sermons (3)

I find myself preaching at Evensong at Truro Cathedral every couple of months these days, so I thought I'd have a page for these short Evensong sermons as they appear.

INDEX

1		Feeding the 5000
2		Jesus and Banquets
3		John the Baptist?
4		Water into Wine
5		Valediction for Leaving Choristers and Choral Scholars
6		Amos, Jesus and money
7		Awestruck Isaiah!

1 Feeding the 5000

Evensong Truro Cathedral 1.8.10

Isaiah 55.1-5 and Matthew 14.13-21

Grant, O Lord, that the words of my mouth and the meditation of all our hearts, be now and always acceptable in your sight, O Lord, our Rock and our Redeemer. Amen.

The Feeding of the Five Thousand has to be one of the top three Sunday School Stories of Jesus: Jesus the hero, assisted by a young boy, puts one over on the grumbling adults represented by the disciples and the result is a great big picnic – except, of course, that in Matthew’s version of the story which we have read this afternoon, the boy is missing and the disciples don’t grumble all that much. Nevertheless it’s still a good story, which says a lot about Jesus and it’s a story that was obviously very important to the early Christians because it’s the only story, apart from the one about Jesus’ death and resurrection, which appears in all four of the Gospels. It’s one they enjoyed telling and it’s one we’re still glad to tell.

But they didn’t see it like that at all at the annual General Synod of the Galilee Association of Rabbis. In fact when they heard it first it was because a couple of scribes from Capernaum had brought it up as part of their on-going campaign to get Jesus removed from the official list of approved rabbis. For them the story indicated just what a liability he had become, how far off the rails he had gone, and why the time had come to withdraw his rabbi’s license. There were rules about eating and drinking, about where you could do it, who you could do it with, and what had to be done properly at meals. OK, he had said grace, but no one had washed their hands in the proper ritual way, and certainly not Jesus himself, and in a crowd of that size people were eating together without any regard for the rules about only sharing in the sacred fellowship of a meal with people who you knew were in good standing in the synagogue. There was nothing in the rules actually forbidding picnics, they admitted that, but here he was again, this renegade rabbi, eating and drinking with tax-collectors and sinners, and giving them such a good feast that they all went away full. He was certainly living up to the first part of his reputation as a glutton and a drinker. It was no way for a rabbi to behave.

For us the Feeding of the Five Thousand is a miracle story, about God working a miracle of feeding a huge number of people with nothing to start with but five bread rolls and two dried fish; and that’s either its great weakness, if you have questions about miracles, or its great strength if you don’t. We could discuss that this afternoon, but I’m not going to start, because it would divert us away from the real point of the story because to its first hearers the miracle element in this story wouldn’t have been very important. They didn’t have any problem with God and miracles, they believed in a God who, from time to time, and for particular reasons, could and did do signs and wonders. So for them the miracle element of this story wasn’t the most important thing about it. For them this story was not so much about God working a miracle to feed a multitude of people – that’s the sort of thing you expected God to do from time to time – no, the important things in the story for them would have been that Jesus did the feeding, and who it was who got fed.

There were several biblical precedents for Feeding the Five Thousand, especially for a picnic right out in the countryside, and the biggest was Moses and the tribes on their wilderness journey eating manna and quails, and that’s no doubt one reason why Jesus encouraged this particular picnic and why the first Christians told the story so often. Jesus was the new and greater Moses, and what was happening now was that God was acting to save his people in a great new Exodus. Another idea around at the time was that when Messiah came one of the things that would be on offer was the Messianic Banquet. So here is Jesus, the Messiah, throwing just such a banquet. So like most of what Jesus did and most of the stories the early Christians told about him, there was a point being made. In this case that the New Day was here, that Jesus was the Messiah, the new and greater Moses and that the Kingdom of God was here for the joining.

Then there’s the other point: who was present at the banquet? Not the select and elect holy few, the faithful, the pure, the great and the good: but a motley crowd of the good, the bad and the indifferent, the crowd who had followed this rabbi into the countryside because, for whatever reason, they had wanted to see and hear more of him. And Jesus had fed the lot; he’d asked no question about their morals, their faith or their faithfulness. ‘God loves you all’ was the clear message – there are no high tables here, no reserved seats and it’s not an ‘invitation-only’ sort of a do. No wonder that the General Synod of the Galilee Association of Rabbis was jumpy.

Perhaps we ought to be jumpy too. Because as soon as you think about it, it’s fairly clear that the Church over the centuries has deviated a long way from Jesus’s Feeding of the Five Thousand. For him that was a ‘welcome everyone to God’s party’ sort of picnic. You didn’t have to bring and share, the meal was yours for free (a bit like that wonderful offer in our Old Testament lesson this afternoon). You didn’t need an invitation or a ticket, there were no qualifications to determine whether you were entitled to eat or not, and once Jesus had said grace you could tuck in, whether you had washed your hands or not and whether you were in good standing in your synagogue or not. And also, given the location, there was nothing about separate seats for Jews and gentiles either; just as there is nothing in the story about separate sittings for men and women, or about anything different for the children. It was an open table with an invitation to everyone. It was radical inclusion, demonstrated in the Jewish holy place of a meal, in the name of God and as a sign of the kingdom; and it was a clear challenge by this reforming rabbi to a great religion which had gone off course, a religion which had somehow reached the point of getting in God’s way and hindering his purposes rather than helping them. For the sad thing is that religions can do that, and Christianity no less than any other. We can reach the point where the Church and God are at odds, and much Church history, modern as well as ancient, is about that, about the Church excluding, segregating and separating, erecting barriers and introducing divisions and distinctions; just like the old Synagogue, and exactly opposite that great picnic.

The Feeding of the Five Thousand isn’t really a Sunday School story at all. Neither is it really a miracle story to draw attention to the power of God. What it is is a radical story about Jesus and his way of seeing things and doing things, which was told to challenge the church of his day, and one which still has the power to challenge much of our church culture today if we take it seriously.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, Amen.

2 Jesus and Banquets

Evensong Truro Cathedral 9.10.10

Isaiah 25.1-9 and Matthew 22.1-14

Grant, O Lord, that the words of my mouth and the meditation of all our hearts, be now and always acceptable in your sight, O Lord, our Rock and our Redeemer. Amen.

I’m beginning to get worried about these sermons at Evensong. For my last one, in August, the Gospel reading was the Feeding of the Five Thousand and the sermon was about meals and parties; and now this afternoon the reading is about a banquet. They’re not good readings for someone whose retirement project includes no more eating saffron buns and cutting down on portion size and red meat – though I have been told that the effects are already visible.

‘There’s going to be a banquet’, that’s the promise we read in that reading from Isaiah. Things are bad now, but they’re going to get better. The ruthless have battered us like a winter downpour, but the sun’s coming out and the future’s brighter. The Book of Isaiah is a a collage, with the words of various speakers from various centuries woven together into the final tapestry, and so we’re not quite sure which particular national battering this chapter is talking about: but we’re quite clear about the promise. There will be a glorious banquet – rich food and good wine – and every tear will be wiped away. So hang in there, for God’s banquet is on its way.

And that’s why Jesus did so much partying. He taught with words, but he also preached by actions and drama – so he partied and got himself the bad reputation of being ‘a glutton and a drunkard’ and offended people by inviting all and sundry to his parties. Isaiah had promised that the poor and downtrodden would party, and Jesus made sure they did.

But this afternoon’s Gospel reading gives an unexpected and unpleasant twist to this partying business. It’s a parable about a wedding feast given by a king for his son. The invited guests don’t want to come, and the king gets angry and destroys them. Other people are invited to take their places. One of them turns up without his wedding outfit, and gets chucked out. What are we to make of this very tricky story, parallelled but with significant differences in Luke, who doesn’t have the bit about the chappie being thrown out? It’s a parable full of cruelty and violence and it portrays God in a very, very bad light. What are we to make of it?

I’m not at all sure that we can make much of it at all, really, but I think it might help if we notice when and where this parable gets told. Matthew places it in the last, fraught week of Jesus’ life when he is confronted by hostile religious leaders in the temple in Jerusalem, and in that setting Matthew’s message in the parable is simple:

1.      Jesus has been going round inviting the Jews and the Jewish leaders to God’s banquet

2.      They have declined the invitation and so God is finished with them

3.      In their place God is inviting other people instead

4.      But some of them are iffy and they will get thrown out as well.

So instead of Isaiah’s vision of a banquet for all, including the poor and downtrodden of Israel and all the other nations as well, we have Matthew’s rather nasty and exclusive picture of a party for the chosen few. Many might have been invited to it, but few pass all the tests and meet all the admission requirements. And I say Matthew’s picture quite deliberately, for whatever Jesus might or might not have said originally along these lines, Matthew’s editing in his particular situation is very clear. He belongs to a time when Church and Synagogue are parting company, and parting acrimoniously, and that colours his editing; as does the fact that he also works at a time when the early Church is dividing into competing groups, and he is very clear that his group is in and the others are out. The result is a kind of aggressive vindictiveness which is unpleasant to read and a long way from a gospel of inclusive love. For me, ‘the heart of the eternal is most wonderfully kind’, as the hymn puts it – but there’s nothing of that here.

An Old Testament writer observed that there’s nothing new under the sun. And sadly, we can update this parable. We can see this sort of thing going on today. It went on in the 18^th century when your lot chucked my lot out; and then in the 19^th century when my lot fell out among themselves; and today the Church has its competing groups who demonise those from whom they differ. And it went on in the first century too. We humans are like that, and human groups behave like that, even when they should know better. Perhaps that’s a lesson to learn from this rather unpleasant parable.

But no wonder that Richard Dawkins and his friends look at religion and say that it is dangerous and harms your health - this parable gives them ammunition. And if I say that it’s Matthew’s work editing something that on the lips of Jesus might have sounded rather different, then that gives support to Philip Pullman resurrecting an old line and writing a book about a nasty Christ created by the Church and a nice Jesus which the Church soon forgot.

I’m afraid that we’re definitely not on a winner with this afternoon’s Gospel, but because I know that sermons aren’t supposed to be negative, I’ve taught enough students that over the years, I’ll end by reminding you that there is still Isaiah’s vision of a glorious banquet – rich food and good wine – when every tear will be wiped away. And that banquet vision in the 23^rd Psalm which the choir sang earlier, that banquet hosted by God in which our cups run over. So here’s a case where the Old Testament vision of God’s love and care is much, so much, nicer than the New Testament’s, and thanks be to God for it.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, Amen.

3 John the Baptist?

Evensong Truro Cathedral 12.12.10

Isaiah 61.1-4, 8-11 and John 1.6-8, 19-28

Grant, O Lord, that the words of my mouth and the meditation of all our hearts, be now and always acceptable in your sight, O Lord, our Rock and our Redeemer. Amen.

One of the stranger things we do in Advent as part of our preparation for Christmas, is to wheel the adult John the Baptist onto the stage. I say ‘strange’ because it’s out of sequence really. It’s right and proper to read Luke’s story about John’s conception and birth in Advent, but focussing on the adult John just seems odd to me. Odd and also a bit nasty.

I say ‘nasty’ because, to tell the truth, I’ve known too many John the Baptists and been on the wrong end of their tongue-lashing sermons. Now admittedly, we’ve read the Gospel of John’s treatment of John the Baptist tonight, which is much nicer than the way he’s pictured in the other three Gospels. In tonight’s reading from the Fourth Gospel John the Baptist quietly, humbly and even gently tells his questioners that he isn’t the Messiah, but that the Messiah is on his way. In the others he preaches at anyone who comes within range – ‘You snakes’ he snarls at the crowd, ‘you’ve got it coming!’. And you just sense that John loves every minute of it, that he really enjoys pointing the finger and telling people off. Now I’m a preacher too, and I know where he’s coming from – just occasionally I would have loved to have stood in a pulpit, looked down on the congregation below, wagged my finger and given them what for – especially on a Sunday after a Church Council: but I’ve never dared. And thanks be to the grace of God for that, because that’s not really what pulpits are for, even though that’s the way they’ve sometimes been used.

The choice of Bible readings by the people who produce our lectionaries is a mystery to me, much of the time, which is why I have often tried, unsuccessfully I have to say, to persuade our Canon Precentor that ‘This is the Word of the Lord’ – ‘Thanks be to God’ is not the best way to end our Bible readings. Much of the time I would prefer something like ‘This is the word of the Lectioneer’ to which the congregation replies ‘May God help us’ but I haven’t yet put that particular wording forward as a suggestion. But seriously, I don’t know why the two readings tonight were put together, but when they are put together they read to me like a black and white contrast. The Gospel reading points to John the Baptist – and for me he is an example of how not to do it. For me, the Old Testament reading points to Jesus, because it’s the reading Jesus used as his manifesto text in his sermon at Nazareth, or at least that’s how Luke puts it in his Gospel. It’s about preaching as bringing good news to the oppressed, binding up the broken-hearted, setting prisoners free, comforting those who mourn, rebuilding ruins, restoring devastated lives, helping plants grow and gardens bloom. It’s about the day when God shows his favour and takes his vengeance on Evil, Darkness and Death by healing and restoring all its victims. That was Jesus’ manifesto and his mission – and people listened and looked and liked what they saw and heard, except, of course, those who couldn’t cope with such extravagant grace and kindness in the name of God.

So there’s our two readings. For me, by the very mention of the name John the Baptist, the one points to an old but still familiar way – to a God who wants us to realise just how bad we are, and a church which therefore spends a lot of time wagging its finger and condemning those whose actions don’t measure up. And the other which points to something even older and much better – to a God who understands and accepts our human frailty, and a church which enfolds human failures in a forgiving embrace which sets them on their feet again.

There’s a time and a place for John the Baptist – because like the Old Testament prophets at their best there are unjust structures, corrupt systems and evil powers to be exposed and challenged. The danger with that, though, is that it’s so much easier to expose and challenge the moral slips and slides of our neighbours instead. I would have liked Jesus to have said more than he did about unjust structures, corrupt systems and evil powers, rather than simply taking that Old Testament perspective for granted like he did, but what he actually did, by standing alongside us in our moral frailty, was actually much more difficult to do and much more challenging. So when I read tonight’s Old Testament reading about the amazing kindness of God seen in Jesus and put it alongside John the Baptist’s heavy preaching, being preached at by John the Baptist goes in one ear and out the other, whereas the not being preached at by Jesus really gets inside. It’s that lived-out kindness which makes me look much more closely at myself and how I work out my faith, and which makes Jesus a much, much more formidable challenge than John.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, Amen.

4 Water into Wine

Evensong Truro Cathedral 23.1.11

Genesis 14.17-20 and John 2.1-11

Grant, O Lord, that the words of my mouth and the meditation of all our hearts, be now and always acceptable in your sight, O Lord, our Rock and our Redeemer. Amen.

You really have got the wrong preacher tonight. I’m one of the last teetotal Methodists on the planet, and you give me two readings about wine. I’d love to say that Melchizedek, that mysterious and legendary priest-king of Jerusalem, entertained Abraham with a cup of tea and a sandwich, but that’s not what we read. And when the refreshments ran short at that wedding in Cana of Galilee, the story doesn’t tell us that Jesus turned those six huge jars of water into mega-cafetieres of Costa’s best.

What we’ve got tonight are two Bible stories about wine, one well-known, the other obscure. When in doubt, look it up, is one of my tactics. So I looked up ‘wine’ in a couple of reference books – and doesn’t that show my age, I looked it up in a book – anybody under 60 would google it – anyway I looked up ‘wine’ in the Dictionary of Biblical Imagery. It told me that there are lots of references to wine in the Bible. Some promote ‘responsible drinking’. Some talk about the health benefits of a small glass of red. Some talk about wine in worship and festivity. Some talk about wine making people drunk. Some take the ‘‘it gladdens the heart’ and so – enjoy’ line. A few talk about God so drunk on the wine of his anger that he lashes out, but thankfully that’s not a common picture. Mostly the Bible talks about wine as one of a good God’s generous gifts to be relished, of the synagogue and the church as God’s vineyard where good things grow, and of God as the vine-grower and wine-maker of a top-class vintage. It doesn’t say anything about ‘wine-snobbery’, palates, noses and bouquets and that kind of thing, but I dare say that went on then as now: but it does say a lot about wine as a symbol for something very good. Wine symbolises the generous outpouring of God’s blessing.

And that’s what we read in our two stories. In that ancient and obscure legend, Abraham is coming back from a battle, tired and drained. He has successfully rescued his nephew and the rest of the hostages from the raiding kidnappers but he’s going back to his tents exhausted and weary. Then up pops this mysterious priest king of Jerusalem, 800 story years before David made it the capital of Israel remember, and gives him bread and wine. ‘Eat, drink, enjoy and God bless you’, he says, as he hands over the bread and the wine. And when I read that ancient and quite mysterious legend, my mind goes straight to the bread and wine of our Communion services, our Eucharists, where the ministers say the same as Melchizedek, ‘Eat, drink, enjoy and God bless you’.

And then there’s the Wedding Feast at Cana, and it should come as no surprise to anyone who has read the Gospel stories about Jesus, to find John telling us a story about Jesus at a wedding. That’s the sort of partying he enjoyed, and he enjoyed it so much that he got himself a reputation with the teetotallers and weightwatchers of his day of being a ‘glutton and a drinker’ (Mt 11.19). Like all the stories in John’s Gospel, this water-into-wine story isn’t newspaper reporting about what Jesus did, but committed preaching about what Jesus does, and it’s full of symbolism. Some of it is lost on us – why 6 purification jars, for example, and not 5 or 7 or whatever? – but the big theme is clear. The synagogue was God’s vineyard and its wine was good stuff – but, the story teaches, what Jesus brings from God is just so very much better, as the best wine is so much better than water. So come on, dear readers, the story preaches, go for the wine!

This isn’t the place to comment on how and why John’s Gospel soon turns nasty on this one, and writes off the synagogue and Jewish faith in God. Nor is it the place to say anything about one of the biggest questions facing the Church in this new century, which is how Christian blessings compare with those God gives through Islam, or Buddhism, or Hinduism or any other of the great world Faiths. Nor is it the place to discuss the relative merits of different Christian wines from our different denominational vineyards. All interesting questions. But this is the time to focus on the simple, the clear and the obvious in our two readings: that God is a God of Blessing, who gives us wine to enjoy when life is good, and who gives us wine to pick us up when it isn’t, who blesses us when life is good and when it isn’t, because he is a God who wants only the best for us.

In our two readings tonight wine symbolises God’s blessings. So thanks be to God, the giver of good wine and all the blessings that that ‘wine’ symbolises; and to the same God who equally generously gives us Ovaltine.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen

5 Valediction for Leaving Choristers and Choral Scholars

Evensong Truro Cathedral 10.7.11

Amos 7.7-15 and Mark 6.14-29

Grant, O Lord, that the words of my mouth and the meditation of all our hearts, be now and always acceptable in your sight, O Lord, our Rock and our Redeemer. Amen.

One way or another I have been involved in helping preachers to learn to preach for thirty years or more, and I’ve often said that any preacher worth their salt can get from the Bible readings they have been given to what they actually want to say or to the event at which they are preaching in three or four sentences. That little comment has been sorely tested this afternoon. How do you get from Amos’s attack on the High Priest of Bethel in 760 BC and John the Baptist’s head on a plate to a Valediction for our leaving choristers and choral scholars? We could say, I suppose, that both that John the Baptist reading and tonight’s service are about endings ...? Or we could say that as the audience appreciated Salome’s dancing, so we always appreciate our choristers and their singing ...? I thought about using the opening phrase of the gospel reading as my text – ‘King Herod heard of it’ and preaching about our choir’s fame .... And I really thought I had a way in through the Greek word for what Salome did, because it can possibly mean dancing and singing, but then I remembered that I have never seen our choir dance .... So I’ve given up trying to make any connection and this sermon now has two separate, but short, halves: half about prophets and half about the choir.

Old Testament prophets came in all shapes and sizes and their job description was quite wide. Some of them specialised in what we might call ‘social commentary’ and some of these social commentator prophets would have made Jeremy Paxman look very tame and mild. Amos would have certainly have done so. He came from Judah, crossed the border into Israel and denounced the wealth, corruption and injustice that he saw in the complacent, prosperous and powerful north. It was all built on exploitation and sharp practice, he raged, and it wouldn’t, couldn’t, last. 750 years later, John the Baptist, a prophet in the same mould, did much the same. And anyone who says that the Church must not get political has just never read the sort of things this kind of prophet said in the name of God about the politics, economics and social situations of their day. And they could get very personal too. Amos attacked the Chief Priest of the Temple at Bethel, and I'm very glad our reading stopped before we read what he said to him next. And John the Baptist attacked King Herod’s marriage. Amos walked away. John the Baptist paid with his life. Perhaps a little bit more rigorous social critique from the Church would not go amiss in the 21^st century?

Proper appreciation to our leaving Choristers and Choral Scholars will be made in the Chapter House at the end of this service, and we are all invited to the Chapter House for that – but Choir please accept my apologies as I must be off to Veryan to preach at their Evensong celebration of the 400^th Anniversary of the Authorised Version at 6pm. So here I simply want to draw attention to the words of the anthem which say it all. Voice and verse together joining earth and heaven. Music recreating that harmony and blessing which is at the heart of creation and the purpose of God for all of us. The hard work of singing which makes something powerful and unites us with each other and with God, a foretaste of the eternal life, beauty and joy which God wills for all. From my own limited choral singing, I know how much such beautiful music costs, in terms of sheer hard work and dedication. From my seat down there on the right I have heard sounds which I did not think possible and which have taken me to incredible places. And on visits to other places and in conversation with more musical friends than I am, I have not even tried to hide that smile of satisfaction, smugness really, when our Cathedral Choir has been praised as one of the very top Cathedral choirs. So from me, personally, as well as later and officially from the Canon Missioner, thank you. May God go with you who leave us, and remain with us who stay; and may all of us, as we will prayer at the end of this service, believe in our hearts and show forth in our lives what we have said and sung with our lips.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen

6 Amos, Jesus and money

Evensong 9.10.11

(Amos 5.6-7, 12-15, Mk 10.17-31)

Grant, O Lord, that the words of my mouth and the meditation of all our hearts, be now and always acceptable in your sight, O Lord, our Rock and our Redeemer. Amen.

It’s Easter Sunday morning in Exeter Cathedral and the great Easter Eucharist is taking place with the Bishop preaching to a packed congregation. The great west door bangs open and up the aisle strides this Methodist Local Preacher from Camborne. ‘You smug, rich, evil thieves’ he shouts at them from the chancel steps, ‘living in Devonian luxury, fleecing the poor, and thinking how lucky you are – God hates you, bankers, lawyers, estate agents – because you’re corrupt and corrupting’. Then there’s a bit of a row. The Dean tells him to clear off back over the Tamar and confine his preaching to the chapels. That only makes him worse and he retaliates and threatens the Dean himself with the full force of God’s indignant anger. Yes, it’s Amos again. And when it comes to Old Testament prophets, those preachers of morality and social justice, those highly vocal consciences of ancient Israel, with hard things to say in the name of God, they don’t come much louder, or fiercer or better than Amos. ‘Seek good and not evil – hate evil and love good’ he shouts to a country rich and prosperous, but built on as shaky economic and moral foundations as ours was ahead of the financial crash. He blames the rich for the catastrophe that’s on its way – the rich who have got rich and who stay rich by exploiting the system, working the markets, cheating the poor and buying the judges, and whose conspicuous consumption, lavish life styles, big houses and sophisticated dinner-parties just demonstrate how efficiently they have done it.

Jesus is a much more complicated character than Amos. He can see both sides of an argument. He can understand what drives people. He can sympathise and empathise. So we find him having friends who have big houses, lavish lifestyles, and cultured taste; as well as friends without two shekels to rub together who’d never be invited to a banquet in a million years. He could make himself quite at home at a dinner party, and his enemies were quick to point that out – ‘He’s a glutton and a drinker’ they’d tell the crowds who came to listen to him, trying to turn the poor against him. Jesus had a totally different style than Amos, most of the time anyway, but that is where the difference stops. Because Jesus said Amen to everything Amos had ranted on about. Amos had almost entirely focused on what we today would call social and economic justice in a consumer society. Unlike the Church which over the centuries has focused on right doctrine and largely reduced Christian Ethics to sexual ethics, and still does, Amos preached next to nothing about sexual morality or Jewish doctrine; and neither did Jesus. For Jesus, the single biggest ethical issue is wealth and wealth-creation, money and its uses; and the largest single identifiable target audience for his bold moral teaching is ‘the rich’. And what he says to them makes uncomfortable reading, as tonight’s Gospel shows.

The Rich Young Ruler, as we used to call him, gets Jesus’ sympathy. He’s a young man looking for the meaning of life. He’s sincere and genuine and lives a good life following the commandments of God and walking in his holy ways. But his heart is restless. He has this nagging sense that there must be more to life than this. Jesus understands him. In your case, he says, in your case the answer is to get rid of your possessions and come and join me. But he can’t. Jesus doesn’t then rant about what his wealth is doing to him, but he turns to the disciples as the man turns away and says to them, with sadness and compassion in his tone, ‘That’s what money does to you’, ‘It gets in the way’, ‘It’s a deadly god’.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen

7 Awestruck Isaiah!

Evensong 5.2.12

(Isa 6.1-8, Lk 5.1-11)

Grant, O Lord, that the words of my mouth and the meditation of all our hearts, be now and always acceptable in your sight, O Lord, our Rock and our Redeemer. Amen.

Those people who do ‘spirituality’, or ‘religion’, or ‘God’, or ‘Faith’ or ‘mind/body/spirit’ – call it what you will – do it in a variety of ways. Christians do too. Some do it privately, others corporately. Some do it quietly and gently with silence and tea-lights, others with lots of powerpoint, clapping and waving of hands – in what my daughter calls the ‘hands down for coffee’ style of worship. Whichever way people do it, especially outside the Church, there’s supposed to be a lot of it about: ‘Spirituality’ is quite a buzz word and there’s little sign of recession in the spirituality industry. Tonight’s Bible readings remind us about a neglected form of spirituality.

Isaiah 6 is one of the better-known parts of the Old Testament, and it’s almost certain to be read in this Cathedral several times this year: at the ordinations of deacons and priests, at the commissioning of Readers and at almost any other commissioning for which you need an Old Testament reading. It’s chosen for that because it looks as if it’s about vocation. But you’d expect the story of a prophet’s call to be in chapter 1 and this one’s in chapter 6.

Isaiah is no stranger to the Temple, he might even have been its Chief Executive Officer. He’s certainly a Jerusalem bigwig, equally at home in the palace and the Chapter House. But in this story something happens which has this cultured prophet prostrate and then transformed. In the olden days we would have said that he was ‘awestruck’: but today the ‘awe’ words have been devalued. Youngsters say things are ‘awesome’ when all they mean is that they are a bit special. When Dick Emery used to say ‘You are awful – but I like you’ all he meant was that you were a bit cheeky or naughty. And even Jeremy Clarkson has stopped saying that the latest flash car is awe-inspiring. But being ‘awe-struck’ is what our Old Testament reading is about.

Back in 1917 an obscure German philosopher called Rudolph Otto published a book that became a twentieth century classic and never went out of print. It was ‘The Idea of the Holy’ and Isaiah 6 was one of Otto’s key chapters. It gave us a new word – ‘numinous’ – for powerful religious experience, and it’s now in dictionaries meaning ‘awe-inspiring’. It also gave us a Latin phrase that became very big in theology - mysterium tremendum et fascinans. I’ve always told trainee preachers never, ever, to use Greek and Hebrew words in the pulpit, but I can use this Latin tonight as long as I tell you that I was so bad at Latin that my school said it wasn’t going to waste its money by putting me in for Latin O level. Otto said that Isaiah’s religious experience was one of encountering this mysterium (‘mystery’ – though he’d say that’s a very weak translation of mysterium), a mystery which is both tremendum (‘tremendous’ – though he’d say that’s a very weak translation of tremendum) and fascinans (‘fascinating’ – though he’d say that’s a totally inadequate translation of fascinans). ‘Fascinating’, for Otto, was not about delicate little headpieces now banned from the Royal Enclosure at Ascot, but what transfixes a mongoose in a cobra’s stare – something dangerous and yet compelling at the same time. Isaiah’s experience of God, the Holy One, in whose worship the Temple Choir sang the Sanctus, was this time an experience of the sheer, terrifying and powerful holiness of God, which made him fear and tremble, scared him half to death, and then transformed his life and ministry.

And that’s there too in our Gospel reading. When Peter and the others saw who and what Jesus was, they too were scared. Most of the time they saw him as a forceful teacher, a gifted healer, a radical rabbi, an outspoken prophet: but now and again they saw that he wasn’t just that, and they felt what Isaiah had done in the Temple, that they were in the presence of mysterium tremendum et fascinans, the presence of the sacred holiness of God; and it scared them.

There’s not much of this on the ‘mind/body/spirit’ shelves in Waterstones. Nor in too many services of Christian worship either. But today’s readings challenge us with that dimension of religious experience in which ‘all mortal flesh keeps silence’, and stands ‘with fear and trembling’. At the very least they challenge us to rediscover what those ‘awe’ words - awesome, awful, awe-struck and awe-inspiring – were trying to say.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen

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