'x' marks the spot: Scottish Referendum thoughts

Today I made my mark.

'x'

No signature.

Just my mark.

The historian has not yet left the building of my soul: fleetingly, I thought of manuscripts poured over in the course of my research.  

Of other marks made, instead of signatures, by folk without the benefit of an education basic enough to write their own name.

'x'...

And, today, people who love and live in Scotland were marking 'x's and making a wee mark in the fabric of history on this referendum day.  

Such a little thing, yet such an enormous thing, 

this freedom to exercise the democratic right to voice your opinion.

Just over two hours ago, ballot boxes were sealed and sent off to be counted.

'yes'

or

'no'

to the simple, unadorned question on the paper:  

"Should Scotland be an independent country?"

After 307 years of Union, should we stay or should we go?

At the beginning of the campaign, 'no' were well ahead by 22 points.

In the dying days of the campaign, pollsters were saying 'too close to call'.

And in between?

Somehow people who perhaps had long ceased to believe that their voice mattered,

that their vote could make a difference, began to register themselves to vote.

Began an ongoing national conversation...

'What's best for our country?'

'What vision do we have for our future?'

In the corridors of power, in supermarkets, the hairdresser's, in the pub, 

and on the high street, people got interested in matters political.

An astonishing 97% of the electorate registered to vote.

Even as the sealed ballot boxes are being opened and counted, 

it's predicted over 90% of the electorate might actually have turned out.

We may yet make history for sheet numbers of turnout in a 

modern electoral campaign in the West.

Democracy is suddenly cool in Scotland.

There's been a gathering momentum, an energy, an engagement.

There's been a feeling in the air that has given me hope.

This has been a process unlike anything I've ever seen before.

On both sides of the debate, there have been some minority extremists who've

let their own side down by unacceptable behaviour in isolated incidents.

In general, however, while it's been robust at times, 

there's also been humour and wit; 

people have been mostly good-natured,

law-abiding, and peaceful.

Should the vote be 'no', I don't believe we'll slide back into a status quo:

the tectonic plates of this wonderful, wee country have changed in some indefinable way.

And I think the shock-waves may yet shake Westminster out of complacency. 

I hope, I so hope so.

I'm praying that the energy, the engagement continues.

When I wake up in about 7 hours time, I suspect we'll know the result.

My own prediction: a very close 'no'.

I'd be delighted to be wrong, but however it pans out, 

the next step is to crack on, work together, harness the energy for

change that's come out of this process, and build the best Scotland we can.

There have been no barricades, no barbed wire, bombs or bullets.

Just an 'x' on a card in a ballot box.

I'm so proud of our wee country, whatever we decide.

'In the name of love': sermon for Ordinary 22A

Texts:
Exodus 3:1-15
Matthew 16:21-28
Romans 12:9-21

In our service last week, 

we were thinking about names 

and I want to continue along that theme a little this morning. 

At the beginning of her sermon last week,

[minister] asked us all if we’d ever wanted to be called something else,

and for me, it triggered off two wee lines of thought.

The first?

I remembered waaaaaaay waaaaay back to the first year 

- actually, the first weeks -

of high school. 

Our school headmistress, Mrs Goninon, stood in front of our year group, 

and asked us exactly the same question:

if we had the opportunity to name ourselves, what name would we choose?

And then, without skipping a beat, she looked into mid-distance, 

her eyes misting over as she set the scene in her head, and said with a dramatic sigh...

‘For me...     it would be...

Esmeralda...’

There was a very long pause.

One hundred 12 year olds looked at her,

then at each other,

wondering what on earth she was on about.

She continued, with another sigh....

‘when I think of the name, Esmeralda, I see a vast ocean, 

and in the middle of that ocean, a beautiful yacht 

- with such clean lines...the sails are up, 

and she dances upon the sun-kissed waves...’

Apart from thinking that she’d...well... lost the plot,

I remember thinking: ‘but, I quite like my name.’
... this triggered off the second line of thought:
that actually, maybe I don’t really like my name at all...

because ‘Nikki’ is not the name

that’s on my birth certificate, or my passport...
My birth name is actually...

...no, not Esmeralda

it’s ‘Nicole’.

Now, I have no idea who this ‘Nicole’ person is, 

because even if someone calls me that, I don’t actually realise 

it’s me who's being addressed.

Names are funny things...

they serve a very important basic function:

it’s the first thing you tend to do when meeting someone 

- you introduce yourself...

you give your name.                                               

And for the peoples living in the lands of the Ancient Near East -

the lands that form the geographical background to our bible...

the lands of Moses, of Jesus, of Paul...

names were powerful things -

and the giving of your name to someone else was seen 

as giving away some of your power... 

a part of who you were.

And so, in our Exodus reading, we find something quite extraordinary 

happening in the desert, by Mount Sinai...

it’s not so much the burning bush that’s extraordinary, 

- although, that’s quite something -

it’s the conversation between God and Moses.

Moses has long left Egypt behind. 

He’s married, and helps his father in law by tending the family herd of sheep and goats.

And one day, as he’s doing this, he stumbles upon a strange scene...

and finds himself in a completely unexpected conversation

with someone who knows,

and calls     out     his    name.

Moses, having first been told to take off his shoes, 

is instructed to head back to Egypt

and lead the Israelites to freedom and the Promised Land.

It’s probably not quite the day he’d planned on,

when he’d been having his toast and cuppa at breakfast.

Moses points out to God that

while it’s all very well to march into Egypt

and say to the Israelites

‘the God of your ancestors sent me,’

they might well want a little more information...

And then, Moses does an incredible thing:
he asks for God’s name -

basically, for God to give away a little of who he is, 

in a sense, to give away an aspect of his power.

And in the giving of his name to Moses,

God reveals just how powerful he is:

I AM ...

Okay, that seems a bit ambiguous,

a bit enigmatic...

But what God’s saying, in the giving of his name here is this:
I Am ...  completely me -

here is a sense of the utter integrity of God...

I will be who I will be -

He’s saying: I never change...

this God is ...reliable, faithful

but also,

this God,

this name-giving God is saying:

I Am... sufficient,

enough,

able to supply all    your    needs...

not wants - needs...

needs spoken and unspoken,

needs known and unknown.

The name given, demonstrates that this God -

this passionate God 

who wants to liberate his people - is  enough -

more than enough,

more than a match for Pharaoh,

more than a match for all the gods of Egypt combined.

What a name.

and what a conversation.

Thousands of years later,

we’re privy to another conversation

where names feature:

this time between Jesus and his disciples

- and in particular, Peter -

who is actually called ‘Simon’.

We know the story from last week -

Jesus, the Son of God, asks:

‘who do people say I am’

and Peter’s response - 

'you’re the messiah...'

And then, Jesus does something extraordinary -

Jesus gives him a new name 

- from Simon, which means ‘pebble’,                                                              

to ‘Peter’ the ‘Rock’...steadfast, firm. 

The giving of a new name,

is also the implied giving of new qualities, 

new characteristics, to Peter.

...But how quickly things change.

In our gospel reading today, Jesus begins to talk of his mission and ministry,

and of what that will cost...

suffering and death...

and resurrection.

And suddenly, Peter’s given another name,

when he recoils in shock to what Jesus is saying:

when he rejects the message

being spoken, about the cost of following,

when he shows that he’s not yet understood

the full implications of being a disciple.

In response to Peter’s horrified protests,

Jesus calls him ‘Satan’...

 ‘get behind me, Satan’...

Peter the rock, has reverted to Simon, a pebble...

a stumbling stone...

a possible impediment to the work that Jesus must do.

Powerful, powerful stuff.

And then Jesus spells out in detail

just how costly it is to follow him.

To wear the name ‘Christian’,

is to pick up a cross...

lay aside one way of living,

discover a new way to live...

the way of love. 

Peter will continue to learn and to follow,

to know, and to grow, into that way of love.

And how might we do this...

live the way of love?

Helpfully, Paul, in his letter to Romans,

gives us some practical pointers...

And begins with the nature of love itself:

‘love must be completely sincere’ -

mirroring the love and integrity of God...

We follow,

we pick up the cross,

out of love -

we try to model God’s love in our homes,

in our communities...

showing respect for one another;

honouring each person as someone

who’s been created in the image of God.

From love, comes hope...

and it’s hope that inspires joy...

that helps us be patient with one another

as we pray, and offer hospitality and help to others;

as we work for the common good and

live at peace with everybody;

as we reject the way of violence

by refusing to exact revenge on our enemies -

and choose the more subversive way of love:

by blessing them,

praying for them,

feeding them,

providing water when they thirst...

and in the process,

perhaps just perhaps,

breaking the cycle of hurt and anger,

the escalation of hostility, by overcoming evil with good.

...All this, as we wait

for the fulfilment of the kingdom...

and in the process, build communities of love - 

little pieces of the kingdom of heaven, here on earth -

‘thy kingdom come,

thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven’

Names       are powerful things...

And at the heart of the name that God reveals to Moses

is love:

a passionate, whole-hearted love, that is completely sincere,

utterly integrous.

It’s this love, that moves God to be sufficient - 

sufficient enough to liberate, to comfort, to provide.

It’s this love that God, in Jesus, models...

a love that refuses to retaliate,

but instead, on the Cross, seeks to redeem ...

This is the love that we, who are named Christians,

are to model to the world,

even when at times, it’s hard, hard going.

But remember, always remember:

what gives us the courage and the strength,

and the joy to keep going is that:

we are called to follow

in the name of love,

the One whose name means love -

who calls us ‘beloved’...

whose love is real, sincere,

whose love is more than enough,

and who, in love,

walks the way of love with us,

beside us...

forever and ever,

Amen.

#RallyRevGals - Sheryl

Another #revgalsrally post...

Today, for no particular reason at all, I've been thinking about the Letter to the Hebrews, focusing on chapter 11:1-40,12:2; pondering the nature of faith, wondering about 'heroes' of the faith, and the concept of being surrounded by 'so great a cloud of witnesses'.  In amongst a list of numerous male 'heroes' mentioned in chapter 11, three women are mentioned but only one of these for her faith - Rahab.  The other two, Sarah and the unnamed daughter of  Pharaoh, are merely there because of their part in the faith-stories of Abraham and Moses.  Time for naming, I thought, and flagging up other, more personal, heroes of the faith.
As I've been reflecting about those who have influenced my own faith, I realise that there is quite a cloud of sister-witnesses who have encouraged and inspired, challenged and consoled, laughed and wept and spoken and listened and walked alongside me on this peculiar faith journey.
It is to this great cloud of sisters and witnesses to the faith that I pay tribute, and to whom I'm profoundly grateful... and so today, let me add Sheryl.

Sheryl was the youth pastor of the parish I daundered along to due to Rosemary.
Two women.
Both listening to a searching 18 year old.
Both treating me seriously...as ...an adult.
Both very generous.
And what incredible generosity of spirit Sheryl had: she gave me the gift of her time.
Shared books with me,
walked me through this wild collection of books called the Bible,
taught me that you neither need lose your brains or your sense of humour to be Christian,
gave me opportunities to test myself and develop skills and gifts along the way.
Standing up in church and doing bits and pieces in worship...okay.
Reading, playing music, teaching Sunday School...seriously?
It was odd to be teaching P7's...but, really, they taught me -
'so, this Noah guy...all these animals in a boat? No way?
Well, that's cool.'
They'd nod wisely and continue the lesson.
Sheryl, I suspect, was also nodding wisely as she watched and listened.

At the end of a year of talking, coffee drinking, doing many mad things in the church,
we sat in the park by the beach after the Sunday School picnic.
She offered a challenge:
'Nobody's going to beat you over the head with a bible to make you
become a Christian, you know.  We've talked for over a year, you've read,
you've thought, and in the end, it comes down to one simple thing:
you make a decision.
Either you become a Christian or you don't.
What are you going to do?  Nobody gets argued into the kingdom of heaven...'
It seemed perfectly reasonable.
And slightly insane.
Diary entry ran along these lines:
5 December, 1982:
S and I were talking again.  Told me 'make your mind up one way or the other'.  
So, I did: today I became a Christian - basically told God 
'okay, if you exist, then let's do this thing.'  No angels sang.  But that's okay.

For a couple of years, until she moved on, she, along with Rosemary, was a trusted
mentor and guide.  I have so much gratitude for both of them and both gave me
such excellent grounding in the faith.

freezer jolly good fellow: of Scotland and ice buckets

You'll have seen it.
It's everywhere.
Gone viral.
What?
The 'ice bucket challenge' that's been raising awareness of Motor Neurone Disease/ ALS.

Living in Scotland, we don't need to make any special preparations when it comes to getting enough suitably icy water; we just go outside...

#RallyRevGals - Rosemary

My blogging has been utterly lacking and I've been slacking...
So glad the RevGals are providing a little incentive to get some of us back to the blog-face once more.
And so, I offer the following reflection on Rosemary - who was there right at the beginning,
and who opened the door that would eventually set the whole ministry thing rolling.

I was, perhaps, 13.
To my surprise, my mother insisted I go to confirmation classes at the local Anglican church.
The surprise being that, as a family, we did not do church.
Nevertheless, for almost a year, I'd turn up to Father Smith's confirmation classes
on a Monday afternoon when school had finished.
As a relatively good child, I did find the lesson on going to confession a most puzzling one:
neither bank robbing or murder had, as yet, been committed;
what was there to confess?
Still, I made the most of these opportunities in class to try to ask the
annoying and difficult questions.
Poor man.  Yes, I was testing him.
I began to read up on the subject to see what googlies* I could throw at him.

On Sunday, I would head out to the 7.30am service with my slightly hung-over mother,
get the required dose of religion,
and then we'd all head to the beach.
[in the process, observing that communion wine + hangover = not very happy mix]
Even at that age, I remember noticing that, in worship, anyone who did anything was *not* a girl....
The spiritual stuff was interesting, but the visual message I picked up on was that I didn't belong.
After the year had come and gone, and with it, the confirmation, that was it:
church was now officially done 'n dusted.
Or so I thought.

Several years passed.
18, and  now done with school, I'd head off on a Wednesday evening
to the local Scottish Country Dancing classes.
It's where I met Rosemary.
Rosemary must have been in her late 50's by then -
which, to my 18 year old self, was akin to being positively ancient beyond words.
Light grey hair.
Curly.
She drank hot water with a teaspoon of vegemite: unusual.
She also went to church.
Not Anglican; Uniting Church in Australia.
Taking pity on a poor teen reliant on public transport,
she kindly offered to pick me up and drop me home from dancing.

In that car, we talked.
A lot.
I asked questions - so many questions.
She patiently fielded them.
Talked about faith.
Community.
Life, death, the universe.
'But aren't you committing intellectual suicide by being a Christian?'
Books in process of being devoured included Marx, and Sartre
The word 'deaconess' came up in conversation one evening.
Wait.
She didn't just *go* to church...she actually did stuff...and was paid?
Huh?
I visualised my year of confirmation...
Only men did stuff that went beyond being in the pews.
Apparently not.
I do remember sputtering and asking her:
'But, how, as a woman, can you collude with the patriarchy?'
Light reading material at this point consisted of de Beauvoir and someone called 'Greer'.
Graciousness and invitation:
'Why not come along and see?'
I was so intrigued, I did...
and watched, and listened, as a woman led worship and preached.
...oh.

I'm not quite sure what happened that day.
But somehow, somewhere, a door unlocked inside.
Permission.
Belonging.
Encouragement.
I went back the following week.
And the next.
And the one after that.
All it took was a patient, kindly, and very gracious woman
to show me that the door was open,
and that I was welcome.

So many years later, I have no idea where Rosemary is, or even
if she is still alive.
But soon, another door is about to open...
I've completed my training for ordination and am now
looking for a charge.  And so we come almost full circle.
Should I encounter some brash, precocious youngster with lots of
attitude and a myriad of questions, I pray for the same graciousness
and patience shown to my younger self.
Blessings on you, Rosemary.
Oh, and for the record, I still have not, as yet, robbed a bank or committed murder.

*googlie - for the non-cricketers... it's a cricketing term: a type of bowling delivery, which can be quite tricky for the batter.

'Crumbs...': a sermon for ordinary 20A

based on Matt 15:(10-20) 21-28 and Isaiah 56:1, 6-8

Let’s pray:

May the words of my mouth and the meditations of all our hearts be acceptable in your sight, O Lord our strength and our redeemer.  Amen.

It’s not easy, being a disciple.

There you are, having left your nets,

your flourishing tax business,

to follow this rabbi, Jesus.

He has some pretty amazing things to say -        

but not everyone in the wider community is particularly chuffed by what they hear.

He seems to like challenging the religious authorities -

making them uncomfortable...

and sometimes, making you rather uncomfortable in the process.

His cousin John did a similar thing,
and...that didn't exactly turn out well.

He throws some pretty astounding

on-the-job training your way,

like catering for the multitudes

or walking on water.

He does some pretty astonishing things too.

Miracles, sure.

But... he also seems to like spending time with the kind of folk 

your mother always warned you about -

you know,

the edgy ones, the outsiders...

the ones who are definitely

‘not     like     us’...

the ones who don’t belong.

It’s hard, being a disciple,

because you find yourself so conflicted at times:

his words, his deeds, and sometimes the company he finds himself in,

often seem to get attention:

the wrong sort of attention.

Abandon any hope of future career

advancement here...

following the rabbi will not only

not make you rich,

you may also lose your respectability.

And yet,

there’s something about him:

he’s a visionary, a prophet,

and you occasionally wonder:

could he be the Messiah

with all his talk of the kingdom of heaven.

It’s not easy, being a disciple.

Perhaps it never has been.

If you think about the long history

of the children of Israel

it’s been a pretty mixed bag of

blessings and woes:

God’s promise to Abraham - of becoming a great nation...

and yet, becoming a nation of slaves in Egypt.

God’s deliverance under the leadership of Moses

and then... 40 years wandering and wondering in the desert.

Reaching the Promised Land,

and crowning your first king,
only to discover that Saul really isn't going to cut the mustard...

The golden years of God’s beloved king, David...

and Solomon the wise, who ruled in splendour...

but then the nation dividing into two...

weakened by infighting.

The kingdom of Israel eventually becoming a spent force

in the face of the might of other kingdoms...

and eventually conquered.

The temple destroyed

the best and brightest sent into exile...

The homecoming,

the rebuilding,

the hope for the future...

followed by further kingdoms

taking over the land...

until eventually, the Roman occupation.

And then,

...Jesus turns up.

He talks of a kingdom
that doesn't follow the usual format of

‘might equals right’,
a kingdom which doesn't put a lot of store 

in power and prestige at the expense

of the weak and the vulnerable...

A kingdom that is totally upside-down

and unlike any other:

the kingdom of God -

the kingdom of heaven.

It isn't easy, being a disciple,

but talk of this very different kingdom,

this very different way of being,

intrigues you enough to want to know more.

Which is why you find yourself

following the rabbi

as he travels the land,

walking around towns and villages,

and where you often land up

in awkward situations.

He’s just offended the Pharisees again -

this time in a conversation about things clean and unclean.

You think the plan to move on to another area is a good one,

except you find yourself in Gentile territory -

with all their strange ideas and customs -

pfft, dogs, the lot of them.

Not like us.

And now there’s some wifey who’s chasing alongside shouting out,

causing a scene.

It’s embarrassing.

It’s...  awkward.

You keep your head down, and keep walking...

and, to your relief,

so does the rabbi.

He outright ignores her:

actually, it’s about the only socially acceptable thing to do 

in the circumstances.

She keeps following, making a scene.
Perhaps the rabbi's silence isn't actually helping - 

maybe he needs to be more firm,

tell her to shove off.

Tell her ‘sorry, love, but you don’t belong here - you’re not one of us.’

And, it seems like he’s going to do just that.

Do the sensible thing;

the right thing,

tells her that it’s simply not in his job spec to speak to such as her.

But instead of going away,

...she stays,

makes an even bigger spectacle of herself.

She falls on her knees and begs...

‘Lord, help me.’

...Funny, Peter said the same thing the other day,

when his experiment with walking on water went wrong.

Seems she thinks that anyone

who calls on the name of the Lord

will be saved. ...

They get into a conversation.

To share, or not to share?

Is it fair to throw the children’s food to the dogs -

to people like her?

Even with that usual, casual insult,

she persists...

a strange clash of cultures here:

dogs are scavengers, pests...

for her, they’re family pets...

she talks of puppies and crumbs.

Crumbs...

And suddenly you remember:

you see in your mind’s-eye 

12 baskets of left-overs

from an improbable feast of a couple of days ago.

So     many     crumbs...

And you’re shaken out of your thoughts as you hear him

marvel at her faith

hear him agree to heal her daughter.

And you know that even as he’s said the words,

somewhere in a house nearby,

a young girl has been restored.

And somehow,

you can almost hear the crazy upside-down kingdom’s borders

getting bigger...

enlarging

expanding...

where all belong,

where all are God’s children,

not just the children of Israel.

It isn't easy, being a disciple.

Perhaps it’s never been.

Here, in the 21^st century, with the benefit of hindsight,

we look back over 2 000 years of church history

and see a mixed bag of blessings and woes,

as disciples through the centuries

have tried to work out what following

Jesus is all about.

Too soon, in the history of the Church,

followers began to buy into the idea of 

building the kingdom of heaven in brick and mortar...

in gold and marble...

caught up in thinking of power based on

earthly models:
of getting caught up in carving out an earthly empire 

where the nations of the earth would 

submit       or   be    crushed.

Where entry was through conversion by the sword 

as the New World was discovered...

where entry was by agreeing to adhere

to long lists of rules and regulations

and if not,

the doors of God’s grace would be slammed firmly shut.

Where the vision of the kingdom of heaven

decreased...

grew smaller and smaller

and only allowed the right sort of people in -

the ones who were just like us.

Somehow, over the centuries,

the children of God appointed themselves 

to the task of being God’s gate-keepers -

holy bouncers -

and in doing so, wholly losing sight

of the vision of the heavenly kingdom

that both the prophet Isaiah and Jesus saw:

a kingdom that was bigger, and broader, than imagined.

It isn't easy, being a disciple

but nothing truly worthwhile is easy.

We’re called to be uncomfortable at times

because as Christ’s body here on earth,

we’re called to share

in the bringing in of the kingdom of heaven -

a kingdom where the powerful are challenged

and where the lowly are raised to places of honour;

a kingdom of peace

a kingdom of rich, and glorious diversity

that breaks down the barriers of discrimination

and includes the kinds of people

that our mothers may just have warned us about.

It’s a kingdom of goodness, justice, and caring for one another:

where the gates are flung wide open

for all to enter in;

a kingdom that is always, always about God’s 

immeasurable generosity and grace:
where all can 'fit under YHWH's umbrella' [FOTW]

where all may come and sit around God’s banqueting table -

not offered crumbs,

but invited to feast,

to celebrate life, in all of its abundance...

...where all it takes is the faith,

the willingness to believe that with God

all things are possible...

The poet, R. S. Thomas described the Kingdom like this:
It's a long oway off but inside it 

There are quite different things going on:

Festivals at which the poor man

Is king and the consumptive is

Healed; mirrors in which the blind look

At themselves and love looks at them

Back; and industry is for mending

The bent bones and the minds fractured

By life.  It’s a long way off, but to get

There takes no time and admission

Is free, if you will purge yourself

Of desire, and present yourself with

Your need only and the simple offering

Of your faith, green as a leaf.

Amen 

'Sowing the seeds of love': Sermon for Ordinary 15A

texts:

Isaiah 55:10-13

Matthew 13: 1-9, 18-23

I’m convinced that gardening is an act of faith.

And, well, let’s be frank,

in my case, it’s the triumph of hope over experience.

So, it’s with a wee sense of irony, that I find 

that the readings for today both contain gardening metaphors:

‘A sower went out to sow...’ - the scattering of seeds, in our text from Matthew.

In our text from Isaiah, the earth being watered so that seeds might grow.

In both texts,

God, the gardener, the sower,

scattering his word-seeds extravagantly,

scattering the word everywhere.

Two readings.

Two different audiences: alike, yet unlike.

Two groups of people

born of the one nation:

God’s own people...

wondering if they’re forsaken

wondering...

if God is still speaking.

Let’s unpack our readings a little.

The background to this particular extract from Isaiah

is a one of sadness and unmitigated sorrow:

the harps hang forlorn upon the trees

as the waters of the Tigris and Euphrates flow past.

At the river bank, the people gather - and sit.

The exiles.

The castaways.

The conquered ones.

...Weeping, they wonder:

how can we sing the Lord’s song

in a strange land?

Numb with grief,

they are the flotsam and jetsam

cast up on the shores of misfortune.

Despair takes hold.

God has stopped speaking.

There are no words. ...

...Or, so it seems.

They’re wrong.

In the midst of their Babylonian captivity,

the words of the prophet Isaiah, remind

the Jewish exiles that God is faithful,

that God has not finished with them yet,

that God’s word will    not    fail...

that God    is still speaking.

Turning to our text from Matthew:

It’s now several hundred years later.

And we find the people of God

living not in exile, but under occupation.

Once again, they are a conquered people.

They find that their homeland is ripe for the picking

and that the imperial Roman army do it ever so efficiently.

New laws, new taxes,

new punishments - crucifixion.

The ways of the Romans are not their ways.

They chafe under the yoke and mutter.

Surely God has forsaken them?

God has stopped speaking -

has nothing,

no word to give them...

Or, so it seems.

They’re wrong.

In the midst of the Roman occupation,

the words of a young rabbi scatter through the land

like seeds,

for those with ears to hear.

God is faithful,

God has not finished with them yet,

God’s word will not fail...

for here, in flesh, in blood, in bone

God’s word walks among them

is one of them

and God is most definitely still speaking.

What are the words being scattered?

What is being sown by God, the gardener

to the exiles,

to the conquered under occupation?

These seeds are words of the kingdom:

of God’s reign

of the good news.

These seeds are...

Words of comfort and reassurance: take heart, dear ones, I have not forgotten you.

These seeds are

Words of hope: look up, lift up your heads

They are Words of freedom and peace:  look up, for your liberation is at hand - rejoice.

They are Words of renewal:

I am the God who refreshes and restores -

like the snow, like the rain watering the land.

They are Words of life that nurture and nourish:

abundant life. 

...Resurrection

and these are Words... that never fail - for God is faithful for all time.

Into the wasteland of exile and occupation

God the gardener sows the seeds of love:

God    is    still speaking.

And how are the words being scattered?

Freely. 

Unstintingly.

Without measure.

Heedless to the type of ground

the seed might fall upon,

God sows the seeds of love without prejudice or distinction,

not judging in advance who is worthy

or who is unworthy to receive them:
the seeds     are for all,

for the seeds are scattered in the abundance

of God’s generosity and grace.

They are scattered far and wide -

the word sent throughout the whole world:

scattered on the paths meant for peace,

but so often consumed by the hawks of war;

scattered in the rocky ground of social injustice

and deprivation that withers and destroys the soul;

scattered in the thorn bushes of addiction,

neglect, apathy; random violence;

...  ...scattered too, in soil that gives the optimum conditions for flourishing and growth...

In the dark places

the light places

and all the places in between,

God sows the seeds of love

for God is still speaking:

Speaking to the exiles,

speaking to those living under foreign occupation...

...speaking to us,     even now. ... ...

I often have this picture of Jesus in my mind’s-eye:

I see him walking about the dusty highways and byways

with his mates, his disciples,

just chatting with them -

telling them about the God’s Kingdom;

telling them about God’s love.

I can almost hear him saying:
‘you are loved,

you are precious in God’s sight,

rejoice and be glad,

and tell others the good news:

that they, too, are loved beyond measure.’

He’s sowing the seeds of love:

scattering words of hope, and life, and liberation...

and encouraging all who follow him

to go and do likewise -

to sow the seeds of love

in a sometimes very unloved and unlovely world;

a world that contains places

where people feel lost, forsaken, in despair,

and, if they did believe in a God,

would wonder why God has stopped speaking.

...Or, so it seems....  

In the midst of this world,

in the footsteps of the sower,

we, too are sowers -

loved and precious in God’s sight

and called to scatter the seeds,

the word of God,

wherever, and whenever we can;

to scatter the seeds of God’s word

extravagantly

generously,

joyfully...

mirroring the wideness of God’s mercy -

to show the good news

that the kingdom of heaven

is within us

while giving thanks for the fullness of the kingdom yet to come.

‘We are called to treat God’s love, God’s justice, and God’s blessing,

precious as these are, as if they were absolutely limitless in supply

for one simple reason:

they are.  They really are.’ [Sarah Dylan Brewer]

As we sow the seeds of God’s word,

so we proclaim to the world

that God is faithful

that God is not finished with any of us yet,

that God’s word will not fail

...that God, in love and grace,

is still speaking -

speaking words of love

that will burst forth into blossom,

30,

60,

...100 times over.  ...

Let’s pray:

God we give you thanks,

for forever sowing the seeds of life,

for giving us the Word of life that is Jesus,

for making us living seeds, tiny yet fruitful,

the scattering of your hand

beloved and precious in your sight.

Give us ears to hear,

to listen to your voice,

for in faith, we know

that you are still speaking.

Amen.

[based on a prayer by Leith Fisher]

lectionary leanings: 'Castaway God'

Have been pondering one of the readings for tomorrow:
Isaiah 55:10-13

The words from the Book of Isaiah are aimed at the Babylonian captives:
exiles, castaways... and in a lateral tangent I began to think of 'Desert Island Discs'
and wondered what if God were the 'castaway' interviewee...
What 8 pieces of music would God choose - the Psalms?
What book [apart from the Bible and Complete Works of Shakespeare]?
And what would be God's luxury item?
The interweaving conversation would be quite something.

I can almost hear Kirsty Young’s introduction:
*cue signature tune, fade...*

Our castaway this morning is someone who has been the subject of countless words:

writers through the centuries have praised and pondered him,

others have criticised and condemned him.

Turning to his own words:

He’s been in the word-smithing business since before Adam was a boy -

His own word brought creation into being,

His book has been in the all-time best-seller list

since before the printing press was invented;

he has only to speak, and the mountains bow down before him

and trees have been known to clap their hands in joy.

He’s been extravagantly scattering his word on pathways,

in rocky and thorny places,

and even on good soil for generation upon generation

And such is the power of his imagination

his Word became flesh and dwelt among us,

and we have seen his glory...
--------------------------------------------

Hmmm, quite like the idea of 'castaway God'.  Perhaps something to explore at another point when I am not sermon-procrastinating!

'You're welcome!' - a sermon for Ordinary 13A

Texts:
Ps 89: 1-2, 5-16
Matthew 10: 40-42

One of my favourite kids worship songs

is a song by Fischy Music.

It’s a simple, cheery, song of welcome,

and the words are short and to the point:

‘Welcome everybody, it’s good to see you here    

- said x three -

gathered in this place.’

Who knows, I may yet get the chance to teach it to you all 

before I leave in September -

and this particular welcome song comes with actions - 

so you’ve all been warned!

Welcome...and actions...

In our gospel reading this morning,

we find Jesus talking of welcome,

a welcome that comes with actions...

a welcome that is, in this instance,

quite specifically aimed at those,

who follow God,

being made welcome.

Jesus says -

‘whoever welcomes you’ - Jesus is talking to his disciples here...

‘whoever welcomes God’s messenger’ -

prophets and preachers and anyone who proclaims the good news of God...

‘whoever welcomes a good man’ [or woman!] -

other versions of the bible translate this as

‘the righteous’

and lastly,

‘whoever welcomes the least of my followers’

and here, we have an action:

the welcoming of the least is linked to the most basic - 

the most fundamental - act of hospitality:

providing a drink of cold water.

In this passage, then, we see various

kinds of follower,

from the very visible, to the barely visible:

from the great and the humble, to those in-between.

And we learn that to welcome any who follow Jesus,

is to welcome Jesus himself.

Here we get a glimpse of how the followers of Jesus are, 

in effect, the body of Christ.

And we also get a glimpse of how we should see one another:

for in order to welcome someone,

we first need to see them.

The God who sees us

calls us to see each other -

but more than that:

to see the spark of the divine in one another:

to see God in each other.

There’s something of the sacred then,

in the act of welcome.

But, in order to recognise God in one another

how do we see God?

The way in which the writer of our psalm sees God,

whilst singing God’s praises,

give us some helpful clues concerning the nature,

the character of God.

The psalmist sings:

‘O Lord, I will always sing of your constant love;

I will proclaim your faithfulness forever’. ...

In the reading, ‘constant love’ and ‘faithfulness’ just keep cropping up -

in this particular extract, we get to hear about

both of these attributes three times.

Then there’s the uniqueness of God:

‘no one in heaven is like you...’

God is seen as ‘awesome’,

‘none is as mighty’,

God is ‘powerful’ and ‘strong’.

 We see how God’s strength can calm the

‘angry waves’ of the sea -

which, several centuries later will be demonstrated by Jesus,

on the Sea of Galilee,

in a boat,

in the midst of a fierce storm...

The psalmist praises a God who is

supreme,

creative,

imaginative:

The heavens, the earth -

belong to God,

who created the world

and all therein...

And in the midst of the psalm,

we have a key statement which gives us a huge steer,

not only in how we see God,

but how we see each other -

how we welcome each other.

That statement?

‘Your kingdom is founded on

righteousness and justice;

love and faithfulness are shown in all you do.’

At Presbytery on Thursday evening, the Moderator 

reflected on the various fruit of the Spirit: 

love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, 

gentleness and self-control -

this list coming from Paul’s letter to the Galatians. 

And it got me wondering about how these are demonstrated

each time we see one another -

each time we welcome and worship and walk with God together.

While some of these may come a little more easily than others,

the list serves to help us begin to tease out

those kingdom values of

righteousness and justice

that the psalmist sings about,

for righteousness and justice is bound up

with building each other up

in love, in joy,

by being patient and kind,

good and faithful, gentle,

and having some modicum of self-control...

okay, let's just not mention chocolate biscuits!!

But welcome is not only about us.

While our gospel reading 

‘invites us to explore in depth the quality of the welcome 

that we offer to one another within the Body of Christ...

we must also reflect on the welcome we offer

to those who are not yet a part of this body.’ [FOTW]

For, echoing last week,

we worship a God who not only sees us,

we worship the God who sees the outsider:

in the case of last week, Hagar.

How then, might we extend God’s welcome

to those on the edges or outwith

the community of Christ’s followers?

...Sometimes, it may be as simple as a random act of kindness...

acts like the ones in the wee film that [ppt person]'s going to play for us now...

[FILM]

Who are the people around us,

unseen,

unnoticed,

ignored by the wider community?

As we wander through our neighbourhoods,

or along the High St,

who might we see?

who are the unwanted ones?

the unwelcome ones?

who are the thirsty ones -

the ones that we could give a drink of water to?

That we could extend God’s welcome to?

the ones who we see

as God’s beloved ones -

or even,

as Christ, in the stranger’s guise?

One very practical thing, that you,

as a congregation are already doing,

has recently been to come alongside

the work of the [name of local group] Project...

seeing young homeless folk,

and helping them to turn a space into a home

when they’re offered housing.

[Seaside Parish community worker] was telling me on Thursday morning

that through your care and kindness,

the second of the starter packs

has already been given away.

Another young person has been given more than a cup of cold water:

that particular way of extending welcome is a ‘welcome to your new home.’

That’s just ...awesome...

I may be biased, but...so are all of you -

Keep up this good work:

the work of active welcome.

Practicing acts of kindness -

whether random or intentional -

is part and parcel of extending welcome:

to welcome someone

is to acknowledge their existence.

In a time and culture that’s geared towards suspicion and mistrust,

the act of welcoming someone is perhaps 

the most radical thing that we can do:

and welcoming those deemed

the last and the least -

those who some would prefer to be

out of sight and out of mind,

is a pretty random act of kindness indeed:

something that seems to make no sense...

And yet,

in God’s kingdom of righteousness and justice it makes complete sense.

For in the radical act of welcome,

as you see,

really see others

you may just come face to face with Christ.

And now, to him be all glory, honour and praise.  Amen.