Extracts from Sermons
St Michael’s and St John’s Churches, Workington
Sermon for Passiontide, Sunday 21 March 2021 preached by the Very Revd Dr Frances Ward
Passiontide begins today. We turn ourselves towards the events that are to come. The Gospel reading reminds us of what lies ahead for our Lord.
He talks of grains of wheat, of lives lost and found, warning those around him of what sort of death he was to die. The losses to come would be hard and many, not only his own dear life. He sought to reassure them that they belonged within a greater story, the story of God’s saving love for the world.
What was to happen was of cosmic significance. The death he was to die meant the judgement of this world and God glorified in love. And I, says Jesus, when I am lifted up from the earth, I will draw all people to myself. Passiontide draws our minds and hearts towards this cosmic, saving action of God in Jesus Christ.
But what are we to make of those enigmatic words of Jesus? “Those who love their life lose it, and those who hate their life in this world will keep it for eternal life”?
You know – in the original Greek, it’s the same word for ‘life’ – as in ‘Those who love their life lose it …’ – and ‘soul’ – as in ‘Now my soul is troubled’. ‘Psyche’ is the word in Greek – from which we get any number of familiar derivatives: psychology, the most obvious. Translated here, really rather differently, as ‘life’, and ‘soul’.
Interestingly, there’s no biblical Greek word for the ‘self’ as we commonly use it now. No word, apart from ‘psyche’, to describe who I am. My inner self.
As Jesus prays with troubled soul, he warns his disciples that unless they are prepared to sacrifice their lives – their very selves – for his sake, they would not know eternal life.
Perhaps, today, our Gospel encourages us to reflect on the Cross to come and its saving power in the light of our Western world, and its intense focus on the ‘self’. We talk of self-esteem, self-awareness, self-belief, self-love, self-respect. And now, we have ‘selfie’ too. We do talk about our selves an awful lot as a culture and society. An over-preoccupation with self can leave us in a living hell. Is this the salvation, the life that Jesus died to give us?
I knew of a young person once who was trapped in self-obsession. Not every young person is like her, but what she told me of her life is true of many young people today. She was twenty two when we got to know each other. She had been bullied at school, which had made her parents anxious. ‘They just wrapped me in a bubble,’ she told me; ‘They were like, “You’re not going anywhere.”’ At home she could do pretty much what she liked; her happiness ruled. Her mother was ablaze with admiration. “You’re amazing. You’re sublime. You’re a prodigy,” she was told all the time, and she came to believe it. When I knew her, she had a selfie habit. She was up until 4 a.m. most nights, editing, adding filters and selecting only the finest pics to post on Facebook and Instagram, alongside captions such as “Hypnotising, mesmerising me”. Then, often, she would wake at 7.30 a.m. to think about her hair and make-up. She took selfies everywhere, with anyone – the more famous the better. She’d even take selfies at funerals.
An extreme situation? Perhaps. Perhaps not. It won’t surprise you to hear that she also used to self-harm, as so many young people do today. A way of feeling something, anything, in the suffocating self-obsession of her life. In so many ways, she is a product of our culture.
Of course – not all young people are caught up in this way. And it’s not just young people either. Selves are everywhere in western culture today. We see ourselves – whatever age we are – reflected back from the black mirror as we link into Zoom, or whatever. Rather bleak possibilities are there for us all: the dark mirror that draws us in to click on yet another seductive enticement on the web. Someone once said when it comes to the web we think we’re spiders, but really we’re flies.
Our understanding of what it means to be a human being is at the heart of this.
Today, as Passiontide begins, perhaps we can think of self-love, self-absorption, in this context. That when we are seduced into the selfie world we do indeed lose our life, our self, our soul by loving ourselves too much.
The ancient story of Narcissus has much to tell us: how he was young and very beautiful. He aroused great love in all who met him, including the nymph Echo. He rejected her, as he rejected all advances, and she wasted away to the haunting voice we hear in rocks and cliffs. One day, Narcissus lay down to drink at a quiet pool in the woods and for the first time he saw his own reflection. Immediately he was entranced, besotted. He fell in love for the first time. Whenever he reached out to touch, though, the image rippled away. He could not draw himself away from the beauty before him. He wasted away, as Echo had done. No body was ever found, only the white and gold flower that nods in the wind at this time of the year, the narcissus.
It’s a myth with an ancient and contemporary warning. Particularly for any in danger of losing their humanity in a selfie world that can so quickly get out of hand. Flies, not spiders. We’re all affected – and we should be careful. We might lose more than we think. The young people around us might never know how empty existence has become.
To find our humanity, as it is shaped by Jesus, is to turn away from that world and find ourselves as we love and serve others. To hate our lives in this world sounds extreme. But there is a central Christian message here about self-forgetfulness for the sake of others that we need to learn again, and again. It might not seem so easy at the moment, but there’s a lot of evidence that voluntary action is on the increase, in response to the pandemic. It’s so important that we all put our phones away, and engage with what’s around us.
We can turn away from the black mirror, and turn towards Good Friday and Easter beyond, is to allow ourselves to be shaped by the Passion. It is to look on Cross and see ourselves reflected there. Reflected and shaped in our humanity by the Christ who focuses not on himself, but who radiates God’s love, for the sake of the whole world. Let’s find our self on the cross and Christ upon the throne.
The cross holds the depths of human life. It is where the sin of self-preoccupation – the me, me, me of self-obsession – is devoured by the holiness of God. The lives, the selves we promote in this world, all our self-obsessions and narcissism taken up. Our self-this, self-that, transformed into the humanity that is revealed by Jesus Christ.
Over the next few weeks, whenever you gaze on Jesus Christ on the cross, recall your self. For it is reflected there. Our humanity finds itself in God’s love. Our true reality is here, as we forget ourselves and are drawn, through Christ, into God’s being, into the fullness and abundance of life and love. Jesus gazes at us from the cross with the eyes of God and we are seen as we truly are: our selves, our life, our soul.
We are bathed in the love that pours upon us from Jesus on the cross. It’s then that we receive humanity. We are given life. What is asked of us, is that we, in turn, give it away as we love the world. Self-giving and self-forgetful in acts of kindness and compassion.
This is the cosmic action in which the God of love makes us whole.
We find our life in the passion of Christ. The soul of our humanity, which as we give away, we receive life eternally.
Sermon for Passiontide, Sunday 21 March 2021 preached by the Very Revd Dr Frances Ward
Passiontide begins today. We turn ourselves towards the events that are to come. The Gospel reading reminds us of what lies ahead for our Lord.
He talks of grains of wheat, of lives lost and found, warning those around him of what sort of death he was to die. The losses to come would be hard and many, not only his own dear life. He sought to reassure them that they belonged within a greater story, the story of God’s saving love for the world.
What was to happen was of cosmic significance. The death he was to die meant the judgement of this world and God glorified in love. And I, says Jesus, when I am lifted up from the earth, I will draw all people to myself. Passiontide draws our minds and hearts towards this cosmic, saving action of God in Jesus Christ.
But what are we to make of those enigmatic words of Jesus? “Those who love their life lose it, and those who hate their life in this world will keep it for eternal life”?
You know – in the original Greek, it’s the same word for ‘life’ – as in ‘Those who love their life lose it …’ – and ‘soul’ – as in ‘Now my soul is troubled’. ‘Psyche’ is the word in Greek – from which we get any number of familiar derivatives: psychology, the most obvious. Translated here, really rather differently, as ‘life’, and ‘soul’.
Interestingly, there’s no biblical Greek word for the ‘self’ as we commonly use it now. No word, apart from ‘psyche’, to describe who I am. My inner self.
As Jesus prays with troubled soul, he warns his disciples that unless they are prepared to sacrifice their lives – their very selves – for his sake, they would not know eternal life.
Perhaps, today, our Gospel encourages us to reflect on the Cross to come and its saving power in the light of our Western world, and its intense focus on the ‘self’. We talk of self-esteem, self-awareness, self-belief, self-love, self-respect. And now, we have ‘selfie’ too. We do talk about our selves an awful lot as a culture and society. An over-preoccupation with self can leave us in a living hell. Is this the salvation, the life that Jesus died to give us?
I knew of a young person once who was trapped in self-obsession. Not every young person is like her, but what she told me of her life is true of many young people today. She was twenty two when we got to know each other. She had been bullied at school, which had made her parents anxious. ‘They just wrapped me in a bubble,’ she told me; ‘They were like, “You’re not going anywhere.”’ At home she could do pretty much what she liked; her happiness ruled. Her mother was ablaze with admiration. “You’re amazing. You’re sublime. You’re a prodigy,” she was told all the time, and she came to believe it. When I knew her, she had a selfie habit. She was up until 4 a.m. most nights, editing, adding filters and selecting only the finest pics to post on Facebook and Instagram, alongside captions such as “Hypnotising, mesmerising me”. Then, often, she would wake at 7.30 a.m. to think about her hair and make-up. She took selfies everywhere, with anyone – the more famous the better. She’d even take selfies at funerals.
An extreme situation? Perhaps. Perhaps not. It won’t surprise you to hear that she also used to self-harm, as so many young people do today. A way of feeling something, anything, in the suffocating self-obsession of her life. In so many ways, she is a product of our culture.
Of course – not all young people are caught up in this way. And it’s not just young people either. Selves are everywhere in western culture today. We see ourselves – whatever age we are – reflected back from the black mirror as we link into Zoom, or whatever. Rather bleak possibilities are there for us all: the dark mirror that draws us in to click on yet another seductive enticement on the web. Someone once said when it comes to the web we think we’re spiders, but really we’re flies.
Our understanding of what it means to be a human being is at the heart of this.
Today, as Passiontide begins, perhaps we can think of self-love, self-absorption, in this context. That when we are seduced into the selfie world we do indeed lose our life, our self, our soul by loving ourselves too much.
The ancient story of Narcissus has much to tell us: how he was young and very beautiful. He aroused great love in all who met him, including the nymph Echo. He rejected her, as he rejected all advances, and she wasted away to the haunting voice we hear in rocks and cliffs. One day, Narcissus lay down to drink at a quiet pool in the woods and for the first time he saw his own reflection. Immediately he was entranced, besotted. He fell in love for the first time. Whenever he reached out to touch, though, the image rippled away. He could not draw himself away from the beauty before him. He wasted away, as Echo had done. No body was ever found, only the white and gold flower that nods in the wind at this time of the year, the narcissus.
It’s a myth with an ancient and contemporary warning. Particularly for any in danger of losing their humanity in a selfie world that can so quickly get out of hand. Flies, not spiders. We’re all affected – and we should be careful. We might lose more than we think. The young people around us might never know how empty existence has become.
To find our humanity, as it is shaped by Jesus, is to turn away from that world and find ourselves as we love and serve others. To hate our lives in this world sounds extreme. But there is a central Christian message here about self-forgetfulness for the sake of others that we need to learn again, and again. It might not seem so easy at the moment, but there’s a lot of evidence that voluntary action is on the increase, in response to the pandemic. It’s so important that we all put our phones away, and engage with what’s around us.
We can turn away from the black mirror, and turn towards Good Friday and Easter beyond, is to allow ourselves to be shaped by the Passion. It is to look on Cross and see ourselves reflected there. Reflected and shaped in our humanity by the Christ who focuses not on himself, but who radiates God’s love, for the sake of the whole world. Let’s find our self on the cross and Christ upon the throne.
The cross holds the depths of human life. It is where the sin of self-preoccupation – the me, me, me of self-obsession – is devoured by the holiness of God. The lives, the selves we promote in this world, all our self-obsessions and narcissism taken up. Our self-this, self-that, transformed into the humanity that is revealed by Jesus Christ.
Over the next few weeks, whenever you gaze on Jesus Christ on the cross, recall your self. For it is reflected there. Our humanity finds itself in God’s love. Our true reality is here, as we forget ourselves and are drawn, through Christ, into God’s being, into the fullness and abundance of life and love. Jesus gazes at us from the cross with the eyes of God and we are seen as we truly are: our selves, our life, our soul.
We are bathed in the love that pours upon us from Jesus on the cross. It’s then that we receive humanity. We are given life. What is asked of us, is that we, in turn, give it away as we love the world. Self-giving and self-forgetful in acts of kindness and compassion.
This is the cosmic action in which the God of love makes us whole.
We find our life in the passion of Christ. The soul of our humanity, which as we give away, we receive life eternally.
Sermon Preached by Revd. Dr. Peter Powell
14th March 2021 Mothering Sunday (4th Sunday of Lent).
On Mothering Sunday in times gone by, people took this opportunity of a day’s holiday, a break from the rigours of work and of Lent when people returned to visit their Mother Church- the Church where they were baptised- and also took time to enjoy a visit to their own mothers and their families.
Our readings help us to reflect on motherhood, all the joys and delights of being a mother but also how that gift is precarious and vulnerable and we are reminded of the costs of being a mother too; how in any relationship of love we lay ourselves open to pain and the possibility of loss too.
I love the story of Moses. Set in a time when the Hebrew tribes were trapped as slaves to the Egyptians, all of their freedoms crushed and controlled. Even the freedom to bear and bring up their own children taken away. So what does Moses’ mother do with her precious child? When he’s still a vulnerable little baby, just three months old, she weaves a basket for him from the bullrushes, an iconic basket that we still honour with his name and use for our own children thousands of years later, so powerful is this story. She makes the first Moses Basket, making it as secure as she can, and then sets him off on a journey to a new life eventually to be found and brought up in Pharoah’s household itself. It’s a story that shows us how not one but several women have a role in parenting this little boy.
His own mother who loves him so much that she’d rather take a chance on setting him off in his own precious basket than have him perhaps cruelly taken from her to a more horrible end. So often a mother has to make sacrifices for her children, sending then out into the world for their own good. Hoping for the best, but unable to control the future. None of us can.
But we also see his sister Miriam, standing by, taking on a watchful mothering role, perhaps guiding him, nudging him to float into a pathway that offered a way out for him.
And then Pharoah’s daughter, moved by his cries to take pity on him and to take him into her own household. Adopted and nurtured as her own son.
Three women who play their part in his life, who show us that wider families, friends and circumstances all have their part to play in our life’s journeys.
And as fortune would have it, his own mother recruited as his nursemaid to care for him in that privileged household. What a neat piece of quick thinking from Miriam there.
So eventually his own mother gets paid to look after him and nurse him, a pretty good outcome but it’s not all good as his mother is no longer able to claim him as her own child.
It’s one of those complicated stories in the Bible that make us think about the way in which God acts in situations that look dire and hopeless to bring about something wonderful and redemptive.
Let’s move to the verses of our Gospel reading now and see God’s hand in that too.
It’s a moment of desperate pain and suffering, Jesus close to the point of death with only a few of his closest family and friends left with him. Out of his exhaustion he finds the words to make a new family come into being after he has died.
He says to his mother, ‘Woman, here is your son.’ And to John, one of his closest disciples, ‘Here is your mother’.
They are brought together to care for one another after his death.
It’s another example of God’s hand building something new and wonderful out of a terrible tragedy.
In our broken world where human sinfulness so often derails the good that was supposed to happen, we see God’s hand guiding us into ways that see us through and bring good out of evil. New life out of tragedy and death.
I find it so reassuring that time and again God uses the ordinary person, someone overlooked by others, to achieve great things.
Think of Moses himself, a murderer with a stammer hardly able to make a public speech and yet chosen to be a leader of his nation, or David an impulsive teenager who becomes one of Israel’s greatest Kings.
People are chosen not because they are the celebrities of their time but for their hearts, the way in which they gradually learn to trust in God and grow a depth of love for God a certainty and confidence in a God who loves them and walks with them to achieve the extraordinary.
It’s a truth that’s worked out in our own lives, isn’t it. You can see the impact on children’s confidence of a parent who loves and believes in them.
And for those whose parents for whatever reason couldn’t offer their children love and security in life and had to be taken into another family. Adopted fostered they are offered a chance to overcome adversity and grow into a life that’s rebuilt on love.
God as mother, nurturing her children shows us how this works. Just like Mothers have a special faith and confidence in their own children and love them whatever they do. So we as adopted Children of God are blessed with God’s love for us, whatever we do. Even when we make mistakes and mess things up, like the best of parents God’s love for us doesn’t let go. Even when we cause pain and hurt to our heavenly parent.
Mothering Sunday, placed so near to Holy Week, reminds us that a relationship, any relationship, without pain is likely to be a relationship without love.
If we love someone, we make ourselves vulnerable, we put ourselves in the very path of pain and suffering. To love is to put yourself at risk, and your heart will sometimes be wounded, sometimes broken. But we can’t wish it any other way, for we are made in the image of a God of love, and love, real love, costs – it is such a costly thing that is sometimes paid for in tears.
Our Lenten journey takes us to the foot of the Cross on Good Friday, where we see the true cost of love spread out before us. We see God’s willingness to pay any price to be our loving Mother.
Amen
Sermon Preached by The Very Revd Dr Frances Ward - Year B, Lent 3, 7 March 2021, St Michael, Workington
Imagine it: Jerusalem, full of people gathered together for the Passover Festival. They’ve come from the villages and towns all over the region, gathering for a holiday – literally, a holy day. They will worship in the temple; but that’s not all. It’s also the opportunity to bring their cattle and sheep to market, to catch up with old friends, to meet potential partners. It’s a time to give thanks for the Passover – when the ancestors escaped from Egypt, from slavery, and began the long trek through the wilderness to this, the Promised Land – but hey! That was a long time ago, and once the religious stuff is done, it’s time to let your hair down a bit, to take in some retail therapy, to go a bit wild and have some fun. A bit like we’re all going to feel when finally we can take off our masks, and meet our friends, and get the party going.
So, again, imagine how this goes down. A real kill-joy – with his whip of cords, whirling his way through all the stalls, overturning the goods for sale, so carefully prepared and laid out, with animals careering around, doves and pigeons released and flying heavens only knows where, coins and money spinning off all over the place, creating chaos with his words ‘Stop making my Father’s house a market place!’ Who on earth does he think he is? And why on earth is he attracting attention like this? For this sort of disorder is bound to attract unwanted attention from the Romans, from the powers that be – what on earth is going on?
On the face of it, of course, Jesus is reminding people that holy places are consecrated to God, the most High, the Almighty. They are not to be used for racketeering. Holiness means setting things apart – keeping them pure and unsullied, free of the human desires for greedy acquisition, for self-gain.
We have the same attitude, often, to our churches. We aim to worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness. And so we care for our church buildings. We spend time and money on them, ensuring that they are worthy of the worship that happens here. They hold so much – memories of people we love, times of joy and sorrow, our hopes for the future – all embraced by God, all that we are, have been and hope to be, held in God’s presence and grace. They are special places, our churches. And so, yes, we can understand why Jesus was so angry, why he objected so strongly to the desecration – literally, the making unholy – of the Temple dedicated to God. A Temple that had been looted and invaded by the Romans forty years before, and which Herod the Great was renovating at the time of Jesus – deeply symbolic to the culture and identity of the people of Israel. So when it’s being used as a place of trade, where everything’s for sale, you can understand his wrath.
But then events take an interesting turn. The Jews then said to him, ‘What sign can you show us for doing this?’ They want to know what he’s up to, and why. His response is intriguing. ‘Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up,’ he answers.
If you’ve ever been to Jerusalem, or seen pictures of this Temple – originally built by Solomon in the tenth century before Christ, destroyed by the Assyrians, then the Babylonians in the sixth century BC, rebuilt, as told in the books of Ezra and Nehemiah, in the fifth century BC – you’ll know how enormous it is. The Temple Mount, at the time of Jesus, was a great and glorious site. So for Jesus to claim, ‘Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up,’ is madness. Utter madness. The Jews exclaim: ‘This temple has been under construction for forty-six years, and will you raise it up in three days?’
Jesus wants them to think differently. He’s stirring us to think differently too. He knows they all realise what holiness is, and that, actually, it’s not a market place. He’s disturbed them, these Jews, who know the Temple is holy. They know it’s wrong.
But then he makes them go deeper. If the Temple is important, then other things also are holy. No one – not even his beloved disciples – would have realised the full meaning of his words at that stage, but they remembered afterwards. After he had hung, dying on the cross, and had been taken down, a corpse, unclean, unholy, ugly, and laid for three days in the tomb.
Jesus is doing something extraordinary here. He is saying – ‘yes, you know that you have treated the holiness of God’s house badly, shamefully, sinfully. But I want you to think about your own bodies as holy. I want you to think that God lives in you and makes you holy. And that what you do to your body is important, for your body is a temple too.’
What might this mean for you and me today? This Lent, as it continues towards Easter?
How we treat our bodies is important – if we listen seriously to Jesus’ teaching here. We can treat them like a market place – fill them will all sorts of rubbish – junk food, too much alcohol – and let ourselves get unfit. Or we can take time, through this Lent – and it’s never too late – to think about some new habits and lifestyles. We could get out for a walk, go a little further every day, if we can. We can eat fruit instead of chocolate. We can drink water, instead of that fizzy drink. We can treat our bodies carefully, with reverence, as holy. As temples, if you like. A precious gift that God has given us, that is the expression of all that we are, our souls wherein God’s spirit dwells.
We can fill our bodies, our minds with good things. A time of prayer each day, when we invite Jesus into the temple. When we sit in sweet friendship with him. A time to be, at peace with God. A time to allow the Holy Spirit to blow the cobwebs away, and make all things new within us.
For our bodies are what God uses to show forth his love. This is particularly challenging at the moment, when our smiles are obscured by masks; when we can’t hug someone who needs one. When we can’t visit, and sit down for a cuppa with someone who is lonely. But we can still show forth God’s love with other gestures – using our hands to pick up the phone. Writing a letter. Baking a cake. You’ll remember the ancient prayer of St Teresa of Avila:
Christ has no body now but yours. No hands, no feet on earth but yours. Yours are the eyes through which he looks compassion on this world. Yours are the feet with which he walks to do good. Yours are the hands through which he blesses all the world. Yours are the hands, yours are the feet, yours are the eyes, you are his body. Christ has no body now on earth but yours.
Our bodies are holy temples to God. During Lent we remember what happened to the body of Jesus. As we follow the stations of the Cross on Wednesday evenings, as we anticipate the events of Holy Week, we remember that Jesus’ body was tortured, crowned with thorns, beaten and hung by nails on a tree. We remember that he was taken down, dead, and laid in a tomb for three days. We remember that through all this, his body showed forth the love of God for us – that holy love that is there, through all human experience, all the depths of sadness and the heights of joy. God so loved the world – so loved each one of us – that the temple that was Jesus’ body was destroyed.
But we also know that the destruction of that temple was not the end of the story. It was, instead, the beginning of our story as followers, as disciples of the Son of God, who was raised from the dead. As the first disciples did, so we do too.
But he was speaking of the temple of his body. After he was raised from the dead, his disciples remembered that he had said this; and they believed the scripture and the word that Jesus had spoken.
That word is the word of life, of love. Let our bodies, the holy Temple of God today, show forth Jesus. Amen.
Imagine it: Jerusalem, full of people gathered together for the Passover Festival. They’ve come from the villages and towns all over the region, gathering for a holiday – literally, a holy day. They will worship in the temple; but that’s not all. It’s also the opportunity to bring their cattle and sheep to market, to catch up with old friends, to meet potential partners. It’s a time to give thanks for the Passover – when the ancestors escaped from Egypt, from slavery, and began the long trek through the wilderness to this, the Promised Land – but hey! That was a long time ago, and once the religious stuff is done, it’s time to let your hair down a bit, to take in some retail therapy, to go a bit wild and have some fun. A bit like we’re all going to feel when finally we can take off our masks, and meet our friends, and get the party going.
So, again, imagine how this goes down. A real kill-joy – with his whip of cords, whirling his way through all the stalls, overturning the goods for sale, so carefully prepared and laid out, with animals careering around, doves and pigeons released and flying heavens only knows where, coins and money spinning off all over the place, creating chaos with his words ‘Stop making my Father’s house a market place!’ Who on earth does he think he is? And why on earth is he attracting attention like this? For this sort of disorder is bound to attract unwanted attention from the Romans, from the powers that be – what on earth is going on?
On the face of it, of course, Jesus is reminding people that holy places are consecrated to God, the most High, the Almighty. They are not to be used for racketeering. Holiness means setting things apart – keeping them pure and unsullied, free of the human desires for greedy acquisition, for self-gain.
We have the same attitude, often, to our churches. We aim to worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness. And so we care for our church buildings. We spend time and money on them, ensuring that they are worthy of the worship that happens here. They hold so much – memories of people we love, times of joy and sorrow, our hopes for the future – all embraced by God, all that we are, have been and hope to be, held in God’s presence and grace. They are special places, our churches. And so, yes, we can understand why Jesus was so angry, why he objected so strongly to the desecration – literally, the making unholy – of the Temple dedicated to God. A Temple that had been looted and invaded by the Romans forty years before, and which Herod the Great was renovating at the time of Jesus – deeply symbolic to the culture and identity of the people of Israel. So when it’s being used as a place of trade, where everything’s for sale, you can understand his wrath.
But then events take an interesting turn. The Jews then said to him, ‘What sign can you show us for doing this?’ They want to know what he’s up to, and why. His response is intriguing. ‘Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up,’ he answers.
If you’ve ever been to Jerusalem, or seen pictures of this Temple – originally built by Solomon in the tenth century before Christ, destroyed by the Assyrians, then the Babylonians in the sixth century BC, rebuilt, as told in the books of Ezra and Nehemiah, in the fifth century BC – you’ll know how enormous it is. The Temple Mount, at the time of Jesus, was a great and glorious site. So for Jesus to claim, ‘Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up,’ is madness. Utter madness. The Jews exclaim: ‘This temple has been under construction for forty-six years, and will you raise it up in three days?’
Jesus wants them to think differently. He’s stirring us to think differently too. He knows they all realise what holiness is, and that, actually, it’s not a market place. He’s disturbed them, these Jews, who know the Temple is holy. They know it’s wrong.
But then he makes them go deeper. If the Temple is important, then other things also are holy. No one – not even his beloved disciples – would have realised the full meaning of his words at that stage, but they remembered afterwards. After he had hung, dying on the cross, and had been taken down, a corpse, unclean, unholy, ugly, and laid for three days in the tomb.
Jesus is doing something extraordinary here. He is saying – ‘yes, you know that you have treated the holiness of God’s house badly, shamefully, sinfully. But I want you to think about your own bodies as holy. I want you to think that God lives in you and makes you holy. And that what you do to your body is important, for your body is a temple too.’
What might this mean for you and me today? This Lent, as it continues towards Easter?
How we treat our bodies is important – if we listen seriously to Jesus’ teaching here. We can treat them like a market place – fill them will all sorts of rubbish – junk food, too much alcohol – and let ourselves get unfit. Or we can take time, through this Lent – and it’s never too late – to think about some new habits and lifestyles. We could get out for a walk, go a little further every day, if we can. We can eat fruit instead of chocolate. We can drink water, instead of that fizzy drink. We can treat our bodies carefully, with reverence, as holy. As temples, if you like. A precious gift that God has given us, that is the expression of all that we are, our souls wherein God’s spirit dwells.
We can fill our bodies, our minds with good things. A time of prayer each day, when we invite Jesus into the temple. When we sit in sweet friendship with him. A time to be, at peace with God. A time to allow the Holy Spirit to blow the cobwebs away, and make all things new within us.
For our bodies are what God uses to show forth his love. This is particularly challenging at the moment, when our smiles are obscured by masks; when we can’t hug someone who needs one. When we can’t visit, and sit down for a cuppa with someone who is lonely. But we can still show forth God’s love with other gestures – using our hands to pick up the phone. Writing a letter. Baking a cake. You’ll remember the ancient prayer of St Teresa of Avila:
Christ has no body now but yours. No hands, no feet on earth but yours. Yours are the eyes through which he looks compassion on this world. Yours are the feet with which he walks to do good. Yours are the hands through which he blesses all the world. Yours are the hands, yours are the feet, yours are the eyes, you are his body. Christ has no body now on earth but yours.
Our bodies are holy temples to God. During Lent we remember what happened to the body of Jesus. As we follow the stations of the Cross on Wednesday evenings, as we anticipate the events of Holy Week, we remember that Jesus’ body was tortured, crowned with thorns, beaten and hung by nails on a tree. We remember that he was taken down, dead, and laid in a tomb for three days. We remember that through all this, his body showed forth the love of God for us – that holy love that is there, through all human experience, all the depths of sadness and the heights of joy. God so loved the world – so loved each one of us – that the temple that was Jesus’ body was destroyed.
But we also know that the destruction of that temple was not the end of the story. It was, instead, the beginning of our story as followers, as disciples of the Son of God, who was raised from the dead. As the first disciples did, so we do too.
But he was speaking of the temple of his body. After he was raised from the dead, his disciples remembered that he had said this; and they believed the scripture and the word that Jesus had spoken.
That word is the word of life, of love. Let our bodies, the holy Temple of God today, show forth Jesus. Amen.
Sermon Preached by Revd. Dr. Peter Powell - 28th February 2021 - 2nd Sunday of Lent
I wonder if you think of yourself as an optimist or a pessimist. Are you the sort of person who sees a glass as half full or half empty?
Here we are at the beginning of the second week of Lent with our pathway out of lockdown mapped out in front of us. With not much change for most of us as we make our way through the next five weeks of Lent, but then, just after the joyful season of Easter dawns, the beginning of an opening up, of the gradual unlocking begins.
I wonder how many of us saw the announcement as something like an extension of the prison sentence for another four months (glass half empty) or saw it as just a short length of time before our lives really do feel like they will be unlocked and a bright new dawn is breaking; (the glass half full)?
There are some interesting pieces of research that look at how happy we say that we are after some pretty major life events come our way. After we’ve won the lottery for example- millions of pounds suddenly arriving into our lives or the impact of a life changing accident leaving someone with significant injuries.
Well as you probably rightly guessed the immediate impact of such an event gives us a huge surge of emotions in one direction or the other, many people feel on top of the world immediately after a lottery win, all their problems apparently over, a new life possible with endless pleasures ahead and conversely immediately after a major accident people feel extremely negative and miserable.
The really interesting thing about research into the impact of life events on people’s happiness is that after a period of roughly six months, people’s level of happiness returns to pretty much where it was before the whole thing happened. If you were a cheerful contented sort of person before you suffered some major trauma, then six months later, that’s where you’re likely to be again.
And if you were a miserable curmudgeon, constantly twining about life, before you won the lottery, given six months that’s exactly where you’d be again, in spite of the millions, if you still had them.
We all of us have a particular way of seeing the events of our lives, a framework of understanding, you might call it. Something we come to inhabit as our habit of how we see the world. It shows us that our inner character, our values and beliefs are more important than the external things that happen to us.
Happiness come from within, it can’t be manufactured from the pleasures of acquiring things or experiences to wrap around us. If we have a sense of security, of love at our heart, it helps us to see the love and goodness of the world around us. It gives us a certain perspective on life, perhaps one that sees the glass as half full rather than half empty. One that sees hope rather than despair.
During these weeks of Lent, we have another opportunity to examine exactly what is at the heart of our lives, what is our framework of understanding? What feelings and thoughts are brought to mind in response to what we hear and see around us? Indeed, what is our attention directed towards? What do we turn to? What preoccupies our hearts and minds? Are we alert to the needs of others? Are we truly looking and listening?
Jesus’s words to his disciples from our Gospel reading today speak to us of exactly this. What is our fundamental orientation to the world? Are we looking out for ourselves first, are we trying to find our own lives if you like? Or are we happy to lose our own life, give the desire for selfish acquisition away, to lose it if you like, in order to find something more important, to find true happiness in the happiness and joy we can bring to others.
Jesus words to his disciples, to us, are that if we want to be part of this great Christian story of God’s love in the world, we must deny ourselves, take up our cross and follow Him.
“For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake and for the sake of the gospel will save it.”
It’s a question that challenges us again and again to look at what is driving our lives and who we really want to be.
In what way are we fundamentally orientated in our relationship with God and with other people?
God promises a covenant, a bond of love that he will never break. A gift that Abram and Sarai are delighted to respond to, and because of that they are changed. Abram becomes Abraham and Sarai Sarah. And God promises that as long as they remain faithful to him, their journey through life will be blessed.
They will see multitudes, nations, kings flow from their offspring. God plants new life in the middle of death.
St Paul takes up the theme of righteousness, of right relationship to God in his letter to the Romans. What is that relationship based on? On a way of living and seeing and being that Jesus showed us. His example of a life completely aligned to God’s will. Uncompromising in his way of seeing the world, recognising the sin and wickedness that so often seems to be in the ascendant and by drawing all of that into himself, into death on the cross and blowing it apart in the power of the resurrection.
That is the confidence on which we can rest at the heart of our faith. Confidence in the resurrection is the ultimate framework of understanding that helps us to see the truth in Jesus’s words. Love triumphs over death.
“For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake and for the sake of the gospel will save it.”
Jesus was prepared to give up his life, to enter into our suffering, to come to us and find us in all the dark places of our souls, the very deepest hidden places where we ourselves are sometimes too ashamed to go. He comes with a merciful forgiveness that grabs hold of us in our weakest and bleakest times and holds out a hand to lift us back to life, to restore us to new life.
It doesn’t really matter if we are an optimist or a pessimist, but it does matter how we are set to see the world and to act in it.
At our heart is the knowledge that we are loved and that that love comes to us from a God who knows where the darkest of human thoughts can go because he has been there, he knows of what we are made, he remembers that we are but dust.
We believe in a God who enacted the resurrection, who participates in the world in which we live. And by that act he lifts our eyes up to see the world at its best rather than its worst.
We know that there is true goodness in the world because it is God’s world. Knowing and seeing the Good in the world, helps us to do good too. And only in knowing the Good and doing good can we feel true happiness.
So as the weeks and months go by and we appreciate the freedoms of our lives returning again let’s be liberated by the loss of a life that too often looks inward and look outward to meet the needs of others first and in so doing to find the fruits of the Spirit and see love and joy and peace in our lives.
Amen
I wonder if you think of yourself as an optimist or a pessimist. Are you the sort of person who sees a glass as half full or half empty?
Here we are at the beginning of the second week of Lent with our pathway out of lockdown mapped out in front of us. With not much change for most of us as we make our way through the next five weeks of Lent, but then, just after the joyful season of Easter dawns, the beginning of an opening up, of the gradual unlocking begins.
I wonder how many of us saw the announcement as something like an extension of the prison sentence for another four months (glass half empty) or saw it as just a short length of time before our lives really do feel like they will be unlocked and a bright new dawn is breaking; (the glass half full)?
There are some interesting pieces of research that look at how happy we say that we are after some pretty major life events come our way. After we’ve won the lottery for example- millions of pounds suddenly arriving into our lives or the impact of a life changing accident leaving someone with significant injuries.
Well as you probably rightly guessed the immediate impact of such an event gives us a huge surge of emotions in one direction or the other, many people feel on top of the world immediately after a lottery win, all their problems apparently over, a new life possible with endless pleasures ahead and conversely immediately after a major accident people feel extremely negative and miserable.
The really interesting thing about research into the impact of life events on people’s happiness is that after a period of roughly six months, people’s level of happiness returns to pretty much where it was before the whole thing happened. If you were a cheerful contented sort of person before you suffered some major trauma, then six months later, that’s where you’re likely to be again.
And if you were a miserable curmudgeon, constantly twining about life, before you won the lottery, given six months that’s exactly where you’d be again, in spite of the millions, if you still had them.
We all of us have a particular way of seeing the events of our lives, a framework of understanding, you might call it. Something we come to inhabit as our habit of how we see the world. It shows us that our inner character, our values and beliefs are more important than the external things that happen to us.
Happiness come from within, it can’t be manufactured from the pleasures of acquiring things or experiences to wrap around us. If we have a sense of security, of love at our heart, it helps us to see the love and goodness of the world around us. It gives us a certain perspective on life, perhaps one that sees the glass as half full rather than half empty. One that sees hope rather than despair.
During these weeks of Lent, we have another opportunity to examine exactly what is at the heart of our lives, what is our framework of understanding? What feelings and thoughts are brought to mind in response to what we hear and see around us? Indeed, what is our attention directed towards? What do we turn to? What preoccupies our hearts and minds? Are we alert to the needs of others? Are we truly looking and listening?
Jesus’s words to his disciples from our Gospel reading today speak to us of exactly this. What is our fundamental orientation to the world? Are we looking out for ourselves first, are we trying to find our own lives if you like? Or are we happy to lose our own life, give the desire for selfish acquisition away, to lose it if you like, in order to find something more important, to find true happiness in the happiness and joy we can bring to others.
Jesus words to his disciples, to us, are that if we want to be part of this great Christian story of God’s love in the world, we must deny ourselves, take up our cross and follow Him.
“For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake and for the sake of the gospel will save it.”
It’s a question that challenges us again and again to look at what is driving our lives and who we really want to be.
In what way are we fundamentally orientated in our relationship with God and with other people?
God promises a covenant, a bond of love that he will never break. A gift that Abram and Sarai are delighted to respond to, and because of that they are changed. Abram becomes Abraham and Sarai Sarah. And God promises that as long as they remain faithful to him, their journey through life will be blessed.
They will see multitudes, nations, kings flow from their offspring. God plants new life in the middle of death.
St Paul takes up the theme of righteousness, of right relationship to God in his letter to the Romans. What is that relationship based on? On a way of living and seeing and being that Jesus showed us. His example of a life completely aligned to God’s will. Uncompromising in his way of seeing the world, recognising the sin and wickedness that so often seems to be in the ascendant and by drawing all of that into himself, into death on the cross and blowing it apart in the power of the resurrection.
That is the confidence on which we can rest at the heart of our faith. Confidence in the resurrection is the ultimate framework of understanding that helps us to see the truth in Jesus’s words. Love triumphs over death.
“For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake and for the sake of the gospel will save it.”
Jesus was prepared to give up his life, to enter into our suffering, to come to us and find us in all the dark places of our souls, the very deepest hidden places where we ourselves are sometimes too ashamed to go. He comes with a merciful forgiveness that grabs hold of us in our weakest and bleakest times and holds out a hand to lift us back to life, to restore us to new life.
It doesn’t really matter if we are an optimist or a pessimist, but it does matter how we are set to see the world and to act in it.
At our heart is the knowledge that we are loved and that that love comes to us from a God who knows where the darkest of human thoughts can go because he has been there, he knows of what we are made, he remembers that we are but dust.
We believe in a God who enacted the resurrection, who participates in the world in which we live. And by that act he lifts our eyes up to see the world at its best rather than its worst.
We know that there is true goodness in the world because it is God’s world. Knowing and seeing the Good in the world, helps us to do good too. And only in knowing the Good and doing good can we feel true happiness.
So as the weeks and months go by and we appreciate the freedoms of our lives returning again let’s be liberated by the loss of a life that too often looks inward and look outward to meet the needs of others first and in so doing to find the fruits of the Spirit and see love and joy and peace in our lives.
Amen
Sermon preached by The Very Revd Dr Frances Ward at St Michael’s, Workington, Year B, Lent 1, 21 / 02 / 2021
As many of you will know, our son Jonty is teaching in Auckland. It feels a long, long way away – and I give thanks for Zoom and for WhatsApp which keep us in touch – the usual pictures of what we’ve just cooked, beautiful walks, the latest craziness of Tilda’s springer spaniel, Cora. For Jonty it’s the great outdoors that he shares – the incredible scenery of New Zealand, which usually focus on the sea, and his greatest love of all, surfing. Before he left, he gave me a picture which hangs on the wall in our bedroom – a wonderful image of an enormous wave crashing over itself – a surfer’s dream. It’s the most stunning aqua blue, and dark grey waters, with a light grey sky behind – a symphony of energy and colour. I look at it as I sit up in bed, and think of his energy, and how much we all miss him. And then of so many who miss folk they can’t see.
The wave also speaks to me of the power of the sea. Yesterday we went down to the beach and enjoyed the wildness of the waves – somewhat calmer than Friday, but still an elemental impact. And I was reminded of a cartoon by a Canadian called Graeme MacKay which shows a small town on the shore, with a wave about breaking over it, which is the pandemic; but behind that wave is another, marked ‘recession’; and then behind that, again, an enormous tsunami, ‘climate crisis’. Waves can terrify us – as any will know who have suffered flooding, or know firsthand the full force of water.
In our readings this morning we have plenty of water. Genesis tells the story of Noah, and the flood that destroyed all the creatures of the earth. The reading from the first letter of Peter recalls Noah and the flood, and makes the link to baptism. Which is there at the heart of the gospel reading, when we hear Mark’s account of the baptism of Jesus by John in the Jordan. Jesus goes down, deep down, into the cold waters of death, before he came up to see the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him. He is submerged in all the waves we might face – the destructive power of water – and this is his baptism – the real experience of God’s grace. God’s grace – the power of God’s love – is there in all we might fear.
Then – immediately – one of Mark’s favourite words – Jesus is driven out by the Spirit into the wilderness – into a place of arid, dry barrenness. Forty days he was there – forty long days of hunger and thirst. The length of forty often stands for a time of significance – you can think of the forty years the people of Israel wandered in the wilderness as they left Egypt to seek the promised land. Or the forty days of the flood. And of course, forty days is the meaning of quarantine – quarantine: a period of forty days. And so, yes, we are now in our forty days – forty days of Lent.
It’s fair to say we are in a wilderness time. We are experiencing true quarantine, as we are locked down, restricted in our movements, unable to come to church, to join for family time and hug our friends, to bury our dead as we so yearn to do. We are in quarantine as never before – and so those forty days that Jesus spent in the wilderness are our days too. A dry arid time of waiting, of frustration, of short tempers and feeling out of sorts. It’s real – it’s hard work. We all know it.
Flood – then wilderness. Two extremes. Water, then parched earth.
Where are we in all that? Do we feel overwhelmed by the enormous waves that threaten to crash upon us? Are we dry and parched, and desperate for a drop of water to bring our roots to life again? Yearning with all our hearts and strength for the loving kindness of friends and family that droppeth like mercy that is not strained, but comes like gentle rain upon the earth, blessing the place where it falls?
We are between extremes, and that’s not an easy place to be. It’s hard to keep calm and carry on, to stay content, to be a peaceful and harmonious presence for others when we’re caught between extremes inside.
But when we’re desperate, that’s when it’s good to read through our bibles again, to notice the glimpses of God’s grace. One of my favourite hymns captures it well. It was written by someone who was desperately in love with a woman who had gone back on her word to marry him; and even in the sadness and pain of his unrequited love he managed to acknowledge the presence of God.
The first verse addresses God as the love that never lets us down, which is like the ocean depths that take our lives, and is richer and fuller for it:
Oh love that will not let me go / I rest my weary soul in thee / I give thee back the life I owe / That in thine ocean depths its flow / May richer, fuller be
And then he focuses on the light – perhaps a candle light that flickers before him. It reminds him that his life belongs in the full sunshine of God’s blaze:
Oh light that followest all my way / I yield my flickering torch to thee / My heart restores its borrowed ray / That in thy sunshine's blaze its day
May brighter, fairer be.
Next, the rain speaks to him of the pain of his heart, and how the rainbow comes reminding him that the morning always brings new promise.
Oh joy that seekest me through pain / I cannot close my heart to thee / I trace the rainbow through the rain / And feel the promise is not vain / That morn shall tearless be.
All, finally, comes to the cross. He lies there, dead in the dust of life’s glory, and yet, from the dry, parched ground begins to blossom life – endless life.
Oh cross that liftest up my head / I dare not ask to fly from thee / I lay in dust's life's glory dead / And from the ground there blossoms red / Life that shall endless be.
This is a promise to hold on to: What our lives are – grieving love, a flickering candle, the hard rain that hurts – all is taken up in a greater life and love. You see the promise in our Bible readings – always, in the Bible will be the reminder of God’s love and promise. After the flood comes the rainbow. After Jesus emerges from the deep waters of death, a dove descends upon him.
Today – this week – look out for the rainbows, for the doves. For they are there. Those moments of grace and love that change everything, and make the world a beautiful place; and life worth living.
As many of you will know, our son Jonty is teaching in Auckland. It feels a long, long way away – and I give thanks for Zoom and for WhatsApp which keep us in touch – the usual pictures of what we’ve just cooked, beautiful walks, the latest craziness of Tilda’s springer spaniel, Cora. For Jonty it’s the great outdoors that he shares – the incredible scenery of New Zealand, which usually focus on the sea, and his greatest love of all, surfing. Before he left, he gave me a picture which hangs on the wall in our bedroom – a wonderful image of an enormous wave crashing over itself – a surfer’s dream. It’s the most stunning aqua blue, and dark grey waters, with a light grey sky behind – a symphony of energy and colour. I look at it as I sit up in bed, and think of his energy, and how much we all miss him. And then of so many who miss folk they can’t see.
The wave also speaks to me of the power of the sea. Yesterday we went down to the beach and enjoyed the wildness of the waves – somewhat calmer than Friday, but still an elemental impact. And I was reminded of a cartoon by a Canadian called Graeme MacKay which shows a small town on the shore, with a wave about breaking over it, which is the pandemic; but behind that wave is another, marked ‘recession’; and then behind that, again, an enormous tsunami, ‘climate crisis’. Waves can terrify us – as any will know who have suffered flooding, or know firsthand the full force of water.
In our readings this morning we have plenty of water. Genesis tells the story of Noah, and the flood that destroyed all the creatures of the earth. The reading from the first letter of Peter recalls Noah and the flood, and makes the link to baptism. Which is there at the heart of the gospel reading, when we hear Mark’s account of the baptism of Jesus by John in the Jordan. Jesus goes down, deep down, into the cold waters of death, before he came up to see the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him. He is submerged in all the waves we might face – the destructive power of water – and this is his baptism – the real experience of God’s grace. God’s grace – the power of God’s love – is there in all we might fear.
Then – immediately – one of Mark’s favourite words – Jesus is driven out by the Spirit into the wilderness – into a place of arid, dry barrenness. Forty days he was there – forty long days of hunger and thirst. The length of forty often stands for a time of significance – you can think of the forty years the people of Israel wandered in the wilderness as they left Egypt to seek the promised land. Or the forty days of the flood. And of course, forty days is the meaning of quarantine – quarantine: a period of forty days. And so, yes, we are now in our forty days – forty days of Lent.
It’s fair to say we are in a wilderness time. We are experiencing true quarantine, as we are locked down, restricted in our movements, unable to come to church, to join for family time and hug our friends, to bury our dead as we so yearn to do. We are in quarantine as never before – and so those forty days that Jesus spent in the wilderness are our days too. A dry arid time of waiting, of frustration, of short tempers and feeling out of sorts. It’s real – it’s hard work. We all know it.
Flood – then wilderness. Two extremes. Water, then parched earth.
Where are we in all that? Do we feel overwhelmed by the enormous waves that threaten to crash upon us? Are we dry and parched, and desperate for a drop of water to bring our roots to life again? Yearning with all our hearts and strength for the loving kindness of friends and family that droppeth like mercy that is not strained, but comes like gentle rain upon the earth, blessing the place where it falls?
We are between extremes, and that’s not an easy place to be. It’s hard to keep calm and carry on, to stay content, to be a peaceful and harmonious presence for others when we’re caught between extremes inside.
But when we’re desperate, that’s when it’s good to read through our bibles again, to notice the glimpses of God’s grace. One of my favourite hymns captures it well. It was written by someone who was desperately in love with a woman who had gone back on her word to marry him; and even in the sadness and pain of his unrequited love he managed to acknowledge the presence of God.
The first verse addresses God as the love that never lets us down, which is like the ocean depths that take our lives, and is richer and fuller for it:
Oh love that will not let me go / I rest my weary soul in thee / I give thee back the life I owe / That in thine ocean depths its flow / May richer, fuller be
And then he focuses on the light – perhaps a candle light that flickers before him. It reminds him that his life belongs in the full sunshine of God’s blaze:
Oh light that followest all my way / I yield my flickering torch to thee / My heart restores its borrowed ray / That in thy sunshine's blaze its day
May brighter, fairer be.
Next, the rain speaks to him of the pain of his heart, and how the rainbow comes reminding him that the morning always brings new promise.
Oh joy that seekest me through pain / I cannot close my heart to thee / I trace the rainbow through the rain / And feel the promise is not vain / That morn shall tearless be.
All, finally, comes to the cross. He lies there, dead in the dust of life’s glory, and yet, from the dry, parched ground begins to blossom life – endless life.
Oh cross that liftest up my head / I dare not ask to fly from thee / I lay in dust's life's glory dead / And from the ground there blossoms red / Life that shall endless be.
This is a promise to hold on to: What our lives are – grieving love, a flickering candle, the hard rain that hurts – all is taken up in a greater life and love. You see the promise in our Bible readings – always, in the Bible will be the reminder of God’s love and promise. After the flood comes the rainbow. After Jesus emerges from the deep waters of death, a dove descends upon him.
Today – this week – look out for the rainbows, for the doves. For they are there. Those moments of grace and love that change everything, and make the world a beautiful place; and life worth living.
Sermon preached by The Very Revd Dr Frances Ward - Online ServiceYear B, 2 before Lent, 7 February 2021
Proverbs 8. 22-31, Psalm 104, Colossians 1. 15-20, John 1. 1-14
I wonder if you’re someone who reads your Bible regularly. I remember when I first sat down to try and understand one of St Paul’s letters - I couldn’t make head or tail of it. Then, bit by bit, the light began to dawn – and I was on a journey – a journey to find something new each time. I open the Bible and my horizons expand – I understand a little more about what God is doing. Those texts from so long ago speak and open up life into something deeper, richer.
And you know, if you wanted passages that particularly do that – that are especially rich and deep – look no further than those chosen in the lectionary today. Today’s readings are rather wonderful.
Each speaks of God’s enormity – the greatness of God. It’s there as we contemplate God’s creation, God’s works of love. Let’s look at the reading from Proverbs first.
Who’s speaking? we may ask. Proverbs belongs to a type of literature in the Bible called the Wisdom literature, and that gives us a clue. For it is wisdom that speaks – wisdom – that ancient knowledge that is different to cleverness or shallow learning. Wisdom seeks to understand the whole of a situation. Wisdom listens carefully, doesn’t leap to quick conclusions, but mulls things over, ponders things in her heart. And yes, she is often thought of as female. If you know anyone called Sophie, or Sophia – the name means wisdom, from the ancient Greek word, which you hear in philosophy: the love of wisdom. Often Sophia is equated with the Holy Spirit – that movement of wisdom and inspiration, that takes us towards God.
Here in Proverbs, wisdom is created at the very beginning of everything, before the earth, before springs of water, or mountains – often places we go to find wisdom, to expand our thinking when we’re troubled by something. The passage ends with delight – some translations render it that wisdom plays in delight on the shores of God’s creation. Wisdom is honoured, working alongside God in creation. And what does that mean for us? that wisdom enables us to find the new possibilities in any given situation. However stuck we feel – for instance, by this dreadful and dreary disease, or by grief, or frustration when things are not going well – wisdom would suggest that we open our hearts and minds and see things afresh. To notice signs of life: the snowdrops as they begin to push through the earth. A beautiful sky. Something lovely shared on FaceBook. A book we delight in. A dog plunging into the Derwent. Wisdom encourages us to grow in delight – whatever the challenges we face. Because then we reflect God’s creation of goodness and beauty out of ugliness and sadness, life out of death.
So we turn to the Psalm for today. The Psalms also belong in what’s called Wisdom literature – as does the Book of Job. So this psalm – 104 – shows us creation in all its glory, inspired by wisdom. We hear how all things are dependent upon God: These all look to you to give them their food in due season; When you hide your face, they are dismayed; when you take away their breath, they die and return to their dust. But, then, ‘when you send forth your spirit, they are created; and you renew the face of the ground.’
And we are the same – we are God’s creatures: we are created in our inmost being by the spirit – the creative wisdom – that God sends forth. And so, yes – even though we might be feeling miserable as sin – literally, we are encouraged to sing to the LORD as long as we live; to sing praise to my God: Bless the LORD, O my soul. Praise the LORD!
It’s a tremendous psalm. Well worth reading through – particularly when you’re feeling down.
Now – we turn from the Old Testament – and remember that the Old Testament was Jesus’ Bible – he would have known these passages off by heart and been inspired. His parables captured their wisdom. We turn to the New Testament, to a letter that St Paul wrote to the Christian community at Colossae. He writes about Jesus Christ. Remember Paul had persecuted the disciples most cruelly, and then a vision on the Road to Damascus, and his life had turned inside out by this Lord Jesus. Now he knew Jesus Christ no longer simply as a man who lived, taught and died, but as someone who shows forth God – just as ancient wisdom does. Jesus Christ, the anointed, is the manifestation of God’s creative power. He is the first and the last – before all things, holding everything together. St Paul claims for Jesus Christ more than we can imagine:
For in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through him God was pleased to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, by making peace through the blood of his cross.
Because Jesus died on the cross, Paul tells us that we now know that all the world depends on the creative love and power of God, that reconciles all things. What does this mean? It means that ultimately – when all is said and done – we are at peace, reconciled, belonging together in God. God’s abundant life in which we live and move and have our being creates us to love and be loved, and there is nothing more powerful. Nothing that can separate us from that love of God, revealed in Christ Jesus. It is of ultimate value. Those who are wise know this: that love conquers all.
And so we turn to our Gospel for today – that passage that is read each Christmas Day to remind us of the way Jesus Christ shows us God. Christ becomes human like us and so honours the material world, the creation in which God delights. This world was spoken by God into existence – remember Genesis: Then God said ... and it was made. In the beginning was the Word. The Word, the Logos, which is Wise beyond our human understanding. Ancient wisdom is in that word, the Word who is with God, who is God.
And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth.
If we imagine all the galaxies, known and unknown, stretching over vast expanses of space. The tiniest nano-particle, a quark, a neutrino – too small to be seen, but detectable all the same. Imagine all the advances of science, in any direction, small or great; of the boundless extent of all there is. Or contemplate the inner life of humanity, the heights and depths of the human heart and mind. The most sublime experience we ever had. A time of overwhelming joy, moved by some wonder of the natural world, or ecstatic as we listened to a fine piece of music. Wonderful though it is, there is always more. You could say that wherever we go, as human beings, we can never come to the end of the experience of our hearts, minds, souls or strength. Whatever branch of human understanding, the ground is endless in what we can explore, the depths and heights we can reach. There is always more. That ‘more’ is the glory of the fullness of God.
This is what we can take from our readings today. If you are feeling low, or constrained, remind yourself that there is always more in God’s fullness. We can take – what can we give? We can seek to be wise, open to God in our prayers and in what we do. We can expect to be delighted, even when it’s grey and dark outside. We can give God what God wants – which is praise and worship. We can seek to fulfil the great commandment – to love God, and to love our neighbours – our fellow human beings. For then we grow in Jesus Christ, in the ancient wisdom he gives. Alleluia.
Proverbs 8. 22-31, Psalm 104, Colossians 1. 15-20, John 1. 1-14
I wonder if you’re someone who reads your Bible regularly. I remember when I first sat down to try and understand one of St Paul’s letters - I couldn’t make head or tail of it. Then, bit by bit, the light began to dawn – and I was on a journey – a journey to find something new each time. I open the Bible and my horizons expand – I understand a little more about what God is doing. Those texts from so long ago speak and open up life into something deeper, richer.
And you know, if you wanted passages that particularly do that – that are especially rich and deep – look no further than those chosen in the lectionary today. Today’s readings are rather wonderful.
Each speaks of God’s enormity – the greatness of God. It’s there as we contemplate God’s creation, God’s works of love. Let’s look at the reading from Proverbs first.
Who’s speaking? we may ask. Proverbs belongs to a type of literature in the Bible called the Wisdom literature, and that gives us a clue. For it is wisdom that speaks – wisdom – that ancient knowledge that is different to cleverness or shallow learning. Wisdom seeks to understand the whole of a situation. Wisdom listens carefully, doesn’t leap to quick conclusions, but mulls things over, ponders things in her heart. And yes, she is often thought of as female. If you know anyone called Sophie, or Sophia – the name means wisdom, from the ancient Greek word, which you hear in philosophy: the love of wisdom. Often Sophia is equated with the Holy Spirit – that movement of wisdom and inspiration, that takes us towards God.
Here in Proverbs, wisdom is created at the very beginning of everything, before the earth, before springs of water, or mountains – often places we go to find wisdom, to expand our thinking when we’re troubled by something. The passage ends with delight – some translations render it that wisdom plays in delight on the shores of God’s creation. Wisdom is honoured, working alongside God in creation. And what does that mean for us? that wisdom enables us to find the new possibilities in any given situation. However stuck we feel – for instance, by this dreadful and dreary disease, or by grief, or frustration when things are not going well – wisdom would suggest that we open our hearts and minds and see things afresh. To notice signs of life: the snowdrops as they begin to push through the earth. A beautiful sky. Something lovely shared on FaceBook. A book we delight in. A dog plunging into the Derwent. Wisdom encourages us to grow in delight – whatever the challenges we face. Because then we reflect God’s creation of goodness and beauty out of ugliness and sadness, life out of death.
So we turn to the Psalm for today. The Psalms also belong in what’s called Wisdom literature – as does the Book of Job. So this psalm – 104 – shows us creation in all its glory, inspired by wisdom. We hear how all things are dependent upon God: These all look to you to give them their food in due season; When you hide your face, they are dismayed; when you take away their breath, they die and return to their dust. But, then, ‘when you send forth your spirit, they are created; and you renew the face of the ground.’
And we are the same – we are God’s creatures: we are created in our inmost being by the spirit – the creative wisdom – that God sends forth. And so, yes – even though we might be feeling miserable as sin – literally, we are encouraged to sing to the LORD as long as we live; to sing praise to my God: Bless the LORD, O my soul. Praise the LORD!
It’s a tremendous psalm. Well worth reading through – particularly when you’re feeling down.
Now – we turn from the Old Testament – and remember that the Old Testament was Jesus’ Bible – he would have known these passages off by heart and been inspired. His parables captured their wisdom. We turn to the New Testament, to a letter that St Paul wrote to the Christian community at Colossae. He writes about Jesus Christ. Remember Paul had persecuted the disciples most cruelly, and then a vision on the Road to Damascus, and his life had turned inside out by this Lord Jesus. Now he knew Jesus Christ no longer simply as a man who lived, taught and died, but as someone who shows forth God – just as ancient wisdom does. Jesus Christ, the anointed, is the manifestation of God’s creative power. He is the first and the last – before all things, holding everything together. St Paul claims for Jesus Christ more than we can imagine:
For in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through him God was pleased to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, by making peace through the blood of his cross.
Because Jesus died on the cross, Paul tells us that we now know that all the world depends on the creative love and power of God, that reconciles all things. What does this mean? It means that ultimately – when all is said and done – we are at peace, reconciled, belonging together in God. God’s abundant life in which we live and move and have our being creates us to love and be loved, and there is nothing more powerful. Nothing that can separate us from that love of God, revealed in Christ Jesus. It is of ultimate value. Those who are wise know this: that love conquers all.
And so we turn to our Gospel for today – that passage that is read each Christmas Day to remind us of the way Jesus Christ shows us God. Christ becomes human like us and so honours the material world, the creation in which God delights. This world was spoken by God into existence – remember Genesis: Then God said ... and it was made. In the beginning was the Word. The Word, the Logos, which is Wise beyond our human understanding. Ancient wisdom is in that word, the Word who is with God, who is God.
And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth.
If we imagine all the galaxies, known and unknown, stretching over vast expanses of space. The tiniest nano-particle, a quark, a neutrino – too small to be seen, but detectable all the same. Imagine all the advances of science, in any direction, small or great; of the boundless extent of all there is. Or contemplate the inner life of humanity, the heights and depths of the human heart and mind. The most sublime experience we ever had. A time of overwhelming joy, moved by some wonder of the natural world, or ecstatic as we listened to a fine piece of music. Wonderful though it is, there is always more. You could say that wherever we go, as human beings, we can never come to the end of the experience of our hearts, minds, souls or strength. Whatever branch of human understanding, the ground is endless in what we can explore, the depths and heights we can reach. There is always more. That ‘more’ is the glory of the fullness of God.
This is what we can take from our readings today. If you are feeling low, or constrained, remind yourself that there is always more in God’s fullness. We can take – what can we give? We can seek to be wise, open to God in our prayers and in what we do. We can expect to be delighted, even when it’s grey and dark outside. We can give God what God wants – which is praise and worship. We can seek to fulfil the great commandment – to love God, and to love our neighbours – our fellow human beings. For then we grow in Jesus Christ, in the ancient wisdom he gives. Alleluia.
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
