Sunday 22 April 2018

Fourth Sunday of Easter 2018



Central to the message proclaimed by the apostles was the news that God had raised Jesus from the dead. Because of this message, they found themselves imprisoned and under genuine threat of death, instigated by the Sadducees, who did not believe in the resurrection. But there are plenty of people who don’t believe in resurrection. They might ridicule us, dismiss us as delusional, even think us wicked for holding out false hope to vulnerable people; but no one is calling for members of the Church of England to be sent to prison for declaring in the Creed that ‘We look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come’. So why were the Sadducees so motivated? To answer his, we need to understand what resurrection meant.

The most explicit reference to resurrection in the writings we know as the Old Testament is found in a vision recorded in Daniel chapter 12. The context is this. God’s people were serially unfaithful, resulting in repeated cycles of judgement, repentance, restoration, turning away from God, and repeat. They had even been taken away into exile; would return, rebuild the temple—eventually—but once again, having re-established themselves, would prove unfaithful. And so, God would withdraw his hand of protection yet again, allowing the Greeks to overwhelm Jerusalem, desecrate the temple, and put to death many Jews who remained faithful even unto death. In this context, Daniel has a vision in which many are raised from the dead. It is not a universal resurrection, but one that acts as a sign of the renewal and restoration of God’s people following judgement. Those who had been faithful unto martyrdom would be raised to honour; while representatives of those who had brought destruction on Jerusalem would be raised to shame. Resurrection, then, is a sign, first of judgement of the people as a whole; and then of vindication for a faithful remnant. Significantly, Matthew’s Gospel notes that at the moment Jesus died, the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom (prefiguring its destruction) and the tombs were opened and many bodies of the saints who had fallen asleep (died) were raised (Matthew 27:51, 52).

Jesus’ favourite way of speaking of his own death and resurrection—both before his death and after his resurrection—was to quote Hosea, who paints a picture of God having torn and struck down his people, yet counsels repentance, for ‘After two days he will revive us; on the third day he will raise us up, that we may live before him’ (Hosea 6:2). And Jesus also cites Jonah, the prophet who spent three days and nights in the belly of a big fish: a prophet, representing Israel, judged for being unfaithful, and then restored, to declare God’s judgement on Nineveh, that is on one of the surrounding nations, an enemy of God’s people. Again, the significance of death and resurrection is judgement (, renewal,) and vindication.

Jesus’ death and resurrection are to be understood, in the light of the prophets, as notice of an imminent destruction of Jerusalem followed by the vindication of those who remained faithful to God—those who recognised that God had sent Jesus to them. In short, notice has been served on the social order over which the priestly class ruled, with the strong implication that in the new world order they would be replaced by this rabble of uneducated northern fishermen. That is what was so offensive to the Sadducees; so dangerous a message that it must be silenced at all costs. But the message came to pass, in the siege of Jerusalem and destruction of the temple in AD70, the collapse of their world, and the emergence of something else from the rubble: a Christian community spreading across the Empire like wildfire; and a Jewish community centred on the synagogue and not the temple.

We have domesticated the resurrection. We have made it about my personal continuation beyond death; my being reunited with members of my family. But while I believe that I will sleep with my ancestors and, when God makes the whole world new, we shall be raised imperishable, this is secondary to the biblical narrative (and it certainly won’t get me imprisoned). Interestingly, in the service for the burial of the dead in the Book of Common Prayer—the rite by which all Church of England funerals were conducted from 1662 until 1980—the deceased is not once mentioned by name, nor is there any pastoral acknowledgement of their family. The focus is entirely on the rightful judgement of God on humanity, and on God’s provision for the vindication of the elect, even beyond death, through Jesus Christ our mediator and redeemer.

This is, in effect, the story of the Great Flood, and of God’s instruction to Noah to build an ark, to preserve life so that the world can begin again. It is the story of the Passover. It is there in Jesus’ image of a hired hand who flees at the first sign of danger, and the Good Shepherd who lays down his life for the sheep and takes it up again. It is the same story repeated over again in the Bible. A story that reveals certain consistent truths about what God—specifically, the god Yahweh—is like.

Firstly, we are invited to see God at work to bring judgement, through the disasters that befall us, both ‘natural disasters’ and war. This is incredibly difficult for us, because we want to present a god of love, not wrath; because we are appalled at the way in which ‘the innocent’ are most impacted by disaster and those ‘most guilty’ are least affected; and because of the danger of claiming that ‘God is on our side’ to justify gross injustice. And yet the world is so full of injustice, at the deepest level we need a God who will not stand by. We need a God who is slow to anger, yes; but who will say, Enough! The irony is that we place more hope in the rough justice of the mob than in the considered judgement of God: as a society we are truly a Good Friday people. Disaster does not come from the hand of God, but from God withdrawing his hand, for a time, and for a purpose: and that might help us to reframe the events we hear of in the news, from a narrative of fear to a narrative of faith and hope and love.

Secondly, we are invited to see God at work to provide for mercy, to bring a community through The End Of The World As They Know It and out the other side. A community that is so small it can never say, “We survived because of our strength, or our effort.” A community that gets to say, “We have lost everything that was familiar and comforting, and in our disorientation and discomfort we hold on to the faithfulness of God.”

And thirdly, we are invited to see judgement and vindication, death and resurrection, as demonstrating God’s steadfast lovingkindness and covenanted commitment to all creation. It is a matter on which God has staked her reputation, for us to discover. The faithful community is for the world, because God is for the world.

Our Persian community is a sign to us of death and resurrection. But I think we need to note that they are here, in our midst. They are not simply a sign that God will bring about change in Iran, but that God will bring about change here in the UK. They are part of a great mass of displaced people who are a sign that God is once again going to judge the nations in great upheaval; and, in preparation, is calling people into a community of grace, a community of trusting, costly faithfulness; whose vindication will be seen (only) on the other side of what is heading our way.

Now, I have conversations with many of you. I listen to you; and I know that many of you are afraid at present—and understandably so. I know that there are older members of our congregation who fear for your grandchildren, for the state of the world they must grow up in, which appears to be more unstable than it has been in a long time. Although that may have more to do with perception than reality. I know that there are members of our congregation who cannot bear to watch or read any news at present, because it is so bleak. I know it is not only the elderly who are afraid: I know that there is a widespread hysteria among the pupils at my boys’ school that the world is going to end imminently in a nuclear holocaust; I know that even the less excitable are exercised by bullying, or the massive uncertainties of a post-Brexit future. I know that many of our Iranians live with the fear that they will be refused leave to remain in this country, and that they will be deported. I know that some of you are fearful regarding what we, collectively and especially in the West, are doing to the environment.

Such fears should be taken seriously. There is no reason, for example, why we should not see what has overtaken Syria in recent years, overtaking our own cities; let alone our capacity to sabotage the economy. Only a false prophet cries, “Peace! Peace! All will be well!” when there is no peace. Nevertheless, we are not called to fear, but to faith and hope and love. We—together, helping one another—look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come—in history, first and foremost, as well as ultimately beyond that horizon.

And so my word to you today, on this the Fourth Sunday of Easter, is: Jesus. Look to Jesus. Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, put to death by human hands and raised to life by God. Jesus, who takes up in his body the judgement and the vindication of God, rejected by men of power but made the keystone that locks judgement and mercy in position. Jesus, in whose name alone there is salvation. His name: not in my name, nor in neo-liberal philosophy and politics and economics. Look to Jesus, who, on the day God raised him from the dead stood among his disciples and said, “Peace be with you!” and, “Do not be afraid!”—look to Jesus, who still does.

Sunday 8 April 2018

Second Sunday of Easter 2018



The BP Portrait Award 2017 is currently on tour at the Sunderland Museum & Winter Gardens (24/03/18-10/06/18). As you would expect from a major competition showcasing ‘outstanding and innovative new portraits from around the world’ some of the work is breath-taking. I could stand in front of them for hours, leaning in close to examine some detail or other, and stepping back to take in the whole. Over again I found that one detail lifted the whole: a woman’s steely-blue eyes; a man’s tousled white hair; the bare knees of an older man and a younger woman.

Though there were a few commissions, many of the portraits were of neighbours, housemates, lovers, or family-members: labours of love. One artist had painted his eighty-year-old father, attempting to capture all that lived experience in oil on board. The deep crease between slightly-watering owlish eyes, framed by wiry brows above and puffy bags below; the liver-spotted dome of skull exposed to the elements by a receding hairline; the pendulous nose: broken veins, and open pores, and nasal hair; the pursed lips, and jowly cheeks; the little flecks of dried blood where he had scraped the skin while shaving; dark hairs the razor had missed. A kindly face, well-worn, and dearly-loved. I want to meet this man.




Our readings today are of bodily events. God tells the elderly man, Moses, ‘stretch out your hand over the sea and divide it’. A hand that, a lifetime ago, had been raised in anger to kill a man. A hand that had become rough, and later worn-smooth, and quite possibly gnarled, through herding sheep.

Jesus—the nail-marked, spear-marked man—tells the young man, Thomas, ‘reach out your hand and put it in my side’. On the one hand, Thomas is curious; on the other hand, cautious. He is hardly alone.

And in the description of the acts of the early church, we see people laying money at the apostles’ feet—feet that had been washed by Jesus—to be distributed—hands and feet working together—to each person as was their need.

Our bodies matter to God. We’re told that the creative Word of God became flesh, and, though that is a way of describing something utterly unique, there is a sense in which for each of us, made in God’s likeness, our stories are written in our flesh.

Some of us have stretch-marks and sagging bosoms, because we have given birth and breast-fed children. Some of us have missing fingers, hands, legs, lost in accidents. Some of us have operation scars, or medical inserts or attachments. Some of us have an extra chromosome. Some of us have tattoos, that speak of love or folly or significant moments. Some of us have feet twisted out of shape by having to walk across a continent to be here, with no facilities for pedicure. Some of us have fingers twisted by arthritis; or brains that are slowly unravelling. Some of us put our backs out getting out of bed in the morning, and some of us run several miles each week. Some of us wear nappies, because we are very young, or not as young as we were. Some of us are so new that our skin is a journal mostly waiting to be written; while some of us are so old that our skin speaks volumes. All of us are exquisite.

Some of us had our feet washed on the Thursday of Holy Week, and many of us stretch out our hands week-by-week to take hold of bread and wine, to receive Jesus, with reverence, yes, but as an embodied experience. And before we do that, we will share a sign of peace: hands reaching out to take hold of hands; perhaps a hug, or a kiss on the cheek. Bodies, dignified. Though, for some, an undignified interruption.

We live in a society that is both obsessed with and repelled by flesh. We cannot bear that this is the medium in which flesh-and-blood stories are carved, and so we erase those stories, as if our skin was a blackboard and our stories were written in chalk. We cut and tuck and tighten taught, until our skin looks like plastic. We moisturise those crow’s feet away. Of course, I’m not suggesting that we should not take care of our bodies; rather, that as a society, we idolise youth and demonise aging. I am convinced that inappropriate touch, especially sexual abuse, is often a response—a wholly inappropriate and unacceptable response—to our inability to embrace our own bodies and the way they are transformed over time, from the glory of youth to the glory of maturity. And despite the ways in which we have twisted the flesh, tragically within the Church as well as beyond the Church, despite and indeed all the more-so because of this, I am convinced of the healing power of non-sexual touch between us who are the body of Christ.

We are in the Season of Easter. Easter lasts not one but fifty days and offers us the opportunity to begin to get our minds—and our bodies—around the implications of the resurrection. Raised from the dead, imperishable, Jesus’ body bears witness to both continuity and change: this is clearly the same Jesus, yet he is not always immediately recognisable. Oh, and locked doors and stone walls don’t keep him out. We still await our resurrection-bodies, wait to discover the ways in which they will be both continuous and discontinuous with our present bodies (and I think the most honest answer to those questions is, we do not know). But while we wait, we are invited to see our bodies in a new light. Stretch out your hand: our bodies are our response to God, our participation in the story of God and God’s people.

The BP Portrait Award is not a testament to a dim and dusty past, but a testament to life in all its fullness. The purpose of the exhibition is to move us, by the skill of the artist to reveal the incredible beauty love confers on human beings. I strongly recommend that you pay the gallery a visit at least once before the 10th of June. And you are God’s portraits. This is God’s gallery—and after the service, the works will go on tour, all over Sunderland. To God be the glory. Amen.