The Parable of the Prodigal Son Talk 2: What happens when we sin?

Introduction

I spoke a lot last week about sin: what it is and why we do it. To briefly summarise: we all sin and sin separates us from God, because it is the very act of turning away from God and choosing our own way. The problem is not the precise nature of the sin: the problem is simply that we have turned away. In turning away, we have chosen separation from God.

This week, we begin to think more about what happens when we sin: the consequences of sin. I am not talking about punishment, or hell, or anything like that. The purpose of this talk is not to instil fear into anybody’s heart: rather, its purpose is to help us to think about what is really going on when we sin, as we all do—the spiritual consequences, if you like. This is perhaps to descend to the depths more than we are used to, or more than we are comfortable with but, as I said last week, we descend to the depths, knowing that we will travel home together, back to the home that is meant for all of us.

Our descent to the depths is not about becoming afraid or miserable about our very human natures but about understanding the darkness that we all have to face in our own lives. If we pretend that the darkness is not there, we will never truly be able to bring the light to the darkness because if we’re not willing to face the darkness, if we try to pretend that it doesn’t exist, those parts of our lives remain unexposed to the light of Christ. In other words, if we want to grow as Christians, we have to allow Christ into all areas of our lives. We face our darkness knowing that Christ is bringing his light into that darkness, and the darkness cannot overcome it.

Let us hear the Parable of the Prodigal Son again.

Reading of Luke 15:11-32
Talk

The younger son had left the abundance of his father’s house. While he was at the house, everything he needed was provided for him. It was a house that could afford to have servants. It was most likely a life of luxury. No doubt because of his father’s careful management of the household, the son had never known want.

But the son wanted his freedom. He wanted to live away from his father’s house and do whatever he pleased. We tend to focus on the restrictions on our lives, rather than the blessings that we have. The son, like all of us, and like everybody as they grow up, wanted to have the freedom to do what he wanted, without having to answer to his father, and so he took his inheritance and moved away from his father’s house, to live as though his father didn’t exist, to live as though his father was dead.

What the son didn’t realise, and what we so often don’t realise, is that any restrictions that the father placed on his son’s life were for his own protection, his own good. The father only ever wanted to keep his son safe. How many parents have used the phrase ‘I don’t want you to make the same mistakes that I made’? My mum certainly did. And how many children have said to their parents ‘but you did it when you were younger’ or ‘you just don’t want me to have fun’?

The son chose freedom and independence from his father. In the same way, in taking the fruit from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, Adam and Eve, chose freedom and independence from the God who created them, having been deceived into think that they could become like God themselves. The problem was that it was the illusion of freedom: the freedom was not real. The son wanted to live as though his father was dead, as though he didn’t exist, but his father was not dead, his father was very much alive. He had given up the place that was rightfully his, in order to live the life he thought he wanted. He had effectively said to his father: ‘I don’t need you. I don’t need your advice. I can do this by myself.’

He squandered his property in dissolute living. When he had spent everything, a severe famine took place throughout that country, and he began to be in need.

What he took ran out. He had chosen a life away from the abundance of his father’s house. His father’s hard work, his careful management, meant that the house would have a steady income. Money didn’t just land on the father’s lap: he had to work for it, he had to make wise decisions, he had to be sensible. The younger son had rejected this for the illusion of freedom. He wanted to enjoy his life but, without the discipline and hard work, the money ran out.

So he went and hired himself out to one of the citizens of that country, who sent him to his fields to feed the pigs. He would gladly have filled himself with the pods that the pigs were eating; and no one gave him anything.

To fully understand what this means, we have to remember that pigs were seen as unclean animals: no self-respecting Jew would own pigs, let alone be a person hired to feed them. Essentially, for Jewish listeners, this was saying that the younger son had become lower than the low, more unclean than the unclean. To use a metaphor from the Indian caste system, he was lower than the untouchables.

He hired himself out. His rightful place was as his father’s son, safe and provided for in his father’s house. That was where he belonged. That was where he should have been. Like many of us, in chasing the illusion of freedom, he found that he had, in fact, found captivity: he had to hire himself out, making himself the servant of somebody else. His father offered him a life of safety, a life of plenty: he had chosen a life of poverty, a life of servitude. The son has become a slave. He thought he was finding freedom: what he had, in fact, found was servitude. He had substituted relationship and love for obligation and a loveless life. Nobody in this world he had chosen owed him any love: he had become a servant, rejected by any self-respecting people. He had substituted the love of his father for loneliness and isolation. No one gave him anything.

That is so often precisely what we get when we sin: loneliness and isolation. Like Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, we find that we hide in the bushes: we are ashamed and are afraid of God, and sometimes afraid of other people. We are especially afraid of people finding out what we have done. Like Adam and Eve, we realise that we are naked and so we hide.

I can share with you something of what it has been like for me. I can remember one time a few years ago when I had sinned. Without telling you what the sin was, because I put it in the healing hands of my confessor, who helped me to leave it at the cross of Christ, I want to tell you about a powerful experience I had.

I had sinned. I had wilfully and deliberately sinned and I could make no excuses. Some time soon after, I was in the Chapel of the Church I was serving at the time, sitting quietly, trying to pray the Daily Office. I sat with my prayer book, quietly reading the Psalms and trying to meditate on Scripture. It was as though somebody was clinging to my back and I could hear a voice in my ear. ‘Who do you think you are? Who do you think you are sitting here trying to be all holy when you and I both know what you have done?’ The same voices that had whispered seductively in my ear ‘go on: it’ll be fine’ had now turned and were accusing me.

Even if we don’t experience it as dramatically as I did on that occasion, when we sin, we all hear those voices of accusation. However you might want to interpret that, one thing I can tell you is that those voices did not come from God. When I confessed that sin, the voices stopped, and I felt so free that I wanted to skip. (I’m not a natural skipper!)

Do you know the Hebrew name for ‘the one who accuses’?

Like the son, who found himself destitute and having to hire himself out, we find ourselves captive to people and forces beyond our control and we find that having chased the illusion of freedom, to do what we like, we actually end up putting ourselves at the control of others. We find ourselves captive, when our rightful place is as free sons and daughters of God.

One of the biggest problems we face is that our temptation is to blame. Adam blamed Eve and Eve blamed the serpent. We often seek to blame others for our own mistakes. How often have we heard or said things like ‘everybody else is doing it’ or ‘they made me do it’ or ‘I couldn’t help it’. We blame all sorts of things, people or circumstances, rather than accepting that it is our fault.

The parable goes on to say that the son ‘came to himself’, in other words ‘came to his senses’—more of that next week—but I wonder what he was thinking before that happened. I wonder whether he looked at other people whose lives didn’t seem as broken as his and somehow blamed them or resented them. I wonder whether he blamed his father. I wonder how long he tried to tell himself that things weren’t actually that bad. I wonder how long he tried to tell himself that he was only human and that this was normal and he shouldn’t beat himself up about it.

He had left his father’s house to live his life with the people outside. Perhaps their lives looked more attractive, more fun, or more successful. The trouble is that he did not belong to them and, when push came to shove, when the money ran out, they were no longer there for him and he had no choice but to hire himself out. The people he thought he’d be happier with ended up being the people who looked down on him and left him feeling isolated. They were the people who judged him and accused him.

This is what happens when we sin. This is what we choose when we turn our backs on God and consciously choose to do things that we know we shouldn’t do. We find ourselves hiding in the bushes, caught in all sorts of tangled webs. Even the little white lie we might tell to get out of trouble —which I used as an example of something we might consider a smaller sin—can lead to a whole complicated web of lies that end up beyond our control and we end up trapped.

We find ourselves so often trying to portray a version of ourselves to the world outside when really we feel like somebody very different inside. We so often put on an act, because we are afraid to let people see our true selves. We don’t want other people to know what mistakes we have made, what sins we have committed, because that would be too embarrassing and so, whatever the truth is, we try to carry on as though everything is ok. This is not who we are meant to be.

I had a conversation recently with somebody who was asking me about sin and confession. I explained that the problem many of us have is that, theologically and logically, we know that God can and will forgive anybody. The problem we have is that the guilt we so often experience is not logical. It is a matter of the emotions, of the heart, and we often need help dealing with that more emotional and illogical side of things. We need help untangling the web that we so often create for ourselves.

The son came to his sense and began to make the journey home. Many people would have been judging him. Many voices would have been accusing him. When he returned home, he heard an entirely different voice. More of that in the next two talks.

The Parable of the Prodigal Son Talk 1: What is sin and why do we do it?

Introduction

The Parable of the Prodigal Son is one of my favourite pieces of Scripture. I must confess that sometimes I struggle to read it without welling up. There are many reasons for this: some of them deeply personal and private, but others that I am more comfortable sharing with you.

It is a passage that demands a lot of us, both spiritually and emotionally, and getting to grips with it demands an openness to being moved to tears, being moved to joy. We might be tempted to skip to the end: to focus on being embraced by the Father, being welcomed home, but to do so means that we will never fully understand the meaning of this. To fully understand the meaning of this parable, we have to be willing to descend to the depths of our very normal and very human experiences. We have to be willing to look at our own failings, our own sin, and recognise that, so often in our lives, we too have abandoned our home and gone our own way.

I am going to try to lead us into the depths. A part of me is afraid to do this because, sometimes, we fear the depths. Although I am your priest, I am every bit the human being that you all are. This journey we take together. It will not be easy but one of the things that Lent teaches us is that we have to face our own natures and our own brokenness. The depths to which we must go, the death, if you will, that we must face, end with risen life. I will lead you to the depths and, if you will travel with me, we will then step forward into the light and life of Easter.

The first two of these talks are a descent into the darkness but please do not lose heart. The descent into the darkness is part of the journey to the light. Remember that whatever depths we go to, Christ is there ahead of us and no darkness can overtake us while that light shines in the darkness.

Reading of Luke 15:11-32

¹¹ Then Jesus said, “There was a man who had two sons. ¹² The younger of them said to his father, ‘Father, give me the share of the property that will belong to me.’ So he divided his property between them. ¹³ A few days later the younger son gathered all he had and travelled to a distant country, and there he squandered his property in dissolute living. ¹⁴ When he had spent everything, a severe famine took place throughout that country, and he began to be in need. ¹⁵ So he went and hired himself out to one of the citizens of that country, who sent him to his fields to feed the pigs. ¹⁶ He would gladly have filled himself with the pods that the pigs were eating; and no one gave him anything. ¹⁷ But when he came to himself he said, ‘How many of my father’s hired hands have bread enough and to spare, but here I am dying of hunger! ¹⁸ I will get up and go to my father, and I will say to him, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; ¹⁹ I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me like one of your hired hands.” ’ ²⁰ So he set off and went to his father. But while he was still far off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion; he ran and put his arms around him and kissed him. ²¹ Then the son said to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son.’ ²² But the father said to his slaves, ‘Quickly, bring out a robe—the best one—and put it on him; put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. ²³ And get the fatted calf and kill it, and let us eat and celebrate; ²⁴ for this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!’ And they began to celebrate.

²⁵ “Now his elder son was in the field; and when he came and approached the house, he heard music and dancing. ²⁶ He called one of the slaves and asked what was going on. ²⁷ He replied, ‘Your brother has come, and your father has killed the fatted calf, because he has got him back safe and sound.’ ²⁸ Then he became angry and refused to go in. His father came out and began to plead with him. ²⁹ But he answered his father, ‘Listen! For all these years I have been working like a slave for you, and I have never disobeyed your command; yet you have never given me even a young goat so that I might celebrate with my friends. ³⁰ But when this son of yours came back, who has devoured your property with prostitutes, you killed the fatted calf for him!’ ³¹ Then the father said to him, ‘Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. ³² But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found.’ ”

Talk

The younger of the two sons said to his Father: ‘Father, give me the share of the property that will belong to me’.

Essentially, the younger son was saying to his father: ‘I want now what will come to me when you die’. In other words: ‘I want to be able to live as though you were dead’.

We could be tempted to think of amusing stories of children saying to their elderly grandparents: ‘Nanny, when you die, can I have…’

A few years ago, I visited my grandmother in South Wales—now my only surviving grandparent. On a book shelf she had a series of books, the works of Charles Dickens. I said to her, partly in jest: ‘Nan, can I have these books when you die’. It was said in jest and affection and, thankfully, she wasn’t upset by it. The next time I visited, she had boxed them up for me and said that I might as well take them now because it is one less thing to sort out. There was one of the series missing but I managed to get it online for the princely sum of £5.

Of course, I wasn’t rejecting my grandmother, my mamgu but the story of the Prodigal Son is one in which the son is completely rejecting his father, and his father’s house, and saying: ‘I want my own life, away from you. Just give me what I will get when you are dead, and I am gone.’ It is the rejection of relationship, for the illusion of freedom. Note my choice of words: ‘the illusion of freedom’. I will come back to that next week. The son was effectively saying to his father: ‘I wish you were dead’. In a society where family lines and bonds were absolutely central to the people’s identity, these words of the younger son would be completely shocking and they are meant to be. It is a dramatic image for us to ponder: the complete rejection of the person without whom you wouldn’t be alive.

The Parable of the Prodigal Son, and the two parables that immediately precede it in Luke 15, is a story of repentance: the shepherd going in search of the lost sheep, the woman searching for the lost coin, the father rejoicing over the return of his lost son. The emphasis of most preaching is naturally on the coming home, the being found. But to really get to the full meaning of this passage we must, as I said in the beginning, descend to the depths of our human nature. We don’t mind talking about repentance; we are far less comfortable talking about sin. But that is the subject of this evening’s talk.

Sin

If we reflect on what the younger son was saying to his father, and on what he went on to do, many of us would probably be reading or listening to the passage thinking: ‘but I haven’t done anything as bad as that’. This is the first mistake that we make. Our temptation is often to make comparisons, which we normally do in our favour: ‘I haven’t done anything as bad as that’ or ‘I am not as bad as that person’. We like to try to scale things to varying degrees of seriousness, usually in order to reassure ourselves that we are not as bad as we are. At its heart, all sin is the same.

When I do baptism visits, in order to talk about what baptism is, we have to talk about what sin is and I often use the story of the Garden of Eden. I make the point that not many people believe that it is a historical account of what happened; rather, it is a theological story that teaches us a moral truth about who we are and why our lives are the way they are.

What was the one thing that Adam and Eve were told not to do?
Why was it a sin?

In the story of Adam and Eve, the man and the woman that God created were placed in the Garden of Eden. It must have been the most beautiful place on the whole earth and Adam and Eve were given almost complete freedom to enjoy it all, apart from eating from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. They had a complete relationship with God: walking with him and talking with him in the garden.

The one thing they were told not to do was eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. This tree would give them knowledge and understanding and, in the words of the serpent, they would become like God. Wow! We can become like the God who made us and have all knowledge and understanding! What an amazing thing!

Remember that they had a perfect relationship with God. They walked and talked with God in the garden. They were created by God. They were loved by God. Everything they needed came from God and was given to them by God. Everything they could ever want to know could be told to them by God. What an amazing relationship: rather like the relationship the younger son had with his father. He had everything he needed at home. Adam and Eve had everything that they needed to.

The reason that taking the fruit was a sin was that they were choosing to take the knowledge and understanding for themselves at the expense of their relationship with God. They were choosing a life of freedom and independence rather than being dependent on God. To use the phrase I mentioned earlier, they chose the illusion of freedom instead of the relationship that had given them life. In reaching towards the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, they were, in fact, turning their backs on God and saying, like the son said to his father: ‘we don’t want you anymore: we can do this by ourselves’.

This is what every single sin, whether we consider it big or small, is. It is the turning away from God and taking for ourselves. All sin is the same thing: whether it is rape, murder, the abuse of children, or a little white lie to get ourselves out of a tricky situation, the unkind word about somebody behind their back, the one glass of wine too many, or the walking past the homeless person pretending we don’t see them at all. This is both good and bad news.

The good news is that we have all sinned: we are no better or worse than anybody else. We are all in the same boat. Laypeople, priests, bishops: we are all the same boat. We are all prone to sin and we all do indeed sin. There can be some comfort in this. I once heard it said, to describe the Church, that we are all beggars looking for bread. Or, to use the words of Oscar Wilde from Lady Windermere’s Fan: ‘we are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.’

The mistake we sometimes make is that we use this truth to justify our sin. We say to ourselves: ‘I’m only human’. We use this to somehow justify the things that we do wrong, to make it ok. We must, however, remember that it is not ok. Sin is not ok. That is not to say that we should be walking around riddled with guilt—more on that next week—but we must recognise sin for what it is. Yes, it is part of our human condition and we all do it, but we should be aiming higher. In the words of Jesus in Matthew 5:48: ‘Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect’. Yes, we will all stumble and fall but our aim should be that perfection.

The bad news is that in sinning we are all choosing separation from God. To put it more dramatically, we are all choosing death. Romans 6:23 says: ‘the wages of sin is death’. This is what we choose when we deliberately sin. Like Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, and like the younger son in the Parable of the Prodigal Son, when we sin, we choose to turn our backs on our relationship with those who have given us life and walk away into the illusion of freedom.

What was the result for Adam and Eve of taking the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil?

Romans 6:23 tells us that the wages of sin is death. Through their turning away from God, Adam and Eve were denied access to the tree of life. The story teaches us that sin is what has brought pain, suffering, and death into the world.

We are all born with this separation and we are all born as heirs of this separation from God, with that distance from God, and the inclination to seize things for ourselves, and seek our own individual freedoms.

This isn’t just the problem of Adam and Eve, or of the younger son in the parable: it is the problem that all of us have. We wander away and find ourselves lost.

I hope that this has been helpful. Let us not despair of the darkness but let us remember that this is the reason Christ came into the world: to restore that relationship. Christ is the light that shines and the darkness, and the darkness cannot overcome it. In order to remember the light, let us hear the parable again.

Unexpected retreat

As some people are now aware because of my posting on Facebook, I have come away from the parishes I serve to spend a few days with the Community of the Resurrection in Mirfield, West Yorkshire. I don’t normally post about my mental/emotional/spiritual state and find it a little annoying when people do.

In recent years, I have become aware of more than one colleague in ministry who has had to ‘come away’. There is much talk of ‘Clergy wellbeing’, as though mentioning it at regular intervals will convince the clergy that the Church cares about the wellbeing of her clergy.

I am not a person who shares a lot emotionally. I do often tell stories from my life in sermons and some of those can be quite personal and emotional but there is usually some space and time between the event and my telling. When I do this, it is a way of connecting my experiences with my listeners’ experiences and finally trying to connect both to the Scriptures and our faith.

Everybody knows that ordained ministry is very demanding. Many, many priests work very hard and many priests have experiences far more demanding and intense than mine. This statement, in itself, is actually part of the problem. If we’re not careful, it becomes a way of saying ‘This isn’t too bad: so-and-so has it far worse. I need to just “man up” and crack on with it.’ And that’s exactly what I do: crack on.

I like to think that I’m good at looking after myself. If I’m tired, I will rest. So I tell myself that I’m ok. Then I remember a day last week when I was tired so I was going to have a quiet afternoon reading but ended up doing two or three visits instead. And I told myself that this was good: that I was doing the Lord’s work. And people are generally very grateful for the care of a priest who makes the effort to visit them.

Some days can be low days. Sometimes a priest can feel down or tired. This is nothing new: it happens to all of us and is just part of the journey. But we often make ourselves carry on with the Lord’s work and laugh along with the ‘only one day a week’ joke. Sometimes faithful priests say the Office with a tear in the eye because some days are hard.

What happened to me this week was a bit of a shock. Monday was quite intense, but not much more intense than many other intense days I have had. In the evening I felt very tired and could even feel that I felt stressed. Again, nothing new. A good nights sleep would help and the morning would be fairly easy.

I got up on Tuesday morning, a little later than usual, to say my Morning Offices but what happened was rather different to even the worst days that normally happen. I sat holding my Office book but couldn’t open it. Tears streamed down my cheeks. For half an hour I sat like that, looking out of my window, suddenly feeling like the whole thing was falling apart.

And so, I phoned the Community of the Resurrection and asked, through tears, whether I might come to stay for a few days. They very kindly squeezed me in even though it is a very busy week. I cancelled appointments and everybody affected was very kind.

Normally, when I arrive to CR Mirfield, I walk in the grounds and go into the Church to take in the atmosphere. This time, I went to my room and cried and slept and cried and slept and didn’t leave my room until Evening Prayer. I managed to join in most of the Office but didn’t worry when I couldn’t. That morning, I couldn’t pray and so I knew that the prayers of those who could pray would hold and sustain my weak prayers. This morning I slept for two hours after breakfast and this afternoon, even as I write, I am struggling to stay awake.

I am emotionally ok today. I am just very, very tired. I don’t think that this is a major breakdown. It is just a little one where my body had to tell me that I was too tired, even if I didn’t think that I’d been working THAT hard. And so I am resting. I felt a little guilty about coming away but the more I reflect, the more I realise that this what I needed to do.

I’m pretty sure that I’ll be ok by the time I go back on Friday. But I will be watching. This came upon me very suddenly. Such things often do.

I don’t often share things like this because I like to appear strong. But the reaction from some friends to what I’ve shared so far has been amazing and very helpful. Right now, I’m a little weak so have to rest. Please keep me and all clergy in your prayers.

The Church does need to talk about ‘Clergy wellbeing’ but we clergy need to look after ourselves and spot the signs.
If you think your priest is looking tired or has been working too hard, pray for them, and perhaps even tell them that they need to rest.

Easter Sunday

Readings:Acts 10.34-43; 1 Corinthians 15.1-11; John 20.1-18

As one of my favourite Easter hymns puts it: ‘the strife is o’er, the battle done; now is the Victor’s triumph won; O let the song of praise be sung; Alleluia!’

The journey through Lent is a long one. Some of us have travelled together using the book Say it to God by Luigi Gioia, the Archbishop of Canterbury’s Lent Book for this year. I found it a very helpful book that helped us to explore some aspects of prayer that we perhaps don’t often think about it.

Just this last week, some of us have journeyed together with the daily services and sermons. In the sermons I have been exploring different aspects of love that, for me, come out of the readings for Holy Week: on Monday we had the extravagant love of Mary who poured out the expensive ointment; on Tuesday we reflected on love that need to be released, like the grain that needs to go into the earth and die; on Wednesday, it was the love that loves in the face of betrayal; on Thursday, the love that stoops to serve and put others first; on Friday, the love that suffers; and yesterday it was the love that conquers.

Love drove the women to the tomb, even though they didn’t know how they would roll the stone away.

When we think about Christ’s love, it is all too easy to think about it in very general ways. One of the biggest mistakes of the modern Church has been making the faith and worship too individualised, too private a matter. Everything becomes relative and subjective, and this leads to great error. The other extreme though is to make it so universal and general that it never really hits home in our own lives and in our own hearts.

I like John’s story of the Resurrection because it provides a beautiful illustration of a wonderful characteristic of Christ’s love. The men rush away and return to their homes, only really seeing half of the story. They only see that Jesus is not in the tomb: they did not see the risen Christ.

Mary lingers. Love compels her to stay and grieve a while. Love compels her to wait. It is then that she hears that question: ‘Woman, why are you weeping?’ Her weeping matters. Her grief matters. Her feelings matter. In the same way, our experiences and our feelings matter because they make us who we are.

In her grief, she explains her weeping: ‘They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.’ In other words, ‘I cannot find Christ’.

There are many times in our lives when it feels that we have somehow lost touch of Christ, when Christ seems so far away from us. Spiritually speaking, these are sometimes the most painful and desolate times. ‘I cannot find him’.

The story continues when Jesus stands beside her but she cannot recognise him. He even speaks to her but she cannot recognise his voice. I often wonder why she didn’t recognise him. I often wonder why we too find it so hard to see Christ’s presence in our lives at times. But we do. We find it difficult.

It is at this point that we learn an important lesson about Christ’s love. Christ died on the cross, and rose again, thereby claiming victory over sin and death. All is won. All is accomplished. Through this, eternal life is won for all of humanity. But the lesson is this: It was when Jesus spoke her name that she recognised him. The first time he speaks to her he says ‘Woman’. In the Greek, this is not as rude as it sounds in English, but it is general. It is not specific. When Jesus speaks her name, it is specific. In that moment, Mary knows that she is known. Mary knows that she belongs. Mary knows that this is the person for whom she is longing.

Love is general, but it is also specific. Christ’s love is for all people and his victory is for all people, but it is also specific and speaks into the hearts of all who are willing to listen. The battle is done and the victory won. All that is needed for salvation has already been accomplished. This is done for all people, at all times and in all places. But it is also done for each one of us.

May we, like Mary, hear the Lord call our name and recognise that he is risen.

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

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.