Vigil and First Mass of Easter

Readings: Vigil readings, Romans 6.3-11; Mark 16.1-8

‘If we have died with Christ, we believe that we will also live with him.’

The long journey through Lent and Holy Week is finally at its conclusion.

We have been considering love this week: love that is extravagant, love that needs to be released, love that loves even in betrayal, love that stoops to serve, love that loves in pain. Today we think about love that conquers.

The death of Jesus left his followers with a lot of questions. The immediate question in our Gospel this evening is the one asked by the two Marys: ‘Who will roll the stone away for us?’

We go through many varied experiences in our lives. We encounter the great mountain-top experiences of joy and elation, and yet also experience the depths of grief and despair. Many of those experiences leave us reeling and wondering how we are going to get through it all. So many times in my own life I have asked that question: ‘How am I going to get through this?’ There have been many times when I wasn’t sure that I would. There have been many times when I really couldn’t see the answer. And yet, here I stand.

‘Who will roll the stone away for us?’

When the Marys arrived at the tomb, they found that the stone had already been rolled away. They found that the problem they thought that they had was no longer there. They arrived, looked up and they found that the cause for their concern had been taken away.

The journey that they had taken was real. The grief that they encountered was real. The fear that gripped them was real. We should not blame them for feeling how they felt. We should not blame for asking their question, because how could they know, until they arrived, that the stone was rolled away? How could they see?

What was important in the story is that they did not give up and that they continued on the journey that they had to make. They went forth in the cautious light of the early morning, wondering whether it was all a waste of time because, if there was nobody to move the stone, that’s exactly what it would have been.

‘What’s the point?’ is a question I have heard so many times. ‘What’s the point of believing when there isn’t much in the way of concrete proof?’ ‘What’s the point of denying yourself all of the fun that you could have in the world?’ ‘What’s the point of being a priest when you could make a fortune with all the languages that you speak?’

‘What’s the point?’

Well, the point, it seems to me, is love.

Love defies all explanation. Love defies all logic. Love defies all the common sense that the world has to offer, and even the most sensible and down-to-earth people can become dreamy lovers when love strikes.

Love compels me to follow the way of Christ, even though I get frustrated, even though I fail so often, even though there are times when I wish I could stop following and go my own way, even though I wish I could be better off, travel. ‘Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back | guilty of dust and sin.’ No matter how far I try to run, loves calls me home.

‘Who will roll the stone away for us?’

If the two Marys had let doubt and fear get in the way, if they had thought that there was no point, if they had given up, they would not have seen the stone rolled away. They would not have known the victory of Christ. It was in the willingness to step forward as only the faintest glimpses of the morning light began to be seen that the first answer to their question was seen. ‘It has already been done. All that you need has been done for you.’

This is the message of salvation. All that you need has been done for you. He is not here. He is risen and you will see him.

This love of Easter is the most powerful thing that can drive out all fear. This love of Easter is a love and a power that conquers all fear, that conquers all doubt, that gives us the courage and the boldness to step forward.

Sometimes we have to make the journey in the darkness, or in the early morning light. Sometimes we have to take those first tentative steps, not knowing what will happen. Sometimes we, like the two Marys, have to keep going not even knowing whether the journey will be worth it, because that is what love does. Love calls us to step out and walk. Love calls us to move even when fear would have us stand still.

It is in that stepping forward that we see that the stone has been rolled away. It has been done. It is accomplished.

As we step forward, may we too see the victory of love, the victory of Christ, and enter boldly into that new life.

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

Good Friday

Readings: Isaiah 52.13-53.12; Hebrews 10.16-25; John 18.1-19.42

‘We have confidence to enter the sanctuary by the blood of Jesus… Let us approach with a true heart.’

We have spent much time this Holy Week reflecting on love: extravagant love, loves that we release, love that loves those who don’t love back, love that assumes the lowest position.

Today we have to ponder a love that suffers: a love that loves even in and through pain, a love that willingly chooses the suffering and pain. It is a love that does not choose the easy way. It is a love that does not give up when things become difficult. The easy way does not lead to love, and the avoidance of pain certainly does not lead to love.

I have witnessed a lot of such love: the man who nurses his dying wife at home, the relatives who surround a love one as they take their last breaths, the woman whose husband no longer recognises her but she stays next to him anyway, because in that moment there is nowhere else they would choose to be. Or the love of the person who chooses to walk with somebody else in their suffering, even though there is no real reason why they should. It is that love that says: ‘You are suffering, and you cannot change that. I will walk with you in the suffering.’ It is such love that chooses something unnecessary, for love’s sake.

There was no reason for Christ to become man. There was no real reason for Christ to be willing to be handed over, crucified. It was all, like Mary on Monday, an extravagant waste. And the cynic might ask: ‘was it all worth it?’

So often we measure things by their worth, or their productivity. So often we measure things by quantifiable measures that show how successful they are.

Even the Church sometimes falls victim to this: the worth of a community is based (in part) on numbers on seats, the amount of money that they raise and contribute. Effort, projects, and achievement all becoming measures of worth and success. What efforts are being made? What projects are being undertaken?

Good Friday calls us to emptiness and waste. It calls us to stand and watch as a man hangs on a cross, powerless, bleeding, dying. It calls us simply to watch and wonder. What does it achieve? When we walk away from here this afternoon, how will this change our lives? Why are there not more people here? How can we attract them?

And yet we are called not because it is attractive. We are not called because it is exciting. We are not called because there is so much going on. We are called, simply because a man was prepared to do this for us. We are called to watch with the dying, to be present, even though it doesn’t achieve anything, and we walk away in emptiness.

Of course, we know that this is not the end. We know that we will assemble in the darkness of tomorrow evening to hear the Good News that this death was not the end. We will find the tomb empty. What appeared empty and a waste will be seen to be fullness of life and salvation.

We want so often to avoid the hard struggle. We want so often to avoid pain. And yet love is so often only at its fullest with pain and suffering.

I watched the film Shadowlands the other evening about C. S. Lewis and his relationship and later marriage to Joy Gresham. In a scene where they are caught in a rainstorm, Joy wants to speak to ‘Jack’ about her coming death. He wants to hold onto the joy of that moment but she says to him that ‘the pain then is part of the happiness now’. In other words, in order fully to live, in order fully to have joy now, we must be prepared for the pain that will inevitably come.

Jesus chose the hard struggle. Jesus chose the way of pain for us. Jesus chose to enter into our struggle and claim his victory over sin and death by rising to new life.

Where there is death, there is resurrection, and there can be no resurrection without death.

Today we stand in the pain. We stand in the emptiness, knowing and believing that the new life will come, a new life, a victory that is ours through this pain and suffering.

And so truly we say:

‘We adore you, O Christ, and we bless you,
Because by your holy Cross you have redeemed the world.’

Maundy Thursday

Readings: Exodus 12.1-14; 1 Corinthians 11.23-26; John 13.1-17, 31b-35

‘I received from the Lord what I also handed on to you.’

What we do goes right back to Jesus himself, and Christians have done it for centuries. As I talked about last night, we simply step into the stream of faith and let it wash over us. It is not the invention of the Victorians, or the Romans, or whatever period of history you would like to choose. What we do tonight takes us right back to that Upper Room in the company of Jesus himself and his disciples.

Maundy Thursday is one of my favourite days of the year, but, in many ways, it is the most difficult and the most emotional, because it is a night on which we know that, when we receive Holy Communion, the Lord will be handed over, and the next thing we do will be to gather at the cross, which we will do tomorrow afternoon.

On Monday, we considered Mary’s ‘I love you too’ to Christ’s ‘I love you’. On Tuesday, we considered how love must be released to become what it is meant to be. Yesterday, we considered that love that was prepared to love and forgive even those who brought about the Lord’s pain and suffering.

Tonight, we consider Jesus’ love that loved to the end—a love that stood the test of time—a love that endured.

Very often on Maundy Thursday, we—rightly—preach about Christ’s love that stooped to wash the disciples’ feet. It is a love that was willing to assume the very lowest position to serve others. It was a love that showed such love and tenderness.

We often reflect on that call of Jesus to his disciples to love as he loved us. We reflect on the fact that we are called to follow Christ’s example.

In many parishes, the priest will wash the feet of twelve parishioners, as I will do this evening. The twelve symbolise the twelve apostles whose feet Jesus washed. They are not chosen because they are the vicar’s favourites, or because they are more important than anybody else. This year, I have asked the churchwardens and vergers to allow me to wash their feet. I have asked my mother to allow me to wash her feet. I have asked some others who I thought might be willing to allow me to do that. I do that because I have to be reminded that I am here to serve. I have to remember that I must always seek to follow the example of Christ. Very often it hurts my back to kneel down and bend for such a long time. Very often it brings tears to my eyes to assume that position and to touch the feet of some of the people I serve. But I do it because Christ did it. I do it because Christ told his apostles to follow his example.

I do it for all the right reasons, but it always brings the same issues every year. Whom should I ask? And it always brings some hesitancy from the people I ask.

It is hard enough to love. It is hard enough, when we reflect on Christ’s love, and the call to imitate that love, to even begin to try to live out that love in our lives. It is hard to love those whom we don’t like. It is hard to love those with whom it can be difficult to get on. It is hard.

But what Maundy Thursday often brings home to me, especially as I ask people to let me wash their feet, is how hard it is to allow ourselves to be loved, to be touched, to be made clean.

Most of us are very nervous about our feet. Our feet can be smelly. Our feet can have very thick and dry skin. Our feet can have all sorts of lumps and bumps on them. Our feet can be ticklish, sensitive to touch. Most of us will allow very few people to see, or to touch our feet. Only in the most intimate of relationships will we allow others to touch our feet. It requires love, and it requires trust. It is to allow the most sensitive parts of ourselves to be seen and touched by another. It is to allow those part of ourselves, that we most often keep hidden from view, hidden from touch, to be seen, to be touched.

It is to make ourselves vulnerable. It is about giving up pretence, and being seen as we really are, knowing that the person who sees us loves us so deeply and so completely that such an openness begins to seem possible. Only then can we be truly loved, and only then can we truly love in return.

What we are called to is not an easy journey.

It is a journey in which we give up the struggle, we give up the wrestling, and we simply come. We simply come to Christ. We simply come to allow Christ to touch our lives, to touch our hearts. We simply come as we are, no longer pretending, no longer acting. We lay down our egos. We lay down our sense of our own importance. We lay ourselves down. We simply come and open our hearts.

If we allow him to, Christ will touch our hearts. If we allow him to, Christ will make his home in our hearts. If we allow him to, Christ will begin to transform us from the inside out. Christ will forgive us our sin. Christ will cleanse our hearts. Christ will make us a new creation.

But in order for Christ to do that, we must allow him to. We must allow him in. We must be willing to allow him to touch the deepest parts of ourselves, knowing that in allowing him to do that we will have to change. It is about surrender. Christ calls us, gently and lovingly to surrender. Such surrender is not easy. It is not always comfortable.

In a short while, we will strip the sanctuary of the Church, and we will come tomorrow to the foot of the Cross. We are called to surrender, but we are called to surrender by him who was willing to surrender for us.

May Christ find our hearts ready and open to receive him.

Wednesday of Holy Week

Readings: Isaiah 50.4-9a; Hebrews 12.1-3; John 13.21-32

 ‘We are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses.’

We are not the first ones here. In fact, we are rather late to the party, so to speak. We have simply stepped into a stream of faith that has been flowing for around 2,000 years.

It is not our story. It is not our event. We do not own it. We do not have any right to change it or to adapt it. All we can do is simply make ourselves present, stand in the stream and let it wash over us.

Thousands, millions have stood in the stream before us. Thousands, millions have stood in awe and wonder and pondered what all this means but, at the end of the day, all we can do in our limited human way, is stand here and let it wash over us.

In this stream, we discover life. In this stream, we discover love. We have considered Mary’s ‘I love you too’ to Christ. We have considered how love has to be released and set free in order to become that which it is meant to be.

This evening’s glimpse of love is perhaps the most difficult because it is a glimpse of love rejected, love betrayed, a glimpse of loving somebody who does not love back, a glimpse of love that will cause us to see how weak our love is in comparison.

It is a love that knows who will bring about the deepest pain and suffering in our lives, a love that stands face to face with that person and chooses to love anyway. It is a love that lays down its own right to be angry, its own right to revenge or to take action to prevent that person’s actions.

If somebody hurts me, I want revenge. I dream of revenge. I want to see that person suffer. I have dreamt of causing that suffering to another and woken up in a cold sweat as I realise what darkness lies in the recesses of my heart and mind. And if I know that somebody wishes me harm, I will do what I can to strike before that person strikes me. I have experienced betrayal and desired revenge.

Christ hurts me. This evening’s Gospel hurts me. It hurts me because I see a perfect love in Christ that will wash the feet of the person who would cause his suffering. I see a perfect love of Christ that will reach out with bread saying ‘This is my body, broken for you.’ In other words: ‘no matter what you have done, or are about to do, this is my body which is broken for you’. It is that same love that can watch as nails are driven into wrists and ankles, look upon those who hammer the nails, and say ‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do’.

This is a love that hurts me, because I am not sure whether I can love in this way. I am not sure whether I have that goodness within me. I am not sure whether I can look at those who have hurt me and love them still.

When I ponder these things and look within myself, I see anger. I often say to people that anger is the easiest, and often the first emotion. It is an emotion that we often run to because it protects us from being touched. It prevents us from being hurt. Anger puts a distance between those who have hurt us, or wish to hurt us, and ourselves.

Jesus knew.

Jesus knew who would hand him over. Jesus knew who would bring about unspeakable pain and suffering. Jesus knew who it was that could take the love that he gave so freely and throw it back in his face. Jesus knew who it was who would use a sign of friendship and intimacy, a kiss, to bring him to death.

I feel angry. I want to hurt that person, and cause them the pain that they wish upon me and more still. I want that person to suffer. I want that person to beg for forgiveness.

Jesus knew, and yet Jesus washed his feet. Jesus knew, and yet Jesus included him. Jesus knew, and yet Jesus loved to the last. Jesus knew, and instead of being angry, instead of protecting himself, instead of doing what he would have been more than capable of and preventing the whole thing, instead of all this, he loved, he washed, he touched, he fed.

He loved, he embraced, he washed, he fed, with all the tenderness of a mother doing those things to her child. He could see the thoughts of Judas, and yet still sought to include him in his embrace.

What love is this? What perfection is this?

It is a love that I am called to know. It is a love that I am called to live. It is a love that I am called to show. It is a love that willingly accepts pain. It is a love that willingly lays down anger. It is a love that willingly chooses the better path.

It is a love that look on all things and says ‘whatever happens, I will still love’.

I look upon this love, and I am lost. I am confused. I am faced with my own brokenness and my own falling short. I am faced with how far I have fallen and how far I have missed the mark. I am faced with realising that I have, at times, been Judas. I am faced with realising that so often I would rather hand Jesus over than have to follow the path that he walks before me. I am faced with realising that I am not worthy of Christ’s love. I am faced with realising that I want to drop it all and run away.

But harder still, I am faced with hearing the call of Christ to come unto him, to receive his body and his blood. I am faced with having to stand in his place and speak his words, with all my horrible sinfulness, with all my weak and inadequate love.

It is too much for me to take in. It is too much for me to do on my own.

And so, ‘surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses’, I look to Jesus. I enter the stream and pray for the strength to stand and let it wash over me, and pray for the gift of love. So may we all.

Tuesday of Holy Week

Readings: Isaiah 49.1-7; 1 Corinthians 1.18-31; John 12.20-36

‘The message about the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us…it is the power of God.’

If people—ourselves included—are interested at all in hearing about Jesus, very often the Jesus that people want to hear about is not the Jesus who actually existed. Very often, we think that we understand who Jesus is, and yet we only usually see a glimpse of it.

I often imagine conversations with people who don’t know about Jesus. ‘So tell me about this Jesus…,’ says the open-minded person who might possibly be interested. ‘Well, he came to save us so that we can know God.’ ‘Oh cool! What happened to him?’ ‘He was arrested, beaten, nailed naked to a cross, and died.’

At this point, I imagine that many people would smirk. At this point, many people join with those who mocked Christ: ‘If you are the Son of God, come down from the cross!’ The human race had victory over Jesus. They were able to take him captive and kill him. Their power over him was made clear to all who could see. If you don’t believe me, consider the naked, bleeding body hanging on the cross for all to see. Not something most people would want to put their faith in.

The people we put our confidence in are the strong, the eloquent, the powerful. The people we vote for are the people who say the right things that inspire optimism. We vote for people who are going to make their countries great again. We vote for people who are prepared to speak powerfully and claim to stand up for the freedom of the people whose votes they want. We vote for those who are going to put their own interests—or the interests of their country—first. Not those who willingly go to death. Not those who tell their followers that they are to do the same. Not those who put the interests of others before their own.

To those who do not see salvation in the submission of Christ, it is complete and utter foolishness. This is not strength. This is not victory. This is weakness. This is vulnerability. This is letting go.

The Greeks said ‘we wish to see Jesus’. Very often we, and others, find ourselves saying the same thing. ‘We wish to see Jesus.’ But do we? Do we really want to see the real Jesus? Or would we prefer to see a version of Jesus that we find more comfortable, and more appealing? Are we willing to see a Jesus who lays himself down for others and asks us to do the same? Or would we prefer to see a Jesus who does everything for us, and makes us feel comfortable and warm inside, but doesn’t demand too much from us, and lets us stay exactly as we are?

Yesterday, we thought about Mary’s extravagant and wasteful outpouring in her ‘I love you too’ to Christ’s ‘I love you’. It was a letting go of that most precious thing that she could give that invites us to consider how much we are willing to give to show our love for Christ. Today’s reading invites us to look at another aspect of letting go: ‘unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit’.

Love, real and true love, is not something that we can grasp and hold onto. It is, rather, something that, in its very nature, needs to be released. If it is held onto, it does not accomplish its purpose. It becomes stale and eventually withers. It does not achieve its potential. We have all been given a grain, a seed. We all have the seeds of love. We love the idea of what these seeds can grow into, but the question is really this: are we willing to let go?

If we sow the seeds of love, there is always the danger that the seed might be taken, it might not grow. Something might happen and then we have lost everything. We might be held captive by fear and so we hold onto the seed. We might think that we have held onto something to keep it safe, whereas, in fact, we have not let it become. We have not let it be.

Letting it be requires a letting go that can be painful. It requires facing the possibility that it might not bear fruit. It is compared to life: ‘those who love their life lose it, and those who hate their life…will keep it for eternal life’. It is a dying in order to live.

I often say that, in the Christian faith, where there is death there is resurrection. It may seem as though all is lost, and yet when we think that all is lost, it is often then that glimpses of new life can be seen. Where there is death, there is resurrection. Looked at from a slightly different angle: there is no resurrection without death.

What Christ offers us is the new resurrected life of heaven. What Christ promises us is eternity in the presence of God with all the saints and angels. What Christ promises us is a world in which every tear is wiped away, in which there is no more pain or suffering. But, without death, it is impossible to enter into this world. Without the cross, none of this is possible.

If we wish to celebrate the joy of Easter, if we wish to celebrate the resurrected life of Christ, and be partakers of it, then we need also to come to the foot of the cross and listen as Christ speaks words of love and forgiveness, and watch as he breathes his last. Not only this, but we have to have the willingness to lay down our own lives, to be crucified with Christ. If we are crucified with Christ, we shall be raised with him.

This isn’t just a nice idea that we might wish to consider if it feels right at the time. This is an act of sacrifice as we ponder what Christ has done and respond in love to him.

Although love rejoices in the good and happy times, love is most fully shown in the dark and painful times where we  suffer. Let this be true of our love for Christ, and for each other.

Monday of Holy Week 2018

Readings: Isaiah 42.1-9; Hebrew 9.11-15; John 12.1-11

‘Christ entered once and for all into the Holy Place.’

This Holy Place refers to the most sacred part of the Jewish Temple: a place that nobody but the High Priest could enter, and even then only once a year, and the priest would tie a rope around his ankle, so that he could be pulled out, so afraid was he that he might die if he stood in the most holy place.

Long before I was ordained, I used to look in awe at the sanctuaries of Churches, in which only a few people ever got to stand. It seemed like a massive thing to be able to stand in that place, and when I started serving at the altar, it felt like a massive thing to stand in that holy part of the Church.

Nowadays I am more used to it and I constantly have to remind myself what a holy thing it is that I am called to do as a priest. I am called to stand in that holy place, into which Christ entered, and speak his words and give his body and blood to those who come.

We might sometimes forget what a holy thing it is that we do each time we come together to celebrate the Eucharist, but Holy Week, in a very special way, draws us into the holy place, to ponder anew what Christ has done for us. We come as his invited guests.

The thing about being somebody’s guest is that we have to learn how to behave. We have to learn new customs, new ways of speaking and behaving. We have to abide by the rules of the host’s house. We cannot just behave however we like. As Christ’s guests, we are called to come with minds and hearts open to his touch, to receive his teaching, and to be renewed by his Body and Blood, as we seek to walk the Way of the Cross.

Christ invites us to draw near as his guests, but he also asks to become our guests. He stands at the door of our hearts and knocks, asking to be allowed in. The events of this Holy Week, and the Gospel stories that we will hear, all invite us to enter into different parts of the story, as Christ’s guests, and consider how we might receive Christ as ours.

Today’s Gospel reading invites us to see Christ as the guest at the table in Bethany. This was the home of Lazarus, whom Jesus had raised from the dead. Christ doesn’t simply act and then leave: Christ continues to ask to share fellowship. Christ asks to be involved in our lives.

We meet Mary and Martha in another part of the Gospel. Martha is the person running around, making sure that everything is as it should be. Mary is the one sitting at the feet of Jesus listening to his every word. In that part of the story, Martha becomes annoyed at her sister for sitting there, listening to Jesus, leaving her to do all the work. And yet, Jesus says that Mary has chosen the better way.

If you are the type of person who runs around making sure everything is done the right way, you will probably relate to Martha. ‘I do this because nobody else will.’ ‘Some of the others are just idle.’ The heart can be in the right place, and the motives and intentions honourable, but in the rushing around, in the busyness and hard work, we can miss the very treasure that Christ wishes to give. Many clergy, and other people with roles in the Church, can be a bit like this, always on the go, hardly ever appearing to stop.

Or you could be the type of person, more like me, who can quite happily sit, listen, and ponder. Again, the heart can be in the right place, but sometimes we fall into the trap of not turning thoughts to action.

I once said the following to a colleague: ‘Father, the problem with you is getting you to stop. I have the opposite problem: the problem with me is getting me to start.’

What Mary did in today’s Gospel reading was a very wasteful and extravagant outpouring. The oil was very expensive. There is every possibility that it was the most expensive and most precious item that the family owned.

We have the habit of holding onto our precious things. We guard them. We protect them. We use them sparingly. Not Mary: Mary poured it out wastefully: once it was poured it was gone and it would be impossible to get it again. Once it was given, it was given forever. Once given, it could not be taken back. The decision to do this must not have been taken lightly.

I like to think that perhaps Mary doubted and questioned herself. ‘Is this a bit over the top? Should I perhaps hold back? Will I simply be making a show of myself?’

We experience these questions and these feelings so often in our lives. Like when we fall in love, expressing our feelings involves great risk. It risks humiliation. It risks rejection. It can feel like the most costly thing that we can do. And yet, it is often only when we take that risk to express ourselves, to pour out our love, that the relationship can grow.

So it is with Christ. What are the things that stop us pouring out our love and adoration? Do we worry about what others think? Do we worry that Christ will reject us because we don’t feel that we’re good enough? Are we afraid to allow ourselves to be loved and to love in equal degree? Are we afraid of losing that most precious part of ourselves?

If nothing else, the events of this Holy Week are Christ’s way of saying ‘I love you’. In some ways, this can be the hardest message to receive. For Christ, it was an extremely painful thing to go through, a very costly thing to say. In all the stories and events that we will reflect upon this week, we are invited to hear Christ’s ‘I love you’.

Jesus had brought Mary’s brother back to life. Her actions were an outpouring of her love and gratitude. Tonight, as we ponder Christ’s ‘I love you’, we are invited to consider this: are we willing to say to Christ, ‘I love you too’?