“Have no fear, little flock.” Those of us with a clear memory, if only from childhood, of the Church as well-attended, strong and self-assured can often find ourselves (a) very aware of our present smallness, and (b) as a result, maybe a bit depressed and even fearful. For me, as a country vicar these days, with a congregation of a dozen or so in a church built to seat hundreds, it’s all too clear that the established Church isn’t what it was.
But those words of Jesus remind me that the Church started small, and on the edge of things, and maybe even fearfully, since there was plenty of opposition. The disciples needed those words of encouragement. While now being small when once we were large does bring its own problems and issues, not least how I deal with a grade one listed monstrosity (sorry, with a valuable part of our historical and architectural heritage), we shouldn’t be afraid of being small, for much of what Jesus said and other folk wrote in New Testament scripture was addressed to small people, in small groups.
Though I could ask, how small are we really? For the beginning of our reading from Hebrews describes us as being part of a very great company. In the previous chapter, the writer of Hebrews lists some of the people who, in Old Testament times, had lived by faith in God. All these “won God’s approval by their faith.” And we live out our faith in company with them; when we sing to God, our songs join in with a great chorus of the praise of saints and angels.
But I’ll accept it often doesn’t feel like that, here on the ground. We’re small, we know we’re smaller than we used to be, and to be honest, for the most part we seem to be getting on a bit. We can have an uncomfortable sense of the world having moved on somewhere else, leaving us behind. And there is some truth in that.
To be the faithful remnant is a very Biblical calling, but it won’t always feel all that comfortable, especially when much of the media seems biased against religion, and churches and chapels making an easy target for those who want to criticise or poke fun. It is, of course, much easier to criticise the Church than to go after other faiths. If instead of comparing burkas to pillar boxes, Boris Johnson had made fun of the robes worn by (say) nuns or monks, would there have been even a fraction of the protest and kerfuffle? I think not.
The Letter to the Hebrews was written to a church familiar with opposition and persecution, and so to people who perhaps were asking, “Why is God allowing this to happen to us?” Its writer speaks about the need for discipline, and also reminds them that the cross is our sign. From those for whom much has been given, much will be expected.
And he encourages them to “Aim at peace with everyone.” Paul has similar things to say in his letters, while, in our reading from Luke’s Gospel, we find Jesus instructing his disciples to be ready for action, always on the watch. Small and vulnerable groups of people, in testing times, are being told to offer peace to friend and enemy alike, and to be alive to every opportunity for service and witness.
In this way, says Jesus, “Provide yourselves with purses that won’t wear out.” The way of the world is not to be our way. To be honest, I worry more about the Church when it’s big and rich and influential than when it’s small. A rich and powerful Church is tempted to be conformed to the ways of the world, to be more concerned with its own standing and prestige than with the Gospel call to humble service. It won’t find it easy to aim at peace with everyone, it can throw its political weight around, and it can even be itself a source of oppression.
Back Boris Johnson’s comment about the burka; support came from the slightly unexpected source (to me anyway) of Rowan Atkinson. Old Blackadder has played a few vicars in his time, and he caused a bit of a stir with his portrayal of the Archbishop of Canterbury not long ago. I rather think he used to be a churchgoer, but he does seem to have put those days behind him. This is what he said about vicars. ‘I used to think that the vicars I played, or the exaggerated sketches that were written about clerics, were unreasonable satires on well-meaning individuals, but actually, so many of the clerics that I've met, particularly the Church of England clerics, are people of such extraordinary smugness and arrogance and conceitedness who are extraordinarily presumptuous about the significance of their position in society.’
Well, though I don’t recognise in those words most of the vicars and ministers I’ve known through the years, I can’t say he’s completely wrong. I have known, or known of, a few vain and pompous churchmen. But I quote Atkinson’s words to make the point that loss of status and position may not altogether be a bad thing. There are plenty of examples of bloated, corrupt and cruel churches when you read your church history. Plenty of damage done. But you also see that where faith has really been lived and preached, it’s often been on the edges of things and in situations of vulnerability and smallness. I think of Francis of Assisi, I think of some of the Celtic saints who brought the faith to these islands, I think of John and Charles Wesley; William Williams, the author of “Guide me, O thou great Jehovah” was another. He started off in the church, but gave that ministry up to be a travelling preacher. And the crowds flocked to hear him.
Here are two important things: firstly, the truth is still the truth even if most people refuse to accept it. And history shows us how the Gospel truth remains alive even when the Church itself becomes corrupt and lazy.
And we are in the service of the truth. So, secondly, how does, how should the truth we serve affect us? Someone who thinks they know the truth when other folk don’t could be smug and self-satisfied, and liable to look down on others. But that’s not what this truth does to us if we really know it. The truth we know and hold is the truth of the cross, the truth of the love that holds nothing back, that gives everything, that lays it all down. This is a truth that convicts us, exposing our sin and frailty, that we’d like to hide away but can’t.
It was this truth that strangely warmed Charles Wesley’s heart, as he came to see that he’d nothing of his own to be proud about. Like Paul, he could boast only about Jesus Christ, and him crucified. But he also knew that despite his own deficiency he was known and treasured and loved, claimed by grace. And there’s grace enough for everyone, the amazing grace of which John Newton wrote: “I once was lost, but now I’m found.”
And this truth will naturally lead us to be at peace with all. For there’s no-one to whom the offer of grace is denied. We who know the truth have the obligation to live that truth with humility and generosity. We serve and follow the Man for others: our highest aim is to be as like him as we can be. We may be small, but we’re still called by him to be in the business of “fishing for people.” We may be weak, but we have access to our Lord in prayer, and his Spirit is with us. And we’re surrounded by a great crowd of witnesses; our humble attempts at praise are joined with theirs.
The kingdom is everywhere and anywhere that God is praised and served and witnessed to. “Have no fear, little flock. Your Father has chosen to give you the kingdom.” That kingdom is witnessed to not by what we have, but what we give; not in status and worldly approval but in humility; in the sharing of peace and the outreach of a hand; and through amazing grace.
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