EUCHARISTIC PRAYER broken/ remember

written for broken/ on the evening of Remembrance Sunday

With this bread
We will re-member Jesus
With this wine
We will re-member Jesus

God of all time and memory and space,
you hold the very particles of our existence
in the unfathomable depths of your own self.

With a mother’s love, you brought creation to birth,
carving every atom, every creature, every living thing
into the palms of your hands.

With a mother’s love, you inhabited our frail humanity
and took into your arms the outcast and rejected.
On Christ’s hands were carved the wounds of love
And on them still, our names are written.

On the night before he died,
the night on which he was forgotten and forsaken,
Jesus drew his friends together, and took bread and wine.

He gave thanks, broke the bread and gave it to them.
“Eat this. This is my body, given up for you.
Do this to re-member me”
We will re-member Jesus

He took the cup, gave thanks and gave it to them.
“Drink this. This is my blood, poured out for you and for many.
Do this to re-member me”
We will re-member Jesus

So send your Spirit on us,

and on this bread and wine.
and as we and remember Jesus,
so re-member us as you people,
your body, your church,
and restore in us the beauty
of your eternal and indelible image.

(the bread is broken)

As this bread is broken,
so take the brokenness of our lives
and the frailty of our faith
and use make us into channels of your renewing love.

God of all time and memory and space,
re-member and re-make us
as the body of Christ. Amen.

DON'T LET THE PASTORAL TAIL WAG THE THEOLOGICAL DOG

Eve of All Souls, 2009

In the church calendar, this month begins with the Feasts of All Saints and All Souls, falling on the 1st and 2nd of November respectively. Although technically the first is a festival and the second only a liturgical ‘commemoration’, they ought really to be seen as part of the same package, and in some sense you can’t do justice to one without the other.

All Saints Day is properly a thanksgiving for those who have ‘gone before us in faith’ and whose lives have inspired and encouraged us. Whether they have been formally canonised by the Church (like St Therese of Liseux, whose relics have just completed an international tour, or as it looks like John Henry Newman is set to be next year when Pope Benedict visits the UK) - or more simply those whose less prominent lives have been exemplary and translucent to God’s love.

All Souls Day is the Commemoration of the Faithful Departed – in other words, the rest of those baptised in Christ who have gone before us, but who might not have quite made the grade for the Charter Mark in Spirituality. As a fixture in the liturgical year it isn’t a ‘catch-all’ that give us the chance to remember all those who have died but is still very much to do with what we believe the Church to be – the mystical body of Christ, into which all who are baptised in his name are incorporated.
The alternative post-communion prayer in 1662 Communion Service (not the one we will use this evening) sums it up well:

ALMIGHTY and everliving God, we most heartily thank thee, for that thou dost vouchsafe to feed us, who have duly received these holy mysteries, with the spiritual food of the most precious Body and Blood of thy Son our Saviour Jesus Christ; and dost assure us thereby of thy favour and goodness towards us; and that we are very members incorporate in the mystical body of thy Son, which is the blessed company of all faithful people; and are also heirs through hope of thy everlasting kingdom, by the merits of the most precious death and passion of thy dear Son. And we most humbly beseech thee , O heavenly Father, so to assist us with thy grace, that we may continue in that holy fellowship, and do all such good works as thou hast prepared for us to walk in; through Jesus Christ our Lord, to whom, with thee and the Holy Ghost, be all honour and glory, world without end. Amen.

Ask yourself for a second – have you got it? Theologically and ecclesiologically, I mean. Can you make that distinction between ‘going to church’, or ‘being part of the Church’ and being ‘members incorporate in the mystical body’ of Christ? The trouble is, even if we have got it, it isn’t necessarily the default model of what it means to be the Church that we work to day by day. Celebrating the Saints and Commemorating the Faithful Departed is one way of helping us hold things in true perspective. All Saints and All Souls declare what the Christian faith says about the Church, and come to that what the faith says about death too.

And I guess it’s at this point that we need to acknowledge that if we are not careful, the pastoral practice of the Church can blur our theological understanding of what we are about. The pastoral tail is in danger of wagging the theological dog, so to speak!

The practice at St Mary’s for some time now has been to hold an All Souls Memorial Service (this year’s is next Saturday, 7th at10.30am). In recent years we have had just over 100 people attending to remember those whose funerals we have conducted in the past year or so – and it clearly addresses a pastoral need with folk, and a missional opportunity for us as a local congregation. But the trouble is that once untethered from All Saints Day and the faithful departed – in other words when it ceases being about a vision of the Church as the timeless mystical body of Christ - All Souls Day becomes about the general departed, and can become focused on bereavement rather than anything else. That is a very subtle but effective dumbing down of the very worst theological and liturgical kind.

I’m not trying to put forward a case for not holding Memorial Services – in fact in recent years we have double the provision here by including an Eastertide service as well. And I’m definitely not suggesting that we should introduce an ‘afterlife apartheid’ which distinguishes between church people who are ‘faithful’ and ‘ in’ and others who are not. But I am saying that we shouldn’t slide into a situation where the only commemoration of All Souls is in terms of what we do for other people – in other words for the bereaved.

All Saints and All Souls ought to be significant for each one of us, whether we choose to remember especially those friends and family who have died or not. Because it ought to be an expression (and reference point) for our vision of the Church.

So what do All Saints and All Souls say about our understanding of the Church…and death? Well at very least two things: firstly, and simply, that one is the greater than the other. The Church (meaning the mystical body of Christ, not the institutional structure!) is an expression and extension of the resurrection life of Christ himself – and that is the very same life-power which has conquered death.

Secondly whereas electoral rolls are torn up and rewritten every 7 years, membership of the body of Christ is eternal. Everlasting life rather than a renewable subscription. There are no ‘former members of the church’, and those who have worshiped alongside us who have died continue to be part of our life of prayer and worship as much as they ever were, and as they always shall be. In the words of Henry Scott Holland, there is an ‘unbroken continuity’….

The new sanctuary chairs have been bought with part of a legacy left to St Mary’s by Val Smith; the processional cross and lights were given in memory of Irene Ogden (to mention just two instances of memorials here) – but that’s not done simply so that we don’t forget them, but rather as tangible reminders that in the mystical body of Christ they worship with us still. With us, and with all God's people.

ALMIGHTY and everliving God, we most heartily thank thee, for that thou dost vouchsafe to feed us, who have duly received these holy mysteries, with the spiritual food of the most precious Body and Blood of thy Son our Saviour Jesus Christ; and dost assure us thereby of thy favour and goodness towards us; and that we are very members incorporate in the mystical body of thy Son, which is the blessed companyof all faithful people; and are also heirs through hope of thy everlasting kingdom, by the merits of the most precious death and passion of thy dear Son. And we most humbly beseech thee , O heavenly Father, so to assist us with thy grace, that we may continue in that holy fellowship, and do all such good works as thou hast prepared for us to walk in; through Jesus Christ our Lord, to whom, with thee and the Holy Ghost, be all honour and glory, world without end. Amen.

PUT YOURSELF IN THE PICTURE

All Saints Sunday, 2001 Dunstable Priory, Bedfordshire

(Picture above: All Saints, Margaret Street)

Two scenarios for you to hold in your mind’s eye:

On All Saints Day, 1st November 1911: Robert Falcon Scott, along with four companions, a support team with sledge dogs, Siberian ponies and two motorized sledges set out for the South Pole. By the time they reached the Polar plateau the sledges had broken down, and the ponies were so weak they had to be destroyed. The support team returned to base camp with the dogs, leaving Scott and his companions to haul their own sledges. They battled through the blizzards and sub zero temperatures and blinding snow, and reached the Pole only to discover that they’d been beaten by the Norwegan adventurer, Roald Amundsen, who had planted his flag 33 days earlier.Their return journey was hampered by appalling weather - Petty Officer Evans died from a fall; Captain Oates sacrificed his life in the hope of saving his comrades, but Bowers, Wilson and Scott died of starvation and exposure. It was eight months before their bodies were found – tragically only 11 miles from their next supply depot.

The second scenario happened 90 years and one day later, on All Souls’ Day, 2nd November, 2001 (last Friday!) Having listened to an account of Scott’s exploration on Radio 4 as I drove down to London, I spent some time in the Church of All Saints in Margaret Street. It’s a classic example of High Victorian Gothic architecture, built by William Butterfield sixty years before Scott began his final journey. On Friday it was warm, dark and womb-like, with the after-smell of Thursday evening’s Procession and High Mass! I was able to spend quite a while just standing there in the Nave, and looking closely at the wonderful painted reredos behind the High Altar, which in the absence of an East Window, fills the whole wall. Centrally, above the altar, was a panel depicting the Virgin and Child; above, a panel of the Crucifixion, and above that, Christ enthroned in glory. Either side of the lower two panels of the Virgin and the Crucifixion stand the Saints, in serried ranks: but in the top section of the rerdos, they kneel with Mary before their Lord and King. It’s a beautiful piece of art, and brings Christ’s birth, death, resurrection and ascension together into one timeless event.

Two scenarios, in one way or another linked to All Saints Day, but both strikingly different. The first, a cold, bitter struggle ending in disappointment, isolation and death. The second a warm, secure affirmation that as members of Christ’s body, we are part of the bigger picture, never isolated in our journey of faith, and moving onwards and upwards to eternal life. So which of those scenarios would be the better icon of your experience, which could best represent your feelings and your day to day growth as a Christian? A cold, bitter struggle? Or a secure affirmation of our dependence upon one another and God as we journey towards wholeness?

I suspect that we are more likely to feel like one of Scott’s fatigued companions than an adoring saint of Gothic art. But we must be prepared to accept the reality and the possibility of both. And the reason for celebrating the Feast of All Saints is to enable us to do just that. We know too well the reality of our struggles, whether they come from within or without. But we must be reminded and convinced of the spiritual reality of the body of Christ.

One of our son Daniel’s most frequently used phrases is ‘What do you mean?’ Normally said in earnest perplexity after he’s been asked a fairly mundane question like ‘Have you washed your face?’ or ‘Have you done your homework?’ or ‘It’s time for bed’. ‘What do you mean??!!’ (It’s almost equaled the frequency of the other pre-teen exclamation of ‘It’s not fair!!!’)

Well, week by week, we declare that we believe in the Communion of Saints. But what do you mean??!!! It has to be more than acknowledging the existence of the saints – although for a good many in the history books the fact of their existence is questionable. Whilst reading for my theses on Mariology at theological college, I discovered a lesser known saint of the middle ages – St Guinefort. Indeed, not only a saint, but Guinefort was a martyr who died in the act of saving his master from a burning house. The unusual – dare I say unlikely aspect of the tale (no pun intended) was that Guinefort was a dog. There are surprisingly few churches dedicated to St Guinefort – Dog and Martyr! But laying aside the unlikely characters of church history, there are many good solid examples for us to choose from. And with them in mind, when you say you believe in the Communion of Saints – ‘What do you mean?’

Well, going back to the reredos at All Saints Margaret Street, it means you put yourself in the picture: ‘That’s me there, in the back row next to St James…..’ To believe in the Communion of Saints, to celebrate the Feast of All Saints, is to put yourself in the bigger picture that is centred on Christ. And that is so important. To know our place in the grand-scheme of things. It’s the great problem of our age: the post-modern era. We can’t find our place in the grand scheme of things because we’ve stopped believing that there really is a grand-scheme to fit into!

But 'we believe in the Communion of Saints', the bigger picture that puts Christ at the centre of all that is and all that shall be. You’ve got some homework for this week – try to pinpoint what helps you to find your place in the bigger picture of faith? What connects you to the Christians of past, present and future. Speaking personally, one of the most powerful things for me is accentuated when I come here, to this Church. And its in the few seconds at the end of the eucharistic prayer when I elevate the host and chalice. A simple, silent action that is virtually timeless – in the same way that when you kneel at the altar rail for Communion you follow in the steps of thousands of others through the ages. In the words of T S Eliot, you kneel ‘where prayer has been valid’.

The two scenarios I began with were in stark contrast to each other. All Saints Day 1911, and Scott’s cold, isolated journey that ended in failure and defeat; and the spectacular reredos at All Saints, Margaret Street affirming our fellowship with those who have gone before us in faith.

There may be times and situations when we feel the first scenario is a fairer reflection of our experience – and of course, that may well be the case. But our true perspective comes only as we catch a glimpse of the second – the spiritual reality of our connectedness with all who follow Christ in this world and the next.

REMEMBER TO BE REAL

A few years back, we spent some time with friends on holiday in France. We did lots of things, and packed into our 4 days at least 8 days worth of activities and sightseeing. But among them all there were two things that stuck in my memory - two buildings in fact.

Two of our days were spent at Disneyland Paris, and there I encountered my first impressive building. Cinderella's castle dominated the whole theme park, a huge pink monstrosity which has become the universal symbol of the Disney Corporation - after Mickey Mouse himself that is! There were a couple of times that I wandered off and got lost in Disneyland and dreaded the possibility of hearing the tannoy announcement "Would the children of Richard Watson please come to the information desk to collect their lost father .... " But I always got my bearings by logging on to the Disneyland Castle that towered above everything else.

I have to confess that even then in 2004, I was becoming a bit of a 'grumpy old man'. Before the holiday, I was convinced that as soon as I saw a man dressed as a Disney costume, I would have to work very hard to restrain the urge to kick him. If actual fact, my reaction was hugely different. From the moment we entered the vast car lot, with the cheery music piped into every corner of the park, I was swept up in the all consuming world of 'happy-ever-afters' and 'magic moments' that Walt Disney has come to represent. Even with my poor remembrance of O Level French (which, for the record, I failed abysmally) I was able to take it all in. Somehow the stories of Snow White, Peter Pan and all the others, managed to transcend the barrier of language, and to my great surprise I even came home with a Mickey Mouse key ring!

So that was my first building - the vast, pink, Disney Castle and all the happiness, optimism and happy-ever-afters it represents.

The encounter with the second building, that had an even more powerful impact on me, was unscheduled and unexpected. On the Friday, we decided that rather than driving straight back to Calais to the EuroTunnel, we'd make a detour into Belgium, up through Dunkirk and into De Panne. That's when the questions started from the children in the back seat. "Dad, what's that over there?" "It's a cemetery" I said "for the people killed in the First World War". And then just a few minutes later, "Daddy, what's that?" "That's another cemetery, for more people killed in the First World War". And then a short while after, "Dad, what's that over there?" "That's another cemetery" All the time, stirring in the back of my mind, were the haunting words of Rupert Brooke:

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is forever England.

It was then that our two-car convoy decided to make a further detour into Ieper, known colloquially to the troops of World War I as 'Wipers'. We parked outside the cathedral in the cobbled town square, and made our way to the Menin Gate: four adults and five children between the ages of 8 and 13 taking the same path as the countless number of young men who made their way to the front line - many of whom never came back. When we reached the gate itself, it was overwhelming, towering above the road, feeling too close to the town, and almost too imposing. And it made me cry. Name after name after name in the cold silence of stone. Coming as we had from the saccharine world of Walt Disney, it came as a hard jolt of the most awful and bitter reality.

Within a matter of days I had been confronted and moved by two buildings which could not have been more different - and in fact it is easy to polarise them, to set them as opposites. The Disney gloss of hopeful, optimistic fairy tales, and the memorial to the lives lost because of the futile war-mongering of the privileged and powerful. One building that (albeit simplistically) embodies our hope for all that is good, and the other which reminds us just as simply, of how brutal and wicked the world can be. How brutal and wicked we can all be.

Rather dramatically, we drove off into the sunset towards Calais and the Tunnel to make our journey home, and it was then that it struck me that those two buildings - the Disney Castle and the Menin Gate - although so different and representing such different things - those two imposing buildings actually do the same job. They have the same intention and effect - and that is to tell a story, and to keep that story alive, and make it real today. The stories of the Disney tales are familiar enough, and like so many children, our kids were brought up on them. But on that Friday, my children saw inscribed on the Menin Gate, amongst the names of the fallen of the King's Shropshire Regiment, the name of their great, great grandfather. For them, from that moment on, that became a real story.

Both the Disneyland Castle and the Menin Gate tell a powerful story - and both are stories we need to hear time and time again, because in the midst of suffering and waste we are called unequivocally to live in hope and faith. Through remembering the sacrifice of those past, we learn to cherish the freedom of the present; and confronting the pain and injustice of the present we are compelled to strive for a better world in the future. On Remembrance Sunday, we need to tell those stories because we know both to be true - because within each of us (as in our world) is the potential for the most profound good, and at the same time the capacity for the most selfish and wasteful wrong.

There’s an old native American tale that goes like this:

A Cherokee elder sitting with his grandchildren told them, "In every life there is a terrible fight - a fight between two wolves. One is evil: he is fear, anger, envy, greed, arrogance, self-pity, resentment, and deceit. The other is good: joy, serenity, humility, confidence, generosity, truth, gentleness, and compassion. " A child asked, "Grandfather, which wolf will win?" The elder looked him in the eye and said. "The one you feed."

Through remembering the sacrifice of those past, we learn to cherish the freedom of the present; and confronting the pain and injustice of the present we are compelled to strive for a better world in the future. The acts of remembrance of the coming weeks could cost us dear - not only because of the pain it will stir up for many, but because as once again we make the story real for our children, it challenges us and them to make choices for the future.

So which wolf will you feed? The good or the bad? Which story will you tell?

RED-HERRINGS & REVELATIONS

Trinity 14, Mark 8.27-38

I don’t know about you, but I was very impressed last Sunday! Impressed, that is, with the new incarnation of Miss Marple last Sunday evening. Somehow Julia Mackenzie managed a portrayal which was at the same time engaging and thoroughly plain. Not quirky or eccentric like some of her predecessors, but quite literally ‘plain Jane’.

Those who were watching last Sunday evening will know that the new series kicked off with the classic Agatha Christie story A Pocketful of Rye. As the plot unfolds, a series of murders take place which appear to be following the sequence and substance of the nursery rhyme ‘Sing a Song of Sixpence’ with the implication that the crimes are revenge killings resulting from a bad business deal on the ‘Blackbird’ mine in Kenya some years previous. It’s all a bit vague for the police and Miss Marple, until she realises that the nursery rhyme – as well as being a significant clue - was also a red herring. Only when she was able to lay that aside could she begin to see the truth. We will come back to Miss Marple in a little while (but I promise I wont give anything else away!).

This morning’s gospel passage from Mark is a fine example how sometimes the Lectionary serves up scripture out of context, and in a way which makes it difficult to see the broad brush strokes of the writer’s intention. The passage we heard falls into three distinct sections: Peter’s Confession of Jesus as Messiah; Jesus subsequently teaching them about how the Son of Man must suffer and then one of Peter’s monumental cock-ups as he tries to tell Jesus that he’s got it all wrong; and then lastly a call to sacrificial discipleship and a warning that those who save their lives will lose their lives.

Where the Lectionary gets it wrong is in dislocating Peter’s declaration of who Jesus is from the earlier part of Mark Chapter 8 which we didn’t hear read this morning (or last week either, come to that). Just before this episode, Mark tells how Jesus healed a blind man at Bethsaida. So as Mark plays with his material (and in a way plays with his readers too), he first presents the story of a man being given his sight, and follows it immediately with the story of a disciple being given insight.

In the first section of the passage we heard this morning, Jesus asks the disciples who people are saying he is. I suspect he wasn’t particularly concerned what others were saying but it was a way of focusing the disciples thinking. Because then he puts them on the spot and asks for their opinion. “Who do you say that I am?” Somewhere along the line, and fairly recently it seems, for Peter the Marple-like penny has dropped. “You are the Messiah” he says. And yet, by the end of the passage in the third section, his newly found sight has clouded again. Jesus rebukes him in no uncertain terms: “Get behind me, Satan!”. Perhaps ironically, Peter’s significant clue to who Jesus is, turns out to be a red-herring too.

The middle section of the gospel passage makes it easy to see how things went so horribly wrong. No sooner has he been declared as Messiah by Peter, Jesus completely subverts what they assumed that messiah-ship would be about. There were a number of different understandings of what and who the Messiah would be at that time – but it’s a fair bet that the disciples would have seen it in political and social terms more than theological. Remember that the disciples (and Jesus come to that) were simple peasants – and their idea of the Messiah was someone who would turn their fortunes around, and restore God’s people to power and privilege.
But of course Jesus knows different. Peter’s declaration that Jesus is Messiah is spot on, but what he thinks that means is very far from the truth. At the same time, Peter’s declaration is the right answer and the ‘red herring’ in one.

Looking back in chapter 8 to the story of the blind man receiving his sight – at first he sees, but not very clearly. “I can see people” he says “but they look like trees, walking”. Like Peter, the blind man can see, but he still can’t understand. We can only speculate, but it seems that’s why Jesus swears them to secrecy. He can’t risk others getting the wrong end of the stick and has to quickly explain to the disciples how things will be a far cry from what they expect. So drawing on the language of the Book of Daniel in the Old Testament, Jesus explains that he will suffer, be killed and rise again after 3 days. No sooner has he been declared as Messiah by Peter, Jesus begins to turn on its head what they assumed that would be about.

First the Blind Man, and then Peter. Seeing, but not understanding.

If we take the story of Peter’s confession in isolation, as the Lectionary treats it today, we are given a picture of a man who gets it appallingly and spectacularly wrong. But if we take the same story in its context, alongside the healing of the Blind Man, the picture is very different. We have a man, a disciple, who is a ‘work in progress’. He makes the mistake, yes, but he is caught up in a process of learning and gradual understanding, of healing and wholeness.

You will have noticed, I’m sure, that we are using a new booklet this morning. It’s the order for the Eucharist which we will use from now on for the second Sunday of every other month (!) when there are prayers for healing. Once you have received Communion or come forward for a blessing, there is the opportunity for laying on of hands and prayer at the sanctuary step – its all the same as we would usually do, but the liturgy is slightly more ‘themed’ towards healing, and the practical instructions are printed in the booklet so its absolutely clear what goes on!

Prayer for healing is simply a quiet way of acknowledging the truth of the gospel reading this morning. Each of us is a ‘work in progress’, caught by the grace of God in a process of learning and understanding, mistakes and forgiveness, healing and wholeness.

So come forward for prayer if you are unwell, or as a way of praying for those you know who are unwell, just as the blind man came to Jesus; and come forward for prayer if, like Peter, you want to grow in your discipleship and understanding. And perhaps dare to pray that the Spirit will reveal those things which, for you, are the ‘Marple-esque’ red herrings. Those situations, feelings, opinions, or misunderstandings you carry which obscure the truth for you.

Ask God to take them away. Ask God to give you sight, insight. Ask God to open your eyes and your heart to who Jesus is, and what it means for you to follow him – today. Amen

ONLY, ALWAYS & FOREVER

Feast of the Birth of the Blessed Virgin Mary

Every now and then I get a surge of interest in tracing my family tree. The latest surge came just after Easter this year – and it was certainly the most productive to date, thanks to the Genes Reunited website. The trouble is since that surge I’ve had not much time at all to continue working on the family tree. But I know I’m not the only one – having enthralled Colin one Sunday afternoon with assorted bits of paper stuck together and spread across the floor, he set off on his own research project….and part of his recent sabbatical was given over to finding out about his distant relations. And in recent weeks Martin’s has been delving into (not Colin’s relations, you understand, but his own) in the primitive Methodist chapels of Cheshire.

So far, my family tree is quite broad, with 300 individuals and 70 different surnames….but only goes back as far as 1650 – and that’s because I hijacked my Dad’s cousins tree so its not my line of descent at all! The latest development is the discovery that my previously thought of East End heritage not only includes basket makers from Great Yarmouth (God bless ‘em) but also the de La Bertouche line from France!

Of course the most important thing in this kind of exercise is the stories of the lives that are uncovered. Because it’s the stories which give you some sense of who those people were and how their experience of life shaped those who came after them.

This Tuesday is the feast of the birth of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Like many of the feasts associated with the Virgin Mary, this one originated in the East, but had become part of the Western calendar by the middle of the 7th century. Of course, in celebrating Mary’s birthday, we know absolutely nothing about it. Its safe to assume that Mary was as much born on Sept 8th as Jesus was on December 25th. But more than that, we know absolutely nothing about her before the time she conceived – which is estimated roughly to be around the age of 14.

There is no record in Scripture of where she was born, nor of who her parents were. Only in the Apocryphal Gospels do we read that her parents were Joachim and Anne (or Anna) – those alternative gospels were rejected by the early church, but they tell how Joachim and Anna had long been childless. Being a bloke, Joachim went off into the desert to lament his fate, and while he was there he had a dream that Anna would soon have a daughter. The old tradition, accepted in the West, makes Nazareth Mary’s birth place, but other traditions tell how she was born in Jerusalem, near the pool of Bethsaida.

Why Sept 8th? Well no one knows. It certainly wasn’t her birthday – but we do know that on 8th Sept in the year 994, London was under attack by the Viking hoardes. The people of the City prayed to the Virgin Mary for protection. We don’t know if they got it or not, but what we do have from that event in history is the nursery rhyme: London Bridge is falling down, my fair Lady. The ‘fair Lady’ being, not Eliza Doolittle but the Virgin Mary on whom the people called.

So what are we doing when we keep the feast of the birth of the Virgin Mary? Why is it important? Well as always, Mary’s job is to direct the world to Christ. As you can see in the icons and the statue of OLW behind me (and in the image at the top of this post from St Mary Woolnough in the City of London), Mary holds Jesus out to the world, for us to receive, for us to embrace. In the same fashion, keeping her feast points us to Jesus – but very specifically, points us to his humanity.
It’s fair to say that the endless pursuit of one’s family tree is driven by a sense of knowing who you are. In fact the popular TV programme that uncovers the lineage of celebrities is called “Who do you think you are?” Through the ages, a true test of orthodoxy among Christians has been the place given to Mary. Because rightly speaking, those who honour Mary honour the humanity of Jesus. Because for us to embrace his humanity fully, to know who he is, we need some sense of where he came from - and its that same sense of needing to know where Jesus came from, who he is, which has led the Church to clutch at straws a little, desperate to determine a biographical history for his mother.

To celebrate Mary’s birth is to celebrate her life. A life of simple obedience to the will of God. A life of ultimate discipleship, a life attuned to the prompting of the Holy Spirit. To celebrate Mary’s birth is to celebrate her humanity – a humanity that nurtured, carried and gave birth to the divine (in one sense then, humanity revealing its greatest and most profound potential). But above all, to celebrate Mary’s birth is to affirm at the deepest level, our faith and hope in the full humanity of Christ. A humanity as real and as complex as yours and mine.

There has been throughout history – and no less in the 21st century – a grave danger that the Church forgets what it means to be human. A danger that we focus on the divine and the spiritual at the expense of the physical and the real. It is an easy temptation. The divine is perfect and beautiful. The human is sometimes ugly and often messy.

“When the fullness of time had come” wrote Paul, “God sent his Son, born of a woman, born under the law, so that we might receive adoption as children. Our faith is a faith founded on the incarnation. God’s Son ‘born of a woman’ proclaims the great truth of Emmanuel, God-with-us. No above us, or beyond us, but with us. In the depth and distress and disaster and delight of our humanity.

The Blessed Virgin Mary only, always and for ever points us to Jesus. And knowing God-with-us, we can know who we really are.

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death Amen

WHAT IS REAL?

Midnight Mass, 2006

It’s in the nature of my job that people ask me questions. Sometimes I can offer an quick and simple answer: like ‘Why are there 3 purple candles and one pink one on the advent wreath?’ Well its because the third Sunday in Advent is Gaudate Sunday and the pink candle is a reminder that we get a Sunday off our fast (not that anyone’s fasting in the first place, but that’s the answer anyway!). Or ‘Can I buy you a drink?’ to which the answer is almost always 'Yes!'

If you stop and think about it, there’s an awful lot in our ordinary day to day lives that is about questions. And not surprisingly there is a lot about faith that is about questions – some of which we can grope for an answer, but other questions which stop us in our tracks. Can this be true? What does this mean? Why?

Take a moment to check which questions are prominent in your mind this evening – questions of faith and life for which you seek an answer. And let me add another question to your load – the question that this holy night embodies, the question which lies at the heart of Christmas: As the carols says: What child is this? What is the real meaning of Christmas?

As I said, it is in the nature of my job that people ask me questions. Sometimes I can offer an answer. At other times that isn’t so easy. But of all the questions I’m asked in the course of my ministry, there is one which crops up time and time again. You might think it was something to do with whether the CofE should be disestablished, or how we should understand the Bible in the light of common sense and 21st century life, or what I think on a variety of issues. But no, the most commonly asked question is this:….. “Are you a real Vicar?!” It is sometimes a bit disconcerting, and I’d like to think that I’d been mistaken for a second-rate strip-a-gram but I’d be worried they’d ask for their money back!

Of course its about stereo-types – people expect one thing and they get something which doesn’t quite fit their expectations. But what is it that makes any of us or anything ‘real’? What is the real meaning of Christmas?

We’ll come back to that in a minute. But let me read to you an extract from a children’s story called ‘The Velveteen Rabbit’ by Margery Williams. I first heard it when I was a spotty teenager, and I’m sure some of you are familiar with it. It was first published in 1922, and is the tale of a stuffed rabbit who arrives one Christmas in a little boy’s nursery, along with a host of other toys who can speak, think, and move (of course!). It’s a pre-war version of ‘Toy Story’, I suppose!

When the Velveteen Rabbit arrives in the nursery, wrapped up in the boys stocking on Christmas Eve, the other toys make him feel very unwanted and insignificant. The mechanical toys were very superior. Even Timothy the jointed wooden Lion put on airs and graces and snubbed the Velveteen Rabbit. In fact his only friend was the Skin Horse. The Skin Horse had lived in the nursery longer than any other toy. His brown coat was bald in patches and showed the seams in places. But he was wise, and knew that the nursery magic was strange and wonderful.

What is REAL?” asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender. “Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?” “Real isn’t how you are made” said the Skin Horse “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but really loves you, then you become REAL"

“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit. “Sometimes” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt” “Does it happen all at once, like being wound up?” he asked, “or bit by bit?” “It doesn’t happen all at once” said the Skin Horse “It takes a long time….Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once youre real you cant be ugly, except to people who don’t understand" “I suppose you are Real” said the Rabbit…..”The Boy’s unclemade me real” he said “That was a great many years ago; but once you are real, you cant become unreal again. It lasts for always”

Well, eventually the Velveteen Rabbit becomes so real that he runs off into the field with all the other real rabbits (and, no doubt goes on to star in Watership Down!) But in the story, it is the little boy’s love that makes his toys real. Without that love they have something missing. But when someone gives them their love, then the magic begins.

Now that doesn’t help me to answer the question ‘Are you are real Vicar?’, but it is about what makes me and you real people. It’s our relationships with one another, family, friends, neighbours, colleagues, that make us real people. That’s why building community is so important. That’s why working across boundaries of faith, tradition and politics and is so crucial. That’s why the gospel of Jesus is inclusive and not exclusive – as the warning sign at the gate reminds us all.

When as individuals or as a community we cease to be aware of and concerned for the needs of those living around us, we loose our grip on Love. We loose our grip on Love’s reality, and we become less than we should be.

So what about ‘the real meaning of Christmas’? Well if we stopped people in the street they’d offer a variety of answers. They’d probably talk about ‘peace on earth’ and it being a time for generosity and celebration. That’s all good and all very well – and we’d probably say much the same too. But to stop there is typically human – failing to see beyond ourselves.

The REAL meaning of Christmas, is that one thing the Skin Horse and the Velveteen Rabbit understood made all things REAL. The real meaning of Christmas is Love….and that Love lasts for always.

But its not just about us loving one another, important though it is (and God knows isn’t always the easiest thing to do, especially over the Christmas period!) Its not just about us loving one another – but about God loving us.

The Creative Spirit,

in whose rush and flow is the vibrancy of the changing seasons - enfolds us in Love.

The Creator who formed the universe and breathes into us life – enflames us with Love.

The God who comes to us in the vulnerability and weakness of the child in the manger

- shares that Love in the simplicity and ordinariness of our daily lives.

“What is REAL? asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near
the nursery fender….The Skin Horse replied: “When a child loves you for a long,
long time, not just to play with, but really loves you, then you become REAL.”

When a child loves you....this ancient place of prayer carries that testimony through the ages and to us this night. We are beloved of God. Loved by the Christ-child. And that Love enlivens us and makes us real. If you will permit me the sentimentality, I’ll end with the words of Christina Rossetti.

Love came down at Christmas,
love all lovely, love divine;
love was born at Christmas:
star and angels gave the sign.

Worship we the Godhead,
love incarnate, love divine;
worship we our Jesus,
but wherewith the sacred sign?

Love shall be our token;
love be yours and love be mine,
Love to God and to all men,
love for plea and gift and sign.

In God’s grace and mercy may we know that love tonight in all its power and simplicity. Amen.

EDITORIAL CONTROL?

Walking along the South Bank this morning as part of a 'spiritual direction stroll' with a friend, a vaguely dangerous thought struck me. Wandering and wondering about one or two sayings of Jesus that sometimes may seem less than helpful, I suggested that it would be interesting to know which bits of the Gospels a re-incarnated Jesus might prefer to be rewritten.

Imagine if Jesus were to sit down with the Matthew, Mark, Luke and John and say:

"OK boys, you've done a great job, but there are one or two tweaks that I think would be helpful. A few things don't quite read right - some of those parables were meant to get a laugh and you've kind of killed it my making it sound like 'teaching' rather than conversational story-telling. And John, I can see you've tried to do something a bit different from the others, but what's this thing you've got with 'the Jews'? It doesn't really reflect what was really going on back then, and frankly doesn't sound good at all."

Dangerous thoughts maybe - but then, thats the South Bank for you.

DESPERATE ROMANTICS: HOLINESS & HUMANITY

The Herald, September 09

In the summer of 1848, three young artists formed the ‘Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood’ and turned the art world on its head. Since then, John Everett Millais, Dante Gabriel Rossetti and William Holman Hunt have been a source of fascination for scholars and students alike. If over the past few weeks, like me, you have become engrossed in BBC2’s six part series Desperate Romantics, then you will have got to know a bit more about what went into their artistic exploits – and a lot more about their love lives and the scrapes in which they found themselves, and from which they sought to save each other. The series’ writer, Peter Bowker, has created a story which is based on the lives of these three great artists, their associates and models. Whereas it may present an embellished account of their actual history, Desperate Romantics encapsulates wonderfully the spirit of the age, and the aspirations and ideals which inspired them so deeply and creatively.

Each episode focuses on a particular painting from the Brotherhood: Christ in the House of his Parents (1849-50), Ophelia (1851-2), and The Order of Release (1852-3) by Millais; The Scapegoat (1854-5) by Hunt; and Bocca Baciata (1859) and Beata Beatrix (1864-70) by Rosetti. [The BBC website has a brilliant ‘up close’ online exploration of the paintings that is well worth a visit!]. But there is a seventh picture which is often in the background, and which is evidently a continuous inspiration and challenge for the artist concerned.

You may remember a few months back I wrote about my familiarity with William Holman Hunt’s painting The Light of the World, which now hangs in the north transept of St Paul’s Cathedral. It used to be in the south aisle, and in the days before Cathedral entrance fees, I would spend ages sitting in front of the painting allowing its warmth and symbolism to sink in. So it was quite a surprise to see the creator of this sublime work of art and spirituality portrayed in the series in no uncertain terms. Nicknamed ‘Maniac’ by the Brotherhood, Hunt is erratic as he is irascible, prone to violence and near consumed by his passion for Annie Miller – the street girl who becomes his model and lover. So far in the series, The Light of the World has been no more than a sketch drawing in the background of his studio, but it has come to represent his conscience in the struggle he faces between his own physical needs and his spiritual journey.

To be honest, I am surprised… that I was so surprised. I’ve never taken the trouble to investigate the actual details of Hunt’s life and experience, but I had clearly made assumptions – assumptions which attributed the artist with holiness rather than humanity. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not suggesting that holiness isn’t important because clearly it is. But our perceptions of holiness are actually unhelpful and damaging if they obscure the sense of our own (and others’) humanity.

Desperate Romantics reminds me that artistic beauty is often fashioned from the incongruities and accidents of life. Likewise, my Christian faith tells me that we cannot grasp what God is about, unless we can grasp the basic realities of our own lives – and, in turn, that we cannot fathom our own experience without some sense of God’s work in the world. We may be tempted to place holiness and humanity at opposite ends of the spectrum, but the sometimes harsh but always helpful reality is that they are tangled and interwoven – and from that tension, God is his mercy and grace, will always draw out that which is beautiful.

MOVEMENT, DIRECTION & SECURITY

TRINITY 9 John 6.35,41-51 (St Nicholas, Elstree)

Jesus said to them: “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and who ever believes in me will never be thirsty” (John 6.35)

The theme of Jesus as the bread of life is one which has run through the lectionary readings of the past weeks with regularity – so the danger is that, having a different preacher each week, you end up getting the same sermon with slight variations! This morning I want to look particularly at the background to this passage from John 6, then briefly explore two aspects of ‘the bread of life’ in the light of what we uncover there. I want us to think about movement, direction and security.

John’s Gospel, being written much later, offers us a far more developed theology and understanding of who Jesus is than Matthew, Mark & Luke have yet arrived at. And of course, behind that understanding of who Jesus is, is a greater understanding of who they are too - a far more developed idea of what the church is about, a church which has grown in confidence, through adversity, and facing challenges from inside and from outside of the community of faith.

This oh-so familiar image of Jesus as ‘the bread of life’ is unique to the fourth gospel, and to the community which has preserved it for us 2,000 years or so later; and it’s an image which has woven itself so deeply into our Christian consciousness. In John 6, Jesus deliberately draws on the narrative of the Book of Exodus. Following the story of the Feeding of the 5,000 at the start of the chapter, Jesus recalls the story of the Israelites receiving the miraculous manna in the wilderness. It was a story that had been made popular through centuries of rabbinic teaching – and whatsmore, the rabbis had already forged a link between the manna from heaven and the Word and Wisdom of God. So for Jesus to say later in v51 “I am the living bread that came down from heaven” is incredibly explosive stuff. Indirectly, but quite definitely it seems, he is describing himself as the Word and Wisdom of God, the bread that came down from heaven. And of course, it’s not the bread imagery which inflames them, but saying he has ‘come down from heaven’. In no uncertain and quite literal terms, Jesus is describing himself as ‘God’s gift’ to his people. Some of those listening pick up on this straight away as they exclaim “Is not this Jesus, the son of Joseph, whose father and mother we know? How can he say ‘I have come down from heaven’?”

However, the first thing I’d like to focus on this morning is the sense of what the manna in the wilderness was for. Yes it was food, but more specifically, it was food for their journey. For Moses and the people of Israel, the manna that came down from heaven was to feed them as they journeyed on. It wasn’t the sit-down-picnic we may imagine the Feeding of the 5,000 to have been, but manna was their staple diet for a full 40 years as they travelled through the wilderness, until they reached the land of Caanan (Exodus 16.35).

For the Christian community who first knew John’s Gospel, the language and imagery of the exodus would have had a poignancy which we can so easily overlook. That same sense of movement and momentum was still wrapped up in the imagery as Jesus described himself as ‘the bread of life’. The church then was changing, (as it is now) as they travelling away from their roots in the synagogue and Judaism, embracing the breadth of the world which opened up before them – the world into which they carried the gospel of Christ. So for the community of John’s Gospel, to hear Jesus describe himself as ‘the bread that comes down from heaven’, ‘the real manna’ would have been almost as good as an injunction to get moving, to be a people on the move. So that’s the first thing I want you to hold on to, the sense that the bread of life, bread from heaven imagery has inherent within it a sense of movement, or journey.

The second and third things I’d like to leave with you are things which have a resonance with us as the church today as much as they held meaning for the early Christians. Because the two things travellers need above all things are a sense of direction, and security.

If I were to have a flipchart beside me, and we were to brainstorm “bread” in the gospels, I’m confident that as well as the Feeding of the 5,000 there would be two instances very high on our list, if not at the very top. The Lord’s Supper, and The Lord’s Prayer.

It is surely inconceivable, if not impossible, for us to talk about ‘bread’ and not to recall the Last Supper when Jesus broke bread and gave it to his disciples saying ‘Take, Eat. This is my body which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me’. And surely when we muse on ‘bread’ we are never far away from the first clear petition of the Lord’s Prayer: “Give us this day our daily bread.” Strangely enough, with all his use of bread imagery, the author of John’s gospel tells neither of those stories. There is no account bread-breaking at the Last Supper in John, and there is no account of Jesus giving his disciples what we now call ‘The Lord’s Prayer’. Yet we can be certain that both stories would have been part of the interpretive tool-kit of John’s readers as they mulled over the word of John Chapter 6. They would have made the link with ‘broken bread’ and ‘daily bread’ with ease….

Bread being broken, from earliest times was, and still is at the heart of the worship and life of the Church. It’s what we gather here to do this morning. Breaking bread celebrates Christ’s presence among his people, and makes that presence real for us. It nurtures us and nourishes us; it feeds us and it focuses us. When we gather to celebrate the Eucharist, the Lord’s Supper, we are the church more than at any other time. The Eucharist focuses us on Jesus, and sets our hearts and minds on him. The Eucharist focuses us on Jesus, and sets our course to be drawn deeper into him through the work of the Holy Spirit. As much as the bread from heaven imagery had that sense of movement for the early church, so their re-membering Jesus in their midst gave them their focus and direction.

And lastly I want to suggest that the bread of life imagery can also speak to us of security as it resonates with the words of the Lord’s Prayer: ‘give us this day our daily bread.’

During the bombing raids of the Second World War, thousands of children all over Europe were orphaned and left to starve. The fortunate ones were rescued and placed in refugee camps where they received food and good care. But many of these children who had lost so much could not sleep at night. They feared walking up to find themselves once again homeless and without food. Nothing seemed to reassure them. Finally, someone hit upon the idea of giving each child a piece of bread to hold at bedtime. Holding their bread, these children could finally sleep in peace. All through the night the bread reminded them, “Today I ate and I will eat again tomorrow”.

‘Sleeping with Bread: Holding what gives you life’
Dennis Linn et al Paulist Press New York, 1995

The notion of calling all types of bread ‘the staff of life’ reflects the universal sense of bread representing a basic requirement of our existence. If you imagine God giving you Jesus, your living, daily bread, in the same way that those starving children in the story were given bread to help them sleep, the you unlock an understanding which takes you beyond our physical, material needs.

Surely one of the things we lack most severely in these times, is security. Where does our security lie? Not in the banks, nor some might say in the Health Service. The bread of life, the bread from heaven, Jesus the Word and Wisdom of God is our security above all else.

Forgive, if you will, my ramblings. But for me this morning, the image of ‘Jesus the bread’ speaks of all these things - movement, direction and security. It may strike you in a very different way – and that’s fine [and if that’s the case then do make sure you spend sometime thinking through whatever your take on the gospel reading is this morning].

But the fact is that as a church we are moving and changing at what seems to be a rapid and frightening pace; and whether we are talking about finance or theology or authority or morality we have to meet that change at a local, national and international level.

The fact is that as a church, we are constantly being pulled in different directions and being tempted to enjoy the distractions of theological hobby-horses which gallop off and drag us in the wrong direction. We constantly need to refocus on, and draw closer to Jesus. Our direction can only be Christ-like and Christ-ward.

And the fact is that as a church, with the whole of creation, our ultimate security can only be in the one in whom all things hold together, Christ the bread of life.

Movement, Direction and Security.

Jesus said to the: “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and who ever believes in me will never be thirsty”

WHERE IS WISDOM TO BE FOUND?

St Mary the Virgin, Monken Hadley
Sunday 2nd August 2009, Evensong

I’ve just finished re-reading the script of Tom Stoppard’s play Arcadia (currently revived at the Duke of York’s Theatre in London) It was first performed in 1993, and the play is set simultaneously in the early 1800s and the 1990s. Arcadia is considered by most critics and commentators to be the best of Stoppard’s plays, and some have even argued that it will emerge as the best play of our generation. It certainly is thought provoking, if a little confusing at times!

The play’s only set is a sparcely furnished room in a grand country house at Sidley Park in Derbyshire. It opens in 1809, with the handsome young science graduate, Septimus Hodge, tutoring the somewhat precocious 13-year old girl of the house, Thomasina Coverley.

The second scene shifts suddenly to the 1990s when in the same unchanged room we are introduced to a new group of characters, notably Hannah Jarvis and Bernard Nightingale. The former is a historian researching the history of Sidley Park, and in particular the mysterious hermit who lived in the faux hermitage, that had been created in the 1800s. The latter is a supercilious academic desperately looking for evidence to support his theory that almost 200 years earlier Septimus Hodge, the tutor, was a friend of Lord Byron, and the Byron had stayed at Sidley Park, and there shot and killed a fellow poet and rival in love.

To try and tell you any more of the plot would a) take far too long; b) probably confuse you completely; and c) completely spoil things should you go and see the production yourself – which I thoroughly recommend! So that’s where I shall leave it. But what I have told you is, I think, enough to demonstrate that the play revolves around a number of paradoxes, polarities and contrasts: 18th century and 20th century, classicism and romanticism, art and science. And it is in the midst of this melee that Hannah and Bernard pursue their separate quests for truth: the identity of the hermit, and the facts of Byron’s brief but ill-fated residence.

The greatest benefit from the audience’s point of view, and the source of some wry humour, is seeing both sets of characters, both histories, played at the same time – because it shows that with a gap of 180 years they inevitably make incorrect assumptions which lead them to misinterpret the evidence completely. Bernard, especially, seeks out the truth, but because he is arrogantly working with a limited, incomplete picture, he gets the wrong end of the stick totally, and yet convinces himself that he has all the evidence he needs.

Our first lesson this evening was from the Book of Job, a dramatic poetic work which has also been judged to be among the greatest works of literature. You will, I’m sure be more familiar with the plot of this one: Job is a man of great wealth and of high social standing. God gives Satan permission to rob him of everything and strike him down with disease. He is run out of town by his fellows, and visited by three ‘comforters’ who do little more than reveal the bankruptcy and inadequacy of their traditional wisdom.

For me, it is chapter 28 which we heard this evening, that is the trigger for my link with Stoppard’s Arcadia. Just as Hannah and Bernard are seeking the truth of their theories, so Job is also seeking. In verse 12, roughly halfway through the passage he asks
“But where shall wisdom be found?
And where is the place of understanding?”

In the first eleven verses of the chapter Job points out that humanity has a reasonable track record in seeking out those things which are inaccessible and hidden. He uses the analogy of mining for silver and iron, and how from the earth’s stones we draw sapphires, and even find gold in the dust. But even in his woeful state, bemused by God’s apparent disinterest or even disdain, Job realises that there is a bigger picture.

In Arcadia, Bernard seek the truth but in the wrong places. Job however, knows that looking for wisdom within the capabilities of humanity is futile. In v23-24 he says:
“God understands the way to it, and he knows its place. For he looks to the ends of the earth, and sees everything under the heavens….”

In Arcadia, Bernard’s arrogance means he is prepared to put his trust in an incomplete picture. But it is Job’s humility that provides him with the bigger picture in which all things (including the things he struggles with and cannot understand) fall into place. Job acknowledges:
“[God] said to humankind, ‘Truly the fear of the Lord, that is wisdom; and to depart from evil is understanding’.”

Wisdom, then, is not a matter of being clever. Job has the bigger picture. And the bigger picture is ‘the fear of the Lord’ – not a fearful servitude, but a relationship of respect and reverence for the author and architect of creation. As God says to Job later in chapter 38:
“Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?...Who determined its measurements, or who stretched the line upon it?”

The Book of Job is often misunderstood. It’s usually taken to be a reflection on the problem of evil and why good people suffer. Yet despite Job’s complaints and questions, God never does give him an answer. Instead, Job discovers that his concept of God is way too small – and when he realises fully the greatness of God, his problems (and his questions) seem to evaporate.

The Book of Job doesn’t set out to answer the problem of suffering, but rather to proclaim a God so great, so infinite, that no answer is needed.

The second lesson, from the letter to the Hebrews, gave a great list of worthies, those whose faith set them apart, those who, like Job were tested and, no matter what, clung on to the bigger picture or their even bigger God. [And of course I am pleased to add to that list the name of St Alban, being from the other side of the tracks and the neighbouring diocese which bears the name of Britain’s first Christian martyr.]

Job asks: “But where shall wisdom be found? And where is the place of understanding?” Of course to a greater or lesser degree that is a quest on which we all embark day by day. Whether we are trying to decipher the latest department of health instructions about swine flu, or work out the internal wrangles of the Anglican Communion - it is true wisdom, truth and understanding that we so desperately need. Each and every one of us; each and every day.

So where do you look for wisdom, understanding and security? Are you perhaps working with an incomplete picture, like those researching the past of Sidley Park, and as a consequence drawing the wrong conclusions about life? ….or come to that, drawing the wrong conclusions about the Church?

Or are you like our man Job, who in the midst of hardship and life’s knocks seeks more than answers, but a bigger picture - a vision of the majesty, wonder and wisdom of God?

May God give us wisdom and understanding, and draw us ever closer to the mystery of his will, and the magnificence of his eternal splendour. Amen

PATRONAL FESTIVAL: St Anne's, Soho

May what I say and what you hear draw us closer to the Word of God, even our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

It’s great to be here today as you celebrate your Patronal Festival. Fr David is convinced that I spend more time in his parish that in my own – which is of course a wild exaggeration! My parish in East Barnet is at the northern end of the Piccadilly Line, and as an East Londoner who spent much of his youth in the West End, and then went on to work in theatre publicity, I really can’t help but be drawn back!

In the epistle this morning Paul uses the image of the church as a huge extended family. On and off in the past year or so I’ve been working on my family tree – and it continues to throw up surprises. I’d always thought of my family as typical EastEnders, complete with jellied eels and stories of how my Mum’s aunt ran a snooker hall in the East End, and saw off the Kray twins with no more than a billiard cue and a mouthful of abuse (no, really!)

But my East End lineage had been challenged by the discovery that my great grandfather on my Dad’s side was originally from Great Yarmouth, the son of a Norfolk basket-maker. Most recently I’ve found out that my great grandmother on my Mum’s side, her maiden name wasn’t Smith, Fowler or Gor-blimey….but de la Bertouche. Rather posh, and rather French!

So all of a sudden, my family aren’t entirely the people I thought they were – and in a small way therefore, I’m not the person I thought I was either.

Here we are this morning celebrating the feast of St Anne, the grandmother of Jesus on his mother’s side: “Holy Annie, God’s Grannie” as we used to say at theological college. And of course the problem is that we know nothing about her. Of course we know Mary had a mother, but that’s about it. We get the name ‘Anne’ from an account of the childhood of Jesus written in the 2nd century, which a couple of hundred years later the Church decided was a bit too dodgy to be included in the final edit of the New Testament. So not a lot to go on really, and one might ask why keep the feast at all? Why have a church dedicated to St Anne? Why bother?

Well the answer is a straightforward one.
Whether her name was Anne or Ethel, she helps us to understand who Jesus was. Who Jesus is.

Since its earliest beginnings, the Church has been a bit of a mess really (and hey, we thought it was just the Church of England!). Lurching from one crisis to another, solving one theological disagreement only to uncover the next, moving in one direction and then another, together and then divided. The Church has never been straightforward. Nor will it ever be.

Beneath the big issues the Church grapples with today is the question of where authority lies – and that’s exactly the problem that’s been hounding us since the Reformation. Of course it was the Reformers who declared that authority lay not with the Church but in the Bible alone – so they gave everyone the chance to read it for themselves and come up with as many different ideas about what it meant as possible. In that sense the Reformation is more than a point in history, but part of a process in which the Church is still embroiled and we’re working our way through some 500 years later.

We may struggle with where we find authority, but for the first Christian congregations the biggest question was about who Jesus was. And how he was….was he God ‘dressed up’, or was he just an ordinary man who revealed God in a special way? It’s a really crucial balance, understanding Jesus as fully human and fully divine, and some of the worst mistakes in the history of our faith have been because we have made Jesus to be all-God, and lost sight of his real and full and vulnerable humanity.

And one of the simplest yet most effective ways of remembering his real humanity, is to remember his family. Whatever we might think of the gynaecological mechanics of the virgin birth, we know Jesus didn’t waft down from above on a cloud. He was born of bloody and brittle flesh – just like you and me. Remembering Anne, the mother of Mary, and grandmother of her son is a powerful reminder that’s as well as being ‘God with us’ Jesus is ‘one of us’. Remembering Anne pulls us back to the mystery of the incarnation and the heart of our faith.

If I asked you to choose one word to sum up the Christian gospel, I wonder which it would be? Some years back I was asked the same. I said ‘acceptance’ (cheating slightly with ‘forgiveness’ held in reserve!). My mate sitting beside me said ‘relationship’ – and immediately that struck a chord. Relationship.

To remember St Anne, to remember the Incarnation, is to acknowledge just how important human relationships are – how important they are to us, and how important they are to God. And yes, I believe that is true no matter how flawed and messy those relationships may be. Just like the messy Church to which we belong.

Anne, Mary, Joseph, Christ’s brothers and sisters and his disciples were all part of the network of relationships in which Jesus grew and which helped shape his understanding of who he was. And of course the relationships which shape our sense of who we are can convey most powerfully the grace and acceptance of our loving God. Friend, lover, relation, partner – all relationships which can embody the love of God. Relationships that matter to God as much as they matter to us.

“Holy Annie, God’s Grannie” There’s not a lot to go on really, and one might ask why keep her feast at all? Why have a church dedicated to St Anne? Because if nothing else – or rather, above all else - it is a challenge to reconnect with the real humanity of Jesus, a humanity that was sustained, shaped and made real through his relationships with others.

And in our ever-changing and ever-messy Church, it is a call to affirm and strengthen and build those relationships which carry the love and wonder of God’s grace to those we meet.

Discovering who my grandparents were helps me to understand where I’ve come from. St Anne helps us to understand who Jesus is; and of course it is in knowing who Jesus is that we can come to understand more fully who we are too.

SUFFERING MAKES SPACE FOR JOY

Father(or is it Brother?)Timothy Radcliffe recently lectured at St Mary le Bow on the 'Our Father' and social justice as part of the JustShare series. By his own admission it was a whistlestop sprint through the most taken-for-granted words of the New Testament, but evenso it was at the same time simple yet deeply profound.

One almost 'throw away' line was something along the lines of "Suffering makes space within us for the joy of God", and as he said it he indicated to the sculpture behind the altar (pictured above).

Seen in the light of this paradoxical truth, it reveals a Christ 'hollowed' by his suffering, Calvary 'making space' for the joy of resurrection life.

I don't think I've heard a comment on the relationship between suffering and joy which has been so pithy and so authentic in its resonance and perception, not least because it was reinforced visually there and then!

EUCHARISTIC PRAYER: broken/ministry

Great God,
beyond our knowing,
yet intimate and ever-present,
you breathe into our lives
the mystery and majesty
of your perfecting love.

With grace and delight
you draw the whole creation to yourself;
and with your Holy Spirit
you embrace and enliven us.

In Jesus you lived our life
and died our death.
You hallowed our frail flesh,
and blessed its wounds
with new life and hope.

Remembering your saving help,
Jesus took bread and gave you thanks.
He broke it and gave it to his companions saying:
Take this, my body, broken for you.

He took wine, and after giving thanks
gave it to them and urged them to drink:
My blood of the new covenant, he said,
for the forgiveness of sins.

Eat, drink. Remember me.

So now, Creator God
we come as we are.
We eat and drink, and remember Jesus
that his life may be our life.

Now send your Spirit on these gifts;
and draw us closer to you,
Let the transfiguring light of your love
shine through the cracks in who we are,
and make us more the people
you have called us, and created us to be
in Jesus Christ our Lord.
Amen

© Richard F Watson

WE LIVE WITH SO MANY CONTRADICTIONS

Read the small print!

ALBANTIDE

On Saturday, thousands gathered at our Cathedral & Abbey Church of St Alban to mark the feast of this country’s first Christian martyr, Alban - a Roman soldier gave shelter to a Christian priest fleeing persecution. In the few days the priest was in hiding, their growing friendship led Alban to become a Christian, and make a commitment to follow Christ. When the game was up, and the authorities came knocking, Alban swapped clothes with the priest, who escaped, leaving Alban to be arrested in his place. Before the judge he refused to deny his faith, exclaiming ‘I am Alban: and I worship and adore the true and living God’. He was executed outside the city walls of Verulamium roughly on the site of where the Cathedral was later founded, in honour of his faith in Christ and to the glory of God (and yes, of course Alban ought to replace George as our patron saint!)

The whole story was re-enacted with giant puppets yesterday as the procession moved from the site of old Verulamium, through the orchard (the probable site of Alban’s martyrdom) and into the Cathedral for an incredible act of worship led by the Bishop of Hertford and ably assisted by Becky as Deacon! This morning we do our bit in East Barnet to mark the life and faith of Alban, and to pray for our Cathedral & Abbey Church and Diocese. But we also recall that although Alban’s story is a dramatic one of long ago, the call on his life is the same as the call on yours and mine.

In his sermon, the Dean of St Paul’s reminded us that we are called, as was Alban, to martyrdom. Have you ever considered yourself as a likely martyr?

In its original meaning, to be a martyr is to be a witness. We use the term to refer exclusively to those whose witness leads to a Christ-like giving up of their lives but it simply means ‘witness’. So how much do you think of yourself as a Christian witness? Someone who points to Jesus and leads others to find him. Because that is your calling, today and every day.

Recently the Ministerial Team here at St Mary’s got together to think about the Eucharist, and the way we do things week by week. And we reminded one another of what it is we come to do at 10am on a Sunday morning. If you had been stopped in the street on your way here today, and been asked ‘what is it you’re going to do?’, how would you have responded? Just think for a second.

Going to church? Going to worship? Going to see my friends? Going to pray? Going to see if it finishes by 11.15am? Would you have said ‘I’m going to meet Jesus’? or ‘I’m going to encounter Christ’? Because that is what we come here for. That is what the Eucharist is about above all else. We meet the Risen Jesus as we gather together in his name, as the gospel is proclaimed, and as the bread and wine is shared among us.

We gather here in this place to encounter the risen, glorified Christ – and like Alban, to worship and adore him. Like Alban, we are called to be witnesses to that encounter.

Not to be great theologians, or clever apologists who can win every argument and baffle the JWs on the doorstep or convince the boys in the bar. We are called to meet Jesus – and to gently let it be known to others that we have.

The Dean of St Paul’s ended his sermon yesterday by getting the whole congregation to read aloud Alban’s confession, inserting their own name: I am Richard, Jane, Martin, Catherine or what ever – and I worship and adore the true and living God.

I’m not going to ask you to say that out loud, but will ask that we sit quietly for a few moments and let it roll around our heads for a bit until it drops into our hearts

I am …….and I worship and adore the true and living God.

PROTESTAN-SCHISM

I always like it when something I've tried to explain to someone crops up in a book I'm reading a few days later. Naphy's natty summary below sums up the conversation in a Belgravia pub earlier this week...well, what I can remember of it, anyway!

Why did (and does) Protestantism constantly and frequently splinter into very small groups (denominations), sometimes coming together at a later date in unions and reunification? The answer is simply this: it has no mechanism for settling debates. When a Protestant states that a verse says and definitely means something, it is (no matter how important the issue at stake may be) almost always possible to find another Protestant (or indeed an entire other Protestant denomination) that will disagree and propose an entirely different meaning. Catholicism, on the other hand, will agree that the Bible reveals truth and that that truth is plain and clear, but it understands that there is a difference between that as a theory and the reality of the diverse interpretations that sinful humans might find in the Bible. Catholicism relies on hierarchy and tradition to ensure a unity of interpretation and to settle differences; those who disagree place themselves outside the Church. Protestantism has no such mechanism, but instead relies on a conviction that the Holy Spirit will (or at least should) ensure a unity of interpretation. When this fails, schism results and a new denomination is born. It is messy; but also immensely inventive and exciting.

"The Protestant Revolution", William G Naphy, BBC Books 2007

BRILLIANT VIEWS

I recently had the opportunity to enjoy the fantastic views of the London skyline from the 3rd floor of the Whittington Hospital in Archway. Clearly taken into account in the design of the building, the huge windows allow the weary and the distressed to take in the vast panorama before them. They've even installed seating by the windows to encourage folk to stay a while and enjoy the vista.

And this is what you see when you sit down.

Sheer brilliance!

SOME BATTLES

Dog has yet to learn

that some battles

just aint worth fighting.

LORD, FORGIVE

When we have dismissed the heritage and tradition of those who have gone before us:
Lord, forgive
When we have limited our worship to what we like and what we want:
Lord, forgive
When we have ignored or belittled the prayers and needs of others:
Lord, forgive
When we have disowned our brothers and sisters because they don’t agree with us:
Lord, forgive
When we have quietly told ourselves that we are right, so therefore they must be wrong:
Lord, forgive
When we have forgotten that we share the same pilgrimage, the same road:
Lord, forgive
When we have damaged the body of Christ by argument, by division, and by neglect:
Lord, forgive

God reaches out in love to his broken people.
God forgives his broken people.
God forgives you:
forgive one another.
Be at peace.

Let us offer one another a sign of peace.