Together on the Journey

Happy New Year!

Yes, I know it’s not January 1st. I also know it’s not the First Sunday of Advent which heralds a new church year. But I do think that for church, much like school, the days following Labour Day are very much a new year. So welcome to a new year at St. George’s on-the-Hill.

Over the next month or so, our programmes and ministries that have taken a deserved summer break will be starting up again. We have much planned, and I encourage you to stay tuned to our different communications and media sources to stay apprised. In the meantime, I look forward to seeing you this Sunday for our Welcome Back outdoor Sunday celebration and BBQ potluck to follow.

And in case you missed it – after all, it came out on a long weekend – please have a look at my previous blog post (August 30th, 2024). It’s not too late to make that invitation. And if not this week then next week, or the week after that, and so on, because the year has just started!

Andrew+

I am confident that most people who enter St George’s on a Sunday, or on other days, experience us as a welcoming church. But I’ve decided that we should quit being a welcoming church. Well, not exactly; what I mean is I’ve decided that we need to quit only being a welcoming church.

At St George’s, we have invested a significant amount of time and energy into becoming a welcoming church. We have easy-to-access worship, user-friendly leaflets, we train sidespeople, we wear nametags once a month, we percolate the best coffee and make the best treats, and we have an active and committed hospitality team. But we simply cannot continue to only do this. And we cannot continue to do only this because the vast majority of this hospitality is directed at those who already feel at home in the building, in the worship, and amongst the people.

What we need to be is not just a welcoming church but an inviting church. That’s different. You see, welcoming is relatively passive. It is about waiting for visitors and guests to drop by. It means that those who have the courage, the significant courage, to enter something whose very architecture cries out “keep out,” whose adherents are gathered in small knots of people, whose language, worship, and music are often from another century, receive a warm welcome.

And they do. I am grateful for that. St George’s does provide a warm welcome. But again, these significant resources are directed at a relatively small group of brave like-minded people. I also worry that this welcoming can be seen simply as a recruitment tool utilised to perpetuate the institution. In other words, we welcome in order that we can attain the critical mass necessary for keeping the clubhouse open and our preferred traditions intact. In other words, we offer a warm welcome to people who are like us.

Now, I don’t believe this is an entirely accurate portrayal of St George’s. But I worry that it could be if we are not vigilant.

And so, we need to be something more than a welcoming church; we need to become an inviting church. Inviting is different than welcoming. Inviting means we leave the comfort of our congregational home-court advantage and have the courage to share our positive feeling about St George’s with those in our lives. My assumption is that those of you who do keeping coming back do so because you are satisfied with what we have to offer. Are you satisfied enough to want others to have the same experience? I don’t know about you but I’m pretty free to share my thoughts on a good book, a good TV show, or a good restaurant. Why not a good church?

But here we have a problem. Somewhere there is a statistic that says the average Anglican invites someone to church once every fourteen years! Well, I want us to stop being average Anglicans; let’s become exceptional Anglicans! And let us build on the exceptional culture of hospitality we already have and develop and nurture a culture of invitation.

So, here’s the challenge: When you have finished reading this blog, I want you to invite one person to join you at church on September 8 for our Welcome Back Sunday. One person for one Sunday. Then we will let the welcoming do the rest.

Andrew +

People sometimes ask me why we do the things we do in the liturgy. So, I thought I would address some of those questions.

Why do we process the gospel down the aisle?

This common practice in the church has its roots in our Jewish heritage. The high point of a synagogue service is when the Torah scroll is taken out of the Ark and, accompanied by joyful music, is processed throughout the congregation. Many people will reach out and touch the scroll with their prayer shawl, some even kissing it. As Christians, the Gospels of Jesus are our scriptural equivalent to the Torah. And so, to the strains of alleluia, book held high, we give the Gospels the respect which is their due.

It is also significant that the reading take place from within the gathered community. This symbolises that Jesus in the gospel comes to us and speaks among us. Jesus did not preach from pulpits but engaged with his hearers on their level and in the midst of them.

Why do we have different creedal statements?

For many centuries, The Apostles’ Creed and The Nicene Creed have been normative for Anglicans. Certainly, these are two important creeds of the church, but they do not contain everything we believe nor are they without limitations. The Nicene Creed is a 4th century document forged during a time of great conflict in the church. The issue at hand was the nature of Jesus and there were many different views on this. The Chalcedonian formula – which forms the middle paragraph – was the result of much debate and dispute. The Apostles’ Creed was developed between the 2nd and 9th centuries and was primarily used at baptisms. My own critique of these creeds is that Jesus’ life – his ministry of word and deeds – is completely ignored; he is born of the Virgin Mary and then immediately suffered under Pontius Pilate. As such, these creeds make no claim on our lives, focusing more on faith as assenting to a set of propositions rather than faith as a way of living.

There were many other creeds, or creedal statements, that pre-dated the Nicene and Apostles’ creeds. Biblical scholars tell us that sections of the letters found in the New Testament were actually creeds and/or hymns that the letter writers dropped into the text. And in more recent years, we have seen the development of a number of fresh and contemporary creedal statements.

There will be times at St George’s when we will recite the traditional creeds, but you will notice that we will also us other creedal statements, both ancient and modern.

Why don’t we confess our sins every Sunday?

I addressed this issue in a blog I wrote in Lent of this year, but it is worth repeating.

We actually do confess our sins every Sunday. But it is true that we do not always do the longer version that may have been the norm in the past.

What is most important to remember here is that the confessions in the Anglican liturgy are always communal affairs. The Book of Common Prayer refers to ‘The General Confession’. The understanding, therefore, is that the worshipping community is confessing its collective failure to love God and neighbour. It has never been the case that this prayer is an opportunity for individuals to confess their particular sins. The Prayer Book assumes that private confession has been done before, and in preparation for, public worship. And so, more often than not, there will be a petition in the prayers that acknowledges our propensity to sin and asks for God’s forgiveness. And occasionally, especially in what the church considers a ‘penitential’ season, we will do the longer, separate general confession.

But let me say one more thing. I do believe that an overly penitential ethos is potentially off-putting to guests and seekers. I am under no illusions that we as individuals, and as a parish, are in the habit of sinning. We fall short of God’s best all the time. But I am also aware that most people are acutely aware of this. Quite frankly, I need to be reminded that God loves me. My unworthiness is without a doubt. And I have a hunch that the strangers and seekers who make their way in are looking for this affirming message as well.

Do I stand, sit, or kneel?

In the Bible, the dominant position for prayer is standing, followed by flat-out-on-the-ground-face-down prostration, and then kneeling. Over time, kneeling became the norm. And it is important to realise why. Up until the last century, the congregation at worship in the Anglican context was decidedly passive. There was almost a sense in which people went to church to be alone. Virtually all of the speaking was from the front and all the words were in the book. As such, an on-your-knees, head-down approach made sense. Recently, standing for prayer in church has become more normative. This posture is more conducive to the notion that it is the community that prays. Indeed, it is the congregation that celebrates the Eucharist, the priest simply presides. And so, it is appropriate that we all stand – perhaps with arms outstretched! – to celebrate.

I also think there is something about standing that makes one more open; open to those around you and perhaps more open to the Spirit. The leaflet will indicate the default posture but if another posture is preferable then by all means assume it. And it is always the case that if standing is uncomfortable then please be seated. And feel free to pray flat out on the ground face down!

Do let me know if you have other questions you would like me to address.

Andrew +

In my last blog, I wrote about power and how we are to put the power we have in service of God’s mission to the world. In this blog, I want to talk about a close relation of power, which is authority.

This was a topic brought up frequently in the gospels, as on numerous occasions Jesus was questioned as to the source of his so-called authority. The questioning was actually more of a ‘who do you think you are’ statement. The religious leaders wanted to know who gave Jesus the authority to teach, to heal, to cleanse the temple, indeed, to challenge them. Once, when they asked where his authority came from, Jesus told them a parable. It was about a man who had two sons who he asked to go and work in the vineyard. One son said he would and didn’t, the other son said he wouldn’t and did. In pointing out that the second son was the one who did the father’s will, Jesus compared the religious leaders with prostitutes and sinners by pointing out that it is the latter group that are actually doing God’s will by vesting Jesus with authority, while the former simply speak of spiritual things and refuse to recognise Jesus as the one doing his Father’s will.

Jesus’ point was clear: my authority is given to me by the people who follow me because, unlike you, I do as I say, I practice what I preach.

Jesus and his followers were people who practiced what they preached – unlike the High Priests, Scribes, and Pharisees, who were well-meaning perhaps and doing their best but were more interested in framing up the rules than in following them.

And so, what about us? Rooted in the gospel of Christ and found in our baptismal covenant, there is a significant body of behaviour that is expected from us. We talk about it, we sing about it, we read about it, we study it. But do we do it? To the extent that we merely talk, sing, read and study and yet not act is to be like the son who says he will but doesn’t.

The other side of the parable that can be quite sobering is the implication that there are those who don’t talk, sing, read, or study this Christian code of conduct and yet do it. Any authority we have as a Christian community therefore is found in our capacity to practice what we preach.

The other thing about authority is that it is bestowed not claimed. And it is generally not bestowed by virtue of your position but rather by virtue of your person. The religious leaders had positional authority and titles. But Jesus had followers who were compelled by his person, and thus he had true authority.

For us, this begs the question as to whence comes our authority as St George’s on-the-Hill. And the answer is that our authority as a church is bestowed by the community – not by the Bishop, not by the land we occupy, not by the beauty of the building, not by the collective efforts we put forth on ensuring we are serving ourselves and our own needs. Our authority, our right to be here, indeed, our right to call ourselves a church, will only be bestowed to the extent that this community, and especially the last, the least, and the lost of this community confer upon us that authority. We are only relevant if they say we are relevant.

And therein lies the challenge: to be known as a church that practices what it preaches in such a way that this community knows who we are and what we do and in approving of that is prepared to listen to what we have to say. That, my friends, is authority.

Andrew +

The news these days is full of stories about power. Especially around who has power, who wants power, and who should probably give up what power they have.

When training clergy or teaching would-be clergy, and when referencing the conflicts and anxieties that often arise in congregations, I offer a sentiment that I believe to be profoundly true: It is seldom about what it is about; it’s almost always about power. Any number of situations may appear to be about any number of things – prayer books, human sexuality, the colour of the Nave carpet, who gets to use what room. But at heart, the issue is power. Who has the power to decide and who hasn’t, how to hold on to it and how to get it. Power issues pervade every institution and every relationship. And so, when we say that in polite company we don’t talk about sex, politics and religion, I think what we are really saying is that in polite company we don’t talk about power – and it could be that sex, religion, and politics made the list because those are the areas where power struggles are most prevalent.

In the gospels, we have a story of one character who apparently has the power, two characters who would like power, and ten angry at the two for this blatant power grab. It is the story of James and John, the sons of thunder, who in the gospel of Matthew have their mother, Mrs Thunder, advocate for their place of prestige, to sit on either side of Jesus when he comes into his kingdom. And we have the rest of the disciples thoroughly vexed by this effrontery.

But in the face of this power grab, Jesus actually offers them power. Contrary to how this story may be interpreted, Jesus has no problem with the quest for power itself; Jesus has a problem with what the power would be used for once attained. In other words, James and John, you are welcome to the power, you are welcome to be the greatest, but let me remind you that in the kingdom of God the great among you are servants. In the kingdom of God, the powerful use their power in service of others. As is so often the case, Jesus reverses and subverts conventional wisdom, and this time around power.

To affirm that Jesus has power is to affirm a different kind of power. It is not a power which abdicates into an inner- or otherworld. Powerlessness is simply passivity if no power is taken up. Jesus was enormously powerful and assertive. He did not come to create a set of doormats, but to spread a revolution of love and grace, which entailed identifying and embodying a new kind of power and priority. True service, true humility, I would argue, is about using one’s power to serve something other than one’s self.

In this story, Jesus reminds us of what he will do with his power: “even the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve and to give his life as a ransom for many”. Jesus had power, power that he used not in the accumulation of stuff, status and position, but power he used in the service of others, especially the last, the least, and the lost. Ultimately, therefore, it was power that he used to serve God’s mission in the world.

Power, my friends, is what allows us to see our values enacted in the world. Without power, our values are just ideas, daydreams we can shake off or indulge in just to pass the time as other people — the ones with power — have their way with the world. If we care about the world, if we are to persevere in resisting evil, if we are to proclaim the good news of Christ, if we are to seek and serve Christ in all persons, if we are to strive for justice and peace, then we will need to use all the power at our disposal to see this accomplished.

We, who are called to embrace God’s mission through service to the world, will need to harness all our gifts, all our skills, and all our resources. We will need to be single-minded and strategic in seeking to serve. That is what God is calling us to be: a community of persons who assemble power in the pursuit of sharing God’s love in a hurting world.

It’s almost never about what it is about, it’s almost always about power. That we have it is without question. What we do with it is the question. Will we use it to serve our own need to accumulate stuff, status, or position? Or will we use it in service to God’s mission of reconciliation and healing in a broken and hurting world?

Andrew +

I want to return to the ‘one question I would ask God’ theme we have pursued over the last number of months. The question below is especially relevant given the horrors humans are perpetuating upon other humans in so many places currently.

Does God really expect us to be able to forgive?
And, especially, to forgive these horrid crimes against humanity we are experiencing?

I believe that what we often forget when discussing forgiveness is what a thoroughly theological concept forgiveness is. This leads us to analogise forgiveness with a number of other everyday concepts like condoning, or exonerating, or forgetting.

Forgiveness is none of these things. We can never forget, and must never forget, crimes against humanity. Forgetting may be the surest way for these crimes to be repeated. And personally, we often cannot forget the pain inflicted on us by the actions of others, especially others whom we have loved. Forgiveness is not about forgetting.

Furthermore, forgiveness is certainly not about condoning bad behaviour or exonerating the badly behaved. How could it be? Crimes against humanity and crimes, even slights, against individuals are what they are; they are wrong. Forgiveness does not make a wrong right, and it does not make the wrongdoer innocent.

Indeed, forgiveness is not about the perpetrator at all. After a discussion about forgiveness, I was once sent a quote that reads, “Forgiveness doesn’t excuse their behaviour. Forgiveness prevents their behaviour from destroying your heart.” This is the point: I forgive not to condone or exonerate the other but to liberate myself. Forgiveness may not lead to forgetting but it can lead to putting distance between you and the act. To forgive is to release oneself from playing the loop of the indiscretion over and over again in your mind. To forgive is to free oneself from bitterness, anger and recrimination. To forgive is to let go.

Like many things that God in Christ asks us to do, forgiveness is not easy. Whether it is turning the other cheek, making the last first, or loving your enemy, it defies conventional wisdom and flies in the face of what passes for common sense. But, like many things that God in Christ asks us to do, it is also good for you. Good for your heart, soul, mind, and body. And finally, forgiveness is the best hope for that other Christian virtue, reconciliation.

So does God expect us to forgive? Yes, I’m afraid God does. But God does because God loves, and God’s love knows that our best hope lies in forgiving and in being forgiven. May our prayer continue to be: forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us.

Andrew +

In 1896, Charles Sheldon – not related – wrote a book entitled In His Steps. In this novel, a tramp shows up in a genteel mid-western town. The town’s people disregard his repeated pleas for help; so, when they arrived for church, well-dressed and reverent, the tramp, who is also present, interrupts the service. “It seems to me,” he says, “there’s an awful lot of trouble in the world that somehow wouldn’t exist if all the people who sing such songs went and lived them out.” And with that, he dies. The congregation is stunned and pledges to live their lives for one year asking themselves one question: what would Jesus do? Invariably, as the book shows, it is the most loving thing to do.

In 1996, a youth group in Holland, Michigan read In His Steps. They too were struck by the tramp’s sentiment and the congregation’s response. So, they too decided to live for one year asking the question: what would Jesus do? And to help them, they fashioned fabric bracelets with the letters WWJD on them. Thus began a movement that has seen over 15 million WWJD bracelets donned by people who would order their lives on the basis of God’s will in Christ.

What would Jesus do? I suspect he would do what he has told us to do. He would love the Lord his God with all his heart, soul, mind and strength, and he would love his neighbour as himself. Now, Jesus knew as well as you and I that this is not always the easiest of tasks – to love, that is. Love is a choice, and often a hard choice. Ask any parent who knows well that the most loving stance towards a child is not always the most pleasant stance, for them or the child. And so, Jesus also promised his disciples that he wouldn’t leave them entirely alone, that he would not leave them as orphans, but would send a helper, an advocate, a comforter.

The Spirit who is an advocate comes to speak to us for Jesus. The advocate teaches us and reminds us of all that Jesus has said and taught. When we ask the question WWJD, the advocate is there to engage with us in a prayerful process of discernment and decision.

There are more than enough people out there who would tell us what to do. More than enough in the church too. More than enough sermons, and doctrines, and confessions of faith that would tell us, with absolute certainty, what Jesus would do. But what Jesus has in mind instead is a process whereby we remember his command to love and we obey it through dialogue with his Spirit, the advocate.

And it sems to me that this dynamic interchange of a situation, the question of what Jesus would do, and a thoughtful and prayerful interaction with the Spirit, will not always lead to a single answer in a particular instance. Indeed, the most honest answer to the question of what Jesus would do may be ‘it depends’ – it depends on the situation, the circumstances, the context. But the one thing I do know is that it will almost always be the most loving thing to do.

What would Jesus do? Not always easy to answer but, perhaps, also not all that difficult.

Andrew +

Last week, I wrote about sabbath and the need for times of rest and refreshment. But affirming that does not mean that work is always by definition exhausting and unfulfilling. Indeed, I believe that our work can be as spiritually edifying as our rest, and that perhaps what we need is a spirituality that acknowledges both sabbath and work.

A spirituality that is nurtured by the presence of God in the cut and thrust of everyday living. A spirituality that understands all honest work as God’s work. A spirituality that finds fulfillment in even the most mundane detail when it is done in service to God through service to another. A spirituality that does not have to escape work to find nourishment but a spirituality that is nourished by the very work itself.

Such spirituality finds a voice in our scripture and tradition. God is a God who works – in creation, in redemption, and in the ongoing maintenance of God’s mission in the world. As God’s people, we participate in this work. Now, to be fair, the scriptures do not always suggest that work in and of itself is spiritually nurturing. Nonetheless, work is also offered as a kind of stewardship by which God entrusts us with gifts, skills and abilities and an expectation that we accomplish something with this bounty that both glorifies God and serves others.

Jesus’ teaching in Matthew 25 is especially telling in this respect. First, we have a parable chastising some foolish bridesmaids for sleeping on the job – no dinner for them! In the parable of the talents which follows, the master has a clear expectation that his servants would maximize their abilities on behalf of the master. Such service would not go unnoticed, however. The faithful servants were not only rewarded with more responsibility but also, perhaps more significantly, entered into the joy of the master. And, finally, the parable of the sheep and the goats makes apparent that the extent to which our work attends to the needs of others is the extent to which we are ushered into eternal life.

In these parables, we find a gospel imperative around work that pleases God, benefits the recipients of our service, and enriches our own souls.

A spirituality of work can also be found within the Christian tradition. The ‘Rule of St Benedict’ reads as a comprehensive guide to everyday life. Certainly, Benedict’s monks were expected to pray, but they were also expected to work. Idleness, according to Benedict, is the enemy of the soul. Accordingly, those living by the rule were expected to augment the daily offices, contemplation and ‘prayerful reading’ with manual labour. And why? Because, Benedict wrote, “we believe that the divine presence is everywhere and that in every place the eyes of the Lord are watching”.

A spirituality of work is also rooted in the Reformation ideal of work as vocation. In the forefront of this movement is Martin Luther who maintained that all stations in life in which it is possible to live honestly are divine vocations. God calls us to particular roles and, in fulfilling our calling, we participate in the work of God. Thus, our daily work is enabled and encouraged by God and therefore has spiritual significance for us and for those we serve.

This is, undeniably, an incomplete treatment of the subject. I have not dealt with the very real, and very painful, issues around unsatisfying work and of unemployment. Indeed, I have not unpacked the possible distinction between work and employment. But I do want to suggest that there is something about work that is itself potentially spiritually enervating. That a spirituality of work as vocation, which is, by definition, God-generated and other-focused, is distinct from a disengaged spirituality which is, by definition, self-interested and self-serving. Jurgen Moltmann, writing in The Spirit of Life, captures this differentiation well. Speaking to God, he writes: “For a long time I looked for you within myself, and crept into the shell of my soul. But you were outside – outside my self – and enticed me out of the narrowness of my heart into the broad place of love for life”. A love for life that brings vitality to our spirit can and must include our labour.

Andrew +

The Lord’s Day Act of 1902 was sweeping in its ordinances to ensure that Sunday be a true ‘day of rest’. Among other things, it was illegal to push children on a swing, to toboggan, or to watch ladies undress; I’m assuming this last restriction did not apply in a person’s home so much as in certain establishments. Officials also thought it important to add that you could not transport a dead horse on Yonge St on a Sunday. The department store Eaton’s even drew a curtain across its windows to discourage shopping of the window sort. This Act was repealed in 1992, and now Sunday is just another day. As it should be.

And what do you mean by ‘as it should be’, you may ask. All these efforts were seen to be in service of a Christian agenda in, what was considered to be the case at that time, a Christian country. The irony is that there is no such thing as a Christian Sabbath, at least, not a Christian sabbath burdened with myriad restrictions. This idea, borrowed from the Jewish sabbath, was not a feature for most of the Church’s history and only became a thing in the austere backdrop of Victorian Britain. For us, Sunday – the day of the Resurrection – is a day of celebration and delight, a feast day not a fast day. And nowhere in Christian scripture and early Christian texts is it offered as a day of graveness and restraint. Indeed, Jesus repeatedly ‘worked’ on the sabbath and was censured for doing so. His response was to remind his detractors that ‘the sabbath was made for humans, and not humans made for the sabbath’.

Nonetheless, I would suggest that although sabbath is not a commandment we are bound to, it is a promise we are invited to enjoy. That although we are not compelled to a strict observance of the sabbath; we should be compelled by the idea of a sabbath. And that is the idea of a day of rest, or at least a time of rest. A purposeful pause in the midst of our busy lives to relax our bodies, clear our minds, and reflect on God’s grace as expressed in creation, relationships, or solitude. Indeed, it is a time to push a child on a swing, to toboggan, to shed some clothes and bask in the sun, to shop for pleasure, to sit alone in silent contemplation on a beach, or in the woods, or in our homes. I am reminded of the words from that old hymn: ‘Drop thy still dews of quietness, till all our strivings cease; take from our souls the strain and stress, and let our ordered lives confess the beauty of thy peace.”

This is true sabbath, and well worth observing.

Which brings me to summer. This is uniquely a time for sabbath. A time for us as a parish to know rest and refreshment. At St George’s on the Hill, many people have worked very hard these past ten months in providing governance, programming, liturgies, pastoral care, outreach, service, and hospitality. Now is a time for a parish-wide rest, a parish-wide sabbath. If you are around, please do join us on Sunday. But otherwise, it is my hope that, when it comes to church, this summer will be a chance for you to find some rest and refreshment.

Andrew +

This Sunday is Trinity Sunday and I’ll have plenty to say about the doctrine of the Holy Trinity in my sermon. But one way we reference the Trinity is through what is called the Trinitarian Formula. This formula is quite simply the words: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. We baptise using this formula, we bless using this formula, we marry and bury using this formula. Last week, we looked at the Holy Spirit, and this week I want to focus on the relationship of Father and Son. To do this I want to reference another of ‘the one question I would ask God’.

Is it true that there is only one path to follow to God, and that it is through Christ?

There is a passage found in the gospel of John which is often interpreted as a resounding ‘yes’ to this question. In it, Jesus says, ‘I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.’ On the surface, Jesus could be seen to be saying that there is only one way to God and that way is through Jesus. As such, and many Christians have argued this, there is one God and the way to that God is through Jesus, and therefore Christianity is the one true religion and all other gods and religions are, by this definition, false. This Christian triumphalism has done more harm than good and has done much to undermine inter-faith dialogue.

My own conviction is that the God who is at the heart of all things is a God who can be accessed many ways through many paths. Indeed, this is rooted in our creation story; when God looked at all God created, God saw that it was good. All of it, good. God created humanity in all of its diversity, and from the beginning humans have embraced diverse ways of realising the same thing – communion with God. And so, to the extent that other faiths facilitate and promote engagement with God, then those faiths too are paths to follow.

But what then are we to make of the quote from John’s gospel?

I would argue that it is important to focus on the language used to describe God. Jesus actually does not say ‘no one comes to God except through me’. The text says, ‘no one comes to the Father except through me’. The notion of God as a heavenly parent is an innovation on the notion of God only to be found in the gospel of Jesus Christ. And so, the text is not saying that Jesus is the only way to God. What the text is saying is that Jesus is the only way to the Father. The text is saying Jesus is the only way to God for followers of Jesus. Or, the only way to God for the Christian is through Christ. It is in Jesus, in Jesus’ words and actions, that we most profoundly encounter the Christian God. The God that Jesus points to is the path for Christians, and all who call themselves Christians must walk that path to truly encounter the one Jesus called Father. And all the while knowing that there are other ways, and other truths, and other lifes that follow other paths to the God who is at the heart of all things.

“The sun did not shine. It was too wet to play. So we sat in the house all that cold, cold, wet day.” This, of course, was the plight of Sally and her brother in the classic book by Dr Seuss, The Cat in the Hat.

“And then something went bump! How that bump made us jump!” And in waltzed the Cat in the Hat with Thing One and Thing Two, with their games and their tricks, and chaos ensued.

Now, we have no idea what the weather was like that other day – that is, the Day of Pentecost in ancient Israel – but we do know there was a bunch of people sitting in a house. Like Sally and her brother, they too had been left behind. Ten days before, Jesus had left them and, for all we know, they had spent that entire time huddled in that room wondering what to do next. And then there was a knock on the door, and – whoosh – in waltzed the Cat in the Hat. Well, actually, it was the Holy Spirit, but the resulting chaos was pretty much the same. Thing One and Thing Two were out of the bag.

And this is something I have a hunch that we have lost. The wildly unpredictable, somewhat chaotic, entirely subversive nature of the Holy Spirit. We have tamed the Spirit. So much so that the symbol of the Spirit is a dove, gently cooing.

In the Celtic tradition, the Holy Spirit too is represented as a bird, but not the peaceful and serene dove. For their symbol of the Holy Spirit, the Celtic people chose the wild goose. Why did the wild goose speak to those ancient Celtic Christians?

To begin with, wild geese aren’t controllable. You can’t restrain a wild goose and bend it to your will. They’re raucous and loud. Unlike the sweet and calming coo of a dove, a goose’s honk is strong, challenging, strident and unnerving, and just a bit scary. In much the same way, the Spirit of God can be compelling, demanding and unsettling.

On that first Pentecost, the Holy Spirit took discouraged people closeted in an upper room and it sent them rolling down the stairs and out the doors to instigate a benevolent mob scene. With great joy and with wind and fire and Spirit, it made them look like a bunch of happy drunks in the midst of a numbingly sober and sour world.

What happened to that kind of witness? Can you imagine anyone stumbling into St George’s and mistaking us for drunks? Hung-over, maybe, but drunk? Now, I do know many of you well enough to know that your Christian walk does bring you great joy, and I love our lively celebrations on Sunday morning. I wonder, however, what it would look like to push that envelope a bit more. To welcome a bit of chaos.

I sometimes think the church can be like the fish in The Cat in the Hat, the fish that said: “No! No! Make that cat go away. Tell the cat in the hat that you do not want to play.”

But play is what the Spirit invites us to do; to get out of our comfort zones, to learn new behaviours. And it starts with words. When the Spirit showed up, those early Christians spoke up.

As Augustine knew long ago, to be silent is to betray the Spirit. There is no getting around the fact that when the Spirit shows up, people get to talking. The Spirit compels us to speech. St Paul wrote to the Romans: “If you believe in your heart and confess with your lips that Jesus Christ is Lord than you will be saved.” Pentecost seems to put to rest the decidedly Anglican notion that we can be a quiet witness.

Now, I know words alone will not do. Indeed, the history of the Church has been about a surfeit of words. And I’m reminded of the words of St. Francis who reminds us to share God’s love at all times, using words if we must. But I wouldn’t want dear Francis to let us off the hook. Whether we like it or not – and I suspect we don’t – it is words that grow a church. The only tried and true way of getting people into this place is words. Your words, sharing your experience and inviting others in, and, once in, our words of welcome, warmth and good news.

But Pentecost also compels us outdoors into the world as it is. Not the dreamy uniformity that we wish existed, but the brawling chaos that is. Faith compels us to hear the many languages being spoken out there. We can become resentful of the babble. Too many voices, too much diversity, too many people whose life experience isn’t like our own and yet they demand attention. Too much brokenness, too many patterns of abuse shaping a new generation of abusers. Too much complication.

And yet, this demanding Spirit sends us forth, not to replicate ourselves, but to speak in those languages other than our own.

Pentecost has become a festival of looking inside. It is fun to wear red to church, and celebrate the Church’s “birthday”. But we need to remember that the point of Pentecost was to send the disciples outdoors, into a world deeply divided, where fragmented communications had to be overcome.

And then, the coming of the Holy Spirit in power will not just be an event we commemorate but an experience we realize. The Spirit will show up day after day, will show up when we gather on Sunday where, indeed, the Spirit has been all along. I wonder, will we show up to the Spirit? Are we prepared to receive power? Can we take risks? The extent to which we experience the Holy Spirit, are empowered to speak, to roll out our church doors and into our world is the extent to which we show up to the Spirit.

So, like the Cat in the Hat, when the Holy Spirit shows up, let her in. And don’t worry about the mess.

As you know, over time I have asked people to share with me ‘the one question I would ask God’.

And this week’s question certainly gets to the heart of the matter!

Are you there? Who or what are you?

Our texts and tradition are rich in answers to this question. God is that which was there at the very beginning and who created all else out of nothing. God is the one God who in a world alive with gods is the God who is all of God in every place. For Christians, God is quite simply the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. Thinkers through the ages have posited God as the prime mover, the cause of all effects, all that is good, the ground of our being, love.

I am reminded of the time Jesus asked his disciple who they thought he was. Although the text could be interpreted as Jesus looking for the right answer, it could also be interpreted as Jesus asking the right question that knows many answers. Who do you say God is? And whatever your answer, who am I to dispute it?!

But it also seems to me that the question ‘who or what are you’ is predicated by a belief that somehow a right answer can be arrived at and that evidence can be offered to buttress the answer. This question could be asked by people who believe they have the answer and are looking for corroboration. It could also be asked by people who doubt the existence of a God and are anxious to refute any answer offered. In both cases, people believe that God is a concept that can be proven or disproven through logic and reason. And I find this way of thinking problematic.

I am reminded of the story of Thomas who was missing on the day of resurrection and doubted the disciples’ account that Jesus was alive. The next week, Jesus showed up and Thomas got the proof he was looking for. But Jesus said something interesting; he said to Thomas that he believed because he had seen Jesus ‘but more blessed are those who believe without seeing’. For some, seeing is believing; for others, not seeing is not believing. But perhaps for us, believing is seeing. Perhaps, belief in God is not a matter of evidence that demands a verdict as much as it is a matter of faith that nurtures a conviction. After all, our Creed says, ‘I believe in God’, not ‘I believe the following things about God’.

And so, perhaps the answer to the question of who or what is God is simply: I’m not sure. Furthermore, I can’t prove what it is I affirm. But I have chosen to believe that there is something at play in the universe that is bigger than the sum of its parts, that is inherently good and loving, that is revealed to us uniquely in the gospel of Jesus Christ, and which makes a claim on my life as to how I will live it. This I believe; and in my better moments, this I see.

Andrew +

In the season of Easter, we celebrate the resurrection of Jesus and I have spoken and written much about that. In Holy Week, we worked through the events leading up to his crucifixion, and on Good Friday we remembered and rehearsed the events of that day. But what about that in-between time, the time between the crucifixion and the resurrection? And, indeed, someone did recently ask me the question:

What happened to Jesus when he was dead?

There is a tradition rooted in the letter attributed to St Peter that during the time Jesus was apparently dead he was actually quite busy. This sentiment is captured in the Apostles’ Creed in the words ‘he descended to the dead’. The notion is that Jesus’ descent was not ‘into death’ but ‘to the dead’. That is, that after his death, Jesus visited the dead and proclaimed the good news to those ‘who were imprisoned’. Indeed, an earlier version of the Creed had Jesus descending to hell; purportedly to preach to those who ‘were disobedient to God long ago’.

For me, the problem with this tradition is that it seems to suggest that Jesus didn’t really die; at least, not in the way humans generally die. The effect of this, I believe, is to dilute the significance of the resurrection. At Easter, we affirm that Jesus didn’t rise from the dead but that he was raised from the dead. To name it this way is to affirm that Jesus was dead, powerless, and incompetent to effect his own resurrection. God raised Jesus from the dead because Jesus was in no position to raise himself. The picture of a Jesus bouncing about preaching to the dead belies this important Easter message.

I realise that this is a short blog post but it seems to me that the plainest answer to the question of what happened to Jesus when he was dead is: Nothing, he was dead.

What do four hobbits, a dwarf, an elf, two men and a wizard have in common? Not much. Unless they are part of a fellowship. Unless they have a profound reason to be together as one. Unless they are united in a purpose that transcends their differences. Unless they have a mission.

This, of course, references J.R.R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings trilogy, and especially the first book, The Fellowship of the Ring. These characters come together around the hobbit Frodo Baggins and his need to get the ring to Mordor in order to destroy the power of Sauron who threatens to plunge all of Middle Earth into a dark age. The task of these nine individuals is to enable this to happen. The people who make up the “fellowship of the ring” are not natural allies. They have little in common, and they join the fellowship with different personal priorities. But they are held together by the overriding need to save their countries from the menace of evil. They must learn to trust each other, to rely on each other’s skills and judgement, and allow for each other’s particular weaknesses.

What do six fishermen, a tax collector, a freedom fighter, a twin, a banker and a couple of nobodies have in common? Not much. Unless they are part of a fellowship. Unless they have a profound reason to be together as one. Unless they are united in a purpose that transcends their differences. Unless they have a mission.

These twelve had come together around Jesus. Jesus had a mission. It was God’s mission for the world to bring the world into closer communion with their creator God. Jesus has a message, that God so loves the world that God gives, gives Jesus, so that all may have life, abundant life and eternal life. And for this purpose, Jesus dies; and for this purpose, is raised to new life; and for this purpose, leaves this band behind with the same message and the same mission. The book of Acts, from which we hear throughout the Easter season, is the story of how these spirit-filled people took seriously the mission and began to proclaim the gospel in word and deed to great effect. The people who make up the fellowship of the early church are not natural allies. They have little in common, and they join the fellowship with different personal priorities. But they are held together by the overriding need to proclaim the message of their risen Lord. They must learn to trust each other, to rely on each other’s skills and judgement, and allow for each other’s particular weaknesses.

So, what do a number of retirees, a smattering of financial advisors, some professors and teachers, an architect, bureaucrats, and any other number of occupations have in common? Not much. Unless they are part of a fellowship. Unless they have a profound reason to be together as one. Unless they are united in a purpose that transcends their differences. Unless they have a mission.

The people who make up the fellowship of St George’s on-the-Hill are not natural allies. We have little in common, and we join the fellowship with different personal priorities. But we are held together by the overriding need to proclaim the message of our risen Lord. We must learn to trust each other, to rely on each other’s skills and judgement, and allow for each other’s particular weaknesses. We need to be one. We need to be in fellowship. Because we have a mission.

And the key here, I believe, is the sense of mission. This sense of mission corrects the rather debased Christian usage of “fellowship”, which is often used to mean little more than being temporarily nice to each other. The great symbol of fellowship being coffee time after church. As if that is the reason we exist.

No, we are united by our mission. Our fellowship is for mission. Fellowship without mission is idolatry. We are serving the wrong thing. As we have been reminded many times in the sentiment expressed by Archbishop William Temple, the church is the one institution that exists primarily for those who are not members. The church exists for its mission. This fellowship exists for mission. And so, everything we do reflects this. Everything supports this mission.

Our worship, for instance. Worship that is rooted in a tradition, but a tradition that serves the mission. Thus, worship that is welcoming, user friendly, fresh and attractive.

And a building where our task is not to ensure that the clubhouse is in good shape for the next generation of believers but to ensure everything about it supports our proclamation of the gospel in word and deed. And programmes that are not just about the needs of the adherents but also about the needs of the community.

We are one, brothers and sisters. Because we are a fellowship. And we are a fellowship because we have a mission. And what we offer to you who may be new to this fellowship is not so much an opportunity to join as an invitation to journey.

The book of Acts is the story of that first generation of Jesus people who were faithful to the mission. Our story is to be faithful to the mission in our generation.

Andrew +

When we look about these days, we are struck by the extent of the suffering so many are enduring.  Whether it’s war in Gaza and Ukraine, turmoil in Haiti, earthquakes in Taiwan, or, at home, the rise in food bank use and the lack of affordable housing. And then there is the everyday suffering as a result of grief, or depression, or a terminal diagnosis. It is not surprising therefore that the one question some would ask is: 

If God Is All-Powerful, Why Is There So Much Suffering?

 First of all, it must be named that this question has bedeviled humankind for centuries, and many a theologian or philosopher has performed theoretical gymnastics in trying to address it. So, to start, let us get at this question as a theologian or philosopher might. The first thing to address is the assumption that an all-powerful God would use that power to allay suffering. Indeed, if the all-powerful God was also good and loving, as many believe God is, then the assumption would certainly be a fair one. Surely a good and loving God who had the power to do so would choose to relieve suffering at every opportunity. Since that is not the case – suffering exists – then it would seem we are left with two scenarios. Either God is all-powerful but not good and loving, or God is good and loving but not all-powerful. There is, however, a third scenario – that God is all-powerful – and conceivably good and loving – and yet chooses to limit that power in the service of something God perceives to be an even greater good. And that greater good is human free will. As the argument goes, God’s power is not diminished because it is God’s choice, God’s use of God’s power, that enables and allows free will. And free will, which is inherent in all of creation, will inevitably result in the kind of events or choices that lead to suffering. Therefore, God remains all powerful, and yet suffering exists.

 Now logically this argument holds. But it is not all that satisfying, and especially not in the face of so much suffering.

 So, it seems to me that another question that is implicit in the larger question is: what is God’s relationship to suffering?

 Jesus actually addresses this question himself on more than one occasion. Once, he was asked who had sinned to cause a man to be born blind, the man himself or his parents. This question is based on the view, that some still hold, that God invokes suffering as a result of sin. Jesus rejects this view out of hand. Another time, he was asked about a tower that had fallen and killed innocent people while they were at worship. His questioners were aghast that God would allow such a thing to happen to righteous persons. Again, Jesus rejected the notion that there was a relationship between people’s relative guilt and innocence and their suffering.

 I think it is important that we continue to reject such a view. We do not serve a God who chooses to use God’s power to punish sin or to reward righteousness. If, according to the earlier argument, God’s intentional limiting of God’s power in service of free will holds true, then God is not intervening to punish or reward. God too, as it were, is at the mercy of free will. Indeed, the story of Jesus, the very human embodiment of God, is proof that bad things can happen to good people.

 And so, what is God’s relationship to suffering? I would suggest it is that God suffers along with us. That God walks with us through the valley of the shadow of death. That God laments with us at the brokenness of this world. That God weeps with us in the face of the suffering of those we love.

 In conclusion, it is natural to want a seemingly powerful God to act on our behalf in the face of so much suffering. It is not surprising that in my ministry I have addressed questions like this a multitude of times. And I completely understand why we, like Jesus on the cross, may sometimes cry out, my God, my God why have you forsaken me?! And so, we too have a choice. We can despair in the face of God’s apparent distance from our suffering, or we can turn and discover God’s presence and care within our suffering. The latter stance may not take the suffering away, but many would attest to the comfort and peace it brings.

 Andrew +

A few years back, I began my sermon on Easter Sunday with the words: “I am here to tell you categorically and decisively that Jesus did not rise from the dead.” I absorbed the somewhat stunned silence for a moment before continuing, “Nothing in the Christian story would suggest that Jesus rose from the dead. What is stated, however, is that Jesus was raised from the dead.” This is an important distinction.

Even as Jesus’ virgin birth and healing miracles are embraced as metaphor, the resurrection remains for many the one core, non-negotiable, and historical fact at the heart of Christianity. Yet the only way one can maintain an unquestioning, literal interpretation of the events surrounding that first Easter is by steadfastly avoiding the reading of the Bible.

This practice leads to the aforementioned misconception that Jesus ‘rose’ from the dead. This view of the resurrection is problematic from several points. One is that it implies that Jesus had the resources to revive himself from death. If that was the case then he wasn’t actually dead, which then significantly depletes the power of the resurrection. Furthermore, it can lead to the notion that the resurrected Jesus was simply a resuscitated corpse. A close reading of the text would suggest this was not the case. Close friends did not recognise Jesus; he frequently disappeared into thin air and seemed to walk through walls; he covered significant distances in no time at all. These are not things that purely physical beings can do. Jesus’ resurrection, although having physical elements to it, was a profoundly spiritual affair.

And it begins with God. It is God who raises Jesus from the dead. This is significant because it suggests that the power at the center of the universe, the ground of our being has embraced and endorsed Jesus’ radical message of love and vindicated that message through the resurrection. The powerful of this earth tried to silence the message by killing Jesus, and the all-powerful God brought it back to life through the raising of Jesus from the dead. This is the significance of resurrection, not a physical body picking things up where they were left off only seemingly to have it all end again.

This is not to suggest that the resurrection was only some mysterious metaphorical affair conducted at the purely spiritual level. The resurrection had clear implications ‘on the ground’ as it were. Clearly, something happened in the days following the crucifixion that transformed the disciples from uncertain followers to heralds of the Jesus message, evidently willing to die for their convictions. While we will never know the details of how the Jesus of their daily lives became the Christ-presence of their future, the gospel accounts are testimony to people’s hunger to know more. Whatever happened in the days following the crucifixion, the followers of Jesus were propelled into a new way of living and relating to this Galilean peasant they had been following. They were compelled to re-evaluate their Jewish heritage in ways that accounted for their experience of Jesus, both in his temporal life and as a spiritual presence in the present. And so, the profoundly physical aspect of the resurrection is fleshed out in the bodies of Jesus’ earliest followers.

And that is still the case. Today, the metaphor of resurrection stands for many Christians as a symbol of the call to new life, as an appeal to practice resurrection here and now. Life is precious. It’s to be shared with generosity. The gospels are clear about this. What should also be clear is that resurrection isn’t just limited to the experience of Jesus or to however we understand a life after death, but in passing from death to life here and now. The message of resurrection and of Easter hope is that we can live fully in this life, giving of ourselves, and risking for love’s sake. So, help someone who’s hurting. Open the eyes of love for someone who is blind. Free a captive. Heal a wound. Feed someone who is hungry. Give the gift of yourself, for the gift of who we are was given to us in order to be given away.

The secret to practicing resurrection is in giving who we are and what we have away, completely and wholly, to something greater than ourselves, in escaping from the circumstances and choices that entomb us and entering into new life here and now. In life and in death, Jesus modeled this generosity and transformation for followers then and now. As we embrace resurrection as a credible and meaningful principle for living, we, like Jesus, may become more than anyone around us – or even we ourselves – could have imagined.

Andrew +

For many years, and in different contexts, I have invited people to consider ‘the one question I would ask God’, and to submit it to me for consideration. I thought that for the next few blogs I would address some of the questions I have received in the past. I also invite you to submit your own question (andrew@stgeorgesonthehill.ca), to which I will prepare a response. So, today’s question:

What Happens When I Die?
And Will I be Reunited with Those I Have Loved?

I approach this question – by the way, the ‘I’ is Andrew and not God! – and questions like this with some fear and trepidation. In part, I do this because so many people have so much emotionally invested in after-death issues. For instance, many are invested in the possibility of being reunited with those that they have loved in life. Fear and trepidation are also the case because our texts actually aren’t all that clear around what happens after we die. I actually believe that the most honest answer I could give to this question, and other questions about the afterlife, is, ‘I’m not sure’.

But let’s dig a little deeper than that.

As noted, there are differing views to be found in our text, and all have made their way into the tradition. One popular conception is that when we die, we go straight to somewhere, and that somewhere is heaven. (Let me state that I categorically reject the notion of a physical hell where bad people go after death to be eternally tormented at God’s behest.) This argument is supported by Jesus’ words to the thief on the cross that ‘today you will be with me in paradise’. But what did Jesus mean by paradise? It is important to remember that these words came at the end of a conversation in which the thief affirms Jesus as a good and innocent man and asks Jesus to remember him when he comes into his kingdom. Jesus may simply have been stating that today this thief would indeed join Jesus in his kingdom, his ‘paradise’ – that is, the place, on earth as in heaven, where God’s will is done. Notwithstanding the question of what Jesus meant by ‘paradise’, our tradition is rich in language and images of individuals ascending into heaven upon death.

And yet, the bulk of the afterlife narratives in Christian scripture speak of a future resurrection when ‘the trumpet shall sound and the dead shall be raised’. St Paul weaves a long and intricate argument to this effect, the core of which is that Christ’s resurrection prefigures our own future resurrection. Indeed, Jesus reinforces this point when, on the night before he died, he told his friends that he was going to prepare a place for them so that ‘where I am you will be also’. By this definition, then, there will be no resurrection, no looking for our loved ones until some distant point in the future. This is captured in words that Anglicans know well: May she/he rest in peace and rise in glory. First, we rest and then we rise.

And so, the question of when the dead arrive in heaven is an open one, but the question of how to find loved ones remains. Again, the tradition is rife with language that suggests that heaven will constitute one big family reunion. In our Anglican church, a prayer in the funeral liturgy states that after our life on earth we will ‘be reunited with our brothers and our sisters’. It would be logical to infer from that that heaven is the venue for a homecoming and so the only challenge left would be how to ‘find my loved ones’. On this, the tradition seems to be silent. And so, even if all of the above holds true, we are left only with the hope that heaven will afford a way for this reunion to take place.

Nonetheless, our scriptures also suggest that the matter of identification is not a cut-and-dried one. If Jesus’ resurrection foreshadows our own, it is important to remember that in his post-resurrection appearances he was often not recognized. The inference is that a post-resurrection body is very different than a pre-resurrection body. The book of Revelation also talks of a great crowd of witnesses without number gathered around the throne where only the lamb, Jesus Christ, is recognisable.

So, the question of how we find our loved ones in heaven, like all questions about an afterlife, is left unanswered, at least from a scriptural standpoint, or at least answered in a way that may not prove ultimately satisfying.

But I am compelled by some words that St Paul wrote to the church in Rome. In so many words he wrote, ‘whether we live or we die we belong to God’. There is nothing precise or specific about those words, and they drive us deep into the mystery that often accompanies our journey of faith. And yet, these words are also comforting. They remind us that even in the absence of clear answers to our questions about what happens after death, we have the promise that we will be in God’s hands and God’s care. That, although death may be a sad, even shocking, event for those around us, for us it will be a seamless transition from one way of belonging to God to another way of belonging to God. Comforting also because God is also the God of the living who remain, and they too can count on the comfort and care of God even as they grieve.

How can we find our loved ones in heaven? What happens after we die? I’m not sure. But I do know that all of us, dead and alive, belong to a loving, caring God. And perhaps that is enough.

Andrew +

Last week, I wrote about the purpose of prayer; and in a discussion I had this week, the issue of miracles came up. That is, that so much of what we ask for in prayer, if fulfilled, would constitute a miracle. So, the question was: Is there such a thing as miracles?

If I were to come at the question slightly differently, I might ask: What is the purpose of miracles in our story? This could lead to many answers. In the first place, and if we take miracles at face value – as in, that they actually occur – miracles could serve to establish the bona fides of our God, of Jesus, and of the Christian faith. In pre-modernity, this is the most likely purpose they served. Indeed, in pre-modernity, just about every occurrence was seen to be of God, and so just about everything that happened had a miraculous component to it. The modern mindset is very different. On the one hand, science has given us logical reasons for what was previously thought to be miraculous, and on the other, the notion of the supernatural is viewed cynically by most people, including many Christians. As such, the modern Christian may take three positions. One, is to continue to believe in the reality and importance of miracles in our story. And indeed, we all know of occurrences that are simply miraculous; where there really is no natural, logical explanation. The second, is to simply dismiss the miraculous as impossible and irrelevant. And the third, is to try and explain the so-called miracle in purely natural terms. Take the feeding of the 5000 with 5 loaves and 2 fishes. Some would say it happened, exactly as recorded. Some would say it didn’t happen because it’s just plain impossible. And others would say that when the little boy was willing to share his lunch, his selflessness and generosity motivated the others in the crowd to take their food out of hiding and share it.

I want to suggest another way of coming at miracles, and that is to see them as parables. Now, one of the things we say about parables is that they are not about what they are about, that the parables of Jesus are stories he made up that were seemingly about everyday people and circumstances but were actually claims Jesus was making about God and himself. And so, what if miracles too are not about what they are about but are about claims being made about God and Jesus? Indeed, Jesus gave this viewpoint some credence in the aforementioned feeding of the 5000. In teaching after the ‘miracle’, Jesus noted that as impressive as the feeding may have been, they would still all be hungry again in a matter of hours. And so, he said, ‘I am the bread of life; whoever feeds on me will never be hungry’. The miracle then was a parable on what real food is; it is the spiritual food that Jesus offers that will ultimately assuage our hunger and satisfy our cravings. Accordingly, turning water into wine may be about the generosity and hospitality of a God who keeps providing. The healing miracles are about the compassion of a God who knows our deepest needs and offers healing which is so much more than a simple cure. The walking on water and stilling of the storm is about a God who, when the storms hit or we feel ourselves sinking, is there with us through it all. And so on.

Which leads to another question: I wonder what other miracles-that-are-parables could really be about?

Andrew +

In Lent we are called to pray; to pray in a way that we might not for the rest of the year. Perhaps we can think of it as purposeful prayer. But what is the purpose of prayer?

I have some ideas of what the purpose of prayer could or should be, but I want to begin with what I think the purpose of prayer couldn’t or shouldn’t be, precisely because I believe prayer is in dire need of a makeover.

In the first place, prayer isn’t simply – and only – a repertoire of words that we learn in church and then repeat throughout the rest of our lives. As Anglicans, because of our tradition of ‘common’ prayer, we are especially susceptible to this, praying always and only ‘by the book’. Now this is not to suggest common prayer is faulty or wrong – I continue to believe that the Collect for Purity found in our Eucharistic liturgy is a prayer that perfectly captures and articulates the purpose of our worship – but common prayer is just that, the prayer we hold and express in common. This is not enough; prayer must also have a personal component, and more on this later.

Secondly, prayer is not transactional. Many people approach prayer in a way that makes God into a cosmic vending machine: insert prayer into slot, make your selection, and if you’re good, the answer you desire pops out! In this case, prayer can be confused with magic; passionately stringing together the proper words into incantations in hopes of conjuring up the power to realize our desires. Indeed, there are verses in the Bible that would suggest this transactional approach is the case:

Whatever you ask for in prayer with faith, you will receive. (Matthew 21:22)
Ask, and it will be given you. (Luke 11:9)

The problem lies in taking these verses, and others like them, out of context. Far from being guarantees of getting whatever it is you want, they are instead about making the way of God, the gospel of Christ, real on earth through acts of healing, reconciliation, and justice. For instance, when the disciples ask Jesus how to pray, he gives them the “Lord’s Prayer”. Rather than a prayer on how to get your own way, it is a prayer that invites them to be engaged in doing whatever work is necessary in bringing about the kingdom ‘on earth as in heaven’. In this sense, we can see the prayers of the people as a call to action.

A variation on the transactional theme is what is called intercessory or petitionary prayers; intercessions are where we ask for things on behalf of others, and petitions are prayers we pray for ourselves. Although they are the type of prayers people pray all the time, they can be problematic. On the one hand, as many people still perceive the Divine to be in the reward and punishment business, when the prayers aren’t answered people can experience guilt because they’re obviously not good enough or faithful enough for God to answer in the affirmative. On the other hand, people also point to the lack of an answer to prayer as evidence that prayer doesn’t work and is a waste of time. Both these responses are predicated by a belief that this type of prayer assumes the existence of a malleable deity obliged to change the direction of the whole world just to please the desires of a supposedly righteous person or two.

So, if prayer isn’t transactional then what positive purpose can be found in prayer? In the first place, there is a whole new branch of science called psychoneuroimmunology which explores the effect that one’s emotional and spiritual well-being has on your immune system. Studies have indicated that people who pray, and are prayed for, recover more quickly than those not prayed for. So, by all means, pray for healing; not because you or others will always get well, but so that you and they can connect with the still mysterious and natural power of healing. Pray for safe travel – not because God will necessarily protect your plane, but so that you can be prepared for whatever happens. Pray for the end to a drought, for a job, for whatever you desire – not because prayer is going to control the weather, a future employer, or anything else, but so you can avoid the temptation to despair of God’s goodness in times of difficulty. You may ask, isn’t that defeatist? No, it’s acknowledging the reality that life is what it is and that God walks alongside us whatever the circumstances of our life, good or bad. Personal experience confirms that the rain falls on both the good and the bad. And for many, prayer helps in raising an awareness of the divine who shares in both the joys and sorrows of life.

And so, being in relationship with God does not create some sort of divine force-field protecting us from harm. Being in relationship with God strengthens us for living life, come what may. In difficult times, when our most heartfelt petitions seem to go unanswered and we feel abandoned by God, people often wonder what they’ve done to deserve such a fate. Even Jesus is said to have cried out from the cross, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” The experience of faithful people over the ages suggests instead that God is not, in fact, in charge of fixing our problems. Instead, the Spirit that gives us life longs to be recognized as an intimate companion on our life’s journey. We are in covenant with the Spirit that remains with us whatever happens along that journey.

Perhaps, then, the benefit of prayer rests in our ability to liberate it from simply being an exercise in begging, asking, or informing God of anything. In an apocryphal story, Mother Teresa is asked by a reporter: “When you pray, what do you say?” She replies, “Nothing; I listen.” “What do you hear?” asks the reporter. “Nothing. God listens.” Seeing the puzzled look on the reporter’s face, she assures him, “If I have to explain it to you, you won’t understand.” Deeper than a conversation with God then, perhaps, prayer is best understood as simply being open to the Divine.

As such, the purpose of prayer is not to let God know what we need or want but to intentionally be in God’s presence. Like any pursuit of intimacy, prayer is intensely personal. In all its many forms, prayer defies analysis and superficial systems for implementation and success. Prayer is a life-long courtship – testimony to humanity’s striving toward a relationship with that unknowable yet inescapable sense of the divine, in such a way that our lives reflect that relationship. As I like to say, we should pray as if everything depended on God, and act as if everything depended on us.

Andrew+

Lent is the time for sober reflection on the ways in which we fall short of God’s ideal for us. As such, it is customary to begin our worship with a penitent heart.

These are the words found in our 10:30 service leaflet at the beginning of our Sunday Celebration. And indeed, it is customary, and appropriate, that we begin this way, because Lent is a time in the church year in which contrition, confession, and repentance have a heightened presence in our life together.

But I have a strong conviction that this need not always be the case, and you will see that reflected in our liturgy in the other seasons of the church year. This has long been my practice and some have, as you may, asked why we don’t confess our sins every Sunday.

Well, actually, we do. But it is true that we will not always do the longer version at our Sunday Celebrations. In part, this is because confessions in the Anglican liturgy are always communal affairs; the Book of Common Prayer refers to ‘The General Confession’. The understanding therefore is that the worshipping community is confessing its collective failure to love God and neighbour. It has never been the case that this prayer is an opportunity for individuals to confess their particular sins. The Prayer Book assumes that private confession has been done before, and in preparation for, public worship.

The question then becomes how much time and content to put into the general confession in our services. The Book of Alternative Services allows that the prayer of confession in the Eucharist may be used if penitential intercessions were not used in the Prayers of the People. As such, you will have noticed that in the season of Epiphany we did include a penitential intercession in these prayers, and this will be the case going forward.

But all of that is simply liturgical theology and of interest only to those of us fully invested in the church. I would ask you to consider something other than liturgical adherence based on traditions and personal preferences, and think of how penitential practices are experienced by the individuals in the pew.

As such, I do believe that an overly penitential ethos is potentially off-putting to long-time attenders, newer parishioners, and perhaps most especially to guests and strangers. I know this is the case because over the years many have told me that this is the case. I also have a hunch that this is the case because the Church at large is in decline and is not doing well at attracting and retaining newcomers.

Now, I am under no illusion that we as individuals and as a parish are in the habit of sinning. We fall short of God’s best all the time. But I am also aware that most people are acutely aware of this. Quite frankly, I need to be reminded that God loves me; my unworthiness is without a doubt. And I have a hunch that many, if not most, of those who make their way through our doors are looking for this affirming message as well. I know that St George’s is largely a welcoming, generous, non-judgemental, and inclusive place. I know that because I know you. I’m simply saying that we ensure our liturgical practices are sending the same message.

As always, I would be happy to converse on this or any other issue at any time.

Lenten blessings,

Andrew+

Friends,

As of this past Wednesday, we have entered the season of Lent. This is considered a penitential season, one in which we reflect on the ways we have fallen short of God’s ideal for us, and one in which our rituals and practices capture a deepened turning towards God. Among the practices is the notion of fasting. This is captured by the Lenten discipline of ‘giving up’ some thing(s) for this 40-day fast. But it is my conviction that we give up something in order to take up something else. We fast so that we can spend more time in prayer, or in study, or in service to others. We fast so we can also feast. Often these things we give up are things we consume; things we eat or drink or inhale. This is all well and good, but I would encourage you to also think of those habits of the heart and the mind that might be worth putting aside for the season of Lent, and even beyond. In this spirit, I offer you this poem written by William Arthur Ward:

Fast from judging others; feast on the Christ within them.
Fast from emphasis on difference; feast on the unity of life.
Fast from apparent darkness; feast on the reality of light.
Fast from thoughts of illness; feast on the healing power of God.

Fast from words that pollute; feast on phrases that purify.
Fast from discontent; feast on gratitude.
Fast from anger; feast on patience.
Fast from pessimism; feast on optimism.

Fast from complaining; feast on appreciation.
Fast from worry; feast on trust in God’s Care.
Fast from unrelenting pressure; feast on unceasing prayer.
Fast from facts that depress; feast on verities that uplift.

Fast from lethargy; feast on enthusiasm.
Fast from thoughts that weaken; feast on promises that inspire.
Fast from shadows of sorrow; feast on the sunlight of serenity.
Fast from problems that overwhelm; feast on prayer that undergirds.

Fast from bitterness; feast on forgiveness.
Fast from self-concern; feast on compassion for others.
Fast from personal anxiety; feast on eternal truth.
Fast from discouragements; feast on hope.

On another note, Lent is also a time when many engage in a Lenten discipline of study. To this end, I recommend a weekly offering of the brothers of the Society of St John the Evangelist (SSJE). SSJE is an Anglican Order based in Cambridge, Massachusetts. I have gone on retreat there many times and have found the brothers a comfort and an inspiration. They have put together an online Lenten programme called In the Midst with a new offering coming out each Wednesday in Lent. You will find the link here.

Lenten blessings,

Andrew+