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John the Baptist - a faith like his?
 2nd Sunday of Advent
Year A – Eucharist – 5.xii.2004
(Isaiah 11.1-10; Matthew 3.1-12)
Martin Jackson, Vicar
John the Baptist appeared in the wilderness of Judea, proclaiming, ‘Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.’
Bradley Schmeling, commenting on this passage which we’ve had for our Gospel reading writes,
"I would love to have had John the Baptist's job. Think of how fun it would be to have license to thunder judgment on the deserving. While most of us might wrinkle our brow and talk quietly and earnestly about how difficult it is to speak the judgment of God, we take secret delight in doing it. I'd trade my vestments in a second for some scratchy camel hair, even have a taste of a honey-dipped grasshopper, if I could stand in the pulpit and shout, "You brood of vipers, who warned you to flee from the wrath to come?" ...
Do you have a secret desire to be a ranter? For some people, that’s what pulpits are for… To tell people what’s right and – more particularly – what they’re doing wrong. People who rant are people who are good at diagnosing the problem, less effective at suggesting the solution. What we might fear is that John the Baptist is a bit of a ranter. He’s got the attention of the crowd – but is he really going to make a difference to their lives?
Perhaps sometimes we’ve just got to get things off our chests – to let off steam. I confess that something rang a bell for me in a passage which we printed in this month’s parish magazine – something written by a priest who was very evidently having a bad hair day. He’s sitting in his study with a ‘Big memorial service in an hour, at which we will sing two traditional hymns, and listen to three pieces from "the most relaxing classical music CD ever"’, and he reflects:
I don't know which part I am dreading more, the insipid music or the half-hearted singing. I conducted two weddings in the last month where not only did we have a solo cantor (that would be me) singing the hymns, but also a solo pray-er (that would also be me) praying wild, radical things like the Lord's Prayer. The occasional offices in the CofE are becoming more and more like open mike night at a Stand up club: one man speaking in a room full of people who are irritated that the serious business of drinking is being interrupted. You do all the talking, all the singing, all the praying, and, probably, 90% of the believing.
I know what he feels – he writes anonymously because he senses that he shouldn’t say what he feels, but other people say it to you. There are occasions when preparations for a wedding can seem frustrating because you wonder just who is going to join in the hymn-singing anyway? I’m getting to the point where I think we’re going to have to ask couples to print the Lord’s Prayer into the order of service for a wedding because so few people actually know it – and it can be not much different for funerals either.
But having said that I have to ask myself, “so what?” After all what am I here to do? There’s more to proclaiming the Gospel than shouting about what’s wrong and where people are falling down. If people can’t sing the hymns, then where have we failed so that they don’t they know them in the first place? Or maybe there’s something wrong with the hymns? If they don’t know the Lord’s Prayer, then shouldn’t we hope that the minimal contact that they get with us at a wedding or funeral might encourage them to learn it? We should want more people coming to our churches who don’t have a clue about their faith. The feeling that they’re going to be given a test of faith at the church door is just going to put more people off entering. When people turn up sheepishly at a Baptism with no idea of how to behave, that’s surely the time that we should say “Great, come in!” When they just want to get the wedding service over with so that they can enjoy the reception, that’s the opportunity to help them experience what Christian celebration really is.
Perhaps what’s really significant about the ministry of John the Baptist is that it takes place out of doors. He doesn’t try to get people inside a holy place so that they can worship God in a prescribed form with a set liturgy. They could do that anyway in the synagogue with even bigger do’s at the Temple in Jerusalem. John the Baptist is not an example of what you do with dutiful Sunday morning religion. He’s the Sunday afternoon attraction when the time’s your own and you want some entertainment. “What shall we do today? Well, I’ve heard that there’s this strange bloke living out of town who wears camel’s hair clothes, eats locusts and wild honey, and shouts at people. He pulls quite a crowd. Why don’t we go and take a look at him?” There must have been something of an entertainment factor involved. William Dalrymple, in his book ‘From the Holy Mountain,’ writes about the stylites, hermits who lived and preached from pillars in the wilderness a few centuries later:
…visiting these pillar saints was a popular afternoon’s outing for the pious ladies of Antioch’s more fashionable suburbs. The most chic stylite of all was undoubtedly Symeon, whose pillar lay a convenient palanquin’s ride from the waterfalls of Daphne, the resort where Antony took Cleopatra for their honeymoon.
But it was more than a day out. People went out to see these living saints and found something that touched their hearts. They saw something radically different from the lives they led day by day, and had to ask “Why do these people do this?” What took the hermits into the desert to lead lives of austerity, self-denial and constant prayer? People had to keep going back. And it seems to have been the same with John the Baptist. People went out to see an oddity. But they found someone with a calling from God. They found themselves asked, what sort of a change do you need to make in your own lives? And they realised this was no longer a case of a mad ranter pointing out where they’d gone wrong. They could see it for themselves – they found they wanted to admit it, and they were baptised as a sign of the new life they wanted to lead.
We could see the life of John the Baptist as something of a tragedy. St. Luke’s Gospel tells us of the months leading up to his birth – and then there’s silence until his appearance in the desert. And then there’s not much time before he gets arrested and has his head cut off on the orders of the king. For the other Gospel writers there’s nothing about him until he comes on the scene as if from nowhere. But of course there must have been all the years of his childhood and of the experience that brought him to this point. An experience of God was formed in him which now he shares with others. It’s important to recognise this. We don’t get our faith worked out in an instant – just like that! There are the moments when things may seem to fall into place – but they’re all the things which have been going on over the long years beforehand. What makes us what we are? Can we appreciate the lives which already we lead? – and see what God can do with them?
I’ve found myself greatly moved by the story of Margaret Hassan, the aid worker who’s now presumed to have died at the hands of those who took her hostage in Iraq. Hers was an impressive life, especially in the years since the first Gulf War when she stood alongside the Iraqi people whose nationality she had adopted – when she campaigned against the sanctions which she saw afflicting so much misery on her people. I read that she took Iraqi nationality at the time of her marriage to her husband Tahseen – and that she’d converted to Isalm. But it seems not. A new obituary I’ve read just this weekend sheds more light on her motivation. As a young woman she’d been a member of the “Grail” community, an institute for Catholic women, and this had taken her to Beirut to set up a project to assist Palestinian refugees. Back in England she’d trained in youth and community work, eventually working as secretary to the director of the Catholic Youth Services Council. Her life’s work of course was mainly in Iraq teaching and then as director of an aid organisation. But she didn’t leave her faith behind. Each Sunday – even as the bombs fell on Baghdad – her husband would drive her to church and wait outside for her as she attended Mass. Her final captivity and death are a tragedy. But her life will continue to be more – a rebuke to the people of violence, and to those who trample on others; a life which could have been much more comfortable, but which she embraced gladly for the sake of others… which seems to have grown from the prompting of her faith.
And this can bring us back to ask where we are pointed by a life such as hers… by a ministry of one such as John the Baptist. His life may seem to end in tragedy. We may wonder at what seems to have been a ministry of shouting on his part – the seeming violence of his terminology, and his threats of one who is coming to lay an axe to the roots of the tree with a winnowing-fork and unquenchable fire. But he has it right when he says, ‘one who is more powerful than I is coming after me; I am not worthy to carry his sandals.’ John points us on the way, beyond himself, to Jesus. He may not grasp the implications – but which of us does? For now the call is to be faithful, to ask “what does God require of me?” And to act upon that call.
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Christmas - comfort and challenge
 Christmas Night - Midnight Mass – 24/25.xii.2004
Martin Jackson, Vicar
Isaiah 52.7-10;
Hebrews 1.1-4;
John 1.1-14
Christmas is a season I’ve really learned to value here at St. Cuthbert’s. How beautiful the church is at this time! How much work goes into all those preparations of things both seen and unseen: the flowers, the decorations (in church and in the hall), the crib, tree and candles, all the cleaning which we could easily take for granted, though there are so many long hours given up in hard work. And all those things we enjoy: Christmas meals, the pre-Christmas concert with the Gleemen and the Handbell Ringers; the Sunday School Nativity presentation; dare I say it?.. the services – and the expectancy and anticipation of those who come.
It’s not just in church, but in the wider community too. A Nativity Play and Christmas Show in our local Infants’ School. Two carol services with other primary schools – and two more in our residential homes. They’re all about celebrating, about remembering the Christmas story, of discovering again what is truly true. And often we’re re-awakened to those things that are central to our faith as we see how children celebrate – or find new insights in the Christmas memories of the elderly. This is a season of beauty and warmth – a time to enjoy. If only we could hold onto it!
Someone writing about the way children’s Nativity Plays always seem to bring something new into our hearts raised the question, should we make Christmas so much about comfort for our children, or should we use the story to challenge them? Their answer was, let’s go for the comfort – they’ll find enough to challenge their assumptions as they get older. That’s not to say that we’re pulling the wool over their eyes when we sing well-loved carols and gather dewy-eyed around the crib. It’s to say something very real about our needs. The need for comfort and succour is there in the Christmas story. The child of Bethlehem may be born into homelessness in a stable in conditions we should be careful not to sentimentalise – but the first need of Jesus is for protection and care. He needs the Mother who takes him in her arms, gives him warmth, holds him to her breast and keeps the harshness of the world at bay. He needs Joseph who will protect him and provide for him even at the risk of suffering ridicule and the loss of livelihood. He needs people like those shepherds – rough characters who stand for us as strangers who happen upon him to find their hearts warmed and their spirits lifted. The birth of Jesus in Bethlehem tells us that God’s needs are first of all the needs of a child – because he is born as any one of us. So let this celebration of Christmas be a time of comfort and warmth for children – let it speak to the child in each and every one of us, and remind us of our true needs.
But as we grow we know all too well the challenges of this life, the things which test our faith. We can be left feeling that the comfort which we seek in Christmas is but a window of escape from the hard realities of life. Too easily we can find ourselves saying “Christmas is a time for children” – and discover in those words a tacit admission that “it’s not really for me.” The world we know is a world of harsh economics where we pay for what we get; a world where justice is denied to millions along with adequate food, clean water and basic health provision; a world where attempts to unseat tyrants by force of arms leave no one feeling safe. On the radio this morning there was an item dealing with the Christmas truce of 1914 when the firing stopped between the British and German trenches, and soldiers emerged to share family photographs, sing carols together and even play football in No Man’s Land. But then they returned for nearly four more years of unremitting carnage. And still the blood of the innocent – soldiers and civilians – is shed uselessly in Iraq and so many other countries today.
Is Christmas just a sort of truce? – an escape which lasts as long as we’re off work, but then it’s back to reality? Does it just remind us of what we haven’t got? That we have the longing for so much that is good, but lack its fulfilment? “And is it true?” as John Betjeman asked..
And is it true? And is it true,
This most tremendous tale of all,
Seen in a stained-glass window’s hue,
A Baby in an ox’s stall?
The Maker of the stars and sea
Become a Child on earth for me?
And is it true?...
That’s the question we can only ask of ourselves. Is Christmas something more than a long ago event disputed as to its historicity and argued over by scholars? Is it something which has meaning now? Can we see that Christmas does not simply stand alone?... that it is the telling of the story of a birth, but the child who is born must be allowed to grow, and must grow in us.
The child who is laid in the manger lies there on Christmas night without a voice – entirely dependent on the care of Mary and Joseph, that inn-keeper who sent them to the stable, and the shepherds who come to look at him. And this is God’s way – to come as the Word (as St. John’s Gospel puts it), but without a word. This is God who needs us to enable him to speak. This is God who asks us, will we listen? Will we have the patience to let Christ grow – and grow in us?
After all the singing of carols, the nativity plays and the reading of stories of the birth of Jesus in Bethlehem, this evening’s prescribed readings from Scripture don’t mention the Nativity at all. It may seem strange that we read St. John’s Gospel which starts its story of Jesus only when he’s about thirty years old. But these are the readings which are prescribed for use at some time on Christmas Day. To read them is to be reminded that Christmas does not stand alone. We can’t celebrate Christmas and then simply go away leaving the baby lying in the manger till we come back to dust him off again next year at the same time. To do that is simply to remain infantile in our own faith. To celebrate Christmas properly is to know that Jesus has touched our hearts because we have let him in, because we want him to stay and grow there – and then we find ourselves asking, where did he come from?
The answer to that question for St. Matthew and St. Luke is in the story of the birth at Bethlehem. St. John takes a different approach. He reflects on the whole meaning of Jesus’ life, death and resurrection and then he realises “this is God’s Son.” But this is divinity with a difference: “the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory…” That is why we worship at the crib – not for sentimentality, not because this is a baby who still has us saying “aah” 2000 years after his birth. But because this is God touching our world – and he does so not by compelling us to change our lives but by taking our humanity so that he can live our life. God shows his loving by sharing in our living, and his purpose is to love us into living to the full.
But can we see it? We speak of the darkness of the stable in Bethlehem, but it’s a darkness which takes its force from St. John’s Gospel and the words we hear tonight that “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.” A few days ago, the Church celebrated the Feast of St. John of the Cross, a Carmelite Friar and one of the great mystics of the 16th century. By his work to reform the religious order to which he belonged, John made many enemies and at one point found himself kidnapped and held in total darkness and solitude for nine months. His ordeal must have been terrifying, deprived of all sensory perception, hearing nothing, seeing nothing. Probably most people enduring such a confinement would go insane. John instead began to compose what became known as his Spiritual Canticle, one of the greatest of all mystical works. It was in the darkness with nothing else to sustain him that he recognised how our very being is entirely dependent upon God. When there is nothing else, there is God.
And this we remember again tonight. We celebrate in the middle of the night with darkness all around – but from the darkness there comes the light which we recognise in a child, or - as tonight’s Gospel puts it – in the Word made flesh. This is “the true light which enlightens everyone” and it comes in a child, but a child who will grow and wills to grow in us. It’s this moment in time over 2,000 years ago which opens all eternity and tells us that Christmas is true – not just for a moment, not just for children, but so that the world might be God’s.
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Christmas & the Hope of the Innocents
 First Sunday of Christmas
26th December 2004
Rosie Junemann, Reader
Isaiah 63. 7-9
Hebrews 2. 10-18
Matthew 2. 13-23
I have a confession to make!
One of the things I really enjoy about the Christmas holiday season is having the time and the opportunity to watch some of the children’s films and drama on television. I guess it has something to do with nostalgia and re-living my own childhood. But it’s also because some children’s productions have an emotional depth and a quality of wholesomeness, which are often missing from adult entertainment.
Just about 12 months ago – amidst all the Christmas festivities – I watched the film adaptation of Nina Bawden’s novel ‘Carrie’s War’. This is a book which was written in 1973 and has since been adopted as a classic of children’s literature. Based on Nina’s own experiences, the story is of Carrie and her brother, Nick, who are evacuated from London, with many other children, to a small Welsh mining town during the Second World War. It’s a story about growing up in difficult circumstances, away from home and family. Young Carrie struggles to make sense of the people around her, and their relationships. But there are positive experiences, too. And all the time that we are engrossed in the story of the young evacuees, we can hear the distant echoes of the war. Carrie’s father is in the navy, on convoy duty in the North Sea. Carrie’s mother moves to Glasgow and drives an ambulance in the air raids. "Will the train be bombed on the way to Glasgow” asks Nick, as they are finally to be reunited with their mother. ‘Carrie thought of the bombs falling, of the war going on all this year they'd been safe in the valley; going on over their heads like grown-up conversation when she’d been too small to listen.’
There’s a similar counterpoint in today’s gospel reading. After the visit of the wise men from the East, Mary, Joseph and the infant Jesus, being warned of imminent danger, became refugees, fleeing into safety in Egypt. King Herod, infuriated by what he regarded as the trickery of the wise men, slaughtered every child in Bethlehem under two years of age. The family can only return from Egypt to their homeland after Herod’s death, and even then they are fearful of persecution. This early story of the holy family is a story of personal hardship against a backdrop of political terror.
In Luke’s Gospel there is a gentler telling of the story of the birth of Jesus. But Matthew’s nativity narrative plunges us into an intense drama. In Luke’s Gospel, the visitors to the stable are humble shepherds, the angels sing of peace on earth, gentle Mary ponders the angels’ message. But in Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus is born into a situation of trouble, tension, violence and fear. The visitors to the infant Jesus are wealthy wise men from the East, travelling in pomp, and clearly more familiar with kings and palaces than with poverty and hardship. The baby’s birth arouses violent emotions and political strife. Where Luke’s Gospel emphasises the peace and joy which Jesus brings to the world, Matthew’s Gospel reflects the challenge, the world-changing quality of this pivotal event.
For the first readers of Matthew’s Gospel – the early Jewish Christians – this story would have had another resonance. Way back in Jewish history, when the Israelites were living as slaves in Egypt, another king – Pharaoh – ordered the deaths of every Hebrew baby boy. And out of this cruel scenario, the infant Moses was rescued, to become the saviour of his people, leading them out of bondage in Egypt to their Promised Land. Now, at a time when the Jews are oppressed in their own land by Herod, God has called Jesus out of Egypt, to lead his children to a promised land of a different kind. Matthew invites us to watch as God’s new Exodus unfolds before our eyes.
It’s hard, isn’t it, so soon after celebrating the birth of Jesus – the stable, the shepherds, the angels, the gentle mother, the message of peace on earth – to take in the horror of today’s story? It would be all too easy to gloss over the atrocity of the murder of the babies in Bethlehem.
In 1997, while on holiday in Northern Spain, we visited the small town of Mondonedo in eastern Galicia. Mondonedo boasts a substantial and impressive church. The interior of the church is rather dark and grim, and features a huge mural vividly depicting the massacre of the innocents. I struggled with the idea that local families came day after day and week after week into this church to worship. Should not adults, let alone children, be protected from this gruesome sight?
I was wrong, I think, in making that assumption.
It’s a harsh reality of this world that evil exists. Cruelty, violence, the wholesale murder of vulnerable and defenceless people, are not confined to Pharaoh and Herod, nor to the distant past. Sadly, a great many examples spring to mind: the Holocaust of the Second World War, the gas attacks on the Kurdish people of Halabja in 1988, the executions of thousands of Bosnian Muslims in the early 1990s, the 1994 genocide in Rwanda. Earlier this year there was the terrorist attack on the school in Beslan; and today, the persecution of people in Darfur. Babies born today are born, as Jesus was, into a world of trouble, tension, violence and fear.
Those children – the Holy Innocents – who died so long ago and far away – are not dispensable. They are here in Matthew’s Gospel to remind us of the reality of evil in the world – to remind us that there is still a long way to go, a struggle to be won. As our Advent Christian Aid Campaign reminded us, children throughout the world today need our help. We heard about children in Israel, Burma, Zambia, Kenya and Afghanistan. But even in our own society, even in our own community, children are the innocent victims of poverty, of abuse, of drunk drivers, of the AIDS virus. While we watch our own children’s delight in Christmas – in nativity plays, candles, parties, presents – there is always that counterpoint of suffering, of pain, of need.
There is, of course, hope, too. The prophet Isaiah wrote, of the people of Israel, God ‘became their saviour in their distress. It was no messenger or angel but his presence that saved them; in his love and his pity he redeemed them; he lifted them up and carried them all the days of old.” And now, in the birth of Jesus, God himself has come among his people again. The God of Matthew’s Gospel is a highly engaged and interventionist God. Here is a God who sends dreams and angels to sort things out when the going gets tough. But here, too, is a God who shares in the reality of the suffering of his people. Far from arriving in comfort, far from having an easy life, this is a God who knows from personal experience the misery of a world which suffers violence and injustice. Luke’s Gospel shows us a God who is at home amongst the poor, the homeless, the humble. Matthew shows us a God who knows the reality of terror; a God who is at home amongst refugees and asylum seekers, murdered children, inconsolable mothers. This is a God who is with us where the pain is.
Jesus is Emmanuel, God-with-us, God who knows and cares about us and our needs. And Jesus is also the fulfillment of scripture, the new Moses, the Saviour of his people, to lead us to our Promised Land – that land we pray for, when the Kingdom of God will come on earth, and God’s reign of love and peace will begin.
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Gifts and the Glory of God
 | The Epiphany of our Lord - 2 January 2005
Paul Heatherington, Reader
Isaiah 60.1-6;
Psalm 72[1-9] 10-15;
Ephesians 3.1-12;
Matthew 2.1-12.
Today, we heard the account of the visit of the wise men. The gospel of Matthew was written by a Jew, about a Jew, to other Jews. His purpose was to bring people to Jesus by showing that Jesus fulfills the Old Testament prophecies. I am going to suggest what we can learn from Matthew’s account, bearing in mind that our task is the same. How can we try to bring people to Jesus today?
But first, I am going to mention twelve things about Epiphany and the visit of the wise men.
First, the Twelve Days of Christmas are the last six days of the old year (26 to 31 December) and the first six days of the New Year (1 to 6 January). 6th January is the Epiphany. A theory of the origin of the song, “The Twelve days of Christmas” is that it was a catechism to help children to remember elements of their faith. The Partridge in a Pear Tree was Jesus reigning from the cross. The three French hens stood for the gifts the wise men brought.
Secondly, Church of England rules allow Epiphany to be celebrated on the Second Sunday of Christmas. That’s important to know. Well it’s important to know if you’re preaching. The first sermon I prepared today was for Christmas 2!
Thirdly, let’s look at the star which Matthew tells us brought the wise men to search for Jesus. Sometimes you find that prophecies can be recycled. Among Jews the idea was born that an anointed king, a Messiah, would come to restore Israel. The Book of Micah announces the House of David would produce a ruler. The Book of Numbers has a story about a prophet who is asked to curse invading Hebrews. Instead, he blesses them. This is from the third blessing:
I see him, but not now; I behold him, but not near. A star shall come out of Jacob and a sceptre will rise out of Israel.
[Numbers 24.17-19]
The star fits in with Matthew’s readers’ expectations. But it may also be historical, for example
• a planetary conjunction – there was a brilliant conjunction of Saturn and Jupiter between 5 and 2 BC.
• a supernova, the release of a huge amount of energy at the end of a star's lifetime,
• a comet.
Fourthly, Matthew says the wise men came from the East. This could be Persia, East Syria or Arabia. There is no separate account in history of where the wise men came from.
Fifthly, the wise men visit a house. Matthew does not mention an Inn or stable.
Sixthly, Matthew’s story does not mention that Jesus was a new-born baby when the wise men visit.
Seventhly, Matthew does not say there were three wise men. We infer that there were three, because there were three gifts. A 2nd century drawing in the Roman catacombs in Rome, has four Wise Men, presenting their gifts to Mary and the child – two on either side. Another catacomb drawing shows only two Magi. In some medieval art there are twelve Wise Men.
Eighthly, do you know what would have happened if there had been three Wise Women instead of three Wise Men? They would have
• Asked for directions
• Arrived on time
• Helped deliver the baby
• Cleaned the stable
• Made a casserole
• Brought practical gifts
And there would have been peace on earth ... and goodwill to all people.
Ninthly, to be serious again, Matthew does not say the wise men were kings. The wise men are promoted to be kings by a later tradition. The 'kings' idea can be traced to the year 250 CE. Painters popularised this myth from the 10th Century onwards. Isaiah 49:7 and Psalm 72:10-11 influence this:
Kings will stand at attention when you pass by. Princes will bow low because the LORD has chosen you. Isaiah 49:7.
May the kings of Tarshish and of the isles render him tribute, may the kings of Sheba and Seba bring gifts.11 May all kings fall down before him, all nations give him service. Psalm 72
Tenthly, the names Caspar, Balthasar and Melchior were first used in the 2nd/ 3rd centuries. The names given to the wise men by the Western Church became popular from the 6th Century. The suggestion that Caspar was black is another Church tradition.
Eleventhly, a word on the gifts: Matthew may have had in mind today's first reading from the Book of Isaiah [Is. 60:1-6] when he wrote about the gifts. The passage describes the new Jerusalem poetically. In the New Jerusalem, the glory of God will be seen, not only upon the Jewish nation, but also upon the Gentiles.
This prophecy is made clear in, “Nations shall come to your light” and also in the last verse, “They shall bring gold and frankincense, and shall proclaim the praise of the Lord.”
Twelfthly, Germany has the bones, or at least the skulls, of the three wise men. St Helena is supposed to have found them in Persia and then brought them to Constantinople. St Helena was the mother of the emperor Constantine, the first Roman Emperor to convert to Christianity. The bones were transferred from Constantinople to Milan in the fifth century and to Cologne in 1163. They are behind the main altar in Cologne Cathedral. A final piece of information: on top of Cologne Cathedral, there is a star and not the usual cross.
That completes my twelve points. Let us reflect. Always keep in mind that Matthew’s Gospel was principally intended for Hebrew readers. In it, he demonstrates that God has kept his promise to raise up a Saviour from the line of Abraham and the line of David. Jesus is the Messiah, the expected king. The Old Testament predictions are fulfilled by the wise men bringing their gifts to the Christ Child.
Let’s work out what message Matthew might have for us. Wise men went in hope on an exciting hazardous journey of pilgrimage in search of Jesus. Wise people still do. The wise men were not Jews. They represent the ethnic mixture of people in the world. God revealed the birth of Jesus to these wise men, to these men from different nations, to these non-Jews, these pagans. Jesus, the Light of the World, has come for Gentiles as well as Jews, for all people. The Epiphany, the conclusion of the Christmas season, sends us into the world to witness in the darkness to the Light of Christ with this task – how can we in 2005 try to bring people to Jesus?
The images we have from the events of the last week (the aftermath of the Indian Ocean Earthquake & Tsunami) are heart-breaking. Set alongside the television images, the following images. The image of the Father who spoke the Word that becomes flesh, the image of Mary holding the Christ Child, the thoughts of the wise men, in these words of T S Eliot:
were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
And also set alongside the television images we have seen, an image of God our Father who shares in people’s pain and anguish, as he holds the limp body of his dead child.
PRAYER
God of surprises, in Advent you pointed us towards the coming of your son, Jesus Christ. You surprised the world by how he fulfilled your promises. When we hold out our empty hands to receive the piece of bread we will be offered shortly, may we think of his body and blood offered for the life of the world and placed into our empty hands that we might live, even in the face of death. Enable us to live in constant expectations of surprises, as we learn more about him. Amen.
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LIGHTING THE WAY
 THE PRESENTATION OF CHRIST IN THE TEMPLE
Candlemas - 30 January 2005
Paul Heatherington, Reader
Luke 2.22-40
Try to imagine this scene. The central character in this story is travelling at night in a police bus through the highways and tunnels of Los Angeles, along with a group of convicts. At last the bus arrives at a ranch where the men are told to tame wild Mustangs. They watch as convicts try to break in the animals using force. Our hero understands – apparently intuitively – that aggression will not lead to trust and understanding, and that to tame his stallion, he will have to communicate to it differently. He tosses the rope to the ground and looks deep into the eyes of the mustang. He then opens the pen and frees the horse. The hero finally catches up with the Mustang in the open country. It is standing alone in the middle of a lake. He approaches it, reaches out and eventually makes contact with the animal, now tamed through respect and independent thinking. Do you recognise this story? Can you tell how it ends? It’s a TV commercial. The advert cuts to a young man riding the wild horse across the top of the screen with a swirl of Guinness with these words “A story of darkness and light.” The story is said to parallel the way the chaos of life often surprises us by settling into something calmer and smoother – just like the classic GUINNESS surge. Guinness is good for you, was once how it was marketed.
The Book of Genesis tells us that everything God made is good. The Prophet Isaiah writes, “I am the Lord! There are no other Gods…I create light and darkness, happiness and sorrow.” Human beings can perform horrific acts in the darkness. For evidence, look no further than last week’s images of the tragic and desperately disturbing accounts of the Holocaust and Auschwitz. Yet light shone through even in those dark days – many inspirational and uplifting stories bear witness to that. Forty days ago the light shone in the darkness. We celebrated Jesus’ birth. Jesus is “the light of the world.” Whoever follows Him “shall not walk in darkness. But will have the light of life.”
Today we remember the day Jesus was brought to the Temple. After childbirth, a mother was regarded as ritually ‘unclean’ and was unable to attend Temple services. Leviticus contains a purification rite for a new mother. This is not about dirt or distaste. It is concerned with the processes of life - symbolised by blood. Blood represented God’s gift of life, and so the blood of childbirth was a matter of reverence. At the appropriate time (forty days after the birth of a son, or eighty days after the birth of a girl) a mother was to offer a sacrifice of a lamb and a dove or pigeon for the gift of the child as a thank offering. Poor families who could not afford a lamb could offer a second dove. In the Temple the elderly Simeon and Anna recognise Jesus as their Lord. Luke says Mary and Joseph are amazed when Simeon says the baby Jesus is the Messiah. Their surprise at Simeon’s remarks is a bit of a mystery when you think about it. You may recall the Angel Gabriel spoke with Mary before Jesus’ birth and Joseph was also visited by an angel. And there was the visit of the Magi too.
Today we celebrate the end of Christmas. We think of the joy of the coming of Jesus, looking back to his birth but we also now turn our attention to the coming days of Christ’s passion. As we look to what is to come, we are inevitably drawn to thinking about Christ’s death. When Jesus was born there was glorious light in the middle of the night. When He was dying, there was darkness at noon and it lasted for three hours. When He “breathed his last” the Temple curtain was rent from top to bottom which signalled that the Temple was no longer to be the meeting-place of God with men. Jesus was to be the new focus of worship.
Lent begins next week. We need to begin to think about what we shall do to observe the season of Lent, including Holy Week and Good Friday. These days in the Church’s calendar are not days to enjoy. It’s distressing just to read the Gospel accounts of the arrest, the desertion by the disciples, the trial, the mocking and the punishment. The Guinness advert was said to parallel the way the chaos of life often surprises us by settling into something calmer and smoother. The Guinness advert is fantasy, enticing you to buy into an illusion. Jesus’ death is no illusion. It’s real life. It’s agonizing. For some people, dying alone is a fear. Often you hear it said, “I am pleased so and so was with him or her, so he or she didn’t die alone.” Jesus died alone. Yes, there were some angry people there and nearby some women and John. But Jesus died alone and rejected. As he hung on the cross he recited the words from Psalm 22:1 “My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?” Let us decide today to tell Jesus, here and now, “You are not alone. We remember. This year, this Lent, this Good Friday, we will not let you die alone”.
Think about the haunting words of Simeon as he blessed Joseph and Mary, “a sword will pierce your own soul too.” That day long ago in the Temple when Simeon hinted at what was to come, we can only imagine how Mary and Joseph might have reacted. Mary was there to hear those words. And she was with Jesus as he hung on the cross, when their full meaning became clear in all its horror. The important thing to realise, however, is that the death of Jesus is why the Resurrection is such a celebration at the centre of the Church’s year. Without the cross, there can be no celebration.
In the Temple, Simeon called Jesus, “a light to lighten the gentiles”. In Jerusalem, in the fourth century the feast on this day was celebrated with lighted Candles. In England, it was once customary to dedicate all of the candles to be used in church for the year on this day. This led to the English name of Candlemas.
Ellington Pit, the last North East deep mine is to close. My grandfather used to say that it was "truly black dark" in a coal mine. The world is rarely completely dark. It takes time to adapt your eyes to the darkness. Even on a moonless night you can still see. First you can make out shapes. In time your eyes progressively adapt to the darkness. Did you know that eventually the human eye can see a light from a solitary candle ten miles away?
Jesus said “Let your light so shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.” Is your light clear enough so others can do that? Think about this: thousands of candles can be lit from one candle, without shortening the candle’s life. And ponder about these words of Francis of Assisi: “All the darkness in the world cannot extinguish the light of a single candle.” As we leave Christmas and turn our attention to thoughts of Christ’s passion and the journey with him that leads to Easter, as you hold in your hand a single candle with power to send light into the darkness for ten miles, ask this question,
“Instead of looking for the light to show the way,
can I become the light and be the way?”
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