Peter and Mary

 

Hallelujah! Christ is risen! This year, as every year, we have made it through to Easter Day and we celebrate with the Risen Christ.

For us, it is something we have always known, ever since we knew anything at all about the Christian faith. God raised Christ from the dead. Christ is risen. But it was far otherwise for the earliest disciples. I’ll come back to the gospel account in a minute, but let’s just look at our first reading, from Acts.

I expect you know the context of Peter’s speech here, but just in case you’ve forgotten, or can’t quite place it for a moment, it’s when he goes to visit the Roman centurion, Cornelius. Now, Peter is in no doubt at all that Jesus has been raised; he not only saw Jesus, but walked and talked and ate with him. Jesus had forgiven him for denying that he knew him, and Peter had also been in the Upper Room at Pentecost when the Holy Spirit came, and had been one of the first to explain to the crowds what was happening.

But for now, he is staying with Simon the Tanner, in Joppa, and after lunch one day he goes up on to the roof to have a nap. Or a time of prayer, but I rather think he falls asleep. And he has an extraordinary dream – there is a sheet full of the sort of animals he wouldn’t ever think of eating – pigs, and rats, and things like that. I’ve never watched “I’m a celebrity, get me out of here,” but I gather the contestants on that have something called a bush tucker trial, which presumably involves eating things they wouldn’t normally think of as food – insects and so on. Well, this was Peter’s bush tucker trial, if you like, and he was told, in his dream, to choose something and eat it…. And he refuses, but the voice that told him to choose something now tells him not to call anything unclean that God has called clean. Eventually, he gets the message, and when he wakes up, Cornelius’ envoys are waiting to ask him to come.

Peter would not normally have dreamt of going to a Gentile’s house – yuck! That would have made him totally unclean. But after his dream, such timing, he dare not refuse, and when he gets there he realises what’s happening, and, rather tactlessly, exclaims that he now realises “that it is true that God treats everyone on the same basis. Those who fear him and do what is right are acceptable to him, no matter what race they belong to.” Yeah, big of him! Still, for Peter, who even years later still had trouble eating non-kosher food, that was a huge concession. And he goes on to give the excellent summary of the Good News that we heard read. How God sent Jesus to heal and to overcome the devil, and how he was put to death, but raised – and Peter stresses that he witnessed that, and that he ate and drank with Jesus after he was raised.

Because Peter was, after all, one of the first to see Jesus. But not totally the first. I love the account in John’s gospel; John isn’t known for personal glimpses the way the other gospels are, but this whole account sounds as though it was taken from a very early source – you know, of course, that the gospels were not written down for several decades after the Resurrection, but obviously took their material from earlier works, either written or oral. Perhaps John himself, or even Mary Magdalen, told this story!

It’s the details – Mary, coming early in the morning, probably around 5 am, to finish embalming the body, and finding it not there. And she runs to tell the others, and Peter and John come, and look inside, and they see that, although there is obviously no body in there, the actual grave clothes in which it had been wound are still there, with the headpiece separate. You couldn’t actually do that without disturbing them, surely?

Peter and John head off back to the others, but Mary stays, still in tears because she needs to be by the body, or at least by the tomb, to get her grieving done. And when a man, whom she assumes is the gardener, asks her what’s wrong, she says again, “Where is he? Have you moved him? Where did you put him? Please tell me, please?”

And then the man suddenly says, in that well-known, familiar, much-loved voice: “Mary!”

And Mary takes another look. She blinks. She rubs her eyes. She pinches herself. No, she’s not dreaming. It really, really is! “Oh, my dearest Lord!” she cries, and flings herself into his arms.

We’re not told how long they spent hugging, talking, explaining and weeping in each other’s arms, but eventually Jesus gently explains that, although he’s perfectly alive, and that this is a really real body one can hug, he won’t be around on earth forever, but will ascend to the Father. He can’t stop with Mary for now, but she should go back and tell the others all about it. And so, we are told, she does.

So Peter and Mary both knew, from their own knowledge, that Jesus was raised from the dead in a physical body they could hug, and walk and talk with, and eat and drink with. We know from some other accounts that there were some differences and not everybody recognised him at first, which isn’t too improbable when you think how difficult it is, sometimes, to recognise people out of context – if you meet your hairdresser in the street, for instance.

And if you thought Jesus was dead and buried, how very difficult to recognise him when he came and walked along with you, as he did to Cleopas and his wife that same evening.

So all right. But then, why does it matter? It is something that happened two thousand years ago, isn’t it? Long ago in history.

Well yes, it is. But it is also central to our faith. St Paul says, in his letter to the Corinthians, that if Christ hasn’t been raised, then he – Paul – is a fraud, our sins are not forgiven, and we might as well all go home and eat chocolate! As it is, because Christ has been raised, our sins are forgiven! And we can have life, abundant life. And, it appears, that just as Christ was raised, so shall we be raised from death – our bodies will obviously wear out or rust out one day no matter what we do, and while we may be given “notice to quit”, as it were, it may happen very suddenly. But we believe that because Christ was raised, so we, too, shall be raised to eternal life with him. And we will be changed.

I like to wear a butterfly brooch or two on Easter day, because, for me, butterflies are a symbol of the Resurrection. Butterflies, as you know, start off as caterpillars, and, when they have reached a certain size or body weight, they pupate; they wrap themselves in leaves or silk or something and become what’s called a chrysalis, and eventually, all being well, a butterfly emerges.

That isn’t just a matter of hibernating, like a dormouse or bear; to become a butterfly, caterpillars have to be completely remade. While they are in the pupa, all their bits dissolve away, and are remade from scratch, from the material that is there.  It’s not just a matter of rearranging what is there,

it’s a matter of total breakdown and starting again. The caterpillar more-or-less has to die before it can become a butterfly.

That is seriously scary. Especially as something of the same sort of thing happened to Jesus, before he was raised from death, and may well happen to us, too. We will be remade and raised in some kind of spiritual body, so St Paul says.

And one reason we have eggs at Easter, whether the ordinary kind, or chocolate ones, or both, is that an egg is also a symbol of resurrection. We eat our breakfast eggs and enjoy them, but if an egg is fertilised and incubated, it goes on to hatch out into a bird – the bird grows from scratch inside the egg, but then has to peck its way out, or it will perish.

Christ has been raised, and we will be raised.

And we believe, too, that because Christ was raised, we can be filled with his Holy Spirit, just as the disciples were on that long-ago day of Pentecost. So we don’t have to face going through the transformation that will occur all by ourselves; the Holy Spirit will be with us, strengthening us and enabling us to cope. Not just when we have died, but here, now, today. As we allow the risen Christ more and more access to us, through the Holy Spirit, we will be changed and grown more and more into the person God created us to be.

Hallelujah! Christ is risen. Amen.

What a waste!

The gospel story that we have just heard read, of Jesus being anointed Mary at Bethany, is a very familiar one. So what's it all about?

There are slightly different versions of the story in each of the four gospels, which reflects the fact that those who made the gospels wrote down what was said and taught in their particular fellowships, and from their particular collections of "The sayings of Jesus", or whatever unofficial manuscripts were floating around their church.

Matthew's and Mark's stories are the most similar. They set the episode in Bethany, at the house of Simon the Leper. A woman wanders in off the street, pours the ointment over Jesus' head and, for all we know, wanders straight out again. Tradition has it that she was Mary Magdalen, but we don’t know that. The disciples and others gathered there go: "Oh, what a waste! If she didn't want it we could have sold it and given the money to the poor." Jesus tells them to be quiet, because the woman was anointing his body for burial and what she did would be remembered for ever. As, indeed, it has been.

John's gospel, the version we just heard read, however, stays in Bethany, but John says that Jesus was staying with his friends Mary, Martha and Lazarus, and that it was Mary who upended the ointment all over him. Some people have used this to reckon that Martha was married to Simon the Leper, or indeed, to reckon that Mary of Bethany and Mary Magdalen were the same person. Again, possible, but we don’t know that.

Luke might possibly be talking about a different episode, because his version takes place in a Pharisee's house, and the woman is definitely a hooker, and she pours the stuff all over his feet, not his head, and Jesus said that only goes to show how much she knows God has forgiven her.

Anyway, that's the basic story, one way or another. But what's it about, and what has it got to say to us today?

First, then, what is the story about? Well, I think it's about extravagance. Those alabaster jars were incredibly precious. If you were lucky enough to have one, it was your most precious thing and you guarded it with your life, practically. It could only be opened by breaking it, so it couldn't ever be used again. You didn't go pouring the contents all over the head of passing prophets, no matter how charismatic.

So when the disciples said, "What a waste!" they seriously meant it. The jar was broken, it was no use any more. The ointment was poured out, and that in itself was costly enough. Mary had given her most precious thing to Jesus, and from everyone else's point of view, it looked like a terrible waste. They couldn't even make use of the gift by selling it and giving the money to charity. It was all gone. What a waste.

You know, the more I read this story, the more it reminds me of God. You see, Mary was frantically extravagant and wasteful. But so often, God's like that.
Think of the story of the wedding at Cana, right at the beginning of Jesus' ministry. When they ran out of wine, towards the end of the festivities, Jesus provided some more. But he provided far more wine than anyone could drink. I worked it out once that the six stone jars he had filled would hold about eight hundred bottles of wine. You'd need a white van to bring that lot back from Calais, and I should think the Customs would be taking an intelligent interest in you! And even the host at the party almost said “Serving the best wine now, when we’ve all had more than enough? What a waste!”

Or think of the story of the feeding of the five thousand. Actually, one of the gospels, Matthew, I think, says that the five thousand was only the men, and didn't count the women and children, which would have made it more like thirty-five thousand. Anyway, when Jesus provided lunch for them, and he certainly did count the women and children, even if nobody else bothered, it wasn't as though there was only just enough to go round; there were twelve huge basketsful left over. Enough for each disciple to take one home to Mum. So perhaps that wasn’t a waste....

Or what about our natural world? How many different species of flowers are there? Scientists know that they don't know. And animals, too, come to that. I read in the paper a few years ago that they have just discovered about three totally new species of antelope in the jungles of somewhere like Vietnam; somewhere in south-east Asia, anyway. And nobody knew they were there except God. What a waste!

Think of reproduction, too. All the waste that goes on. The millions of baby fish that are hatched, so that a few may survive to adulthood. Birds nest every year, but I read somewhere that only about two of all the offspring a bird hatches in the course of its life reach an age to reproduce. That's sad, of course, but not if you think of those birds that do reproduce as exceptions and the normal life-span of a bird is from hatching to fledging. What a waste, though.

The millions of sperm male mammals produce so that one, just one, can fertilise an egg. All this fuss they're making about male infertility, these days, but most men are still producing about 60 million sperm each time - and they don't think that's quite enough!

On a larger scale, think of all the stars in the night sky, or those pictures of distant galaxies you sometimes see from the Hubble telescope when it comes on "The Sky at Night" or Horizon. I wonder how many of those stars have planets on them like ours, and how many of those planets have life on them, and how much of that life is intelligent and knows its Creator. We're not going to know this side of heaven, but God knows.

Why am I tempted to say "The truth is out there!"?.....

But, seriously, for all we know, beings that are five feet square, one inch thick, and ripple might be worshipping God right now this minute in some far-off galaxy. And we fuss about people whose just happen to come from a different tribe. Ah well.

And if we are the only life in the cosmos, intelligent or otherwise, what does that say about God? All those universes and stars and black holes and pulsars and quasars, just for God, and for us, to enjoy looking at? A waste?

Even on this earth things are pretty incredible. Have you ever flown over London in an aeroplane on a clear day? Or looked at Google maps with the satellite view – all those houses, all those cities – you can look at all sorts of random places on Google Maps if you want, places you might never have otherwise known about – but God always knew. God knows the people in those houses, walking along those streets, driving those cars.

God is seriously incredible. And God doesn’t waste things. We, in our human selves, tend to think “What a waste!” when we see the massive over-production of Nature, or when people are extravagant.

But God loved us so extravagantly that all that love, all that knowledge, all those galaxies were given up and God came to earth as a human baby. The Truth really was Out There, but came down to Here.

As Jesus. Needing to learn everything from scratch. Needing to be fed, and have his nappies changed. Growing up as an ordinary human being in an ordinary family. In a provincial town in a colony of one of the greatest empires the world has ever seen. When God became a human being, it was a thorough job!

And this human being, who was also God, and who had the potential to be worshipped by beings who are five feet square, one inch thick, and ripple, is sitting having dinner with his friends. If Mary caught a glimpse, the tiniest, tiniest glimpse, of the wonder and the majesty of God, and had the slightest inkling of who Jesus is, then no wonder only her most precious possession would do.

She, of course, is far from being the only person who ever responded so extravagantly to God. Look at Mary the mother of Jesus. Her "Yes!" to God was really extravagant – she risked total ruin, including of her reputation. Supposing Joseph had repudiated her on the grounds that she was not chaste? He could have done so, and then where would Mary have ended up? On the streets, most likely! It didn't happen, but it could have. That's extravagant!

At that, look at Joseph’s response. He had a hard choice to make – he was seen as a “man of God”, and properly he should have repudiated Mary. I don’t think it made it much better that it was God who had impregnated her, either! But he chose to risk his reputation and his position in the community by marrying her anyway. That’s extravagant!

Look at Peter and John when they were first hauled before the Sanhedrin. Not only did they refuse to stop preaching the word, but they then went home and prayed for more boldness to do it more forcefully. That's extravagant! But it was very far from being a waste.

Or what about St Paul? Think of how he focuses on all the hardships he has undergone in order to keep on doing what he does, in other words, preaching the Good News. That's extravagant! But it was very far from being a waste.

Or what about all those men and women who have laid down their lives for the sake of the Gospel. Some of them went to the other side of the world; others stayed at home. We know some of their names; others are known only to God.

People like George Muller, who gave up the life of a rich playboy to look after orphans in Bristol? Or Eric Liddell, who abandoned being an athlete to go to China for God. Or Gladys Aylward, who was turned down by the missionary society that sent Eric Liddell, but who went anyway, independently, and saved the lives of hundreds of children, and now even has schools named after her!

Or even Florence Nightingale, who was baulked in her first ambition to serve God through the church, because in those days the Anglican church did not allow women to do anything except sit on their behinds and listen. Anyway, we all know how Florence Nightingale eventually decided to serve God, and the result.

The people who have responded in that way down the years are legion. They heard God, and responded extravagantly. It may be that the world thought they were wasting their lives, but for them, only the most extravagant response would do.

Today is called Passion Sunday, a day on which historically we remember God’s extravagance in sending Jesus in to this world to die on the Cross for us. And when we recall, too, through this story of Mary anointing Jesus, some of humanity’s response to this.

A waste? Perhaps. But for Mary, only her absolute prize possession would do for the One who had brought her beloved brother back from the dead. And at that, she probably felt it was not enough.

What is our response today to God’s extravagant love? What is my response? What is yours?

Second Chance

There had been an atrocity.

Some people from Galilee had been making their sacrifices in the Temple when they had been murdered by Pilate’s officials

and their blood had been mingled with that of the sacrifices,

something that, to them, would have been really badly upsetting.

So some people who had heard about this went to Jesus and told him about it, and said, “But were these people worse sinners than most Galileans?”

Jesus said, “No, of course not, any more than those who were killed when that tower collapsed at Siloam were any better or worse than anybody else.”

We hear of so many atrocities week by week, especially now with this war in Ukraine;

and of course there are the minor tragedies nobody knows about except those directly involved –

someone dying of a heart attack in their 30s, for instance,

or killed in a road accident.

When someone close to us dies, it’s always sad, even if their life was obviously over and you wouldn’t wish them back.

“No,” says Jesus, “they were no better or worse than anybody else.”

But then he seems to contradict himself, because he adds, “if you do not turn from your sins, you will all die as they did.”

“If you do not turn from your sins, you will all die as they did.”

First, he makes it clear that there is no rational explanation for these tragedies.

He doesn’t say, “It was God’s will.”

The Galileans killed by Pilate were victims of the Roman government’s whims.

It could have been anybody offering sacrifices that day.

And the people killed by the tower?

It could have been anyone who happened to be standing there.

It's not about God's will.

It appears to be random –

it looks to me as though Jesus himself didn't really know why such things happen, and perhaps it's never going to be something we really understand this side of Heaven.

Those people who tell us we must praise God for disasters which, I am sure, break God's heart, are talking through the back of their heads.

We can praise God in tragedies, and during them, sure, but not and never for them.

Jesus is saying that it’s not about cause and effect.

Were those who died worse sinners?

No, but if you do not turn from your sins, you will all die as they did..

Jesus is telling us to look at our own lives –

don’t speculate about others.

What about your life?

What about mine?

We can spend so much time trying to explain things –

so much time worrying about other people’s lives

that we forget to pay attention to our own lives with God.

Maybe these deaths should be an alarm call, Jesus said.

After all, the war is in Ukraine, for reasons that Vladimir Putin appears to consider right and proper, and everybody else thinks is awful,

but there have been wars all over the globe, whether declared or not, for most of human history.

Today it is Ukraine –

will it be our turn tomorrow?

And even if it is not –

there is always the car accident,

the heart attack,

the diagnosis of a fatal illness….

Then, then in response to those unanswerable questions,

in response to the warning, “if you do not turn from your sins, you will all die”,

then Jesus told them a parable about a fig tree.

A parable about destruction?

A story of punishment for those who failed to repent?

There have been fig-tree stories like that, haven’t there?

Jesus himself, according to St Matthew’s gospel,

once cursed a fig-tree that bore no fruit.

And in that passage in John 15, Jesus reminds us that branches that bear no fruit are pruned and disposed of.

John the Baptist says something very similar.

It’s a very common metaphor in the New Testament.

But this story is a little different.

It starts off the same way –

the barren fig-tree that hasn’t produced a single fig for three years or more.

It’s taking up valuable space in the garden and, what’s worse,

it’s leaching the soil of valuable nutrients but not giving anything back.

I don’t know if you’ve ever eaten fresh figs –

my parents had a huge fig-tree in the front yard of their old house,

just by the garage,

and in the height of summer it grew so big and shady that it made it quite difficult for my mother to get her car out.

The funny thing is, I don’t remember it having any figs when I was a child,

but in recent years it’s had a lovely crop.

Fresh figs are delicious, although you mustn't eat too many at once,

and often they are quite expensive in the supermarkets.

I did once manage to get a punnet of them fairly cheaply in a Turkish supermarket, but that was only once.

They can cost up to 50p each in Tesco's, and I don't buy them often!

So I can quite see that the owner was really disappointed and frustrated that the tree simply wasn’t producing any.

“Let’s cut it down and get a new one!” he said.

But the gardener, who loved his garden and loved his trees, said,

“No, hang on, let’s give it a last chance.

If I dig around it, loosening the soil, and put in lots of manure,

it just might produce some figs this year.

If it doesn’t, I agree, it’s finished.”

And there the story ends.

The implication is that the tree will be given another chance,

another year to bear fruit.

But only another year.

What we need to know is, is this a threat or a promise?

Do you have a supermarket loyalty card?

I do, and I've learnt over the years to save the main vouchers I get to use to pay for channel crossings and things like that.

And every so often, I get an e-mail from Tesco's reminding me to use them up before they expire.

If my vouchers expire, they are no good to me, but if I use them while they are still in date, I can get some great bargains.

And the fig tree was given an expiry date, if you like.

One more year....

Some people, I know, see it as a threat.

“Shape up, or else!”

But I'm not sure that it is.

I think it is more of a promise:

“How can we best help you become the person –

or the tree –

that you were meant to be”.

The gardener is going to do some serious work on the tree,

give it lots of manure and so on, to try to

help it to bear fruit.

The tree isn't just left to get on with it –

that, we know, hasn't worked.

Jesus reminds us, too, that we need to turn from our sins. To repent.

All of us need to repent.

What do you suppose he means by this?

We tend to think of repentance in terms of being sorry,

of thinking that we must be dreadful people, even if we aren't.

But while being sorry can come into it, it's more about changing direction, about going God's way. It is about turning from our sins.

When Robert and I are driving around in our mobile home, we often have the satnav on to tell us what way to go,

and if we miss our turning, or take the wrong road out of a roundabout, or something, the machine is apt to say, in its computer-generated voice,

“Turn around when possible”.

But we aren't turning round just to retrace our steps;

we are turning round so that we can go in the right direction.

We're apt to think of judgement in terms of prison sentences or fines, aren't we?

We think of judges as though they were all magistrates or county court judges.

But actually, there are many different sorts of judges.

When I was skating competitively, we sometimes took tests to see whether we had reached the required standard,

and if we had not, as was usually the case,

we were told we needed to try again another time.

We weren't being condemned or anything –

we just hadn't reached the required standard this time.

If we competed, we would be ranked against others who had entered, and the judges would put us in order –

but no condemnation on us for coming last, which we usually did.

At a flower show, the judges decide whose flowers, or vegetables, or cakes or jam or whatever, is the best in that particular class;

again, no condemnation for those who don't win, although no point in entering if you don't want to win.

And some competitions are referred to as “trials”, but they have nothing to do with justice and judgement, but to see who is best –

often dogs, in this case, working with sheep or working as gun-dogs.

Which dog can do it best?

Which needs a bit more practice?

And those who don't succeed this time go away and practice and work really hard and they hope that next time they will succeed.

They are free to try again as many times as they like.

Repentance isn't about looking at the past and saying “Oh dear, oh dear, how dreadful!”, it's about looking to the future and seeing what God is doing.

It's about going God's way.

Of course, we do need to take stock of our lives,

make amends when necessary, and ask for God's forgiveness.

But we mustn’t get stuck there.

That is not real repentance.

To repent is to turn back to God, to seek the best God has to offer – the grain, wine and milk, as the prophet put it in our first reading.

God has something in store for us in our future.

God will give us gifts for our future.

God will be there with us and for us in our future.

To repent is to change our minds and recognize these things.

It is to turn towards the future with faith, hope, and love.

The fig tree was to be given another chance –

but so much more than that!

It was to be given special love and care and attention to help it grow figs again.

Not just: “Shape up, or else,”

but “Let’s see what we can do to help you bear fruit again!”

“Seek the Lord while he may be found,
    call upon him while he is near;
let the wicked forsake their way,
    and the unrighteous their thoughts;
let them return to the Lord, that he may have mercy on them,
    and to our God, for he will abundantly pardon.”

“Let them return to the Lord, that he may have mercy on them,

and to our God, for he will abundantly pardon!”

We have to return to the Lord,

but God is going to do everything possible to enable that to happen!

To enable us to turn towards the future with faith, hope and love!

Amen.

Doormat or dynamite?

 

Two familiar passages today; in the first, we see Joseph confronting his brothers many years after they sold him into slavery and told his father he was dead. And in the second, Jesus is preaching to the crowds in what is often called the “Sermon on the Plain”; Luke’s version of the Sermon on the Mount that we are so familiar with from Matthew’s gospel.

Let’s look at the Old Testament story first. You know Joseph’s story, of course; born into the most dysfunctional of dysfunctional families, his father and grandfather both liars and cheats.

And Joseph himself was the spoilt favourite –

his father had two wives, you may remember, Rachel, whom he loved, and Leah, whom he didn't but was tricked into marrying anyway.

He also had a couple of kids by Leah's and Rachel's maids, Bilhah and Zilpah, but Rachel, the beloved wife, had had trouble conceiving,

so Joseph and his full brother Benjamin were very precious,

especially as Rachel had died having Benjamin.

He, it seems, was still too young to take much part in the story at this stage, but Joseph was well old enough to help his brothers –

and, we are told, to spy on them and sneak on them to his father.

And stupid enough to boast of self-important dreams.

It's not too surprising that his brothers hated him, is it?

Obviously, he didn't deserve to be killed, but human nature is what it is,

and the brothers were a long way from home

and saw an opportunity to be rid of him.

At least Reuben, and later Judah, didn't go along with having him killed,

although they did sell him to the Ishmaelites who were coming along.

Joseph has a lot of growing up to do, and it takes a false accusation and many years in prison to help him grow up. But eventually he is freed and given an important post in the Egyptian administration, preparing for the forthcoming famine and then administering food relief when it comes.

And so his brothers come to beg for food relief. And at first Joseph is angry enough with them to first of all insist they bring the youngest, Benjamin, with them next time they come – he had stayed at home to look after their father – and then to plant false evidence that he had stolen a gold cup. He says he will let the others go but keep Benjamin as his slave, but the other brothers explain that it will kill their father if he does so.

And at that something breaks inside Joseph, and he makes himself known to his brothers, forgiving them completely for all they had done to him – pointing out, even, that God had used this for good, as he had been able to organise the food relief, knowing there would be five more years of drought and famine to come. And he sends for his father to come and bring all the households and settle in Egypt. The family is reunited and – for some generations, at least – they all live happily ever after.

Five hundred years or so later, the son of another Joseph is preaching to the people. And what he says is completely revolutionary. Here is a modern paraphrase:

“If you are ready to hear the truth then I have this to say: Love! Love even your enemies. Treat even those who hate you with love. If anyone mouths off at you or treats you like dirt, wish them all the best and pray for them. If someone gives you a smack around the ear to humiliate you, stand tall and stick your chin out, and invite them to have another crack. Absorb the hostility – don’t escalate it. If someone nicks your coat, just say, ‘Hey, if you’re needing that, you’ll be needing these,’ and hand over your hat and scarf as well. Give to everyone who asks something of you, and don’t go hassling people to give back what they’ve got from you. Live generously, and don’t go keeping score and looking to balance the ledger.”

©2001 Nathan Nettleton LaughingBird.net

It’s all pretty familiar, isn’t it? We are perhaps more familiar with the version given in St Matthew, but it’s pretty much the same sentiment. Jesus goes on: “If you want to know how to treat someone, just ask yourself what you’d be hoping for if you were in their shoes. Treat others the way you’d like to be treated, not just the way you are treated. It’s not as though you’d deserve a medal for loving someone who loves you. Anyone can do that! You won’t find your name in the honours lists for a good turn done to those who are always going out of their way to help you. Any crook can do that! And if you only ever give when it looks like there’ll be something in it for you, what’s the big deal? Every business shark knows how to make an investment, but it’s not exactly evidence of a generous spirit.”

©2001 Nathan Nettleton LaughingBird.net

The thing is, of course, that we don’t do it! None of it. We know it in our heads, but we haven’t made it part of us. We’re taught to stand up for ourselves, we’re taught to look out for number one. Even though we’re taught to share, we understand that we may have our turn on the swings in the playground, or whatever. Maybe as adults, we reckon we’ve a right to our turn at the remote control….

But from what Jesus is saying, we don’t. We need to put other people first. We need to allow other people to walk all over us, to hit us, to steal our possessions. It does sound as though we’re supposed to be doormats, doesn’t it? As though we need to just stand there, being totally passive, allowing other people to run our lives for us. No wonder we don’t do it!

But are we supposed to be doormats? I don’t think so! Jesus wasn’t, after all. Yes, he allowed himself to be arrested and crucified, he refused to defend himself at his trial. But before that we see him arguing with the Pharisees and teachers of the law. He doesn’t say “Oh well, I expect you’re right,” but tries to show them what he is all about, what the Kingdom of Heaven is like. He took up a whip and drove out the traders in the Temple – was that being a doormat?

You see, it’s not just about standing there and taking it. It’s about being positive, as well. “Be different!” says Jesus. “Love your enemies and do good to them. Lend freely, and don’t go looking for returns. God will see that it’s worth it for you. You will be God’s very own children. God is generous to those who don’t deserve it, even if they’re totally ungrateful. God forgives whatever anyone owes. Do likewise: treat people the way God treats people.”

©2001 Nathan Nettleton LaughingBird.net

“Treat people the way God treats people.” Of course, there are those who go around saying that God hates this group of people, or that group. There are those who would like to exclude all sorts of people from God’s love. But that’s not what the Bible says. Our Methodist doctrines teach that everybody, no matter who, can be saved.

“The vilest offender who truly believes,

that moment from Jesus a pardon receives!”

God doesn’t hold things against us. It worries me, you know, that people’s whole careers can be ruined because of a thoughtless tweet they may have published ten years ago. People move on. I don’t know about you, but there are things I’ve thought or said in my past that make me cringe to think about them now – had there been social media when I was young, I’d probably be utterly disgraced now! And you can probably think of occasions in your own lives, too.

But the thing is, God doesn’t think of them. “So far as the East is from the West, so far has God put our transgressions from us,” says the Psalmist. And Jesus reminds us, here as elsewhere, that because that is so, we need to forgive, too. Think of the story we call the Prodigal Son.

The son who asked for his share of inheritance and went into the world to have some fun,

and when he was in the gutter decided to go home again.

And the father ran to meet him, and put on a massive celebration for him,

and had obviously been longing and longing and longing for his son to come home again.

But the father couldn't make the son come home.

He had to wait until the son chose to come home of his own free will.

What's more, the son had to accept that his father wanted him home again.

He could have said "Well, no, I don't deserve all this," and rushed off to live in the stables, behaving like a servant,

although his father wanted to treat him as the son he was.

The son had to receive his father's forgiveness, just as we do.

And don't forget, either, the elder brother,

who simply couldn't join in the celebrations because he couldn't forgive his brother.

How dare they celebrate for that lousy rotter!

I don't know whether he was crosser with his father for having a party, or with his brother for daring to come home.

I feel sorry for him, because he allowed his bitterness to spoil what could have been a good time.

And that is exactly what happens to us when we do not forgive one another.

We allow our bitterness to spoil what could have been a good time with God.

I often think forgiveness is the Christian’s secret weapon. All of Jesus’ teachings in the passage we have been looking at this morning seem to be about forgiveness. If someone hits us, we forgive them, rather than hitting back. If someone steals our coat, we forgive them, and perhaps even offer them more of our clothes. And so on. After all, that’s how we’d like them to treat us, isn’t it?

But as you know, and as I know, the world isn’t like that. And we tend to conform to the world’s standards, rather than God’s standards.

But what if we didn’t? What if we really did do as Jesus tells us? What if we really treated people the way God treats them, the way we would like them to treat us?

The first Christians were known as the people who turned the world upside-down. But that was two thousand years ago, and over the centuries we have watered down Jesus’ teaching. We have got used to it, and we don’t see how revolutionary his teaching actually was.

Joseph, as we have seen, was able to forgive his brothers – it took him awhile, but when he got there, he really forgave them. He saw how God had worked everything together for good, and not only forgave them, but invited them to come and settle locally. He really is the poster child for forgiveness.

Jesus promises us that if we give generously – and I don’t think he means just material giving, but giving of ourselves, of our time, of our love, of our forgiveness – then God’s generosity to us will know no limits, either.

What do you think, I wonder? If you did as Jesus says in the gospel reading – would you turn into a doormat? Or could it be, possibly, just might, it prove to be dynamite, something to turn the world upside-down? Amen.

The Presentation of Christ in the Temple.

Last Wednesday was when the Church traditionally celebrates the Presentation of Christ in the Temple, which is the story we heard in our Gospel reading today. Many churches actually celebrated this last Sunday, but I only discovered that too late, too late....

Until recently, Christian women in many denominations would be “churched” about six weeks after giving birth –
either at a special service, or as a special prayer said in the main service, to give thanks for a safe delivery and so on.
It seems to have died out now, largely, I think, because the service was not transferred to the modern prayer books,
and arguably because childbirth is so very much safer than it used to be.
Shame, really –
it would be a lovely thing to happen whenever someone appeared in church with a new baby!
Imagine bringing your newborn baby to the front to be introduced to the church, and a prayer said over you – perhaps over both parents, if both are to be involved in the child’s upbringing – in thanksgiving for a safe delivery.
I think it would be lovely, and it would in no way detract from the importance of the child’s baptism a few weeks or months later.

For Jewish women, though, the ritual was also about purification.
They would, traditionally, go to be purified forty days after giving birth.
I am not totally sure what the process involved,
but fairly certainly Mary would have had a ritual bath before going to the Temple to make her thanksgiving,
and to present the baby.

The text says Mary and Joseph took a pair of pigeons to sacrifice –
interesting note that, because that's what you took if you were poor;
richer people sacrificed a sheep.
And if you were really, really poor and couldn't even afford a pair of pigeons, I believe you were allowed to take some flour.
But for Mary and Joseph, it was a pair of pigeons.

And they present the baby –
they would, I think, have done this for any child,
not just because Jesus was special.
And then it all gets a bit surreal, with the old man and the old woman coming up and making prophecies over the child, and so on.

Actually, the whole story is a bit surreal, really.
After all, St Matthew tells us that the Holy Family fled Bethlehem and went to Egypt to avoid Herod's minions,
but according to Luke, they're just going home to Nazareth –
a little delayed, after the census, to allow Mary and the baby time to become strong enough to travel,
but six weeks old is six weeks old,
and it makes the perfect time for a visit to the Temple.
The accounts are definitely contradictory just here,
but I don't think that really matters too much –
after all, truth isn't necessarily a matter of historical accuracy.

Come to that, I don't suppose Simeon really burst into song,
any more than Mary or Zechariah.
Luke has put words into their mouths,
rather like Shakespeare does to the kings and queens of British history.
Henry the Fifth is unlikely to have said “This day is called the Feast of Crispian” and so on,
or “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more”,
but he probably rallied the troops with a sentiment of some kind,
and it is the same here.
Zechariah, Mary and Simeon probably didn't say those actual words that Luke gives them, but they probably did express that sort of sentiment.

Although I often wonder why it is that when Jesus reappears as a young man, nobody recognises him.
We don't hear of an elderly shepherd hobbling up to him and saying “Ah, I remember how the angels sang when you were born!”
But perhaps it is as well –
it means he had a loving, private, sensible childhood.
Which, I think, is partly why we see so very little of him as a child,
just that glimpse of him as a rather precocious adolescent in the Temple.
He needed to grow up in peace and security and love, without the dreadfulness of who he was and why he had come hanging over him.

But on this very first visit to the Temple,
he can't do more than smile and maybe vocalise a bit.
It is Simeon we are really more concerned with.
His song, which the Church calls the Nunc Dimittis,
after the first two words of it in Latin, is really the centre of today's reading.
He is saying that now, at last, he has seen God's salvation, and is happy to die.
The baby will be “a light to lighten the Gentiles, and the glory of God's people Israel.”

“A light to lighten the Gentiles”.
This is why another name for this festival is Candlemas.
Candlemas.
In some churches, candles are blessed for use throughout the year,
but as we are no longer dependent on candles as a light source, it might be more to the point to bless our stock of light bulbs!
Because what it's about is Jesus as the Light of the World.
A light to lighten the Gentiles, certainly,
but look how John's Gospel picks up and runs with that.
“The Word was the source of life,and this life brought light to people.
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has never put it out.”
And John's Gospel reports Jesus as having said:
“I am the light of the world.
Whoever follows me will have the light of life and will never walk in darkness.”

Jesus is the Light of the World,
and that's part of what we are celebrating today.
We rather take light for granted, here in the West, don't we?
We are so used to being able to flick on a switch and it's light
that we forget how dark it can be.
On the rare occasions we have a power-cut, it feels really, really dark.
Even though we have an good emergency lantern and, of course, torches on our phones.
And candles, come to that –
I make sure we have a supply of emergency candles, just in case.

Not that a candle provides very much light, of course –
you can't see to read by it very well, or sew,
or any of the things people did before television and social media,
or, come to that, before houses were lit by electricity.
But even a candle can dispel the darkness.
Even the faintest, most flickering light means it isn't completely dark –
you can see, even if only a little.
And sometimes for us the Light of the World is like that –
a candle in the distance, a faint, flickering light that we hardly dare believe isn't our eyes just wanting to see.
But sometimes, of course, wonderfully, as I'm sure you've experienced, it's like flicking on a light switch to illuminate the whole room.
Sometimes God's presence is overwhelmingly bright and light.

And other times not.

This time of year is half way between the winter solstice and the spring equinox.
It's not spring yet, but the days are noticeably longer than they were at the start of the year.
There are daffodils and early rhubarb in the shops,
and the bulbs are beginning to pierce through the ground.
The first snowdrops will be out any day now.
In the country, the hazel trees are showing their catkins,
and if you look closely at the trees,
you can see where the leaves are going to be in just a few weeks.
We hope.

Candlemas is one of those days we say predict the weather –
like St Swithun's Day in July, when if it rains, it's going to go on raining for the next six weeks.
Only at Candlemas it's the opposite –
if it's a lovely day, then winter isn't over yet,
but if it's horrible, Spring is definitely on the way.
The Americans call it “Groundhog Day”, same principle –
if the groundhog sees his shadow, meaning if the sun is out, winter hasn't finished by any manner of means,
but if he can't, if the sun isn't shining, then maybe it is.

So it's a funny time of year, still winter, but with a promise of spring.
And isn't that a good picture of our Christian lives?
We still see the atrocities, the horror of terrorist attacks,
the pandemic that doesn’t go away,
the government that breaks its own rules
the worry about the tension between Russia and Ukraine.
We still see that we, too, can be pretty awful when we set our minds to it, simply because we are human.
We know that there are places inside us we'd really rather not look at.
We know, too, that when God’s light shines into those dark places, we have to look at them, like it or not!
And yet that light cleans and heals and forgives, as well as exposes.
It is definitely winter, and yet, and yet, there is the promise of spring.

There is still light.
It might be only the flickering light of a candle in another room, or it might be the full-on fluorescent light of an overwhelming experience of God's presence, but there is still light.

The infant Jesus was brought to the Temple, and was proclaimed the Light to Lighten the Gentiles.
But, of course, that's not all –
we too have that light inside us;
you remember Jesus reminded us not to keep it under a basket, but to allow it to be seen.
And again, the strength and quality of our light will vary, due to time and circumstances, and possibly even whether we slept well last night or what we had for breakfast.
Sometimes it will be dim and flickering, and other times we will be alight with the flame of God's presence within us.
It's largely outwith our control, although of course, by the means of grace and so on we can help ourselves come nearer to God.
But it isn't something we can force or struggle with –
we just need to relax and allow God to shine through us.
Jesus is the Light of the World, and if we follow Him, we will have the light of life and will never walk in darkness.
We will, not we should, or we must, or we ought to.
We will. Be it never so faint and flickering, we will have the light of life.

Amen.

Reassurance

Today's first reading in the New International Version reads, in part:

“He will stand and shepherd his flock
    in the strength of the Lord,
    in the majesty of the name of the Lord his God.
And they will live securely, for then his greatness
    will reach to the ends of the earth.
And he will be our peace
    when the Assyrians invade our land”

The Good News version phrases it slightly differently,
and the various translations seem almost equally divided as to whether there is a full stop after “He will be our peace,”
and the next sentence starting “When the Assyrians invade our land”,
or the phrasing that says that when the Assyrians invade our land,
He will be our peace.
Which is more true to the original Hebrew I don’t know;
I do know that I prefer the second version!

And I find that prophecy strangely comforting in these dark days!

“He will stand and shepherd his flock in the strength of the Lord,
in the majesty of the name of the Lord his God.”
“And he will be our peace when the Assyrians invade our land.”

However, as we all know, a text without a context is a pretext, so rather than just taking the words as a lovely Christmas prophecy –
which of course, on one level, they are –
let's look a bit deeper and find out a bit more about Micah,
and what he was talking about.

Micah was a prophet in 8th-century Judah,
more or less a contemporary with Isaiah, Amos and Hosea.
As with so many of the prophets, the book starts off with great doom and gloom.
He prophesied the destruction of Jerusalem,
particularly because they were simply dishonest and then expected God to cover for them:
“Her leaders judge for a bribe, her priests teach for a price, and her prophets tell fortunes for money.
Yet they lean upon the LORD and say, Is not the LORD among us?
No disaster will come upon us.”
But Micah said, “Well, actually....”
As one modern paraphrase puts it:
“The fact is, that because of you lot, Jerusalem will be reduced to rubble and cleared like a field;
and the Temple hill will be nothing but a tangled mass of weeds"

An archaeologist called Roland de Vaux has excavated village sites only a few miles from where Micah is thought to have lived, and he found something very interesting:
“The houses of the tenth century B.C. are all of the same size and arrangement.
Each represents the dwelling of a family which lived in the same way as its neighbours.
The contrast is striking,” says de Vaux, “when we pass to the eighth century houses on the same site:
the rich houses are bigger and better built and in a different quarter from that where the poor houses are huddled together.”

During those 200 years, Israel and Judah had moved from a largely agricultural society to one governed by a monarchy and with a Temple in Jerusalem.
The distinction between the “Haves” and the “Have nots” had grown, as it does still today.
In the tenth century, the “haves” may well have been richer than the “have nots”, and have had more luxuries, but their homes were basically the same, their lifestyles similar.
And then it changed.
But Micah tells the powerful ones –
the judges, the priests, the rulers –
that God doesn't prop up any so-called progress that is built on the backs of other people.
For God, justice and equality matter far more than progress or growth.
But God's people disagree, and they try to stop Micah, and other prophets, telling them God's truth;
they only want to hear comforting, agreeable prophecies about how their crops will flourish and there will be plenty of wine!

But when Jerusalem has been destroyed,
when her people have been carried off into exile,
then a day will come when a new leader will be born to them,
a leader who will “stand and shepherd his flock in the days of the Lord”,
and “who will be our peace when the Assyrians invade our land.”

I expect you realise that these prophecies were often dual-purpose;
they did and do refer to the coming of Christ, of course,
but they also often referred to a local event, a local birth.
We don't know who Micah was originally referring to,
who would be born in Bethlehem,
but we do know that, for us, these prophecies refer to Jesus.

“He will be our peace when the Assyrians invade our land.”
These days we worry rather more about Syrians than about Assyrians –
whether we are concerned about the number of refugees seeking asylum here, or whether we are more concerned, as we should be, about how relatively few our government is allowing in.
Some people, I know, worry that we shouldn't allow them in in case they turn out to be terrorists,
but those are the tiniest of tiny minorities among those fleeing Syria and Afghanistan,
and, indeed, most are fleeing just such terrorists at home.
I mean, how desperate do you have to be to try to cross the Channel in a leaky rubber dinghy, and then not be allowed to land?
Which is actually illegal on the part of our government –
if people genuinely want to seek asylum,
they should be allowed to land and apply through the appropriate channels.

We call them “migrants”, lumping them all under one umbrella.
The term is supposed to be neutral, less laden with emotional baggage than “refugee” or “asylum seeker”.
It isn't, of course, because people then talk about “illegal immigrants” or “economic migrants”.
And it's noticeable that if we Brits go to live abroad we aren't called migrants –
I did the whole economic migrant thing back in the 1970s,
when I went to work in Paris for some years after leaving school,
but nobody called me a “migrant”, economic or otherwise –
I was an expatriate!
And people talked about cultural exchange, and our young people learning about different lifestyles, and so on, and it was all considered a Good Thing.

And, of course, many of your families,
and perhaps some of you are the first generation who did so,
many of you came over here to work and contribute to our society and learn about our way of life –
and have enriched this country beyond all measure!
Maybe you can remember the bewilderment of arriving here,
not too sure of your welcome,
not too sure what life in this cold and rainy land was going to be like.

Even if someone does make it across the Channel,
their problems aren't yet over.
They aren't allowed to work while their claim for asylum is being processed, and although they do get an allowance, it really isn't very much.
Not really enough to live on, and certainly not enough for a comfortable lifestyle.
And if they are found not to be in imminent danger of death back home, they are thrown out again, and if that's on their records they can't really go and try their luck somewhere else in Europe.

I don't know what the answer long-term is.
The politicians will have to work that one out between them.
But we need to pray for all migrants, and do what we can to help.
That may be only donating a few pounds to the Unicef appeals that we see daily on our televisions,
or we may be called to do something more “hands-on”.
Whatever, though, we mustn't think of it as someone else's problem!

Because Jesus will be our peace, so Micah tells us.
If we believe Matthew's account, he was himself a refugee for awhile,
when they fled to Egypt to avoid Herod's troops.
As I understand it, God won't necessarily keep the bad times from us,
or protect us from what lies ahead,
but Jesus will be there with us in the midst of it all.
And I, personally, find that reassuring.

And there is, of course, the other “Assyrian” that invaded our world some twenty months ago now and turned all of our lives upside-down.
I’m speaking, of course, of the Covid-19 virus.
All of us have been affected; all of our lives have been touched in one way or another.
Even if we didn’t get ill, we have had to adapt to wearing masks
and using hand sanitiser frequently,
to getting vaccinated and boostered,
to testing regularly,
and, until July, we had to get used to unwarrantable intrusions into our personal freedoms.
I mean, did you ever think it would one day be illegal to sleep or eat anywhere other than in your own home?
I never did!

But it came, and it happened.
And we learnt that God was, and is, still with us in the pandemic.
When we couldn’t attend public worship, we discovered new and creative ways of being church together.
And that legacy lives on as many churches livestream at least some of their services –
Brixton Hill does every week,
and my daughter’s church is to livestream their carol service this evening;
I hope to watch at least part of it as my grandson is reading one of the lessons.
God has been with us in this pandemic,
no matter what it has felt like at times,
and God will still be with us for the rest of it, and when it is over.
All may not be totally well, but God will be with us.

Our Gospel reading, too, told of someone who badly needed reassurance.
Mary has just met the angel and been told that, if she will, she is the one who will bear God's son, and she has said “Yes”.
But it's early days yet –
there aren't any physical signs that she is pregnant,
she has never slept with a man, what is it all about?
But one thing the angel had told her, that she hadn't already known, was that her cousin Elisabeth, surely far too old to be having babies, was six months gone.
So Mary goes off to see Elisabeth –
incidentally this, for me, is one of the pointers that she was living in the Jerusalem area at the time,
whether at Bethlehem or Jerusalem itself –
tradition has it that she was ­one of the temple servants –
because she would never have been able to travel all that way between Nazareth and Jerusalem on her own.

Anyway, she arrives at Elisabeth's front door,
and there is Elisabeth with a large bump,
and Elisabeth, filled with the Holy Spirit, confirms all that the angel had said.
And Mary bubbles over into love and joy and praise,
and even if the words of the Magnificat are what St Luke thought she ought to have said –
rather like Henry the Fifth's speech at Agincourt being what Shakespeare thought he ought to have said, rather than what he actually did say –
even if they are not authentic, they are probably very close to reality!
We sung a metrical version of her song just a few minutes ago.
And it reminds us that God is turning accepted values upside-down by having His Son born to a virgin mother in a small town in an occupied land.

“Tell out, my soul, the greatness of his might!
Powers and dominions lay their glory by.
Proud hearts and stubborn wills are put to flight,
the hungry fed, the humble lifted high.”

In the culture of the day –
as in ours –
it was thought that prosperity was a sign of God's blessing, and poverty rather the reverse.
But no, that was not what Jesus was, or is, all about.
Instead, he himself was born to an ordinary family that, within a couple of years, was fleeing for its life into exile,
and when they did dare go home, they didn't dare go back so near Jerusalem, but moved up to the provinces.

Mary was so brave, saying “Yes” to God.
I don't know how much she understood, but of course Joseph could –
and seriously considered doing so –
have refused to marry her, and then where would she have been?
But the angel reassured Joseph, and Elisabeth reassured Mary.
All was not totally well, but God was with them.

And that's the message to take into this Christmas, isn't it?
With all the uncertainty about Covid, and the Omicron variant,
all the shenanigans in Downing Street leaving you wondering what the politicians really think,
all the worries about our loved ones,
especially those who haven’t had their booster yet.
All may not be totally well, but God is with us.
And God's son, Jesus, will be our peace when the Assyrians invade our land.
Amen.

Rejoice, but....

I forgot to start recording until after I'd read the verses from Zephaniah!  Podcast Garden has become so unreliable I am experimenting with uploading the audio from Google Drive.  Bear with me if it doesn't work!

"Rejoice in the Lord always;" says St Paul, "Again I will say, Rejoice."

And Zephaniah knew something about rejoicing, too.
It was our first reading:

"Sing aloud, O daughter Zion;
shout, O Israel!
Rejoice and exult with all your heart,
O daughter Jerusalem!"

I don't think I know very much about Zephaniah, do you?
He's not one of the prophets we usually read.
Apparently, though, nobody knows anything more about him than what he writes about himself.
He was a great-great-grandson of a king called Hezekiah –
and Hezekiah was the last so-called “good” king of Judah for several generations.
But when Zephaniah was prophesying and preaching,
his cousin Josiah was on the throne, and Josiah was another good king.

This is one of my favourite stories in the Bible, actually!
You see, Josiah's father Amon and his grandfather Manasseh had preferred to worship Baal, rather than God.
This is not too surprising, actually, because the next-door kingdom, Israel, had been taken over by Assyria,
and although Judah was nominally free,
in practice it was a vassal of the Assyrians,
so it made sense to worship the same gods that the Assyrians did.

What's more, those gods were a lot easier to worship than the Jewish God was.
They didn't ask you to behave in special ways.
You could influence them.
If you said the right words and did the right actions at the right time, they would make the harvest happen, that sort of thing.

And they didn't really mind who else you worshipped, or how you behaved, or what your thought.
It was much easier to worship them.

Josiah, however, probably prompted by his cousin Zephaniah,
decided that he was going to worship the Jewish God.
And in 621 BC, when Josiah was about 26, the King of Assyria died, and was succeeded by a much weaker person who didn't mind much about what the people of Judah did.
Josiah had already cleared out altars to other gods from the Temple, but apart from that, he hadn't dared do much more.
Now, however, he reckoned he could risk cleaning it up a bit.

So he sent his secretary, a man called Shaphan ben-Azalia, to go and ask the High Priest how much money they'd had in the collection lately, and to tell him to give it to the builders to repair the place and make it look smart again.

You are going through a lot more than just renovations, at Lambeth Mission, but I am sure you can empathise a bit with the High Priest here!

The High Priest was a man called Hilkiah.
While he was looking in the storeroom for the money,
he found a book about God's law.
And he decided to show it to the king.
We don't know whether Hilkiah had known the book was there and decided that now would be a good moment to show it to Josiah,
or whether it was a shock to him, too.

Scholars think that this book was at least part, if not all, of what we now know as the book of Deuteronomy.
They reckon it was written down during the reign of Josiah's grandfather and hidden away safely.
Up until then the priests had basically kept their knowledge of God's law in their heads, and it hadn't really been written down,
but this was a time of both persecution and indifference, and they were afraid that the time might come when there was no priest in the Temple,
and the people's knowledge of God might be lost.

As it was, a great deal had been lost, and the result of the discovery of the book was a great religious reform.

And it's in this context, scholars think, that Zephaniah was preaching.
It's actually thought that his book may not have been written down until a couple of hundred years later, because of the style of the writing and so on, but it seems to be based on contemporary happenings.
So it was probably written before about 622 BC,
and is definitely set in Jerusalem.

Most of the book is rather doom and gloomy.
Again, remember that this is being written in a time when most people aren't bothering to worship God,
and even those who want to aren't really sure how God is different from the neighbouring gods.
So there's a lot of prophecy about gloom and destruction and the usual sort of stuff you expect to read in the minor prophets, but after two and a half chapters of that, we suddenly get this glorious piece that formed our reading today.

The LORD, your God, is in your midst,
a warrior who gives victory;
he will rejoice over you with gladness,
he will renew you in his love;
he will exult over you with loud singing
as on a day of festival.

So, you see, it's not just we who rejoice, but God rejoices, too.
That's a great comfort, I think.
We are called to rejoice in God –
there are, apparently, over 800 verses telling us to rejoice and be glad,
so I rather think God means it.
And with God, if he wants us to do something, he enables us to do it.
We sometimes find it very difficult to rejoice, to be joyful.
But joy is a fruit of the Holy Spirit –
it's not something we have to manufacture for ourselves.
Joy is a fruit of the Holy Spirit.
And this means that it isn't something we have to find within ourselves.
It is something that grows within us as we go on with God and as we allow God the Holy Spirit to fill us more and more.
Joy grows, just as love, peace, patience, gentleness, goodness, kindness and self-control do.
We become more and more the people we were created to be, more and more the people God knows we can be.

That doesn't mean we'll never be unhappy, far from it.
It doesn’t mean we will never grieve.
It doesn’t mean we’ll never suffer from depression or other mental illnesses.
It doesn’t mean we’ll always be in perfect mental or physical health.
But we know, as St Paul also tells us, that God works all things together for good for those that love him.
Even the bad things, even the dreadful things that break God's heart even more than they break ours.
Even those.

We may be unhappy, we may be grieving, we may be poorly, we may be depressed.
But we can still be joyful, we can still rejoice,
because God is still God, and God still loves us.
Okay, sometimes it doesn't feel like that, but that's only what it feels like,
not what has really happened.
God will never abandon us, God will always love us.
God will weep with us when we weep.
And underneath there always is that joy, the joy of our salvation.

Christmas can be a very difficult time of year for many of us.
People who are alone, people who are ill, people who have been bereaved. Many rocky marriages finally come adrift at Christmas.
Last year was particularly difficult, when plans, however tentative, had to be cancelled at the last moment,
and I expect many people are jittery in case the same thing happens this year, although it seems less likely.
But we are still commanded to rejoice!
Not because of the tragedies, no way.
But in spite of them.

"Do not worry about anything,
but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving
let your requests be made known to God.
And the peace of God,
which surpasses all understanding,
will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus."

For John the Baptist, preparing for the coming of the Messiah meant, among other things, turning away from the old, wasteful ways and starting again. Sharing our surplus with those who haven't enough.
Tax-gatherers and soldiers are told to be satisfied with their wages, and not to extort extra from people who can ill-afford it.

John got very frustrated when people just wanted to hear him preach and laugh at him, rather than allowing their lives to be turned around.
There hadn't been a proper Old Testament-type prophet for a very long time, and naturally people flocked to hear him,
but they didn't want to deal with what he was actually saying.
But enough people did hear him to begin to make a difference in the world.
And they were ready when Jesus came.

We are going to be celebrating the coming of Jesus, of course we are.
If we are allowed, we may attend parties or family celebrations.
We're probably also going to eat and drink more than usual,
and give one another presents, and watch appallingly ghastly television,
and that can be quite fun, too, for a couple of days.

So we will rejoice, but we will be sensitive to those for whom it's almost impossible to rejoice at this time of year.
We will remember that the Israelites had to go through terrible times,
and their nation was all but destroyed. Paul himself suffered dreadful things – scourgings, imprisonment, shipwrecks, beatings....

But we can still remember, as we await the coming of the King, that:
"he will rejoice over you with gladness,
he will renew you in his love;
he will exult over you with loud singing."

"And the peace of God,
which surpasses all understanding,
will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus."

Amen.