In the darkness - light

Sermon for Christmas Night – Eucharist – 24.xii.2023

 

(Isaiah 9.2-7; Titus 2.11-14; Luke 2.1-20)

 

The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light;

those who lived in a land of deep darkness – on them light has shined.

This is the Christian hope – and the hope at the heart of Christmas – the hope to which we need to hold. Light entering into the darkness; light shining in and through the darkness. The words are those of Isaiah who wrote several centuries before the birth of Jesus. But we hear them at Christmas because he looks to the coming of a Messiah – a Saviour for his people. And those words about light resonate perhaps because we think of the birth of Jesus being at night: 

O holy night, the stars are brightly shining,
It is the night of the dear Saviour’s birth;
Long lay the world in sin and error pining,
'Till he appeared and the soul felt its worth.
A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn…

In the darkness of the night, the Christ-child comes to bring light. In the darkness of a stable, his is the light that shines from the manger.

I began with those words of Isaiah:

The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light;

those who lived in a land of deep darkness – on them light has shined.

These are the first words of our first reading in this Eucharist. But in fact I find myself struck still more by the words which follow on in these words of prophecy:

You have multiplied the nation, you have increased its joy;

they rejoice before you as with joy at the harvest,

as people exult when dividing plunder.

For the yoke of their burden, and the bar across their shoulders,

the rod of their oppressor, you have broken as on the day of Midian.

For all the boots of the tramping warriors

and all the garments rolled in blood shall be burned as fuel for the fire.

Isaiah is writing about the hope of his people – that after all their sufferings there will come a time of joy and release from all that has burdened them. Isaiah had written about the failings of kings and other rulers. He knew the failures of his own people and the desire of their neighbours to raid, pillage and conquer. Much of his writing is a foretelling of his nation’s fate, to be defeated in war, to have their cities and towns laid waste, for so many of their people to be displaced and deported to a land which is not theirs. You read Isaiah and you realise that there is nothing new in the sufferings of our world today. His oracles prophesy devastation for the nations who bring war upon Israel – and amongst them the cities of Damascus, southern Lebanon, Babylon and Philistia. Isaiah looks to the time when the Israelites will put aside their own differences and instead, “they shall swoop down on the backs of the Philistines in the west” (Isaiah 11.14). There is violence through and through – and this is a particular vengeance directed at those very people, the Philistines, who lived roughly in the area of the modern Gaza Strip. Remember that Philistine is the word from which the modern term Palestine / Palestinian derives.  We switch on the news and what we see is a warfare and enmity known all too well to Isaiah, writing over two and a half thousand years ago.

“The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.” We can be only too aware of the continuing darkness of war, oppression, injustice and fear, hostage-taking, hunger and the longing for deliverance. But Isaiah does give us some hope in the midst of his grim survey of a world he knew to be like ours:

For all the boots of the tramping warriors

and all the garments rolled in blood shall be burned as fuel for the fire.

It must be our prayer that this should be so – the yoke of burdens lifted and the rebuilding of homes and nations to be places of peace.

In the darkness we pray that God’s light may shine.

 

I first visited Bethlehem, the place of Christ’s birth, in the darkness. I’d lived so near – in Jerusalem – for several months, but I’d never made that short journey of only six or seven miles. When finally I went there it was Christmas Eve 1977. Normally you could simply take the Arab bus from Damascus Gate to get there. But at Christmas there were extra security precautions in place. Applications to travel had to be made in advance, passports produced and tickets for special buses purchased. On Christmas Eve itself those special buses stopped short of Manger Square. We had to show our passes and passports, go through one security checkpoint and then another. There were soldiers and border police in abundance. As it happened people considered the journey worth it, and there were crowds out in the square with a festival of choirs, a huge tree and lots of decorations, the Post Office open to stamp letters and cards with Christmas Eve, Manger Square, Bethlehem. That was light in the darkness – and lots of noise. We made our way to the Church of the Nativity. You might have expected more crowds there – but the big congregation on 24 December is in the Roman Catholic Church next door. The Church of the Nativity itself is shared by the Greek Orthodox and Armenian Churches which celebrate Christmas on a different date. But they had given permission to a few western pilgrims – amongst them our group of Anglicans from Jerusalem – to visit the shrine. I remember standing in the cold and dark waiting to go in. I remember hearing an explosion and wondering if it was a firework or something worse. And then the descent to the chapel which marks Christ’s birth. In the dim interior there was a group of sisters in silent prayer. And then we made our way to the silver star set in the floor which is said to mark the place of the manger.

The next day I was up early to play the piano for the 8am service of Holy Communion in our church – Christ Church, Jerusalem. I remember sitting there, thinking how incredible it was to try to mark the actual place of Jesus’ birth with a star, as if we could say exactly here in this subterranean chapel was the exact position of Mary at the time she brought her son into the world. Round the corner and up the street – aptly named Milk Grotto Street – there’s a church which is built where milk from Mary’s breast is said to have spilt and turned the stone floor white. How could that be true?

But the truth of the Incarnation, the mystery of Christmas, is that God’s Son is born into this world in a particular place at a particular time. Somewhere, at some actual precise point, Mary gives birth to Jesus. Heaven touches earth. Is it true?

That’s what the poet John Betjeman asked:

And is it true?  And is it true,
This most tremendous tale of all,
Seen in a stained-glass window's hue,
A Baby in an ox's stall?
The Maker of the stars and sea
Become a Child on earth for me?

When we tell the story in stained glass, we are telling a story which is real – of the muck and blood and sweat of childbirth – a reality in that place which is Bethlehem 2,000 years ago. We need to remember not only the pain and toil and tears of that moment but also the joy which comes with birth, and the love which made it possible – the loving purpose of God, the love of Mary and Joseph for this new-born child.

I visited Bethlehem again in January 2020. I actually wanted to visit the monastery of Mar Saba, out in the Judaean desert, and thought that going to Bethlehem would give me the best chance of finding my way there (it was, thanks to a Palestinian taxi driver we found in Bethlehem). But when I asked advice on the journey from an American nun in Jerusalem, she immediately said, “You can’t go to Bethlehem. It’s on the West Bank and too dangerous to go there.” Such are the fears we can carry. There can be truth in our fears: it's actually illegal for Israeli citizens to visit Bethlehem and other West Bank cities – very much for their own safety. But we simply got on the Arab bus which took us there without any trouble. Again we visited the chapel of Christ’s birth – this time alongside a large group of Armenian pilgrims. You might think how just a few months ago Armenia was in the news with its ongoing fight with its neighbour Azerbaijan and the expulsion of most of the Armenian population of Nagorno Karabakh. It’s no longer news – for us at least. But it says something about the troubles of this world – and what we think deserves our attention.

Wherever we find people we can find cause for falling out, divisions, fear, hatred and violence. It’s there in the news. Between Israeli and Palestinian, in Ukraine, in so many countries of Africa that news coverage is barely possible. It’s in our fear of boat people and other migrants. It’s on our own streets and even in our own families.

It's when it strikes home that we may want to avoid Christmas. But the message of Christ’s birth is something we need to return to again and again. This year there are no festive lights, decorations or Christmas trees in Bethlehem. But there the true light has been born into our world. We need to pray that that light may be born again in our hearts – and his love shine out through our lives.

Christmas at St. Cuthbert's Church, Shotley Bridge

 

Christmas at St. John's Church, Castleside

 

Coming up!

 

Tenants of the Vineyard

Trinity 18 - Proper 22 - Year A – Eucharist – 8.x.23

(Isaiah 5.1-7; Philippians 3.4b-14; Matthew 21.33-46)

“Let me sing for my beloved my love-song concerning his vineyard.” 

The words are Isaiah’s - from our first reading. But the whole story of God and of his relationship with his people is actually a love-song concerning his vineyard. God loves us. He wants us to be his people. He wants us to flourish. He wants to find in our lives the fruits which can grow when we are rooted in the love which God has for us.

Jesus takes up the image of the vineyard on a number of occasions. In recent weeks the Gospel readings we have used have given us the story of the labourers in the vineyard – where those who are called to work for the shortest time receive the same reward as those who have worked longest and through the heat of the day. We’ve heard as well the story of the vineyard owner who asks his two sons to go to work there: one says “yes,” but doesn’t go, the other refuses but in the end goes off to work – which of them does the will of his Father? What seem to be obvious interpretations of the parables are actually challenges to the way the world works and the way we think that God works. They’re challenges to us when we think we have everything worked out – but actually need to think again. They’re a challenge to us when we recognise that what we count as fairness might need to give way to justice. They’re a challenge when we recognise the limitations of our human psychology – if only we can dare to open ourselves to the mind of God.

Today’s parable is at first sight a re-telling by Jesus of the story we hear in our first reading from the prophecy of Isaiah. The vineyard which the owner has painstakingly dug out, cleared and planted – with a watch tower, a wine press and the expectation that it will in due course produce fruit in the grape harvest. 

But then there’s a difference. In Isaiah’s vineyard there grow only wild grapes: there’s failure - and that failure is the wrong fruit: it’s not producing what God wants – an image of the failure of God’s people in Isaiah’s time to act as God wants. All that can be done is to clear it of the vines. Even worse, it will become a wasteland and be overgrown. It’s an image which points to the defeat of the people of Judah by the Babylonian conquerors and their deportation into exile.

In the version of the story told by Jesus, there’s something different. The problem in this vineyard is not the failure of the harvest. It’s the problem of the people who are looking after the vineyard. The harvest comes. We assume that the tenants of the vineyard gather in the fruit. But then they won’t pay the rent. The landowner sends his servants to collect his dues – but the tenants simply beat them up, stone them, even kill them. Finally, the vineyard owner sends his own son – he expects they will respect him and do the right thing. But instead the tenants grab him, throw him out of the vineyard and kill him. We don’t have to think too hard to see the allusion to the Passion of Jesus himself – speaking God’s word, but rejected, taken outside the walls of the city and put to death on a Cross.

Jesus leaves his audience with a question: “when the owner of the vineyard comes, what will he do to those tenants?” The answer he’s given is what we might expect: he’ll wreak vengeance on them – he’ll put them to death for their crime, and the vineyard will be put into the care of other people who will look after it better and pay their dues.

That’s the answer which Matthew tells us Jesus is given by those who hear his story. I wonder what you would say? Many people have interpreted it as saying it’s about the replacement of the Old Testament and its people with the people of the New Testament. God had previously worked with the Jews – but now his relationship is to be with Christians, with those who hear Jesus, with us. One people replacing another (it’s called supersessionism). But is that actually the judgment that God would make?

“He will put those wretches to a miserable death…” – and take away the land he’d given them. But that’s what the people say to Jesus. Jesus doesn’t say, you’re right. Jesus simply tells the story. Jesus gives us not an interpretation but a challenge – and that challenge might be to ask how we would act if we were the tenants who don’t want to pay their rent. What might we do to hold onto the things we want? How would we expect the vineyard owner to react? What do we think God makes of us when we are caught out doing the wrong thing?

Jesus’ telling of this parable is a story of rejection. But it’s not about the way he rejects us. It’s about the rejection of God’s way which we ourselves make. It’s about knowing what you should do, but refusing to do it. It’s about knowing how deliberately we get things wrong – and we know and expect that there’s a price to pay.

But the good news is that God’s way is not the way of rejection. It is about judgment: and the Gospel reading ends, “When the chief priests and the Pharisees heard his parables, they realized that he was speaking about them.” They know that they have been found out. We have those times when we feel the weight of failure – the burden of guilt – pressing upon us like a stone which crushes. But the judgment of God is given with mercy – with a forgiveness which can make things new.

A few weeks ago I was looking at Caravaggio’s painting of the Conversion of St. Paul. Paul – then known as Saul – is on his way to persecute the Christians of Damascus. He’s zealous for his understanding of the Jewish Law – he’s employed by those chief priests and Pharisees who had confronted Jesus. But now he’s thrown from his horse, lying on the ground, blinded by a light from heaven, hearing the voice of Christ speak directly to him. “Who are you, Lord?” he cries. Reduced to helplessness, this is where his new journey must begin. Everything he’d known seems taken away. All his “gains,” he says in our second reading, he now counts as loss because of Christ. He needs to be made anew. He will find that it’s the people he had persecuted upon whom he will have to depend. There’s judgment for Saul, but also mercy. By the time he writes to the Philippians he is sharing his faith – and it’s summed up in the words we read today: “I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection…” It’s a resurrection power which is possible only because Jesus has taken the way of the Cross. We can share in Christ’s risen life, only because he has first been rejected by people like Saul – people like us. 

This final parable of the vineyard is a challenge – a challenge first to us. Are we happy with merely getting by in our daily lives? Is our aim simply to keep possession of the fruits we think belong to us, even if they’re not what they should and could be? Do we find ourselves in contention with other people, refusing the claims which might rightfully be made on us? 

Or can we recognise the place God’s plan and purpose might have for us? “The kingdom of God will be taken away from you…” says Jesus. Who is he saying that to? But the first aim of Jesus is to call people to God’s Kingdom. “Repent for the kingdom of heaven has come near.” These are the first words Matthew’s Gospel records Jesus saying as he begins his public ministry.

God is not wanting to take things away from us. God is actually calling us to his Kingdom. He’s calling us through Jesus – even as Jesus finds himself rejected. He’s calling us through Jesus by the sacrifice he will make on the Cross out of love for the world. He’s calling us when we feel rejected and worthless. He’s calling us to see those fruits our lives can bear but which we may not value.

At least some of the people who hear Jesus’ telling of the parable of the vineyard understand it to be told against them. But there’s something far greater when we see the place it has in God’s purpose and our calling. Jesus is calling us to see not that we are rejected but that we are called by Christ, that we can know him, that the power of his Resurrection will bring us to a new life with him.

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St Cuthbert's Hall Coffee Morning & Exhibition

 

Living our faith - finding an example

My summer holiday this year has been nine nights in Assisi followed by a final night in Rome. This worked well to complement a short retreat I made in London at the end of July, which I fashioned around a visit to the National Gallery’s exhibition on the life of St. Francis of Assisi.

Arriving in London on a Monday afternoon I thought I’d finish the day with a visit to the exhibition - if there was more to see I could always go back, or so I thought! But when I got to the Gallery 90 minutes before closing time it was obvious from the length of the queue that I wasn’t going to get in. Fortunately, I was able to book a visit online, though there wasn’t a space for another 48 hours. Public response had been quite amazing. Seeing so many works of art and other items from the habit Francis wore and an ancient copy of his Order’s Rule, through Zurbaran’s paintings to Anthony Gormley’s depiction of Francis was not only an aesthetic experience but spiritually deepening in the light it shone on his vocation 900 years ago. A discussion I attended later in the day drew out still more of his relevance for today.

The visit to Assisi built on that. We’d chosen our apartment because it looked to be near the railway station. It was - and it also turned out to be right next door to the Basilica of Santa Maria degli Angeli, the great church built over the Porziuncula Chapel where Francis had first formed his community and where he died. I’d visited the church over 40 years ago and remembered being rather put off by its baroque hugeness contrasting with the simplicity of Francis’s life. But this time I saw the point - and was glad that we could visit it so easily on a number of occasions. From our first evening when children were out playing football at 11pm (too hot to sleep) on the piazza in front of the basilica, through visits to the Porziuncula where pilgrims queued patiently and prayed silently in the tiny chapel - to an amazing occasion when we heard music coming from the church at 10pm and entered to find ourselves caught up in a procession and devotion involving hundreds of people.

Also remarkable were the conversations we had on several occasions. On our first visit to the main town of Assisi (it’s a short bus ride up the hill above Santa Maria degli Angeli) we came out of the Cathedral of San Rufino to be greeted by pilgrims from Ireland and the priest who had been saying Mass for them. They wanted to know where we had come from and why we had come - and they were eager to say what had drawn them there. It was the same when we visited San Damiano, where Christ is said to have spoken to Francis from the Cross, saying “Go and re-build my church which, as you see, is falling down.” Francis took Jesus at his word, bought mortar and stone and got to work - only later did he realise he had a bigger task than buildings maintenance. It was outside that church that two young women came up to us and said how pleased they were to hear someone else speaking English - and they went on to say why they had come to Assisi: not only drawn by the witness of St. Francis but by the example of a young man, Blessed Carlo Acutis, who died aged just 15 in 2006, but has now been beatified (one step short of being declared a saint) on account of his faith.

I’d heard of Blessed Carlo - and had thought his story of dying so young mainly as being simply sad. But here were people who had learned about him and who wanted to live out their lives as he did - in devotion, open about their faith, wanting to see the lives of others changed for the better. I was impressed! And not only by them… In San Damiano people kept the silence requested of them not only in its buildings but all around. Above Assisi at the Eremo delle Carceri where Francis and his companions went to pray, that stillness and silence was apparent in the woods surrounding the ravine in which they had lived. At an open-air altar we found a large group of young people waiting prayerfully for their Mass to begin.

If nothing else it was wonderfully refreshing to escape the cynicism and harsh secularism that characterise so much of our own society. And so good to find people from our more worldly culture there, drawn by something which would renew their faith - and mine!

What do we want from our own faith? Often we despair or seek to attribute blame as to the Church’s shortcomings. But when he found the church falling down, Francis set about re-building… How should we be living out our faith?                                                                                     

Martin Jackson

from the September issue of the Parish Magazine

The Transfiguration of the Lord

 

Eucharist – 6.viii.23

 (Daniel 7.9-10, 13-14; 2 Peter 1.16-19; Luke 9.28-36)

Here’s a verse from today’s Gospel reading:

Peter and his companions were weighed down with sleep; but since they had stayed awake, they saw his glory and the two men who stood with him.  

The Transfiguration of Jesus into the glory he shares with God the Father is recorded in all three of the Synoptic Gospels: Matthew, Mark and Luke. But it’s only St. Luke who tells us that Jesus took Peter, James and John up the mountain for the purpose of prayer. And again, it’s only Luke who tells us that the disciples were really too tired to do the job. 

Jesus is transfigured in the midst of the disciples, the appearance of his face changes and his clothes become dazzling white, and Moses and Elijah appear to bear witness to the glory of God revealed in Christ. 

Matthew, Mark and Luke all tell us about Jesus’ Transfiguration in glory. But it’s only St. Luke who dares admit that the disciples were falling asleep at the very time it happened. Our translation tells us: “they were weighed down with sleep.” Bishop Tom Wright translates it as they “were heavy with sleep, but managed to stay awake.” Perhaps you know the feeling… When you’re trying to pay attention to something or someone, but try as you might you keep drifting off. “I’ll just close my eyes for a few seconds,” you say… and then you’re waking up with a start, asking yourself, “what have I missed?” And then you do it all again… Or I do anyway.

I was away on retreat just over a week ago, and I did quite a good job of staying awake. In part that was because it was a different sort of retreat which involved moving around and looking at things rather than just sitting down (and falling asleep). But something I’ve also learned is that when you’re on retreat there’s no disgrace in going back to your room after breakfast each morning and going back to sleep. 

I’m glad for those times when I’ve been reminded that part of the reason for a Retreat is to rest. So we should be kind to ourselves and not be worried if we find ourselves drifting off when we try to read, pray or even listen to a talk. One of God’s promises to his people is that he will bring them to a place of “rest.” Psalm 95, the Psalm which begins the round of prayer each day for those who say the traditional daily office, contains a warning for God’s people when they go off the rails: “They shall not enter into my rest.” And the writer of the New Testament Letter to the Hebrews spends the best part of two chapters meditating on what it means to enter God’s rest. It means recognising the goodness of God’s purpose in creation… How, after he had made all things, when he had given human beings their place in the created order, God could look at it all, see that it was “very good,” and then on the seventh day himself “rest.” Sometimes we say “God’s in his heaven and all’s well with the world.” It might be that we say those words ironically, because we know that things are far from being right. But that’s exactly right in the case of God’s Creation. God’s purpose is to make all things good. He creates men and women with a purpose - he’s saying what humanity is truly about. And then in his heaven - the place where God is recognised as God, the place where his reign is undisputed - he can rest. 

That’s the origin of the observance of the Sabbath in Judaism. It’s a seventh day to be kept free from work because it recognises how in creating all things good, God was then able to stand back and rest. When we recognise God’s work, his purpose and his glory, then we can enter into that same rest. It’s about communion with him. Our goal in life should be God’s purpose. It’s the opposite of our frenetic efforts to do everything our way, regardless of the cost to ourselves and others. The Sabbath rest is one of peace and harmony, but above all it’s recognising that God is God and we are his people.

Perhaps it’s when we find ourselves drifting off that we can find ourselves most open to new perceptions. That’s how it was for the disciples Peter, James and John on the Mount of the Transfiguration. St. Luke tells us that it was a real effort for them to stay awake. He doesn’t need to tell us. He could miss it out - like the Gospels of Matthew and Mark which just go straight to the vision itself. For Matthew and Mark it’s simple - Jesus takes the disciples up the mountain and they receive the vision of his glory. 

For Luke though, there’s that added layer. For a start Luke tells us that there was a purpose in climbing the hill. It’s to pray. Matthew and Mark tell us it’s a “place apart.” Only Luke adds that the purpose in going there is “to pray.” And from Luke there’s the additional information that it’s while Jesus was praying that he is transfigured in glory. It’s the prayer that makes the difference. Jesus has taken the disciples up the mountain to pray and the best they can do is struggle to stay awake. But Jesus prays, and everything changes into glory. Only because the disciples manage to stay awake - and it’s obviously an effort - are they able to see something of that glory which Christ the Son shares with his heavenly Father.

If only we could see Christ in his Glory, then we could understand God’s purpose. It’s tempting to think that. Or we might still just miss the point:

Peter said to Jesus, ‘Master, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.’ Peter did not know what he said.

Peter knows something special is going on, but he can’t put it into words. And when the disciples go back down the mountain just the next day we find them unable to heal a sick child. They’ve had the vision, but they still have to deal with the failures of everyday life in an all-too-real world. They’ve managed to stay awake for a vision of the Transfigured Christ. But in the Garden of Gethsemane, in the time of Jesus’ greatest need, they fall asleep. “Couldn’t you stay awake for just one hour?” Jesus asks them then. Elsewhere we find Gospel passages punctuated with reminders of the urgency of the task: “Stay awake!” But again and again we fail to perceive God’s purpose, drift from prayer into sleep, fall from recognition of the glory of God into the mundane where all we are conscious of is the cares of the world and our own too-pressing needs. 

But notice that in the story of the Transfiguration, Jesus doesn’t tell the disciples off for being so dozy. There is that theme that our call from God is to “enter into his rest.” What the disciples see on the Mount of the Transfiguration is not the outcome of their prayer, not the result of any effort on their part. It’s simply a gift. They see what they see because God wills it, because Jesus prays - and prays in us. All that the disciples had to do was put themselves in the right place. So they go up the mountain with Jesus. The intention is that they should pray. The reality is that they fall asleep, but Jesus prays - and they wake to recognise his true glory.

As well as on this Feast Day of the Transfiguration, we read this account every year on the Sunday before Lent. In Lent we seek to make time for growth in understanding of God’s will and purpose, the chance to glimpse something of his glory. There are extra opportunities for prayer and worship, for reading alone and study together, for increased sharing in the sacraments - here in the Eucharist or by penitence or through receiving the ministry of healing. You could make yourself a very busy Christian going from one service to another, sometimes with Lent lunches and with study groups. But the point is not to wear ourselves out by our efforts. The point is simply to put ourselves in the right place. 

Whatever the time of year we need to ask where is God calling me to be? What are the opportunities he offers, like that opportunity given to the disciples to climb that hill with Jesus? God’s glory is revealed to us as a gift. God calls us to receive his gift. The calling is to enter his rest, to glimpse his glory… whatever our frailty and failings to be able to say “it is good for us to be here.”

Religious Certainty - and the Test of Humanity

 4^th Sunday after Trinity – Eucharist – 2.vii.2023  (Proper 8)

 Genesis 22.1-14; Romans 6.12-23; Matthew 10.40-42

The Revd. Martin Jackson in Christ Church, Consett

 

 

“God tested Abraham.”

That’s the way our first reading begins today. It’s a test about whether Abraham will give up that thing / that person who is most precious to him. How far will he travel? How far will he go? What is he prepared to do in response to a message he takes to be from God?

The traditional understanding of the story is to treat it as a test of obedience. God has given Abraham a son in his old age. He’d given up hope of children, but then he is blessed with the birth of Isaac. It’s a sign of God’s favour - and a promise that God will do great things with Abraham’s descendants. But then there is this test: 

God said, ‘Take your son, your only son Isaac, whom you love, and go to the land of Moriah, and offer him there as a burnt-offering on one of the mountains that I shall show you.’ 

“So Abraham rose early in the morning…” We’re not told anything about Abraham questioning God. Nothing about the conflict you might expect to find in his heart or soul. No protest from Isaac’s mother, Sarah - I wonder if Abraham actually tells her what he is going to do; he certainly doesn’t tell Isaac. It’s all summed up in that one short word, “So...” God speaks. Abraham listens - and his response is immediate: “So Abraham rose early in the morning…”

It was a three-day journey. Abraham and his family had settled in Beersheba. The place where he is to offer his sacrifice is in Moriah - identified traditionally with the rock on which the Temple in Jerusalem would later be built. Abraham and Isaac travel with a donkey and their servants. They take with them the wood for the sacrifice. Abraham knows what he is going to do and he isn’t going to be foiled by finding there’s nothing to burn when he gets there. Then the servants are dismissed and Abraham goes on with only Isaac and the donkey. There’ll be no one to stop him. Isaac knows they are going to offer a sacrifice. They’d probably done it together before. He doesn’t know that he is to be the sacrifice.

Isaac said, ‘The fire and the wood are here, but where is the lamb for a burnt-offering?’  ₈ Abraham said, ‘God himself will provide the lamb for a burnt-offering, my son.’ So the two of them walked on together.

Then they arrive. They build the altar and Abraham binds Isaac and lays him on the wood of the altar. That word “binds” perhaps distracts us from the horror of what is going on. Binds is too soft a word. Abraham ties him up and is going to kill him. That’s the point. And he’s going to do it because he thinks God has told him to. Do we buy that traditional understanding that this shows the extent of Abraham’s obedience to God? That nothing can be greater than what God tells you - even killing your own son?

We live in a world where people do just that. Jihadist suicide bombers ready to blow themselves up to kill as many people as they can. Sometimes children used for the same purpose. Religious extremists who will take a van or a truck and use it to mow people down in the street before they get out with knives to kill still more. And they do it in the name of their religion. Extreme violence and killing by people who are convinced they have a divine mandate is not a new phenomenon. There’s the story in the Bible of Jephthah, one of the Judges of ancient Israel, who makes a vow to God:

If you will give the Ammonites into my hand, then whoever comes out of the doors of my house when I return victorious… shall be the Lord’s, to be offered up by me as a burnt-offering. 

Just two verses earlier we’re told that the “spirit of the Lord” had come upon Jephthah. But now here he is promising to make a human sacrifice. And Jephthah wins. He comes back from the battle - and out of the door of his house comes his daughter, dancing with joy to meet him. “I cannot take back my vow,” he says. And two months later he takes her life as a sacrifice.

And that is what Abraham also is ready to do. Abraham himself carries the fire and the knife as he walks with his son to the place where he plans to kill him. “Where is the lamb for the offering?” asks Isaac. And Abraham knows but doesn’t say. There’s a stained-glass window in St. John’s Church, Castleside which depicts the sacrifice of Isaac. The beauty of stained glass should not distract us from the horrific nature of the story. Another picture I know shows the fire on the altar already burning and Abraham holding a knife to Isaac’s throat - it is graphic and truly horrible.

But then an angel speaks - and Abraham hears. “Do not lay your hand on the boy or do anything to him…” Abraham has passed the test of obedience. Or perhaps it’s a case that sanity finally prevails. Against the blindness of religious certainty, humanity finally gains the upper hand.

We need to hear the message of that angel. When you’ve convinced yourself that what you’re doing is right even though the consequences are dire and the damage you’re causing is dire, stop! Step back. Think again.

It’s something the politicians need to do when they’ve set their course and declare their determination to see things through regardless of the cost. It’s something that the leaders of nations need to take to heart when national interest becomes confused with self-interest and the end result is war, loss of life and the displacement of peoples. But it’s something we all need to act upon when we have become so convinced about our own rightness that we cause havoc all around us, break up relationships and even destroy ourselves.

“Do not lay your hand upon the boy…” says the angel to Abraham. But there is a terrible re-telling of the story by the poet Wilfred Owen as he wrote amid the horrors of the First World War: 

When lo! an angel called him out of heaven,

Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad,

Neither do anything to him. Behold,

A ram, caught in a thicket by its horns;

Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him.

 

But the old man would not so, but slew his son,

And half the seed of Europe, one by one.

 

“Offer the Ram of Pride instead…”

What is it that truly keeps us from hearing God’s Word and understanding his purpose? What gets in the way of our humanity? Can we not recognise the call instead simply to love - and discover truly what that means?

The window in St. John’s Church which depicts Abraham on the point of sacrificing his son is one of a pair. The other window shows Christ the Good Shepherd. It’s the Ram of Pride which Abraham finally needs to offer up. It’s the care of the flock to which Jesus calls us. And the words of today’s Gospel speak to us: “Whoever welcomes you welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me.” Whatever else Jesus may be saying in the words of today’s Gospel, he is certainly emphasising the importance of a ministry of hospitality. Make people welcome, and you’re making Christ welcome, and so you’re recognising something of what God is saying to the world.

Where will you find Christ? Jesus tells us:

I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me… 

I tell you, just as you did it to the least of these... you did it to me. 

Look beyond what you think is right because it’s good for you. Look beyond the ways of thinking in which you might have become trapped. When you think you hear the voice of God, think again. But listen - because it is God who tells us that all the commandments he gives are summed up in just two: to love God; and to love our neighbour as ourselves.

The Wreckage and the Cross

 

Trinity 3 Year A – Eucharist – 25.vi.23 (Proper 7)

(Genesis 21.8-21; Romans 6.1b-11; Matthew 10.24-39)

The word ‘Gospel’ means ‘Good News’, but how often does it mean that for us? Today’s Gospel reading ends with an apparent warning from Jesus: ‘... whoever does not take up the cross and follow me is not worthy of me.’ And there are more words in today’s Gospel which may seem even more off-putting: ‘Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; and whoever loves son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me...’

What is Jesus’ invitation to discipleship about? It’s not something to take lightly: ‘If anyone would be a follower of me, let him take up his cross every day and come, follow me.’ How do we understand the invitation to take up our Cross and follow Jesus, as at the same time we struggle to take in what is going on in so many parts of the world?

The word “Gospel” means “Good News.” But there isn’t much of that about at the moment. As I’m trying to work out what to say this Sunday morning, I keep getting news updates about the armed mutiny within the mercenary forces of the Russian Wagner Group - a vicious warlord is turning against a vicious tyrant and oppressor, it seems. Is this a good thing? Or does it mean there’ll simply be more bloodshed, fear and terror? Meanwhile it’s easy to miss the ongoing daily violence inflicted on the Ukrainian people within their own borders. In our own country it’s the ever-spiraling cost of living which may be uppermost in people’s minds. How will you manage to pay your mortgage? How will you ever be able to buy a house if you’re not already on the housing ladder? How will so many people be able even to put food on the table? Government borrowing is now higher than our nation’s Gross Domestic Product - which may not mean much to people until you realise that it now costs more each year to pay the interest on our national debts than our country spends on education.

And the news was different again at the beginning of the week. Former President Trump charged with various crimes, the first time an American president has faced federal prosecution - and his response is to turn it to his own political advantage. A former Prime Minister here in the UK perhaps finally acknowledging that the game is up as he resigns as an MP rather than face the House of Commons debate on the Parliamentary report as to whether he had lied to his fellow MPs.

And then so much attention given to the loss of the submersible which had descended in the ocean to the depth of 3200 metres where the wreck of the Titanic lies. This is an undeniable tragedy with a massive search, hopes raised as the capsule was detected, but then dashed with the probability that an implosion had caused the deaths of its five passengers before the search ever began. It says something that so much attention was given to the search. It says something more that the previous week only 79 survivors were taken from the wreck of a boat carrying around 700 migrants off the coast of Greece; another 100 known to have died; probably at least another 500 lives were lost, people trapped in the hull of the vessel. But after only a day or so the press attention shifted - and there has been practically no further coverage of any attempts to save them.

I’ve found myself once more reading about an earlier tragedy when 359 migrants drowned with the loss of a boat off the coast of Lampedusa, a small island 200 miles from Sicily and 120 miles from North Africa. In his book, The City is my Monastery, Richard Carter writes:

Many of the 155 survivors were Christians from Ethiopia and Eritrea. How could anyone respond to a tragedy of such terrible consequences? Mr Tuccio, a member of the local church and a carpenter, collected some of the timbers from the wrecked shell of the boat and in his workshop made simple crosses, which he gave to the survivors. Later, when Pope Francis visited, he made the Pope a cross from the same timber. This Lampedusa Cross became a symbol for our times. Made from the wood of the wreckage, it told the story of the movement of migrant people to Europe in search of a home — the story of their displacement, exodus and search for a country that would accept them and of the many who have drowned crossing the Mediterranean in search of that hope. One of these Lampedusa Crosses became part of the British Museum collection.

I’ve seen another of those crosses on the altar of the Anglican Centre in Rome. I was given a picture of the Lampedusa Cross which now hangs in my study. Richard Carter writes about it that, 

It had a presence that you felt in your very soul — it silenced words yet spoke to me of why I am ultimately a Christian. 'Nothing, nothing in all creation can ever separate you from the love of God which is yours in Christ Jesus.' This cross with the blues and reds and yellows of the boat seemed to say 'Come and see.'

It’s when our faith is tested that we realise what Jesus means when he calls us to take up the Cross and follow him. These are words spoken as Jesus is sending his disciples out with the task of sharing his message of God’s kingdom. He warns them that they may experience persecution, but he tells them also that the Holy Spirit will be with them to strengthen them in what they may say. He says they must embrace poverty and hardship, but he assures them also that they will have provision which is adequate for their needs.

Can we believe that? Where is God in all the distress of the world? That’s a question we face in today’s first reading. Hagar, taken by Abraham as a concubine so that he can father a son, is now thrown out following the birth of Isaac to Abraham and Sarah. Hagar and her son are driven into the desert. The water runs out and all she can do is put Ishmael under a bush and sit herself down at a distance: “Do not let me look on the death of the child,” she prays. It could be the prayer of the families who lost loved ones in that submersible on the floor of the Atlantic. It could be the words in the hearts of families in Bangladesh whose loved ones died in their hundreds off the coast of Greece. It could be the lament of dispossessed peoples, those who suffer famine and disease or the affliction of war. It could be our own prayer as we grieve the loss of a loved one.

I find it more and more difficult to think of what I can say when I stand up to preach on Sundays. The Gospel is Good News, but it’s not explanation. God meets us in our need, Jesus has been there before us, we can believe that the Holy Spirit is here to guide us. But that doesn’t necessarily make life any easier. This last week for me began as we marked the worst of life’s tragedies in the funeral of a young woman loved by so many and ended as I shared in the heights of joy with a wonderful wedding. God was with us in each in different ways, I believe. I realise that what I find hardest perhaps is dealing with the mundane, the everyday issues which never seem to go away, and can so easily drag us down. But in them, as well, God is to be found - if only we can make time to turn to him and recognise that he is travelling with us all along.

The assurance God gives us of provision for our needs is true, because the one who gives it speaks from the experience of our human condition. It’s Jesus who will experience suffering and death upon the Cross who says to his followers, ‘Do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul.’ It’s Jesus, who is confronted by sickness and hunger in those he meets, who can say that ‘even the hairs of our heads are all counted.’ God knows when a sparrow falls to the ground and ‘we are of more value than many sparrows.’

Richard Carter went to Lampedusa to visit Mr. Tuccio in his carpenter’s workshop: 

Timber from the wreckage of the boat is still piled in his workshop alongside the photo of him kissing the hand of Pope Francis. … Taking a small piece of wood from the wreckage he skilfully cuts me a small Lampedusa Cross - which I am wearing today. He hangs it round my neck. And says, 'Portala con te come segno della resurrezione che nasce dal dolore.' 'Take it with you as a sign of the resurrection that is born in pain and struggle.' 

To know God’s care for us is to be made able to carry the Cross. To tell his good news is to show his love in our care for others. And that in itself is to show God’s care for us.

 

Summer Fair Time!

 

Thoughts on Life (and Death) in a Victorian Vicarage…

I love St. Cuthbert’s Vicarage - and a lot of the time I love living in it. The drawback is largely the size and coldness of the building. As energy costs have soared I have been acutely aware of the need to cut back on heating, so it’s been a chilly winter and spring. I’m still using the winter duvet - and still taking a hot water bottle to bed! But it’s a wonderful building in a marvellous setting. The garden may appear a little (?) on the wild side - but it’s great to share it with deer, foxes, squirrels, pheasants and a range of quieter birdlife, though not always the visiting cats.

Currently, though, I’m experiencing visits from another form of wildlife. I’ve got used to the woodlice - these strange, seemingly armoured little creatures which look as though they could survive a nuclear explosion but actually tend to expire as they trundle just halfway across the room. But the new visitor I’ve identified as the mason bee (or masonry bee). They’ve been coming in large numbers, gather inside the windows of just two rooms and then expire. I’ve probably hoovered up a hundred or so in the last week. They’re thankfully not bothered about attacking humans and have a very small sting anyway. I think that they’re probably males which leave the nest first, mate and then go off to die. It’s sad to see, and I’m hoping that this cycle in their life and death is just about over.

With lives so short, I’ve pondered whether their existence is a sort of futility? It is, of course, simply part of nature’s ways - the way the world goes on. Which makes it all the more impressive that human life can be so long - and that it incorporates periods when we need the care of others, when care can make a difference, and that we can value what life brings, even if we might complain about it at times. It’s a privilege for me to spend time with people in sickness - or with their carers - and sometimes at the time of death. These are sad times, but also times when I have been overawed by resilience, courage, love and care - all the most human and necessary qualities. These are qualities which point me to the divine. They’re times when we might question God’s purpose but it’s also in these times that we might be most conscious of God’s presence.  

Martin Jackson

Ascension Day Eucharist

Ascension Day Eucharist with the midweek congregation of St. Cuthbert, Benfieldside.

There's also a Deanery celebration of the Ascension of the Lord at 7pm in Christ Church, Consett - preacher: the Archdeacon of Durham.

Keeping the commandments - the way of love

6th Sunday of Easter – Eucharist – 14.v.2023

(Acts 17.22-31; 1 Peter 3.13-22; John 14.15-21)

Easter Day may seem a long time ago, but in the Church’s Calendar we’re still celebrating Easter-tide. The season of Easter lasts seven weeks in total. Ascension Day is celebrated this coming Thursday - but it’s a part of the celebration of Christ’s Resurrection, and the Easter season itself still has two more weeks to run until we get to Pentecost, the time when we look to the coming of the Holy Spirit upon the disciples.

So Easter is a long season. Everything really depends on it. There is an argument that for Christians there are really only two seasons in the year: Easter, and “Easter’s coming.” The Resurrection is the event which changes everything for us - new life from the grave, and the risen Christ breaking in to change the lives of ordinary people so that they will do extraordinary things.

Without Easter, there’s no basis for Christian faith. But there’s very little in the way of written record when it comes to the events around Jesus’ Resurrection. St. Mark seems originally to have ended the Gospel which bears his name simply with the tomb discovered to be empty and the women who had visited it running away, because “they were afraid.” The other Gospels record various appearances of the risen Jesus to the disciples, but not many… And when Jesus does appear, he does not say very much.

I think that’s important. Jesus does not argue people into belief. He simply comes to them in their need. He brings healing to the sick, he feeds the hungry, he tells fishermen where to look for a catch of fish, he calls people by name. Jesus feels for people and touches their hearts. When Mary Magdalene fails to recognise him in the garden by his tomb, he speaks her name - that’s when she knows who he is. After two disciples fail to recognise him in a long walk from Jerusalem to Emmaus, it’s when he takes bread and breaks it that his presence is made known. He comes to other disciples behind locked doors, not to make a speech but to show the wounds his risen body still bears and to breathe the Holy Spirit upon them. And in a final appearance by the Sea of Galilee he’s a stranger recognised by the disciples when he prepares breakfast for them. The risen Jesus goes on doing in a few short weeks after his Resurrection what he had been doing throughout his years of ministry - he feeds people, he heals them, he knows them as the people they are, and he enables them to be the people God is calling. 

In his final meeting with the disciple Peter, who had denied knowing him three times at the hour of his greatest need, there is no recrimination or condemnation, but instead the probing and questioning Peter needs: “Do you love me?” - asked three times. And a commission, “Feed my sheep, tend my flock.” Jesus asks that question of us. We too can share in the care of his people.

What Jesus is doing in that handful of appearances after his Resurrection, he is still doing with us. That’s how Jesus relates to his people. To know us, call us by name, feed us and heal us. And it’s all possible by his love - a love we can share.

That’s what today’s Gospel reading is about. It’s not a story from the accounts of what followed the Resurrection. It comes from St. John’s narrative of the Last Supper. But it is a telling of what will follow on from the Resurrection - that Jesus will send the “Advocate,” his Holy Spirit, to be with his people for ever. “I will not leave you orphaned,” Jesus says… “You will see me; because I live, you also will live.” 

And the way we live is the way of love. “If you love me, you will keep my commandments… those who love me will be loved by my Father, and I will love them and reveal myself to them.”

When he is asked how we should live, Jesus sums up everything which has come down from the Jewish Law in just two commandments. Sometimes we use them at the beginning of our services:

The first commandment is this: 

‘Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God is the only Lord.  

You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, 

with all your soul, and with all your mind, 

and with all your strength.’  

The second is this: ‘Love your neighbour as yourself.’  

There is no other commandment greater than these. 

On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.

Love is the big deal. The marriage service begins with words from one of the Letters of St. John: “God is love. Those who live in love live in God, and God lives in them.” Love is what makes the difference. Love is what makes lives properly lived possible.

That’s something to remember this coming week - Christian Aid Week. It’s a week when we can show concern for poorer people around the world by giving money which may relieve them in their need and aid them in their development. But it’s also Christian Aid, so what we give should come out of our everyday concern and our desire to put love into practice. Love requires that we look beyond ourselves. Love brings us into a bigger picture of understanding. And it may ask, what do we hope for?

Three years ago - in the middle of May - we were in the midst of the first pandemic Lockdown. Nevertheless, like now, it was Easter-tide - and hope was not to be denied. Rowan Williams, the former Archbishop of Canterbury, had found himself writing a weekly reflection for the people of his local church. The 75th anniversary of the end of the Second World War in Europe had just passed, and he found hope in that from that terrible conflict people emerged with determination to change their nation’s life for the better. They didn’t simply celebrate relief at an end to conflict. They went on to create new opportunities for all in education, health and social provision. Within a short time they would create the Welfare State. Things did change dramatically: “This country had become a safer place for the sick, the poor and the elderly.”

From this looking into our history, Rowan Williams asked the question, what do we hope for now? After six years of conflict in war our nation went on to build new hopes. After the hardships and conflict of the Pandemic what could we hope for? He wrote three years ago:

Will the end of the lockdown see us finding the strength to face and name some of the things that have stood in the way of fairness, truth and security? That would mean noticing who has been paying the heaviest price - the ethnic communities and social groups that have been disproportionately affected, the people with mental health challenges who have had to live through nightmares in isolation; under-protected and poorly rewarded workers in the NHS and elsewhere who have had little choice but to go on exposing themselves to risk so that the rest of us can have some basic amenities; young people whose employment prospects have disappeared overnight. If these have paid most heavily, we have to ask what needs doing to guarantee a better deal for them.

Three years on, I’m afraid we seem not to have made much - if any - progress in addressing these issues. The plight of the poorest has worsened as the various costs of living have spiralled. Hospital waiting lists have lengthened to life-threatening degrees. New arrangements coming into effect this week will make higher education for the less well-off still more costly than it is now. And to blame this so much on refugees arriving in small boats and the war in Ukraine is to fail to take responsibility for the positive action we can take to make life better.

The Government needs a political programme which is honest, just and compassionate. Regardless of our own political beliefs we can all seek to put those same qualities into practice. They stem from Jesus’ basic requirement that we live out his commandment to love. Through God’s love he has touched his people, given his life for our sake and risen to bring new hope. Love is the way God holds us. Love is the way for our world. Love God - and love your neighbour as yourself.

Not to be served, but to serve…

I’m writing in the week which leads to the Coronation of King Charles III. The order of service which will be used was published only a few days ago. There’s been some debate about one particular aspect where, in place of the previous “Homage of the Peers,” there’s a general invitation to those in the Abbey and even in front of their television sets to swear allegiance to the King:

Archbishop of Canterbury:

I call upon all persons of goodwill of The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and of the other Realms and the Territories to make their homage, in heart and voice, to their undoubted King, defender of all.

All who so desire, in the Abbey, and elsewhere, say together:

I swear that I will pay true allegiance to Your Majesty, and to your heirs and successors according to law. So help me God.

Swearing allegiance to the Crown is nothing new to the clergy. I’ve done it at my Ordination and then with each new post I’ve taken on throughout my ministry. But I think it will be strange to do this from a sofa in your living room - even if you get off it and stand up!

So I’m glad to point out a more positive reciprocity. At the beginning of the service the King is to be welcomed by a young person “in the name of the King of Kings.” And King Charles is to respond: “In his name, and after his example, I come not to be served but to serve.”

There will be much ceremony and presentation of strange regalia. But the first thing to be given to the King is a Bible - with these words:

“Sir: to keep you ever mindful of the law and the Gospel of God as the Rule for the whole life and government of Christian Princes, receive this Book, the most valuable thing that this world affords. Here is Wisdom; This is the royal Law; These are the lively Oracles of God.”

Let’s all remember that - and learn from it.                          

Martin Jackson

Roll back the stone

Easter Day – Eucharist - 9th April 2023

(Acts 10.34-43; Matthew 28.1-10)

The ‘angel of the Lord came down from heaven, rolled the stone away, and sat on it.’ It’s St. Matthew in the Gospel reading we use today, who tells most directly that the message of Easter is the triumph of Christ’s Resurrection. To say that Christ is risen is to affirm that death is defeated, and how can we picture it better than with that image painted by Matthew? – the angel who rolls the stone away from the grave and sits upon it!

It’s only Matthew who puts it quite so wonderfully, but all the Gospels recognise that stone which blocks the mouth of the grave to be a real problem. All the Gospels end the account of Jesus’ crucifixion on Good Friday by referring to the witnesses who see him taken down from the Cross and laid in the tomb. This man, they say, hailed as a Saviour of his people, is truly dead. Matthew and Mark tell how a great stone is rolled before his tomb – no way can he escape death’s bonds, they are saying. And Mark puts the question on the lips of the women who come to his grave that first Easter morning: ‘Who shall roll away the stone from the door of the tomb?’ Luke’s and John’s Gospels don’t tell us how the stone was put in place – but their silence is all the more testimony to the fact of its reality: they take it for granted, because their account of the first Easter begins with their telling how the stone was found to be rolled away. 

But it’s Matthew who paints the most graphic picture of Christ’s victory over the powers of death. For the other Gospel writers there is silence as to the events between Good Friday and Easter Day. Matthew is the only Gospel writer to tell us what happened after Christ’s burial… Matthew tells us that on the day following Jesus’ burial, the command was given that a guard should be placed upon the tomb to ensure that no one and nothing can get in or out. Death is not to be cheated of its victim, and the Jewish and Roman authorities work together to make sure of that.

Perhaps some readers of St. Matthew’s account will object that he might have made this part of the story up. Matthew seems to show real dislike of the Jewish authorities, and he comes dangerously close to anti-Semitism at times. As for the Romans, we find Luke and John especially keen to let them off the hook as far as their responsibility for Jesus’ death is concerned. But we shouldn’t be seeking to attribute blame for something that happened 2,000 years ago: what we cannot avoid in the here and now is that we live today in a world where so many forces continue to conspire to give victory to death and destruction. It’s not surprising that the authorities of ancient Jerusalem should have wanted Jesus dead – it’s not surprising that they should want his grave sealed and guarded from his followers. Because we live in a world that isn’t much different, and might be even worse. It’s all over our television screens, on the radio bulletins and on the front pages of our newspapers, where we see violence and murder perpetrated on a massive scale by vicious people desperate to keep control of others. The tools they use are the weapons of war, terror, death and destruction. In many cases they’ve reached the point where they can no longer be bothered to cover up their deeds, in others they guard themselves by burying their victims in unmarked graves. As we have seen in so many atrocities through the twentieth century and into this one, the greatest category of the victims of this world’s violence might be called simply the ‘disappeared.’ What more could Jesus’ enemies wish than that he should disappear?

But it was not to be. The power of God is so great that death could not hold him. The ‘angel of the Lord rolled the stone away, and sat upon it.’ And here there is hope for this mortal world of so much death, despair and destruction.

Hope first for those women who came to mourn at Jesus’ grave that first Easter morning. These are the women who stood by his cross when the other disciples fled, who helped to lay him in the tomb. These are the women who persevered when all seemed lost, and at last they find their reward. How shall they roll away the stone? They find the question does not need an answer, for God’s purpose is already being worked out. I read of those women who persevered, and I think of other women in Ukraine, in the Middle East and in so many other lands, who have seen their menfolk taken away and perhaps murdered, but who persevere as they seek to bring their families to a safe refuge. I read of those women who stood by the Cross, and with the anniversary of the Good Friday agreement I think of those women in Northern Ireland who dared to speak out against the atrocities perpetrated by men, who persisted in their call for peace and reconciliation in their land. I read of those women going to Jesus’ tomb, and I think of the women who have maintained vigils in countries where tyranny has held sway as they sought an answer to the fate of loved ones taken from them by unlawful dictators. It’s no chance thing that the first witnesses to the Resurrection are women who prove themselves by their dedication – and if there is to be hope in our world now, it must be in answer to the efforts of those who follow their example today. And we realise how desperately we need such witnesses still in Russia, China, Burma, Syria, Israel & Palestine, the Horn of Africa…  the list seems to keep on growing.

How can we build upon the Resurrection hope? ‘The angel rolled away the stone and sat upon it.’ Later in the Bible Jesus will himself be described as the stone rejected by the builders which has now become the chief cornerstone. Stones can be dead things, or they can be put to constructive use. There’s a photograph I recall from some years ago which shows a little girl in the bomb-blasted devastation of Beirut, carrying a shiny new brick out of the ruins of a street, in order to start building again. Life is stronger than death. We refuse to allow death to destroy us. We are going to live. And that is why Jesus came in the first place – to give us life, life in all its fullness.

This is what the first Christians so quickly realised. A practice of many in the time of Jesus had been to bury their dead in tombs which faced west, towards the setting sun, because for them death meant the close of life’s day and a passing into eternal night. But when they received the message of Christ they began to face their graves towards the east and the rising sun, because Easter Day speaks of radiant promise and a rising to new life and light. The change is especially noticeable in the catacombs of Rome. In one chamber going back before the time of Christ, there are tombs which speak of pagan gloom and hopelessness with inscriptions that are cynical of the gods or bitter in their complaints. But, nearby, another chamber contains the remains of Christians who had suffered the extremes of persecution, torture and death for the sake of what they believed: and there the tombs have inscriptions of joy, with carved lilies – the Easter flower and symbol of immortality. Decked out as if for a wedding, this chamber declares the living presence of Christ which cannot be held by the bonds of death.

This is what is declared in those few words which describe the rolling away of the stone from the tomb of Jesus. It is not easy to comprehend. The women who witness it cannot take it in except to grasp a message to share with the other disciples that Jesus has been raised from the dead. And they leave the tomb in a hurry, in fear, though at the same time in joy. Only then – in the midst of their confusion and with so many mixed feelings – do they find the risen Christ meeting them on their way.

And so we come here today. The joy of those women at the tomb is not something we can just imitate. They go there in the midst of grief and sorrow. And we cannot come here without bearing also the world’s sorrow, our hurts and our personal needs. But the promise is that God is at work even before we arrive, he brings new life and hope, he bids us look beyond the cruelties and limitations of this life. The ‘angel of the Lord rolled away the stone and sat upon it.’ As Janet Morley’s prayer so well puts it:

When we are all despairing;

when the world is full of grief;

when we see no way ahead,

  and hope has gone away:

Roll back the stone.

Although we fear change;

although we are not ready;

although we’d rather weep

  and run away:

Roll back the stone.

Because we’re coming with the women;

because we hope where hope is vain;

because you call us from the grave

  and show the way:

Roll back the stone.