Magic FM in the Chilterns

Sermon by the Revd Dr Brutus Green
Readings: Isaiah 49:1-7, 1Corinthians 1:1-9, John 1:29-42

People in all walks of life, from all backgrounds, of all faiths and none, still today talk about ‘having a calling’. In the vernacular, it refers to anything you do that’s not firstly for material gain. So people often think: ‘no one would be a teacher, a carer, a nurse, a vicar, for the money – it must be a calling’.

But it’s not just about your career. Perhaps you’re an accountant who’s also a jeweller, A nurse who’s an artist, A plumber who’s a pianist – Sometimes we have a vocation, but also have to pay the bills. But notice I didn’t say ‘a nurse who paints, a plumber who plays piano.’ A vocation is not something we do but something we are. How we identify.

 And callings can be broad, across life; I love asking open questions in school assemblies and one of the best questions you can ask children is what they want to be when you grow up. Once I asked this, and after the usual fireman, singer, footballer, vet, answers, a little 5 year old boy put up a chubby hand, saying: ‘I want to be a daddy’. 

So the first thing to note, is that callings are about who we are. I play the cello, from time to time. I’m not a cellist. If I never play again, I would not feel that something was missing, that my life was diminished. I am a runner though. And I struggle when I can’t run, even though now it’s mostly with an enormous clumsy dog and a pram crashing about; it is part of how I understand myself, part of my routine. Even more so I am a priest. If it were taken away, if I couldn’t take services, I would be a different person. My identity would change. I wouldn’t know who I was anymore.

So we might make hundreds of thousands of pounds working for some company, but it might mean nothing to us, not related to how we see ourselves; we might spend 12 hours a day in a dull, dead-end job that’s simply a means-to-an-end; time and money don’t necessarily tell our calling;we might get bored when people ask us what we do,  but come alive when talking about wine or cricket, music or our family.

 Our calling is who we understand ourselves to be; and so it’s what gives our life purpose, meaning; What gets us up in the morning and keeps us ploughing on through middle-age. Despite leaking roofs, terrible toddlers, sleepless nights, stress and anxiety, our calling is the strength to keep on.

 Today’s readings are about calling. We hear how Isaiah was called, and how this calling was from before he was born. ‘while I was in my mother’s womb’, A foetal attraction; This matters. Because the point is here that his call as a prophet isn’t because he’s good, faithful or talented. It’s been chosen before he was born. It’s simply a part of who he is.

 Then we heard about St Paul, called to be an apostle of Christ by the will of God, which was despite him persecuting Christians. Our calling can survive our wayward and ambivalent character, as well as our poor decisions. Colluding in murder is generally a poor decision.

Finally, we heard of the call of the disciples. The disciples are looking for the Messiah; they’ve been with John the Baptist and now they’ve found Jesus. When they ask where he’s staying, Jesus responds ‘Come and See.’ The calling is met by an invitation. But it requires openness to change. Because our calling is part of who we are, our identity, it will require us to change. Callings are not static – it’s following the voice. You don’t become a musician without it changing you; I spent less than five years in the army, but even in that time I did really change. Any calling places conditions on us that form us. Simon here is renamed Peter, meaning ‘stone’ the foundation on which the church will be built. 

So our calling is part of who we are. It’s what gives our life a sense of purpose. It’s something that grows with us. It means change. It means following the call. 

Our faith is a calling. We may hear more or less well like Magic FM in the Chilterns as a former long-forgotten prime minister once said. There will be times when the call of faith is ringing loudly in our ears; Often times of trial and celebration; If you’ve made it here this morning it’s most likely because somehow that still small voice, has pulled you here. Which may or not be a child who really enjoys Sunday School.

 The Greek word for church is ecclesia from ‘ek-kaleo’ to ‘call out’. So church is somewhere that we’re called. If a church is healthy it will be a place of formation and encouragement,  We will be calling each other to lead better lives, to know God more, to connect more, to make time to reflect, to grow; Oscar Wilde complained that he couldn’t be a socialist because it would take up too many evenings. I’m guessing he never joined a PCC.

 But has faith become part of your calling? Part of who you are? Does your faith give you a sense of purpose and meaning? Is it growing? Has it changed you?

 The Christian writer who has meant the most to me over the years is a Spanish chap called St John of the Cross, or San Juan de la Cruz. He wrote an important work a mere four hundred years ago called the Ascent of Mount Carmel. It was a spiritual manual for growing in faith – reaching the mountain top. The follow up, the difficult second album, became more famous, The Dark Night of the Soul.

 The phrase is still in common use, and can mean whatever you want. St John uses it in a specific way. Because faith has its blessings. It rejoices in the high points of life, its energy, its vigour, it blesses families, celebrates children, inspires beauty, builds community, may even grant visions. The saints write about this and we can be inspired by how our faith has shaped the world, and shaped lives.

 But St John found that it is when the world is stripped away that he perceived his closeness to God. That it’s under the conditions of loss that we understand our calling from God. The Dark Night of the Soul describes the conditions under which, like Job, everything is taken from us. At that point we know our calling, and we will find whether we are still praising God. When I am dead to all the world, and all the world is dead to me.

 We have lost friends this winter at St Margaret’s and seen others in distress and grief. Much of our life and culture today focuses on the moment. ‘You are exactly where you need to be’ Mindfulness and yoga, alongside the pursuit of eternal youth. Our faith is a calling – a journey. Even with our children we will talk each year about Good Friday, that we are following a man whose journey took him to the cross. This is also our calling. We look through it in hope to the resurrection. We look back through the history of faith, and the faithful from whom we have inherited it, and we support one another in love. But we know, and through Lent rehearse, the journey our calling takes us on is through the cross and our own Dark Night of the Soul. 

So today let us pause and consider. What is our calling? Is it tied to our faith? Where is our sense of purpose, the values that give our life meaning? And how are we changing? Are we ready for the Dark Night of the Soul? I finish with Newman’s prayer which reminds us that whatever our condition, whatever our situation, we still have a calling:

‘God has created me to do Him some definite service. He has committed some work to me which He has not committed to another. I have my mission. I may never know it in this life, but I shall be told it in the next. I am a link in a chain, a bond of connection between persons. He has not created me for naught. I shall do good; I shall do His work. I shall be an angel of peace, a preacher of truth in my own place, while not intending it if I do but keep His commandments. Therefore, I will trust Him, whatever I am, I can never be thrown away. If I am in sickness, my sickness may serve Him, in perplexity, my perplexity may serve Him. If I am in sorrow, my sorrow may serve Him. He does nothing in vain.  He knows what He is about.  He may take away my friends.  He may throw me among strangers.  He may make me feel desolate, make my spirits sink, hide my future from me.  Still, He knows what He is about. Amen.’

Pentecost 5: What must I do?

5th Sunday after Pentecost

Sermon by the Reverend Doctor Brutus Green

Readings: Deuteronomy 30:9-14, Colossians 1:1-14, Luke 10:25-37

What do I have to do to be a good person?

It’s the wrong question.

What must I do to inherit eternal life?

Again, you lawyers, the wrong question.

They are reasonable questions. Excellent lawyer questions. Am I good? Am I good enough? What should I be doing?

Today’s Gospel’s very familiar. Every child knows and instinctively understands it. A few times during show-and-tell when children are asked what can they do to be better, we hear “helping people when they fall over, or when they’re hurt.” Second usually to the washing up.

How well people take it in is another matter. There was a famous study done on seminarians in America.  A situation was set up where the students were gathered in a hall and given certain tasks.  They were then told to move to another building where they would give a short talk on the parable of the Good Samaritan. On the way a man had been placed slumped in an alleyway. According to the research, only 40% of the students stopped to help. When the students were told they must hurry to their next event, only 10% stopped.  One student even stepped over the prone man, on his way to give a talk on the Good Samaritan, so urgent did he feel was the need to share his insight on this important parable. But we shouldn’t judge. Should we?

The context here is important. Notice that it’s a lawyer who asks the question, to test Jesus. The question he asks, is what must I do to inherit eternal life? And his second question makes his concern even clearer “wanting to justify himself”, he asked, ‘who is my neighbour?’ The motivation of the man is concern over himself. He wants to be good. He wants to inherit eternal life. He wants to justify himself. What must I do?

If Jesus was straightforwardly answering the lawyer’s question you’d expect a different set up. You’d expect the man in the ditch to be the Samaritan. The Jews didn’t like Samaritans. They’d intermarried with the Assyrians, so weren’t fully Jewish;  and their religious practices varied from the Jews.  They had different Scripture and didn’t worship at the Temple in Jerusalem as all Jews did. They were something like the Mormons of their day. So if the guy in the ditch was the Samaritan that would give us the basic set up of: “Who’s your neighbour?” Even a Samaritan is your neighbour. Be nice.

But Jesus doesn’t do that. The Samaritan is the hero, not the neighbour. Now parables on one level, are simply illustrations. You might ask, what does forgiveness look like? I’ll tell you the Prodigal Son. Does God love even lowly old me? I’ll tell you the shepherd who left his flock to seek out the one that got away. But Jesus’ parables are more than this. They have a very specific aim. To cut through self-deception. Parables should make you uncomfortable. They want to change you; to convert you. And to do this they come through a story. Because only a story has the subtlety, the ambiguity, the openness to interpretation to challenge the hearer not just on facts, on laws, on thou should, thou should not; but to challenge your presumptions. They have to surprise. The Word is very near you. But it’s not what you expect.

So our dear lawyer, wants to be good. He wants to inherit eternal life. He wants to be a good Jew. He knows he must love God and his neighbour. He keeps the commandments so he figures he’s ticked the God box. Now he’s asking how far, how many people, do I need to love in order to tick that neighbour box. A reasonable, lawyerly approach.

Like a fairy tale we have three characters. Our first on the highway is the priest. He’s in a compromising situation. On the one hand, he has official duties, which he cannot perform for a week if he touches a dead body. Although there’s equally an argument from Jewish law that preservation of life is a first principle and that despite becoming unclean his first duty is to help the man. You might think this is an ideal opportunity to take a justifiable week off work, but I’m not totally clear on whether the Temple had a policy for “unclean-pay” while people were off duty. Anyway, there’s an argument with the priest that he has a legal responsibility to walk on by. Of course, the very clear and present threat of bandits might be enough to hasten his steps. The Levite as a layman is free from public responsibilities, but will still wish to avoid becoming unclean and ruining his holiday. He is, after all, also on his way to Jerusalem, where unlike the Samaritan Jews go to worship. But both these figures are clearly Jews, who know the Law, and you should expect them to consider this left-for-dead man, their neighbour.

Now enter the Samaritan. And we’re told ‘he was moved with pity’. Not ‘he asked himself what does it mean to be good or how might I inherit eternal life?’ ‘Not he asked himself, “Who is my neighbour - is this man my neighbour.” He was moved with pity.

And look how he responds. He knows to use oil and wine on wounds — that is he has some basic first aid understanding, and the means with which to clean the wounds. He’s not just “trying to help, looking useful or trying to be nice” He has the skill to make a difference.  And then he spends time with him, makes sure he’s recovering and pays what would be several hundred pounds for someone to look after him. So he has the means to deal with this. He’s not trying to do something for which he’s ill-equipped or untrained, that might, despite intentions, make matters worse. And he’s not bothered to stick around to seek the reward, the thanks, the praise. He’s not sacrificing his entire life and so giving himself the chance to tell everyone how good he is, at what cost, or limiting the impact of other good he can achieve. He doesn’t need to be needed. He has not then troubled himself with the question of whether he should do this? Who is his neighbour? What will he receive for his actions? He was moved with pity. He recognised the human need and responded immediately with no desire, except to help the person in need. 

*** 

Jesus has shifted the conversation. The lawyer has asked, ‘What must I do’ ‘how can I be justified?’ The Samaritan has simply connected with the injured man. He was moved with pity. He’s not done it for the Law, to be good, justified, to inherit eternal life. He is not acting for himself, out of concern for himself, but for the other person.

The lawyer has asked ‘who is my neighbour’ to ascertain the loop holes. Like the priest and the Levite he wishes to be justified but doesn’t want to take unnecessary risk; get his hands unnecessarily dirty. What must I do to inherit eternal life. He is thinking of his virtue, his salvation as something he can achieve.

Jesus has told a story about a man who is not a Jew; who doesn’t follow the same law; doesn’t worship in the temple; is not socially acceptable to these people. And in the context of ‘what must I do to inherit eternal life? How may I be saved?’ It is this Samaritan, this man of another religion, this outcast, who is the paradigm. The law, the temple fall before the fact that this man was moved with pity, and responded spontaneously to human need. Jesus is asked ‘who is the neighbour I must love?’ He responds by pointing out ‘you haven’t yet worked out how to love.’ Loving begins with the other person.

So what does this mean for us? Well, firstly, it’s a warning against thinking that we’ve got it all sewn up; that you or St Margaret’s has nailed down what it means to be good, to follow Christ, to inherit eternal life. The parables are there to surprise us; to cut through our self-deception; they are a mirror to the laziness of our moral compass.

Secondly, it’s a reminder that we don’t inherit eternal life by racking up a list of good works, by ticking off our church and charity checklist. Jesus teaches us to pray for grace, and in that to find the love that enables us to connect with other people. And so be ready to respond when we meet that need on the road.

So what must I do? Connect - see that your salvation is bound up with your brothers and sisters. Salvation is like love, it begins when two or three are gathered. Try not to rush. People who are rushing are moving too fast to see the people in the road. And be ready. Ready to offer the crucial help, to have the skills and resources needed when the moment arises. Ready to be moved with pity; to see in the people you meet on the road, that need and vulnerability that is waiting for love. Go and do likewise.