A Sermon for the Third Sunday of Advent, Year B
Preached at the Church of St Columba and All Hallows,
Sunday 14 December 2008

We hear about St John the Baptist on the middle two Sundays in Advent, which might be a hint that the Baptist has something important to say to us as we prepare to celebrate the birth of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. Last week we heard of the three Advents: Christ’s coming in humility to be born at Bethlehem, his coming again in glory to judge the world, and the middle coming, when he enters our lives today. John’s call to Prepare the way of the Lord referred at first to Christ’s coming of old, the first Advent, but it now speaks to us of that middle Advent, so that by penitence and prayer we both can prepare his way to us and prepare his way to others around us. The account of John’s witness or testimony in today’s Gospel helps us to understand more about our own witness to the coming of Christ.
The Gospel passage is in two parts. The two opening verses come from the Prologue to Saint John’s Gospel, the Hymn of the Word of God coming into the World as the Light of the World It declares that John was sent from God, not to be the Light, but to bear witness to the Light. After that we jump over the great Christmas Gospel of the Word Incarnate to hear of the witness that John bore when a delegation was sent from Jerusalem to inquire into his teaching, and, putting it bluntly, to ask Who do you think you are? It would be easy to think that this inquiry proceeded from malice as if they were trying to trap John and destroy him, as was later done to Jesus. But it was not necessarily so. If the religious authorities at Jerusalem (whom St John calls “the Jews”, v. 19) sent to inquire into John’s ministry, it was because they had the clear duty of investigating anyone who went about claiming to be a prophet and judge whether they were true or false. Since John’s preaching and his call to a baptism of repentance had stirred up the whole countryside and, as .St Luke informs us, “all questioned in their hearts concerning John, whether perhaps he were the Christ”, it would have been as wicked for them not to investigate his mission as it was, later to reject his message.
So their question, Who are you? meant in part, Do you claim to be the promised Messiah? Messiah means the Anointed one; in Greek the word is Christos, our Christ. To explain everything that the word meant in the time of Jesus would be more of a lecture than is helpful for preaching. The idea had both religious and political implications, and it is perhaps enough for us to note that not the least reason a claim to be Messiah was dangerous was that it would bring down the power of Rome. So we can understand that they would ask, Are you the Christ? That at any rate is the question John answered. He confessed, and he did not deny, but he confessed, I am to the Christ So they asked whom he claimed to be. What then, Are you Elijah, are you the Prophet? The coming of Elijah before the Day of the Lord was foretold in the third chapter of Malachi, while Deuteronomy 18 spoke of the coming a prophet like Moses. Both of these figures were associated with the fevered expectations of the people. Jesus in his time was also associated with this prophet (John 6.14, 7.40). When John denied this, they were perplexed: Who are you then? We have to say something to those who sent us! At this he gave the answer that is familiar to us from the other Gospels, “I am the voice crying in the wilderness”. This was not a help to the delegation, Why then do you baptize, if you are no one in particular? Now he could bear witness to the one to come after, whose sandals he was not worthy to untie. To loosen the sandal was beneath the dignity even of a humble disciple, for it was said, “Every service which a servant will perform for his master, a disciple will do for his Rabbi, except loosing his sandal thong.”
More of John’s witness than this is recorded in the fourth Gospel, and we should particularly bear keep chapter 3 verses 26-30 in mind as we read today’s Gospel,. In it we hear that John’s disciples come to tell him that Jesus was baptizing and that “everyone was going to him”. Then John reminded them that he had born witness, I am not the Christ, but I was sent before him. The friend of the bridegroom rejoices when he hears the bridegroom’s voice; therefore this joy of mine is full. He must increase but I must decrease.
John rejoiced that people went from him to Jesus; he must increase, but I must decrease. He knew that he was nothing in himself but God’s messenger to call folk to Christ. there can be no clearer message for us. God did not call us into the Church so that our neighbours can see how good we are, or to hear our voices or our ideas; he called us so that we can point to Jesus, bring peoples’ attention to him. But how often we get in the way. If it is not because we want to make people look at us, it is because we do things that make them look at us, and distract them from Christ. At worst, the things Christians do hinder love of Christ, their sins, their quarrels. But we prayed this morning that God would remove from us those things that hinder love of him.
In the eleven days left until Christmas let us ask as simple question: is there something I am doing that I one of the things that hinders the love of God? Do I somehow get in the way, so that my neighbours see and hear not Christ but me? Are we as a Church pointing to Christ, or are we pointing to ourselves. I am not going to answer these questions —I can’t answer these questions; I only know that a person or Church who does not regularly ask these questions is in great danger of being a hindrance. It is not enough just to ask the question; we must know what to do to point away from ourselves, to sit down, as it were, and stop blocking everyone else’s view. The answer begins, as always in prayer.
Assuming that you all pray regularly each day, if not necessarily “without ceasing”, it is very important to ask the Lord to make himself known to you. There is no one way of doing this; it may be enough, after saying the Lord’s prayer, and the usual daily ACTS of prayer to repeat some such verse of the Gospel, as “Lord I believe, help thou my unbelief” trusting that he will increase you faith and knowledge; or simply to ask the Lord for this in faith, each day. Such prayer is the first step to turning from self and knowing the Lord so that you can point to him. Then we in our day and our community can be like John, finding our true joy as Christ increases, but perhaps not even caring if we decrease, as long as we are with him.

A Sermon for the Second Sunday of Advent, Year B
The Church of St Columba and All Hallows’, East York, Toronto
Sunday, 7th December, 2008

Before I say anything about the Gospel and readings for today, I hope that you will allow me to say briefly how pleased I am to be with you as your interim Priest in Charge. This is a new situation for me; so new that I have not yet been informed of the terms of my appointment. and know so little of the practical aspects that it is very much an act of faith. Oh, well, what matters most in priestly ministry is coming to the heart of the Christian life: the worship of God in beauty and decency, the celebration of the sacraments and the preaching of the word. It is my prayer that I may attend to this among you to the best of my ability. No more on that now, save to ask for your prayers that I may serve and minister as Christ would have me do as long as I am here.
It is the second Sunday of Advent, that time of preparation for Christmas that is so familiar in churches that follow the liturgical Calendar and so foreign and strange to the rest of society and even many Christians of a less traditional bent. In wisdom gained from the experience of centuries, the Church teaches us not to jump into the celebration of Christ’s birth, but to take time to ponder the meaning of his coming and prepare ourselves to hear and rejoice. The truth is that the more we prepare the deeper will be our joy on Christmas Day.
The four Sundays in Advent help us to ask one simple question that lies at the heart of our Christmas preparation: the question is “what Child is this?” On the first Sunday we look ahead to the second coming, in glory and behold the cosmic and eternal significance of the Christ Child. This is no mere baby, and our worship at the creche cannot be just a sentimental tenderness, or a devotion to a God who never grows up. This is the one who will confront evil and defeat it, the one weho has the right to judge the world. On the Second and Third Sundays we see the forerunner, John the Baptist, and hear his testimony: he proclaims that the Child born at Christmas is the one who will baptize with Fire and the Holy Spirit, who will call his people to turn around and begin a new life. John called the people to make themselves ready for the coming of the Lord. He also declared that the one who was coming would take away the sins of the whiole worl. On the Fourth Sunday we hear how Joseph and Mary learned that their child was the promised Lord, the Son of God, and here we see how the Lord of all entered into the tenderness and love of a human family.
Thus in Advent it is clear why we meditate on the Coming of the Lord long foretold by the prophets and in the Psalms, and why we look ahead to the second coming; it is clear, too, why we hear the stories of Mary and Joseph that will lead us to hear the story of Bethlehem, for that is the story of the first Coming. Why do we spend so long on John the Baptist? Surely we could hear his teaching during the year, or even at Epiphany, when we celebrate the Lord’s Baptism!
The answer here, my friends, is that there are really three advents, not only two. Let me read you some words from the fifth Advent Sermon of St Bernard of Clairvaux,

We know that there are three comings of the Lord. The third lies between the other two; it is invisible, while the other two are visible. In the first coming he was seem on earth, dwelling among me; he himself testifies that they saw him and hated him [John 15.24]. In the final coming all flesh will see the salvation of our God [Luke 3.6; Isaiah 40], and they will look on him whom they pierced [John 19.37] The intermediate coming is a hidden one.

This coming is hidden because only those who answer the call know the presence of Christ within themselves, and recognize him in the needy and suffering. Bernard goes on to say.

In his first coming our Lord came in our flesh and in pour weakness; in this middle coming he comes in spirit and in power; in the final coming he will be seen in glory and majesty … Because this coming lies between the other two, it is like a road on which we travel from the first coming to the last. In the
first, Christ was our redemption; in the last, he will appear as our life; in this middle coming, he is our rest and consolation.

OurLord Christ himself promised this intermediate Advent. He said: If anyone lives me, he will keep my words, and my Father will love him, and we will come to him and make our home with him [John 14.23].
When we understand the middle Advent we may more easily see why we need to hear John’s preaching in the Advent season. For if Christ is to come to us as he has promised, we must hear John’s call to repentance, that is, to turning around, to changing one’s mind, for that is what repentance means. John spoke to the people of his day and said: You hope for the Messiah to come and lead you from this wilderness into God’s kingdom? well, then, make yourselves ready; show yourselves to be the kind of people who want to live in God’s kingdom. He says the same thing to us. You rejoice that your Lord and Saviour has come to you? well, then, live like the people who follow the Crucified and Risen Lord. We heard this in the reading from Second Peter this morning: since Christ will come to judge the world, what sort of people ought you to be.
How far many Christians are from these questions. Many see themselves as pretty well all right, no worse than most, and all they want from God is some help and security. Just look after me and let my life go on as normal, is their prayer. For them, as Pope Benedict remarked last week, the coming of Christ is like “a beautiful decoration upon a world already saved” rather than what it truly is, “the only way of liberation” from the mortal danger, from the consequences of human sin that we see in violence and oppression around the world. The coming of Christ is God’s answer to the cry for help that the peoples of the world send up. Just how this is is something that we can only truly know by entering into his life, and allowing him into ours. For as John Baptist tells us our minds need to changed and our footsteps turned to follow the path of Christ. Our faith cannot be just business as usual and a pretty Baby at Christmas.
Those who know that the Christian life is not just business as usual are trying evey day to follow Christ; they have knowledge and experience that he helps them with his love and strength, they know the middle Advent. They know the true meaning and joy of Christmas and are able to share it with those around them. I invite you to make the eighteen or so days left a time of preparing, and welcoming the Lord Jesus, who so much wants to come to you.

All Souls' Day Homily

After the All Souls' Day Requiem a number of people spoke kindly of the homily and suggested that it shoudl be published here. Although the written text is a only a shadow of the Homily as it was spoken, here it is.

Homily for All Souls’ Day
Preached at the Solemn Requiem,
at St Matthias, Bellwoods,
5 November 2008

Once upon a time you might expect to find among the books of a literate Church-goer a volume called

The Rule and Exercises of Holy Dying, in which are described the Means and Instruments of Preparing ourselves and others respectively for a blessed Death; and the Remedies against the Evils and Temptations Proper to the State of Sickness.

This was published in 1651 by the great pastor and theologian Jeremy Taylor. I don’t know what devotional books Churchpeople have and use nowadays; too great a variety is available, but I would guess they would be less likely to include one on preparation for death, for our world has a tendency to avoid thinking of death, a tendency that the Church hasn’t quite avoided. We speak less of death than we used to, and certainly we speak less about death as the one thing for which eveyone has to prepare, especially all Christians. [As recently as when I was in my teens it was still remembered that the major theme of preaching in Advent was the Four Last Things: Death, Judgement, Hell and Heaven. But who thinks of that now?] Fortunately here are moments when we have to think of death—in Holy Week, at funerals, and now, at All Hallows’ tide..
So here we are at one of those moments when we face the fact of death, and, lo! and behold, this is not the time to address preparation for death; this is the time to remember the faithful departed; those whom we love but see no longer. Nonetheless this commemoration, by calling us to remember the departed, is a part of preparing for a good death. Quite naturally it calls us to ponder death and the nature of death: What is it? What does the Christian faith say about death? What do we mean by life after death? How does the concepts of the immortality of the soul relate to faith in the Resurrection of the Body? What is the use of prayer for the dead? All these are important questions, but the last is probably the one we most need to ask on All Soul’s Day.
In Christian history, the practice of prayer for the departed came to be wrapped up in particular doctrines about what happens to the dead, particularly the doctrine of Purgatory. At the time of the Reformation, these doctrines in turn were mixed up in what seemed to be a money-making scheme of vast proportions. In our Anglican Tradition, most formal prayer for the departed was taken out of the liturgy. We do not need to discuss these disputes now, for in Christian experience Prayer for the departed is not part of the doctrine of Purgatory, it is something far deeper: it is a real experience of fellowship in the Body of Christ. The truth of this comes clear if we begin with the words of our Lord in the Gospel we just heard:

This is the will of him who sent me, that I should lose nothing of all that he has given me, but raise it up on the last day. For this is the will of my Father, that every one who sees the Son and believes in him should have eternal life; and I will raise him up at the last day. John 6.39-40

What a wonderful promise this is, that those who come to Christ in faith will not be cast out, will be raised up, will have eternal life. This is the ground of our assurance that whatever it is like for those who pass through it, death is not a separation from the love and life of Jesus Christ the Risen Lord. We hear the same assurance in words from the Letter to the Romans that are read at almost all Christian funerals

I am persuaded that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other created thing, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord. Romans 8.38., 39

Now we are assured that Baptism has made us members of Christ’s one body and in that body members of one another. Therefore none of these things—death, life, angels, height, depth and all the rest—can separate us from one another in Christ. Death does not break the communion and fellowship of the Church. As Eric Mascall put it, we enter the Church by baptism; we do not leave it by death. So it is as natural that we should pray for fellow members of Christ who have died as we should those we see every day. After all, we are members of the Lord who died and conquered death.
What specifically whould we ask for when we pray for the dead? That is easy—look in your Prayer Book or Book of Alternative Services (and if you don’t have copies of you own you really should) where will find good models to use. These are prayers founded on trust in the love of God, prayers that make no other assumptions about the condition of the dead. The Collect we used today is a good example:

Father of all, we pray to you for those we love but see no longer. Grant them your peace; let light perpetual shine upon them, and in your loving wisdom and almighty power, work in them the good purpose of your perfect will; through Iesus Christ Our Lord, who lives, &c.

This can be adapted for personal use. So you might say, “We [or I] pray to you for [Name], whom we love but see no longer; Grant him your peace,” and so on. The 23rd Psalm might be used in a similar way (The Lord is N's shepherd, she shall not want, and so on).
There are many other questions we could raise, but will not now. At another time we must all learn more of what the Church teaches about Death, and how we can prepared for it. Not all knowledge comes by study, or even by asking questions; we learn to know one another by speanding time together; and we learn to be members of Christ by spending time in the life and worship of his body the Church. This present is the moment not to ask any more questions, but to enter into the Church’s prayer for her departed members, those you know and love and those unknown who are still members of Christ with you. It is th emoment to experience the life which begins in Baptism but does not end with death. Perhaps from this experience we will all come to know a little more clearly the fact that death is not a separation, and that as we draw closer to Christ Jesus, the conqueror of death, we draw closer to those we love in him, and trust that it is not forever that we do not see them.

A Homily for the Feast of Dedication

5 October 2008,
St Matthias’, Bellwoods, Toronto

“How awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven.” (Genesis 28.17)

Long before folk knew that the earth turned, they spoke of the year turning. And they were right, for no matter what the reason for it might be, the year does turn: the seasons have one after the other, winter, spring, summer, and autumn, and then the whole cycle turns back to begin once again. For this reason the old Romans called the celebration to mark something that happened every year the anniversarius, the turn of the year. So you can see, by the way, how silly it is to speak of a “three-month anniversary” (how can a year turn so soon?), and how redundant to say “one-year anniversary”, instead of the simple “first anniversary”. But I digress. We celebrate the anniversaries of many important things: the anniversaries of weddings, of ordinations, of births and deaths, and of the dedication of our churches. It is as if this place and this building came to life on the day the bishop declared that it was consecrated, set apart from profane and common use, and dedicated “to Almighty God for the ministration of his holy Word and Sacraments, and for public worship.”
Although we aren’t keeping the real anniversary of the consecration we didn’t just pick this Sunday at random. Long ago churches kept this festival on the real anniversaries and they kept them exuberantly, as parish revels, but the time came when the English government started to get worried about the number of holidays people had, and probably about how they couldn’t work well the next day, and possibly about the lower classes having that much fun, and twisted the arm of Convocation (that’s what they called the Church synod) to order every church to keep its dedication feast on the first Sunday in October, to get it over with all at once. Later on, this date came to be used for churches where the real date was unknown, and so everyone was happy. That’s why we keep this festival today.
The Church provides a list of suitable readings for this festival, from which we have chosen three readings and a psalm: the first reading, Genesis 28.10-17, speaks of a holy place, a place where a human being encounters the Living God; Psalm 122 sings of the joy of a pilgrim coming to the temple at Jerusalem, the centre of the worship of God’s people, and the heart the covenant. From the second chapter of the first epistle of St Peter (2-5,9-10), we hear his declaration to his readers of who they are as the Church. They are the ecclesia, the assembly, the people who have been called together by God. We may know this word best in our “ecclesiastical” or in the French église. In this passage St Peter speaks Christians as living stones, who are built on Christ the chief cornerstone into a spiritual house where acceptable sacrifices are offered to God. The House of the Lord is no longer thought of as a place you can find on a map, but as the household and family of God, held together not by nails and beams,[1] but the love of its members. The Gospel (Matthew 21.12-16) tells us of Jesus’ zeal for his Father’s house, which led him to drive out of it all that was unworthy and shaming. Today, as always, the Dedication Festival coincides with the date of the Animal Blessing, so let us look at the story of Jacob, and the idea of a holy place.
After Jacob had stolen the blessing that was due to his brother Esau, he left home to seek a wife from among his kindred in the land of Haran. On the way he stopped at a certain place for the night, taking a stone for a pillow. A vision came to him in his sleep, of a ladder or staircase uniting heaven and earth. Up and down went the holy angels running the Lord’s errands; the Lord himself spoke to Jacob, renewing his covenant to be with Jacob on his journey and to bring him back to the land of promise. When Jacob awoke he realized that unknowingly he slept in a holy place, and was awestruck: “This is none other than the house of God, this is the gate of heaven”. Because Jacob had encountered the Lord in that place that place was holy. He named it Beth-el, the house of God. When we hear this today we remember that our word church at its root means something like ‘house of the Lord’; it comes to us from the Greek κυριακον, of or pertaining to the Lord; another form is the Scots Kirk.
To read of Jacob’s encounter with God on the feast of Dedication is to be aware of similarity and difference between that house of God and this. Our churches are set apart to be houses of God in our midst, but rarely are they chosen for us, like Bethel. That was a holy place because God appeared to Jacob; most of our churches are built on land that was donated to us. We dedicate and consecrate them, that is, we offer them and set them apart to God. we encounter God in this place, both as a community and as individuals in prayer, in word and sacrament. Who knows what the encounters men and women have had with their Lord in this place?
In the liturgy of Thanksgiving for the Feast of Dedication we go to places in the church where there God has promised such encounters; to the font, where we died with Christ and were reborn through the waters of baptism; to the lectern, where we encounter the Lord through hearing his written Word; to the pulpit—in this church it may be the same object, but its function is different!—where the message and Gospel of the Cross of Christ is proclaimed, that message which gives unity to all the messages of Scripture; and to the Altar which is the Holy Table, where now we take part in the heavenly banquet that is to come, where we who can offer no worthy sacrifice are made part of Christ’s all sufficient sacrifice. When we give thanks for these things, when we consider the meaning of what font and lectern and altar, how can we not cry out, “How awesome is this place! Surely this is the house of God, this is the gate of heaven.”
Jacob went to Bethel unawares, and found that it was a holy place, the very gate of heaven. We do not come here to this Church all unknowing, as if we are surprised at God’s presence. For we were invited here and summoned, no, more, we have come here to keep a tryst, a rendezvous that our God has made with us. We have said, “we will go into the House of the Lord”; because our Lord has promised, “Where two or three are gathered together in My Name. there am I in the midst of them.” My friends, if there are any who think that these are just words, nice words perhaps, and pious sentiments, but only words; I tell you that it is not so. I pray that God will open your hearts and eyes and ears, that you may know that because of the promise of Christ This is truly the house of God, this is the gate of heaven.

Note

[1] Not until I reached this point in preaching did it strike me that it is precisely by nails and a beam that the people of God are held together, the beam and nails of the Cross. I cannot remember exactly how I said this, except that I turned and ponted to the figure of the Crucified on the Rood Screen.

Blessing your Enemies

Sermon for the Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost
Proper 22 Year A
Preached at St Matthias, Bellwoods, Toronto
31 August 2008

Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse them. Romans 12.14

Just over sixteen hundred years ago, St John Chrysostom preached a series of sermons on the Letter to the Romans. When he came to Chapter 12, verse 14, “Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse,” at the beginning of the twenty-second sermon in the series, he commented that in these words St Paul does not simply say, “be not spiteful or revengeful, but required something far better.” and that although a wise man might act without spite or vengefulness, “this is quite an angel's part.” If “to bless those who persecute you” seemed to so great a saint as Chrysostom to be “an angel’s part”, can we hope to grasp it an make it our own? But this commandment is not some clever idea of St Paul’s; it is simply a repetition of the teaching of our Lord Jesus. That we should accept persecution without spite or rancour follows from the words of the gospel, that those who would follow the Lord must «deny themselves and take up the cross». That we should go further than this and bless those who persecute us we find in the Sermon on the Mount, «But I say to you that hear, Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, pray for those who abuse you» [Luke 6.27]. If we are to follow Christ then it is clear, not only must we never return cursing for cursing, pain for pain, evil for evil. not only are we never to avenge ourselves, but we are to be good and kind and loving to those who hurt us, and to be cheerful about it. Search the Gospels as you will; you will find no exceptions.
Now what St Paul says in this passage from Romans, and what our Lord Jesus says in the Gospel, are both very clear. There is no mystery about what is asked of us. But Chrysostom was right: “this is quite an angel’s part.” For the way of the world is, if not to take vengeance for wrong done or perceived, at least to feel slighted and hurt, and to think that you would be justified to try to get your own back. To follow Christ’s way, then, means not only a new way of acting, but a new way of thinking. It means, as we heard in the reading from Romans last week, not to be conformed to this world, but to be transformed by the renewal of your mind, so that you may prove what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect [Romans 12.2].
Every time we respond to persecution, or hurt, or even the unintentional slights that come our way with anger and resentment, with cursing and ill will, we are saying to the world that the will of God is not good, not acceptable, not perfect. For the will of God is seen in Christ, who suffered himself to be abused, beaten, and finally to be crucified, without complaint, without seeking revenge If we do not do the same, we are showing that, for all the faith we profess, we are conformed to this world. Worse than that, when we resist evil with evil, we are not overcoming evil, but adding to it, adding anger and violence to the world. For vengeance never heals wrong, it merely adds a new wrong, calling forth new resentment, fuelling bitterness and rancour from one generation to another. Has a wrong been done to you? St Paul’s words and the Lord’s example tell you to leave it to God. “Vengeance is mine,” says the Lord, “I will repay.” The Lord Jesus said, “Judge not;” but all vengeance is based on judgment. All that my vengeance shows is that I do not really believe that God will take care of me. And it is a simple fact that none of us is either wise enough or good enough to punish our enemies justly.
In reality in the lives we lead here, as we try to follow Christ, we may never have to face real persecution, or even hatred for our faith in him. This is not true for all Christians; it is for the most part for us. Nonetheless we need to learn the lesson, “Bless those who persecute you.” For what we do meet are the thousand slights and wrongs, some real, some fancied. If we are not hated for being Christians we do meet personal hatred, or at least dislike. We must learn to respond graciously to the petty hurts of this life if we are to learn to bless those who hurt us, and even those who persecute us. Indeed it is only with these things that we can learn to be gracious and forgiving, with the resentment we feel for people who cut ahead in line, or in traffic; or for people who cheat us or hurt us in petty ways. The Gospel calls us to let these things go.[1]
At first this may mean — it probably does mean — acting against your instincts. It means swallowing your pride and keeping your first response to yourself. The late Father Egan, who taught patristics at Regis College, used to say, “I thank God for the gift of my stutter; it keeps me from saying the first thing that comes into my head.” Having swallowed your pride and bit your tongue, you’ve won a moment to ask yourself whether you have really been hurt, or have any real reason to be angry, or indeed, whether it really matters. You have won a moment for giving the other person the same benefit of the doubt that you expect and give yourself This should wipe away most of the cases. It is in the ones that remain, when a real wrong was done, and you have really been hurt, that the job of being transformed begins, and the angel’s part has to be learned.
Someone has done you a wrong, and they meant it. You feel angry, hurt, and resentful. But you are forbidden to curse, indeed, you are commanded to bless the one who hurt you. This is not easy, indeed, it might seem impossible, truly an angel’s part. But ask yourself: do you ever really try? Do you really try to stop yourself every time you want to repay a real or imagined hurt with hurt, or cursing with a curse? And finding it hard, do you ask God to help you, or do you just give up? As Chesterton one remarked it is not that the Christian life has been tried and found impossible, but that it seemed difficult and has not been tried. Perhaps I should say, Get out there and try to follow Christ’s teaching, and then we’ll talk about the difficulties. But sermons don’t work like that, and I need to finish with some practical words
It takes time to learn the angel’s part. The first step is to stop yourself from doing or saying the first thing that comes into your head. Most of us can manage that. If we try, most of us can manage not to curse. The next thing is to bring those feelings to God in our prayers or to a confessor or spiritual counsellor. We don’t have to keep them bottled up until they explode. Getting this far, simply not returning evil for evil is a wonderful achievement. But we are commanded to take the next step and bless the one who curses us. As we ponder this, it is helpful to remember that Christ did more than bless those who killed him; he died for them. So perhaps he is not demanding as much from us as we think.
Still, perhaps, we cannot utter a blessing on the one who hurts us. The answer is the same as always, so we do what we can. I cannot bless my enemy? Then let me pray for my enemy, pray perhaps that God will forgive him, or that he will see the error of his ways, or that he will have a better day and find a better temper. Let me pray for his good, in fact; for what else does it really mean to “bless” someone? Every time I do this, I build up the right habit of mind, I come to act more like Christ, and I trust that I by his grace I will finally come to bless my enemy. The all-important thing is to trust God and to try.

Note

[1] It is worth remembering that in Our Lord’s word from the Cross, "Father, forgive them" (Luke 23.34), the word translated "forgive" (aphes) also means, ‘let go’.

Thoughts on Miracles: II

Sermon for the Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 19, Year A)
Preached at St Matthias’ Bellwoods, 10 August 2008

Last week we heard the miracle of the loaves and fishes; we have just heard how in the small hours of a stormy night, Jesus walked on the Sea of Galilee many furlongs out from land to his disciples in a boat, and bade St Peter walk on the water as well, and saved him when he lost faith, and how when Jesus got into the boat, the storm ceased. Thus there are three miracles at least in this story, not just one. Last week’s gospel brought us to consider that there is no way around the miraculous element in the Gospel, but because this is an important matter, we will continue to think of it today. In fact to is going to take us at least into next week.
The events in these gospel readings truly fit the definition of “miracle” given by St Thomas Aquinas, quoting St Augustine:

A miracle is described as something difficult and unusual, surpassing the capabilities of nature and the expectations of those who wonder at it.[1]

We should note the words for what we call “miracles” that are used in the New Testament. The first is τέρατα, ‘wonders’ or ‘prodigies’; in this word the astonishment of the beholders is applied to the deed itself. This word is the closest to our word “miracle” which comes from the Latin mirari, to be astonished. It is never used alone, but always with one of the other words, as “signs and wonders”; which brings us to the second word, σημεια, ‘signs’. Σημεια is used in all the gospels, but particularly in John, where it is the ordinary term for miracle as a sign pointing to Christ’s glory, or the presence of God in him.[2] What matters here is not the wonder produced in the beholder, but in the meaning of the act. The third word is δυνμαεις ‘powers’ or ‘works of power’ we find this word at Matthew 7.22, Mt 11.20, Mk 6.14, Ll 10.13. These three words describe the same works under different aspects than three different classes of works. The most important of them is σημεια, ‘signs’, for the most important thing about a miracle is that they point us to belief in God. Now although all miracles are signs, a sign is not necessarily a miracle. Common events may be signs that authenticate some word or announcement. Thus, the Angel said to the shepherds that the sign of the good news would be their finding a Child wrapt in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger. There are many such signs in the Old Testament.[3]
That said, we can return to the definition. If a miracle is something which “surpasses the capabilities of nature” it is obvious that the whole question of whether we believe that God works miracles depends on what we mean by nature.
First, however, it is important to remember that “nature” is not a thing—just as the world is not a thing—the word nature originally meant “birth”, it is from the same root as “native”; it came to mean a quality or character, and rerum natura meant the nature of things, the order or course of the world. Now over the centuries, human beings have observed that in the world there is a regular and uniform activity, which regular activities are given the name laws of nature. Unless uniform and regular rules are assumed, as C. B. Moss put it, “we could never be sure that the sun would not rise in the west or that a hen’s egg would not produce a crocodile, natural science and indeed human life would be impossible.” However, the records of scripture and history include events which could not be explained by any natural cause. It is sometimes naively said that that is because people in past ages did not know of or believe in the uniformity of nature. But if this is so, there would be no reason to speak of wonders, prodigies or works of power. Unless people knew the ordinary way in which children are begotten, there would be nothing surprising in a virgin conceiving without the aid of human father. It is fair to clarify the definition: a miracle is an occurrence which surpasses the capabilities that are known of nature. The New Testament scholar Reginald Fuller said that

This formula is attractive for both its scientific and theological humility. It admits that we don’t know everything yet, that our scientific knowledge … is still limited. But it is also prepared to surrender belief in a particular miracle, if it should turn out to be a natural occurrence after all. And on this definition the day may come when we shall know so much about nature that there will be no place for a miracle after all.[4]

That is a sensible statement. People have learned that some wonders have causes within nature; one might think of solar and lunar eclipses, for example, or rainbows. It is much harder to see how we can ever know enough to do away with the resurrection or the virgin birth. You will notice, I hope, that Fuller does not define “nature”. Moss points out that

The word "nature" can be used in three different senses: (a) It may mean "all that exists". Spinoza … uses it in this sense. Nothing can be "beyond nature" if this is what we mean by nature. (b) It may mean "all created things". St. Thomas Aquinas uses it in this sense, for he is careful to say "created nature". (c) It may mean "all material things", as when we say "natural science". This is the usual modern sense.

Now which of these senses we mean is not decided by scientific experimentation; it is a philosophical question. If you say that only such things as can be measured have reality, you have excluded the possibility of a miracle before the question is raised, and will have to reject or explain away any accounts of miracles. We will return to this question next week. Now we need to consider a fourth word from the New Testament. The miracles of Christ are often called έργα, ‘works’ i.e., such works as might be expected of the God-man, and which reveal his Person. It is almost as if they come forth by necessity. Archbishop Trench wrote.

They are the periphery of that circle whereof he is the centre. The great miracle is the Incarnation; all else, so to speak, follows naturally and of course. It is of no wonder that He whose name is wonderful’ (Isa 9.6) does works of wonder; the only wonder would be if he did them not

The miracle of walking on the sea is such a work, and a work of power, and we must turn to it before we use up the little time we have. This miracle is unlike the miracles of healing and mercy; and we might ask why God should overrule nature in this way. Taken as a work of power, this miracle declares the power of Christ over the sea. This points us back to very ancient beliefs in the Old Testament that God in creation was victorious over the sea, a symbol of chaos and evil.[5] For Jesus to walk on the sea is for the power of God in him to be manifest. On a symbolic level, it is a miracle of teaching: by it Jesus teaches his disciples to trust in him, that he is with them and will help them even when it seems least likely, and that nothing can come between them and his love. It is a preparation for their mission in the world, which is our mission. Notice that he has gone up the mountain to pray; while he has sent disciples out onto the sea. Just so, he will send the disciples out into the stormy world, and himself ascend into heaven. But in heaven he is with his Church, in heaven he ever intercedes for it and watches over it But there I am past my time and we will have to turn to Peter and his faith another time. If it is manageable I will produce further notes on this passage. Next week we will think further about miracles.

Notes

[1] Miraculum dicitur aliquid arduum et insolitum supra facultatem natura et spem admirantes praeveniens. ST 1a Q 105 7.2, quoting Augustine De utilitate credendi 16 (Miraculum voco quidquid arduum et insolitum supre speam vel facultatem mirantis apparet.
[2] We find this meaning in Deuteronomy 13: “If a prophet arises among you, or a dreamer of dreams, and gives you a sign or wonder, and the sign or wonder comes to pass, and if he says, Let us go after other gods, which you have not known, and let uis serve them, you shall not listen to the words of that prophet or that dreamer of dreams”
[3] Luke 2.12; Exodus 3.12; 1 Sam 2.34; 10. 1-9; Jer 44.29-30; Jgs 7.9-15; 2 Kgs 7.2, 17-20)
[4] Interpreting the Miracles (1961), p. 8

[5] One thinks also of the miracle of the Red Sea in Exodus 14, which also took place in the morning watch. Job 9.8: [God] alone stretched out the heavens, and trampled the waves of the sea; Psalm 64.12-17: Yet God is King from of old, working salvation in the midst of the earth. Thus didst divide the sea by thy might; thou didst break the heads of the dragons on the waters. Thou didst crush the heads of Leviathan, and didst give him as food for the creatures of the wilderness; Psalm 77.19; Psalm 89.9-10: Thou dost rule the raging of the sea; when its waves rise, thou stillest them. Thou didst crush Rahab like a carcass, thou didst scatter thy enemies with thy mighty arm; Isaiah 43.16: Thus says the Lord , who makes a way in the sea, a path in the mighty waters. (Rahab and Leviathan are names of a sea-monster and personify the restless power of the sea.)

Thoughts on Miracles: I

Sermon for the Twelfth Sunday after Pentecost,
Preached at St Mathias Bellwoods, Toronto
3 August AD 2008

There was once a parish priest who was preaching to his parishioners and said that our Lord fed five hundred persons with five loaves. When the parish clerk heard him say this, he stood up and whispered softly in his ear: “But Sir, you’re mistaken; the gospel says five thousand.” “Hold your peace, you fool,” said the preacher; “they will scarcely believe that they were five hundred.”

Not much of a joke, I suppose, even with the language updated a bit. And really, five hundred or five thousand makes little difference; both are difficult to believe or imagine. This may be why this miracle sometimes gets explained away, and we are told something like this. When Jesus made all the people sit on the grass, they saw that he was taking all the food that he and disciples had, and were moved to take food they had and share it, and so all were fed. The true miracle was a miracle of sharing and generosity, for such virtues are always miracles. I suppose that is a good lesson, but ever since I first heard in Sunday School, I’ve been suspicious. Surely if that’s the lesson the Gospel writer (and the Holy Spirit) wants us to learn from this passage, the text might say something like, “and the people began to share the food they had and all were filled.” I must admit that this explanation is not without support. The Revised Common Lectionary Commentary website from the diocese of Montreal notes that “A peasant in Palestine, then and now, travelled with food”. We will consider that point in a moment. What we must do first is read the passage a little more closely. Some of the finer details are in the lectionary notes on my blog.
Over the past few weeks the Gospel readings have been taken from Matthew 13, which is a chapter of parables taught by the sea, but the last six verses and the opening section of chapter 14 are not read in the Sunday lectionary. At the end of Matthew 13, Jesus returned to his Nazareth, where he taught in the synagogue; the people were astonished by his teaching, because he was a local boy, and took offence at him. Jesus utters the words, A prophet is not without honour except in his own country and in his own house, and is not able to do many miracles there, because of their unbelief.
Chapter 14 begins with the report of Herod Antipas asking who this Jesus was, and declaring his own conviction that Jesus was John the Baptist raised from the dead. Then the Gospel writer tells how Herod had ordered the Baptist’s execution, because he preached against Herod’s unlawful marriage. The first words of the passage we heard refer to John’s death: Now when Jesus heard this. John’s death moved Jesus greatly; here, perhaps he saw what the call of God could, and would mean. We are not allowed into Jesus’ private thoughts here, beyond the notice that he withdrew from there, Nazareth, in a boat to a lonely place apart.
When they heard this people followed him on foot from the towns. This is where we have to consider the comment that peasants “travelled with food”. If it is nit-picking to ask whether these townsfolk were peasants, it is reasonable to ask whether going out to hear a preacher in the countryside is travelling. Tabgha, traditionally said to be the site of this miracle, is only 2.5 km from Capernaum and about the same distance from Chorazin. Rather than thinking of people preparing for a journey, we should imagine people going out rather suddenly, so that they find themselves away rather longer than expected and so caught without food. Some may have had food and other may not. This has to be left up to your judgement of human nature, but I believe it is the natural interpretation of the text.
When Jesus landed on the north-west shore of Galilee, and saw the throng, he had compassion on them, and healed their sick, and that they were there till evening, when the disciples suggested that he send the crowd away to get food. St John Chrysostom noted that Jesus waited to be asked, as always not stepping forward first to do miracles, but when called upon. In passing we may take this as a reminder that God wants us to pray. Like us the disciples are weak in faith, they say This is a deserted place, which calls to mind the complaint of the people in the wilderness, They spoke against God saying, Can God prepare a table in the wilderness? He smote the rock so that water gushed out and streams overflowed. Can he also give bread, or provide meat for his people? One of the important lessons of this miracle is that God can and does supply his people’s needs even in the wilderness.
When the Lord replies, they need not go away, we might expect him to say, I will give them food. But he says, you give them something to eat, to which they reply, We have only five loaves here and two fish; essentially, we do not have enough. Two points emerge from this: the first is that Christ gives the authority and ministry of service to his disciples, so that this miracle is one of the foundations of the apostolic ministry; but the second is that all their, all our, resources are nothing unless first offered to God in Christ. We cannot discuss in detail Christ’s actions on receiving the bread and fish, except to note that they are described in exactly the same terms as his actions in taking the bread at the Last Supper, showing that this miracle is a foreshadowing of the Eucharist. Indeed, the eucharistic teaching of John’s Gospel is entirely centred around thios miracle, a fact which should remove any doubt. What we must stress is that there is not the slightest hint that this is a “miracle of sharing”. There is no earlier version we can look to to show that the miraculous element was added later, no evidence of such a story underlying the Gospel accounts except what we might read into it if we start off disbelieving in miracles.
So the question we will end with is the one really should have asked at the beginning. How do we start off? If we reject the possibility of miracles out of hand, then we will never accept the Gospels without making them say what we want and not what they say, that is, by doing violence to them. Nonetheless, stories of miracles have been a stumbling block to the faith of many in our day, and we need to consider them very carefully. But that is a good place to stop for this morning, because it opens up the question of whether we can believe in miracles or have to turn the story into something else. Since next week’s Gospel reading is also a miracle story, the account of our Lord walking on the sea, I will return to this theme of miracles next week.

The Unjust Steward

A Sermon for the Ninth Sunday after Trinity
Preached at the Church of St Bartholomew, Regent Park Toronto
21 July 2008

Quia filii huius saeculi prudentiores filiis lucis in generatione sua sunt. For the children of this age are in their generation more prudent than the children of light. Luke 16.9

A steward who cheats his master, and when he is fired cooks up a scheme to cheat him even further and is then praised by his master for his prudence and shrewdness is hardly someone you would expect Christ to hold up as an example for us. But this seems to be what we have just heard in the Parable of the Unrighteous Steward. Though there are other characters in Jesus’ parables who are pretty shady: the unjust judge, the neighbour who does not want to be bothered in the night, and the man who pockets someone else’s treasure by buying his field, but this fellow takes the cake. The only way to make the steward’s actions anything other than embezzlement and fraud is by making excuses.
From ancient times enemies of the Church have seized on the seeming incongruity of a story that praises a scoundrel as a charge against the faith. Christians themselves have found it to be rather an embarrassing story, and have come up with an almost endless variety of ways to make sense of it, Usually, they fall back on allegory, but this has only confused the issue. One of the wisest of nineteenth-century Anglican commentators on the parables, Archbishop Trench of Dublin, began his look at this one by saying,

No one, who has seriously considered, will underrate the difficulties of this parable—difficulties which Cajetan found so insuperable that he gave up the matter in despair, affirming a solution of them impossible.

Cardinal Cajetan was one of the great biblical scholars of the sixteenth century: if this parable was to much for him, it is daunting indeed. (If you want a good book on the parables, by the way, I commend Trench’s Notes on the Parables of the Lord; it is readily available in libraries or on-line at the Internet Archive.) Trench notes many of the previous attempts to interpret this parable, but finds that

very many of its interpreters have (to use a familiar expression), in my judgment, overrun their game. We have here, as I am persuaded, simply a parable of Christian prudence, —Christ exhorting us to use the world, and the world’s goods, so to speak, against the world, and for God.

If we read the story carefully it is obvious that Jesus is not praising the dishonesty of the steward; rather it is the rich man in the story who praises his steward’s prudence, on hearing of his scheme. And perhaps it is no more than saying something like: “There’s a clever fellow!” The whole incident makes the point in the verse that I have taken as my text, “For the children of this age are in their generation more prudent than the children of light.”
To understand this verse, we need to note that “in their generation” is not the clearest of translations. What the Greek actually means is ‘towards or for their own generation,” or as Moffat rendered it, “for the children of this world look farther ahead in dealing with their own generation than the children of light.” Another rendering could be “for their own ends and purposes”. Who are the more prudent? The “children of this age” or “of this world”—where we think physically of “the world”, the ancients thought temporally of “the age”. [There really is no difference. In our prayers the phrase “World without end” translates in saecula saeculorum, “unto ages of ages.” I am reminded of the CBC broadcast of Pierre Trudeau’s funeral where the voice-over translation given for the French version of this phrase was “for centuries and centuries. But I digress.] Trench explains the phrase well:

The children of this world' are the Psalmist's ‘men of the earth,' those whose portion is here, and who look not beyond; who, born of the world's spirit, order their lives by the world's rule. The phrase occurs only here and at Luke 20.34; 'children of light' he has in common with St John (12.36) and St Paul (1 Thess v.5; Eph v.8) The faithful are called by this rather than any other of the many names of honour which are theirs; for thus are their deeds. which are deeds of light, done in truth and sincerity, even as they are themselves children of the day and of the light, are contrasted with the 'works of darkness.’

What Christ declares in this verse is that the people of this world, make their business with one another more profitable,—obtain more from it,—manage it better for their interests, such as those are, than the children of light manage their business with one another.
Here our Lord does not hold the actions of the steward up as an example to us. But his actions have two aspects: one, his dishonesty, is blameworthy; the other, his prudence is something which should be abundantly, but is only too weakly, found among Christians. The heart of this parable, then, is found in the Lord’s words, “Ecce ego mitto vos sicut oves in medio luporum; estote ergo prudentes sicut serpentes et simplices sicut columbae; Behold, I send you forth as sheep in the midst of wolves: be ye therefore wise as serpents, and harmless as doves” (Matt 10.16).
Indeed, this parable sends us to learn from the worldlings. Christ says to us that it is good for us, at least occasionally, to learn from them. For the children of this world rake their ends seriously, and work hard to achieve them. How often do we hear of those who sacrifice themselves, their families, their comfort, their digestions, in order to achieve success. How often do we hear people praised for their drive. We claim, we preach that the ends for which these sacrifices are made will pass away, but that our faith offers us an eternal reward.
It is not just the ordinary worldly folk, who are neither particularly bad or good, who can teach. us. Trench, quoting St Bernard, noted that

deeds of bold bad men have a side, that namely of their boldness and decision, on which they rebuke the doings of the weak and vacillating good. They are the martyrs of the devil, who put to shame the saints of God; and running, as they do, with more alacrity to death than these to life, may be proposed to them for their emulation.

An illustration of this point is found in a story of one of the Egyptian desert fathers:

Chancing to see a dancing girl, he was moved to tears; being asked the reason, he replied, 'That she should be at such pains to please men in her sinful vocation; and we in our holy calling use so little diligence to please God.'

Here we may begin to see why Jesus would tell such a story about a scoundrel, for only such a stark contrast can realty make this point.
The parable goes on, and in the remaining verses the focus is set more sharply on how it is that the children of light must be more prudent in dealing with their own generation. The best interpretations of the parable tell us that just as the Steward used money—and that is all that the expression “mammon of unrighteousness” really means here—to ensure his temporal habitation, we are to use it to ensure the eternal habitation. In short, by almsgiving. However, our time is pretty well up—for the days when a real hour glass guided the preacher are long past—and for today we must rest content with this consideration of the parable of the Unrighteous Steward. But this is enough, for in what we have considered, the Unrighteous Steward says to us in challenge and in rebuke, “I pursued temporal things as if they were eternal, with all the intensity I had: you pursue eternal things as if it were less than the temporal.” Let us look into our hearts to find what answer we can make.

Homily for the Seventh Sunday after Trinity
Preached at The Church of St Bartholomew, Apostle And Martyr,
Regent Park, Toronto
6 July, 2008

Some of the congregation this morning were kind enough to ask me to make this available, and will now find out that the spoken version was probably better than the written one!

One of the advantages of not holding a permanent appointment in the Church is that one has so many more opportunities to be in different Churches and experience their customs and practices. When you're Rector of a parish you never have the same opportunities to Church-hop on a Sunday, or the need to fill in for clergy on vacation. I am glad that at last I have come to be with you here at St Bartholomew’s for the Sundays of July.
Of all the beauties of the Book of Common Prayer some of the finest are the Collects of the Day. But they are so short and said so quickly that perhaps we do not always hear them and appreciate as we might. It doesn’t have to be so, since they are appointed to be said morning and evening (at least) for the whole week, and might well be seeds of contemplation.
Now most of the Prayer Book Collects are translations of the old Latin Collects, but not slavish translations. To examine how the old Collects are given new expression in English shows not only the different genius of each language, but opens the words for deeper contemplation. Consider the original on which today’s Collect is modelled. The genius of the Latin Collects is their terse simplicity; the richer vocabulary of English alows for a greater nuance. To make the point obvious, here is a literal translation of the Collect: In fact I've tried to be so literal that it is actually a bad translation!

God of powers, everything that is best is from you, put into our breasts the love of thy name, and furnish in us the increase of religion, that you may nourish us with the things that are good, and by the zeal of faithfulness guard those that have been nourished.[1]

Or something like that; I’m not quite sure of the last clause. The new Roman Missal has by your constant care protect the good you have given us. But that’s not really the point. Now let us hear again the collect as we prayed it at the beginning of Mass:

Lord of all power and might, who art the author and giver of all good things: Graft in our hearts the love of thy Name, increase in us true religion, nourish us with all goodness, and of thy great mercy keep us in the same; through Jesus Christ our Lord.

As T. S. Eliot said of Lancelot Andrewes’ sermons, the English version of the Collect squeezes the last ounce of meaning out of the Latin words. Where the Latin said that all good is, or perhaps comes of God, the English spells it out: He is the author and giver of all good things. They not only come from him but he gives them to his people; he is the author, the one who gives with authority. By considering how the revisers of the liturgy adapted the Collect. we can go more deeply into its meaning Now I can’t be all day talking about the prose style of the Prayer Book, so we will think rather hand allow it to help us to hear today’s Epistle and Gospel with profit.
In the first place, we have acknowledged that all good comes to us from God: He is the author and giver of all good things. The first good thing we pray for is the love of God’s Name, that is, of himself and his power. Look, though at how we pray this; we say, “Graft in our hearts the love of thy name.” The original verb was insere. Now it just so happens that there are two almost identical verbs inserō in Latin; one meaning "to put in, insert," and the other meaning "to implant, or graft." Insere in the original might be either, and it must have been a conscious decision of the revisers to use “graft” rather than “insert” or “fill” as the new Roman translation has it. The use of this image from gardening seems to have been suggested by the the idea of good and evil fruit in the Epistle reading. That idea of course, is found elsewhere in the Gospels, in particular in next Sunday’s gospel where our Lord declares, by their fruits ye shall know them. and in the passage where he declares that he is the vine and we are the branches. It is though our baptism that we are grafted onto him, and that love of God is grafted into our hearts. Through this grafting we are liberated from bondage to sin and enter into the new obedience of righteousness. The contrast St Paul draws between the bondage of sin and the service of Christ is probably the source of the beautiful expression “Whose service is perfect freedom,” in the second Collect at Mattins.
The Collect goes on to pray that God, the giver of all good things, will “nourish us with all goodness,” a graft will wither if it is not nourished. But today’s collect and readings also show us where we are to look for the nourishment we need for our new obedience The words of the Collect should resonate in us as we hear the Gospel account of the Good Shepherd feeding his flock of four thousand with seven loaves and a few small fishes.
There are many interesting questions about this miracle: how it relates to the other miraculous feeding, what the numbers involved might symbolize. But while these are important, the fundamental good news of this miracle is first the abundant love of God who nourishes us with all goodness, then the gracious courtesy of God, who takes the meagre offerings we have for him, and of that produces the abundance. How often is it that we see a need, and recognize our responsibility as Christ’s people, but think our resources are too poor to do any good. At such times we must remember this miracle. Christ took the few loaves and fishes and, giving thanks to God, broke and commanded his disciples to set them before the people, and all ate ande were filled. What else should we do when we look around and say, How can anyone fulfill this need here in the wilderness, but offer what we have to the Lord and then move ahead in faith. Only by doing that can new ever learn to have faith.
We have abundant reason for faith. This Lord Jesus looks on the needs of his people and is stricken to the heart. In our translation he says “I have compassion on the multitude”, and though compassion means “suffering with,” that meaning is no longer a living metaphor; by compassion we mean no little more than “caring”; but the word here translated “have compassion” means to feel in one’s abdomen, to be struck in the heart. We know that feeling. How wonderful that through the Incarnation our Lord God should condescend to feel it, too. If he feels that way for his people, we may be sure he will give the good things needed to help them.
There is much more that can be said. For instance, another link between the Epistle and Gospel comes in the idea of obedience. Obedience runs through the Gospel, where Christ’s command that the people should sit down (though it seemed a mere arbitrary command), was followed by the reward of obedience, His bounty. But it is summer time, and though there is much to be said, there is even more to be said for brevity. So to finish, it is my hope that if you do not already, you will use the Collect every day in your personal prayers, saying it slowly and carefully so that the full meaning enters your mind and heart, and the links to the Epistle and Gospel will return to mind. I hope, too, that (if it is not already your practice) you will read and ponder the Collect and readings for next Sunday as part of your preparation.

[1] Deus virtutum, Cuius est totum quod est optimum; insere pectoribus nostris amorem Tui nominis, et praesta in nobis religionis augmentum, ut quae sunt bona nutrias, ac pietatis studio quae sunt nutrita custodias. Per Dominum. A version of this is the Collect for the XXII Sunday in Ordinary Time in the current Roman Missal.

A Sermon for Proper 11, Year A

A Homily for the Fifth Sunday after Pentecost
Preached at Saint Matthias', Bellwoods

Sunday, 15 June 2008
Proper 11, Year A

We recently celebrated Trinity Sunday, when we thought about how Christians came to believe in God as a three-fold unity. We saw that the followers of Jesus came to believe in the Trinity because in him they experienced God in a new way, a way which compelled them to acknowledge him as divine, as Lord and God. To put this simply, the belief in the Trinity springs from the belief in the Incarnation. We also saw that this faith had to be maintained against those who taught that Christ was just a man, or a man adopted into Godhead, or a divine being but different from God the Father. But as the years went by, this defence of Christ’s divinity brought problems of its own, especially after those who had known Jesus in Galilee and Judaea, who had journeyed with him, eaten and drank with him, died. Then it was easier for the memory of him as a man to be overwhelmed by the faith in him as divine. Teachers arose who found the idea of the perfect God mucking about not only in this imperfect world, but even in human life, distasteful. Some said that he had only seemed to be human; these were known as docetists, from the Greek word to seem. The first letter of John teaches against them:

Beloved, do not believe every spirit but test the spirits to see whether they are of God; for many false spirits have gone out into the world. By this you know the Spirit of God: every spirit which confesses that Jesus Christ has come in the flesh is of God, and every spirit which does not confess Jesus is not of God. I John 4.1-3a.

But John confesses Jesus Christ as the eternal God, that “which was from the beginning” and in the flesh, “which we have heard, seen with our eyes, looked upon and touched with our hands” (I John 1.1). There were many such teachings, and the formularies of faith were carefully drafted to steer the way between their errors, and preserve the faith. And the Church declared its faith in Jesus Christ as one Person uniting two natures: completely divine, of one substance with the Father, and completely human, like us in all respects apart from sin. This is not easy to grasp, since Jesus Christ is unique, and there is none to whom he can be compared. But such a definition is meant not so much to state the whole truth as to mark its limits, to guide us between the extremes, so that we may remain faithful to the whole teaching of the New Testament. But we cannot treat the whole doctrine of the Incarnation this morning; this is better dealt with in study: which might begin with the Athanasian Creed, or the definition of the Incarnation of the Council of Chalcedon [See below]. Instead, I wish to think about a verse in today’s Gospel reading which expresses the humanity of Jesus very eloquently.
It is said that at certain points in history Christians have tended to neglect our Lord’s humanity but today we tend to over-emphasize it, to regard our Lord first and foremost as a human being, albeit the best and noblest, and to thrust his Godhead into the background, if it is accepted at all. This is true of some, but in many Churches (like ours) the divinity of Christ is rightly taught. Sometimes ordinary believers who would never explicitly deny Jesus’ humanity, are often a little embarrassed by it. This especially comes when the Gospels speak of Jesus not know something. Some people ask, But surely if he is God he must have known? Answering such questions can be tricky, for too much humanity sometimes threatens belief in the divinity. But if we listen to what the Gospels tell us, there can be no doubt of that Jesus is human. Now today we heard that when Jesus saw the crowds,

he had compassion for them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd,

This is a moving statement. We can picture Jesus, perhaps standing at a roadside looking on the crowds – who were after all his own people – and being moved with compassion: they were oppressed by foreign occupation, they were not guided or cared for by their shepherds – but even their shepherds were harassed and helpless before the power of Rome. There was little relief from illness or poverty. To be a widow or an orphan was often to be oppressed. But does saying that Jesus “had compassion” show him to be human? Or is this the divine pity of the transcendent God, far beyond anything we know or feel? We need to look a little deeper into the text. Permit me to be technical for a moment.
The Greek verb here is σπλαγχνίζομαι (splangchnizomai); look it up and you find it means “to be moved with pity or compassion”. If you look further, though, you find that it comes from σπλαγχνον (splangchnon), which means the entrails, more or less; it used to be translated “bowels” (the root meaning might in fact be “spleen”). It was used in much the same way we use the word heart: the ancients tended to think of the abdomen as the seat of the emotions. This isn’t strange: we know what it is to feel something “in the pit of my stomach”; we all know of a gut-wrenching experience. The fact is that we really do experience many emotions as a feeling in the guts: this is not just what grammarians call a dead metaphor where the concrete has been forgotten. So when we read this passage and picture Jesus looking on the harassed crowd, we should imagine the scene quite literally hitting him in the guts. And this is a completely human feeling. We might be happier to say “he was gripped in his heart concerning them.” Article I of the Thirty-nine tells us, the living and true God is ‘without body, parts, or passions.” Here we see body, parts, and passion: we cannot doubt that Jesus is a real man, looking in his fellows, and being sickened by their misery.
There are many things to say about the mystery of the Incarnate Word, but my time is almost up. I shall simply ask, why is it so important to hold to the belief that Jesus is both God and Man? Of the many reasons it is important, the one we see in Jesus’ compassion for weak and faltering humanity is very important. The fact that God the Son really became human, so human that that he felt as we do shows our human nature — body, mind, soul, feelings, emotions, and all its experiences — as truly valued and loved by God. If all God wants to do is to wipe away sin, that is easy; if he wants he can wipe us out and make a more obedient race; but by sending Jesus Christ in the flesh God says that he wants to save us, and bring us into his life, to heal, cleanse and restore our human nature, not reject, abolish and destroy it. We, like the first disciples, are sent to proclaim Christ’s message that the Kingdom in at hand. As we go out to bring Christ’s message to our neighbours in word and action, let us never forget that the King is one who has shared this life, and knows its joys and sorrows intimately, that the King looks on the world not with hatred or harsh judgment, but with tender pity, and who is gripped in the heart by the misery of his people.

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The Chalcedonian Definition
In AD 451 the Council of Chalcedon met to settle the teaching of how Jesus Christ is truly God and truly human. This definition is, like the Creeds, part of our heritage as Christians. The American Church rightly prints it among the historical documents in its Prayer Book Since it is so important a formlary, I believe it should be readily available to the people of the Church. This translation of the Definition, taken from Bettenson’s Documents of the Christian Church, is the same as that found in the American book.

Following the holy Fathers we all with one accord teach men to acknowledge one and the same Son, our Lord Jesus Christ, at once complete in Godhead and complete in manhood, truly God and truly man, consisting also of a reasonable soul and body; of one substance with the Father as regards his Godhead, and at the same time of one of one substance with us as regards his manhood; like us in all respects, apart from sin; as regards his Godhead, begotten of his Father before the ages, but yet as regards his manhood begotten, for us men and for our salvation, of Mary the Virgin, the God-bearer (Theotokos); one and the same Christ, Son, Lord, Only-begotten, recognized in two natures, without confusion, without change, without division, without separation; the distinction of natures being in no way annulled by the union, but rather the characteristics of each nature being preserved and coming together to form one person and subsistence [hypostasis], not as parted or separated into two persons, but one and the same Son and Only-begotten God the Word, Lord Jesus Christ, even as the prophets from earliest times spoke of him, and as the Lord Jesus Christ himself taught us, and the creed of the Fathers has handed to us.

Trinity Sunday Sermon, 2008

A Homily for the Feast of the Most Holy and Undivided Trinity, Year

A Preached at Saint Matthias’, Bellwoods, Toronto

On The First Sunday after Pentecost, 18 May AD 2008

Christians of the Catholic tradition perform certain reverences: they bow at certain moments or words, bend the knee, make the sign of the cross, and so on. Contrary to what some think, they do not generally do these things for the fun of it, but because they desire to worship God in body as well as in mind and heart and voice. They desire to worship with the whole person. To bend the knee or genuflect before the Blessed Sacrament is to worship Christ who said This is my Body. If we did not believe his word, it would be blasphemy to bend the knee before a piece of bread. Now before you conclude that I have got my Sundays wrong and this is Corpus Christi sermon, let me asure you it is not. I mention it because the belief that makes us genuflect before the Sacrament signifies an even more basic belief. Unless we believe that the one who said This is my Body was (and is) himself God, then not only the reverence to the Sacrament but all our worship is blasphemy, divine honour paid to a mortal — indeed, if he is not God, paid to a dead Galilean carpenter — is nothing but blasphemy.

Not just our reverences, but all our worship proclaims our belief that this man, Jesus Christ, is the Living Lord, God the Son, whom the Father sent into the world for our salvation, and who sent the Holy Spirit, the Advocate, to give us life. And on this is founded our belief that in the unity of the Godhead there are three persons, of one substance, power and eternity, the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. each is God, each is Lord, but there are not three Gods and three Lords but One God and one Lord.

Now it is usually a mistake for a preacher on Trinity Sunday to try to explain the doctrine of the Trinity, or to use some homely object like a shamrock to make it easy to digest. Instead, I want to talk for a bit about how this belief arose, and particularly why Christians had to make it all complicated with doctrines and dogmas and other things that modern people don’t much like, but which are really only the tools we use to keep us safe when we try to explain what we believe. For the doctrine of the Trinity arose simply because Christians wanted to be faithful to all the experience of God recorded in the Scriptures, and we in our day can do no better than to stick to it.

In the first place, there is the undeniable truth that God is One and we are to worship him alone. God seems to have spent centuries hammering this fact into the heads of his chosen people To their everlasting credit, Israel has to this day maintained an absolute commitment to Monotheism and an absolute horror of idolatry. This was just as true two thousand years ago. As we know, Jesus and his disciples were Jews, raised and nutured in the belief in the One God. Every day they would recite the great words, Hear O Israel, the Lord our God the Lord is one, and all the rest, which Jesus identified as the first and great commandment.

In their life with Jesus his disciples experienced God in a new way. Now the best way I could stretch out this homily is to point out all the passages that show this; if you will forgive me I won’t do that now. (Some passages gathered by E. J. Bicknell are in the added note below.) Enough to say that the whole impression Jesus’ life and works made on his disciples convinced them he was divine. Not only the disciples saw this; even the religious authorities who opposed him had no doubt that his traching and actions implied a claim to be equal to God, and for this he was killed. The Resurrection crowned the disciples’ conviction and brought it to full consciousness, a consciousness so overwhelming that S.Thomas, a Jew, cried out, “My Lord and my God!”

They also has a new experience of God in the Holy Spirit. Christ himself had spoken of the Holy Spirit, the Advocate, as divine yet distinct from Himself, and when that Spirit came upon his disciples in power they knew that He too could be no less than God. The belief in God as Trinity is grounded on the Christian commitment to taking seriously the experience of God in Christ and the Holy Spirit while at the same time remaining faithful to the revelation of God’s Unity. In the letters of the New Testament we find passage after passage which show that the first Christians thought of the supreme source of spiritual blessing not as single but as threefold—threefold in essence and not merely in manner of speech. (References to many of these passages may be found in the notes for today elsewhere in this blog.) A supreme example of this triadic language is the passage from Paul’s second letter to the Corinthians which we heard a few minutes ago. As has been remarked, St Paul wrote these words in the expectation that his converts would understand their meaning from their own spiritual experience; it was nothing new or unfamiliar. “In speaking almost casually of ‘the grace or the Lord Jesus Christ and the love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost’ (2 Cor 13.14), he simply sums up the working faith of the Christian community.”

Perhaps, though, we might be forgiven for asking why the Church couldn’t have stopped there without developing a doctrine of the Trinity, with all its difficult language about persons and natures, processions, generations, and spirations, and that blessed word Perichoresis, which is translated mutual indwelling but seems to mean that the Divine Persons are forever dancing with each other? ( This won’t be on the test)

Well at first, they did stop there. The first believers were hardly aware that there was any problem, or that their faith was inconsistent with monotheism. Divine names, titles and functions that belong to God alone in the Old Testament, are freely ascribed in the pages of the New to the Lord Jesus and to the Holy Spirit. As has been well said, ‘In the first flush of their new hope Christians rather felt than reasoned out their conviction that their master was divine. It was a certainty of heart and mind—but the mind could hardly subject the conception to the processes of reason—the soul leapt to the great conclusion, even though the mind might lag behind, They did not stay to reason; they knew.’[1]

Eventually they had to reason. In the first place, people then were no less intelligent, inquisitive, and argumentative than they are today, and asked questions (just like parishioners today). “If Jesus is God’s Son, is he really God?” “Uhm, right then, … does that mean there are two Gods?” All around them was a society that asked more or less politely, “What do you people believe that is so important you can’t just live like other folk?” “If you can worship Jesus, why can’t you offer a little pinch of incense to the Emperor?” And when persecutions arose, it was hardly unreasonable that people who might have to die for their faith should want to understand it. So Church leaders tried to give answers, like clergy do today. Some did a better job, some a worse, like clergy do today. Some of the answers had the advantage of being simple and easy to understand, but at the cost of ignoring or explaining away some of the facts. Some teachers fudged over the divinity of Christ; some acknowldedged that he was Divine, but not of the same being as the Father, conveniently forgetting the Unity of God; some made the Son and the Spirit temporary masks the Father put on, and were quite surprised when other Christians objected to the idea that the Father suffered on the Cross. The Christian Church, which preferred not to speculate about God, was forced to think out her belief and find words to express it. That was a long process, and we do not need to rehearse it all now. (If you want to read the story a good place to start is the book Fathers and Heretics by G. L. Prestige.)

We might perhaps note here that the tradition does not only give us language to safeguard our faith, but warns us that our langauge is limited. For example, Latin-speaking Christians used the word Person to describe the three, but St Augustine says of this word “Yet, when the question is asked, What three? human language labors altogether under great poverty of speech. The answer, however, is given, “three persons”, not that it might be [completely] spoken, but that it might not be left [wholly] unspoken.”[2] This is true of all our words, of course; but the fact that they cannot express all the truth does make them untrue or worthless. So far I have only attempted to show that the Christian belief in One God in three Persons is not a piece of clever speculation but the natural result of the Christian experience that the source of spiritual blessing is not single but threefold. This belief grows from, supports, and allows our faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. Much more ought to be said, but there is no time. So I end with the simple thought that the Christian life does not consist in what we can know about God the Holy Trinity, but in coming to know and live with the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. This knowledge and life comes through the faith and love which we find in word, prayer, and sacrament, and the love of our neighbours. It comes in following Jesus Christ who has promised to bring us even now into his life,

in union with the Father and the Holy Spirit;

to whom be given, as is most justly due,

all praise and glory now and for ever and unto ages of ages, Amen
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Added Note:
The Gospel Passages referred to above, as mentioned in E. J. Bicknell, A Historical and Theological Introduction to the XXXIX Articles.

Through their prolonged intercourse with Him the disciples became convinced that our Lord too was divine. He spoke of Himself as ‘Son of Man’,[3] and Himself interpreted the meaning of that title in the light of Dan 7.13 (e.g. Mark 14.62). They were compelled to ask ‘what manner of man is this?” (Mt 8.27, &c.) By His question He encouraged them to think out for themselves who He was. He commended S. Peter who could find no word short of ‘Messiah’ able to contain all that He had shown Himself to be. He claimed a unique intimacy with the Father (Mt 11.25-27) In His own name He revised and deepened the law of Moses (Mt 5.2, &c.). He taught His disciples to repose in Him an unlimited confidence that no mere man had the right to demand of his fellow-men (Mt 7.24, &c.). He died for His claim to be the Christ and the Son of God (Mk 14.61). The whole impression made upon them by Hid life and works was crowned and brought to consciousness by His Resurrection(e.g. Rom 1:4). He was indeed the Son of God. No language short of this could express the place that He had come to take in their knowledge of God.

He had spoken to the disciples of the Holy Spirit, the Advocate, as divine yet distinct from Himself[4] (Jn 14:16 and 15:26). They were to expect the Spirit’s coming when He was gone (Acts 1.4-5). In that coming He Himself would come too (John 14.18). At Pentecost they had a personal experience of the Holy Spirit. A new and lasting power entered into their lives. They knew that He too could be no less than God. Further, in the Baptismal formula the teaching of Christ is summed up. Converts are to be baptized ‘into the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost’ (Mt 28.19). The name is one. It belongs equally to the three Persons, who are associated on an equality and distinguished from one another by the use of the definite article.
Footnotes [

[1] Bethune Baker, Christian Doctrines; how they arose, p. 16.

[2] De Trinitate, V.9.

[3] [Bicknell's note] The title seems to come from Dan. 7.13. There it denotes not an individual but a figure in human form, which is interpreted as ‘the saints of the most high’, v.27. That is, it stands for Israel in contrast with the beasts, which stand for heathen nations. But very soon ‘One like unto a son of man’ came to be interpreted as an individual, the Messiah. In the Book of Enoch this interpretation is made explicit. ‘The Son of Man’ is a superhuman being, who executes God’s judgement. How far it was a recognized Messianic title in our Lord’s day, is disputed. He would hardly have assumed it if it was popularly regarded as synonymous with Messiah. For discussion of this title, see A. E. J. Rawlinson, The New testament Doctrine of Christ, pp 242ff.; C. H. Dodd, The Interpretation of the Fourth Gospel, pp 241 ff.; A. M. Farrer, A Study in S. Mark, pp 247ff.

[4] [Bicknell's note.] It is not easy to distinguish in the fourth Gospel between our Lord’s actual words and the Evangelist’s own meditation on them

A Homily Preached on The Fifth Sunday of Easter, Year A

On the occasion of the Baptism of Josephine Carol Eyford

at Saint Matthias’, Bellwoods, Toronto, 20 April 2008

This is a very joyful morning; today we welcome Josephine Carol into household of God. Through the waters of baptism she will symbolically die to sin and rise to the new life of Christ; through the anointing of Holy Chrism in sign of the Cross she will be marked as Christ’s own for ever; by the light from the Easter Candle she will receive a pledge that she has passed from darkness to light, so that she can do good works to lighten others and show forth God’s glory. Even more; after centuries of infant baptism this rite has also become a sign that the community welcomes this child and rejoices with her family. All these symbols are mixed and jumbled in a rather wonderful way. A family party comes into Church; the Gospel is proclaimed in the middle of a family party. Her parents show her off proudly, as if to say, “Look what we’ve got!, but the community replies “Oh but she’s one of us, you know!” It’s all wonderful, it’s all fun, and it’s all important.
Now experience has taught me that parents bring their babies baptism for a variety of reasons. One might be that since the parents are themselves part of the Church, they want it for their children, as well, so that they may grow up knowing the fellowship and the faith. So perhaps our question should be why people come to the Church. John Baycroft, in The Anglican Way, notes two main reasons: some come primarily for the fellowship, and some come for what he calls ‘the transcendent’, but he notices that in reality whichever you come for, you get both. This is very true, but it is only one side of a more important range of ideas. Both reasons see coming to Church and seeking Baptism as our choice and decision; but when we turn to the Bible, we find a different picture.
From the very beginning, the history of salvation has been the story of God seeking men and women and calling them into fellowship. Indeed, even when Adam and Eve sinned and hid themselves away, God called, “Where are you?” After that God called Noah and Abraham and Moses and Samuel and all the rest; $until at last he sent his Son into the world to seek and save the lost. Jesus went about calling people: fishermen from their boats and tax collectors from their offices or their sycamore trees. And so it has continued. In the last few weeks we have been reading from the Acts of the Apostles. The first converts surely thought they came because they found the teaching of the Apostles convincing or the life of the community attractive, or for a myriad other reasons, but when the author of Acts describes the growth of the Church he says “three thousand persons were added” and “day by day the Lord added to their number those who were being saved”. To all of them, apostles and disciples, men and women and children, whatever they thought they were doing and for whatever reason, Jesus said, and he says to us, “You did not choose me, but I chose you.” (John 15:16)
This call does not always come with a flash of light or a choir of angels. The Wisdom of God, who mightily and sweetly orders all things, desires our cooperation. He wants you to want him; he doesn’t much care, I think, if it seems to you to be your own idea.. The dramatic call, the Damascus experience, probably means that we weren’t listening. But our coming to faith and baptism is no more our own bright idea than was our creation. It is as C. S. Lewis describes in The Silver Chair: When Aslan tells Jill that he has called her out of her own world, she replies, “Could there be some mistake? Nobody called [us] … It was we who asked to come here.” Aslan says, “You would not have called me unless I had been calling you”.
Now this is mysterious; but in Christian language a mystery means not a puzzle to be decoded but an unseen reality that is revealed in God’s good time. The Church might seem to be a very human community, an odd assortment of people trying to live by God’s grace and to love one another, and muddling the job as often as not. But the First Letter of Peter shows us the Church as it is in God’s reality, a reality we can only know by faith. In this reality it is a temple built up of living stones, a people sharing in Christ’s royal priesthood, a consecrated nation, a people God claims as his own. The church as temple and priesthood is the Body of Christ, the Word of God to the world and the offering to God for the world. And while God does promise us all that we seek: life and salvation for our souls; healing of our hurts; and finally a place in the Father’s house, God has called us to be his instruments, to be knit together in this fellowship, to work together in this priesthood, to be built together into his temple, to be a sign to the world of the mystery of Christ.
Sheri and Dean: this morning you are answering Christ’s call for Josephine Carol. Remember that he is not calling her only for the sake of the good he wants to do her, but also so that she can serve him. Today you are promising that, just as you will take care to nourish her to grow strong and healthy, so you will feed her with spiritual food, so that she will grow to be a living stone, making God’s house strong and beautiful, and come to take her part in the royal priesthood. Now my friends, this speaks to us as well as to these proud parents; all of us are here because in many and varied ways we have answered God’s call. So let us remember that we, too, must always seek the spiritual nourishment that will build us up as living stones into the temple of God in this place.