SUNDAY 8th DECEMBER 2024 11.00 a.m.
ST COLUMBA’S, PONT STREET
(2nd SUNDAY OF ADVENT)

“In the fifteenth year of the reign of Emperor Tiberius,
when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea … Luke 3:1

In 2011, the funeral of the Otto von Hapsburg,
the last heir to the Austro-Hungarian empire, took place in Vienna.
In the tradition of Hapsburg funerals
when his body arrived at the Capuchin church to be interred,
the doors were found shut.
The herald knocked on the door.
A monk from behind the door asked: “Who demands entry?”
The herald read out the titles of the deceased:

“Otto of Austria; former crown-prince of Austria-Hungary;
Prince Royal of Hungary and Bohemia, of Dalmatia, Croatia,
Slavonia, Galicia, Lodomederia, and Illyria;
Grand Duke of Tuscany and Cracow;
Duke of Lorraine, of Salzburg, Styria, Carinthia, Carniola and Bukowina;
Grand Prince of Siebenburgen, Margrave of Moravia;
Duke of Silesia, Modena, Parma, Piacenza, Guastalla, Auschwitz and Zator,
Teschen, Friuli…..” The list went on.
At its conclusion, the anonymous monk replied: “We know him not.”

The herald knocked a second time:
“Who demands entry?”
“Dr Otto von Hapsburg.”
“We know him not.”
A third knock.
“Who demands entry?”
“A sinner in need of God’s mercy.”
“Him we know,” said the monk. And the doors were opened.

“In the fifteenth year of the reign of Emperor Tiberius,
when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea,
and Herod was ruler of Galilee,
and his brother Philip ruler of the region of Ituraea and Trachonitis,
and Lysanias ruler of Abilene,
during the high-priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas ….

Seven honoured titles, seven VVIP’s;
powerbrokers of the day, political and religious;
headline-makers in a time of global empire, military occupation and local unrest.
Yet, according to Luke, their significance is their eventual, insignificance;
They are part of the reality of the age, yes;
but, time will tell, they are not the primary thing;
because the thing of real, enduring worth, happens elsewhere,
its key cut from a very different mettle:
“In the fifteenth year….The word of the Lord came to John,
the son of Zechariah, in the wilderness.”

In the midst of a complex and anxious political context,
Luke trumpets: “Pay attention O world.”
What is about to happen, will not be a forgotten provincial footnote,
but a new beginning, to outlast all proud empires that turn to dust.

Out on the edge, before anyone speaks,
“the word of the Lord came to John.”
Contrast: whereas emperors, governors, rulers, and high priests —
the folks who wield power — don’t hear God,
it is the outsider, from the wilderness who does.

Revd William Barclay minister and biblical scholar once referenced
the play of George Bernard Shaw, Saint Joan:
Joan hears voices from God.
The Dauphin (the French King) is annoyed.
“Oh, your voices, your voices,” he says.
“Why don’t your voices come to me? I am the king, not you.”
“They do come,” said Joan, “but you do not hear them.
You have not sat in the field in the evening listening for them.
When the angelus rings, you cross yourself and have done with it.
But if you prayed from your heart
and listened to the thrilling of the bells in the air
after they stopped ringing,
you would hear the voices as well as I do.”

Is there something about the holding of power, influence or privilege
that makes us hard of hearing?
Location is key.
In the wilderness, there’s no safety net. No Plan B.
In the wilderness, life is raw and risky,
and our illusions of self-sufficiency fall apart fast.
To be at the outskirts of power is to confess our vulnerability.
Unless we’re in the wilderness, it’s hard to see our own privilege,
and even harder to imagine giving it up.
In the wilderness, we have no choice but to wait and watch
as if our lives depend on God showing up.
Perhaps only from the wilderness can we
begin to dream God’s dream
of a wholly reimagined landscape. (Dan Clendenin)

So, out in the wilderness, in the tradition of the prophets, a voice cries out.
All four Gospels place John front and centre, in Jesus’s origin story.
Defiant, urgent; he may have been part of the apocalyptic Jewish sect of Essenes
who opposed the temple in Jerusalem.
A radical dissenter - his detractors said he had a demon (Luke 7:33).
In the end, he would pay the ultimate price for faithfulness to his prophetic calling.

His message – “to all the region around the Jordan:
a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.” Luke 3:3

Repent because in Jesus, “the kingdom of heaven is near.”
This is the identical message that Jesus himself will preach
when he begins his own public ministry:
“From that time on Jesus began to preach,
‘Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is near’” (Matthew 4:17).
It’s the exact same message that Jesus instructs his followers to proclaim:
“As you go, preach this message: ‘The kingdom of heaven is near.’” (Matthew 10:7).

Contrary to expectations, the ascetic with the austere message,
draws huge crowds: “The whole Judean countryside
and all the people of Jerusalem went out to him.
Confessing their sins, they were baptized by him in the Jordan River.” (Mark 1:5).
Much later, even in faraway Ephesus,
people submitted themselves to the baptism of John (Acts 19:3).

“Repent and believe the good news,
that in Jesus, God’s kingdom has arrived.”
It’s the message that summons us each new Advent season:
To repent – literally, to turn around - an indictment and an invitation.
Repentance - not to feel miserable, wallowing in past mistakes or poor choices;
but repentance, “as an abrupt end to life on auto-pilot, or to business as usual.”
An invitation to listen, hear, think and act differently.

Each year our Advent preparations hark back to John’s call
to make ready for the coming of Christ.
They acknowledge the politics of his time, (“In the fifteenth year …”)
but ask us to consider that “turn around and make ready”,
in the very specific context and circumstances of our own days.
Where or what are the prophet voices of our day
and what do they ask of us?

Forgive me if what I finish with appears trivial –
and yes, in the face of so much horror and helplessness around the world,
it is absurdly trivial.
But for some reason, like a musical ear-worm,
the scene, as related to me this week, has stuck.

It begins with the question:
“Is it always as bad as this?”
“Oh yes” comes the answer, “and worse.
If you take your crazy pill, come and see us on a Saturday.
You won’t believe it.”

Location? A well-known central London department store.
(Other department stores are available.)
The question askers: Out-of-towners dropping in for some Christmas shopping.
Overwhelmed by the scrum of humanity, preparing for the season,
trying to purchase the perfect Christmas.

And, somewhat fascinatingly, a member of staff,
(the one who explained that No, this was not the worst);
the same member of staff who advised another shopper,
panicking in search for another Christmas pudding:
“Go home, you don’t need a third Christmas pudding.
What are you doing here?”

Which kind of translates as: Turn around.
The kingdom of heaven is already near.
Listen to the bells, after they stop ringing – hear the voice.
The voice who hears, if we would only knock;
that recognises our frailties and yearning for mercy;
recognises and opens the door into life.
Answering, “This one I know.”

HOLY COMMUNION, ST. COLUMBA'S, PONT STREET
SUNDAY 24th NOVEMBER 2024 11.00 A.M.
(CHRIST THE KING SUNDAY)

Pilate asked Jesus, “So you are a king?”
Jesus answered, “You say that I am a king. John 18

A journalist once described a scene from a cosmopolitan city park –
London, New York, Glasgow?
In the shade of trees, gathered round rough tables and chairs,
a small crowd of spectators.
In their midst, two opponents, toe to toe;
divided by the breadth of a chess board.
Each move followed by the press of the time clock – pressure back on the adversary.
Each click of their manoeuvring pieces studied by the bystanders –
shared glances, a knowing smile, a shake of the head, a roll of the eyes.

What the journalist observed is that there comes a moment
when one or two in the crowd will realise that the game is finished –
not necessarily immediately, but in the moves that will inevitably follow.
A quiet ripple amongst the onlookers: That’s it.
Victory or defeat. That’s it.
Something understood, even perhaps before the players themselves understand
the final “Checkmate.”
Is it fanciful to consider ourselves as similar spectators
to the scripture shared this morning –
onlookers/listeners to the gospel’s very own Game of Thrones?

Then Pilate entered the headquarters again, summoned Jesus,
and asked him, “Are you the King of the Jews?”

In the early light of that Passover morning,
the two grandmasters could not have appeared less evenly matched.
One decked in the finery of the greatest empire the world had ever known;
think Gladiator – “Are you not entertained?!”
The other, arrested, dishevelled, sleep-deprived,
one eye perhaps swollen closed, because of the beating he has already taken.
Pilate, prefect of the province of Judea,
mediating Rome’s control over this small but strategically vital corner of empire.
On the chess board, guarded by knight-centurions, castles
and plenty loyal foot soldiers.
Across from him – the lone, remaining, abandoned piece - all others removed.
No moves left, King reduced to pawn.

That’s it. Surely. To Pilate, to Caesar, to Caiaphas - the victory.
For the Carpenter, check mate; dead man walking;
a filthy and vicious end, only hours away.
There we have it. Captor and captive, interrogator and interrogated,
judge and judged. That’s it.
“So you are a King? Pilate asks.
It is only now, with hands bound, utterly handed over,
that Jesus accepts the royal title.
“You say that I am a king.
For this I was born, for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth.
“Everyone who cares for truth, who has any feeling for the truth,
recognises my voice.” The Message

Pilate famously replies: “What is truth?”
Curious, cynical, contemptuous?
Difficult to know how Pilate spoke or meant those famous three words.
His question holds a strange modernity,
in an age of political spin, curated social media, and fake news.
“What is truth?”  

Jesus doesn’t respond.  That is, he doesn’t respond with words. 
Instead, his answer is in his silence.
He is, his reply. with the invitation to look upon his life.
“What is truth?”  “You’re looking at it.”
I am the truth. My life. My way. My love.
There, the last man standing on his side of the board –
truth’s most complete and complex embodiment.
“Everyone who cares for truth, who has any feeling for the truth,
recognises my voice.”

And somewhere in the crowd of onlookers, the penny drops.
Someone senses, that though the might of Rome will have its way,
and an innocent man will go to Golgotha,
the drama unfolded here is not the last act.
One may wield all the power; but the other has something different - authority.
That’s it! Victory and defeat is decided here in this corridor of power.
Don’t confuse success with victory, or failure with defeat.”
The head that once was crowned with thorns,
Is crowned with glory now.
A strange overthrow of the given order. A strange anthem to truth.

“So you are a king?”
If the answer is yes, why doesn’t he look more like it?
What use is this ragamuffin-royal?

Sir Chris Hoy recently made public his diagnosis of terminal cancer.
The multiple gold-medal-winning, cycling Olympian,
has spoken about his chemotherapy:
“…excruciating. It's like torture basically.” 

Like so many others, faced by one’s own mortality,
there has been a shift in perspective:
“… riding bikes for a living, you realise,
'God, that was just a bit of fun really', you know.”
In his newly released book, “All That Matters: My Toughest Race Yet”
he hopes to offer encouragement,
that people going through a similar, or different challenge, –
can get through things.
But adds: “And it doesn't mean that there's going to be a happy ending,
I'm not delusional. I know what the end result will be.
Nobody lives forever. Our time on this planet is finite.
… …
Focus on the things that are important,
focus on your family, the people in your life.
My perspective on life has changed massively.
I am more thankful, I'm more grateful for each day.
It's been a tough year and it's going to be tough ahead in the future too,
but for now, right here right now, we're doing pretty well.”

A friend echoed that recently.
Also receiving a serious diagnosis, he faces the uncertainty of his future
with the assistance of medics, a church community and his own faith.
He does not underestimate the benefits of all those things,
but he also speaks with honesty:
“I don't doubt the sincerity of my medics, my pastor, and all the "prayer warriors"
who have been so thoughtful and kind,
and have given their skills and time to me. That is love.
However, I know firsthand the limits of the medical science and of faith.
In my low moods, I just want someone to hold my hand
and sit in the silence with me.
I think that is what God is like:
watchful, brooding, silent, immanent, gentle,
grieving the brokenness of His creation.”

Is that real royalty – absolute solidarity with the human condition –
compassionate shared suffering, hope in the dark?
Or are we clutching at straws? Wishful thinking?

Are you a King, Jesus?
A good question for the concluding Sunday of the year;
for Genevieve, on the day she has made her promises as a new member at St Columba’s –
a reminder to us all, about our past, or possible future promises.
A good question for GK’ers, as you prepare to return home after time away.
Where do your loyalties lie?

Are you a King, Jesus?
In the blessing, breaking and sharing of the bread;
may we find an answer;
in the pouring out of the wine,
may we be drawn more deeply into the life and truth,
of Christ our King.

MORNING WORSHIP, ST. COLUMBA'S, PONT STREET
SUNDAY 8th SEPTEMBER 2024, 11.00 A.M.
(16th SUNDAY after PENTECOST)

“But the woman answered Jesus,
‘Sir, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.’” Mark 7:28

Both prisons and Palestine have been in the headlines this week.
The former for their overcrowding and conditions;
The latter, because of the impasse of the violence in Gaza, West Bank, Israel and Lebanon.
Prisons and Palestine found a link in a newsletter received this week
from the Friends of St Andrew’s, Jerusalem,
penned by former Moderator, Very Revd Dr Andrew McLellan.

In the missive, McLellan explains how he has received criticism
for praying for the people of Gaza - .
the accusation: He does not care about the Israeli hostages.
That is he recounts, a familiar and wearying criticism.
When he was Inspector for Her Majesty’s Prisons, calling for better conditions in prisons,
it invariably produced the response – “You don’t care about the victims of crime.”

It was, “a silly argument.”
McLellan knew he cared about victims of crime;
he also believed that better prison conditions led to lower re-offending.
But however often he argued the case,
he didn’t think he ever changed the mind of a complainer,
because that “takes more than argument.”

So, with the hostages’ complaint.
“Of course I care about the hostages. Of course I care about their families.
Of course I pray for them. Of course, I long for their release.
But that must not stop caring for Gaza.
That must not silence our lament for the children,
the bereaved, the wounded, the starving, the terrified in Gaza.
He concludes quoting Dr Martin Luther King:
“In the end we will not remember the words of our enemies,
but the silence of our friends.”

A distraught mother, sick with worry for her child, approaches Jesus.
Jesus has just come from a bruising encounter with the Pharisees, (last week’s dispute)
“Why do your disciples disrespect our ancient laws –
not performing the ritual cleansing before taking food?”
Jesus’ answer – a condemnation, of laws that hinder the working of God’s love.
Pursue compassion over code.

Aware of their hostility and hard-heartedness,
Jesus shakes the dust from his sandals and departs from his own folk.
He heads to Tyre and Sidon; modern day Lebanon.

There, instead of the anonymity or rest he seeks,
he gets another awkward encounter.
The Syrophoenician woman; member of a hostile tribe –
strange gods, ritually unclean.
Foreign and female – radioactive for any self-respecting rabbi.

Remarkably she gets her voice heard.
Her need is desperate – it is the plea of the mother for her child.
“My daughter…. I beg you – do something!””

Then, from the one we celebrate as Son of God – a shocking reply.
I am not for you, and you are not for me –
for we are not of the same tribe.
“Let the children be fed first,
for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”
The children are the lost sheep of Israel, his own folk;
the dogs are the gentiles, beyond the boundary fence.
As one commentator risks: Did Jesus just call this woman a bitch?

But the parental impulse will not be denied:
To the Jew with the growing reputation, she replies: Really?!
“Jesus, where is my Good News? My place at the table?
“Sir, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.”

And apparently, in that feisty, impulsive, defiant response the game is won.
“For saying that you may go – the demon has left your daughter”
And we are left with the impression:
The girl is made well. But it is Jesus who is healed.
From a position of privilege, Jesus takes that difficult, first step.
Humble enough to listen, he allows himself to be changed.

From beyond his terrain of familiarity, via a voice of desperation,
Jesus is schooled in his own gospel.
The distraught, foreign female teaches Jesus that God’s purposes for him
are grander than he had imagined.

According to Mark, the very next encounter proves it.
Heading for Galilee, in the region of the Ten Cities,
Jesus is brought a man whose hardness of hearing
has contributed to his impediment of speech.
Whereas the healing of the Syrophoenician woman’s daughter relies
on the cut and thrust of conversation,
here the encounter is intensely physical.
Perhaps aware of the difficulty of hearing, surrounded by crowds,
Jesus leads the man aside. Hands touch ears and tongue.

Only occasionally do the original Aramaic words appear in the gospel accounts –
indicating particular significance.
Ephphatha – is suggested as being easily lip-readable.
Illustrative of Jesus taking time and attention,
to gain the man’s confidence and trust.
However different the pathways to the two healings are –
the result is the same – a restoration, both of health and community.

Placing these two episodes back-to-back,
Mark’s highlighting of Ephphatha – Be opened –
Can also be read backwards into the previous encounter.
From preconceived idea, from previous prejudice,
the Syrophoenician woman has opened Jesus’ eyes:
(“I once was blind, but now I see.”)

Which confronts us at the start of a new academic/congregational year
with the awkward, or perhaps exciting question:
How far are we prepared to get involved? To stretch and be stretched?
If at some stage we jumped, or were lowered, into baptismal waters,
how far, and to whom, will we allow that river to carry us?

In the London Scottish Regimental Chapel,
that prayerful and intimate space, beloved by many,
among the battle honours carved into the window pillars,
appear the names both of Jerusalem and Gaza.
In the same newsletter referenced at the outset,
there is also an article about the Commonwealth War Graces Commission.
It administers two cemeteries in Gaza.
The Gaza War Cemetery contains graves of 3691 dead from over 14 countries.
The other cemetery, in the north of Deir-al-Balah has 714 British soldiers.
Known locally as the British graveyards,
and regarded as a major cultural and archaeological site in the Palestinian enclave.
In more peaceful times, the Cemeteries are tended by a small team of workers
whose dedication and expertise are so apparent.
They all come from families whose jobs have been passed down through generations.
The current head gardener is the great grandson of the person
who held that role 100 years ago.
(The team and their immediate families were evacuated, safely, to Egypt in early 2024
and are now working alongside their Egyptian colleagues for the foreseeable future.)

While the damage to those well-tended military graves bears no comparison
to the destruction of life and living space across Gaza as a whole,
for some, it may be a small doorway into thinking about complexities and challenges, principles and priorities, we would prefer to ignore.
Seeing the pictures both of the formerly well-tended cemetery,
and its current damaged reality, led me back to the poem by the late Yehuda Amichai,
considered by many, both in Israel and internationally,
as Israel's greatest modern poet.
entitled, The Place Where We Are Right

From the place where we are right
Flowers will never grow
In the spring.
The place where we are right
Is hard and trampled
Like a yard.
But doubts and loves
Dig up the world
Like a mole, a plough.
And a whisper will be heard in the place
Where the ruined
House once stood.

In the city of Tyre, Jesus found a place where he was not always right.
And in the desperation of a distressed mother,
discovered that doubts and love made for fertile ground.
Andrew McLellan concluded his message:
“There are two steps to take which make at least some response,
both to those who call out on behalf of the hostages
and to those who call out on behalf of Gaza.
One, is to demand an immediate and permanent ceasefire.
The other is to keep listening.
Listening to all those who are living in agony.
Without listening there is no learning.”

Ephphatha – Be opened – Amen.

MORNING WORSHIP, ST. COLUMBA'S, PONT STREET
SUNDAY 15^th SEPTEMBER 2024 11.00 A.M.
(17^th SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST)

Jesus asked them, “But who do you say that I am?”
Peter answered him, “You are the Messiah.” Mark 8:29

In the Lower Hall resides a shining prize, much sought after:
the James Black St Columba’s Annual Quiz Night trophy!
(Current holders: In the Dock.)
Aficionados will know that quiz nights, whether in church halls or pub saloons,
draw forth, both the wondrous and the woeful.
Sometimes displays of astonishing knowledge – often from surprising quarters.
Sometimes a naked competitiveness,
that will contest the Quiz Master’s decision with a ferocity
worthy of John McEnroe at Wimbledon. (“You cannot be serious!”)
Quiz nights are never short on entertainment.

In the pursuit of wisdom, I was recently introduced to the Pie of Knowledge.
Used by leadership and management trainers to give trainees, perspective.
Imagine dividing up a pie into designated slices:

Slice 1: Those things you know you know.
Slice 2: Those things you know you don’t know.
Slice 3: The things you know but have forgotten.
Slice 4: The things you don’t know you don’t know.
Slice 5: The things you think you know but really don’t.

What, ask the trainers, would be the proportions of each of your slices?
In reality, the cake consists of one slice that represents approximately 99.9% -
The things you don’t know you don’t know.
The total knowledge of our universe is so vast
that the sum of all human knowledge,
is infinitesimally small in comparison.
Leadership and management trainers bake this Pie,
because they know that people who have a large slice of,
“I think I know it all” piece,
make hasty and ill-advised decisions based on ignorance.

Today’s Gospel is Quiz Night at Caesarea Philippi,
with a break for refreshments and a slice of Knowledge Pie.
North of the Sea of Galilee, at the source of the River Jordan
lies the city of Caesarea Philippi.
In Jesus’ day, site of Roman temples, dedicated to emperor gods;
home too, to local cultic religions.
A city reeking of imposing grandeur, politics and religion,
claiming the powers of heaven and earth.
It is in the villages nearby – deliberately perhaps – that Jesus asks:
“Who do people say that I am – what’s the word on the street?”

The disciples share the latest opinion polls and the social media feed:
“John the Baptist, Elijah, one of the prophets.”
They skate over other verdicts:
“Mary’s illegitimate child; a drunkard, demon-possessed;
heretic to his religion, traitor to his nation; friend to the wrong sort.”

Jesus neither affirms nor denies their answers. 
He listens; allows the disciples to offer up what they think they know about him,
based on other people’s speculations and assumptions.

After all the answers, voiced or not, the killer question:
“But who do you say that I am? What do I mean to you?”
Was there an awkward/embarrassed silence –
lowered eyes fixed on their sandals in the dust –
un-revisioned pupils, avoiding the teacher’s gaze?
What would our answer be?
Who do you/I say Jesus is? What does he mean to us?

Then, a moment of impetuous magnificence, Peter the Rock:
“You are the Messiah.”
Pie of Knowledge Slice 1: The things I know I know.
For which, rather than scoring a bonus point, there is a stern command –
don’t tell this to anyone.

Then, losing no time, Jesus begins to inform the disciples about,
the things you think you know, but really don’t.
Significantly, Jesus substitutes titles –
Son of Man/the Human One, in for Messiah.
“For Peter and most Jews, ‘Messiah’ (Christos)
refers to a militaristic, political figure who would overthrow Rome’s power
and establish a new Davidic kingdom,
which itself would inaugurate the kingdom of God.” Emerson B. Powery
Impossible to comprehend that this divinely authorized figure
could be the one who … would suffer many things … and be killed.

But this is Jesus’ direction of travel.
All this he said all this quite openly.
“The Son of Man must undergo suffering, be rejected, be killed
and after three days rise again.”
Resurrection aside, a picture so bleak, so upsetting, and so counter-intuitive,
Peter pulls him aside and tells him to knock it off.
“This is madness. You can’t mean this. It’s not what we signed up for.”

Predictions and protests.
Peter’s persuadings echo earlier trials - the temptations of the wilderness:
“If you are the Son of God, the Real Thing...
Make stones be bread. Leap from the Temple heights. Bow the knee in worship.”
Now, Peter’s version: “Be messiah; but with power.
A little self-preservation – for you, and us”.

The protest is famously rebuked: “Get behind me Satan” –
Satan, meaning accuser/adversary.
It is not an accusation of evil incarnate, but a recognition that at this moment
Peter the Rock is a roadblock, not a foundation stone;
a hindrance to the way of the cross.
Yes, I am the Messiah.  But right now, you have no idea what “Messiah” truly means. 
In reality you can’t even talk about it. 
Hear instead the ancient prophet words:
“I gave my back to those who struck me,
and my cheeks to those who pulled out the beard;
I did not hide my face from insult and spitting.” Isaiah 50:6

Then, addressing not just the disciples but also the crowds,
Jesus declares: “If any want to become my followers
let them deny themselves, take up their cross and follow me.
C1st Palestine knew exactly what taking up the cross meant.
Imperial Rome raised crosses like billboard notices.
In 6AD/CE 2,000 Galilean insurrectionists were crucified;
Jesus, perhaps a child witness to such obscenities.
To be a disciple you must cross the bridge –
from interested to invested, from spectator to participant.
“It is in the letting go of life, that you will truly discover it.”

The scholars tell us that this moment represents the hinge of Mark’s gospel.
There is everything that has led to this point –
the beginning and establishing of Jeus and his inner circle.
Then, there is all that is to come –
which is really the journey from now on, towards Jerusalem and the cross.
This is where a door swings open.
This is the pivotal point where Jesus asks the question: “Who do you say I am?”

If that question haunts you.
If that question has, as yet, no clear answers.
Or if that question has uncomfortable answers.
Take heart.
Remember it is a question along the way – a pilgrim question.
Peter’s answer was magnificent, but not complete.
A recognition – yes.
But with much still to learn –
Caeserea Philippi pie –
Things, he thought he knew, but did not really know.
Those learnings would take a lifetime.
“You are the messiah” was just the beginning,
not its end.

In time, asked the same question Peter could answer:
You’re the one who said: “Come, walk on the water with me.” 
who caught me before I drowned. 
You’re the one who washed my feet while I resisted,
teaching me servanthood by your example. 
The one who told me I’d be a coward,
the night you needed me to be brave. 
The one I denied, to save my skin. 
The one who looked into my eyes when the cock crowed. 
You’re the one who found me on the beach in the dawn of resurrection,
a lakeside breakfast with the question,
Do you love me?
Your three-time asking, undoing my three-time denial.

Things that one day Peter would know;
answers to “Who do you say that I am?”
By the grace of God,
may they shape our own pictures of, and commitment to,
Jesus the Messiah.
May they feed us the courage, perseverance and love
to take up and bear whatever crosses life asks us to share.

MORNING WORSHIP, ST. COLUMBA'S, PONT STREET
SUNDAY 11^th AUGUST 2024 11.00 A.M.
(12^th SUNDAY after PENTECOST)

“O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom!
Would that I had died instead of you, O Absalom, my son, my son!”

II Samuel 18:33

“Look at my boy! Isn’t he beautiful?”
It was an iconic, Olympic moment from London, twelve years ago.
Proudest of parents, South African, Bert le Clos, interviewed by BBC’s Claire Balding,
as they watched his swimming son, Chad, receive Gold Medal,
after defeating the incomparable Michael Phelps.
“Isn’t he beautiful!
Then, with a pat of incredulity of his middle-aged ample girth:
“How did he come from this? I mean look at me.”

Gold Medal moment for parenting - Paris 2024 - probably goes to Fred Siriex,
he of TV’s First Dates programme (possibly another sermon?)
He is the father of British Olympian diver, Andrea Spendolini-Siriex.
In the last fortnight Fred has ridden the full emotional rollercoaster;
a medal in the combined diving;
then, later solo competition, where she fared less well.
At the latter, TV captured the moment of parental consolation:
“It’s sport – some days you win and some you lose. You did brilliant.”
He shared a text he had received:
“Tell Andrea the whole country is proud of her.
My daughter wants to try diving now because of her. She’s a superhero.”
Before adding: “You did your best Andrea. Today, it wasn’t mean to be.”
Followed by a big hug.
As one journalist quipped: “She cried, he cried and the world cried with them.
And Siriex Senior comes back to London the unrivalled king of the Olympic dads.
A fine Games for the whole family.”

But what of biblical Dads? Unrivalled king, or not?
“O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom!
Would that I had died instead of you, O Absalom, my son, my son!”

The Old Testament reading, set by the Lectionary, offers only selected verses.
So, a little filling in is required,
both to explain the hostility between King David and his usurping son Absalom,
and to the presence of continuing parental concern.

The tragedy of Absalom goes back eleven years earlier –
though arguably father-son falling outs always have deeper roots, real or imagined.
Amnon, was half-brother to Absalom and his sister Tamar.
Amnon was infatuated with his half-sister.
Deploying trickery over a feigned illness he gets her alone and rapes her.
The King takes no real action.
Absalom is furious and impotent.
He plots a calculated revenge, and then murders his half-brother.
His father, David sends him into exile,
further stoking Absalom’s sense of injustice.

After some years in exile, he is permitted to return to Jerusalem.
However, his father studiously avoids him,
which must have taken some doing, given the size of the city and the royal court.
So, Absalom’s end to physical exile persists;
a daily shunning/humiliation, to an already bitter mind.
David refuses to reconcile or bestow mercy upon Absalom.

[It could have been different.
Envisage the father who ran – ran - towards the returning Prodigal Son,
in the parable of that name.
Instead, David’s remains rooted on the moral high ground –
perfect in righteousness, chilly in virtue.
Or consider that other parable -
the debtor who is let off a huge debt by his master,
but then extracts without mercy,
the much smaller sum from one who owes him.]

Absalom was of course part of the problem.
He was another, beautiful boy, which bestows its own dangers.
His famously luxuriant hair wondrously tipped the scales at the annual shearing.
Vanity, a sense of entitlement and the feeling
that his father had never really appreciated him –
mixed a corrosive cocktail.

Four years of plotting unfolded until seizing his moment,
Absalom unleashed a royal coup.
If his father excluded him – let his father be excluded.
There was no shortage of takers to follow Absalom’s cause.
Once more, as in times of King Saul,
David was required to flee for his life into the wilderness.

It seems that it took the wilderness, and the status of a fugitive,
to reawaken David.
At court in Jerusalem, amidst the business of being King,
refusing intimacy to Absalom, David lost intimacy with God.
Becoming less and less a father, his own humanity diminished.
Less passionate for God; less compassionate to others.

But in the wilderness, stripped to the bare essentials, vulnerable,
the Shepherd King rediscovers humility, prayer and compassion.
So much so, that by the time he marshalled his own troops
to take on the young pretender, his primary concern was the command:
“Deal gently for my sake, with the young man Absalom.”

The command is ignored.
How often warfare makes on its own rules.
Joab knew that David wanted his son’s life spared.
But the commander felt he knew what would be better for all concerned.
He also bore a grudge for Absalom setting light to his hay field, in a previous spat.
Better “cut off the head of the snake,” , be rid of the problem, once and for all.
With terrible irony, Absalom meets his fate in the forest of Ephraim -
his beautiful hair caught in the branches of an oak,
suspended between earth and sky – lynched by his own locks.

The news is delivered by foot to the King, waiting and watching in the city gate.
When the news is broken: The king was deeply moved,
and went up to the chamber over the gate, and wept.

Nicholas Wolterstorff, a Yale professor, wrote a profoundly moving book,
entitled Lament For a Son, following the death of his son, in a mountaineering accident.
In an early section he voices the anguish of the bereaved parent.

“It’s so wrong, so profoundly wrong, for a child to die before its parents.
It’s hard enough to bury our parents. But that we expect.
Our parents belong to our past; our children belong to our future.
We do not visualise our future without them.
How can I bury my son, my future, one of the next in line?
He was meant to bury me!” (Lament for a Son pp16)

The death of his troubled and troublesome, beautiful boy,
draws forth that most famous lament:
“O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom!
Would that I had died instead of you, O Absalom, my son, my son!”

Belfast resident, Michael Longley, author of multiple collections of poetry,
winner of numerous literary awards; professor of poetry for Ireland 2007 – 2010,
is eighty-five this year – marked by the publication of a collection of his poems
from across six decades.
Thirty of those years were the period referred to as the Troubles.

He spoke recently about the poem “The Ice-Cream Man”
composed in response to one of the many deaths caused by sectarian violence.
On the same day, that an off-duty policemen was murdered
in the family ice-cream parlour on the Lisburn Road,
Longley had been admiring, and listing in his writer’s notebook,
the wildflowers of the Burren, an area of great natural beauty in County Clare.

Following the murder, Longley’s daughter went to lay flowers at the shopfront.
The poet-father wanted to acknowledge her action and add to it.
The resulting poem is framed by two lists –
firstly, the delight of a child reciting ice-cream flavours:

Rum and raisin, vanilla, butter-scotch, walnut, peach:
You would rhyme off the flavours. That was before
They murdered the ice-cream man on the Lisburn Road
And you bought carnations to lay outside his shop.

The second list - a liturgy perhaps –
the flowers and plants recorded in his notebook on that original day:

I named for you all the wildflowers of the Burren
I had seen in one day: thyme, valerian, loosestrife,
Meadowsweet, tway blade, crowfoot, ling, angelica,
Herb robert, marjoram, cow parsley, sundew, vetch,
Mountain avens, wood sage, ragged robin, stitchwort,
Yarrow, lady’s bedstraw, bindweed, bog pimpernel.

If you hear the poem read by Longley himself,
the list is haunting, heart-rending, perhaps defiant?
Is it there to gently distract/console the child?
Or to remind of a beauty that abides, despite the world’s cruelties?
Or is it an indictment of the wastefulness of war – all that is lost?
Maybe, it is all of these things.

In time Longley received what he described as a “very sweet letter” –
thanking him for remembering her son;
it was signed: Rosetta Larmer, the ice-cream man’s mother.
Of that short parental note, Longley says:
“It’s a sacred object in my life.”

“O Absalom, Absalom my son.”
It is impossible to ignore the regret and the love in David’s lament.
Raw material, enough alone to ponder in our prayers -
aware of the continuing death of sons and daughters,
near and far.

“Would that I had died instead of you!”
David meant it:
If he could have done the boy's dying for him, he would have done it.
paid the price for the boy's betrayal of him,
he would have paid it.
given his own life to make the boy alive again,
he would have given it.
(As another preacher once said):
“But even a king can't do things like that.
As later history was to prove,
it takes the King himself. (Frederick Buechner)

“God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son,
that those who believe in him might not perish but have eternal life.”

ST COLUMBA’S, PONT STREET
SUN 16 AUG 2015

“God said to Solomon, “Because you have asked this (for wisdom),
and have not asked for yourself long life or riches, or for the life of your enemies,
but have asked for yourself understanding to discern what is right,
I now do according to your word.
Indeed I give you a wise and discerning mind…” I Kings 3:11-12

Last Sunday the Paris Olympics held their closing ceremony.
Fair to say, it was a mixed bag.
The joy of all those gathered athletes filling the stadium,
permitted a moment, to enjoy the moment,
released from the pressures of competitive sport.
This was uninterrupted joy and celebration of being Olympians.
Then the formal speeches of suited the organisation’s high heidiens.
Followed by a slightly obscure, not to say lengthy,
symbolic discovery of the buried Olympic rings
by a golden time-traveller returning to a dystopian future.

Then, something a little more accessible –
Tom Cruise – he of Mission Impossible –
abseiling spectacularly into the arena from great height, to claim the Olympic flag –
swiftly departing, by motorbike through the night streets of Paris,
mounting a transport plane, moments later to free fall (with parachute)
into California sunshine,
there, still grinning, swiftly conjuring up the Olympic circles,
on the famous Hollywood hill sign, icon of LA, the city of Angels.
This was definitely showtime –
The theatrical passing of the baton, one Olympic host city to the next;
a handover, a succession.
We ended with Snoop Dog and Dr Dre rapping on Venice Beach.
Which may whet your appetite for 2028, or not….

“Then David slept with his ancestors and was buried in the city of David. 
So, Solomon sat on the throne of his father David;
and his kingdom was firmly established.”

A royal handover/succession.
As we know, transfer of political power and authority can be rocky;
think disputed election results, or leaders that cling ever-tighter, to position and privilege.
Seemingly, our Old Testament passage gives an exemplary example.
This is how it can be done.
Solomon, worshipping at Gibeon, is visited by God.
While dreaming, the dream question.
“If I ask whatever in the world you want – what will you choose?

Solomon takes his time. First, acknowledges the blessings God towards David,
and David’s commendable qualities:
“You have shown great and steadfast love to your servant my father David,
because he walked before you in faithfulness, in righteousness,
and in uprightness of heart towards you;
and you have kept for him this great and steadfast love,
and have given him a son to sit on his throne today.”

The new king acknowledges his own need for some of that great and steadfast love:
“You have made your servant king in place of my father David,
although I am only a little child;
I do not know how to go out or come in. 
A myriad people and a mighty responsibility.
I can only do this with your help.”

This is prime-rib, biblical cuisine.
A royal, conscious of God, aware of the blessings he inherits,
modest about his own capabilities, eager to serve as best he can.
From which comes the request:
“Give your servant an understanding mind/a heart skilled to listen,
to govern your people,
able to discern between good and evil.”

Confirmation comes in God’s answer:
God says yes – and throws in wealth, honour and long life for good measure.
In time, the king's reputation for brilliance spreads across the land.
Nobles travel from distant shores to hear his shrewd sayings
and witness his wise judgments.
His wealth and power grow beyond measure.
He maintains fleets of ships; trades in luxuries, gold, silver, and ivory;
builds gorgeous temples and palaces.
He pens the greatest wisdom literature of his time;
presides over the Golden Age of his kingdom;
Finally, he hands over the throne to his son after a peaceable reign of forty years.
That is probably what we know,
or think we know, of Solomon.

Inconveniently, that is not quite the full biblical testimony.
Scripture records that following the death of David,
the prince ordered the murder of his older brother - the rightful heir –
seizing the throne with blood on his hands.
To consolidate his power, he carries out the vengeance killings
that his own father had requested before his death.
Believing himself both wise and chosen by God,
he sets out to build the kingdom of his dreams.
His appetites are unbounded.
To finance this lavish lifestyle,
he levies taxes his subjects cannot bear
and conscripts thousands of people into forced labour.
To control knowledge,
he gathers the surrounding world's wisdom traditions to himself.
To satisfy his desires,
he takes for himself seven hundred wives and three hundred concubines.
To quell his spiritual restlessness, he constructs pagan shrines
and offers worship to gods who demanded child sacrifice.
By the end of his reign, his people are mutinous,
and following the example of their own king
they can no longer differentiate between idolatry and worship.
Upon his death, civil war that would last for decades
breaks out across the land.
The kingdom splits in two;
the famed king's once-golden dream dissolves into chaos.

Solomon, and David his dad before him,
are far from paragons of piety or virtue.
On the contrary, they are bloodily ambitious, reeking with revenge,
promiscuous with their subjects and their gods.

We are left to conclude: The Solomon of the Bible – the complete Solomon –
is a very human being - a paradox;
blessed with wisdom, often choosing foolishly;
committed to service, yet shackled to his appetites;
devoted to God, but attracted to idols;
a bible royal - neither to be whitewashed, nor dismissed.

Which raises the question: Why is he there, in such prominence,
along with so many other flawed biblical celebrities?
One commentator reflects:
The Bible rarely says, “Be like this character.”
Rather it says, “You are this character.
Now, what do you propose to do about it?”

Might Solomon interrogate us about our own moments of transition?
Whether it is the taking up of responsibility, or the passing it on.
Where do we stand in life’s succession plans?
Are we intent on the glittering prizes, or aware of our own limitations?
Do we pray for a discerning, listening heart
or something that looks like less hard work?

For me, what seems helpful about Solomon’s dream encounter
is his own sense of place in the proceedings.
At his wisest, he appreciates he is part of a larger history.
He/we, rest on the shoulders of those whose labour and effort
have made our presence possible.
Though the road ahead for Solomon will evidently be a very mixed bag,
in this encounter at least, there is a truth glimpsed –
that power is not meant for permanent possession.
In the end, the throne does not belong to Solomon;
he is simply its steward for a while.

That insight has an echo with meditation, composed by Bishop Ken Untener
on the anniversary of the martyrdom of Bishop Óscar Romero on March 24, 1980,
entitled A Future Not Our Own.
You may recognise it from the Congregational Pastoral Letter sent last year.

“It helps now and then to step back and take a long view.
The Kingdom is not only beyond our efforts,
it is beyond our vision.
We accomplish in our lifetime only a fraction
of the magnificent enterprise that is God's work.
Nothing we do is complete, which is another way of
saying that the kingdom always lies beyond us.

No statement says all that could be said.
No prayer fully expresses our faith. No confession
brings perfection, no pastoral visit brings wholeness.
No program accomplishes the Church's mission.
No set of goals and objectives include everything.

This is what we are about. We plant the seeds that one
day will grow. We water the seeds already planted
knowing that they hold future promise.
We lay foundations that will need further development.
We provide yeast that produces effects
far beyond our capabilities.

We cannot do everything, and there is a sense of
liberation in realizing this.
This enables us to do something, and to do it very well.

It may be incomplete, but it is a beginning,
a step along the way, an opportunity for the Lord's
grace to enter and do the rest.

We may never see the end results, but that is the
difference between the master builder and the worker.
We are workers, not master builders, ministers, not
messiahs. We are prophets of a future not our own.”

Psalm 90:12 So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.

SUNDAY 7^th JULY 2024 11.00 a.m.
MORNING WORSHIP & BAPTISMS
(7^th SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST)

They said, ‘Where did this man get all this?
Is not this the carpenter, the son of Mary 
and brother of James and Joses and Judas and Simon,
and are not his sisters here with us?’ And they took offence at him. Mark 6

Prompted by the presence of Rupert, on his baptismal Sunday,
Mindful of the symbolic walk, just undertaken down the aisle,
the smiling pews, the introduction to his new family of faith,
we might consider other infant encounters.

I think of my daughter at an early stage on London buses –
a smile from her, usually eliciting a return smile from a stranger.
Inevitably, sometimes, she would look, but the stranger would not look back.
She might try harder – but the mobile phone held a stronger lock.
At the time, as a parent, I would feel bad that the child had to learn that lesson –
not everybody will respond well to her.
Life /the world will get a whole lot more complicated.
But also, the feeling feel that the stranger had missed out;
too preoccupied for the benediction of a child’s curiosity or smile.
Smile or ignore, reciprocate or reject;
the actions or attitudes - the choices - within today’s Gospel.

Homecoming day in Nazareth; day to celebrate,
enjoy the reflected glory of a local hero.
Since Jesus began his travelling ministry things have gone rapidly,
rumours and reputation taking wing.
They have heard of the healings.
He has just raised the synagogue leader’s daughter from apparent death.
Surely, the force is with him.
Initially, all is well. On the Sabbath, in the synagogue of his youth,
people listen attentively and nod their heads in approval.
Nice words for a Nazarite – wise, profound, eloquent and true.

But here in hometown, folks have a problem.
Who changes the mood in the synagogue?
A jealous neighbour of Mary, a childhood rival of Jesus; the village gossip?
Somewhere it starts, perhaps with the classic put down: “I kent his faither.”
Actually, there is no mention of his father,
but rather a deliberate dwelling on his mother:
Is not this the carpenter, the son of Mary….?
In Jesus’ day, the only reason to identify someone by their mother,
was to question their legitimacy. 
(“Sapping God’s Strength,” Barbara Brown Taylor.)
To refer to Jesus as “the son of Mary” is a calculated act,
an intended take-down, to shame Jesus into silence.
“Hey Mary’s boy; we know who you are. Just remember your place.”

Apparently, the ones who knew Jesus best, could not treasure him most.
They take offence at him.
Their imaginations could not/would not expand,
to consider a bigger possibility about him.
The gospels are full of Jesus and the miraculous,
but here is the tale of the un-miracle.
With grim finality Mark concludes: “He could do no deed of power there.”

Which interrogates us:
What things of the sacred do we miss out on,
because we can only imagine, or will only accept,
that God can speak to us in preconceived,
well-worn patterns or personalities?

Retired Church of Scotland minister, Tom Gordon
described attending a service of worship,
where to be honest, he wasn’t expecting much.
“I hadn’t been well and was still feeling out of sorts.
I knew that the worship would be OK, enough, at least, to “keep me going.”

A woman stepped to the front of the congregation.
“The second reading,” she said. 
Epistle, Gospel, I thought. Standard stuff. Heard it before. I wonder what version. Sigh … 
“is different from usual,” she continued. 
Interesting. I wonder … “… and we’ve chosen a contemporary lesson.
So, the reading is from The House at Pooh Corner, by A A Milne.”
“Now, I was all ears, fully attentive.
Halfway through, I had a tear in my eye.
It was so lovely, and different, and unexpected, and right,
and it ended with these words:

Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind.
“Pooh?” he whispered.
“Yes, Piglet?”
“Nothing,” said Piglet, taking Pooh’s hand.
“I just wanted to be sure of you.”

Tom Gordon concluded: “I don’t know why these words affected me so much.
But they did …. They opened up a new direction for my thoughts,
(which, quite possibly, a familiar Gospel or Epistle reading would have failed to do.)
Truth was revealed in a contemporary lesson.
The Word – God’s Word, if we wish to label it as such –
refused to be confined.

Tales of/from the unexpected?
Elsewhere, much has been written about Taylor Swift, pop mega-star,
and her current Eras concert tour, described by some as a spiritual experience.
Journalist, Sarah Carson: “Seeing Taylor Swift live,
feels like we are singing along to the soundtrack to our lives, not hers.”
Peter Millar, former Warden of Iona Abbey wrote recently
about the significance of figures such as Taylor Swift,
in understanding contemporary spirituality.
“I think it may be true to say that thousands of the young people
who follow her and are moved by her songs
would know very little about traditional faith whether Christian or other.
In Edinburgh, over three days, her singing touched the lives of 165,000 people
from diverse backgrounds.
Compare that with a recent study
indicating that the total membership of the National Church of Scotland was 66,000.”

“These numbers indicate not that God is absent from our world
but that there are many different ways of understanding transcendence.
There are many authentic mentors in our world
and young people like Taylor Swift are among them.
We may not be into pop music in any way
but what is necessary for us all in our times
is to have an exploratory heart and mind
when it comes to matters of faith and institutional religion.”
(Vilayat Inayat Khan (1916-2004), a teacher of meditation and of the traditions of Sufism):
“The human spirit lives on creativity and dies in conformity and routine”.

Pooh, Piglet, Taylor Swift –
there may be some eye-brow rolling in the pews this morning –
but what voices do we sideline,
because they don’t fit our image of what God might be saying;
what unlikely candidates do we ignore as messengers of the Divine?

So, things didn’t go well on that day of homecoming;
Jesus responds in two ways.
Firstly, he is amazed at their unbelief.
Clearly, he expected different –
faith, commitment, dedication, sacrifice? He got none of these.
A reminder, not even Jesus can secure all the desired outcomes.
He experiences failure and defeat –
we have perhaps to conclude that may be/will be the lot of his disciples –
then and now.

But Jesus carries on regardless.
Rejection and disbelief in Nazareth don’t cancel/devalue the worth of the gospel.
There are other people in the surrounding villages.
Carrying his disappointment lightly,
equilibrium maintained, confidence unshaken,
He perseveres.
He does not demand ‘honour’, nor wait for it.
He moves on, healing and preaching.
And he commissions others to do the same.
Strangers at home; instead, let them be home among strangers.
He sends them in pairs; telling them to go humbly, as guests, not hosts.

One more unexpected/outside voice:
This week, in the space of a handful of days, this central space, at the heart of our sanctuary, has seen assembled school musicians, a baptism, a bride and groom
and a coffin.
Illustration of how, “All of life” is housed beneath a single broad roof.

Mortality, and our response to it,
was powerfully spoken about in a radio interview this week with Simon Boas.
An Aid Worker, part-time Samaritan, married man,
in September 2023, aged forty six, he was diagnosed with terminal throat cancer.
Over the following year, he knitted together his reflections on life into a book –
A Beginner's Guide to Dying.
The book is due for publication in October.
It will be a posthumous publication.

In response to the question: “How are you?”
Boas’ interview began: “My pain is under control and I'm terribly happy –
it sounds weird to say, but I'm as happy as I've ever been in my life.
The book is called A Beginner's Guide to Dying,
but really what I'm trying to convey
is how enjoying life to the full kind of prepares you for this.

In a week of big politics:
“You don't need to have been a politician or a mover and shaker
or an aid worker or anything in life.
All of us make a huge difference.”
He quoted George Eliot's Middlemarch:
“The effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive:
for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistorical acts;
and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been,
is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life,
and rest in unvisited tombs.”

Boas reflected: “All our tombs will be unvisited in a few years –
all our actions will mostly be unremembered –
but the smile you gave the checkout lady
or the kind words you gave to a stranger in the street
could still be rippling forward.
(Perhaps the smile to an infant on a bus)
We all have that opportunity and it's a huge power.
And I want everyone to realise how special and precious they are.”