Sermon: 8th Sunday after Pentecost

Sermon: 8th Sunday after Pentecost

26 July 2020 – Archdeacon Mark Long

Romans 8:26-30 and Matthew 13:31-33, 44-52; NRSV

Greetings once again as we continue to navigate this new context thrust upon us by the COVID-19 pandemic. Two weeks ago, when I last preached, we met between storms as the Cape was lashed by high winds and substantial rain. Today we gather in after a period of balmy winter weather – balmy by Cape standards, anyway – with sun and relative warmth for company. Dawn and my time away has possibly added to the sense of warmth and well-being for me in this moment. Again, thank you all so much for the opportunity to break away for a few days: we both remain incredibly grateful and appreciative of the opportunity!

Today’s reading from Romans invites us into a very special place of being, to open ourselves and our most intimate interior spaces to the ministry of God’s Holy Spirit. Personally, I mostly find it hard to share my need, especially my broken places that expose my weakness, both with God and even with close family and friends; and perhaps you, too, can relate. Today’s invitation is to allow the Holy Spirit of God to inhabit this vulnerability, and to find the words that we cannot to express the fragility that underlies our lives at this time. The nature of this pandemic is that there are no certainties, either in the present, and perhaps even less so for the future; and with that comes a plethora of concerns, even fear. For me there is a deep comfort in Paul’s encouragement that “… the Spirit helps us in our weakness; … [interceding] with sighs too deep for words” (8:26).  It is comforting to know that we don’t always have to find words, that God searches and knows our hearts sufficiently to hold us as we face the abyss of our fear. And even more than this, that there is hope, “… because the Spirit intercedes for the saints according to the will of God” (8:27). The nature of our new context and it’s related uncertainties is that we do not yet know what to truly want, or what may practically be helpful in navigating this journey. We still lack the language to put our longings into words, and our prayers appear all too stunted in our attempt to define an unknown future. It has been many decades since we in our common humanity last felt so out of control of our environment and our world.

It may be helpful to reflect on what Paul means here in Romans when he refers to the will of God, especially if we are honestly seeking wisdom in beginning to plot our future beyond the present frustrations of lockdown; and beyond the devastation this pandemic brings to our communities in terms of loss of life, loss of employment, and a potential ultimate loss of hope. As people of faith our hope is in God’s purposes being worked out through the brokenness of our present experience, and – in our increasing lack of trust in Government – in our trust that God has a plan that we can link into and build together. This is increasingly vital to our spiritual, psychological, and emotional wellbeing. In this Scripture passage God’s will is linked to the word “predestined” (8:30), and our common understanding of predestination tends to suggest a lack of choice, that God has ordained what will happen and we have little alternative but to go along with it. In the context here of Romans, however, it refers more to the unfolding of God’s purposes in the broad context of God’s will, and not to a specific path or even to specific detail of our present or future journey. Our ability to choose is integral to this unfolding, allowing us to be active participants in God’s will and not pawns. God’s will is about possibility and potential; and it is to be discovered within our present suffering, and is composted by our brokenness.

None of this promises us an easy journey, or that we will clearly comprehend God’s will; but our hope lies in trusting that it will unfold. Today’s Gospel reading from Matthew offers us some signposts, parables that highlight something of the paradoxical nature of God’s activity in our world, some handholds on the mystery of it all. The parable of the mustard seed reminds us not to discount the seemingly insignificant signs of God’s presence; and the parable of the yeast prompts us to trust that God’s will is not limited by seeming insufficiency (13:31-33). These two parables are a powerful reminder that despite the limitations of our present, growth is not just a possibility; it is a reality. If we can gather our courage and commit to being active participants in the unfolding of God’s will, we will be co-creators of a hope-filled future.

The following two parables (13:44-46) give us an insight into the nature of this co-creative journey: it is one of discovery. It is one in which we will discover truths and insights that are so valuable that we will be willing to sacrifice absolutely everything to sustain these gifts for the common good of our communities, and the common good of humanity. I find it intriguing that when Jesus asks the disciples if they understand this, they answer, “Yes” (8:51). Are we able to respond with such confidence?

Again, none of this is offered as a comfortable or certain journey. It will require us to discover these nuggets in the context of our present and ongoing struggles. It will demand we face our uncertainty, and move forward despite our fear. In today’s reading from Romans we are reminded that we are called, and that our calling comes with resources (8:30); and with a reminder that if God is for us all things are possible (8:31). We may not feel confident, but our confidence is in the Holy Spirit’s ability to use us in the unfolding of God’s will.

Going forward, as people of faith, I do not believe we have the luxury any longer to live out our faith in any way that is separate from the wider needs of the society we belong to. We cannot afford to insulate ourselves from the social, economic or body-political realities of our Nation, or distance ourselves from the suffering of the majority of our fellow South Africans. God’s love is indiscriminate, and ours must be, too. I am only too aware that this is easy to say, and that follow-through is easily distracted by the unsettling nature that the practicalities of what it actually means to move beyond the protective boundaries of our Church walls will require of us. As I have intimated before, this pandemic is a kairos moment for us as God’s people. We need to connect meaningfully and life-givingly with the world that God has placed us in, and no matter the difficulties or challenges, commit anew to being of service to others and to the unfolding of God’s will in our world and our time.

I was gifted this week with an awakening to three principles that carry substantial Biblical content, and which I believe to be critical to the future health and healing of our social, economic, and body-political environment in Southern Africa: transformation, equity, and belonging[1]. Transformation is about a marked change in the form and nature of our relationships; equity is the quality of being fair and impartial; belonging is about creating safe and welcoming spaces. These are three principles I am willing to commit to and seek to sustain for the common good, to which I can say, “Yes” with confidence. In them I see the possibility and potential for growth, tools for the unfolding of God’s will as we journey through our present uncertainties, a source of hope for our future. I hope you may similarly be inspired, and that we may find the time and space to explore these as a practical map to our faith-journey at St Andrew’s, both in serving each other and in serving the world.

In place of a prayer, I close today with a few selected verses from the poem Narrative Theology #2 by Irish Poet and Theologian, Pádraig Ó Tuama[2]:

God is the crack

where the story begins.

We are the crack

where the story gets interesting.

We are the choice

of where to begin –

the person going out?

the stranger coming in?

God is the fracture,

and the ache in your voice,

God is the story,

flavoured with choice.

God is the bit

that we can’t explain –

maybe the healing

maybe the pain.

We are the bit

that God can’t explain –

maybe the harmony

maybe the strain.

God is the plot,

and we are the writers,

the story of winners

and the story of fighters,

the story of love,

and the story of rupture,

the story of stories,

the story without structure.

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[1] Lovelyn Nwadeyi https://www.lovelynnwadeyi.com/about-lovelyn

[2] Pádraig Ó Tuama In the Shelter: Finding a home in the world, page 129-130

Sermon: 6th Sunday after Pentecost

Sermon: 6th Sunday after Pentecost

12 July 2020 – Archdeacon Mark Long

Genesis 25:19-34 and Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23; NRSV

Greetings on this day, this moment between storms. I don’t know about you, but the weather is often reflected in my moods; and while I appreciate the rain the clouded darkness settles on me, and I rejoice when the sun breaks through again. I am unsure right now whether I look forward to the another storm that threatens for tomorrow, or not, although my weather app suggests it is receeding. In the midst of all the storms of life we already face, I am sure that more sun would be a gift, and this gift is my prayer for those living in less privileged accommodation in our city than myself who are enduring flooding and the wet destruction of their lives during this weather cycle. Storms are an experience of the unexpected, and although we are generally forewarned each storm brings elements of unpredictability and heartache. As we ride the present storms of the pandemic and lockdown, and now renewed load-shedding, we are reminded of the importance of making room for the unexpected. In the Daily Office of Morning Prayer that I use regularly at the moment there is a lovely phrase, “May we find wisdom and life in the unexpected.”[1]

In today’s reading from Genesis we hear that Rebekah is experiencing a storm in her womb as her twins struggle together within her, causing her to enquire of the Lord (25:22). It seems a natural thing to do when we find ourselves caught up in chaos we neither expect nor understand: we question, we seek wisdom. When I first met with the Archdeaconry Clergy about 5 weeks into the Lockdown via Zoom, most of us reflected on how those first five weeks had strengthened our relationship with God, and I have heard this repeated in other conversations since with both clergy and lay people, and it is probably true for many of us gathered virtually this morning. The COVID-19 storm continues to flood our lives, and causes us to seek refuge, and because it has thrust us into uncertainty and carried us beyond what we can control, God becomes the focus of our search; maybe not for all, but for many. I encourage you to make space to reflect on your learnings, on your experience of these last few months, and to note the wisdom you have gained (perhaps journal your thoughts, or talk it through with a trusted friend or confidant).

Just as the Cape storm of the last few days will possibly birth another tomorrow, so back in Genesis we find Rebekah – from the struggle in her womb – birthing two children whose relationship will be an ongoing storm. Because it is written down for us we forget that these early stories in Genesis were originally oral narrative, passed from one generation to another. I find it helpful to imagine them as fire-side stories, told after a good meal, a cup of something comforting in hand; and then I listen for the story behind the story. I listen to a community seeking wisdom in the telling, sorting through their chaos, searching for meaning in their changing landscape. We see in Esau and Jacob a common theme in Genesis: a community of Pastoralists reflecting on the broader human developmental shift away from an early Hunter/Gatherer way of life towards the more settled agrarian culture that increasingly marks their human experience. The story explores the question as to which way of life is right, which one has God’s blessing. There is humour in the telling of the story: one twins heel in the hand of the other as they are birthed, the older unthinkingly swopping his birthright for some soup (and clearly not thinking the transaction a serious one), and in seeking the blessing of inheritance from his father discovering he has been tricked in more ways than one in the loss of the gift. Humour is how we best hear truth, and it’s a story with much truth, with a personal feel, that impacts on how the world is changing, and the uncertainties underlying the seeming securities of life.

This Genesis story is a useful one as we reflect on change in our own context. We know that substantial shifts were already underway before the pandemic, and we were already experiencing the challenges of this new context: a shift described increasingly as the 4^th Industrial Revolution (4IR) that most of us don’t really understand, except that we find it increasingly difficult to get our heads around a new phone, and realise we can do a whole lot of shopping without going to a shop;  and we are happy that we can video-call family living in Australia, or in other distant places. The change hasn’t just been around technology: we’ve also noticed that it’s more difficult to get our children and younger generations into Church, that our friends are less interested in formal religion, and that truth is increasingly relative for many people. And then came COVID-19! Suddenly all this 4IR-stuff means we can close the Church building and still gather, get everything delivered that we need (if we press the right buttons on the computer screen), and even have a social life – all in the virtual world that previously was the domain of science fiction and seeming fantasy. Due to the virus we were not given any choice, we were thrust into it, into the eye of the storm. 108 days later, how are you coping with the change?

I wish we had time this morning to hear from you all, and as I say this I realise it is important we create an opportunity and time to share our experiences. However, for now it’s important to think about what we mean by change. Change is never sought for itself and is often thrust upon us at a moment not of our choosing. From a faith perspective change is a gift that brings us deeper wisdom and endows us with a greater wholeness of life; in essence faith-based change is transformative. Richard Rohr helpfully comments, “The word change normally refers to new beginnings. But the mystery of transformation more often happens not when something new begins, but when something old falls apart. The pain of something old falling apart—chaos—invites the soul to listen at a deeper level, and sometimes forces the soul to go to a new place. Most of us would never go to new places in any other way. The mystics use many words to describe this chaos: fire, dark night, death, emptiness, abandonment, trial, the Evil One. Whatever it is, [chaos] does not feel good and it does not feel like God.”[2]

As I have stated in previous sermons the pandemic has thrust us into a new context, rather than a new normal, which we are discovering to be filled with uncertainty both in the present and for our future; and it is marked by the falling apart of all that has previously made sense of life. Richard Rohr’s use of the word chaos aptly fits this uncertainty, especially as we continue to mourn – even lament – the loss that this collapse marks for us. This chaos may not feel good or feel like God, but from a faith perspective it is the medium through which the transformative power of God is able to embrace and heal us. It is the liminal context in which hope is renewed.

The falling apart of the old is visible in the cracks that the pandemic has highlighted in our society, our economy, and our political environment. The pandemic has acted as a kind of earthquake, shaking up our world to the point where we are forced to acknowledge that the structures of our society are beyond repair. We really need to rebuild; and the task is daunting, but not impossible. This is a kairos moment – a propitious moment for decision and action – for South Africa and the Western world; and in the context of our worship gathering today, a personal moment of kairos for me and for you. It is about allowing the change we are experiencing to become transformative, and to do this we need to hone our ability to listen deeply to one another’s stories, to avoid being reactive, and to be truly empathetic. Empathy is not a trait that comes easily to us, but in order to empathise with someone’s experience we must be willing to believe them as they see it and not how we may imagine their experience to be.[3]

We do always have choice: like Esau we can seek to hold to a past way of life, and in so doing lose our birthright; or like Jacob we can choose to embrace a new future, and – perhaps with necessary guile – ensure we have God’s blessing. My prayer is that we will have the courage to walk away from the brokenness of the past that still impacts so painfully on our present, and commit to working together towards a more whole and abundant experience of life and shared relationship. We may not be able to change the world, but we have the power to change our world: our own relational environment, our experience of community and of one another. This is our hope.

Let us pray,

God of the Edges,

even muzzled fear growls,

you know this.

You saw this in the people who had chained

the man who howled.

Open in us a thousand thousand pathways

into story.

Because you did this, and Hell was emptied.

Amen.[4]

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[1] Pádraig Ó Tuama, Daily Prayer with the Corrymeela Community

[2] https://cac.org/change-is-inevitable-2020-07-05/?utm_source=cm&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=dm&utm_content=summary

[3] Attributed to Brené Brown https://brenebrown.com/about/

[4] Pádraig Ó Tuama, Daily Prayer with the Corrymeela Community