human in her baby. Her goodness and readiness to respond to God is there for us to aspire towards. Can we say ‘yes’ as Mary said yes? May our souls magnify the Lord, as Mary’s soul magnifies him.
We come back to us – to me and you. As the Christchild lies before us, how do we respond to the innocence of Jesus, that cuts through all our cleverness, our desires for material stuff, our concern about our reputation, our little upsets and grievances? How do we learn to become a better person, closer to God in our prayers and in our love for our neighbours? We have an opportunity, here and now, as we receive the holy sacrament, to change, to become more loving, more kind and thoughtful. To live life in all its abundance of love, for God and for our neighbours here in church, in this town of Workington, and throughout this fragile planet that is our home.
Hail Mary, full of grace; the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.
The Very Revd Dr Frances Ward - Sunday 20th December 2020
Nativity
What do you see, reflected in his eyes?
the mother asks a shepherd, drawing near.
Gaze deep, O soul, before the image dies.
The angels sing across the starry skies
to tell the earth of peace, profound and clear.
What do you see, reflected in his eyes?
What do you see, magi, as you are wise;
who know of distance, dreams, and death, and fear?
Gaze deep, O soul, before the image dies.
And what of you? you stable cat, surprised
by all these folk who happen to appear.
What do you see, reflected in his eyes?
Hold tenderly this child who seldom cries
and ponder in your heart, his mother dear;
gaze deep, O soul, before the image dies.
For innocence is born this night, and lies
Before each eager, searching face; each year.
What do you see, reflected in his eyes?
Gaze deep, O soul, before the image dies.
© Frances Ward 2018
Nativity
What do you see, reflected in his eyes?
the mother asks a shepherd, drawing near.
Gaze deep, O soul, before the image dies.
The angels sing across the starry skies
to tell the earth of peace, profound and clear.
What do you see, reflected in his eyes?
What do you see, magi, as you are wise;
who know of distance, dreams, and death, and fear?
Gaze deep, O soul, before the image dies.
And what of you? you stable cat, surprised
by all these folk who happen to appear.
What do you see, reflected in his eyes?
Hold tenderly this child who seldom cries
and ponder in your heart, his mother dear;
gaze deep, O soul, before the image dies.
For innocence is born this night, and lies
Before each eager, searching face; each year.
What do you see, reflected in his eyes?
Gaze deep, O soul, before the image dies.
© Frances Ward 2018
