Six years ago, almost to the day, I preached my last sermon as a canon of St Asaph cathedral. I was reminded of that the other day when at a family do I was chatting with my cousin Julia, who lives near Bala and is a member of a choir that sings there now and then. It wasn’t a particularly happy memory; two weeks after preaching that sermon I had resigned from my parishes and as a canon, and begun a journey that almost took me away from church and faith altogether. Looking back over the text of my sermon that day, I could sense again the pain I was feeling then. Now I know that God hadn’t finished with me, nor had I finished with the church, but back then it felt as though I was standing on the edge of a cliff.
Actually I love cliffs, and I’ve stood on some pretty big ones in my time - the mighty Cliffs of Moher in the west of Ireland, and the incredibly high Cabo Girao, the second highest sea cliffs in the world, on Madeira. I’ve walked cliff paths in Pembrokeshire and Cornwall, and I hope to do some more while I’m fit enough. I’m fairly confident of my own ability not to fall; what I hate to see is anyone else standing on a cliff edge, I’m always so worried that they might fall. On the telly, I have to turn over or turn off.
And on that day at the cathedral, it felt as though I were looking at myself from outside, looking at this figure, myself standing on a cliff edge, and terribly afraid that he would fall. The back story of how I got to that place is for another time; but of course I did fall. And amazingly, instead of being dashed on the rocks below I found myself caught and borne safely by angels - but I couldn’t begin to know then that that would happen.
I began my sermon that day with the story of a lady I saw regularly on hospital visits. Mair was suffering from dementia. She was always busy, always agitated, worried she might have lost someone for whom she was searching. It took a while to realise she was really looking for herself, maybe a younger memory of herself: so sad that she was looking for someone she could never find.
Dementia takes many forms; and I was sad and challenged to see a mind so troubled in a person whose body despite her age was still quite strong. But something about Mair felt not so remote from how many of us are. Her dementia was an extreme form of something all of us spend time doing: searching for ourselves.
Christians believe we’re made in the image of God, as we read in Genesis, chapter 1, verse 27: “God created human beings in his own image: in the image of God he created them; male and female he created them.” In Matthew’s Gospel, a few verses before the reading we heard this morning, Jesus says, “Your own goodness must know no bounds, just as the goodness of your heavenly Father knows no bounds” - or, in another translation, “You must be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect.”
But where will any of us find perfection? When we come to church we begin our time of worship by saying words that recognise our imperfection, our inability to be the self we’re supposed to be: we confess our sins. We measure ourselves against the commandments, love the Lord your God, love your neighbour as yourself, and admit that we’re found wanting.
The Pharisees with whom Jesus contended aimed for perfection in their keeping of the Law of Moses. They carefully interpreted it to fit every situation, but in reality they had turned it into a tool to conspire with imperfection and massage it away. The Law as they interpreted it set limits on how well one had to behave, on the amount of good one had to do, and on the circle of in and out: who is your neighbour, and who you don’t need to care for.
But it isn’t about rules, said Jesus to his friends. There are no boundaries or limitations to being good. You twist God’s Law into something else if you use it to make goodness achievable. You may manage to fool yourself into thinking that keeping a list of rules can make you perfect; but it doesn’t.
We meet here not because of our own goodness but because of the generous grace of God. We meet for this communion meal at a table we can’t set ourselves, to share food we ourselves can’t bless. But God calls us here. I may search all my life and never find myself, but thankfully I’m not the only one looking. A week on Wednesday is Ash Wednesday, when once again we’ll be reminded that we are dust, and to dust we shall return. There’s a chill to those words, but the words that follow, “Repent and believe the Gospel,” assure us we’re not alone in our quest: dust and ashes we may be, but we’re also made by God and claimed now by his grace.
A verse from a communion hymn goes: “though dust and ashes in thy sight, we may, we must draw near.” Why? Because God sees more in me, and in you, than the mere dust and ashes of our mortal selves. He weeps over our imperfection, but he also sees us as he made us to be, and he loves that possibility in us. Some words from scripture: John 3 verse 16 - “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish, but should have eternal life.” I’m not the only one looking. Psalm 139 verse 1: “O Lord, you have searched me out and you know me - you discern my thoughts from afar.”
And our two New Testament readings this morning are both rich with positivity and affirmation: Paul writes to the Romans about his own imperfection and theirs, about his own struggles, and theirs, but as he does so he assures them with these words: “I reckon that the sufferings we now endure bear no comparison with the glory, as yet unrevealed, that is in store for us.” We mess up and get things wrong, miss out on the good stuff we could do. Life is a struggle and sometimes it gets us down. But God never gives up on us; that’s something Paul knew better than most. God in his perfection meets with us, uses us, and dwells within us, makes us his temple, and destines us for glory.
And back to the words of the Sermon on the Mount, and our Gospel reading today: “Consider the lilies of the field, how God cares for them.” We are worth so much more than mere flowers, so if they are cared for and loved, how much more shall we be, despite ourselves. We have no cause to be anxious, and every reason not to be dragged down by the petty worries of this life. We may feel lost at times, but we are precious, always, in the sight of God. All we need is there for us already. In Christ we find renewal, we are made a new creation; through him who is the King of love, we who in falling lose ourselves are lifted up, are known and loved and found.
Some closing words, from Mother Julian of Norwich: “Sometimes God allows us to fall further and harder than ever before (or at least it seems that way to us). When that happens, we (who are still so foolish) feel as though we have accomplished nothing, that all our spiritual journeys have been delusions. But this is not reality. We need to fall sometimes - and we need sometimes to feel our failure. If we did not, we would not know how weak and exiled from our true selves we are, nor would we truly understand how much our Creator loves us. When we reach heaven, we shall see clearly how terribly we separated ourselves from God - and how, despite that, divine love for us never diminished, nor did we ever become less precious in God’s eyes.”
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