Christmas Night: The Vicar preaches at Midnight Mass

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

How have you got ready for Christmas? I have to admit that I’ve spent much of the last week moaning about having a cold - especially losing my voice and getting such a sore throat, as well as worrying whether I’d have any audibility to offer for Christmas. I haven’t been alone in my ill-health. And anyone at this time of year is going to find much to pre-occupy their hearts and minds.

So, do I feel ready for Christmas? Mary and Joseph, arriving in Bethlehem from their home town of Nazareth, were not exactly prepared. An unplanned pregnancy - even if it was part of the divine plan. An arduous journey, just when they could have been fixing up their home. And at the other end, only temporary accommodation with an animal trough having to be used in place of a cot for the new baby.

Nell Frizzell, writing in yesterday’s Guardian newspaper, reflects on the Nativity story in the light of her own experience:

This is a story of a young woman wading through insane government admin while hobbling more than 70 miles to her in-laws’, in the final stages of her first pregnancy, before facing an accommodation crisis and the prospect of childbirth without a health service.

I gave birth five weeks ago. When I was pregnant, just sitting on the 253 bus would almost inevitably result in me having to lurch off before my stop, vomit in a bin and, shortly afterwards, want to lie down and quietly die in the Euston branch of Accessorize. The very idea of rumbling through the night on the bony haunches of a recalcitrant donkey, when your pelvis already aches from the tectonic shift it’s making to let a baby through, and the instinct to nest, settle and pat your baby’s bedding washes through your veins unquenched, makes me weep.

But then there is a birth. A birth that makes all the difference. We imagine Bethlehem in the stillness of the night. That moment of Jesus’ birth comes to us as a “still” moment. There would be blood, sweat and mucus - probably tears, tears and pain as well. But we’re right to focus on the moment of the birth. It’s that moment of the birth of each of my children that has stayed with me in the midst of everything else that was going on. And with the birth of Jesus in Bethlehem we recognise one moment which changes everything. Everything is changed for Mary and Joseph - not only new parental responsibilities but bewildering messages and visitors and an even more difficult journey into exile to escape the attention of a genocidal king. And everything is changed for the world - for us - because this birth is a new revelation of God’s purpose.

From all we may feel of our unpreparedness at Christmas, it’s at this moment in history that we discover God’s love for the world as Christ meets us in the here and now - over 2,000 years ago and today.

A phrase that’s worked its way into my head this year is “doing Christmas.” I think it’s come from those people who say “We don’t do Christmas.” That can mean different things - from not sending Christmas cards, through resistance to rampant commercialism, to conscious opposition to something seen as a deceptive ploy on the part of organised religion to attract unwary adherents. Or they may just be a bit miserable in their outlook… But they have a point! Because it’s not what we do that’s at the heart of our Christmas celebration. It’s about recognising what God is doing - and from that, something of his essential nature and purpose. We sang this morning, “O come, O come, Immanuel.” The Saviour who is born in Bethlehem is given the name Immanuel - which means “God with us.” This is about the very being of God who reaches out to us, who brings himself to be with us. We need merely to bring ourselves to be with him. “O come, let us adore him!” We love to draw close to any new-born child. This is one whose love is for the whole world.

But that can be hard to take in. What do we remember as we look back over the last year? - what will feature in those “Reviews of the Year” on TV and in the newspapers? A lot of horror - so much that it’s hard to remember just when and where. Terrorist attacks in London and Manchester, in Barcelona and Cairo… and many more. Atrocities of rampaging gunmen whose blood-letting is not the more excused when it’s said they were not terrorist-related. Genocide against the Rohingya people of Myanmar. Natural disasters - over 200 people have died in just the last two days of floods in the Philippines, and we probably can’t remember more than a fraction of similar incidents from mudslides in Mexico to typhoon inundation in Bangladesh. Along with the helplessness that so many feel in the face of political action or inaction by government or opposition, here and in so many other countries.

It's difficult to hold it all in our minds. Quite likely we don’t want to. But there are certain events we can’t avoid - not least the Grenfell Tower fire and all its says to us about poverty, right judgment and action, and humanity. I found myself literally confronted by this when I was on holiday in London. A summer’s evening walk in Notting Hill with blue-plaqued buildings, upmarket restaurants and bars, a general air of prosperity, and then I turned a corner to see the burned out remains of Grenfell Tower at the other end of the street. It was a shock I wasn’t ready for. In one of the richest local authorities of our country, the estates surrounding the Tower are amongst the poorest and most rundown. And still so many of the survivors wait to be re-housed. I was listening to an interview with one of them the other day - 10 members of his family living in two hotel rooms. You might have an image of the poverty to which you might suppose he was accustomed. But he was very articulate. Why was he living there, I asked myself, when he was obviously so intelligent and well-spoken? Why had he not been able to secure the help his family deserved? And then I realised I should be ashamed to think that way. His name was Muhammad Rasul - and that might cause you to make presumptions. But the only real presumption we should have was that this was a fellow-human being with all the rights and needs which all of us should possess.

From the unsatisfied basic needs of humanity in our society, we look tonight to Bethlehem - and we’re told “there was no room for them in the inn.”

Where is Jesus Christ in all this? When people tell me they are “spiritual” rather then “religious,” I tend to despair because they are forgetting the person at the centre of our faith. I was reminded yesterday[1] that the last Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, has argued that one of the tests of genuine faith - as opposed to bad religion - is whether it stops you ignoring things. The test of faith is how much more it lets you see, and how much it stops you denying, resisting or ignoring aspects of what is real.

Nell Frizzell, writing as a new mother about the birth at Bethlehem, examines what happens following a birth:

Oh sure, the gold is great, but I can just imagine the look Mary might have given as she realised she was now going to have to carry a lump of myrrh over the hills as she fled to Egypt on the back of that bloody donkey, as well as everything else.

After I gave birth I didn’t want wise men at my threshold – I wanted midwives, mothers and aunties bearing lasagnes and knitted hats. I wanted wise women: women who had known how it felt in my body, had felt that weight of birth and were proud of me.

And, of course, there’s the admin to get through. My first attempt at filling in the CH2 child benefit claimant form was so entirely unsuccessful that I not only gave up just one page in, but also burned my lunch and managed to get urine in my hair in the process.

There’s so much to pre-occupy us, so many challenges, but also an ever-increasing superficiality in so many aspects of life today. We need to recover a sense of depth. So much is going on that we can’t keep it all in our minds. And yet… what do we remember?

Tonight we remember that single birth in poverty in a backwater of a distant Roman province over 2,000 years ago. That’s what stays with us - not simply to look back on but because it’s real and speaks to us to this day. We remember that. Not simply that we should take the Christ-child to our hearts - but to recognise that coming to us in human flesh, God holds us in his.

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[1] Mark Oakley writing in the Church Times, 22/29 December 2017

Christmas is coming

Christmas - what’s on your menu?

I’m writing on 1^st December. Despite the Advent Calendar window you might have opened this morning it’s not actually Advent till Sunday 3^rd December. Nevertheless, we’ve already had our first enquiries as to when our Christmas services are - especially the Christmas Eve Carol Service with Christingles. So, in case that’s your question… the answer is 6pm on Christmas Eve, Sunday 24 December.

Do I need to give the day and date for Christmas Eve as well? Actually 24 December is also the Fourth Sunday of Advent - which is why Advent starts so late and is so short this year. That means we have regular Sunday services in the morning - and then start again in the evening (and on into Christmas morning). Which begs the question: just what will people turn up to?

That depends on how you view the “Christmas menu.” The Christmas Eve Carols & Christingle Service is always huge - I’m glad! It’s got obvious appeal. If you haven’t been before, come now - and don’t leave it too late if you want a seat. But I want to say, it’s only a part of a greater whole. Christmas might start then with carols before the crib. But there’s all the preparation which we call Advent. The word means “coming.” Christ is coming - but will he find us with our hearts prepared? Not just the cards sent out and presents wrapped and catering sorted. But really waiting for the gift God sends us in Jesus. He’s a gift to be anticipated - and once received, then valued. So we need to be prepared to meet him. And then realise he brings a love which keeps on loving and asks us to keep loving too.

So come and join us before Christmas - during Advent. And follow it up! Remember Christmas isn’t just the Carol Service. I’d like to make a particular plea for the Midnight Mass (11.30pm)! But then there’s the year which follows - and I don’t mean just till 31^st December. Advent Sunday is the beginning of the Christian Year - so it’s a good time for resolution as to how we’ll spend the 12 months ahead. Love, service of others and worship are top of the Christian menu - starting with God’s love for us. Wishing you God’s blessing, his love and joy.         

From our Parish Magazine for December 2017 and January 2018 - click the link to find all the contents 

Of War and Remembrance

In case you wonder, the Bible Readings we use today are not chosen particularly for use on Remembrance Sunday. They’re not about War or the remembrance of those who died in time of war. They’re simply the readings appointed for use on the 3^rd Sunday before Advent. So we use them if Remembrance Day happens to fall on this particular Sunday of the Church’s Calendar. But Remembrance Sunday can also fall on the 2^nd Sunday before Advent - and if it does we use the readings appointed for that day, and we might find that they are no more relevant to what we actually feel.

But simply to use what the regular lectionary gives us is no bad thing. Scripture meets us where we are, the Word of God heard in whatever circumstances we might find ourselves. And as I read today’s Bible passages I thought of what it must have been like for soldiers on the battlefield who might have gathered with their Chaplain for worship. Perhaps they would gather around what was at best a makeshift altar. Probably they would be without any books - the Chaplain reading to them from his Bible - though we know that many servicemen carried a Prayer Book or New Testament, especially in the First World War. What words would they hear? Over the course of years of war it wouldn’t always have been the same passage. Might they have heard today’s Gospel reading of the Ten Bridesmaids (the Parable of the Wise and Foolish Virgins as it’s traditionally known) and then gone off puzzled into battle ? … gone off to fight, and many to die.

On Remembrance Sunday we gather to remember. To remember doesn’t mean that we have to have been present during the terrible events of war. It does ask us to enter imaginatively into the lives of men and women who have served their country - often at great cost in wounds borne and lives lost. What took them into service? There were those who volunteered, others conscripted, others acting as non-combatants for conscience’s sake. And they were there because of people who made decisions which sent them off to war: politicians and generals; sometimes for the cause of justice, freedom, truth and right; sometimes through ambition and pride. What we can say is that it is ordinary men and women from ordinary communities like our own who have left loved ones, families and friends, to go to war - to serve their country; and hopefully to serve humanity - to do something for a greater good.

St. Paul in the first reading we heard from his first letter to the Thessalonians is writing to people who grieved over the death of loved ones. Their loss through natural causes is hard enough to bear - and he attempts to give some encouragement to them by writing of a life beyond death. I have to say, I don’t think it easily works. We might be distracted by a certain military resonance: “For the Lord himself, with a cry of command, with the archangel’s call and with the sound of God’s trumpet, will descend from heaven and the dead in Christ will rise first.” But there’s no form of words which can speak to every person who has suffered bereavement. And especially today, when we remember those who died in war, we need to be wary of false comfort and recognise the cruel offence of so many lives lost in conflict.

I found myself yesterday reading the story of a young man from my home town of Hartlepool. He was active in his church (St. Aidan’s), he had a passion for learning - and could share it with others - and while still in his twenties became a headteacher. But then the First World War was declared. He loved his country and joined up - and found himself training and guarding an installation back in Hartlepool. And it was there that Private Theophilus Jones died, age 29, during the German naval bombardment of the town in November 1914. Over a hundred military and (mainly) civilian lives were lost in just a few minutes. He was carrying a prayer book which was hit by some of the shrapnel and would have saved his life without even a flesh wound if that had been his only injury; but it was injuries elsewhere on his body which killed him. It’s a story now because the Museum of Hartlepool has just bought that prayer book to be displayed in the town. But it couldn’t save him from the full extent of his wounds.

Where is the hope? Something else I read yesterday reminded me of one of the most renowned of First World War military chaplains, Geoffrey Studdert Kennedy. Let me read to you from an article by Bob Holman:

In 1914, Geoffrey Studdert Kennedy was an unknown parish priest. Ten years later he was the church's best-known speaker, drawing larger crowds than politicians and publishing books that sold millions. How did this happen?

The answer is the first world war. In 1914, he enthusiastically supported Britain's declaration of war on Germany and soon enlisted as a chaplain. He distributed fags to troops and earned the affectionate nickname Woodbine Willie. He joined the soldiers on the western front when they went over the top, and won the Military Cross when he ran through shells into "no man's land" to obtain supplies of morphine. His speaking skills were used to maintain morale. Sickened by the needless slaughter, on his discharge, in 1919, he spoke all over the country, opposing war and calling for an end to unemployment and poverty.

Today "Willie" is largely forgotten, although the centenary … of the war may show how relevant he is to contemporary problems. Poverty campaigners and academics do call for social reform. But few are as close to poor people as Willie was. His turning point was when he stopped talking to, and instead listened to, the troops. Through his magnetic preaching, he publicised their views on wanting to end war, their dislike of the monarchy, and their desire for the end of poverty. And in his collection of rhymes, many written in working-class dialect, he expressed their views in their own language.

He became a great social evangelist calling for reform. So did others, but he was different. He gave away his possessions. His salary was modest but he received large royalties – all of which he gave to charities. He left very little money. He was genuine and, when he died, in 1929, exhausted at the age of 45, poor people flocked to his funeral in Worcester. Today, we urgently need poverty campaigners like him.

The dean of Westminster refused Willie a burial at the Abbey because, he said, he was a "socialist". Hardly, if he meant a Labour-party socialist. Willie distrusted most politicians and refused to join any political party. He proclaimed that the church (or churches) had to counter poverty and inequality. His argument was that wealth redistribution would only come following changes in people's values and attitudes, and that only the Christian message could achieve this. True, he did transform some individuals, but no large policy reforms followed. He had little impact on politicians.

Politicians have their place. We need to remember that when there is so much in the media that shows the rottenness of political conduct, and might lead us to distrust them all together. All the more reason why it is important that we use our votes wisely - and hold those elected to account. The cause of freedom and the sharing of that freedom is not to be taken lightly. It’s a cause that many have died for.

And to remember is at the heart of Christian faith. “Do this in remembrance of me,” Jesus tells his disciples at the Last Supper. He takes bread and wine; he gives them his Body and his Blood. Given for us… Shed for us…

“Greater love has no one than this, that a man should lay down his life for his friends.” Sometimes the words have been mis-heard and mis-used. But they come from the life and death of Jesus Christ; their hope stems from his living and dying for us. There is a further hope of Resurrection, life with God, but we start by Remembering. Christ shares in our humanity, his loss is felt in human pain - which we share… As this poem by Geoffrey Studdert-Kennedy recognises - it’s called, "A Mother Understands."

Dear Lord, I hold my hand to take
Thy body broken once for me,
Accept the sacrifice I make,
My body, broken, Christ, for Thee.

His was my body, born of me,
Born of my bitter travail pain,
And it lies broken on the field,
Swept by the wind and the rain.

Surely a Mother understands Thy thorn-crowned head,
The mystery of Thy pierced hands—the Broken Bread.

A people without history… not redeemed

We die with the dying:
See, they depart, and we go with them.

We are born with the dead:
See, they return, and bring us with them.
….                                A people without history
Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern
Of timeless moments.

This is just part of the last section of Little Gidding from T.S.Eliot’s Four Quartets, one of the greatest poems of the 20^th century.  What’s it about? That’s much debated - but especially in November, the month of Remembrance we do well to remember those few words, “A people without history is not redeemed from time…”

There’s no quick way out of the mess into which humanity so frequently gets itself. It can be tempting for Brexit negotiators to think that a “No Deal” position will allow us to start with a clean economic slate full of opportunity - but opportunity requires a willingness to engage with hard realities. Catalonian leaders might argue that a declaration of independence from Spain immediately confers on their country a new nationhood which all should recognise - but that is to ignore a history which is somewhat harder to unpick. The leaders of North Korea and the USA may speak of nuclear options - but the cost would be devastation.

The season of Remembrance begins with remembering the holy ones of God and our loved ones at All Saints and All Souls.  In remembering those who gave their lives in time of War, we see a sacrifice which weighs on us through the years to this day. It needs to be honoured. We cannot live only for the moment. How did we get here? Where do we go? The Cross and Resurrection of Christ stand in history too - and call us on our way.             

Martin Jackson

From the November issue of our Parish Magazine - follow the link to read it the whole issue

A Diet of Worms: not an idea from Slimming World…

I first came across the Diet of Worms when I was studying O-level History. It was satisfyingly revolting for a 15-year-old boy - until I realised that Worms was a place in Germany, and the word Diet meant Council. So when Martin Luther was summoned to the Diet of Worms in 1521 it wasn’t to force him into a new food regime, but to make him answer before the imperial authorities for the doctrines he had been proclaiming.

Famously Luther, an Augustinian priest and friar, was said to have nailed his 95 Theses to the door of the Castle Church in Wittenberg on 31^st October 1517. In them he took issue with what he saw as the fundamental errors being perpetrated in the Church of his day - notably the selling of “Indulgences,” a supposed way of buying yourself out of Purgatory while actually financing the building of St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome.  Which is why this month is being celebrated (or not celebrated) as the 500^th anniversary of the Reformation. There’s more to it than that of course - and many historians have concluded that Luther never did actually nail his argument to the door. Others deny that at the Diet of Worms he uttered the words, “Here I stand. I can do no other. God help me.”

But these arguments shouldn’t get in the way of the fact that the thinking and actions of Luther were critical in religious and world history. Popular history thinks of the Reformation in this country as being due to Henry VIII deciding to create his own Church if he couldn’t get what he wanted from the Pope. In fact Henry got his title Defender of the Faith from the Pope for opposing Luther’s doctrines. Henry wanted to be a Catholic, but on his own terms. Luther, on the other hand, struggled to live his Catholicism until his reading of the Bible and his conscience took him elsewhere - and he could have lost his life for maintaining what he believed.

Only in recent years have Roman Catholics and Lutherans come to recognise a common truth in what is called “Justification by Faith.” Is it faith alone, regardless of what we actually do, that’s important? Or do we reveal our faith by the things we do? For us all the truth starts with the gracious love and mercy of God. We do well to remember that.        MJ

Taken from the October issue of our Parish Magazine - find it online here

New learning from an unwanted event …

You can read in the September issue of our Parish Magazine about our last meeting of Messy Church, where we explored Jesus’ healing of the paralytic / lame man. It was dramatic. But how much do we really think it applies to us? “Get up and walk,” says Jesus. And so he does.

That’s something I suddenly discovered myself unable to do on the first weekend of my summer holiday. I was in London, crossing a road, when I realised the traffic was approaching more closely than I thought. So halfway across I put on a spurt of speed - at which point I felt a tearing sensation in my calf. I must have hopped the rest of the way, because at the other side I discovered I couldn’t put my foot down to walk.

Sent off from Accident & Emergency with a pair of crutches - that’s when I began to see just how many other people had crutches or some other disability with which they had to live. Not always a disability you might at first see. I took the bus from the hospital - and an Asian family motioned to me to get on ahead of them. It was on the bus that I realised their eight-year old son was severely autistic and every move they made had to be negotiated. But they’d let me on first - and when it was time to get off his young sister went to the driver to ask for extra time. On the next bus was a man who’d been refused an operation: he was British but had been living abroad and had broken his foot in India - now the bones wouldn’t knit. When was that? I asked. February, he’d said - and he was no better.

Mine was a chance accident - and hopefully I’ll heal with time. Others won’t. It’s not their fault - but sometimes we treat them as if it were.

Overwhelmingly I’ve had positive responses - people have offered their seat; lots have shared their own stories. Aided by family and friends I’ve been able to get on with life. And perhaps a slower pace for the remaining holiday was no bad thing.

Jesus gave physical healing to the man in the Messy Church story. But he had a deeper need too. “Your sins are forgiven,” Jesus tells him. And we all need to hear that.                                                                       

Martin Jackson

Find this and much more in the September issue of our Parish Magazine