Sermon by Fr. Joshua Bell SSC, Thursday 1st April 2021 Readings: Exodus 12:1-8,11-14; 1 Corinthians 11:23-26; John 13:1-15 We have come to Maundy Thursday. It is the first of the three Great Days of the Triduum – and to my mind it is the strangest of the three.
Our mass begins so joyfully: the priests in white vestments – the colour of joyful celebration. Not only has the Gloria returned, it’s been accompanied by bells! This joy mirrors the joy that Jesus and the disciples would have felt – that all the Jews would have felt – that night, as they celebrated the Passover together. Modern-day Jews, when they celebrate the Passover, ask the question, “Why is this night different from all other nights?” And, indeed, we too could ask the question, because this mass is unlike any mass in the year; because, of course, for the disciples, that Passover was different from all other Passovers they had marked before. During dinner, we hear how Jesus washed the disciples’ feet – a task that would be given usually to a servant, or in their absence, the lowest of the people there. For Jesus to take it on is a subversive act – but entirely in keeping with Jesus’s kingship – the one who comes not to be served but to serve. He has taught, during his ministry, that whoever would be king must become the least of all – and what better example than to wash the disciples’ feet? We hear the discomfort of Peter who initially refuses to let Jesus wash his feet; and we may recognise in his words some of our own discomfort, at the thought of baring our feet for Father Adrian or another priest to wash in years past. But Jesus does this for an example: and whether we are physically washing others or no – we all must learn the humility of Jesus, we all must make ourselves the servant of others – especially those we would be minded otherwise to look down on. The second strange thing Jesus did on Maundy Thursday may seem familiar to us but for the disciples it was wholly new: he instituted the Eucharist, in the words we heard in the second reading. He took one of the unleavened loaves, broke it, and gave it to his disciples, saying, “This is my body – do this as a memorial of me.” He took the cup of wine, and told them to drink it as the cup of the new covenant – in his blood. The Jews lived by the covenant of Moses – but Jesus institutes a new covenant, a new Testament, with himself as the sacrificial lamb – whose blood seals the covenant. When we celebrate the Mass, we re-present this sacrifice, made once for all, we experience it as newly as if we were in that upper room. And then, after the meal was complete, the disciples went with Jesus to the garden of Gethsemane – just as we accompany Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament to the altar of repose – and with the disciples, we watch and pray for an hour. But this night, which began with such joy, such celebration, such mysterious wonder and wonderful mystery – ends in the shock of Judas’s betrayal. Jesus is arrested and taken away. His disciples scatter – and in union with them, we leave, we flee, the altar of repose. There is no final blessing at this Mass. No dismissal. Instead, as we hear the arrest of Jesus, we scatter – we leave. To signify the horror of Jesus’s arrest, we strip the church of much of its furnishings. We have already veiled the images in the church, but now even the fabrics, the frontals, the linens, will be taken away. THe candles removed from the altar – which goes from being ornately decorated to being bare, naked, empty. There will be no end – no closure – not yet. We, with the disciples, must wait, through tomorrow and Saturday, until we mark the unlooked-for joy of the resurrection. But not yet. Tonight we have celebrated the rescuing of God’s people from slavery in Egypt. We have received his new commandment, to love one another with the same self-giving, self-effacing love, that he has shown to us in the washing of the feet. We have heard how he instituted the Eucharist and in the preface to the Mass, we will praise God for this most sacred of meals. We will go with him to Gethsemane to watch, and pray, with him. And with his disciples, we will depart, forlorn, dumbstruck, as we flee the place of his arrest. Why is this night different from all other nights? Because on this night Jesus gave his final, most powerful, teachings to the disciples before the drama of his trial, death, and burial began.
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There’s an old joke about two friends watching a cowboy film, and one friend says to the other, “I bet that character dies in the end.” And sure enough he does.
At the end of the film the friend turns and says, “About that bet – I have to confess, I’ve seen this film before.” “So have I,” says the other friend, “but I thought he’d have better luck this time!” In the same way, we might be forgiven for finding ourselves hearing the Gospel narratives leading up to Jesus’s arrest and crucifixion with a sense of foreboding – willing the story to turn out differently, for Jesus to “get away.” As human beings, I think that we hate the idea of inevitability. We want things to turn out differently to what we know is the established pattern. In the second half of the last century there was at attempt by liberal theologians to recast the events of Easter. According to their new narrative, Jesus’s death wasn’t inevitable; it wasn’t the supernatural climax of the son of God’s time on earth. Rather, they said, Jesus was someone who was inspired to preach a better way of living; to try and create heaven on earth; and the authorities were so dismayed by his attempts that they killed him for it. But this idea of a purely human sacrifice, on the altar of greed and power and all the other human ills, fails to take account of Jesus’s own words. “When I am lifted up from the earth,” he says, “I will draw all men to me.” When I am lifted up – the language here is a kind of irony: he uses the language of glorifying and elevation, but the lifting up that we see, that he is foretelling, is his lifting up on the cross of Calvary. And he does not draw all men towards an earthly paradise but to himself – with all the pain and joy that comes with following him. Jesus’s death is not the sad end to the story of a miracle working teacher of kindness to others, but the very reason that he came to the earth in the first place. “What shall I say? Save me from this hour? But it was for this very reason that I have come to this hour.” Passion Sunday marks the shift of our Lenten pilgrimage from the desert to the Cross. It is a reminder to us of Jesus’s words: if anyone wants to be my disciple, let him deny himself, take up his cross and follow me. For a month now we have denied ourselves with Jesus in the desert. Now we begin to unite ourselves, if only spiritually, with Jesus in his soffering and death. Of course, many people have, over the centuries, united themselves wholly in the death of Jesus, either through the shedding of their blood or through the rigours of the monastic life, the so-called white martyrdom. The ancient Christian writer Tertullian wrote that the blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church, and it’s easy to hear an echo of Jesus’s own words from our Gospel – that unless a grain of wheat falls and dies it remains only a single grain, but that if it dies it spreads its seeds and yields a rich harvest. And this has been true of the many martyrs – red and white – who, in dying to the world, have spread the good news of Jesus far and wide. I often think of Papua New Guinea, in the Pacific Ocean north of Australia. The Bishops of Lynn have, for a long time, been responsible for the Church of England’s link with the Church in Papua New Guinea, a country whose rich Christian heritage owes much to the many who have lost their lives for their faith. Of course, the last year of lockdowns has felt like one long Lent, and for all too many people, it has brought a personal Good Friday, as people have lost those they loved. I don’t wish to suggest that the 126,000 deaths in the UK are anything other than a tragedy; but Passiontide is a reminder that in every stage of life, Jesus is with us. He has known the death of those he loved – when he stood at Lazarus’s tomb, the Bible tells us, “Jesus wept” – and he has known death itself. Just as we unite ourselves to his suffering in Passiontide, he has already united himself to all the suffering we have endured this past year, and he will always be united to us, in whatever storms or calms of life we may face in the future. Sermon by Canon Adrian Ling CMP, Sunday 14th March 2021 Reading: Ephesians 2:4-10 Every day I phone my mother. And this week one topic of conversation has dominated our conversation: the interviewof Oprah Winfrey with Meghan and Harry. My mother is definitely not ‘Team Meghan’, especially now that her beloved Piers Morgan has left Good Morning Britain. Her cleaner had the temerity to defend Meghan saying that she felt sorry for her because she was clearly upset during the interview, and on the verge of tears. ‘She’s an actress!’ my mother declared without compunction.
It is said that you should not wash your dirty linen in public. Shaming your family publicly is not a good way to help repair a broken relationship. We might ask what were the motives behind the making of this programme? Was it done out of love? Or was it an act of revenge? It was billed as ‘Meghan telling her truth’, not ‘the truth’ but ‘her truth’. Is that the same as the ‘alternative facts’ that the Trump team used to refer to? The hurt and damage caused by this interview will be difficult to overcome. One cannot help but be reminded of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, and how the royal family, and especially the Queen Mother, were unable to contemplate the presence of the Duchess of Windsor at royal occasions, because of the hurt they had caused. In his conversation with Nicodemus, Jesus talks about the motivation of God who gave his only son because he so loved the world, so that everyone who believes in him may not be lost but may have eternal life. That is the foundation of the gospel, the supreme act of unconditional act of love of God the Father for the entire human race. Despite all the failed warnings of the prophets in guiding the people of Israel along God’s way, something more had to be done. God could have sent his son in judgement, to condemn the failings of mankind. But he was not driven by a motivation to condemn the world, but to redeem it. Jesus said he had not come to condemn the world. He did condemn some, who should have known better, the hypocrites and blind guides among the religious leadership. And he did so knowing the consequences. ‘Judge and you will be judged,’ he had said, ‘condemn and you will be condemned.’ And he was: condemned to death on the cross. Was the interview an act of condemnation, achieved by allusion, leading the interviewer and the viewers to the crushing conclusion that the royal family is racist? The Sussexes too have now exposed themselves to judgement; their actions will be praised by some but condemned by others. The royal family has its problems and tensions like any family, and it is the cross they have to bear that the public considers it its business to know about them. But how do our family and personal relationships bear up by comparison? What are the motives behind our treatment of one another? Our problems will not be broadcast on the news, however if we publicly criticise and condemn other people then we are putting them in the pillory, and we should be mindful of the damage and hurt we may be inflicting on them. There are some actions which can irreparably damage our relationships. Love was the motivation for God to give Jesus Christ to the world. And we should repeatedly check our motives, and ask ourselves why we do what we are do to other people. We should ask ourselves whether our deeds are done out of love or for less wholesome reasons. Are we building up in love or tearing down in hate? St Paul says that we ‘are God’s work of art, created in Christ Jesus to live the good life as from the beginning he had meant us to live it.’ This work of art is a product of the grace of God. It is the overflowing grace of God at work in us that makes us God’s work of art, that can help us to do beautiful things, in spite of ourselves and our base human emotions. To let that grace work in us, we must be merciful as he is merciful, and not merciless. To be merciful is to be generous. Mercy is given not because the other deserves it, it is given even though they don’t because it is motivated by love, by the love that flows through the perfect grace of God. On this Mothering Sunday let us pray for healing and reconciliation in the royal family and wherever there is discord, even in our own families and relationships And in the light of that interview let us be mindful of the fine Norfolk saying: ‘if you’ve got nothing good to say about other people, say nothing.’ Sermon by Fr. Joshua Bell SSC, Sunday 7th March Readings: Exodus 20:1-17; 1 Corinthians 1:22-25; John 2:13-25 One of my resolutions this year has been to read more – though actually I end up listening to more audio books than reading physical books – largely because I can do it wherever I am – washing up or folding laundry or whatever.
One I recently finished was The Power and the Glory by Graham Greene. I wonder if you’ve read it? It isn’t a long book but it’s very powerful. It’s set in the Mexican state of Tabasco in the 1930s, where Catholicism – already illegal in Mexico – is being stamped out by the governor. The Cathedral has been destroyed and replaced by a children’s play park; alcohol has been banned, chiefly to make it impossible for priests to obtain wine for the Mass. Even wearing a religious medal around your neck will get you a fine – and the police are hunting and executing priests. The main character is a priest – but not a very good one. A “whisky priest”, he’s called: he’s a drunkard, he’s not especially holy, and – perhaps most shocking for a Roman Catholic – he’s fathered a child with one of his parishioners. At one point he escapes Tabasco over the mountains into the next state where, although Christianity is illegal, the persecution isn’t so severe and the church is locked up but still standing. He remarks that it’s been ten years since he saw a standing church. It got me to thinking: what is at the heart of our religion? What would we do if the churches were locked up or knocked down, if vestments were banned, if reading the Bible were illegal? This is a pertinent question when considering our readings this week – because they all point to this question. In the first reading, we have the giving of the Ten Commandments to Moses. These formed the basis of the Jewish religion, and they also have a prominent place in Christianity. Many a church used to have the decalogue boards, as they were called, on either side of the chancel – the one I always think of is in Whitby but there’s a rather stunning set in Walpole St. Andrew. And the Prayer Book Communion Service always begins with the recitation of the Ten Commandments; and the Psalm praises the Law of God – “the precepts of the Lord are right, they gladden the heart,” we hear. In the second reading, St. Paul talks about what the Jews and Greeks expect as evidence of supernatural origin. The Jews, he says, demand signs. Certainly throughout the Old Testament, this is how God’s messengers were known: from the plagues sent by God at the hands of Moses; to Joshua crossing the River Jordan and destroying the walls of Jericho at the trumpet blast; through to Elijah, who prayed – and no rain fell for three and a half years. In the Gospels we often hear Jesus avoiding fame, and telling people not to draw attention to him – because the Jews would have seen his miracle working as proof of God’s favour on him and would have sought to make him king. But that was not his mission. The Greeks meanwhile were only impressed if someone was philosophically sound. Their systems of philosophy were intricate and widespread – which is why Paul goes down so poorly when preaching in Athens – because they write him off as “preaching about foreign gods”. But for Jews the heart of the religion was, of course, the temple of Jerusalem, the site of the Holy of Holies where historically the ark of God lived. It was the place of sacrifice, visited by Jews every year at the great feasts and on other occasions. The question of what is sacred is an important one in our own time. “Is nothing sacred?” How often do we hear that asked, when some uncomfortable boundary is crossed. But there is a tendency to say that no, nothing is sacred any more – the cold scientific, rationalist idea. The opposite is the new age idea, that everything is sacred: that the earth is in some way divine, or that the universe “has a plan for us”. So what is the heart of our religion? Nowadays, Jewish religion is based around the synagogue and the reading of the Torah. The commandments of God are still very important for them. For muslims, place is very important, too – as well as following the teachings of the Koran, they place Mecca at the heart of their religion. For us though, the heart of our religion is not simply a place or a set of teachings: it is the person of Jesus Christ, presented in the Scriptures, and made manifest in the Bread of the Eucharist. In Mexico in the 1930s the churches were shut, the cathedral demolished and the priests driven into hiding – but the person of Jesus Christ remained. In King’s Lynn in 2021, the churches have closed, and opened, and closed, and opened again; much of what we have come to associate with the church has been curtailed: but God never abandons us. And here, today, and every day in the Mass, Jesus is with us. Sermon by Canon Adrian Ling CMP, Sunday 28th February Readings: Genesis 22:1-2,9-13,15-18; Romans 8:31-34; Mark 9:2-10 The Australian Cardinal George Pell was falsely accused of a crime he did not commit, but was found guilty and sentenced to six years in prison. He was eventually released on appeal to the High Court, but still spent over a year in prison.
He has chronicled his experience in a journal which has now been published. Reading a prison journal seems quite helpful during lockdown. We might think we have been deprived of much during these times of restrictions, but Pell was deprived of even more. For his own safety he was put into solitary confinement, he was aware of dangerous and disturbed prisoners around him whom he never saw. Anything he requested might take some time before it was received, even a broom to sweep his cell. He had to be patient. Although he received communion from time to time from the lay chaplain, he could not say Mass and had to try to wake up in time to watch Sunday’s Mass at Home at 6am on television. Although he was innocent and living in great privation, he did not give way to despair or resentment. He did not harbour ill-feeling for his accuser. He met with his lawyers, but did not get obsessed by injustice. He used the time initially like a retreat, and his journal contains his reflections on the Bible readings of the day from his breviary. The journal shows Pell to be a man of solid faith who takes to heart the saying of St Paul, ‘If God is for us, who can be against us?’ Being sure of the eternal presence and support of God is the ultimate assurance. We know that Christ died for us, and St Paul reminds us that the risen Christ continues to plead for us. He is our advocate, our defence lawyer, in heaven; he knows our human condition from the inside. St John in his first letter says ‘we have one who speaks to the Father in our defence-Jesus Christ, the righteous one.’ Any person appearing in court would be foolish to ignore the advice of their lawyers who are experts in the law. It is equally essential for the Christian to heed the counsel of the Saviour. On the Mount of Transfiguration, the voice from heaven declares ‘this is my beloved Son, listen to him.’ The gospel, the good news of Christ, sets us free because, if we heed it, it will keep us from sin. And if we fall into sin, it points the way to repentance and absolution. As Cardinal Pell, wrote, ‘If Christ is the Son of God, his teaching has a unique authority, and his teaching when lived brings human flourishing.’ He added , ‘When we believe we can improve on Jesus by eliminating the hard teachings or downplaying prayer, faith, and the cross then we should not be surprised that people leave or do not join. A religion that is too easy is a false religion.’ The reading from Genesis, is a hard one. Any parent who attempted to kill their child because God told them to would receive a long jail sentence in a psychiatric wing. The story of the sacrifice of Isaac can give the impression that God is a monster, but the point of the story is the faith of Abraham, the absolute trust of Abraham in God; even to the surrender of his beloved son and heir, Isaac. And for Christians, Isaac is a precursor of Christ. Isaac was not sacrificed, but Jesus the beloved son became the once and for all paschal sacrifice, the lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world. Cardinal Pell worked out swiftly what it would take for him to survive solitary confinement in prison: to keep up a daily programme of prayer and to concentrate on doing what he could do, rather than lamenting what he couldn’t do. That is good advice for us too. It is good to be back here in church, following the Prime Minister’s announcement. However nothing has changed for us yet, it will remain the same for this month, (unless you are a parent breathing a huge sigh of relief as the children return to school). We are coming towards the end of our sentence, our confinement is drawing to a close, but we have some way to go yet. The end can be all the harder as we long to be free of our restrictions, but we must still be patient, and take Cardinal Pell’s words to heart, we must concentrate on doing what we can do and be thankful for that, rather than lamenting what we cannot do. In this season of Lent we prepare to celebrate Easter with renewed hope and joy. The Missionaries of Charity in Wagga sent Cardinal Pell a prayer of St Teresa of Calcutta, ‘Remember that the passion of Christ ends always in the joy of the resurrection of Christ. So when you feel in your own heart the suffering of Christ, remember the resurrection has to come. The joy of Easter has to dawn. Never let anything so fill you with sorrow as to make you forget the joy of Christ Risen.’ |