Sermons - January 2024

ST. COLUMBA'S, PONT STREET
SUNDAY 14th JANUARY 2024 11.00 A.M.
(2nd SUNDAY after EPIPHANY)

“Go, lie down, and if he calls, say:
Speak Lord, for your servant is listening.” I Samuel 3

“Moments matter, attendance counts.”
An e-mail received this week, came from the head teacher of daughter Olivia’s school.
Sent out to all parents, in response to recent news stories.
Stories that commented/lamented a recent poll which revealed
that 28% of parents no longer think it is essential
for a child to attend school every day, following the pandemic.
The head teacher, along with all head teachers, had received an email
from the Department of Education asking for support
in the national drive for attendance – its theme/motto,
“Moments matter, attendance counts.”
(Dictionary definition: To attend – to be present at.)

Nighttime: a boy on his sleeping mat at Shiloh,
illuminated/shadowed by the flicker of the lamp;
Daytime: a man, beneath a tree, dappled by its branches.
Both awake – just about; both awaiting – maybe; both expectant – not massively.
And us, in pew/on-line – wandering thoughts or wondering thoughts,
present or distracted – perhaps a little of both?

Scripture’s wireless broadcasts from two sources - boy-Samuel and adult-Nathanael –
tuning in, what signal strength do we receive?

From the youthful Samuel:
The longed-for, special child, Hannah’s first-born –
miracle baby, because up to the point of his birth,
everyone thought she was barren (no suggestion of a father’s role/health);
until the day she went to the temple in Shiloh and prayed for a child.
She would do anything to conceived, including give the baby back to God.
The old temple priest Eli heard her prayer, blessed it,
and true to her word she brought the baby Samuel back to Eli as soon as he was weaned.
So, Samuel grew up in the temple serving Eli –
by now elderly and losing his sight –
helping the old man with his priestly duties.

(Revd Barbara Brown Taylor) imagines some of the realities;
no clean lines and calm spaces:
“A place where stubborn animals were brought up to the altar to be killed.
A place of blood, where burning incense did battle with the smell but could not beat it.
Maybe Samuel tended the cauldron where the sacrificial meat was boiled,
or helped Eli locate the portion he was allowed to eat as the temple priest.
At night lying down by the ark of God,
the legendary throne of the invisible king Yahweh
that Israel carried into battle at the head of her armies.
Reputed to contain all the sacred relics of the nation's past:
a container of manna, Aaron's budded rod, the tablets of the covenant.
“Sleeping next to it had to be like sleeping in a graveyard, or under a volcano.”
(Barbara Brown Taylor, Mixed Blessings, Voices in the Night.)

Yet, all this proximity to the rhythms and rituals of worship,
End with the verdict: “Samuel did not yet know the Lord,
and the word of the Lord had not yet been revealed to him.”
(“There is more to knowing God, it seems, than being in church.” Barbara Brown Taylor.)

So, the nighttime drama plays out.
God calls. Samuel hears. Goes to Eli: “You called for me?”
“No.”
A second time: “You called for me?”
“No.”
A third time – then for Eli, the penny drops.
Frail and badly compromised the old priest may be,
but he has the accumulated wisdom to pass on the advice:
“Go, lie down, and if he calls, say:
Speak Lord, for your servant is listening.”
Words that will change Samuel’s life – the lives of Eli and his sons also.
Eventually, it is the uncompromisingness of what Samuel reports,
that convinces Eli the calling is authentic.
On account of Eli’s sons’ misdoings,
and Eli’s own abdication of responsibility towards them,
(failure to call out their corruption),
the boy the priest relied on to be his eyes,
shows him the vision of his own destruction.
Speak Lord, for your servant is listening.”
“Moments matter, attendance counts.”

“In the past, God spoke to our forefathers through the prophets
at many times and in various ways,
but in these last days he has spoken to us by his son.” Hebrews 1:1.

“This son” heads to Galilee, finds Philip, invites him to “follow me.”
Philip accepts the call, then hastens off to find his friend, Nathanael -
seated under a fig tree. The detail is deliberate.
The prophet Micah’s beautiful vision:
“…they shall beat their swords into ploughshares,
and their spears into pruning-hooks;
nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war anymore;
but they shall all sit under their own vines and under their own fig trees,
and no one shall make them afraid;”

The scholars see the tree as a sign of the presence of God.
and the term “under the fig tree” as an ancient Jewish idiom,
that means. studying the messianic prophecies.
Nathanael knows those prophecies; Bethlehem will be the Messiah’s birthplace.
Nazareth, on the other hand - a village of 200-400,
dependent upon the city of Sepphoris, the capital of Galilee.
lends no special status to its inhabitants.
Nathanael is skeptical; “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?”
Preconceived ideas constrain imagination.
But true to Jesus’ original, Philip simply tells his doubtful friend: “Come and see."

When encounter follows, Jesus looks passed Nathanael’s prickly exterior.
Instead, names the quality he wants to bless.
“Here is truly an Israelite in whom there is no deceit.”
A salutation that a devout son of Israel would admire.

Taken aback, suspicious: “How do you know me?”
“I saw you under the fig tree before Philip called you.”
Echo of Psalm 139: O Lord, You know when I sit down and when I rise up;
you discern my thoughts from far away.
It becomes the moment of epiphany: like Peter’s confession at Caesarea Philippi,
Nathanael declares: “Rabbi, you are the Son of God! You are the King of Israel!”
The title that would eventually be nailed to Jesus’ cross.

Jesus responds: “O Nathanael, I’ll show you things greater than this.
You are impressed because I recognise the dreams you dream, the tree you chose for shade.
But I will give you glimpses of heaven upon earth and earth’s gateway to heaven.”

Echo of outcast Jacob, fleeing the wrath of Esau, the brother he has tricked.
In despair, in the desert, lying down, exhausted, alone –
his head upon a stone; that holds the mystery of an altar.
O God of Bethel - the great dream of healing - a ladder, stretching from heaven to earth;
a ceaseless traffic of angels, ascending and descending;
Jacob’s dawn verdict: “Surely the Lord was in this place and I did not know it!
This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven.” Genesis 28:16.17
Now a new promise from Jesus: “You will see heaven opened,
and the angels of God, ascending and descending, upon the Son of Man.”

Samuel and Nathanael – one heading the advice to listen,
the other accepting an invitation to come and see.
In differing ways, beating out the Scripture’s morse code –
“Moments matter, attendance counts.”

Two fragments to finish: an American poet, and a Glaswegian delivery driver.
In her poem Praying, Mary Oliver suggests that when we quiet ourselves and pay attention, we create a vital space her advice:

“… just
pay attention, then patch
a few words together and don't try
to make them elaborate, this isn't
a contest but a doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.

Or in the words of front door encounter, receiving a delivery –
The driver’s accent definitely, north of the border:
A brief interchange.
Glasgow roots – thirty five years in London.
He eventually asking – “Any plans for Sunday?”
Explanation – words to be found for our morning worship.
A pause. A thought.
“Stir them up!”
A raised/clenched fist and a departing smile.

“Speak Lord, for your servants are listening.”
For “moments matter and attendance counts.”

HOLY COMMUNION, ST. COLUMBA'S, PONT STREET
SUNDAY 28th JANUARY 2024, 11.00 A.M.
(FOURTH SUNDAY after EPIPHANY)

“On the sabbath Jesus entered the synagogue and taught.
The people were astounded at his teaching,
for he taught them as one having authority, and not as the scribes.” Mark 1:21-24

Occasionally, conversation with members of a certain generation,
turns to talk of school and memories of school disciple.
Not unusual to hear reminiscences of caning,
tales of the tawse, the leather strap across the hand;
dictionary defined as - “an implement for educational discipline, principally in Scotland” -

From south of the border, a story is told of a C19th Eton headmaster.
A leading educational figure of his day, infamous for his legendary beatings.
Numerous and vigorous strokes of the cane
to correct breaches of school rules, great and small.
Returning to his study one early evening,
he found eight pupils lined up at his door.
The hour being what it was, he knew they must be there for some misdemeanour,
and were awaiting the usual punishment.
One by one he called them in.
One by one he thrashed them.
As the last disconsolate figure winced towards the door, the Headmaster enquired:
“Thomkinson, remind me why I called you to my study.”
“We are your confirmation class Sir.”
Absurd/apocryphal tale – most probably.
But a window perhaps onto the question of authority –
its nature, exercise and recognition,
about which the Gospel reading also has something to say.

In recent Sundays Mark chapter 1 has tumbled forth in breathless burst.
John the Baptist appears in the wilderness:
Prepare the way of the Lord.
Jesus comes from Nazareth;
joins the great line of humanity, wades into the waters.
John baptises his kinsman.
The heavens open, a dove descends.
This is my Son, the beloved, in whom I am well pleased. (Voice from heaven.)
Straightway, the Spirit drives Jesus into the wilderness.
He is tempted; angels attend him.
John is arrested.
Jesus heads for Galilee, slipway from private to public life.
Announces: Now is the time. The kingdom of God has drawn near.
Then at lakeside calls to the fisher-brothers:
“Follow me and I’ll make you fishers of folk.
There are other nets for mending.”
Next up Jesus enters the synagogue at Capernaum.
You can visit its likely site today, close to the Sea of Galilee.
He teaches. Mark does not elaborate what was said.
He speaks differently to what they are used to. With authority.
The people are astounded.

Into the assembly stumbles a ravaged and disconcerting presence.
The man with the unclean spirit.
Scholars might debate the nature of the man’s affliction,
but the power over him/the cruelty of his situation, is easily imagined.
No voice of his own, no control over his body,
Anonymous, crazed and shunned.

“I know who you are, the Holy One of God.”
Then the unclean spirit’s haunting question –
a mix of fear, animosity and despair:
“What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth?
Have you come to destroy us?”
Jesus rebukes/commands: “Be silent and come out of him!”

A battle is played out; the convulsions are messy and scary –
I can only imagine there were people there who felt ill at ease,
embarrassed by such goings-on – in the synagogue, on the sabbath.
But one power is overcome by another.
A first sign of much that will follow.
Jesus is against that which diminishes and destroys people's lives.
The community gathered for worship
becomes the stage for a first declaration and deliverance.
Once more, amazement – such command, such authority,
Who is this Jesus?
Speculation mounts; fame spreads.

Today in church – a military presence –
marking the 80th anniversary of the London Scottish Regiment’s, Pte George Mitchell’s
winning of the Victoria Cross, the British Army’s highest award for gallantry.
In the Services community “authority” or rank is easily understood and widely recognised.
A glance at shoulder, collar tag, upper arm, a medal ribbon –
instant judgements about where that person stands in the food chain.
Sgt Maj’s coming – everybody stubs out their cigarette.
General’s on his way – everybody’s straightening ties and fidgeting with buttons.
His Majesty’s in bound – anything that doesn’t walk, gets painted.
Recognitions of certain authorities.

As chaplain to one of Scotland’s historic regiments, the Kings Own Scottish Borderers,
I once witnessed an insightful episode.
A World War II veteran of the regiment was invited to speak
to the currently serving soldiers at the weekly Kirk Muster.
When I was posted to the KOSB, I was warned that
I must never refer to them as the Kosbies.
It would be a dead giveaway that you weren’t part of the Regiment –
a sure social suicide. Always refer to the KOSB.
When their frail veteran walked onto the parade ground, his opening words.
“Good morning Kosbies.”
There was an audible intake of breath throughout the ranks.
He went onto to speak of his experiences in Holland and Germany in 1944-45.
Later in the day after much discussion, one of the Sergeants concluded:
“If he fought at Arnhem, I guess he can call the battalion whatever he wants.”
Speaking with authority.

From that same era, a powerful moment witnessed during a weekend
with the Corrymeela Community of Northern Ireland –
a body dedicated to peace-making across sectarian divides.
At a church cente in West Belfast, virtually on that city’s dividing line
our group were addressed by two women.
The first introduced herself:
“I’m a catholic, protestants killed my husband.”
The second: “I’m a protestant, catholics killed my husband.”
When they spoke, you could hear a pin drop.
Speaking with authority.

Each of us can probably bring to mind individuals who when they spoke
conveyed a sense of authority – not necessarily from the badges of rank
or markings of high office –
but in whose words, or actions,
there was an authenticity/integrity that you sensed/recognised.
A teacher, a colleague, a family or church member.
Maybe you don’t exactly remember what they said,
but as the messenger they were also the essence of the message.

Last night at a splendid Burns Supper we were reminded of the reverse of that.
The ploughman poet famously lambasting the hypocrisy
of parts of the church in Holy Wullie’s Prayer.
The kirk elder who fails miserably to live up to the standards
he so keenly imposes on others.
Jesus had some choice words for religious authorities of his day:
Pomp and circumstance that signified nothing;
hypocrisy of the pious charade;
the willingness to impose heavy burdens on others,
the reluctance to alleviate them.

Those words would emerge and be recorded, later and elsewhere.
“Jesus speech”, that would offer profound guidance, encouragement, warning –
foundation stones of our faith.
But of this Mark (at his point) says nothing:
Rather he conveys that Jesus’ authority lies in the combination of what is said and done –
the practice of the preaching. The walking of the talk.

In time all the Gospels will flesh this out.
Words - about forgiveness – but also, the forgiving of Peter who denied him;
About justice – but also, overturning of money-lender tables
in a Temple that exploited the vulnerable.
About servanthood – but also, the washing of his friends’ feet.
About suffering – but also, tears for his dead friend Lazarus,
and for his beloved Jerusalem.
About sacrifice – but also, the rendezvous kept at a place called Calvary.

Jesus, the living Word.
Supremely, honoured, remembered, re-enacted, in what we do next.
The breaking and sharing of bread. Communion. Holy.
Elders serving. All of us grateful for its giftedness.
A desire that all are fed –
not just bread and wine –
but peace and hope.
Rations for the onward journey.
Praise for its provider.
Reflection of its Author.
The authority of love.