Remembering at Trinity Hall

Sunday evening saw me driving down to Cambridge to preach at the Remembrance Service in Trinity Hall Chapel, which was well packed (as was the Cathedral in the morning). We were treated to some great music (Purcell: Music for the Funeral of Queen Mary with the ‘Orpheus Britannicus Brass Ensemble’) and the good congregation had to abide yet another sermon. I took the same line that I did at the Cathedral in the morning, but three additional thoughts crept it:

1. Jean’s father’s name could easily have been in the Book of Remembrance on the altar there. He was a Trinity Hall man and, sailing out to Egypt as an RAF chaplain, had a near miss when a shell ricocheted round his cabin. Of course, if had been more than that, then he wouldn’t have married and had Jean, who wouldn’t have married me and perhaps I wouldn’t have been ordained and there to give the sermon.
2. With students, I risked the metaphor for our life in the memory of God of programmes and data running on the present hardware of our bodies, being uploaded onto the big server we call God, and then downloaded again onto new hardware in the new heaven and new earth. I’m not sure whether this is theologically spot on, or silly.
3. The theme of the college evensongs this term was “Churches in the Landscape” and I finished by noting that churches are the places in our physical and cultural landscapes where our remembering meets God’s.

Filed under: Sermons and Talks

A Sermon for Remembrance Sunday at Ely Cathedral

It is very good indeed to be gathering here today as a company of all ages,  to remember those who have served our country and especially those who have given their lives in that service. Thinking of the younger of you here, I’ve been doing some remembering of my own, back into my boyhood days. One of my earliest memories is of wandering around on a bomb site by my father’s vicarage in Sheffield in the mid fifties, aged about five, picking up spent fireworks on the day after bonfire night. It’s funny how the very smell and feel of what must have been quite an exciting adventure can come back after all these years.

Of course I had no idea then, really, why bonfire night happened, or what a bombsite was, or why Remembrance Day must have been being kept around then as well. That’s just how things were.

Fast forward say five years and my memory is of the bustle of a junior school playground – one day a big game of cowboys and Indians, the next the Battle of Britain re-enacted by a score of boys with their duffle coat hoods up and sides held out as wings making machine gun noises at each other. War stories still filled the comics – but the reality of war and the reason for war was well beyond us.

Only with adolescence I suppose and the proper study of history at school, and an awakening sense of political life, would come any grown-up engagement with what all of this, the frame of so much of my childhood, had actually been about.

But I find it remarkable that even after years of such adult reflection, those early memories are still there, and in some ways more ‘me’ than the things that followed. Somehow, deep within the neural wiring of our brains, these key memories live on, and perhaps it is a combination of those and our deepest character traits that is most really ‘us’ – the bits we would want transplanting into a new brain and new body if ever that became possible, in order to have some continuity of identity, to still be ‘us’!

That isn’t something we can do now though, and perhaps never will be able to. So when we die, is that the end of us? Some people seem to be able to accommodate themselves to that bleak sort of reality, and we cannot prove in a scientific sense that that is not the case. But whenever human consciousness and culture have emerged, it is remarkable that with them seems to have come – in some shape or form – an imperative to make sense not just of this life, but of some sort of existence after it. The self that has emerged seems naturally to understand itself and other selves not as temporary phenomena or just an additional expression of the common gene pool, but as individuals of something more than contingent worth, as something, someone born, begun, created who is always going to have their own unique story and value.

Religions, philosophies and cultures have found a thousand ways of expressing this and enabling us to express it – and in a sense that is what we are doing here today. Every person we remember is unique, special, beloved, a beginning that we cannot simply declare has come to an end.

The Christian faith itself has developed more than one way of talking about this, but common to them all, I think, is the assertion that though we may and must die in this life, in Christ is a path to a greater life, bigger than death and beyond death, which we can start to experience now but will only fully know when creation is recreated in the new heaven and new earth of which the scriptures speak.

The fact that sometimes what we do in the name of that faith, whether in our worship or more importantly in the way we live our lives, does not exactly resound with that fullness of life is of course an issue. A small boy was taken into a Remembrance Chapel and shown the names on the wall. “Those are the people”, said his mother, “who lost their lives in the services”. “Mummy”, the boy replied after a worried silence, “was that the morning service that we go to, or the evening one?”

Nevertheless, life greater than death is at the heart of our faith. One way of thinking about it is to remember that our faith also teaches about a God who is more than the chilly extrapolations of virtues of Greek philosophy, a ‘who’ not a ‘what’, as personal as us, even if inconceivably more so, who also knows and loves and remembers each one of us, with inside knowledge, even with the experience of death. Perhaps we could say that it is in his remembering that the deepest things in each of us, the very ‘us’ that is us, can live in a way that death cannot destroy, and become part of the new heaven and new earth that we are promised.

God knows us. God loves us. God remembers us. But we remember too. We remember here, today. We remember family members and friends who died in the great wars of the last century. We remember those who have served and are serving in the many conflicts which have followed. We remember those in peril today and those who love them. We remember those who have not come back from that peril alive. We remember in our hearts. We remember on countless memorials, and in libraries of books. And….. we remember in the way we choose to live our own lives as we keep in mind the example of those who have gone before us. It would be invidious for me to name individuals at this point – we remember them all: there is not one whose memory cannot move and inspire us in some way. But one image is perhaps fresh in many of our minds, of a young and highly expert bomb disposal officer, dying in Helmand province in the course of his duty. All warfare is risky. But the survival statistics for those defusing these explosive devices have a grim inevitability about them. Such experts accept a vocation to lay down their life, whether in the demanding exercise of their skills or in the real possibility of death itself, so that others – every person who will passes that way – might live.

We remember. We salute such men and women and all who have given themselves in life and death that others may live. We commit ourselves to live the same sort of life ourselves. Amen.

Filed under: Christianity, Church of England, Sermons and Talks , Ely Cathedral, Remembrance Sunday

A Touching Time at Thriplow

This week also saw me at Thriplow to institute a fellow Sheffielder, the Revd Canon Linda Church, as Rector for the benefice of Fowlmere, Foxton, Thriplow and Shepreth. She comes to us from the Hucknall Team Ministry, and one the folk ‘giving her away’ from there got us off to a cheerful start by announcing that he used to be 18 inches taller until he had to start keep up with Linda in her work. The service brought a good blend of seriousness and informality, and we enjoyed getting to know the more prayerful side of Linda as well, as you can find out about in my sermon, based on the unusual reading she chose: John’s account of Mary Magdalene anointing the feet of Jesus and washing them with her hair.

Filed under: Art, Church of England, Sermons and Talks

March Mothers’ Union Rally

I was the guest preacher earlier this week at the 115th (!!) annual Rally of the March Mothers’ Union, held at St Peter’s Church. It was great to see the church having a real birthday of a transformation, bringing out the inherent prayerfulness of its excellent proportions, and even better to be with a good crowd of “God’s secret army”. The spread afterwards was predictably phenomenal. Thank you!

Read on to find out what I had to say: there’s lots about sheep!

Filed under: Events, Sermons and Talks

March Mothers’ Union Rally

I was the guest preacher earlier this week at the 115th (!!) annual Rally of the March Mothers’ Union, held at St Peter’s Church. It was great to see the church having a real birthday of a transformation, bringing out the inherent prayerfulness of its excellent proportions, and even better to be with a good crowd of “God’s secret army”. The spread afterwards was predictably phenomenal. Thank you!

Read on to find out what I had to say: there’s lots about sheep!

Filed under: Events, Sermons and Talks

All Saints’ Day

A sermon for All Saints’ Church Huntingdon on All Saints’ Day

Today’s Revelation reading paints a wonderful picture of a new heaven and a new earth, of earth as it should always have been. All our broken relationships with God are put right, as right as a beautiful wife with her husband on the day of their wedding. That gnawing sense of our inadequacy, of our ugliness, of our rejection, is gone, and we are at home with God. All our broken human relationships too are made whole, as every tear is wiped away from our eyes, and there is no more death, nor mourning, nor crying, nor pain, for the old order of things has passed away, and everything is made new. God’s love, as today’s Gospel so graphically shows us in the raising of Lazarus from the dead, is stronger than death itself, and we who have gone through the waters of death with Christ in baptism now rise with him to the glory of life everlasting.

We are destined to be citizens of heaven, and pretty well by definition there are no second-class citizens there. There is a sort of democracy in sainthood. The light of God shines so strongly that every other light, however striking, pales beside I, and becomes one colour among many in the myriad that blend and play together in the rainbow-light of his life.

In my mind, as I say that, are the stained glass windows that are a feature of so many of our churches, full of the saints of old. By night, with no light outside, you cannot barely make them out. On a dull day you can see who they are and take note of their stories – but in a prosaic sort of way. It’s a good light to photograph them by, for the record. But when the sun really shines, then they come alive and their colours sing out and we get the point, we see the light, we see the whole point is that they have been willing to stand before the light so that the little they can offer up to heaven from earth is transformed and transfigured by heaven’s light coming to earth. Their lives shine out not so much with the detail of their own stories – another bishop, another evangelist – but with the great story of God, building heaven on earth, little by little, saint by saint, church by church, you by you, by you, by you

God needs All Saints Huntingdon to be full of his saints. He yearns for the whole of Huntingdon to be an outpost of heaven, full of all the saints he can fit into it. He longs for people who have said ‘yes’ to the call of his love, that have become living windows for his light wherever they go.

How can we do that? How can you do that, when you are well aware of how easy it is for all of us to fall short of such a glorious calling? Let’s go back to the beginning.

First comes the restoration of our relationships with God. There is a corporate dimension to this; there are things we can do as a whole church together; but the primary place for this restoration to happen is in every one of our souls, quietly and privately, with the help if need be of a trusted friend or spiritual director. We have all been battered by life. We all, it seems, wrestle with issues of self-worth, whether that leads us towards dark depression or dangerous forms of compensation. In prayer and holy conversation we can recover something of what it means to know that we are simply loved by God because we are. We often speak of the perfect Father-love of God. Today’s Revelation reading offers us an alternative image of a loving couple, knowing surely – adults as they are – each others’ weaknesses and foibles, but in the miracle that is love letting even those be the occasion of greater affection and care. To let ourselves know a love like this again is the beginning and perhaps the end too of the Christian life.

Secondly comes the restoration of our relationships with one another. The world is a cruel playground of a place, and few escape without grazes and bruises. We push each other around, name call, gang up and send to Coventry as if we were still all five year olds. No wonder some of us are hurt, some wounded and want to retire, some fight back to defend our turf. It isn’t of course meant to be like that. This side of heaven it often will be, but we are called when we can to pull down the walls of hostility and division, make peace and make friends. The saints in the windows aren’t much help to us visually here: they tend to stand alone and somewhat aloof – but even more powerful is the symbol of the communion we share, the one bread, the one body. Together, around the table, we can let our tears be wiped away.

And then finally, if we can manage to have so made our peace with God and with each other – just enough, just enough not to get in God’s way, the miracle of the windows can start to make itself known. Our pieces have been cleaned down from all the dust and grime that obscured them. They have been put back together and their damage made good. They are content again to simply shine out for God – and as others pass by they will glimpse the glory, a sign that God’s kingdom can come for them too.

Christmas is not far away, and as you meet here then in All Saints the lights inside will illuminate the windows and catch the eyes of all that pass by, luring them not to death but life. As the season now changes and the long preparation for Christmas begins, let your light so shine.

Collect

Almighty God,
you have knit together your elect
in one communion and fellowship
   in the mystical body of your Son Christ our Lord:
grant us grace so to follow your blessèd saints
in all virtuous and godly living
that we may come to those inexpressible joys
that you have prepared for those who truly love you;
through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord,
who is alive and reigns with you,
in the unity of the Holy Spirit,
one God, now and for ever.

Filed under: Celebrating the Saints, Sermons and Talks

Kimbolton School Celebrates Founders Day

I was delighted to be invited over to Kimbolton School today to preach at their Founder’s Day Service, meet lots of people and share a very good lunch. My thanks and congratulations go to Jonathan Belbin the Headmaster and Nicki Bland the Chaplain and all those who made it such a special occasion.

Students contributed well to the service in music, with readings and prayers, telling us why the school houses are named as they are, and acting out the parable of the Wise and Foolish Builders: which was the starting point for my sermon:

It’s a great privilege to be with you today, my second visit, and to feel I’m getting to know you a bit. Not well enough yet, though, to know what your favourite television programmes are. Jean and I enjoy looking at Location Location and Grand Designs. And now you’ve heard the story of the man who built his house on the rock and the man who built on the sand, you know where they got the idea from.

There’s something exciting about seeing houses built. I’ve been part of the project to build a new church in Cambourne and just this week it is being handed over. Do go and have a look! I am reminded of another new-build church where the vicar had a quiet word with the builders and had special pews installed that he could cause to roll to the front when he pressed a green button on the pulpit. At the opening service the congregation sat at the back as usual and with glee he pushed the button, watched them roll forward, and preached his heart out. Unfortunately he got rather carried away and after half an hour the churchwarden quietly went to the back of the church and pressed a red button on the wall there – and the pulpit slowly sank beneath the floor.

I’d better be getting on with this sermon then… So back to buildings and Grand Designs. Had you noticed that every time it seems to be getting the foundations right that catches the builder out.

Filed under: Sermons and Talks

What is wisdom?

This morning saw me driving down to Cambridge to preside at the Eucharist at St Benet’s Church, and confirm Beth and Jeff. In such a learned setting I foolishly asked the question, “What is wisdom?”. To find out more, read on …

Filed under: Sermons and Talks , Bonhoeffer, Cambridge, Wisdom

Kids in heaven

This year’s Schools’ Days in Ely Cathedral are under way, and I’m just back from the first one. Hundreds of children having a great time, following Christian on his Pilgrim’s Progress, meeting the Giant Despair, being locked up in Vanity Fair … and ending up under the Octagon (built as a symbol of heaven) in the Celestial City for worship.

Which is where I came in, in my best gold cope and mitre. Click on more to find out what I said, and why the kids were all gazing into heaven.

Filed under: Sermons and Talks , Ely Cathedral, Ely Diocese, Schools

Bassingbourn comes to Christ

Congratulations to Richard, Ibby, Alice and Abigail who confirmed their faith  in Christ and were given the confirming gift of the Holy Spirit at a service in Bassingbourn Parish Church last night. There was a full church with great music, a sensitive blend of liveliness and reverence – and excellent refreshments. The fact that both Richard, in his 80’s and recently widowed, and one of his grand-daughters were being confirmed gave it an extra special family feel. These were the two Bible readings picked for the occasion – and my thoughts on them, as I remembered how I too, like Nicodemus, had once met with God in the night.

Titus 3.3-7

³ At one time we too were foolish, disobedient, deceived and enslaved by all kinds of passions and pleasures. We lived in malice and envy, being hated and hating one another. ⁴ But when the kindness and love of God our Saviour appeared, ⁵ he saved us, not because of righteous things we had done, but because of his mercy. He saved us through the washing of rebirth and renewal by the Holy Spirit, ⁶ whom he poured out on us generously through Jesus Christ our Saviour, ⁷ so that, having been justified by his grace, we might become heirs having the hope of eternal life.

John 3.1-8

Now there was a man of the Pharisees named Nicodemus, a member of the Jewish ruling council. ² He came to Jesus at night and said, “Rabbi, we know you are a teacher who has come from God. For no-one could perform the miraculous signs you are doing if God were not with him.”

³ In reply Jesus declared, “I tell you the truth, no-one can see the kingdom of God unless he is born again.”

⁴ “How can a man be born when he is old?” Nicodemus asked. “Surely he cannot enter a second time into his mother’s womb to be born!”

⁵ Jesus answered, “I tell you the truth, no-one can enter the kingdom of God unless he is born of water and the Spirit. ⁶ Flesh gives birth to flesh, but the Spirit gives birth to spirit. ⁷ You should not be surprised at my saying, ‘You must be born again.’ ⁸ The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit.”

In the old days people used to believe that we were able to see things because some sort of sight-wave was emitted by our eyes, which illuminated or captured the thing we were looking at. Our hands reach out and touch, our tongue can reach out and taste, why not our eyes reach out and see?

When night falls, though, we might wonder – if we look at things that way – why our eyes are no longer able to do their job. It starts to become clearer that the reason we can see things is that they are emitting or reflecting light that our eyes receive rather than project, and we can identify in the night sky for instance the very specific light sources that are beaming photons towards us. By day there is so much light around that we just take it forgranted.

Wisdom and understanding can work in rather the same way. We grow up on a sort of auto-pilot, picking up habits and insight, common sense and silly ideas as we go along. The education system gives us extra information, and ways to process it, but is mostly concerned with knowledge not wisdom, and learning can stand in for understanding too. The net result is, as St Paul puts it in writing to Titus, that to a greater or smaller extent, “at one time we too were foolish, disobedient, deceived and enslaved by all kinds of passions and pleasures.” And the search for wisdom, for a good, sensible, sustainable and loving life is a search that we all have to undertake.

So how can we find wisdom? It was a major theme as the Old Testament came to be written. You’ll have heard of the Wisdom of Solomon; but in and around the Bible there is a whole library of books on wisdom of various kinds.

One phrase stands out from that library, that tradition. “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.” What a strange motto for them to settle on. Who wants to be afraid? In what sense can fear be good?

Let’s go back to that night sky. I remember a time when I was quite a young man, still in my teens, when I was up at Oxford and thought far too much of myself for my own good. Then one night I walked out into the college quadrangle and looked up at the night sky, full of stars. It was a humbling moment. Here was I thinking myself so clever, but there was the universe, a trillion trillion times vaster than anything my mind could comprehend. The tables were turned. God was no longer an interesting subject for me to think about – my eyes reaching out to capture him. I had to accept that it was his sight that was holding me, his light that illuminated me, his life that I lived.

Filed under: Sermons and Talks