Sermons & Other Words

This past week, as you will have realised if you follow us on social media, has been ‘Volunteers’ Week’, and we have been trying there to thank some of the people who give up so much of their time and energy to support this church in a huge variety of ways: servers, sacristans, musicians, those who help in the Community Centre and behind the bar, PCC members, and so on…

We have been trying to convey our thanks, I promise; but I am willing to bet that some of you are already bristling slightly. What about the refreshments teams? The welcomers? The comms team? The finance team? What about Marjorie, who slaves over a hot photocopier for us every week to produce our orders of service? What about Dave and the amazing work he does taking all our food donations to the food bank? What about the flower team? The open church volunteers? What about our amazing tech team? What about the people who do those most unromantic of jobs… like unblocking the loos?

What – come to think of it – about me? Not me, Claire, of course; I’m pretty much the only person here who’s not a volunteer… I mean, you, all of you. There is not one person participating in this service this morning who does not contribute in some way to the beautiful and varied body of Christ that is the Church of God in Whitkirk. From the youngest to the oldest, whether you are here in person or watching online, even if you’re just here as a visitor today, you are part of something bigger than yourself to which you have voluntarily given yourself.

The words ‘volunteer’ and ‘voluntarily’ both derive from the Latin, voluntas, which means will, or desire. To volunteer is to give oneself, of one’s own free will, to an activity which is for the good of the community and not purely for one’s own benefit. In a Christian context, volunteering implies an attempt to align our own free will with the will of God for us and for the communities of which we are a part. Volunteering can therefore be seen as one of the ways in which we try to live out the commandment – the greatest commandment – to love our neighbours as ourselves. Loving our neighbours means wanting what is good for them, wanting what God wants for them; and volunteering is a way to ensure that God’s will for our neighbours is realised.

But if volunteering is fundamentally about aligning our wills with the will of God for us and for our neighbours, then volunteering is connected not only to love but also to vocation… for how can we know what God’s will for us might be if we are not able to discern where God might be calling us, in this season and in this context.

In church circles we often think of vocation in a very narrow way, in reference to the vocation to ministry of some sort, lay or ordained, but most often the latter. The reality, though, is that God calls all of us – every single one of us – all the time. There is never a time, from our birth to our death, when God is not calling us, seeking to draw us closer in love, inviting us to respond, to serve, and, above all, to love, and love, and love some more. Which brings me to today’s readings, which provide us with no fewer than four examples of what it might look like to hear and to respond to God’s call.

The simplest of these calls is that of Matthew the tax-collector. Jesus sees him sitting at his tax booth, invites him to follow him, and he does. There is no back story, no build-up to this call. As far as we know it comes from nowhere. And yet there is nothing far-fetched about it. Already this year, two people have contacted me, entirely separately of one another, telling a very similar story: ‘I’ve been an atheist my whole adult life. But now, apparently out of the blue, I think I believe in… something… something I am prepared to call God or Jesus’. And these stories should not surprise us. We are very good at tuning out God’s call and turning our attention elsewhere, but sometimes it becomes impossible to ignore… and then there is nothing for it but to ‘do a Matthew’: to get up and follow Jesus.

Abram too knows what this feels like. Unexpectedly, at the age of 75 and with a wife who has been unable to have children and who is now, in any case, well past childbearing age, Abram hears God’s call to leave everything and go to an unspecified new place where he will become the founder of a great nation. He hears God’s promise that through him all the families of the earth will be blessed. The promise makes no sense, and yet Abram does not demur: ‘Abram went’, we are told, ‘as the Lord had told him’.

The call makes no sense. And yet God, for whom nothing is impossible, does make sense of it. Abram has his son. And centuries later, another Matthew begins his account of the life and works of Jesus, the son of God, a light to lighten the Gentiles, a blessing for all nations, with the words, ‘An account of the genealogy of Jesus, the Messiah, the son of David, the son of Abraham…’. God calls. Abram responds. And, 42 generations down the line, his response comes to fruition.

And something of Abram’s trust in a God who can do impossible things emerges also from the final two stories in our Gospel reading, both of whose protagonists show quite extraordinary faith. In their stories, the leader of the synagogue and the woman with the haemorrhage are not called to up sticks, leave everything, and be led to a new place like Matthew and Abram; rather, they are drawn by their faith into a life-changing encounter with the living God, who is Emmanuel, God with us.

‘My daughter has just died’, the leader of the synagogue says, ‘but come and lay your hand on her, and she will live’. There is no doubt in his mind. Jesus can save his daughter. Amid the confusion of the wailing, the flute-players and the commotion that follows a tragic and untimely death, the leader of the synagogue does not allow himself to be frozen by the grief that he must inevitably be feeling. In the midst of death, he is propelled – called – by his love for his daughter towards the source of all life, and through his faith his daughter is restored to him.

And what of the woman with the haemorrhage? For twelve years she has suffered from a dual affliction: not only from her physical symptoms, but also from the shame and exclusion of being ritually unclean, unable to participate fully in the life of her community, literally untouchable. She too is drawn to Jesus by faith. She too does not doubt for a moment that he can heal her: ‘If I only touch his cloak’, she says ‘I will be made well’. She epitomises those who feel, even now, that God’s call is not for them, those who feel that they have nothing to contribute, those who are excluded or who fear the judgemental gaze of others. And she too, through the healing touch of the one whose love excludes no-one, is made well.

Our stories today, then, could not be more appropriate for this volunteers’ week, as we celebrate those in this community who respond – each in her or his own way – to God’s call. They are reassuring stories and inspiring ones. They remind us that God’s call does not demand special qualifications or abilities of us. God does not even require us to be particularly good or holy people: ‘Don’t panic’, God reassures us, ‘for I have come to call not the righteous but sinners’. God does not require us to be youthful and sprightly either. Abram is 75 when God calls him and 100 years old when his son Isaac is born. God does not require us to be powerful or important. God calls those who hold positions of authority and those who are outcasts alike. No, God merely requires us to have faith – the faith we see in Abram in Matthew, in the leader of the synagogue and the woman with the haemorrhage. God requires us to believe that we are beloved, that we can make a difference, that, as members of the body of Christ, we can be Christ’s hands and feet and eyes and ears and Christ’s heart, overflowing with love, here and now.

So, my friends, please know that your contributions to the life of this church are valued. Your presence here (including your online presence) is valued. You matter and your contributions matter, above all else because they are offered in the service of God and because they stand as a testimony to your faith. And that is, truly, something to celebrate.

May I speak in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen.

In the name of the Father. And of the Son. And of the Holy Spirit. Those are, with minor variations, the words that I say every single time I stand up to preach. And not only that, they are also the very first words that I say every time we meet. They are the last words that I speak every time we meet too, as you are sent out into the world, taking with you the blessing of God almighty, Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

Everything we do and say in this place, in other words, is done and said in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Today may be Trinity Sunday, but our belief in a trinitarian God, a God who is three in one, permeates our worship not just on this Sunday but every Sunday, and every single time we meet in God’s name.

Today, though, on this Trinity Sunday, we are invited to contemplate the mystery of the Trinity together, to ask ourselves what it means to worship God in three persons, to try to perform the mental gymnastics that will allow us to conceive of God’s three-ness, without in any way detracting from God’s one-ness… to try and, necessarily, to fail, because, in the end, the mystery of the Trinity is destined to remain just that, a mystery. We can grasp at it, but only in the knowledge that its reality will inevitably slip through our fingers. We can begin to glimpse a pattern… and then, before we can make sense of it, like the beads in a kaleidoscope, the pattern reconfigures itself into something else. We can proclaim it, as we will do shortly when we say the Creed together. But understand it? Not a chance! And if you are hoping that I am going to explain it all to you in today’s sermon, then you are going to be sorely disappointed. If only I could!

And yet, somehow, despite everything, the mystery of the Trinity continually calls us back to itself, calls us to contemplate those ever-shifting kaleidoscopic patterns, not in order to make sense of them, but because they are beautiful, they are mesmerising, they are true – true in a way that goes beyond language or mathematics– but that we nonetheless somehow recognise as truth.

The two short – but deep – readings that we have heard today begin to point us to elements of that truth.

The formula with which St Paul ends his second letter to the early church in Corinth is almost as familiar to us as the trinitarian formula with which I opened. If I were to begin, I am sure you could all say it with me: ‘The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit, be with us all, evermore. Amen’.

The words are well known to us, and yet this verse has been described as ‘the most profound theological moment’ in all Paul’s writings. Why? Well, because in this short and apparently simple verse, Paul is doing something daringly new.

In his first letter to the Corinthians, Paul had reminded his readers of the one-ness of God, as set out in the most fundamental of Jewish prayers, known as the Shema, from the Hebrew word for ‘to hear’ and taken from the book of Deuteronomy: ‘Hear, O Israel, the Lord your God is one God’.

Writing to these new followers of Jesus, Paul insists that the Shema is correct: ‘for us there is one God, the Father, from whom are all things and for whom we exist’. So far, so good. But he continues… ‘and…’ (and already we might be wondering what the ‘and’ is doing there… if God is one, then there can, surely, be no ‘and’… but he continues anyway…) ‘and one Lord, Jesus Christ, through whom are all things and through whom we exist’. God is one. And yet God is both God the Father and the Lord, Jesus Christ.

And Paul’s wording here is not coincidental. For Jewish people the name of God – Yahweh – was considered so profound and so special that it was forbidden to utter it or to write it. Instead, it was substituted with the word that is usually translated into English as ‘Lord’, in Hebrew ‘Adonai’ and in Greek ‘kyrios’. This means that when Paul’s Greek-speaking readers read that Jesus was ‘kyrios’ or ‘Lord’ they would automatically have understood that this was a way of saying that he was also God – not a second God, not some sort of secondary god, subordinate to God the Father, but the same God, called by the name by which they would normally have referred to the one God whom they already knew.

By the time he signs off his second letter to the church in Corinth, though, Paul has gone a step further and has begun to enter into the mystery of the Trinity. He uses the same formulation to refer to Jesus, as he greets his readers not only in the name of God, and not only of God the Father and the Lord (which is to say ‘the God’), Jesus Christ, but now he adds a third point of reference: the Holy Spirit, through which God’s love and grace comes to them and which binds them to God in an ongoing relationship of love and grace.

As we saw last week, right from the day of Pentecost, it is the ‘communion’ or ‘fellowship’ of the Holy Spirit that creates the Church, that brings Christians together into faith communities, as they pray together and remember Jesus in the sharing of bread and wine. But if those early Christian communities are united, holding all things in common, as we are told in Acts, then it is, as Paul intuits, because the Spirit is already a force for unity in the community, or communion, or fellowship that the Spirit shares with the Father and the Son.

And this, I think, is the great insight of this passage. Paul is able to conceive of God – the one and indivisible God – as a sort of community, united but dynamic, sharing and receiving grace and love in unending communion. And that God, who is a God of sharing, of fellowship, of relationship, is a God who longs to be in relationship also with us, to share with us, to draw us into fellowship both with God and with one another.

Which brings me to our Gospel reading, taken from the very end of Matthew’s Gospel, where we see the risen Jesus commissioning his friends for service in his name: ‘Go and make disciples of all nations, baptising them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit’.

Jesus sends his friends out, ‘Go, therefore…’, potentially sending them far and wide to ‘all nations’, all peoples… But his mission is not ultimately one of dispersal but of unification. They are to go to all the nations to baptise in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, to draw all nations and all peoples into one community, one family, one communion, one fellowship.

Whenever I conduct a baptism here, I am always humbled to think of those who have gone before me, generations of priests baptising in this same medieval font, generations of babies, children and adults, being drawn into communion with the triune God through the pronouncement of the same formula: ‘I baptise you in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit’. And after the baptism is complete, we remind ourselves that baptism is one of the ways in which we, in our small way, echo the oneness and diversity of the community of the Trinity, as we say: ‘There is one Lord, one faith, one baptism: by one Spirit we are all baptised into one body’.

We echo this oneness and diversity too when we say, as we break bread together, ‘though we are many, we are one body’, and we echo it too, at an even more fundamental level, when we work to build communities here and now, to love our neighbours, and to see the face of God in all of them; even – especially – the least of them. We echo the oneness and diversity of the Trinity whenever, through the grace of our Lord (our God), Jesus Christ, and thanks to the love of God the Father, we allow ourselves, by the unifying power of God the Spirit, be drawn into fellowship with God. We cannot understand the Trinity, we cannot explain it, but we can be drawn into relationship with it, living our whole lives – and not just our times of worship – in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Last Sunday I was chatting to Rosemarie about this weekend, and how busy the church might be, with Heritage Days and Patronal Festival being held over the same weekend.

In our conversation, my thoughts came to this morning, as I didn’t know where to focus my thoughts as I juggled the readings and heritage and Mary.

Rosemarie’s final comment was – whatever you do – don’t forget Mary.

So, being given that instruction, I have called today’s words – Don’t forget Mary. A good instruction for us all, as we gather to commemorate and celebrate our Patron Saint.

In order to even consider forgetting anyone, we must begin by knowing them. Mary is no different; we must first know her and understand a little more about why she is revered and why she has an important role in the Church and the world. 

Since that conversation, last week, the word of Mary’s Song of Praise – The Magnificat – have shaped my thinking,  and I want to focus on those words as we explore the importance of Mary.

How often do you look at the statue here to my right, perhaps when you’re lighting a candle?  It’s often easy to walk by her, and not to take in her beauty.

And art has allowed us to assume just that – she was beautiful. Also humble, modest, demure and young – but inside that soft shell I think there was a powerful, extraordinary woman who was willing to say yes to God!

The opening words of The Magnificat, recalls her joy at God choosing her to be the mother of Jesus. 

She sings, “My soul magnifies the Lord.”  To magnify something is to make things look bigger.. and perhaps this isn’t such a bad place to start — when Mary sings the Magnificat, she wants to make God look bigger, to draw attention to his greatness.

We cannot make God bigger; we cannot make God more than God is. So why does Mary choose this word? Maybe it is that, when we truly praise someone, ‘we make them bigger in the sense of giving them more room: we step back, we put our preoccupations and goals and plans aside.

Her yes to God, wasn’t just a passive acceptance of God’s will but an active participation in his plan.

For Mary says too that ‘he that is mighty hath magnified me’. As she gives room to God, God makes her greater. We cannot see God and Mary as opposed to each other ….the more God, the less Mary. When Mary gives room to God, God gives room to her: her humanity blossoms into its fullest glory. 

So one reason not to forget Mary – she said yes to God. By God making her great, she made him greater.

The Corrymeela Community in Northern Ireland, is a community quote ‘rallied around one inspirational idea: ‘Together is better.’ And I begin and end this morning’s sermon with a prayer of theirs that I found the other day

God of the histories we tell,
God of the histories we don’t:
on either side of a border, you are there.
May we, in living out our faith,
never pretend that there is a way
to make ourselves purer, or more righteous, or holier
by separating ourselves from those
that you will never stop loving.

We’ll come back to that prayer at the end, but for now join me on a visit to our loft at The Vicarage. A loft I vowed when I moved in that we would never fill. Hmmm.

Now in my defence it’s not full and we have got rid of a lot of stuff but there’s still stuff we want to keep but have nowhere else to store it, sound familiar to anyone?

And amongst those things are some toys and games the children had when they were younger.

Listening to Neil MacGregor’s wonderful radio programme ‘The history of the world in a hundred objects’ on my travels on Monday I was reminded how objects take us to a time and place.

So, the other day whilst taking something up I found the box of those large colourful duplo lego bricks. And through them was transported back to a time a few years ago now. To living room floors where great constructions were built.

With duplo big is best, so you almost always build big towers or big walls.And its walls I want to dwell on today because it seems from a young age we learn and like to build walls.

Something that we pick up again perhaps in our own homes especially in a place like this. For if you spend a bit of time walking around this parish, you will see how a great deal of effort goes into the walls, or fences, or hedges that divide us from our neighbours.

There are good reasons for this of course. We like our privacy, need our own space and lets be honest neighbours are not always easy to get on with.

So, the often quoted words of the poet Robert Frost in his poem ‘Mending Wall’ ring true ‘Good fences makes for good neighbours.’

Walls are necessary then indeed we are gathered within them today, a temple we love. And it was, to turn to the Gospel for today the temple at which Jesus was looking sat on the Mount of Olives.

The disciples were impressed by them ‘”what large stones and what large buildings!”’ Jesus though isn’t and and as he looks into the future he says ‘Not one stone will be left here upon another.’

The verses that follow are challenging as he talks of wars and nation rising against nation. We look back from a different vantage point yet today of all days we know there is truth in his words.

I wonder how many of those conflicts began in some way because there was, not always physically of course a wall that divided and separated people in one way or another.

And if we think of ourselves today we can be impressed by walls for they give us a sense of security. Across the pond an election manifesto pledge of the last president was to build a wall.

And here we return to Frost’s poem who goes on to ask‘Before I built a wall I’d ask to knowwhat I was walling in or out.’

Walls serve a purpose, they can be helpful but they can also divide and separate, something we know too from history.

Just think of the Berlin Wall and how when it fell it meant so much more than restoring the connection between East and West Berlin. This fall of this wall symbolised freedom.

St. Paul knew something about this imagery himself for when he wrote to the Christians of Ephesus he said that Christ ‘has broken down the dividing wall, that is the hostility between us.’

And that Christ is who we come here to meet his morning. The Christ in whom there are no borders and barriers, who breaks down the walls that separate us. Something that is symbolised by our gathering together around his table where all are welcome.

And as we are fed our vision is renewed and we strive to see the world as God sees it. Where there are not winners and losers, or goodies and baddies but beloved people in every place and continent, on either side of the walls we build.

The tight rope we walk in our worship today is to honour those who have given their lives for the freedom we enjoy but not to think that God is on our side. To sing ‘O God our help in ages past’ as if that means God was our help and no-one else’s.

For the walls we build, the conflicts we fight, the lives that have been lost grieve God’s heart of love.And if we look at ourselves in the mirror for a moment and ask how often do we build high walls to protect or to hide that which we find difficult?

Perhaps it’s necessary but let us never forget that God is not held captive by the walls we create, but on both sides gnawing away at the foundations until they crumble.

The Corrymeela community has a history of working for reconciliation in Northen Ireland. That land has known the cost of building walls. That land knows that we are ‘better together’.

And one of the key figures in the story of that community Ray Davey having witnessed the destruction of Dresden from a prisoner of war camp knew that what he had seen could never be the way, that we were and are ‘better together’.

And it is to a prayer of that community with which I end on this remembrance Sunday when we look back with a strange mix of thankfulness and sorrow and forward defiantly hoping still that the walls that continue to divide and separate will crumble and fall.

God of the histories we tell,
God of the histories we don’t:
on either side of a border, you are there.
May we, in living out our faith,
never pretend that there is a way
to make ourselves purer, or more righteous, or holier
by separating ourselves from those
that you will never stop loving.

Amen.