Lent 3: The Mystery of the Unknown God

Exodus 17:1-7
Psalm 95
Romans 5:1-11
John 4:5-42

As we journey through the Lenten desert, the readings from the Hebrew Scripture and the Gospel of John should hardly surprise us. Tales of water that flows from a rock, and Jesus’ offer of water that will quench thirst for ever, gushing up in those who drink it as a spring of eternal life; these are part of the imagery with which we have grown up, and heard a myriad of times. Yet, certainly the Israelites in the desert were amazed as the water poured forth from the rock. The woman at the well was perplexed and intrigued by what Jesus said; she had no context for his words. But still, they had the courage to remain in the presence of the unexpected, in the presence of the mystery and thereby discern the presence of the God in the encounters. For most of us, however, water in the desert is the expected Lenten imagery. It does not surprise because we are so used to it. It is relegated it to the status of “familiar”, and somehow its very familiarity blinds us to further possibility or revelation, keeps us safe from mystery We are all guilty of this – this domestication of the unexpected, the taming of surprise. And when we do not or cannot tame it, we ignore it altogether. With blinders to the unexpected, so much of that which is really surprising in the Scriptures and in the Tradition, often falls completely off our radars. It is one of the challenges of the spiritual life neither to domesticate nor ignore the surprising places, the surprising encounters, of our lives; but somehow, rather – like the Israelites in the desert, like the woman at the well – to remain with them and thereby discern in them the possibility of revelation.

On account of our own blinders, on account of our own unwillingness to be surprised, we often do not understand where God is revealing God’s self in our lives, we often miss the encounter with mystery. The disciples in the Gospel of John are no exception. With their blinders of social convention, they can not understand why Jesus is talking to a woman – and this particular woman. They return from their shopping only to find Jesus in conversation – and theological conversation, at that – with someone who is so completely beyond the social pale. It’s not enough that his conversation partner is a woman, but a Samaritan woman who is “living in sin”. They are surprised certainly, but instead of remaining in the moment of the unexpected and allowing the unexpected to challenge them with something genuinely new, they continue to try to make the situation fit within the only framework they are willing to accept – the inherited framework of who’s in and who’s out, who is clean and who is impure, what’s holy and what’s profane. Inattentive to the possibility of mystery, they miss the beauty and revelation in the encounter between Jesus and the woman.

In his poem, Lenten Thoughts of a High Anglican, John Betjeman writes about another encounter with a “loose” woman, the one whe calls “the Mistress” because, as he says, she has “more of a cared-for air than many a legal wife.” Among the English, John Betjeman is perhaps one the most well known and best loved of 20th century poets. He wrote with a real passion for the beauty of an England he saw as passing away – village life and village ways, with its ancient church at the centre. But, also he wrote with a love of the ordinary, not to mention with satiric humour about the less attractive of human foibles like self-righteousness and uncharitableness. In 1972 he was made Poet Laureate by the present queen. While most definitely within the high church tradition – as this poem suggests – he was nothing of a Newman. He was an Anglican by birth and conviction who believed the Church of England to be the Catholic Church in England; and in this poem reveals that very Anglican spiritual inclination to trust the created order as worthy to reveal something of the nature and presence of God, particularly when a certain vehicle of that revelation may be surprisingly unexpected, perhaps even socially unacceptable.

Undoubtedly, for Betjeman there is something attention-grabbing, even arousing, about “the Mistress”, there is certainly something of the air of sexuality and sensuality about her – her clothes, the sound of her voice, the movement of her body. For Betjeman these seem to sit well and without contradiction alongside the sensualities of catholic liturgy itself – the sound of bells, the “vapoury…veil” of incense, the beauty of the church furnishings. As he sits there in church he takes nothing in as simply familiar and while the clergyman encourages blinders –

The parson said that we shouldn’t stare
Around when we come to church,
Or the unknown God we are seeking
May forever elude our search.

while the parson encourages blinders, Betjeman allows himself to take in everything that is going on around him, the entire beauty of the created order available to his senses, both in the form of the liturgy and in the form of the “the Mistress”, without domesticating it or ignoring it. He stays with it and contemplates the possibility that a “hint of the unknown God” may just be revealed even in the “unorthodox and odd”; and – as one commentator noted – reminds us “of the idea that the incarnation of God is mysterious and inexplicable.”

Mystery, whether the mystery of being called into covenant as were the children of Israel or the mystery of a chance encounter with a stranger at a well, or even the mystery of beauty in another or the world – mystery. is by its very nature that which we will never and cannot ever fully comprehend. It reveals itself in the ordinary, so it is easy to domesticate and tame – fit it into our limited perspective. It presents itself in the surprising and unknown, the unexpected, so it is easy to ignore, allow it to drop off outside our field of vision. Sometimes, we can use the ultimate incomprehensibility of mystery to get us off the hook from having to engage with it at all, because the encounter with and journey into mystery is not for those who want definitive answers. Indeed, the nature of mystery is such that each time we think we have a grasp on it there is always another level, further depth. All we can do is stay with it, remain in its presence. Like the woman at the well, all we can do is continue to engage with the challenge mystery throws up for us: “Sir, you have no bucket? Where do you get that living water? Are you greater than our ancestor Jacob, who gave us the well?” (John 4:11-12) Like the Israelites, all we can do is stick with the journey to which mystery directs us without fully knowing where the journey will take us, even wondering “Is the Lord among us or not?”. (Exodus 17:7) Like Betjeman in his encounter with “the Mistress”, all we can do is keep alert to our senses, trust our intuitions and be open to mystery in the most unexpected of places, and never think it “unorthodox or odd” that we “glimpse in [them]…a hint of the Unknown God”. Wherever mystery beckons, it always points to the deepest truths; it always points to God.

Do you want to engage with mystery? Look for it in the unexpected and allow it to surprise you. Look for it in the “unorthodox and odd”, in the situations where you don’t feel quite comfortable; in the places where you do not want to go; then remain there awhile and experience what it might reveal. Widen your field of vision to include it, and then stay with it without trying to domesticate it or explain it too quickly. If we cannot do this, it is then, rather, that “the Unknown God we are seeking may forever elude our search”.

Lent 2: Lead Thou Me On...

Genesis 12:1-4a
Psalm 121
Romans 4:1-5, 13-17
John 3:1-17

The journey of faith begins always by taking a leap into the unknown. Undoubtedly it is a leap in faith, but a leap into the unknown nevertheless. Whether it is Abraham leaving his home among the Chaldeans and beginning a journey to a land promised him by an unknown God, or Moses who without any viable plan trusted his experience in front of burning bush, and goes back to Egypt to free those held in slavery; whether it is Ruth – for love of Naomi alone – going to live in a foreign land and among a foreign people, or Jesus himself who – as we heard last week – allowed himself to be “led by the Spirit into the wilderness to tempted by the devil”. (Matthew 4:1). For them – and for many others – the journey of faith was that stepping onto a not completely elucidated path, and doing so simply because they were beckoned by something beyond themselves. Their spiritual journey and temperament allowed them no other decision – better the leap into the invitations of an unknown God and unknown possibilities, than remain in safety and betray the journey altogether. This dilemma is at the heart of the conversion experience. Un-nuanced and simplistic language about conversion would have us believe that once we have “turned to the Lord”, as it were, we are scot free, we have arrived; but, that “turning to the Lord” is a process, and when taken seriously can have some scary consequences. The leap of faith can be far from a leap into the comfort of the everlasting arms. Rather, the leap of faith is always a leap into the unknown, a leap in the dark. As we are reminded in the letter to the Hebrews: “It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God.” (Hebrews 10.31)

John Henry Newman is one of the finest religious and literary figures of the 19th century. In 1821, at the age of twenty, he graduated from Trinity College, Oxford. He was ordained deacon in 1824, and priest in 1825. By the mid 1830’s he and a close circle of friends had inaugurated what would later be called the Oxford movement, and which sought to re-discover the catholicity of the Church of England, and Anglicanism more generally. Almost all that we recognise as “church” today in the Episcopal Church is a direct result of the Oxford Movement. For us particularly at the Church of the Saviour, our buildings would not exist in their present forms were it not for the Oxford Movement. Newman was one of the greatest apologists for the Church of England being in all aspects part of the one, holy, catholic and apostolic Church, and wrote extensively to defend that truth. However, by the start of the 1840’s Newman was entering a very personal and internal struggle as he began to doubt what he had up until then so eloquently defended. Finally, seeing no other way to be a Catholic Christian than by becoming a Roman Catholic, he did so in 1845. In his time as a Roman Catholic he founded a religious community and was eventually made a cardinal. He died in 1890. His beatification last year by the Benedict XVI was welcomed by both Anglicans and Roman Catholics, so revered is Newman by both denominations. His life was not an easy one, particularly on account of his faithfulness to the inner voice which consistently seemed to call him to make the leap into the unknown, into the dark. An Anglican before the Oxford Movement, he defended an unpopular understanding of Anglicanism as he and his friends sought to recall the Church of England to her spiritual and liturgical roots, and attempted to save her from being simply the religious arm of the state. Having won renown and no small notoriety in the Church of England, again he followed that inner voice into the Church of Rome, losing many of his friends in the Church of England. In 1833, before it all began, he wrote a poem entitled The Pillar of Cloud, which seems in retrospect to foreshadow his future. Most of us know it in the form of the hymn, Lead Kindly Light:

Lead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom,
Lead Thou me on!
The night is dark, and I am far from home –
Lead Thou me on!
Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene, – one step enough for me.

In the many junctures – conversions – of his life, Newman was all too aware that the only action of faith is to allow one’s self to be led into the darkness and to trust, no matter the fear or cost.

All this notwithstanding, we all want to walk with our eyes open into the light, rather than stumble helpless into the dark. But wanting does not make it so, and the great spiritual traditions, as well as the life and witness of holy people in our past and present teach us differently. Perhaps it is no accident that the writer of John’s Gospel has Nicodemus seek out Jesus by night. Nicodemus comes to Jesus seeking clarification, seeking light. He even begins his conversation by saying that he understands, or better yet, sees things clearly: “Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God; for no one can do these signs that you do apart from the presence of God.” (John 3:2b) Jesus on the other hand points him right back into the dark, challenges his nicely spoken clarity with an image of darkness, the darkness of the womb: “Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.” Jesus challenges Nicodemus by insinuating that it is not enough to know who Jesus is, but that one must make the leap for one’s self into the darkness, into the struggle of re-birth, and discover one’s own self, one’s re-newed self, in God. That is the journey of the great saints of the Church, and the journey each of the faithful are called to as well. It is the agony of Gethsemane and the way of the cross.

“It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God” (Hebrews 10.31); nevertheless, we all want our coming to God – conversion – to be clear, conscious, manageable and controllable: “I loved to choose and see my path…I loved the garish day”. But nothing except the “pride that [rules our] will” would suggest the path leading to transformation can be discerned in the light. Ultimately, the life of the believer is a life of trust; and there is no trust in the “garish day”, because there is no need for it. The purposes of God seem to be formed in the dark – the darkness of Christmas night, the dark noon-day of Good Friday, the darkness of the tomb, the dark waters of baptism. There is light – undoubtedly there is light – but it is God’s light, not ours; and it is revealed to us only to the extent that we are willing to be led into the dark “o’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent”, only to the extent that we are willing to let go of our own sense of light, only to the extent that we are willing to say and live “Lead Thou me on”. Then, and only then, and perhaps not even in this world, will we find that “the night is gone; and with the morn those angel faces smile” with all who faced the darkness while trusting in the light.

Lent 1: Marlowe, Faustus, the Devil and Temptation

Genesis 2:15-17, 3:1-7
Psalm 32
Romans 5:12-19
Matthew 4:1-11

A recent film, Rite, starring Anthony Hopkins, has sparked a renewed interest in the devil and on devilish workings. Hopkins plays a veteran exorcist who is sharing his knowledge and experience with a young seminarian. Shortly after the film’s release I listened to a radio interview with Fr Christopher Jamieson, a Roman Catholic priest and broadcaster. He posited that, when it comes to demonic possession, the question which concerns most people is quite simply, “How does it happen?”. He said, “You can’t become possessed unless you invite the devil into your life.” He discussed the medieval mystery and morality plays in which the angel of light could appear uninvited to save you, for that is the nature of God’s love and redemption; they come graciously unbidden. The devil, on the other hand, “must come on the coat tails of one of the demons – the demons of lust, or greed or envy”. In short, the devil must come in on the coat tails of some of our own human desires and proclivities. This is not just true when it comes to possession, but temptation generally.

The poet and playwright, Christopher Marlowe, lived and worked in the latter half of the 16th century. An inheritor of that medieval tradition, he knew well the world-view to which Fr Jamieson was alluding, and in creating the play Doctor Faustus Marlowe writes a central character who is dissatisfied and thus open to inviting something to satisfy his dis-satisfaction. Having completed studies in all the chief disciplines of the age, he is frustrated by their limitations; frustrated and, on some level, frightened by the limitedness of his own humanity. So, Faustus continues to seek for that which will give him more knowledge still, what he perceives to be real knowledge, and he searches out and finds a book of necromancy – magic – and on discovering the possibilities it contain, muses:

These metaphysics of magicians
And necromantic books are heavenly,
Lines circles, signs, letters, and characters –
Ay, these are those that Faustus most desires.
O, what a world of profit and delight,
Of power, of honour, of omnipotence
Is promised to that studious artisan!
….
A sound magician is a mighty god. (1.1.51-57, 64)

So the devil enters on the coat tails of Faustus’ desire for god-like knowledge and power, and Faustus invites the demonic forces in. So appears Mephistopheles, a servant of Lucifer, with assurances to deliver all that the good doctor desires, if Faustus will – you guessed it – sign over his soul and all hope of salvation. He does so, and is allotted 24 years to enjoy his “purchase”. Ironically, while he had envisioned knowledge and ability greater than that of any sage or emperor, the play proceeds with scenes of his using his dearly-bought abilities in ridiculous, meaningless exploits: selling, for a prank, a horse that turns into straw when ridden, being invisible at the papal court and playing tricks on the prelates, impressing European royalty by fetching grapes in the winter. In the end the fate he sealed at the beginning arrives at its consummation, and Faustus is taken off to that fate by Lucifer himself, in company with Mephistopheles and other devils.

It is seems almost unnecessary to highlight the significances the Faust story uncovers for us, particularly during Lent; nor the correlations with those scripture readings the Church offers this Sunday for our proclamation and reflection. Evil always finds an opening by appealing to our desires, and usually some seemingly very innocent, even beneficial, desires. Faustus’ desire for knowledge is in itself admirable. Yet, what knowledge will he ultimately find in the pits of eternal alienation from God – God who is the source of all genuine knowledge, wisdom and power? In fact, we see the beginnings of that eventually complete alienation during Faustus’ lifetime, as we witness him using the knowledge gained in order to execute ridiculous and meaningless pranks. He has knowledge and power, but without being connected to their true source, God, he has little ability to direct them beneficially; and in the end he will lose the possibility utterly. Blinded by the benefits of knowledge alone, he loses sight of the fact that without God, it exists in an vacuum of both meaning and order, and can throw up some pretty harmful consequences.

Like Faustus, Adam and Eve are on some level frustrated by limitedness, and the serpent plays on this: “when you eat of [the fruit] your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.” (Genesis 3:5) What is offered is seemingly very beneficial indeed – the knowledge of good and evil. Yet, there is something else inherent in the serpent’s offer: the temptation to be like God, the assumption that God is hiding something from them, that the serpent sees the situation from a wider perspective, that the serpent is the true friend of humanity. The serpent preys on humanity’s fear of and frustration with their limitations. It’s not just knowledge of good and evil which the serpent offers, but also the remedy to some of the dilemmas inherent in being human: our limited knowledge and perspective, not to mention our existential loneliness.

The devil comes in on the coat tails of both our conscious and unconscious desires, and at our invitation, as we seek easy escape from what we perceive to be the limitations of our humanity. The narrative of Jesus’ temptation in the desert is one of the most psychologically savvy pieces of writing in the Gospels, indeed in the Scriptures themselves. It confronts square in the face those desires: the desire for enough so as to be utterly free from want, the desire for absolute safety so as to be completely free from fear or injury, the desire for power so as to be totally free from the consequences of others’ lives and choices; and it is on the coat tails of these that the devil enters in and appears to Jesus in the desert. Like to Faustus and Adam and Eve, the devil makes to Jesus good arguments – from Scripture itself – and offers a way to conquer those nagging human limitations of hunger, fear and helplessness. And it’s not that what the devil offers isn’t good in itself – freedom from want, danger and oppression – but that these positive goods divorced from God, the source of all good, can only ever be a pale shadow of reality. So, in each offer made by the tempter – as Matthew calls him – Jesus returns to the real source of plenty, of safety, of power – God: “One does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.” (Matthew 4:4); “Do not put the Lord your God to the test.” (Matthew 4:7); “Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.” (Matthew 4:10) Jesus embraces the limitedness of humanity, appreciating the proper nature of our humanity and therefore the proper divinity of God. He knows that any offer which does not come from God always comes with a catch, that any truth which is not grounded in God can only ever be a half truth at best, that safety procured outside the protection of God may be more perilous in the end than any dangers we may face with God.

In Jesus’ wilderness encounter with the tempter are unmasked humanity’s most primordial fears and desires; and let’s be honest, not unlike Faustus, we all of us at some point or another have sold something of ourselves in order to alleviate the anxiety those fears produce. We all us have been or are frustrated by our human limitdness. However, there is a difference between us and Faustus. In Marlowe’s play – and for dramatic effect, one would hazard to guess – in the end, although Faustus repents, he is still dragged to hell. In reality the path to repentance is always open to us. In Lent we recall our sins and weaknesses, the times when we have “sold out”, but we also are reminded by the prophet Isaiah to “seek the LORD while he may be found, call upon him while he is near…[to] return to the LORD, that he may mercy…and to our God, for he will abundandtly pardon” (Isaiah 55:6, 7b) God’s goodness and forgiveness need no disguise to allure us, neither do they need trickery to hoodwink us. They may not give immediate answer to our fears and desires, but in the end it is only God – God’s goodness and God’s grace – which have any currency or meaning at all, anything else will ultimately disappoint or carry with it worse – “a hellish fall” and fate, both in this life and the next.

Ash Wednesday: Rythms and Resonances

Joel 2:1-2, 12-17
Psalm 103:8-14
2 Corinthians 5:20b-6:10
Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21

Poetry is perhaps the most primitive of the literary arts. The oldest works of world literature – works like the Epic of Gilgamesh, the Iliad and the Odyssey – are all in the form of poetry. Creating poetic order out of our words, experiences and stories seems to be a trait inherent in human beings. Certainly, there are practical reasons for this; chief among them perhaps is the fact that, on account of the poetic forms themselves, poetry is easier to memorise than is prose; and in a world where most communication was oral, memorisation was crucial for transmission. Nevertheless, there is also something deeper about our inherent attraction to poetry. It may have something to do with how it presents narrative and feelings in ways which are ordered and with a beauty of balance and imagination, doing so in ways which give voice to our own unspoken feelings. The Italian poet, Salvatore Quasimodo, expressed it well when he said, “Poetry is the revelation of a feeling that the poet believes to be interior and personal but which the reader recognizes as his own.”

As children we all learned that poems rhyme, and unfortunately many of us never grew out of that definition of poetry. Yet, while rather prevalent rhyme is not the only poetic form, and certainly not the oldest or most sophisticated. In fact, John Milton, the 17th century English poet understood rhyme as not essential to poetry, going so far as to call it a “troublesom [sic] and modern bondage”. Ancient Hebrew poetry, for example, finds its identity as poetry not in rhyming but in various other forms like verbal rhythm or more importantly parallelism, which creates a natural rhythm of its own. Parallelism is probably the most dominant poetic device in ancient Hebrew poetry and there many types, but the two most easily identified are the synonymous and the antithetical. We are so used to these that they often go unobserved. Examples abound. In synonymous parallelism the same thing is repeated in different ways, as in today’s reading from the prophet Isaiah: “Shout out, do not hold back! Lift up your voice like a trumpet! Announce to my people their rebellion, to the house of Jacob their sin”. (Isaiah 58:1) In antithetic parallelism “the second member of a line (or verse) gives the obverse side of the same thought”, for example, “A wise child makes a glad father, but a foolish child is a mother’s grief.” (Proverbs 10:1) Through repetition and opposition, Hebrew poetry creates a special kind of unity, drawing things together to represent truth in ways which are memorable, and sometimes jarring as it brings together seeming opposites into relationship with one another. These patterns were not lost on Jesus and the writers of the Gospels, and we see that today especially as Jesus teaches his followers the true meaning of the ancient spiritual disciplines – prayer, fasting and almsgiving – the spiritual disciplines to which the Church calls us during Lent.

It cannot be argued that there is poetry in Jesus’ words as presented in the Gospel of Matthew. There is that poetic pattern of repetition in the discussion of those three disciplines: “whenever you give alms…whenever you pray…whenever you fast”; as well as the images of opposition: “do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth…but store but for yourselves treasures in heaven”. And these patterns resonate with us, speaking to us and touching us in ways we cannot fully appreciate. For me, I see in the three disciplines reflected the three aspects of being human which are often at odds with each other: almsgiving representing our relationship with others and what is owed them by us; prayer representing our relationship with God and how to give that relationship the time and effort it deserves; fasting, our relationship with ourselves and our struggles to control our less attractive and more destructive impulses. Their being presented in this unified way helps to offer up the possibility that a harmonious balance can be struck between them; but also suggests that while they each function in different spheres of our lives, the appropriate approach in each case is humility, honesty and transparency, in short, don’t be like the hypocrites – and we hear that three times too. Had Jesus’ teaching been presented in less poetic ways, I am not sure that they would have the same resonances. The beauty of the words and the rhythms created help us to see things in ways not initially apprehended. They help us to engage the imagination and deeper echoes of our spirit. How true indeed are the words of Samuel Johnson: “Poetry is the art of uniting pleasure with truth, by calling imagination to the help of reason.”

We are going to hear a good deal of poetry during Lent, as we journey with some well-known and lesser-known English poets. By highlighting some of the Lenten themes using poetic forms, we are following a very biblical pattern, a very ancient pattern, but hopefully we also be enabled to come to a deeper, more immediate appreciation of the Lenten call. Try to immerse yourself in some of the pieces with which we will travel, and perhaps in your own scripture study during Lent try to read some of the scriptures in the same way you would read poetry – slowly, out loud, gently discerning the patterns that make the imagery work and which resonate with you in surprising ways; after all, as someone once observed, “Poetry is plucking at the heartstrings, and making music with them.” During this Lent allow your heart strings to be plucked and discern the music God is making in you.

Last Sunday after Epiphany: Glory on Mt St Anthony

Exodus 24:12-18
Psalm 99
2 Peter 4:1-5
Matthew 1:16-21

The significance of mountains in the Holy Scriptures, and in the Judeao-Christian tradition generally, is rich and fascinating. I have mentioned it before, but in every case where a mountain appears in the Scriptures we know that we should pay close attention; something important – perhaps even monumental – is going to happen. It is on mountains that God commissions people like Moses to carry out a specific mission; on mountains are delivered God’s purposes and wisdom like the Ten Commandments or the Sermon on the Mount; it is on mountains where the true nature of things are revealed. All this notwithstanding, when last month the members of the Vestry approached the mount on which is built St Anthony’s Retreat House, I am not sure this was uppermost in their minds. Many arrived after a long week of work, and others arrived not knowing quite what to expect, never having been on retreat before. Few, I think, expected any sort of revelation. But revelation is a subtle thing, and its occurrence can sometimes go ignored; or perhaps even worse, its significance misunderstood.

Over the last three weeks I have been reflecting on our vestry retreat, and sharing with you some of what we shared, some of what we discussed. We talked about leadership and money; about ways forward, both figuratively and practically. However, much of what went on during the bulk of our time together was facilitated by what went on the first night spent on – if you will pardon my imagination – Mount St Anthony’s. On that first evening Fr Larry gathered us round and, after we introduced ourselves, invited us to share our answers to three questions. Each question was asked separately, and answered in turn. In the first instance, we were all asked what sort of heating was used in the house where we were raised. We had a variety of responses, many of them revealing not just the simple answer but also something quite meaningful about the circumstances of our upbringing. Answers ranged from central heating in every room, to a wood-burning furnace in one. The second question hit closer to home: “Who was the centre of warmth for you or your family when you were a child?” Again a variety of responses were shared, and we were all graced by each others’ memories, some joyous and some very painful indeed. Lastly Fr Larry asked, “When in your life did you come to the realisation of God as something other than merely a name?” The invitation was, of course, to share something of our faith journey. To say the least, I found the experience humbling as the people responded, vulnerably revealing something quite personal about their faith journey – again, some joyful, some quite difficult and sad, but all glorious. There was something of – dare I say it? – transfiguration that evening as we each saw our fellows in a different light, as we experienced each other on a level deeper than we do in our regular day to day encounters. What Fr Larry enabled that evening was not only space in which people could reveal something of themselves, but a space in which their revelation could be attended. He enabled a space in which each of us could really listen, and by so doing come to a deeper understanding of one another.

As we come to the end of Epiphanytide and look towards Lent, the Gospel invites us into the mystery of transfiguration through Christ’s own Transfiguration in the presence of his favoured disciples. There on Mt Tabor is revealed Jesus’ true nature. Flanked by Moses the law-giver and Isaiah the prophet, he is revealed as an inheritor of both the legal and prophetic traditions of Israel; while a voice from the clouds reveals him as “…my Son, the Beloved, with whom I well pleased.” (Matthew 17:5) The disciples appear hardly to pay attention, and like so many of us uncomfortable with revelation, they become fearful and frantic about doing something: “Lord, it is good for us to be here; if you wish, I will make three dwellings here, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.” (Matthew 17:4) If it is indeed “so good…to be here”, why cannot they remain in the moment, in the “here”? Their behaviour will be no different at Jesus arrest and crucifixion, when also, on other mounts, something truly significant is revealed about who Jesus is and what he is about. Again, heedless of the tradition and what was right in front them, they scramble in a fear manifested by nervous, useless, even destructive activity. Remember how when Jesus is arrested on the Mount of Olives one of his disciples cuts off the ear of the priest’s servant? No, in the presence of revelation we must stand and listen, or we may well miss the true nature of the glory that is being revealed or mistake it for something else altogether.

There was a lot to do on our vestry retreat, a lot to discuss, a lot to think about, a lot to bring home and strategise about; but we spent the first night on “Mt St Anthony” listening, attentive to revelation, and each revealed something of their glory as children of God, both the joy and the pain. And, like I said, we saw each other, I believe, in a different light, and while many people felt some difference, I think few of us could actually put our finger on it, because revelation – genuine revelation – is a very subtle thing indeed. And while we could not exactly articulate why, I think we would have concurred with at least a part of St Peter’s words: “Lord, it is good for us to be here” (Matthew 17:5) You see, the meaning of any glory revealed only comes into focus and deepens with time and reflection, and it is only as we moved through the next day that we became more consciously aware of what we experienced that first night. We knew each other beyond our duties at church or as members of the vestry, beyond our relationships and responsibilities, we knew each other beyond the accidents of our existences. Through the glory that was revealed, we went from a committee to a community, and I think that will make all the difference in the year to come.

I know that many of you who were not on the retreat have already heard about that first evening, and I also know that some people have already begun to think of ways in which we might be able to incorporate elements of it parish-wide. It’s a good idea. It is not mine to implement, but a very good idea and one I would wholeheartedly support. As we look towards all we wish to accomplish in the coming year, all we intend to do, it might be a very good idea indeed if we created some mountains in our midst, some places of revelation in order to manifest to one another the glory that is within each of us, our own glory as daughters and sons of God; and believe me – or if not, believe your vestry members – it will make all the difference. Amen.

Epiphany 8: A Limited Commodity, A Powerful Symbol

Isaiah 49:8-16a
Psalm 131
1 Corinthians 4:1-5
Matthew 6:24-34

It seems almost ridiculous to state that money is a powerful commodity in our culture. However, the power of money is such a given that sometimes the nature of its power goes unquestioned. So, I will say it again: money is a powerful commodity in our culture, and most importantly because it carries a symbolic value far beyond its ordinary power to purchase goods and services. For the hoarder, the miser, money symbolises security against dependency on others. For the spendthrift it may symbolise freedom to pursue one’s own desires without hindrance from others. When money takes on this sort of symbolic meaning for a person or a group, then their relationship to it is dictated rather by their addictions and anxieties, instead of its simple value as a commodity. Equally, when money is vested with so much meaning and value, one can lose sight that there are other repositories of both meaning and value.

At our retreat Fr Larry told us a story of a small church community in decline. It was predominantly an elderly congregation attracting very few new members. They attended a seminar on the future of small congregations and they were able to face the difficult truth the they were in fact dying; embracing that reality they decided to go out in style, doing something useful. They went as a group to the local primary school, met with the principal, explained their situation and offered their time and effort to anything the school might need. The principal was surprised, but welcomed them into the life of the school. Members of the church read to the students, helped out in art classes and worked yard duty. Eventually, others from outside the local community wanted to get involved in their efforts. These new people got excited about what they were doing, and became interested in their little church. Parents, too, from the school were attracted to the church which gave so much of their time and talents. In the end, the church did not close, but rather grew. Now, I don’t think this is necessarily a pattern we can lay over every situation, but the truth of the matter is that no amount of money could have bought the vibrant, living church community that eventually emerged. More money might have allowed the church to survive, but it would not have given it life; and surviving and living are two different things entirely. It is all too easy to lose sight of the fact that money is not the only currency.

Equally, at times our concern with money is not about money, per se, but, as I mentioned earlier, what money has come to symbolise for us – safety, security, independence, self-determination, power, even our own worth as a person. When money symbolises such key aspects of our well-being and identity it is usually the first and sole issue in making any decision or considering any new enterprise. It emerges as the only truth or currency in the conversation. Discussions then become incredibly loaded, because while we as group may be ostensibly talking “money”, we are actually speaking about the many things it has come to symbolise for us; and for each person it may be different. We all know how easily and quickly people can be debilitated and de-moralised, how easily things can fall apart, when money is the issue of a discussion or decision. I am told that disagreements about money is one of the leading causes of the break-down of a relationship. It is not that the couple cannot decide on how to use money, but instead that it symbolises different things for each of them and they can never get to that deeper meaning. Another anecdote Fr Larry shared with us while on retreat; he told us of a parish with which he was involved. The community, like so many Episcopal communities throughout the country, was not exactly flush, but the vestry felt that their discussions were always hampered by that the facts of their financial circumstances, and so they passed a resolution: at the proposal of any new initiative, project for ministry, mission or outreach, money was not to be a consideration until after the vestry had discussed the project’s merits and decided whether or not it was worth implementing. Only then could they begin discussing the “how” part in which the financial needs and implications would certainly figure. Even in somewhat straitened circumstances, this community’s vestry decided their mission and programmes were their most valuable asset; money was put in its place as one component in the process of implementing any project, along with facilities or people power. While in the end, the execution of the project might reveal itself to be impossible, it could be so for any number of reasons – finances among them, but not limited to them; and sometimes in the discussion of a project there might be revealed its absolute value to the community, firing up the vestry members’ excitement to make it work. For this vestry, money has ceased symbolising safety or security, for example, and was only a means to an end, one component in implementing their highest, most important priority and value, the Church’s mission.

I don’t need to tell you that the issue of money arose during our vestry retreat, both in our formal forums and private discussions. I don’t think we came to any consensus. However, as Jesus today specifically addresses the issue of money and our relationship to it, it seemed only appropriate to mention some of what we did share, and to mention it in light of Jesus’ words from the Gospel. “Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these.” (Matthew 6:28b-29) Money is not the only currency in the world, and we lose something of life’s rich meaning when it is treated as the defining criteria of value. Think for a moment about our soup kitchen. No amount of money could buy the good-will many people have towards our small community on account of our soup kitchen; and our hall has become a focal point for various people of many faiths and none – both volunteers and clients – who through contact with me and other members of our community get to learn something about what we value here at the Church of the Saviour, and as Episcopalians generally. Money is not the only currency. Equally, we need always to keep an awareness of the meaning – symbolic or otherwise – we project onto money. It is a means to end, and a tool for acquiring goods and services. While to some extent it can keep us safe from all kinds of unpleasantness, in and of itself it cannot save in any meaningful sense; and we get safety and salvation confused at our peril: “No one can serve two masters; for a slave will either hate the one and love the other, or be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve God and wealth.” (Matthew 5:24) When money symbolises for us a form of security, then safety overrides salvation and the mission of the Church suffers. We cannot have both safety and salvation driving, one of them must take the backseat. Certainly, along with the rest of the country, our community is hitting some hard financial times, but how pleased I was when our vestry voted – quite responsibly, I might add – that should the need arise and in order for the mission of the Church to thrive we would borrow from our small endowment fund; equally when it decided to make paying our assessment to the diocese a priority. I love it when salvation trumps safety.

At the end of the day, it’s not that money isn’t important, even crucial to our well-being, but that we sometimes invest it with too much meaning, too much power, at the exclusion of the all kinds of other realities which give life meaning. We invest a lot of worry in it too, undermining our power to discern other valuable aspects of our lives. Money is an important means of currency, but it is not the only currency; and equally, its importance should not fool us into attaching to it meaning it cannot and should not ultimately bear. Putting money in its appropriate place, frees us to do Jesus’ bidding when he tells his followers, “Strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness” (Matthew 6:33) and let “today’s troubles be enough for today”. (Matthew 6:34)