Sermon at Parish Mass, Christ the King 2017

Ezekiel 34.11-16,20-24

Ephesians 1.15-23

Matthew 25.31-46

I’ve recently started reading Patrick Leigh Fermor’s travel journal, “A Time of Gifts”. Leigh Fermor is best known for his unconventional role in the Army, when he kidnapped a German General in Crete in the Second World War. But, ten years before that, as a brilliant but unruly 18-year-old dropout from education, he decided one day to walk across Europe from Holland to Constantinople, on a pound a week. “A Time of Gifts” is his account of that journey.

He set out in December, 1933, just as winter had descended on the continent. He found Holland already half familiar, its snowy landscapes and snug interiors unchanged from those known from many Dutch Master paintings viewed in London galleries. Its people were warm, friendly and hospitable, the epitome of civilization.

Then he crossed the border into Germany, and everything changed. By the winter of 1933 the Nazis had come to power. Swastikas were fluttering in the breeze, gangs of brownshirts were marching in formation, and dewy-eyed matrons gazed admiringly at portraits of Hitler in every building.

But so much seemed still the same. Incidents of outright hostility were rare, more frequent the hospitality of strangers. And, yet, kind and thoughtful people carried on as though everything was normal. They shrugged their shoulders at the antics of the Nazis, “you know what they’re like”. They didn’t seem to comprehend the magnitude of the evil that had possessed the soul of their nation.

Nazism was, in the proper sense of the word, satanic. “Satan” in the Bible is not a proper name, but a designation, “the satan”, meaning, “the accuser”. The power of accusation was what drove the Nazis, as it has driven so many other extremist ideologies before and since. We know that we are the pure and righteous people because those others are not. Jews, gays, gypsies, and others, were accused and blamed for whatever was perceived to be wrong. And those who are accused and blamed can be cast out and destroyed. Accusation ends in murder.

As we’ve been reminded in our readings for the last few Sundays, the word “apocalypse” means “unveiling”, a disclosure of the spiritual realities at work behind the scenes of world events. In that sense, the rise of the Nazis was indeed apocalyptic. And today we conclude our reading of Matthew’s Gospel with his last public teaching, the judgement of the nations, the unveiling of what has been going on through history.

And the basis on which the nations are judged is whether or not they have practiced the works of mercy. Because the works of mercy turn out in the end to have the Son of Man as their ultimate object. Christ, the Word of Creation, who has ascended to fill all things, is the standard and measure by which all things will be judged.

The nations have not known this until this moment of unveiling, “Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger?” The Son of Man has been concealed behind the veil of ordinary events and ordinary people. But mercy has always been there right on the surface, in plain view, always present, always possible. Always a choice to be made. And judgement is simply the truth of things appearing as they really are, in the light of Christ, from whom all things come and to whom they return.

The judgement reveals that there have been two ways of living: mercy; and its opposite, which is accusation. Because to refuse mercy, when we could offer it, is to cast out and condemn. It is to point to another and decide that they are not as worthy as I, they are lesser beings, less pure, less righteous, dispensable.

Mercy is the key to judgement, the measure of our actions and our worth. The judgement of the Son of Man has nothing to do with accusation. He himself is God’s mercy, come into the world to save us. Judgement is not accusation, but truth-telling, hearing and accepting the truth, beyond dispute.

Those who have lived mercifully discover, even to their surprise, that they are blessed by the Father, and inheritors of the kingdom prepared from the foundation of the world. They have lived according to mercy, and the Father’s blessing and kingdom are what mercy ultimately means.

Those who have lived according to accusation, however, discover that they are accursed, destined for the fire prepared for the devil and his angels. Which is surely a metaphor for what accusation does to the accuser, the misery of being consumed by hatred and the desire to cast out and destroy.

Judgement, then, is the unveiling of mercy as the measure of all things, because all things relate to Christ, who is mercy; and therefore judgement is also the unveiling of accusation as something that has nothing to do with God at all.

That should be a caution for us in how we read this story. Because it’s tempting to look at the two groups, the sheep and the goats, the righteous and the accursed, and ask ourselves, “where am I in this picture”. And it might be even more tempting to ask where other people are. Especially the people we don’t like or disapprove of. Who do we want to number among the goats?

If we do that, we are in danger of reading this according to a standard of accusation rather than of mercy. And that is to read this story exactly wrong. The judgement of the Son of Man tells us that it is not our task to separate humanity into the righteous and the accursed. Our task is to be merciful to the very least, whoever they are, without distinction.

If we choose not to do that, we are in danger of finding ourselves in the group we don’t want to be in. Part of the tragedy of Nazi Germany was that it became a nation that thought it knew who were the righteous, and who were the accursed, and acted accordingly, with terrible consequences. To live by accusation is to reject mercy. And in denying mercy to others, we reject it for ourselves too.

To live according to mercy is also to come under Christ’s judgement. But, received in mercy, his judgement brings a light that enables us to be truthful, and confess our sins, as the truth of Christ discloses them to us. Because, yes, we have all been merciful to some. But we have also not been merciful to others. So which are we in – the sheep, or the goats? Honest confession makes it impossible to say even where we belong, let alone to distinguish between others and ourselves.

The judgement of Christ should not bring us despair, but, rather, hope, because it is founded on mercy. 

The judgement of the nations is a story of the end, the final fulfilment when Christ will appear as the origin, meaning and end of all things. But it is a story told for the benefit of those who are not yet at the end. We are still in this in-between time, the time of mercy, the time of grace. Or, if I may borrow Patrick Leigh Fermor’s title, the time of gifts. All options are still open. This is the time when we can learn to hear and tell the truth, so the truth will not surprise us when it is unveiled at the end. It is the time given to us precisely so that we can discover God’s mercy towards us in Jesus, and so repent of our sins, and learn to be merciful to others ourselves.

Sermon at Parish Mass, The Second Sunday before Advent 2017

Zephaniah 1.7,12-18

1 Thessalonians 5:1-11

Matthew 25.14-30

Today’s Gospel reading is the second of the three last parables of Jesus. With them he closes his teaching ministry, that began in Galilee and has brought him all the way to Jerusalem in what will turn out to be Holy Week, culminating in his death and resurrection. After his resurrection Jesus will ascend into heaven, leaving his disciples with the farewell task to go into all the world and make disciples of all nations.

These three last parables of Jesus then are preparing the disciple for this new time which is about to begin, the time of Jesus’ visible absence, and how they are to live in it.

The first of these stories was the parable of the wise and foolish bridesmaids that we heard last week, which warned the disciples to stay awake and alert to what God was doing in Jesus. Today’s parable, the story of the talents, is about what servants are to do while their master is away. It is about how to live in this time in which we are to remain alert and awake.

Three slaves, then, are entrusted with their master’s property, each according to his ability. A considerable amount is given to them on trust: a talent is a measure of weight, around 35 kilograms, of either silver or gold. So these slaves are entrusted with at least tens of thousands of pounds, possibly millions.

It is not, however, the amount of money, but what they do with it, that matters. Two go off and trade. That’s risky business of course. Financial watchdogs warn consumers that investments can go down as well as up. But, nothing ventured, nothing gained. They double their money, are entrusted with even more, and are invited into the joy of their master.

The third slave does what Jesus’ audience actually might have expected him to do: he buries the money to keep it safe. He was afraid of the master, but he was also trying to treat the gift he has received as his own possession, something that, if it was used, would be used up. All he can see is his own loss. The tragedy for him is that, in trying to turn a gift into a possession, he does indeed lose everything. He stays trapped in his own fear.

The slaves’ different experiences of their master reflect their own assumptions and actions. Those who receive a gift as a gift, and know it cannot be held on to, respond with open and generous hearts. The gain that they make is not for themselves, but for their master; therefore they can enter into his joy. The one who began in his own fear and loss remains there, experiencing only his own ungenerosity.

Behind this is a theme common to many of the parables: the two different imaginations or mindsets in which we can live. There is the imagination bounded by death and loss, which seeks to hold on to the little it has got, and ends up trapped in the darkness of its own fear. Then there is the imagination of God in whom there is no death, and whose generosity we can therefore trust absolutely. We learn that we do not need to hold on to anything, because we are held by One who will not let us go. The imagination of God in whom there is no death opens to us the joy of our master.

The message of the parables is that it is possible to pass from one imagination to the other, from death to life, from possession to gift, from holding on to being held, from fear to joy. And the name of the journey from one to the other is repentance.

The disciples have been given great treasures on trust. Salvation in Christ, and a place in God’s Kingdom. The apostles moreover have received the gift of authority to build the Church, and on the night of Maundy Thursday will be given the Eucharist and the Priesthood to feed and sanctify the Church to the end of time.

All of these are gifts to be used for their master, for Jesus, for his gain and growth. None of them can be used without risk. Those who seek to save their life will lose it. Opposition and persecution await those who are faithful to Christ. Yet they will enter into the joy of their master.

One Apostle, Judas, will indeed try to turn the gifts of Christ into his own possession, and in so doing will lose everything. Closed in upon himself, caught in his own fear and darkness, he cannot see the joy that awaits faithful disciples.

The gifts of Christ are given to the Church to be used until the end of time, for his glory, not as our possession. If we try to secure what we have got, we will lose it, for we can only receive the gifts of God with generous and open hearts. Gift and possession are mutually exclusive.

A Church that is open and generous, turned out towards the world, carrying on with the tasks that Jesus gave us, is a joyful Church. But a Church that is turned in on itself, fearful about its own internal concerns, is like the slave who was too afraid to trade with his master’s property, and so lost everything.

We have all received the gift of being called to be disciples of Jesus. Grace, salvation, a place in his Kingdom, are promised us. But these are given to us so that they can be given to others too. And within the Church we have all received different gifts, to be used for others, to build up the whole. If we receive these with faith in the One who gives great gifts, and will not fail us, this will be a joyful task.

In this in between time, however long it lasts, we are to carry on doing the work that Jesus has given us to do, which is simple: worship and prayer, the proclamation of the Gospel, loving our enemies, serving Christ in others. In all this we are to be forgetful of ourselves, and not reckon risk, for those who learn to be totally dependent on the generosity of God know that in the end there is nothing to risk at all.

The first of the three final parables of Jesus taught us to be awake and alert for what God is doing in Jesus. The second teaches us to carry on doing the work that he gave us to do in this time of waiting, with open and generous hearts. The final story in this triptych of parables is about the value and ultimate meaning of this present time. That is the story of the sheep and the goats, and we will hear that next week.

Sermon at Parish Mass, the Third Sunday before Advent 2017

Wisdom 6:12-16

1 Thessalonians 4:13-18

Matthew 25:1-13

“Keep awake”, says Jesus, “for you know neither the day nor the hour.” The day or the hour of what? A crucial question. How we answer that will affect how we read this parable. What are the bridesmaids waiting for?

What happened before today’s reading is that Jesus has taught the disciples privately that great catastrophe and suffering is coming, but he has also taught them about the mysterious “coming of the Son of Man” and the “end of the age”. This is called the “apocalyptic” section of Matthew, from the Greek word “apocalypse” which means “unveiling”; it is about revealing the spiritual realities going on behind the appearances of world events.

This is what the bridesmaids are waiting for, in today’s story. In the immediate future, there will be catastrophe and suffering. But behind these events there is also the “coming of the Son of Man”, or, more accurately, the “presence of the Son of Man”. The Greek word “parousia” means a royal presence, a manifestation like a King appearing before his people.

The catastrophe that is coming is two-fold. In the first place, it is the death of Jesus. Just three days after this teaching Jesus will be crucified. The death of the Son of God will be, in Jesus’ own words, a suffering that has not been known from the beginning of the world. He speaks also of “the desolating sacrilege”, the violation of God’s living temple that is his body.

And yet, behind this, is the “coming of the Son of Man”, his royal presence. Jesus, the Lord, through his death and resurrection, is acting to save his people. The need to be aware of this, to be awake, to see, is urgent. The disciples must have the lamps of their understanding lit if they are not to miss what God is doing in Jesus.

But beyond this, on another level, Jesus speaks of earthly catastrophes. He foretold the destruction of Jerusalem in AD 70, a recent and traumatic event for the disciples who first read Matthew’s written account. Jesus spoke also of wars, natural disasters, persecutions, of false teachers and cosmic signs in the heavens. These are catastrophic events that every generation has known. But, importantly, Jesus tells us that these are not the “coming” or the “presence” of the Son of Man. These are things that will happen, but in the midst of them we must remain attentive to Jesus, for he is doing something different. The lamps of our spiritual understanding must remain lit.

The message of the wise bridesmaids is the need to stay faithful and attentive to Jesus, even in the middle of disaster and war and the world falling apart. This was a given, for the community of Matthew’s Gospel, who had survived the terrible destruction of Jerusalem and the massacre of its defenders. And it is a given for disciples in every generation since.

We remember today the horror and heroism of two world wars and other conflicts besides, both the unconstrained outbreak of grave moral evil and the courageous endurance, the struggle to restore peace and justice, the sacrifices that so many made. At other times in our history, plague, famine and war have ravaged this country as they have all others. In the future, who knows what might come about if, for instance, global warming causes huge movements of people in desperate search of food and water?

Whatever happens, the watchword of disciples is to stay awake, and be attentive to Jesus. His coming, his presence, is always something happening now. His ascension has taken from us his visible presence, but he has ascended to fill all things; his presence is now more universal and more immediate. The Bible speaks of the Body of Christ being present in the Church, in the Eucharist and in the Cosmos, the veil of creation both concealing and revealing the Word though whom all things were made.

There will be, undoubtedly, an end of the age, when the whole universe in bondage to decay will be set free and know the glorious liberty of the children of God. Then Christ will be all in all, his presence or “parousia” fully realised as all things are transformed into the incorruptible Kingdom of God.

But his presence is also an immediate reality now, albeit one that is not seen. Faith is needed to perceive Jesus in this present moment and its events and needs. Our lamps need to be lit so that we can see. Because, whether we see or not, Christ is present anyway. He is present in judgement in every human society and action. Every moral choice we make refers in the end to Christ as its ultimate object. He is above all both Creator and Redeemer at work in the world he has made. Faith therefore gives us hope, even in the darkest times and the most terrible of trials.

For Christians, remembrance, such as we observe today in relation to the sacrifices and victims of war, cannot be separated from the great act of remembrance that Jesus has given us in the Eucharist, by which we proclaim his coming, his presence, and his saving death and resurrection to the end of time.

Do this to re-member me, said Jesus. Remembering is the opposite of dismembering, putting back together the broken body of humanity and the world as we break and offer the bread that is the Body of Jesus, who died and is risen. We name those of this parish who died in war at the altar today. Not hopelessly, not in pointless regret, but faithfully. Keeping alive the flame of faith in the act of remembering that reveals to us the redeeming presence of Christ even in the worst that can happen.

One of the prayers that the Church of England uses as we offer the elements for the Eucharist expresses this hope:

As the grain once scattered in the fields

and the grapes once dispersed on the hillside

are now united on this table in bread and wine,

so, Lord, may your whole Church soon be gathered together
from the corners of the earth

into your kingdom.

That comes from the ancient Syrian Liturgy of Saint James. As with the Eucharistic elements, so it is with the Church, even with those whose bodies lie scattered and forgotten on foreign fields. All will be gathered together in the re-membering of Christ, becoming his body as the resurrection opens the new creation to all.

We will remember them. Yes, we will, because, Jesus does. The Church on earth pleads before the Father his redeeming work, his saving presence in the Cosmos, in the people he has gathered into his Church, in the Eucharist by which we become what we receive, his living Body gathered together from the corners of the earth into his kingdom. Stay awake, then, keep your lamps lit, for the salvation of the world is happening now.