3rd Sunday before Lent (9.2.2020)
A great French chef who lived a century ago was fond of saying to those he taught, “Above all, keep it simple”. St Paul, I think would have approved. He certainly wanted to keep the gospel message simple for the people of Corinth. As he said in the passage which we heard a few minutes ago: “I did not come proclaiming the mystery of God to you in lofty words or wisdom. For I decided to know nothing among you except Jesus Christ, and him crucified.” You can forget all the rest. You can forget the definitions and the dogmas. What matters is the death and resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth and what that means for every human being.
So, what do the death and resurrection of Jesus mean? Some people have built up huge, complicated, and sometimes very beautiful, systems based on what happened in Jerusalem nearly two thousand years ago, but in the end the truth that lies at the bottom of those huge systems is this: human beings, powerful and powerless, oppressed and oppressors, sank their differences in order to kill a man whose holiness and goodness threatened the world which they knew, an ordered world in which there was a set place for everything and everyone. Jesus threatened the order of that world. He challenged the system that kept order – and he did it from the inside. As Matthew reports in this morning’s gospel, Jesus was quite clear about that he was doing. He told his disciples so: ‘Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets; I have come not to abolish but to fulfil.’
But by doing that Jesus went to the heart of things. He would not let the professionally holy people rely on appearances, on doing the outward things “right” while they neglected the inner reality and let it fester. And so they killed him. Goodness and truth and holiness were nailed to a cross because they were seen as a threat to “good order and discipline” by the powers of this world. The worst thing that could happen did happen. And through it all, through Jesus’ words from the cross, and above all through the resurrection, God says, “You human beings have done the worst thing imaginable, but I still love you.” That is “God’s wisdom, secret and hidden, which God decreed before the ages for our glory.”
Jesus, you see, is not some tuppence-ha’penny revolutionary, planning to turn the world upside down though other people’s blood and sweat and tears. Jesus’ plan is, like that French chef’s advice on cooking, much more simple and, at the same time, much more complex. His death on the cross shows us that however low we may sink, God is alongside us, even beneath us. His resurrection shows us that suffering and death are not God’s last word to us. It is an invitation to live in the unconditional and unlimited love of God, to be the best that we can be. Not to change the world. Just to be the people that God made us to be, to be salt and light for the world, to give savour to life, to offer hope to a world overshadowed by anxiety and dread – now just as much as it was then. “Let your light shine before others,” Jesus tells his disciples, “so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.” That’s what it means, in religious terms, to “keep it simple.”
A wise and holy man who lived long ago once said “I was a revolutionary when I was young and all my prayer to God was ‘Lord, give me the energy to change the world.’ As I approached middle age and realised that half my life was gone without my changing a single soul, I changed my prayer to ‘Lord, give me the grace to change all those who come into contact with me. Just my family and friends, and I shall be satisfied.’ Now that I am an old man and my days are numbered, my one prayer is, ‘Lord, give me the grace to change myself.’ If I had prayed for this right from the start I should not have wasted my life.”
Those words echo a prayer which used to be popular with Christian preachers and evangelists: “Lord, revive thy Church, beginning with me.” It is when Christians forget that simplicity of “beginning with me”, that they complicate things. It is when Christian leaders give neat theories and carefully worked-out formulae priority over engaging with messy human reality that they “lose their taste” and are in danger of being “thrown out and trampled under foot”. So our readings are a challenge to “keep it simple”, to focus on the love of God revealed in the horror and mess of the cross, to be salt and light revealing that self-giving love.
Tony Dickinson

Presentation of Christ in the Temple (2.2.2020)

Christmastide ends today.  The tree and the greenery were taken down three weeks ago.  The crib will be dismantled, perhaps later today, certainly before next Sunday. The colour of the altar-cloth will change tomorrow from the white of Christmastide to the green of what our Catholic neighbours call “ordinary time”.  After today Peter will take a break from stoking up the incense until we come to Easter in ten weeks’ time. It’s a time of change.  We’re on the threshold of something new – in the church, as in political life across Europe.

It was a time of change for Mary and Joseph in this morning’s Gospel, as well.  Six weeks after her child’s birth Mary can resume her place in the wider community outside the family home.  At the same time Joseph will make the offering that redeems, that pays for, the life of a first-born male child. Because he is a poor man, Joseph doesn’t take the usual lamb to the temple to be sacrificed.  He offers two turtle-doves, or young pigeons, instead.  So far, so very normal – as St Luke emphasises by reminding us twice in as many verses that what Mary and Joseph are doing is “as it is written in the law of the Lord.”

Then suddenly it isn’t.  Suddenly it’s anything but normal.  Two people, a man and a woman, totally unconnected, detach themselves from the crowds of worshippers and sight-seers visiting the temple and head straight for this young couple and their six-week-old child.  And, while the man takes hold of the baby and starts saying some quite amazing things about him, the woman starts buttonholing the other people in the temple and telling them how special he is. She, by the way, is ancient in first-century terms. In a world where medical care was very basic it was only, as the Psalmist said, “by reason of strength” that people made it into their eighties.  But Anna was not only old; she was also recognisably a devout and holy woman.  “She never left the temple but worshipped there with fasting and prayer night and day.”

Luke tells us very little about what Anna said to the people she met.  He doesn’t need to. Simeon’s words tell us all we need to know about how special this six-week-old baby is.  Simeon’s song speaks of his own coming death, of God’s salvation, of light and glory, picking up themes, and echoing words, from the songs sung by Zechariah and Mary in the opening chapter of Luke’s Gospel. God is present in the midst of his people. God is acting here and now.  The promises of old are being fulfilled.  All of this is “according to [God’s] word.”  Which is why, for Christians, Luke’s account of the presentation of Jesus in the temple has long been linked with the prophecy of Malachi which we heard a few minutes ago.  “The Lord whom you seek will suddenly come to his temple.”

Now, for Malachi, that coming is distinctly double-edged.  God’s holiness, God’s justice, will make his coming unendurable for human wrong-doers. People who use hidden power to manipulate others, people who play havoc with human relationships, people who distort or pervert the truth, people who exploit the poor and the powerless, who reject the stranger in their midst; all of them are still around – and sometimes in positions of high authority. Even though they may not fear God, they are all under God’s judgement. So are we, when we misuse our power (and all of us have the ability to help or harm).  So are we when we undermine relationships, when we twist words, when we abuse or exploit or harm others. We too will feel the force of that refining fire. We too will go through the wringer of judgement.

But God’s judgement is the judgement of love. The child who gives flesh and bone to God’s salvation does not kill; he gives life.  In time he will give his own life, piercing his mother’s heart with the sword of sorrow, so that the light of God’s love may be revealed to all peoples. We will fall before the infinite goodness of God, but by God’s infinite mercy we will rise.  For, like Simeon, we have seen God’s salvation in the Christ who changes lives as he comes to his temple, not as a six-week-old baby, but in the bread and wine of the Eucharist.

Tony Dickinson

Conversion of St Paul (26.1.2020 – transferred)

Who is this Jesus? Last Sunday we heard how Andrew and his fellow-disciple were invited to “Come and see”, to spend time with Jesus and find out where he was staying, or abiding, or remaining. Today we have heard the story of a fiery young rabbi from one of the Greek-speaking communities in what is now southern Turkey whose view of Jesus was very different. He would not “come and see”, thank you very much, because he was convinced that Jesus was a man who had led the Jewish people astray and that he was cursed by God. The Law of Moses, after all, laid down that those who were put to death by “hanging from a tree” (a definition which included crucifixion) were under God’s curse.  He was also convinced that the tiny groups of disciples who followed the teaching of Jesus must be hounded to destruction, not just in the Jewish heartlands of Jerusalem and Judea, but wherever they were to be found disturbing the good order of Jewish communities in the Roman province of Syria. 

Saul, you see, stood for clear, firm borders around the chosen people of God, defining who was “in” and who was “out”.  He stood for lives lived in accordance with the Law of Moses, for purity of conduct in every aspect of life, which meant behaviour that marked Jewish people out from the rest of the ancient world as sharply as did their avoidance of pig-meat, their refusal to work on the seventh day of the week and their practice of mutilating their male children. And in Saul’s eyes, the followers of Jesus were a threat to this purity, because of their openness to individuals, and indeed whole groups of people, whom strict Pharisees like Saul would cross the road to avoid.  

So, there was Saul on his way to Damascus with authority to root out these disturbers of the peace in the Jewish community there, to arrest them and take them back to face the religious courts in Jerusalem. That was when he had the experience that was to turn his life upside down. It’s one of those stories in the Acts of the Apostles that St Luke tells three times, because in Luke’s eyes it was of so very important, like the story of Peter’s visit to the Roman officer Cornelius in Acts 10, which gets the same treatment. 

Saul has an experience of the risen Jesus, Christ in glory, a vision which so disturbs him that he loses the ability to see. That vision disturbs Saul because it reveals to him that God has vindicated a crucified man. Jesus revealed in the blinding light of God’s glory is very definitely not under God’s curse. That vision turns Saul from being a fierce opponent of those who followed the way of Jesus into being an advocate who argues powerfully for that way. Rabbi Saul of Tarsus is on his way to becoming St Paul the Apostle.

As God reveals to Ananias, Saul is to be “an instrument whom [God has] chosen to bring [God’s] name before Gentiles and kings.”  So, in a sense, when we celebrate the “conversion of St Paul” we are celebrating the fact that we are here this morning, that because of Paul, and all those others down the centuries who have “left houses or brothers or sisters or father or mother or children or fields, for [Jesus’] name’s sake” – because of them the good news of Jesus has been preached not just in Israel and Palestine, not just in Roman Syria, but across Europe and Africa and Asia and the Americas, from Japan to Johannesburg – and beyond.

Today, as we thank God for a life turned upside down nearly two thousand years ago, we thank God also for a life that has only recently begun. Fumiko Anna arrived in this world in the small hours of 24th November last year, the Feast of Christ the King. In a few minutes’ we shall ask God’s blessing on her, on Hanako and Claudio her parents, and on Kenjiro, her big brother.  And we pray that as she grows she will come to know Christ the King as the guiding presence in her life, perhaps not revealed in the blinding light that overtook St Paul on the road to Damascus, but in the love and mercy that she receives from Christ through the members of her family, the constant renewal in faith and forgiveness which is our shared Christian experience. We pray, too, that when she comes to baptism her eyes may be opened to the wonder and beauty of God’s creation and that she may be filled with the Holy Spirit to carry out whatever task God has appointed for her.

Tony Dickinson

Epiphany 2 (19.1.2020)

When people think of the first chapter of John’s Gospel, they tend to focus on the very beginning. That’s not surprising. The beginning of John’s Gospel is something we hear every year at Christmas, whether as the Gospel on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day, or as the last of the Nine Lessons in the “Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols”.

But if we want to know what St John’s Gospel is actually about, we need to move past the prologue and further into that first chapter, to the passage we heard just now. It begins with a quick recap of “the story so far – or at least the story we heard last Sunday, with John the Baptist telling his disciples that Jesus is the one for whom John’s preaching prepared the way, the one on whom the Spirit descended from heaven like a dove, the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world and who will be sacrificed because of human sin. But John’s testimony to Jesus moves us on quickly to a new situation, because the two disciples who heard what John had to say about Jesus decided to find out about him for themselves. “They heard [John] say this, and they followed Jesus”. And the rest of the chapter is about what happened next.

Now, John never tells a story just because it happened. None of the gospel-writers do. They tell stories which tell us something about who Jesus is or about what it means to be a disciple. And the passage we heard just now does both these things, although in one important respect it sets a timer ticking rather than telling us straight out.

The timer starts ticking when John’s disciples ask Jesus “Where are you staying?” Now, on one level, that’s a question we might ask of anyone we meet for the first time. When we are introduced to someone who’s just moved to Genoa, or who is studying here, or on holiday, the natural question to ask is “Where are you staying?” Jesus doesn’t answer, he simply says “Come and see”. So they do. “They came and saw where he was staying and remained with him that day.”

So where is Jesus staying? We don’t find out the whole answer until we get to chapter 15, which describes the talk around the table at the Last Supper. That is when Jesus tells all the disciples – except Judas Iscariot, who has already left – that is when he tells the disciples “If you keep my commandments you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father’s commandments and abide in his love.” That is where Jesus is staying – the Greek word St John uses is the same there as in chapter one, where it is translated “stay” and “remain”. “Stay”, “remain” and “abide” are all the same word in Greek, but in English versions of the Bible it is usually translated differently. Jesus is staying, remaining, abiding in the Father’s love – and if we stay with him, like Andrew and the other unnamed disciple, so do we. That’s central to John’s message.

So what does it mean for us to stay with Jesus? First of all it means listening to Jesus, listening to what he says, which may not what always be what the preacher says he says, and not drowning his voice out with our own words. It means reading the Gospels slowly and prayerfully, letting the words sink in, reflecting on which, if any, have a particular impact on us, and why. It means spending time with him in prayer – and again that sometimes means keeping our words to a minimum. A bishop I know is fond of talking about prayer being like basking in God’s presence, like a sunbather basking in the warmth and glow of the sun. Staying with Jesus also means sharing his life, the life he offers us in the bread and wine of the Eucharist, “feeding on him in our hearts by faith with thanksgiving”, as the old Prayer Book says.

But it doesn’t stop there. Andrew and the other disciple “remained with [Jesus] that day”, but they didn’t leave it at that – at least, Andrew didn’t. “He first found his brother Simon… [and] brought Simon to Jesus.” Jesus is Good News (capital G, capital N) and good news is something to be shared. That is our calling: by our words and our actions to share the good news of Jesus, not by beating others over the head with it, but by living his commandments, living in love and peace with all, showing in our lives the attractiveness of Jesus so that others may also want to “come and see” and that, in the prophet’s words, “[God’s] salvation may reach to the end of the earth”.

Tony Dickinson

Baptism of Christ/Epiphany 1 (12.1.2020)

It is nearly six months since Bishop David’s most recent visit to Genova: which means that it’s nearly six months since five adults and one child were baptised, and all the adults (with two others) confirmed, in this church.  So it’s a good time for us to be thinking about today’s two readings, which talk about the baptism of Jesus and how God, as St Luke writes “anointed [him] with the Holy Spirit and with power.  It’s a good time to do that because the message for those seven adults, and for young Michelle, on the day of their baptism and confirmation is the same message that was delivered by that voice from heaven at the end of today’s gospel reading: “This is my Son (or my daughter), the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”

It’s the same message, because by his death and resurrection Jesus has not only won for us forgiveness of sins through his name; he has also made us his brothers and sisters, baptised, as St Paul wrote to the Christians of Rome – baptised into his death so that we might be raised to newness of life. That’s newness of life now, not after we’re dead. We are God’s children, his beloved, now: not because of anything we have done; not because we’re special; not because we deserve it: but simply because God loves us, loves us so much that in Jesus God has shared human life from its very beginning to its bitter, painful end, from the womb to the tomb, in order that we may share God’s life eternally.

There are many powerful pictures in the New Testament which try to explain what the community of Christians is: a royal priesthood; a living temple; the flock of Christ – like the sheep in the mosaic above the altar. Or we could see ourselves as branches of the true vine; as God’s field, planted and waiting for harvest; as God’s building.  All of those are important and helpful pictures, but one that speaks very powerfully to many Christians is St Paul’s picture of the Church as the body of Christ, working together for the sake of God’s kingdom, collectively “the Beloved, with whom [God is] well pleased,” continuing the work of Jesus here and now.

So what is “the work of Jesus”? How do we, like Jesus and John the Baptist, “fulfil all righteousness?” How do we work out the meaning of our anointing “with the Holy Spirit and with power”, that newness of life which is ours through our baptism and confirmation?  Well, let’s listen to what St Peter told Cornelius and his household in our first reading.

First: Peter’s words remind us that “God shows no partiality, but in every nation anyone who fears [God] and does what is right is acceptable.”  So, Christians are to be people who build bridges toward others, not walls and barriers against them.

Second: Peter speaks about Jesus “preaching peace”.  That has to mean peace with God and peace with other people, not holding grudges, not stirring up conflict, not putting others down, keeping control of thoughts and words as much as actions. A great Russian saint of the 19th century once said “Acquire inner peace, and thousands around you will find their salvation.”

Third: Peter describes how Jesus “went about doing good and healing all who were oppressed by the devil.”  Again, that’s to do with bringing people together, enabling them to become part of community.  Very often the miracles of Jesus are about restoring women and men so that they can share fully in the life of God’s people, whether they are lepers, or seriously disturbed like the man in the cemetery at Gadara, or ritually unclean like the woman with the twelve-year haemorrhage, or physically incapable like the paralysed man.  All of them were cut off, one way or another, from normal life and Jesus opened the way back for them.  For them it needed a miracle, but very often when we meet people who feel cut off from the world around them it needs less than that, a phone call, maybe, or a kind word, or a friendly gesture.

In these three ways we can know ourselves to be God’s beloved children, but none of them can be achieved in our own strength. As God’s beloved children, we must pray that the Holy Spirit will alight upon us as it did upon Jesus, God’s beloved Son.

Tony Dickinson

Epiphany (5.1.2020)

Events during the past few days have brought the homeland of the wise men sharply into focus, but not in a good way. The assassination in Baghdad of a senior commander of Iran’s Revolutionary Guard on the orders of Donald Trump is a powerful reminder that Middle Eastern politics is a high-stakes game. As indeed it was in the time of Jesus. So when the wise men arrived at King Herod’s court asking “Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews?” they were treading, as we might say, on very thin ice.

They were treading on thin ice because, in the later years of his reign, Herod took great care to eliminate anyone who might have an eye on the throne. He had his favourite wife killed – and her two sons. Just before he died, he had his eldest son killed, too. So the wise men’s question was not exactly tactful, particularly if they were, as Matthew says, “magi”, members of the priestly clan from Persia. If they were, Herod would have seen them as representatives of a hostile foreign power – Persia was part of the Parthian Empire with which his Roman masters had been at war on and off for more than half a century. No wonder the king was frightened! And if the king was frightened, the people of Jerusalem knew him well enough to be terrified. When Herod felt insecure, he became angry. And when Herod became angry, people died. So the chief priests and the scribes of the people probably answered Herod’s invitation to the palace with deep foreboding rather than enthusiasm. They would have recognised that it was their heads on the block.

So they must have blessed whichever scribe it was who dug up from the depths of memory those words from the prophecies of Micah that diverted the king’s attention away from them and to the little city of Bethlehem, five miles or so to the south. Bethlehem, David’s city, the obvious place for a new king to be born. And an obvious place to play on Herod’s insecurity. Bethlehem is, above all, the birth-place of David, the king of Israel by whom all other kings of Israel were measured.

And according to that measure Herod fell far short. He was painfully aware that most of his subjects refused to regard him as the legitimate king of Israel. He was not Jewish. He was not of royal birth. He was the Romans’ puppet – installed by Mark Antony and confirmed by Augustus after Antony’s defeat at the battle of Actium. He had survived for over thirty years by a mixture of efficient government and extreme ruthlessness. But the people hated him. They hated his reliance on foreigners, on his army, on his fortresses. A claimant to the throne who came from the city of David would be a real threat to his power. That’s why Herod asked the wise men to “search diligently for the child”. He could not trust any of his own people to do that – for fear they would be seduced by dreams of replacing him with a king like David.

This whole episode leaves me pondering three points. First: that God uses the events and the personalities of history to fulfil his purposes. The God whom we worship, the God who has come to us in Jesus, does not operate in a purely private sphere of “personal religion”. God is Lord of the whole of human life – and that includes the realm of politics as well as everything else.

Second: that God’s purposes cannot in the end be thwarted. Even when human fear and wickedness seek to block his way, they end up somehow clearing the path, as Herod’s court did in redirecting the wise men to Bethlehem. A Herod, a Hitler, a Stalin can use cruelty to suppress people’s awareness of God’s presence. Secular western culture can use ridicule to encourage indifference and discourage commitment. In the end, their efforts are useless: because the God who is revealed in Jesus is unconditional love and love is infinitely stronger than fear.

Third: that God is not tied to the structures of authority, though he will use them when they fit his purpose. God is found where Jesus told us to seek God, in what is small, or despised, or neglected. Jesus reveals him, not in the king’s palace, but in an anonymous cottage in a one-horse town trading on faded glory. He accepts the rich gifts offered by the wise men, the gold, incense, and myrrh. But he makes himself known to his friends in the simplicity of a shared meal. As he does today in the bread and wine of our Eucharist.

Tony Dickinson

Sermons from 2019 can be accessed here

Sermons from 2018 can be accessed here