Sacrifice

A sermon on a Candlemas theme, preached today at Pentre Llifior . . .

In the April of the year of jubilee 2000, a special service took place in Rome, led by the then Pope John Paul II, but joined by leaders from many different churches. Together they remembered the many Christian martyrs of the 20th century. It’s a sad truth that as many people have died for their faith in the last two centuries as at any other time in the history of the Church, women and men of many different cultures and nationalities. Their blood calls out from Auschwitz, from the Gulag camps of the Soviet Union, from Burundi and Uganda, from Latin America, from China, from many other lands too. Some we remember by name: Janani Luwum of Uganda, Oscar Romero in El Salvador, Dietrich Bonhoeffer executed by the Nazis, Maximilian Kolbe, likewise.

Many others are remembered only by those who knew them, families, friends, church colleagues. We honour their sacrifice. Next Thursday is the day often kept as the Presentation of Christ in the Temple, the story we heard from the Gospel of Luke. Candlemas, to give it an old traditional name. And sacrifice is a theme for this day; when a firstborn child was presented in the temple he was offered to God as God's own possession. But a ritual sacrifice would also be offered - poorer people would offer a pair of doves. What that did was to buy back the child to remain part of his own family. And behind the ceremony lay a sense of belonging to God; that’s what Mary and Joseph were affirming when they did for their firstborn son what the Law of the Lord required.

The hymn-writer Frances Ridley Havergal in one of her most famous compositions writes, “Take my life and let it be consecrated, Lord, to thee.” Her hymn is in fact a prayer, and each verse after that opening amplifies the sense of everything we are, everything we do, everything we own being consecrated to God, laid before him, offered for his use and purpose.

Looking for a moment at the Bible story, we find in what Mary and Joseph do in the Temple, and perhaps especially in the words said to Mary by old Simeon, a pointer towards the sacrificial destiny of Jesus. Here is offered to God the one child who really is his; who will serve him completely, and will hold nothing back; who when the time is right will offer himself as the one true and perfect sacrifice, the only sacrifice that can lift from us the burden of sin and the reality of death.

That leads me also into this mystery to which we give the name of Trinity. For the child offered in the Temple is God, and Simeon recognises that God is in him; and the Holy Spirit that will rest upon him as he is baptized by John is God; and the one he prays to as Father is God. Trinity speaks of three persons, one God, perhaps three revelations of the one divine love: and sacrifice is one word that can help us understand something of the colossal and mysterious truth of God.

In my old church of Holy Trinity Minsterley, on the lectern we had an image of the Trinity (I think I remember this correctly, though after all this time it could have been somewhere quite different!): a triangle interlinked by a circle. The triangle expressed the otherness of Father, Son and Holy Spirit, while the circle stood for the constant interplay between them. No mere symbol can sum up the mysterious life of the Godhead, but I’ve always found it a helpful way of saying something about the fundamentally sacrificial way in which Father, Son and Holy Spirit belong together. For at the heart of the mystery of God is self-giving love; love is of the very nature of God, and in love Father, Son and Holy Spirit hold together in mutual service. Maybe we can see the sacrificial nature of God reflected in the lives of those we remember as martyrs: men and women who gave their lives for his life, and their love for the love received so freely and graciously from the God who is love.

And sacrifice is surely a theme of all our worship. At Holy Communion especially we join ourselves to that one true and all-sufficing sacrifice made for us by our Lord, as we break bread together to remember. But whenever we meet in worship we are challenged to present, as St Paul puts it, our selves, our souls and bodies to be a living sacrifice. We may never be faced with the uttermost challenge of martyrdom, pray we never will be, but it’s right to ask how sacrificially we live our lives, and how good are we at putting aside our own concerns, our own pride, our own priorities, so we can truly serve our Lord.

The Jews who worshipped in the Temple knew they belonged to God, but they also knew they were perpetually alienated from him by their sin. That’s why sacrifices were made, every day: to redress the balance, to restore God’s favour. The pigeons offered by Mary and Joseph were just one part of the ongoing round of sacrifices: never sufficient, never worthy, by which under the old covenant the people sought to appease God. But now Simeon identifies this child as the beginning of something new; for in this child the old round of temple sacrifice will at last be ended. A new light has dawned among us, for all nations, for every time and place.

Our Lord Jesus Christ is perfect love born among us and living among us; and as John wrote, perfect love casts out fear. So we who know Christ as our Lord need no longer live in fear. And the sacrifices we can make have been made acceptable through the one sacrifice that truly suffices - the sacrifice Christ has made for us on the cross, by which we are restored as sons and daughters of God. In this child, and in the man he will become, and on the cross he will ascend, the little sacrifices of our own lives are given eternal value.

In the early days of the Church Tertullian wrote that 'the blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church'. This is true in a very literal way, for the Church has been at its strongest in spirit when it has been most under attack. And the brave sacrifices of those we honour as martyrs do inspire and draw others to know Jesus and to follow him. Thank God that in desperate times men and women have stood firm for him. Thank God for the Spirit of Christ within them, for the strength and courage they were given.

The Church needs this spirit of sacrifice at all times, if it’s to be the Church of Jesus. Paul wrote to the Colossians that ‘he was helping to complete, in his own poor flesh, the full tale of Christ’s afflictions’. That’s how important what we can offer becomes. It’s not a sacrifice of appeasement and fear, it’s our thank-offering to the God who’s already set us free, and in his name it’s our service in the world.

The Presentation of Christ gives us a preview of his offering of himself by which the whole world is changed. He is a light that can never be extinguished. And through him, each small sacrifice we make, each little laying down of ourself on the altar, each little presentation of ourself to God, becomes something much better and stronger than we could imagine. “Take my life and let it be consecrated, Lord to thee.” However small our sacrifice, what we give wholeheartedly, gratefully and lovingly is accepted, is useful, is joined to the sacrifice of Christ, is an expression of the glory of God.

So as we reflect today on the presentation of our Lord in the Temple, may we once again offer ourselves to him, so that his light may shine in our lives, and so that his glory may be seen and known in all the world.

Goldcrests

This is my "Nature Notes" article for the month ahead. I'm pleased to say that we've had goldcrests in our garden for two or three days now, and I was particularly pleased to have identified them first of all from the song. For a small bird it carries well; I found myself thinking, "I'm sure that's a goldcrest!" and a few minutes later was delighted when the bird itself suddenly appeared, only four or five feet from where I was standing. I could hear a second bird, but only saw the one. Here is the article :-

Most warblers come to use as summer visitors; as insect-eating specialists, they find thin pickings in an English winter. Two resident species, the Dartford warbler and Cetti’s warbler, are found only in the south, and are hard-hit by any prolonged spell of cold winter weather. Our commonest warbler, the chiffchaff, also hangs on in the south of England, though most birds migrate further south, while blackcaps, as I’ve mentioned previously, have become winter bird-table specialists.

But there is one bird of the warbler family that is with us all the year round, and it is the smallest bird in Europe. I was delighted to see one in my back garden half way through January, flitting about in its typically very active way from branch to branch. The goldcrest is a woodland specialist, and spends much of its time foraging for insect food towards the tops of coniferous trees.

Goldcrests are found throughout the UK, wherever there is suitable habitat. I hardly ever see one in the summer, but they usually turn up in my garden at some time in the winter months. At this time of the year they need to range more widely to find enough food to get by - overwintering spiders and insects, plus of course their eggs and larvae. We have a yew tree at the back of our garden, and that is where I am most likely to spot one. They will very often attach themselves to mixed flocks of tits, and it is noteworthy that when I saw “mine” last month I had a family party of long tailed tits in the garden too.

Like tits, goldcrests are acrobatic little birds, often hanging upside down as they prospect along the branches for food. They are olive green birds with a distinctive wing bar, plus of course the feature that gives them their name, the orange-gold crest, with a black line either side to emphasize it. The female has a more yellow crest, but is otherwise the same. Since I have generally seen a pair together even in the depths of winter, I’ve always assumed they pair for life.

They build a finely woven nest, usually along the branch of a conifer but sometimes in ivy, and will raise a large brood there, sometimes laying as much as a dozen eggs. The youngsters lack the gold crest to begin with, and are fed by both parents, fledging and leaving the nest within three weeks. The breeding season begins in April. The goldcrest has a high pitched song, short and rapidly delivered and ending with a rather squeaky flourish.

Although not very often seen, the goldcrest is in fact a comparatively tame bird, and I have been able to get quite close to them when visiting the spruce in the centre of one of our previous gardens, which they did quite regularly. Their close relative the firecrest is also a British bird, though I have only seen it on the continent. It has an orange crest with a deeper black surround, plus a black eyestripe, and is mostly in the UK on passage, though a few stay all winter in the south-west.

Calling Out Disciples (2)

The version of my sermon I'll be taking to Corndon Marsh . . .

The very first church of which I had charge had chairs rather than pews, very like the ones you have here. They were a little old and uncomfortable, to be honest, but they were proper church chairs, with a box on the back for the people behind to put their hymn books, and a hook so you could hang up your hassock. Again, probably like here, there never had been any pews in St Thomas’s, right from when it was first built. But I think some of my folk wished there had been, because then it would feel like a “proper church”.

Me, I like chairs, because they’re more flexible. You can move them about and create space. They could be more comfortable as well, not that I’d want to encourage people to drop off to sleep during my sermon. But here’s another reason why I like chairs: too much fixed furniture can give the wrong impression: it can get people thinking that churches and chapels are supposed to be fixed and immovable places, and they’re not. Lovely and special they may be, but they are staging posts and refuelling points, at best. For our Lord didn’t come to found an institution, but to start a pilgrimage.

Tonight our Gospel reading told the story of how Jesus called his first disciples. And he didn’t say to them, “Have you thought of training for the ministry?” or even, “The church I’m founding could use a few chaps like you!” He just said this: “Follow me.” “Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.” And they left all the fixed furniture of their lives, and went with him, out on the road.

Somewhere at home in my collection of religious cartoons, I’ve got one which shows a bemused band of Sunday church-goers standing outside the closed door of their church. On the door there’s a notice: “You’ve been coming here long enough. Get out there and do it.” In reality, we do need to come to church, to hear the word, to break the bread, to sing God’s praise, to be still in his presence. But the point is that churchgoing can be an end in itself, and it shouldn’t be. It has to lead to something or else it’s wasted and we’re wasted too. Jesus says to Simon Peter and the others: I need you now, not just to listen to me but to walk with me, to be with me out on the road.

So what will it mean to do that, to get out on the road with Jesus? This is the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity, a time to remind ourselves that we should be united in discipleship and in seeking to know the mind of our Lord, in doing his will, and sharing his love. Across our differences as people and as Christians, we’re called to be pilgrims together, walking the same road, and following the same master.

I’m keen to get Christians of different sorts together to talk things through and find out about each other, but I have to say that it hasn’t always worked as I’ve wanted when I’ve tried to do it. Many years ago I, with my local Methodist and Roman Catholic colleagues set up meetings in Lent so our folk could do some discovering and sharing. We’d been getting on well as ministers, meeting each week for fellowship and prayer, and we wanted our folk to share a bit of what we had.

What a disappointment it turned out to be! Many of those who came obviously felt they had to defend the fixtures and furniture of their church against all comers. Our mistake as ministers perhaps - we’d chosen topics where we knew our denominations said or thought different things. We thought that would make it interesting, and a chance to widen our vision and our understanding. It didn’t work out that way.

Like church buildings filled with pews and other heavy furniture, Christian denominations can seem very fixed and settled, in a way that doesn’t work for me. I’ve never belonged to just one church: I went to church every Sunday morning as a boy, and to chapel Sunday school in the afternoon. I value my denomination and tradition, but I’ve never felt I’d got to defend it against all comers. Nor have I thought that my lot have all the truth. There’s always something I can receive or learn from others.

When Jesus called his disciples he called them away from fixed points and furniture and out onto the road. There, as he told them, “the Son of Man has no place to lay his head.” So we don’t want to have too much baggage of denomination and tradition. We might even have too much scripture, or I should say we can be tempted into making too much of it. St Paul, when he was Saul the Pharisee had more theological furniture than was good for him; but out on the road as Paul the Apostle he wrote that he was resolved to know “only Jesus Christ, and him crucified.” All the rest is secondary.

Whatever doctrines and traditions we hold in our minds, it’s our hearts Jesus really wants. Jesus never said to Peter and the others, “Let’s settle here and build a church.” When he said to them, “Follow me” he wasw challenging them to leave everything they had, everything they thought they knew, and to go with him to who knows where on the open road. And he gave them just this promise - “I will make you fishers of men.”

Don’t get me wrong. I do love the furniture - the settled things about my faith, buildings, hymns, liturgy, prayers and even pews. But I hope never to love them too much, for they must never be what I worship, or in the way of what I worship. Jesus doesn’t want me, or you, to stay where we are, or as we are: he doesn’t want his church to be a thing, certainly not a fossilised thing. A Church true to this man who says “Follow me” will be a pilgrimage, a movement, a process, and even a victory parade, people singing and praising out on the road.

One of my favourite songs of faith is “Lord of the Dance”. Not everyone likes it, but for me it sums up what I feel about Jesus calling me. Where I’ll find him and know him best is in the dance of life, in the things that move and change and develop, in the journey on. And that dancing road of faith is, I believe, what he calls Peter and Andrew and James and John, and each one of us, to share.

Calling Out Disciples

A service I shall lead at Welshpool Methodist Church this coming Sunday . . .

Calling Out Disciples :-

Sunday 22nd January - Welshpool Methodist Church.

Our theme today is to do with service and discipleship. Let me begin with some words based on verses from chapter 12 of Paul’s first Letter to Corinth:

We have many gifts, but all are inspired and enabled by the one Spirit. There are many ways in which we can serve, but together we serve the one Lord. There is much that we set ourselves to do, but in all the variety of our tasks the one God is at work within us all. Let us praise him together.

Hymn 680 - “Come, host of heaven’s high dwelling place . . .”

God calls us day by day to bear witness to the good news of his love. Sometimes we live up to that calling, but often we fail to do so. Other things seem more important, other voices are more persuasive; we choose to go our own way, not his. So let us reflect on our own discipleship, asking God’s forgiveness for our failure and forgetfulness, seeking God’s strength and vision as today he calls us again - to follow and to serve. Please repeat after me “Lord have mercy” or “Christ have mercy”, as appropriate :-

Lord Jesus, you are the Good Shepherd. You rescue us and save us, and your love for us is constant and sure. Lord, have mercy: Lord, have mercy.

Lord Jesus, you call us to follow your voice, and not a stranger’s. Help us to heed your call and follow, and so find good pasture. Christ, have mercy: Christ, have mercy.

Lord Jesus, when we are attacked and in danger you do not abandon us, for you are the Shepherd who lays down his life for the sheep. Lord, have mercy: Lord, have mercy.

We have this promise: that we are assured in Jesus our Lord that the love of God for us is eternal, and that nothing can prevail against it. In him we find forgiveness, in him our life is renewed.

So let us pray together in the words our Lord has given us to say:

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.

A theme prayer for today:

Almighty God, whose Son revealed in signs and miracles the wonder of your saving presence: renew your people with your heavenly grace, and in all our weakness sustain us with your mighty power; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

And so we praise him on whom we depend, and in whom we find peace and protection. Our hymns are 441 and 467, with a few spoken verses between them :-

(Hymn 441 - “As water to the thirsty”)

Words from Mother Julian of Norwich:

It is God’s will that I should see myself as bound to him in love as if all he has done he has done for me alone. And so should every soul think . . . He wills that our hearts be lifted high above the depths of earthly and vain sorrows, to rejoice in him. He loves us and enjoys us, and so he wills that we love him and enjoy him, and firmly trust him; and all shall be well.

(Hymn 467 - “I need thee every hour”)

Let us now hear God’s word to us:

Isaiah 9.1-4  -  Formerly the lands of Zebulun and Naphtali were lightly regarded, but afterwards honour was bestowed on Galilee of the Nations on the road beyond Jordan to the sea.

The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light; on those who lived in a land as dark as death a light has dawned.  You have increased their joy and given them great gladness; they rejoice in your presence as those who rejoice at harvest, as warriors exult when dividing spoil. For you have broken the yoke that burdened them, the rod laid on their shoulders, the driver’s goad, as on the day of Midian’s defeat.

Matthew 4.12-23  -  When he heard that John had been arrested, Jesus withdrew to Galilee; and leaving Nazareth he went and settled at Capernaum on the sea of Galilee, in the district of Zebulun and Naphtali. This was to fulfil the words of the prophet Isaiah about  ‘the land of Zebulun, the land of Naphtali, the road to the sea, the land beyond Jordan, Galilee of the Gentiles’:

The people that lived in darkness have seen a great light; light has dawned on those who lived in the land of death’s dark shadow.

From that day Jesus began to proclaim the message: ‘Repent, for the kingdom of Heaven is upon you.’

Jesus was walking by the sea of Galilee when he saw two brothers, Simon called Peter and his brother Andrew, casting a net into the lake; for they were fishermen. Jesus said to them, ‘Come with me, and I will make you fishers of men.’  At once they left their nets and followed him.

Going on farther, he saw another pair of brothers, James son of Zebedee and his brother John; they were in a boat with their father Zebedee, mending their nets. He called them, and at once they left the boat and their father, and followed him.

He travelled throughout Galilee, teaching in the synagogues, proclaiming the good news of the kingdom, and healing every kind of illness and infirmity among the people.

May the Lord bless to our use and to his purposes this reading of his holy word. Amen.

Let us now sing again, a hymn of commitment and service:

Hymn  449 - “Lord of creation, to you be all praise”

Address:

Not everyone likes individual seats in a church or chapel, as I recall when, years ago, I went to preach one Sunday at the ancient parish church of Pershore in Worcestershire. It’s a lovely old church, well filled with pews. The pews were not lovely and old, but Victorian and made of pitch pine - and, as I recall, the churchfolk wanted to remove some of them and rearrange others.

There was a fair measure of agreement within the church community, but beyond the church gates people were up in arms about the desecration being wreaked on their church. A court case ensued which must have cost thousands, and in the end the ruling went for the retention of the pews, which were there when I preached and I presume are still there to this day.

I can understand why it is that people want “their” holy buildings never to change. Tradition is important to many of us, and there are times when there seems precious else to hold on to in life. And sometimes change is done in an insensitive way, too, or negotiated badly. And change is scary. People find it hard to visualise what the new will be like, though often they’re quite happy with it once they’ve got used to things.

The very first church of which I had charge had chairs and not pews. They were old and uncomfortable chairs, I have to say. They weren’t padded in any way, and none of them had arm rests. They were proper church chairs, with a box on the back for the people behind to put their hymn books, and a hook so you could hang up your hassock. And there never had been any pews in that church, not from when it was first built. But that didn’t stop some of my folk wishing there were, so it could feel like a “proper church”.

Me, I’d rather have chairs. I like the flexibility, and, given the padding most church chairs have today, the comfort - even if a mite too much comfort could encourage people to sleep through the sermon. But I also worry that too much fixed furniture gives the wrong impression: churches and chapels aren’t supposed to be fixed and immovable places. Our Lord didn’t found an institution, he started a pilgrimage.

This morning we’re thinking about Jesus calling his first disciples. He didn’t say, “Have you thought of training for the ministry?” or even, “The church I’m founding could use a few chaps like you!” He said, “Follow me.” “Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.” And they left all the fixed furniture of their lives, and went with him, out on the road.

Somewhere at home in my collection of religious cartoons, I’ve one which shows a bemused band of Sunday churchgoers standing outside the closed door of their church. On the door a notice has been posted that reads: “You’ve been coming here long enough. Get out there and do it.”

In reality, we do need to come to church, to hear the word, to break the bread, to sing God’s praise, to be still in his presence. But the point is that churchgoing can be an end in itself, and it shouldn’t be. It has to lead to something or else it’s wasted and we’re wasted too. Jesus says to Simon Peter and the others: I need you now, not just to listen to me but to walk with me, to be with me out on the road.
So what does it mean to walk with this man? We are in one of the weeks of the year that gets labelled as the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity. There is a need for us to be united in discipleship, united in knowing the mind of our Lord, in seeking his will, and in sharing his love. United as pilgrims, who are not all alike, but who are all walking the same road, following the same master.

Many years ago I joined my friends in ministry in my local Methodist circuit and Roman Catholic parish to set up some meetings where our folk could discover more about each other and learn to share more. As ministers we had developed a practice of meeting each week for prayer, and we wanted our folk to share something of the fellowship we had. What a disappointment it turned out to be! Too many of those who came seemed to feel they had to defend the fixtures and furniture of their church against all comers. Of course, as ministers we’d made the mistake of choosing topics to talk about where we knew our denominations said or thought different things. We thought that would make it an interesting journey of discovery, and a chance to widen our vision and our understanding. Pity it didn’t work out that way.

Like church buildings filled with pews, Christian denominations can seem very fixed and settled, in a way that doesn’t work for me. I’m an accidental Anglican, who went to church every Sunday as a boy, but also always went to the Methodist Sunday school. While I feel comfortable where I am, I’ve never felt I’d got to defend it against all comers. Or that my lot have all the truth, and I’ve nothing to receive or learn from other kinds of Christians.

I have to keep reminding myself that Jesus called his first disciples away from fixed points and furniture and out onto the road, where, as he told them, “the Son of Man has no place to lay his head.” We don’t want to have too much denominational baggage. We might even have too much scripture, or perhaps I should say we can be tempted into making too much of it.

St Paul, when he was Saul the Pharisee had more theological furniture than was good for him; but out on the road as Paul the Apostle he wrote that he was resolved to know “only Jesus Christ, and him crucified.” All the rest is secondary.

However well we know Jesus and understand him with our minds, it’s our hearts he really claims. Jesus did not say to Peter and the others, “Let’s all settle down here and build a church.” He said, “Follow me.” Leave everything you have and know, and come with me to who knows where on the open road. With only this promise - “I will make you fishers of men.”

I love the settled things about my faith: the buildings, the hymns, the liturgy, the prayers. But I hope never to love them too much. Jesus does not want me, or you, to stay where we are, or as we are: he doesn’t want his church to be a thing, certainly not a fossilised thing – a Church true to this man who says “Follow me” will be a pilgrimage, a movement, a process, and even a victory parade, people singing and praising out on the road. Not everyone likes the song or the notion of Jesus the Lord of the Dance, but I do: for me that’s where I find him and know him best: and that dancing road of faith, I believe, is what he calls Peter and Andrew and James and John, and me, and you, to share.

Our offering will be received and brought forward during the singing of our next hymn:

Hymn  566 - “Take my life . . .”

Let us pray to the Lord for the needs of his church and of the world, and for the good use of the gifts with which he blesses us. After each section of prayer, I shall say: Jesus, Lord of the Church. Please respond, “In your mercy hear us.”

God our Father, you give us gifts and talents, so that we may work together in the service of your Son. Bless those who lead, that they may be firm in faith, yet humble before you. And bless those who teach, that they may increase our understanding, and be open to your word for them. Jesus, Lord of the Church: In your mercy hear us.

Bless those who befriend and serve, and all who minister healing, that they may bring wholeness and encouragement to others, and also know your healing love within themselves. Jesus, Lord of the Church: In your mercy hear us.

Bless those who speak your word of prophecy, instruction and correction, that they may do so with power, while opening their own ears to your gentle whisper. And bless us all in our work in your world today, that in the complexity  and uncertainty of our daily lives we may have clarity of vision, a sense of your love, and a readiness to seek your kingdom above all things. Jesus, Lord of the Church: In your mercy hear us.

Finally, we pray your blessing on all people everywhere, and especially on -----. Bring peace where there is conflict and bitterness, guide and direct those in places of power and authority, give light where your people dwell in darkness and doubt, and healing where your people are afflicted and bowed down by tragedy, oppression and rejection. And bless those who feel they have no gifts or value, those who are powerless in the world’s eyes, those who are exploited, belittled or abused by others. Jesus, Lord of the Church: In your mercy hear us.

Hear our prayers, Lord, and make us one in heart and mind to serve you with joy for ever. Amen.

At this time of the year we are particularly aware of the Church as divided, a broken body. Christ does not call us to be all the same - indeed, he rejoices in the variety of our response to him. But he does call us to live in union with him, and so to find in him our unity together. A prayer for unity:

Lord God, we thank you for calling us into the company of those who trust in Christ and seek to obey his will. May your Spirit guide and direct us as we prepare to go out from this hour of worship, and strengthen us in mission and service to your world; for we are strangers no longer, but pilgrims together on the way to your kingdom. Amen.

After our final hymn, and the blessing that follows, we shall sing the song from Iona, “Take, oh take me as I am” - I’ll sing it first, then please join me to sing it again twice through together.

First, we sing hymn 470 - “Lord, for the years . . .”

May the Lord stir up in us the gifts of his grace, and sustain each one of us in our own ministry, our own path of discipleship. And now please bless one another in the words of the grace: The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ . . .

Hymn 781 - “Take, oh take me as I am”

Lamb of God (2)

An adaptation of my earlier sermon, for use at an evening service . . .

In our second reading tonight, from the Gospel of John, we heard how John the Baptist, telling the story of the baptism of Jesus, begins by calling Jesus “the Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world”. The Lamb of God: quite a strange thing to say. And what we find here is that at the very start of our Lord’s ministry, Jesus is accorded a title intimately connected to the way his ministry will end. It’s a title moreover that links him to the salvation history of the Jewish people, and to the event of the Passover, the festival that would be taking place at the time of his death.

Each year the Passover festival was a celebration of the nationhood of Israel, for it called to mind the events that led to their journey to the Promised Land. Here in a mighty act of salvation, God brought his people out from slavery in Egypt, following a series of plagues that culminated at the first Passover with the last and most terrible of these: the slaughter of the first born of Pharaoh and the Egyptian people, both their own children and even the animals of their flocks. The people of Israel were told they must insulate themselves from this disaster by killing a yearling sheep or goat and smearing some of the blood on the lintel and doorposts of their homes. And then as the angel of the Lord rampaged through the land wreaking havoc on Pharaoh and his people he passed over the places marked in this way. You can read the story in chapter 12 of the Book of Exodus.

“Behold the Lamb of God,” says John the Baptist. So we can think that in Jesus God is preparing a new exodus, a new escape from bondage: the forming of a new people of God, a new holy nation. The sacrifice of a lamb in each Jewish home at the Passover Festival reminded them of the Lord’s work as he acted to save his people from their suffering and slavery. And now Jesus is hailed by John not as a new hero like Moses to lead the people to freedom, but as the Lamb of God, the lamb to be slain, the sacrificial beast whose blood will deliver his people.

From start to finish the Gospel road is one of self giving and self offering love, the Gospel story throughout is cross-shaped and cross-centred. Here are some words from the medieval mystic writer Mother Julian of Norwich, her imagining of the words Jesus was saying to her: “It is a joy, a delight and an endless happiness to me that I ever endured suffering for you.” The lamb sacrificed at Passover was plucked unknowing from the flock to be put to death; but Jesus is the Lamb who offers himself. He goes freely and with loving intent to sacrifice, taking the way of the cross; and that way begins with his baptism by John, and the sign there of his Father’s blessing.

Now since we know from Luke’s Gospel that John the Baptist was the son of a temple priest, it’s fair I think to assume John would have known all about the rituals and sacrifices performed there day by day. Every morning and every evening a lamb would be offered in sacrifice to atone for the sins of the people. The instruction to do this dates back further than the building of the first temple, all the way back to chapter 29 of the Book of Exodus, where Moses tells the people to offer at first light a yearling ram, and to offer a further yearling straight after sunset. And this continued to be done until the destruction of the temple in AD 70. It was done even when the city was under siege, it was done even when the people all but starving to death themselves. So it was understood as very necessary, this thing that had to be done every day, to maintain the right relationship between the people and their God.

But now John says, “Behold the Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world.” And maybe here John the Gospel writer is pointing up the useless insufficiency of the sacrifices that had to be offered again and again in the Temple, because they didn’t really work. Was God really placated by such offerings? It can be hard for us to relate to the idea of a wrathful God being bought off by repeated offerings of blood - the idea can even revolt us.

John the Baptist had in any case turned away from the organised religion of the Temple to live and to preach in the wilderness: and there he spoke of a new beginning, a new thing that God was about to do. He spoke to call the people into a new relationship with God, and he spoke to prepare the way. John the Baptist can be thought of as standing in the line of the great prophets of old; these were men who were looking for the day when God would act to save his people, these were men angered by the way in which God’s people had been so often and so sorely betrayed by those who should have guided and tended them, their kings, their priests, and even their prophets. Leaders who had betrayed their trust, and had let down both the people and their God.

But now comes the one who, as we read in chapter 53 of the prophet Isaiah, will “be brought like a lamb to the slaughter.” Again, that difficult image of the blood spattered altar and the beast that has to die there. But perhaps we should turn that thought on its head, so that we’re thinking not of God demanding from sacrifice from us, but instead of God giving freely to us. For the Lamb of God gives all of himself, and makes of himself the sacrifice our sin demands, under the old law, the old covenant. Now there is a new covenant and a new holy nation. And the cross on which the Lamb of God dies convicts us of our sin and our rebelliousness, while at the same time we are drawn to him, drawn to kneel at the foot of the cross, there to offer our lives for his life, our love for his love.

So in calling Jesus the Lamb of God, John is identifying him not only as the Christ, God’s chosen one, but saying something vital about what kind of Christ this is, how he will work to save us, what he will do. He will not be the superhero who zaps the Romans and restores the old kingdom. This is new, and this is, as our first reading tonight reminded us, not just about the saving of Israel, but the saving of the world. The Christ is given as perfect sacrifice, the sacrifice that draws us and changes us, for he is also our great Example, the perfection of love, the one we set ourselves to follow.

We read in Acts chapter 4 the apostle Peter saying that salvation is found only in the name of Jesus. No other sacrifice will work, only the one who offers his self that we might live, and who says to us, “Follow me” - which means, be like me. So the marks of the Church of Christ should be a sacrificial ministry and lifestyle which reflects his - not an empty round of sacrifices to placate the anger of God and buy our way back into his favour, but a thank offering for the gracious sacrifice by which we are saved despite ourselves.

Having already quoted Julian of Norwich, here are some more of her words, with which I’ll close, reflecting on Christ the wounded healer, whose love for us is like the sacrificial care of a mother for her precious child: “The blessed wounds of our Saviour are open and rejoice to heal us; the sweet, gracious hands of our Mother are ready and carefully surround us; for in all this he does the work of a kind nurse who has nothing to do but occupy herself with the salvation of her child. His task is to save us, and it is his glory to do so, and it is his wish that we know it; for he wants us to love him tenderly, and trust him humbly and strongly. And he showed this in these gracious words, ‘I hold you quite safely.’”

May his name be praised, who is the Lamb of God. Amen.

Lamb of God

A sermon for this Sunday . . .

If like me you were brought up on the old Prayer Book communion service and the music of Merbecke, then when you see the traditional words in English of the Agnus Dei: “O Lamb of God, that takest away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us” you may well find yourself inwardly at least singing them, as I did as a boy in our church choir. The beauty of the music and the familiarity of the words continue to move me.

But what about the meaning of the words we sing - the title ‘Lamb of God’ that we find in this morning’s Gospel reading? In his Gospel John the Apostle has John the Baptist himself tell the story of the baptism of Jesus; and he begins by calling Jesus “the Lamb of God”. The Gospel of John is often depicted as the deepest and most theologically complex of the four; and you could say that while Matthew, Mark and Luke tell us the story of Jesus, John gives us an extended and reflective sermon on the Christ.

John the Baptist calls Jesus the Lamb of God at the very start of our Lord’s ministry; but it’s a title intimately connected to the way that ministry would end, and one that links him to the salvation history of the Jewish people. Each year the Passover festival called to mind God’s mighty act of salvation, the time when he brought his people out from slavery in Egypt; and at the Passover the people recalled the last and most terrible of the plagues that fell on Pharaoh and the Egyptian people: the slaughter of their first-born - children, animals and all. The people of Israel were told they must insulate themselves from this disaster by killing a yearling sheep or goat and smearing some of the blood on the lintel and doorposts of their homes. And then as the angel of the Lord rampaged through the land wreaking havoc on Pharaoh and his people he passed over the places marked in this way. You can read the story in chapter 12 of the Book of Exodus.

“Behold the Lamb of God,” says John the Baptist. In Jesus, God is preparing a new exodus, a new escape from bondage. Here the work begins that will form a new people of God, a new holy nation. For Jewish people the sacrifice of a lamb in each Jewish home at the Passover Festival was understood as symbolising the work of the Lord as he acted to save his people from their suffering and slavery. So now Jesus is hailed by John: not as a new Moses, a hero to lead the people to freedom, but as the Lamb who will be slain, the sacrificial beast whose blood will be shed.

From start to finish the way he walks is one of self giving and self offering love: the Gospel story is cross-shaped and cross-centred. The medieval mystic writer Mother Julian of Norwich wrote these words, from her understanding of what Jesus was saying to her: “It is a joy, a delight and an endless happiness to me that I ever endured suffering for you.” The lamb sacrificed at Passover is plucked unknowing from the flock to be put to death; but Jesus is the Lamb who offers himself. He goes freely and with loving intent to take the way of the cross; and that way begins with his baptism by John, and the sign there of his Father’s blessing.

We know from Luke that John the Baptist was the son of a temple priest, so it’s fair to assume John would have known all about the rituals and sacrifices performed there. Every morning and every evening a lamb would be offered in sacrifice to atone for the sins of the people. The instruction to do this dates back further than the building of the first temple, all the way back to chapter 29 of the Book of Exodus, where Moses tells the people to offer at first light a yearling ram, and to offer a further yearling straight after sunset. This continued to be done until the destruction of the temple in AD 70. It was done even when the city was under siege, and the people all but starving to death themselves. So it was understood as very necessary, something that had to be done to maintain the right relationship between the people and their God.


But now John says, “Behold the Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world.” And maybe here John the Gospel writer is pointing up the useless insufficiency of the sacrifices that had to be offered again and again in the Temple. Was God really placated by such offerings? John the Baptist had turned from the organised religion of the Temple to preach in the wilderness: to preach there a new beginning and to call the people into a new relationship with God; he was there to prepare the way, in the line of the great prophets of old, men who’d looked for the day when God would act to save his people, after God’s people had been so often and so sorely betrayed by those who should have guided and tended them, kings, priests, even prophets.

So now comes the one who, as chapter 53 of the prophet Isaiah says, would “be brought like a lamb to the slaughter.” The sacrificing of animals is, I guess, something quite foreign to our thinking and probably quite abhorrent. It can be hard to relate to the image of a wrathful God who needs to be placated by the offering of blood. But we can perhaps turn that thought on its head; thinking not of God demanding from us, but instead of God giving to us - giving all of himself, making of himself the sacrifice our sin demands. The cross on which the Lamb of God dies convicts us of our sin and our rebelliousness, while at the same time it also draws us to him, to offer our lives for his life, our love for his love.

In Acts chapter 4 we find the apostle Peter saying that salvation is found only in the name of Jesus. Here are some more words from Julian of Norwich, with which I’ll close: “The blessed wounds of our Saviour are open and rejoice to heal us; the sweet, gracious hands of our Mother are ready and carefully surround us; for in all this he does the work of a kind nurse who has nothing to do but occupy herself with the salvation of her child. His task is to save us, and it is his glory to do so, and it is his wish that we know it; for he wants us to love him tenderly, and trust him humbly and strongly. And he showed this in these gracious words, ‘I hold you quite safely.’” Amen.

Epiphany (2)

A sermon prepared for a chapel service this Sunday . . .

A somewhat scurrilous story that came my way while I was looking for jokes to tell at Christmas. Three kings are riding across the desert, following a bright star; says the first king, “I have brought gold to present to the new born king!” The second king says, “I have brought frankincense to present to the new born king!” Meanwhile the third king is looking down at his camel with some embarrassment. “What have you brought for the new born king?” enquire the first two. “Bath salts,” he mumbles. “Bath salts?” the first and second kings exclaim in unison. “Well,” says the third king, “you know what the shops are like this close to Christmas!”

I would be that king, I think; I always leave my Christmas shopping to the last minute, however much I try not to. Last Friday was the feast of the Epiphany, when we by tradition we remember those strangers from foreign parts who came searching for the new king. We may call them kings, or magi, or wise men; we may even give them names, Caspar, Melchior, Balthazar. The Bible doesn’t give us their names, nor for that matter does it say there were three of them, only that they brought three gifts. And it’s only Matthew who tells their story at all.

Whoever these people were who came to find Jesus, and however many there were, the important elements to the story are these - that a sign appeared in the heavens; that these men who came were foreigners, they weren’t Jews; and they gave gifts that were, as one of the hymns reminds us, “sacred gifts of mystic meaning.” Gold, frankincense, and (of course) myrrh. What connects those three elements together is the kingship of Jesus, not just the fact that this child is born to be a king, but the nature of his kingship. So let’s spend a short time reflecting on those three features of the story of the wise men, beginning with the heavenly sign they saw, and interpreted, and set themselves to follow.

Astronomers have speculated as to what the sign was the wise men saw, and when exactly it appeared. A particular conjunction of planets? I think that’s unlikely, myself - these wise men would have known the planets and their movements in the heavens, and while a conjunction would certainly have been a bright and amazing light, it wouldn’t have been a new light, and it seems this one was.

But whatever the light was, I don’t think it actually led the wise men across the desert by moving in the sky before them. Matthew suggests it did, on their final leg from Jerusalem to Bethlehem, but I think that’s a bit of storytelling. These were man who studied the heavens; they would have calculated their route and planned their journey beforehand. Even then they got it a bit wrong, heading for Jerusalem rather than Bethlehem. Why go at all, though? The world was hardly short of kings and princes, and new ones were being born all the time. This sign must have been something really special, and certainly Matthew expects us to see it that way. This is not a king like all the other kings - not even a king like Herod, who even in his lifetime was called “The Great”. The whole course of history was changed by this birth. That’s what they understood from the star; that’s why they travelled. And yet many other eyes must have seen that same sign without understanding or responding. From the beginning, we realise that the Christ is himself a sign that many will reject.

These men who did trek to see the new king were all foreigners - none of them were Jews. The nativity set at my first church had an Arab, an African, and a Chinaman, which is a nice thought but probably quite unhistoric. It’s most likely that they all came from Persia. There are significant Old Testament references - Isaiah 60 among them - which speak of the nations journeying to see the new light kindled among us, the glory of the Lord revealed.

In fact, it’s the reference to “kings journeying toward the radiance” in Isaiah 60 verse 3 that encourages us to sing of the three kings - there’s nothing in the story told by Matthew to suggest that they were kings, though they must have been men of wealth and standing and learning. We discover from this story that this child is born for something more than the mere kingship of any one people, even the Jews, and that there is in Bethlehem a new light, a new learning, a new wisdom that all the world’s wisdom should point towards.

The wise men who came to find Jesus probably didn’t come to a child in a manger in a stable. He could have been anything up to two years old by the time they found him - though the fact that the family was still in Bethlehem and hadn’t returned to Nazareth might suggest a fairly early date within that two year spread. He would not have been older than two: you can be sure that if there had been the slightest chance the child was older than two, Herod would have had even more male children killed than he did. As it was, every child of two years or less in age was put to death.

They came, though, these wise men, with gifts: gold, frankincense and myrrh - all of it expensive stuff, all of it symbolic rather than practical, though it might just be truer to say that these were gifts to present in a palace before a throne rather than in a humble house in a small town. But the gifts are themselves prophetic, the story of this child is told in them.

Gold may seem to be the most conventional of the gifts, and the most immediately appropriate for a king. But gold is also a symbol of purity. The dross, the impurities, all of that is burned away when gold is refined, and once the pure gold is prepared it is there for always. It will not rust or decay. For an earthly king gold symbolises a mythical immortality that in reality will end, for even kings have to die.

For Jesus, the gift speaks of the true immortality of love, and of the light of love here born among us. And to gold we add frankincense, which is a symbol for relationship, for the holy relationship which is priesthood. One word for a priest is pontifex, which means bridge builder, bridge maker: a priest stands between the people and God, between God and the people, making and remaking and enabling the living relationship between the people and their God.

Kings are often accorded a priestly status; our own Queen is given the title “Defender of the faith”. But just as in reality kings are mortal and die, so also they are imperfect and sin, indeed all earthly priests lack the purity to be fully acceptable as priests. The priests in the temple in Jerusalem had to ritually purify themselves before they could offer the set sacrifices at the altar. Frankincense speaks of a priesthood that is different from that: the child the wise men came to see will as a worthy and unblemished priest offer his own self as perfect and unblemished sacrifice for our sins.

Which brings us to the third gift, the one that jars against the others. The myrrh. You might give gold and incense to any king, but would you also give myrrh? It’s special and costly stuff, but it speaks of death, and who wants to be speaking of death at a birth? I wonder how the kings themselves understood what they were doing, what they were giving, what its meaning was. But they of course had seen and measured and interpreted the star, and who knows what it had told them about what they were going out to find.

This is a king who is king for ever: the gift of gold tells us that. This is a king who is also a perfect and unblemished and completely worthy priest: hence the gift of incense. And yet this child is also born to die. Well, we all are - but this is his destiny, this is the road he travels from the beginning.

When I was singing “The Fourth Wise Man” with Welshpool Choral Society, the words given to the third wise man, the one who gave the myrrh, expressed his anxiety as he gave a gift that spoke so clearly about sacrifice. But in fact sacrifice is an appropriate image for even an earthly king - maybe not for Herod, whose mantra seemed to have been personal power at whatever cost, but words like duty and service are very much at the heart of what our Queen and her family stand for, recognised even by those who have little time for kingship as such.

But again, the myrrh here symbolises not just the favours bestowed by a king who may govern well and with the people at heart but still sits on a throne, but the complete and total surrender of the sacrificial lamb whose only throne is a cross of wood. He is, in a way no earthly king could match, the man for others.

“Hands that flung stars into space, to cruel nails surrendered” - as Graham Kendrick put it in one of his songs. The light of the world chooses to enter the darkness of our world, a king like no other king. The one who is eternal chooses to be mortal; the ultimate and only true priest, without blot of sin, will nonetheless cry out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” And he will be anointed, and laid in a tomb. All of that is there in these gifts; but the offering of them tells us right from the word go that the grave is not the end of the story: not for this man, and not for those for whom he gives his all. A star shines in the eastern sky; and it shines for ever.

Epiphany

A sermon for today . . .

Today is the day when I usually begin my New Year’s resolutions. I don’t bother starting any earlier, because frankly most of them involve either food or exercise or both, so we may as well get past Twelfth Night before starting any of that. Having said that, this year for the first time ever I’ve not made any. Instead I’ve settled on two or three serious objectives to aim at, for progress through the year, rather than specific resolutions which usually get discarded the first time I break them. And we’ll see how we get on!

You could divide the world between those who make New Year’s resolutions in a fit of optimism, and those who just shake their heads at the futility of it all. And I imagine people shaking their heads as the wise men set out on their search for a new king, seeing that, too, as a futile enterprise. What was it they saw in the sky? Well, although only Matthew tells this story, so some folk dismiss it as just that - a story - for me there’s a lot in it that rings true.

The actual behaviour of the star, at least in the later stages of that story, isn’t one of them, I have to admit. Stars don’t normally lead the way from one city to another, and then to the precise house. A satnav might, on a good day, but not a star; So I might think of that as poetic licence on Matthew’s part. But that wise men should have scanned the sky for omens, and responded to what they found there, that does ring true. Omens were important in the ancient world, and a new light in the heavens would certainly be understood as standing for something special, like the birth of a king.

Light hailed Jesus as a King, in the form of a new star for those who could read the sky. And the child born is himself light: our Christmas readings hailed him as the Light of the World. In fact the whole season of Epiphany, beginning with tonight’s story of the wise men, is about the light of understanding dawning on people who encounter Jesus.

So for me light and resolution are twin themes at Epiphany. We are pretty helpless without light, as I discovered just before Christmas when I arrived at Middleton having left my big torch at home. There was still a bit of light when I went into the church, but none at all when I came out, and I was parked right down the lane. A Matthew-style guiding star might well have been handy, something to lead me along the lane and pause above my car.

The star the wise men saw and followed was new and bright and different from anything else in the night sky. So I should imagine lots of people will have seen it without responding to it. Most of them perhaps didn’t have the skill to interpret it - but even so part of the message of Epiphany is the many people who saw the sign but didn’t respond to what they saw.

Those who did travelled to see the Light of the world: so let’s think about the light this child brings into our world, into our lives. First of all, he is a light that reveals, that shows things up, like the sunlight that sets the dust dancing, reminding us to do our spring cleaning. Jesus is light, we can’t hide from him the untidy stuff, the things we don’t want seen, stuff we want to forget about. His light reveals our sin, our imperfection, and shames us.

But he is also an inviting and guiding light, like the star itself. When Jesus says, "Follow me," he means “Imitate me, hear what I say, be as like me as you can be” - offering himself as the light we need to guide our way. He is revealed, as we read through the season of the Epiphany, as he calls the disciples, for whom he becomes teacher, example and friend. He promises the same to us.
And thirdly he is a saving light. Like a lighthouse to lead ships away from dangerous rocks, he shines to save us from the wreckage of sin and death, and to call us home to God.

We could look at Jesus and see none of this, seeing him as a good man and a fine teacher, but not see him as anything more than that. But the wise men interpreted the star they saw as the sign of something more than a king like other kings, a king in the mould of (say) Herod. Why else why would they have trekked so far, and why would they have brought those gifts? - gifts that speak of a purpose and a meaning beyond the merely human, something that involves the hand of God.

Think of those gifts in the context of Christ the Light of the World, the light of our lives. Gold in its purity can stand for the revealing light, the refining light, the light that exposes impurity; frankincense can represent the light that guides and directs, that invites and calls, for that’s the role of a priest, to be the pontifex, the bridge-maker, the one who shows us the way to God; and that third gift of myrrh speaks of the light that brings salvation, with its whisper of sacrifice, the anointing of the one who will die.

Did the wise men know what it was their gifts were saying? I’d like to think they did: as they followed with resolution and determination the path revealed by the new star they’d seen, they were looking for a light never before kindled, the light of divine love born among us.

One aim for me this year - not a resolution, but something I’d like to feel I’m getting better at by the year end - is to be more aware of, and more responsive to, the signs around me of God at work and the change his love makes within us, and not to get weighed down by the bad stuff; to be more aware of and responsive to the needs of others and the possibilities in others, and to let the light of Christ into my life. The child to whom the wise men brought their gifts is given to save us and to bring us home; he is salvation for the world. But the next step is down to us: do we have the perception and the resolution, the prayerfulness and the faith to respond?