This week’s lectionary blog focuses on the lectionary Gospel for this coming Sunday, Luke 9.51-62. It has clearly been influenced by the fact that Canon William Gulliford and I are preparing to take the diocesan Ministry Experience Scheme interns from both last year and this on a much delayed visit to Jerusalem in early July. Please keep us in your prayers.  The picture that illustrates the blog is a very ancient icon from St Katherine’s monastery Sinai. It is said to be the oldest icon of Jesus still in existence. You can read more about the icon underneath the reflection.

Clare Amos, Director of Lay Discipleship, Diocese in Europe

Clare.amos@europe.anglican.org

This week’s lectionary Gospel reading, Luke 9.51– includes in its first sentence, ‘He [Jesus] set his face to go to Jerusalem’. The words ‘his face was set toward Jerusalem’ are reiterated a couple of verses later, referring to the way that Jesus was not welcome in a Samaritan village due to his Jerusalem destination.

Such repetition in a Gospel text is, I am sure, intended as a sign that we should see these vivid words as having particular importance within the whole story. This is certainly true here. We are at a critical juncture in the life and ministry of Jesus, as now, after the transfiguration, he turns from his previous ministry in Galilee, to move with absolute determination to the dangers that he suspects will await him in Jerusalem.

Two interlocking themes speak to me powerfully from these phrases. The first is the importance of ‘face’ – the face of Christ, the face of God.  

Directly and indirectly the motif of Jesus’ face is more apparent in the Gospel of Luke than in the other Gospels. There are – as here, or in the story of Jesus’ transfiguration (Luke 9.29) – a number of times when the word is used explicitly. But also we have a sense of the ‘power’ of Jesus’ face, for example in the throw-away remark, unique to Luke’s Gospel, that after the third of Peter’s denials, ‘The Lord turned and looked at Peter’ (Luke 22.61).

One of my favourite quotes from one of my favourite books on Luke’s Gospel comes from the German Benedictine Anselm Grun. ‘In Luke’s stories the face of God shines out on us in the man Jesus. If we look at this picture we will be changed by it. Redemption comes about by reading the story. If I read it with all my senses, if – as Martin Luther puts it – I creep into the text, I will emerge from the text transformed. I have encountered the figure of Jesus, and this now shapes my figure.’   I find myself returning to this thought often when I engage with the Gospel of Luke. In my mind it sits alongside the remark by Professor David Ford, which though not explicitly linked to the Gospel of Luke very much fits with Luke’s vision of the hospitality offered by Jesus: ‘Christian mission is offering the hospitality of the face of Christ.’

But now to turn to the second half of that comment, ‘He set his face to go to Jerusalem’. I find myself wondering what Jesus’ face might have looked like as it gazed into that challenging future. His journey to Jerusalem is both fore-ordained in the purposes of God, ‘When the days drew near for him to be taken up’… (as Elijah had been all those centuries before – the comparison with Elijah/Elisha is a strong motif in the Gospel of Luke) but it also required a conscious decision from Jesus himself which was made in the awareness of what Jerusalem as his destination would most probably mean for himself.

Although we don’t get the actual word ‘must’ (dei in Greek) in these verses, there certainly feels a ‘mustness’ about Jesus’ determination to set off on his way.  I read them alongside (as I think we are supposed to do) some words a few chapters later in which ‘must’ does appear, Luke 13.33-35, when, while on his journey Jesus laments:

Yet today, tomorrow, and the next day I must be on my way, because it is impossible for a prophet to be killed away from Jerusalem. ‘Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing.’

‘Must’ in the Gospels is a loaded word: it comes several times when Jesus is speaking of how ‘the Son of Man must suffer’ (e.g. Luke 9.22). Fascinatingly it also appears in the account of Jesus’ meeting with the tax collector Zacchaeus, when Jesus tells him, ‘Zacchaeus… I must stay at your house today.’ The Greek word also appears (though cannot be seen so clearly in the English translation) at the end of the Parable of the Prodigal Son, ‘But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life’ (Luke 15.32). Outside Luke’s Gospel one of the most thought-provoking instances of dei/must, comes in the introduction to the story of Jesus’ meeting with the Samaritan woman at the well of Samaria, ‘But he had to go through Samaria.’ (John 4.4)

How and why do ‘face’ and ‘must’ belong together, and what do both have to do with Jerusalem? I think it is something like this:

Our faces are what make us fundamentally human, and they are also perhaps the most obviously vulnerable part of our body. Our natural instinct in a situation of danger is to try and protect our face.

Of course there are different ways of seeking to protect our faces. Jane Williams captures this brilliantly:

‘Jesus’s face is what ours is supposed to look like, if only we could be as human as God. Our faces are a series of masks that we try on and discard, always searching for the real “me”, always looking for the face that will make others love us or fear us, and all the time getting further and further away from the face we were made to mirror, the face of Jesus… How many different masks we seem to think we need – masks that make us powerful, invulnerable, beautiful, feared, acceptable, some that we have so deeply internalized that we don’t even know that they are just masks. But the irony is that, without these masks, we are made in the image of God.’.

In the Bible to see someone’s face is deeply linked to the possibility of reconciliation. When we approach reconciliation we are indeed making ourselves vulnerable.  Perhaps the place where this is suggested most powerfully comes in the story of the reconciliation between Jacob and Esau, when Jacob rejoices with the words, ‘To see your face is like seeing the face of God, with such graciousness you have received me’ (Genesis 33.10, personal translation).

For human beings to see ‘the face of God’ carries with it the implication of reconciliation and relationship between God and human beings, and potentially between human beings themselves. That at its most fundamental was what the incarnate ministry of God in Jesus Christ was all about. We were being given the privilege of seeing the face of God in the most vulnerable way possible. In Jesus Christ God refused to protect his face. Rather Jesus ‘set his face’ to go to Jerusalem.

Why Jerusalem? Because throughout the whole of the Jewish and Christian story the city of Jerusalem has been an immensely powerful symbol both of why reconciliation is needed and how difficult it is to achieve it. It is the city with ‘Peace’ shalom written into its very name, but where peace has so often been so sorely lacking. The ultimate purposes of God, the ‘mustness’ of Jesus’ story, speaks of reconciliation – small and great, familial and cosmic. That is the reason for the ‘must’ in the story of Zacchaeus, and the tale of the Prodigal Son, in both of which the ‘must’ is interwoven with acceptance and reconciliation. It is the reason why Jesus ‘must’ go through the alien territory of Samaria in John 4, and Jesus’ conversation with the woman at the well is in part a story of reconciliation between two deeply divided peoples.  But reconciliation is costly, passion and reconciliation are intimately interwoven; as we discover from 2 Corinthians 5.19.

It is of course interesting that this Sunday’s lectionary reading also includes a reference to the Samaritans – and speaks of the hostility that greets Jesus in a Samaritan village precisely because he was travelling to Jerusalem, and of Jesus’ refusal to participate in a quid pro quo of enmity (Luke 9.52-56).

Jesus sets his face to go to Jerusalem. That face of God which is shining out to us, especially in the Gospel of Luke. The face of God that is so hospitable and welcoming. A face however which is also profoundly vulnerable and will fill with tears when Jesus finally approaches the hard rocks of Jerusalem (Luke 19.41-44) a city which stones those who are sent to it. But that will not be the end of the story of this particular face. It will be shortly seen again mysteriously and cryptically by a weeping woman in a garden, by two travellers on a journey to Emmaus, by fishermen returned to their old trade in Galilee. It will continue to reflect ‘the light of the knowledge of the glory of God’ (2 Corinthians 4.6). It will invite us to gaze upon it in George Herbert’s exquisite poem ‘Love bade me welcome’. And we are challenged to continue to discover it whenever and wherever in our world today we need reconciliation and new vision:

The shouts are too loud

they so often deafen my ears.

War, famine, destruction, death –

the sufferings of the world glide past my soul.

I have heard too much to care.

But then you, O God,

you stand in the midst of the world’s woe,

and the shapes of those who suffer are no longer faceless,

for you have bequeathed to them your own face,

their pain is etched with the lines of your passion.

And I shall proclaim:

I had heard, but now I see.

The people are too many,

They blur together in my imagination,

Races, colours, faiths and languages –

their shifting kaleidoscope dazzles my vision

I am made giddy by their infinite variety.

But then you, O God,

you are the still point round which all revolves,

in you both light and shadow find an equilibrium:

you paint into life our many-peopled world,

your love refracts us into a rainbow of hope:

And I shall proclaim:

I had heard but now I see.

*****

The icon at the head of this week’s blog is believed to be the oldest icon of the face of Jesus in existence dating from the first half of the 6th century AD. It is suggested that the icon has deliberately been created to display the two natures of Christ, both human and divine. On the left side (as the viewer gazes at the picture) the divine nature is being displayed, on the right side the human nature. I ‘think’ I accept this view of the icon. See further at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christ_Pantocrator_(Sinai)

I am very grateful to my husband Alan, for offering to write this week’s lectionary blog, on the lectionary Gospel Luke 8.26 -39. It is illustrated by an icon of the Easter rising of Christ. Why this picture was chosen is explained below, in a note at the end of the blog.

Clare Amos, Director of Lay Discipleship

clare.amos@clareamos

*****

In a rash moment, I offered to write this blog, and Clare quickly accepted. My offer was partly that I like a challenge, and the story of the Gerasenes, the man who said his name was Legion, and the herd of swine certainly fits the bill.

But underneath my acceptance is a nagging concern which I have felt since I worked as a hospital chaplain about those with mental health problems, and the way in which they hear scripture. There were a number of occasions when passages about casting out demons appeared in the lectionary, and without hesitation I chose to read something else in our hospital chapel services.

The reason, as you may imagine, was that I did not want to have to fend off requests for exorcisms from some of those attending from the mental health wards, some of whom already had complained of feelings of  ‘being possessed.’ It is very easy for a patient with acute difficulties to imagine that they can be resolved instantaneously through some miraculous prayer power.

And so this brought me up face to face with what I might call ‘the culture clash’ between New Testament times and our own. In those times, demon possession was a readily accepted explanation for the behaviour of those who were outcasts from society. In our times, we diagnose personality disorders and behavioural abnormalities under the heading of ‘mental health issues. ‘

At the same time we have to recognise that there are some communities in Europe whose roots are in Africa, which hold to the existence of instances of demon possession, and sometimes practise exorcisms which hit the news headlines.

How to make sense of any of this? Were not the disciples sent out with a mission that explicitly included the casting out of demons? (Mark 3.15)

I don’t think we can read the New Testament without recognising that Jesus was ‘a healer ‘ and that this reputation accompanied him throughout his ministry. Through him, women and men were made whole. I think it is this concept of  ‘being made whole‘ which unites the times in which Jesus exercised his earthly ministry and our own. The diagnosis may differ; the aim of lifting the burdens of ill health and mental distress from those who suffer remains constant. Jesus worked his healings according to the context of his times and accepted beliefs; he did not lecture people about Dr Freud. But his compassion went out to people and made them better. And because according to our Christian understanding his compassion was limitless, so was the range of his healing ability which he recognised as a divine gift made available through his own person.

I would not wish to minimise the gifts of other healers and also exorcists, some in our own day, while recognising the easy path to abuse which sometimes accompanies a grand reputation. There is a lot about life which is inexplicable, but a holiness of life which is rooted in the holiness of God has the capacity to transform.

However the ordinary run of things goes according to the findings of science and the practice of medicine, and for both we have to be deeply grateful. And so as hospital chaplains we may well find ourselves walking the wards, with no immediate remedies to hand for the illnesses we encounter. But we pray that we will also be walking the path to wholeness and healing, first of all treading it ourselves, and then through grace inviting others to share with us in the journey, in which burdens are eased, or the strength given to continue in the way. Jesus had the power within himself to recognise what was going on within those whom he encountered; we offer him our ministries with prayer that we will be given the discernment that we need to help others, and to draw upon the abundant source of compassion which we find in him.

A final word about demons. (They are just so hard to leave behind!) The word in Greek daimon is said to originate from the root da to divide. In the New Testament Satan is seen as the destructive force that divides, scatters, whereas the Holy Spirit brings together and unites. So in the afflicted man who calls himself Legion we see one who is radically divided against himself.

Now the ancient term daimon often had the sense of a destructive and driving force that possessed people, rather than an individual evil spirit. I wonder if you can see where I am heading? Where in our world today do see a destructive and divisive driving force killing people and annihilating what is good and what is holy? Setting Christians one against another? And so we do need to pray that the forces of evil will be overcome through the radiant goodness of God, and on this earth through the hands and feet of those who accomplish the divine will, opening the way to wholeness and healing.

Canon Alan Amos was Senior Chaplain at the Medway Maritime Hospital, Chatham, Kent UK from 1996 – 2009.

*****

There are a number of pictures and icons specifically portraying the story of ‘Legion’. However we chose not of ‘opt’ for one of these. Instead after discussion between Alan and myself we chose the icon above in which Christ pulls Adam and Eve up from hell.

This icon is the main Resurrection icon in the Orthodox Church, and represents the Christ descending to the underworld to raise up Adam and Eve, who represent the whole of humanity before the coming of Christ into the world. This descent to the underworld is referred to in 1 Peter 3.19 , and in the Apostle’s Creed and associated with Holy Saturday.

The icon speaks to us about the Resurrection being our resurrection as well as Christ’s – through him, we as human beings are raised up to new life, not only through our baptism into Christ but also through his power to raise us from the individual hells into which we may find ourselves trapped in our lives. The gates of hell are trodden down under his feet.

I am very grateful to Sam Tudor, who has been an intern on the Diocese in Europe Ministry Experience Scheme 2021-22, based in both Geneva and Gibraltar, for his reflection this week. It is two-fold. Sam begins with the problem of conceptualising the Trinity, but then moves on to exploring the lectionary readings for Trinity Sunday (Proverbs 8.1-4,22-31; Psalm 8; Romans 5.1-5;
John 16.12-15) . I have unashamedly chosen for the primary illustration for this blog, the much loved (including by me) icon by Andre Rublev which paints the Trinity in the hues of the angels who visited Abraham in Genesis 18. However scattered around the rest of Sam’s blog are a couple of the (to my mind) stranger attempts to ‘represent’ the Trinity that Christian artists have come up with over the years, as well as pictures of two of the many churches in our Diocese dedicated to the Holy Trinity.

I apologise to regular readers that there has been a gap of several weeks in the appearance of this blog – though I am gratified that it was noticed (!). I hope that normal service will now be resumed. I also hope that Sam Tudor’s willingness to offer a contribution may encourage others of you with links to the Diocese in Europe also to come forward.

Clare Amos, Director of Lay Discipleship, Diocese in Europe

clare.amos@europe.anglican.org

Trying to explain the inexpressible mystery of the Holy Trinity has stumped almost all interested parties for the past 2000 years. Yet the natural human desire to grasp or visualise concepts has meant that people have still tried. John Wesley opted for the image of three candles producing one light. Others have brought in the example of snow, water and steam to explain three things that are the same in essence but different. I have even heard one preacher decide that the Mars Bar is the best analogy for the Trinity. Nevertheless, all of these images and attempts fall short because it is in the nature of the Trinity to be a mystery. Unfortunately, this blog post cannot be straightforward, however I urge you to plough on as easier pastures can be found after some theological confusion.

Before we consider what our lectionary readings may tell us about the Trinity, it is worth safeguarding ourselves from the various Trinitarian heresies that the Church has rejected. So, let us dip into the early Church. There are two basic ends of the heretical spectrum that we will try to avoid: the heresies that overstates the division between the persons of the Trinity and the heresies that understates the distinction between the persons of the Trinity.

Tritheists and Partialists are two groups who overstate the division between the persons of the Trinity. Tritheists argue that there are three gods in the Trinity, each person being a separate god. This is clearly against Christian monotheism. Partialism then argues that each person of the Trinity is a different ‘part’ of God who is only wholly God when all three persons are together. This undermines the simple unity of the Divine. So we cannot overstate the divisions of the persons of the Trinity.

Then on the other side of the spectrum, there are Modalists believing that each of the persons of the Trinity are simply different “modes” of God; the Father is not really distinct from the Son, nor are they really distinct from the Holy Spirit — they are all merely terms used for God doing different things at different times.

If we are not confused yet, we come on to Arianism. Arianism caused enough of a controversy that it sparked the Council of Nicaea (AD 325) and the original form of the Nicene Creed which we still use today. Arius taught that the Son was less divine in some sense than the Father. In response to this, we say in our Nicene Creed that we believe that the Son is “God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, consubstantial with the Father”. It then took another 56 years for another Council to agree that the Holy Spirit was also equally divine. So the Son is not the Father nor the Holy Spirit, yet all three are equally God and cannot be divided.

It is worthwhile to glance at the Athanasian Creed. It has not made it into the rites of Common Worship because of its dubious authorship, however it is a very careful and full expression of the doctrine of the Trinity within the realms of orthodoxy.

*****

In all of the lectionary readings for Trinity Sunday, we see the various persons of the Trinity at work. In Paul’s epistle to the Romans, he states that “God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us.” This shows the Holy Spirit as God’s continuing presence here on earth that mediates God’s love for us all. Additionally, our Gospel reading adds the Spirit’s role as a guide in all of our lives. In the week after Pentecost, the coming of the Holy Spirit on the first Apostles, it is fitting to remember the importance of this third person of the Trinity.

Psalm 8 speaks of God as Creator which is associated with God the Father (although, of course, the whole God created). However, God the Father is not the only person of the Trinity associated with creation. In Proverbs 8 we hear of Wisdom acting “like a master worker” (a translation that is much disputed) in the act of creation. Now, compare this image of the “master worker” to the Son in the Nicene Creed through whom “all things were made” and you can see some clear overlap. There has therefore been a long tradition of relating the Son with the personified Wisdom. So God the Son played a role in creation. Our Gospel reading also affirms the equality of both the Son and the Father. Paul’s letter to the Romans then speaks of the role of the Son, incarnate in Christ. “[W]e have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ”. Christ, the second person of the Trinity in flesh, gives us peace by restoring our relationship with God.

Despite the complexity and ineffability of the Trinity, there are a disproportionate number of churches dedicated to the Holy Trinity in our Diocese (including our Cathedral and one of our Pro-Cathedrals).^[1] Why would we dedicate so many churches to an obscure and ungraspable doctrine? The Honorary Archivist at Holy Trinity Church, Geneva, has informed me that the Holy Trinity was chosen for the dedication of the church as an attempt to remain neutral. Various saints have different implications in different countries and so the dedication to Holy Trinity avoids any risk of offence to the visitor. This makes sense when we remember our status as guests in Europe. Incidentally, this also explains why there are many other neutral church names in the diocese such as Christ Church, All Saints and Holy Cross in our diocese. Of course, many churches in our diocese have taken a different approach and emphasised our Englishness by dedicating churches to St George as well.

The Holy Trinity is only an unbiased choice because it is at the core of our Christian faith. Since the 4th century it has been something all Christians agree on. We have touched on how the Nicene Creed came out of debates about the Trinity, and it is one of the wonderful things about Christianity than in any Christian church you step into on a Sunday morning, there is a strong chance that you will recognise and be able to join in with the Creed. When we proclaim the Creed, we do not simply say it as individuals, we proclaim it with the whole body of Christ spread out on earth.

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^[1] The Episcopal Church’s cathedral in Paris is also dedicated to the Holy Trinity

This week’s lectionary blog reflects on the Gospel reading for the coming Sunday, John 21.1-19. The two pictures which are used to illustrate the written material are both specially interesting, and there is a note about them below the reflection.

Clare Amos, Director of Lay Discipleship, Diocese in Europe

clare.amos@europe.anglican.org

‘And after this he said to him, ‘Follow me’. Have you ever realised that these words, spoken by Jesus to Peter near the end of the last chapter of the Gospel, are the very first occasion in John’s Gospel that Jesus has issued Peter the command – or invitation – to ‘Follow me?’ If you look at the beginning of the Gospel – to the time when Jesus is calling a range of disciples you find that the words are indeed said to others such as Philip – but not to Peter himself. To Peter Jesus rather offers a new name, saying to him, ‘You are Simon son of John – You are to be called Cephas which means Peter.’ (John 1.42) But there is no ‘Follow me’. That this omission is quite intentional is reinforced by a puzzling little conversation Jesus has with Peter on the night of the Last Supper, the night before Jesus’ death which runs as follows: ‘Simon Peter said to him, ‘Lord where are you going? Jesus answered, ‘Where I am going you cannot follow me now, you cannot follow me now; but you will follow afterwards.’ (John 13.36-38) Now at the very end of the Gospel it seems is the moment for that ‘afterwards’.

It is all very different in Mark or Matthew. In these Gospels it is at the very beginning of his ministry – as soon as he catches sight of Peter and his brother by the shore of the Sea of Galilee that Jesus calls out ‘Follow me’. They are the very first words Jesus utters to him. And immediately the nets are left and Peter has breathlessly set off on his journey of a life-time.

What a world of difference between those two moments of ‘Follow me!’ – and Peter’s response to them. The first one is the occasion when Peter impetuously sets off, fired up with excitement – perhaps fishing had been frustrating or fruitless that day or perhaps he was flattered by this sudden attention – so he sets off on a journey with Jesus not really having the faintest clue about where it will lead him. The second ‘Follow me’ is so different. Now he does not know too little. If anything he knows and remembers too much. He remembers that slow, painful process of coming to realise just who Jesus was; and then the even more painful discovery of a Jesus who confounded traditional expectations of how a Messiah should behave. He remembers the running away in the Garden and the shame of that threefold denial. And just in case Peter might have forgotten we have the memory of them etched into the biblical passage from John’s Gospel which we have just heard read.

For Jesus’ celebration of breakfast on the beach with his disciples is only possible through a charcoal fire – a charcoal fire that surely recalls a similar one which had been lit that night in the high priest’s house when Peter had said three times ‘I do not know the man.’ (John 18.18-27) And then there is the three-fold question ‘Simon son of John, do you love me?’, reminiscent surely of that same three fold denial. ‘Simon, son of John’, not with the addition of the name which Jesus had once given him, ‘You shall be called Peter’ for in truth so far he has not been a Rock to depend upon. Yet the encounter between Jesus and Peter on the sea-shore looks forward as well as back. So those words, ‘Feed my sheep, tend my lambs’ offer Peter not merely forgiveness, or even a personal relationship with the Risen Lord but an invitation to a wider ministry and mission. Peter’s future role in the life of the Christian community is being written in to the restoration of his relationship with Jesus.

Of course we have read elsewhere in this Gospel just what it means to be a good shepherd, tending to the needs of the flock. We have heard that a good shepherd is prepared to lay down his life for the sheep (John 10.11). And this hint of Peter’s future is then made more explicit, with what seems like a direct prediction of the death Peter will one day meet, caring for the flock that has been entrusted to him in Rome.

And it is only after all this has been said that Jesus can finally offer Peter the challenge ‘Follow me’.

I sometimes think that one way of describing the life all of us have as Christians is that, like Peter, we live between those two moments of ‘follow me.‘ We have answered the challenge offered by the first, but we are still being made ready to respond fully to the deeper challenge of the second, the one that can only come ‘afterwards’, after we have learned not only to accompany Jesus in his life, but also through his death.

How precisely this works out may differ for each of us individually depending on our own personal Christian story – but we are all in some way travelling with Jesus on a journey that began with our response to his first grace-filled invitation, may have taken us through some mistaken twists and turns, but gradually enables us to come to understand more about the nature of our travelling companion on the road, and eventually begin to discern all that it might mean for us, preparing us to begin to make our fuller response.

And I do think it is significant that in John’s account this latter ‘Follow me’ is accompanied by a task, a commission, so that following Jesus does not lead merely to our own salvation but to an engagement in ministry and mission with and for others.

Yet of course it is not only in Jesus’ death that we accompany him – but also in his resurrection, a resurrection which has led to the beginning of a new world, a new creation. Here in John 21 there are echoes of that new creation. Once again God has proclaimed ‘Let there be light’, the sun has risen, the darkness of the night is being dispelled, and the seas are teeming with life. The motif of Jesus offering us a new creation, a new Genesis, which John teases us with throughout this Gospel, beginning with his opening words ‘In the beginning’, comes now to its final fulfilment.

Significantly this new creation both recalls of the old – yet also transforms it. For the disciples this means that they have gone back to Galilee, to their old occupation as fishermen, and it is in familiar Galilee that this new creation will dawn, but only when they at last start to see reality through new eyes. Like them we too are summoned ‘to let the morning sun rise on our perceptions of God’s world, to stop looking at things the old way, blundering along in the dark, wondering why we aren’t catching any fish to speak of.’ (Tom Wright)

Do you know CS Lewis ‘Voyage of the Dawn Treader’? It is my favourite of the Narnia books. Near the end of the story the children begin to wade through the seas of the uttermost east towards a shore on which they meet a lamb standing by a fire who offers them breakfast. The resonances with John 21 are obvious – and deliberate. But as they are wading through the waters the children look towards the horizon, the place where sea meets the sky. We know that normally this is an optical illusion which will disappear as we get nearer.

But, as Lewis puts it in his story, ‘as they went on they got the strangest impression that here at last the sky really did come down and join the earth – a blue wall, very bright, but real and solid: more like glass than anything else. And that’s what John’s Gospel wants to say to us too: in this new creation now inaugurated by Jesus heaven and earth have met together and touched each other, for the Son of Man has been raised up to be in his own body the ladder that has joined them together. This is indeed creation with a difference!

And it is this new creation that has become the location where we tentatively, fearfully, hopefully, are being called to discover what it might mean to respond to Jesus’ ‘follow me’ in our own time and place. In the incarnation of God in Christ the word became flesh, and through Christ’s crucifixion and resurrection God promises that the gateway and bridge between earth and heaven will never be shut. So the word continues to become flesh but it now becomes our mission, through the Spirit, to become the pathway through which this truth is made real in our world.

Holy Communion, Eucharist, invites us to share that breakfast on the beach, that sacrament of new creation. In our speaking of words and eating and drinking of bread and wine, we are living out what it means to proclaim the word become flesh. And what will we, must we, do when we leave this act of worship to be agents of Christ’s mission in our world? Listen to Bishop Tom Wright as he gives us his answer:

“The word became flesh, said St John, and the Church has turned the flesh back into words: words of good advice, words of comfort, words of wisdom and encouragement, yes, but what changes the world is flesh, words with skin on them, words that hug you and cry with you and play with you and love you and rebuke you and build houses with you and teach your children in school.

…So Peter there is work for you to do. You are going to leave the fish business, which you know so much about; you’re going to leave it for good, and you’re going into the sheep business instead, which at the moment you know precious little about. I want you to feed my lambs. I want you to look after my sheep. I want you to be you, because I love you and have redeemed you; and I want you to work for me, because out there, there are other people that I love, and I want you to be my word-become-flesh, my love sitting with them, praying with them, crying with them, celebrating with them. And how can you do it?… Peter, don’t just tell them in words. Turn the words into flesh once more. Tell them by the marks of the nails in your hands. Tell them by your silent sharing of their grief, by your powerful and risky advocacy of them when they have nobody else to speak up for them. Tell them by giving up your life for them, so that when they find you they will find me. And Peter, remember: follow me.” (© Tom Wright)

*****

The picture at the head of the blog is part of a fresco depicting scenes in the life of Christ that covers the walls of the small church of All Saints in Pissouri, Cyprus, painted by the British artist John Corbidge in 2002. Corbidge especially cherished the colour blue – and the brilliance of ‘blue’ in this fresco is part of its glory. Within the church the words of the Greek writer Odysseas Elytis are quoted on a plaque, ‘O Lord, how much blue you use so that we cannot see you.’ The use of blue in religious art gives pause for thought, ‘Unlike gold, which reflects light, … deep blue holds light, absorbing our gaze into its pellucid depths.’ (Victoria Emily Jones),

The picture further down is an icon of St Peter which is part of the collection of icons at St Catherine’s monastery, Sinai. It dates from c. 6^th century and is one of the oldest icons in existence. Because, by the time of the iconoclastic movement, during which many icons were destroyed, Sinai was already under Muslim rule, the writ of the Byzantine emperors which decreed the destruction of icons was not enforced in St Catherine’s. Therefore many of the most ancient icons still existing can be found in the collection at this monastery. The humanity of Peter shines through the way he is portrayed in this icon.

I am grateful to Canon Alan Amos, retired priest with PTO in the Diocese in Europe, for offering us this reflection on John 20.19-31, the lectionary Gospel for this Sunday.

Clare Amos, Director of Lay Discipleship, Diocese in Europe

Clare.amos@europe.anglican.org

The picture above is titled ‘The Incredulity of Sant Thomas’. It is a well-known early Renaissance painting to be found in Siena by Duccio di Buoninsegna, who created an altarpiece for the Cathedral in Siena composed of many individual paintings, which were commissioned by the city authorities in 1308.

It is said that the artist moved away from the influence of traditional Byzantine art towards a more ‘realistic’ form of representation. But realism has its limits, as we shall see. In some ways the Byzantine tradition concerning St. Thomas was carried forward, as he is shown as a beardless young man, possibly the youngest of the apostles. Perhaps his youth was used to excuse his blunt scepticism when told of the appearance of Christ to the other apostles; perhaps also, if he was the youngest, he had been given a duty that took him away from the immediate assembly at that first Easter day: perhaps he was guarding the door.

However, it is easy for representational art to lead us astray. Let me explain. This takes me back to around 1974, when I was a priest working in ecumenical education in Beirut.

I well remember a chance meeting in the street with Father Anoushavan, an Armenian Orthodox priest who was a friend. For some reason we got talking about Saint Thomas the Apostle, and I referred to the way that Thomas placed his hand into the side of Jesus at his appearance in the upper room; Father Anoushavan was shocked: ‘No, no!’ he said, ‘Thomas would never have done such a thing! Look at the words of the Gospel.’ And so I did.

And far from my recollection from Sunday School days of the telling of this story, if we look at the Gospel text carefully, we see that it is actually Jesus’ knowledge – through and through – of Thomas and the words that Thomas had previously uttered which completely convinced Thomas and brought him to say ‘My Lord and My God.’ The invitation of Jesus to touch his wounds was a loving challenge to Thomas filled with more than a touch of irony, which was surely felt by Thomas as a reproof of his lack of faith; and rather than carrying out his crass ‘promise’ boastfully given to his fellows the previous week, he now makes his confession of faith as an immediate response, as he hears his own earlier faithless words now coming from the mouth of Jesus. And so he makes the fullest confession of faith that we find in the New Testament. Jesus then goes on to say ‘Thomas because you have seen me, you have believed‘ (no mention of  ‘touch‘ here!) and continues  ‘blessed are those who have not seen, and yet have believed.‘

This shows the way in which, though art can often be helpful, it can also mislead. So much easier for an artist to show Thomas reaching into Christ’s wounds, than to capture Thomas at the moment of great surprise and of ‘conversion‘ as he hears his own words coming now from the mouth of Christ!

We have seen earlier in John’s Gospel how it is Christ’s knowledge of a person  ‘through and through ‘ that brings that person to faith. Nathaniel doubted that any good thing could come out of Nazareth. But then he meets Jesus, who knows Nathaniel for who he really is ‘an Israelite without guile.‘ And then receives from Nathaniel the affirmation  ‘you are the Son of God; you are the King of Israel!  ‘

And that makes us pause for thought and think of the knowledge that Christ the eternal Word of God has of you and of me. We are known ‘inside out.‘ We do not have to explain ourselves when we turn in prayer to God. We are known and loved for who we are. Is that so very strange when we acknowledge that we are God’s creatures, called now to partake in a new creation?

In church tradition, Thomas is linked to mission to Sri Lanka and India, and greatly revered in South India as the one who brought true faith in Christ. Perhaps, we might say, only one who truly knows how to doubt, truly knows how to believe, and to bring others to faith.

We live in a Europe which is riven with doubt and scepticism as well as downright unbelief. The observed role of religion in the conflicts of our world hardly encourages faith among those who can think outside the limits of their own cultures. We are not going to call people to faith by shouting more loudly about the Gospel. We might have more success by living it; if people can see in us something of the humility, wisdom and discernment of Christ, in which doubts are faced honestly, and if we are not strangers to self-criticism and self-examination. We cannot call the sceptic to faith unless we are familiar ourselves with the ready temptations to scepticism which come to all thoughtful believers. We tread the path of faith together ‘nonetheless.‘ The love of Christ constrains us.

A few weeks ago I remembered a great scientist whose life spanned the connection between Geneva and Britain. His name – Robert Boyle – came to mind when I met his namesake, who may be a distant relative, when I was taking his mother’s funeral in Geneva. You can probably remember ‘Boyle’s Law‘ from schooldays: this shows how the pressure of a gas will increase as the volume of the container decreases. What I did not know about Robert Boyle until very recently was that he held together faith and doubt in his life and in his writing. It is said that he wrote as much about the nature of God as of the nature of air.

Robert Boyle (1627 -1691) came from a distinguished Anglo-Irish family, who sent him as an adolescent to an  ‘exemplary Protestant family‘ in Geneva to pursue his studies for five years. While he was with them, he experienced a religious conversion. At first his faith was formed within Calvinism, but when back in England, he moved on to a broader Anglican perspective. This was partly through conversation with friends, among whom was Gilbert Burnet, bishop of Salisbury. And enquiry in matters of religion became as important to Boyle as enquiry in matters of science.

 He wrote that ‘the Perplexity his doubts created oblig’d him to remove them to be seriously inquisitive of the Truth of the very fundamentals of Christianity‘ And he said that although  ‘we cannot often give a Reason for what we believe, we should be ever able to give a Reason why we believe it.’ And he stated that ‘there is nothing worse taken up upon Trust than Religion.‘ And so this eminent scientist applied to his own faith the gift of an enquiring mind.

If you wish to read more about this fascinating man, and his journey of faith, you can follow this link : Doubt Can Aid Faith : Proslogion (drwile.com)

I conclude this blog with another word from Boyle: ‘He whose Faith never Doubted, may justly doubt of his Faith’.

This Holy Week blog is written with reference to the accounts of Jesus’ passion, especially as told in the Gospels of Luke and John, rather than relating to one specific lectionary passage. The illustration above, taken at the Roman Catholic Church of St Jeanne d’Arc in Nice, shows the Lenten ‘hungercloth’ entitled ‘The Tree of Life’ commissioned by Misereor in Germany, and created by the Haitian artist Jacques-Richard Chery. It suggests how the Cross of Christ is both the Tree of Life and creates a bridge between earth and heaven. For more on the hungercloth see https://www.artway.eu/content.php?id=2108&action=show&lang=en

Why was Jesus crucified, and what did it mean, then and now? This question has two distinct ‘layers’ which between them relate to the (literally!) crucial core of our Christian faith. I have become increasingly convinced that we need to listen to both of these layers and allow them to interrogate each other. What do I mean by this?

Well at one level I can answer the question ‘Why was Jesus crucified?’ by talking about the immediate historical and political context in which the event took place. Palestine in the time of Jesus was part of the Roman Empire, with parts of it (Jerusalem, Judaea and Samaria) ruled directly by Roman prefects or procurators, and other areas (e.g. Galilee) ruled by behalf of the Romans by Jewish client kings such as Herod Antipas. A primary concern of the Romans was to ensure the Pax Romana throughout the Empire and they were very nervous indeed about potential political agitators who might upset this ‘peace’. The Jewish religious leadership, closely associated with the Temple in Jerusalem, straddled an uneasy fence between keeping the Roman authorities happy and ensuring the continuance of Jewish religious privileges, including the well-being of the Temple, and the right of Jews not to participate in the Roman cult of emperor worship. They did not want their apple-cart upset! The Gospel of Luke, in particular, tells us quite a lot about this political background, and explores key elements of the story of Jesus’ birth, ministry, passion and death in its light.

In this context I would answer the question ‘Why was Jesus crucified?’ by suggesting something upon the following lines: Jesus was crucified because he was seen by both the Roman authorities and the Jewish religious leadership as a potential threat to the status quo and to their respective interests, political or religious. The excitement of his ministry in Galilee had travelled before him.  As he approached Jerusalem, the way he was greeted by the crowds as a potential ‘king’, a ‘son of David’, when he descended the Mount of Olives and entered the city made both groups very nervous. This was considerably exacerbated by Jesus’ actions on entering the Temple – that so-called ‘cleansing’ (but which actually probably meant quite a lot more). Was this intended as the opening sally in an insurrection? We are given quite a strong impression that from this moment the Jewish religious leadership wanted rid of him, and that they had Roman support in doing so. In the final analysis Jesus was crucified, which was a Roman punishment carried out under the auspices of the Roman authorities, largely inflicted upon the despised classes of Roman society and upon those who were considered guilty of rebellion, actual or potential. The question of the precise sharing out of the responsibility for Jesus’ execution between the Roman political authorities and Jewish religious leadership has long been debated. I suspect that both groups played a part.

And that crucifixion of Jesus should have been the end of the story. Only it wasn’t. If it had been the end of the story I would not be writing this reflection today, and we would not be about to enter the ‘Triduum’, the holiest three days of the Christian year, culminating in Easter Sunday.

That it was not the end of the story was due to the experience of some Jesus’ friends a few days later.  They believed that God had raised Jesus from the dead. That changed everything.

The great Bishop John V Taylor put it like this: ‘Where did Christian theology come from? Why wasn’t [Jesus’s] death the end of the story and the fall of the curtain on the whole movement? The only answer I believe is the resurrection… reflection on the death of a martyr may lead to a conviction that resurrection is promised to him at the end of time… but the claim that the eschatological resurrection had in one man’s case taken place within the ongoing course of history was unprecedented… something else must have given rise to that unparalleled belief… He appeared. He was seen. That was the tradition handed down. There is a happened-ness in Easter which turned utter darkness into a blaze of light… it is the fact of his resurrection that makes the fact of his death universally significant and redemptive.’

More briefly Anglican priest and theologian Alan Jones comments, ‘At first [in the church’s life] the doctrine of the resurrection of Jesus was the cardinal teaching of Christianity.  Whether we like it or not, we cannot escape from the fact that historically Christianity was founded upon the belief in the resurrection’.

Now we can argue over what precise form the resurrection of Jesus took – and for myself, I want to hold on to that sense of mystery that is engendered in those Gospel accounts in which the resurrected Jesus can meet with his friends on a road to Emmaus, in a garden, or while having breakfast on the beach, without them realising immediately who was with them.  But that Christian faith was founded upon a belief in the resurrection of Jesus is apparent from even a cursory reading of Paul’s letters and the Book of Acts.

A contemporary Anglican theologian (who prefers to be anonymous) echoes this from their own experience. ‘For me the resurrection of Jesus Christ is a matter of faith rather than fact. However it is also for me a matter of fact rather than faith that the life, growth, development and witness of the early church depended upon the community’s belief that Jesus Christ had been raised by God from the dead – in whatever precise form his resurrection was understood to have taken place.’

And it was this belief in the resurrection on the part of the early Christians that in turn ‘forced’ the asking of the second ‘layer’ of the question, ‘Why was Jesus crucified?’  So the question now became: Why did God allow Jesus to die, and in particular to die in this horrible and degrading way? What was (and is) its meaning and purpose? And over the past two millennia a variety of answers have been given to this question. They have included: Jesus’ dying enabled the definitive victory of God over the forces of evil. Jesus’ dying enabled a reconciliation between God’s thirst and demand for justice, and God’s infinite compassion*.  Jesus’ dying offers an example for human beings that helps in itself to transform us.

I cherish the fact that in historic Christian theology, and certainly in the Anglican tradition, no one single answer to this second layer question has ever been considered normative to the exclusion of the others. However most people tend to ‘opt’ for one way of answering the question, and tend somehow to incorporate aspects of the other answers in to it. For me, ‘reconciliation’ has increasingly become my own lodestar and dominant motif in reflecting on the crucifixion of Jesus.  But though my starting point for reflecting on ‘reconciliation’ is that great New Testament affirmation ‘God was in Christ reconciling the world to himself… and has given us the ministry of reconciliation’ (2 Corinthians 5.18), the theme of ‘reconciliation’ speaks to me of a deep and often necessarily painful holding together of polarities and tensions in a way that can offer new life, across the whole gamut of human – and divine – experience.

These are some of the ways in which reconciliation speaks to me in relation to the death of Christ:

• To return to my first ‘layer’ question ‘Why did Jesus die?’ – I believe that his death happened because he held together in his own person the different possible ways of reacting to the Roman rule of his day: those polarities of challenging it (like the Zealots), colluding with it (like the religious authorities), or seeking to run away from it (e.g. to join the monastic community by the Dead Sea). He refused to be ‘captured’ by any one response, but to hold them together in himself was (literally) excruciating.
• Jesus’ death somehow ‘reconciles’ the tension between universality and particularity which runs throughout Scripture, in both the Old Testament and the New.
• Jesus’ death holds together both the spiritual and the material realms.
• Jesus’ own death in some way reconciles life and death.
• Jesus’ death holds together power and powerlessness, and suggests that the latter can become a source of the former.
• Jesus’ death reconciles a vision of God as infinitely holy, distant, and unknowable, and God as completely present and accessible
• Jesus in his death becomes ‘the great bridge-builder’ (CS Lewis, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader). He reconciles earth and heaven. Especially in the Gospel of John his ‘lifting up’ on the cross becomes the bridge that creates a link between the two.
• Jesus’ death actually ‘reconciles’ the two ‘layers’ of that question with which I began ‘Why did Jesus die?’ It holds together the reality that the death occurred for concrete historical reasons linked to the political realities of the 1^st century AD, and yet also has a role in the eternal economy of God.
• Jesus’ death therefore has wisdom both for the political realities and challenges of our own time, but is not ‘exhausted’ by these.
• Understanding Jesus’ death as reconciliation requires us to take seriously the demands of justice, not least because in human terms it was a flagrant example of injustice, but also requires us to remember that justice needs to meet with and ‘kiss’, steadfast love, faithfulness and peace (Psalm 85.10)
• Understanding Jesus’ death in terms of reconciliation does not exclude those other ‘threads’ of response to it to which I referred above, but interrogates them. For example when we speak of Jesus’ death as offering a victory over the forces of evil, reconciliation requires us to seek a victory which redeems rather than destroys.

As I was writing this I found myself reflecting on the way that the Lord’s Prayer, so central to the practice of our faith, itself seeks to ‘reconcile’ many of these polarities. Hence the title for this week: ‘On earth as it is in heaven’.

So to the final question we are obliged to ask: ‘What does it mean to understand Jesus’ death as reconciliation in our world of today?’:

• The world in which the place of human beings within the fabric of creation is now being discussed increasingly seriously?
•  In which the continuing COVID crisis and its consequences has highlighted deep injustices?
•  In which, for us in Europe, the wicked war in Ukraine has now called into question so many assumptions about our continent and our vision of peace?

These inescapable questions set for us the agenda of ‘doing theology’ in Holy Week and Easter at our present time.

*The Book of Common Prayer language of ‘satisfaction’ is an expression of this view, but it is not the only possible expression.

The lectionary blog for this coming Sunday focuses on the ‘Gospel of the Palms’, Luke 19.28-40. But the liturgy of Palm Sunday moves quickly from this moment of apparent triumph to Jesus’ suffering and death only a few days later, events which are of course also our focus on Good Friday. Next week’s blog will reflect on the meaning of the crucifixion and will take as its starting-point the challenge of ‘Peace in heaven?’ that is presented by Luke’s Gospel of the Palms.

Clare Amos, Director of Lay Discipleship, clare.amos@europe.anglican.org

Luke’s account of Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem has got the capacity to bring out the pedant in me! Because if you read the biblical text carefully,  Luke 19.28-40, you will see that Luke’s Gospel, unlike the other three, nowhere mentions ‘palms’ – or any other kind of greenery. So, in the years when Luke is the lectionary gospel, should we in fact be referring to ‘Palm Sunday’? In truth, I am perfectly well aware that there are more important things to worry about – especially at the present time! But it is an indication perhaps that Luke’s account of this crucial episode in the life and ministry of Jesus has some significant difference of emphases, when compared with the other three Gospels. Luke’s account somehow feels slightly less ‘triumphal’. For example, the word ‘Hosanna’ also doesn’t actually appear in his narrative – though the word is prominent in Matthew, Mark and John.

Conversely Luke’s is the only account of the episode in which the word ‘Peace’ appears (Luke 19.38). It’s not there in the other Gospels. In Luke’s account the name ‘the Mount of Olives’ is also more prominent at the heart of the story, ‘As he was now approaching the path down from the Mount of Olives’ (Luke 19.37). Given the age-old association between olives and peace I think this may too be significant. It also of course builds a connection with the agony in the garden that Jesus is shortly to endure – since the name of this garden, at the foot of the Mount of Olives actually means, ‘Olive press’ (Gethsemane).

Luke 19.41-44 are not part of the lectionary Gospel. There may be good reasons for this, but in some ways it is a pity, since these verses, which speak of Jesus weeping over Jerusalem, continue the theme of ‘peace’ which has been introduced just above. ‘If you, even you, had only recognised on this day the things that make for peace! But now they are hidden from your eyes’ (Luke 19.41-42). Jesus’ words include a deliberate ‘pun’ on the name ‘Jerusalem’, the city which has ‘peace’ (shalom) in its very name, but which has patently often not experienced ‘peace’ throughout the millennia of its existence.

The continuing use of the motif of ‘peace’ in Luke 19.41-44, encourages us to go back and look more closely at the first time it appears in the story, in Luke 19.38. It is part of the cry of ‘the whole multitude of the disciples’ as Jesus begins to descend the mountain towards the gates of Jerusalem:

‘Blessed is the king, who comes in the name of the Lord!

Peace in heaven, and glory in the highest heaven!’

What is fascinating (but rarely noticed) is that this is the counter-point of the message sung by the angels at Jesus’ birth,

‘Glory to God in the highest heaven,

And on earth peace, goodwill among people’. (Luke 2.14)

So the angels of the nativity sing of peace on earth, while on ‘Palm Sunday’ the disciples sing of ‘Peace in heaven.’

Who got it right, the angels or the disciples? I owe the following thought to a reflection originally offered by Fred Kaan in Wisdom is Calling. Kaan comments:

[The song of the disciples] ‘is a completely crazy and total misrepresentation of what God had in mind from the beginning. The angels sang, ‘peace on earth’. The followers of Jesus sang, ‘peace in heaven’ – many of them still do, whereas we should be on the side of the angels. Peace in heaven is none of our business. As earthly disciples we should not waste our imagination and emotions on envisaging peace in heaven, because we are human beings inhabiting ….[the earth] which we are called to fill with the Father’s glory’.

Given the lack of peace at the present time in our world, and especially in our continent of Europe, this is a salutary observation. To focus on ‘peace in heaven’ is certainly diversionary, but it can also be potentially dangerous. In my experience of working in interreligious relations for the Anglican Communion and the World Council of Churches, a theme that I have frequently found myself focusing on is that of religiously motivated violence.  I think it is not too much to say that there can be a connection between wanting everything to be right ‘in heaven’, and taking violent steps ‘on earth’ to enforce our religious ideals. And it is not just an ‘issue’ for non-Christian religions. Certainly there is increasing (and I think justified) reflection at the moment about the ‘religious’ component of the Russian motivation for the attack on Ukraine. For some at least of the Russian leadership, both religious and political, their actions may, in a distorted sort of way, be an attempt to enforce ‘peace in heaven and glory in the highest heaven’.

And if the ‘multitude of the disciples’ on that first Palm Sunday got it wrong when they sang ‘peace in heaven’, then that perhaps helps to explain the otherwise puzzling comment of Jesus at the end those verses which have described his weeping over the city. Jesus suggests the pain that Jerusalem and her people would suffer was due to the fact that ‘[you] did not recognize the time of your visitation from God.’ (Luke 19.44) On the surface at least those who sang with a loud voice to welcome Jesus to Jerusalem, did ‘recognize’ their visitation. But was it perhaps that their singing of ‘peace in heaven and glory in the highest heaven’ presented a challenge to ‘peace on earth and goodwill among people’, and did not really comprehend the vocation of the one who came to be ‘Prince of Peace’? Is this why the pain of Jerusalem, that beautiful, and ‘competitively loved’* city, has  cried aloud in its stones for the last two thousand years and we can still hear its sound of suffering even today?

* ‘competitively loved’ was a phrase often used of Jerusalem and the Holy Land by Bishop Kenneth Cragg, Anglican bishop, poet, specialist in Christian-Muslim relations and friend.

(The blog for the coming week will continue to explore the theme of ‘peace’, linked to Jesus’ crucifixion, and reflect on how this event at the heart of our faith may indeed link peace in heaven and on earth.)

This week’s lectionary blog focuses on the Gospel reading, John 12.1-8, which tells of the anointing of Jesus by Mary of Bethany. It also draws on the Old Testament reading Isaiah 43.16-21 and the appointed psalm, Psalm 126. Apologies for the delay in posting this week – due to various exceptional factors.

Clare Amos, Director of Lay Discipleship, clare.amos@europe.anglican.org

All the four Gospels tell of an incident in which Jesus is anointed (or washed) by a woman, but there are intriguing differences between them. In Mark and Matthew it is Jesus’ head that is anointed, in Luke and John it is his feet. In Matthew, Mark and John the incident is clearly related to Jesus’ forthcoming passion and acts as a pre-emptive anointing for his burial; in Luke the incident is placed earlier in Jesus’ ministry and the woman’s actions are linked to her own past as a ‘sinner’.

During the history of the church the passages have often been conflated: with the unfortunate (but telling!) result that the unnamed woman of Matthew and Mark, and the woman named as Mary of Bethany in this Sunday’s Gospel, John 12.1-8, tend also to have been viewed as ‘repentant sinners’, and their actions seen primarily in that light. There are far far more visual examples of Luke’s account of the tale certainly than the story as told by Mark and Matthew, when the pouring of the oil actually over the head of Jesus, recalls the actions of prophets of the Old Testament and their role in the anointing of kings.

Equally the story as related here in the Gospel of John, once we look at it closely, has some particular and distinctive insights to share, which are fundamental to John’s understanding of who Jesus was and what he had come to do.

Even a cursory reading of John 12.1-8 brings out the emphasis on the perfume, and in particular its scent., ‘The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume’ (John 12.3). That note does not appear in the story as told in the other Gospels. However it is intriguing that in the previous chapter of John’s Gospel there had also been another reference to smell – of a rather less pleasant kind. For as Jesus instructs the stone to be taken away from in front of Lazarus’ grave the ever-practical Martha (for whom I feel a great deal of sympathy and fellow-feeling!) comments, ‘Lord, already there is a stench for he has been dead for four days.’ (John 11.39). It suggests that the two incidents, the raising of Lazarus, and the anointing of Jesus, are to be read and interpreted alongside each other. If we failed to spot that through the reference to smell, then it is made crystal clear for us by the way that the Gospel introduces this incident at the supper, ‘Jesus came to Bethany, the home of Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead’ (John 12.1).

The raising of Lazarus, and the anointing of Jesus at Lazarus’ own home in Bethany belong together, and between them they take us to the very heart of the Gospel of John. There is a very strong hint offered in the Gospel that it was precisely because of the ‘excitement’ generated by Jesus’ raising of Lazarus, that the high-priestly leadership felt that Jesus had become a danger to their accommodation with the Roman authorities and therefore needed to be ‘sacrificed’ himself in order to ensure the safety of ‘the nation’.  (John 11.47-53).  

But that connection between the two moments of smell, one of beauty and the other linked to death, provides a powerful reminder of that biblical pattern reflected in this week’s psalm (Psalm 126) , which suggests that weeping leads to joy, and that life is drawn out of death.

John 11 and John 12 are the core central chapters of John’s Gospel, which is a Gospel whose goal is life (see John 20.31). They tell us of how life and death are intertwined, of how Jesus brought life out of death, not merely by his actions (in terms of what he did for Lazarus), but ultimately through his own dying which is provoked precisely by those actions.  They take us deep into the mystery of the cross. But they also take us deep into another mystery that John’s Gospel explores for us – that of Jesus’ incarnation.  There is a powerful physicality about these chapters – both in the story they tell and how they describe Jesus himself as actor and recipient.

It is interesting to note that in our short lectionary Gospel John 12.1-8 we have all five of the human senses directly referred to or implied in the story: smell, touch, taste, hearing, sight. And of course in chapter 11 we have that infamous shortest verse of the New Testament, ‘Jesus began to weep’ (John 11.35), which is surely a powerful expression of Jesus’ humanity. To return to John 12, we often fail to realise how physically ‘shocking’ the story is – especially in the context of its time and place. Presumably in order to wipe Jesus’ feet with her hair Mary would have needed to remove her headcovering, which to this day women in many Middle Eastern countries would wear, except in front of their closest family.  As many commentators acknowledge her profoundly personal physical actions have an erotic edge. They are daring and potentially dangerous, but they are also part of what it means to be a human being relating to another human being.

‘I am about to do a new thing’, is a line from this week’s Old Testament reading, Isaiah 43.16-21. In John’s Gospel the one who became incarnate as a human being is bringing to birth a new creation, a new Genesis (you only have to read John 1.1 to realise that!) This Gospel is indeed the story  of a new creation, including a new humanity. And a key aspect of this new humanity is that it re-sets the relationship between men and women – which after the events of Genesis 3 had been marked primarily by fear, caution, imbalance and violence. John 12.1-8 is a risky story: it is risky because it both hints at the risks Jesus needed to undertake to bring about the new humanity, but it also suggests that if we want to be part of this new humanity it can sometimes be a risky business. In honouring Mary’s loving gestures towards him, as indeed in weeping for Lazarus (‘See how he loved him’, John 11.36) Jesus shows himself willing to accept the risk of love.

And one other thing. John 12 is followed by John 13. This is a chapter which focuses on Jesus washing the feet of his disciples. Is it just possible that part of the ‘risk’ Jesus was to take in inaugurating this new creation was to allow himself to be influenced by the gesture of Mary, that woman, who only a few days earlier had washed his own?

This week’s lectionary blog takes as its focus the story of the Prodigal Son, Luke 15.1-32, which is the Gospel reading selected for Lent 4.

Clare Amos, Director of Lay Discipleship

clare.amos@europe.anglican.org

Much though I appreciate the desire to celebrate ‘Mothering Sunday’ it has its problems. It can be a very painful day for people who are involuntarily childless, or who are or have been caught up in painful family hostility. It also somehow disrupts the ‘flow’ of Lent: though in fact both of the alternative Gospel readings suggested by the lectionary do directly or indirectly provide a link to Jesus’ passion, that is rarely picked up in the festivities linked to Mothering Sunday.

The date of course was originally selected because in the BCP the Epistle for the Fourth Sunday of Lent from Galatians 4, includes a reference to ‘mother’, ’the other woman [Sarah] corresponds to the Jerusalem above; she is free, and she is our mother’ (Galatians 4.26). In fact I think the reading from Galatians probably intends to prioritise ‘Jerusalem’ over our earthly mothers, but that has been rather forgotten in the usual focus of Mothering Sunday.

It is a peculiarly English and Church of England custom to celebrate mothers in March: and I am not sure how well it works liturgically, with the possible exception of years (such as in fact this one) in which Mothering Sunday falls close enough to March 25 to be linked in some way to the Annunciation. In many of the countries in which our Diocese ministers, ‘Mothers’ are celebrated at some point in May, and on the whole I think that may work better.

One of my gripes however is that a focus on Mothering Sunday can displace biblical texts and themes that are important not to lose. One such reading is the Gospel offered this year for Lent 4 in the Common Worship lectionary, though it is intriguing that this reading, as well as the other Gospels suggested for Lent 4 in Years A and B, all do contain an oblique reference to parents (so in theory the link could be made).

However I certainly think it is a pity to forget about the Gospel for Lent 4 in this particular lectionary year, as it is Luke 15.10-32 the story of the Prodigal Son, which is one of the most beloved parables of Jesus – and which, if it is displaced by Mothering Sunday, does not get much of a look in the Sunday lectionary.

If you asked a cross section of people who self-identify as Christian which of Jesus’ parables they knew and cherished the most, there is a fair likelihood that a considerable majority of them would point to this one, generally known as the Parable of the Prodigal Son – though it equally could be called the Parable of the Forgiving Father (which allows for the oblique link to Mothering Sunday!)

It is cherished partly because it speaks so profoundly about God’s acceptance – as in fact does George Herbert’s wonderful poem ‘Love bade me welcome’ which often springs to my mind when I am reflecting on this parable. Years ago, when I lectured in Old Testament at the Near East School of Theology in Beirut, my colleague who taught New Testament in the N.E.S.T. was Kenneth Bailey who wrote a classic and still much loved book called The Cross and the Prodigal (well worth reading!). Ken’s book observed how, if one looked at the parable through Middle Eastern eyes, we can gain new insights that are not as obvious to western readers. 

One such insight was the scandalous behaviour of the father in running to welcome back his errant son. In the Middle East one still shows one’s dignity and importance by walking in a slow and measured fashion. That tradition used to get me into trouble in those years when Alan and I lived in Beirut. In those days I frequently ran – not necessarily because I was in a hurry, but as part of my personality and the joy of life. My running was noticed and disapproved of: first because I was supposed to behave like a learned professor at the theological seminary, and secondly because I was also a khouriye (priest’s wife) – married to the Anglican chaplain in the city. A ‘word’ was spoken to Alan about the need for him to ensure that his wife comported herself with more decorum than she was wont to do. There was even a salutary tale told of a minister in the local Lebanese Protestant church who had had a significant appointment rescinded because he too turned out to be a ‘runner’.  

A mark of how much this Gospel parable is loved is surely the way that it is alluded to in the post-Communion prayer, originally written by David Frost for Series 3, but which has continued to be used in Common Worship because of its beauty and the way that it ‘speaks’ to us. ‘Father of all, we give you thanks and praise, that when we were still far off, you met us in your Son and brought us home…’  I do not think that I am wrong to see in the words, ‘… we were still far off, you met us…’ a deliberate allusion to the meeting in the parable of the Father with his recalcitrant son.

It is interesting to reflect briefly on the three protagonists in the story: the father, and his two sons, the younger and the elder. I appreciate the portrayal of the three in the statue created by the Episcopalian artist Margaret Adams Parker at Duke University, USA which is used (with permission) as an illustration this week. I am ‘grabbed’ by the sense of vulnerability of the father it offers us. And what of the sons?

When I first undertook academic biblical studies in the 1970s, the views of Joachim Jeremias were all the rage. Jeremias’ key tenet was that the parables of Jesus were not allegorical, and that each had one key central point that was really all we should focus on. I have to say that as regards Jeremias I have been there, done that and rather come out the other side. For I do believe that without necessarily being full blown allegories, many of the parables of Jesus contain allusions and links that it is intended that we pick up and that unless we do our reading of the parable is impoverished. I particularly think that about the parables that are special to the Gospel of Luke, which of course includes the Parable of the Prodigal Son. So who is represented by the father, and who by each of the two sons?

I find David Frost’s prayer a helpful interpretive tool for this exploration. The link between the words of the prayer, ‘when we were still far off’  and the Gospel phrases, ‘but while he was still far off, his father saw him… ran and put his arms around him and kissed him’, encourages us to identify ourselves as the Prodigal, greeted by the heavenly Father and welcomed to a home-coming banquet (which of course we have just shared in through the Eucharist).

Yet that is not the whole of the story, nor even of the prayer. For after the words, ‘When we were still far off’ the next line of the prayer goes, ‘you met us in your Son and brought us home.’ The words slip off the tongue so easily that we forget just how daring they might be. For what are we saying about ‘your Son’? Where is the prayer positioning him? Perhaps like many powerful prayers there is a hint of mystery and ambiguity around. Is the Son accompanying his Father to this meeting with us, or is he travelling with us as we journey in to meet the Father? Linguistically the phrasing of the prayer allows for either possibility.

I suspect that many who say the prayer implicitly assume that the Son is standing alongside his Father ready to greet us, for that is theologically perhaps the more orthodox or safer option. It is probably what I myself originally thought when I first came across this prayer. But if you take seriously the way that the prayer is resonating with a biblical story which is telling of a meeting between a father and a son, then logically perhaps the Son needs to be seen alongside us, on our side of this crucial meeting, accompanying us as we make our prodigal return to our Father’s house. And if that is the case then the breath-taking conclusion is that in and through this prayer we are identifying Jesus the Son with the prodigal son of the parable. This is not a totally original interpretation: in his well known book, The Return of the Prodigal Son, the spiritual writer Henri Nouwen reflects, ‘the mystery [is] that Jesus himself became the prodigal son for our sake… the young man being embraced by the Father is no longer just one repentant sinner, but the whole of humanity returning to God.’ⁱ It is a stunning thought to bear in mind whenever we pray this prayer. It is probably the interpretation I myself would ultimately hold to.  

There is however perhaps one further possibility which I would like at least to tease out. For the biblical parable speaks of two sons – an elder and a younger. The pictures (the statue at Duke University and the famous painting by Rembrandt) that accompany this reflection incorporate this elder son within the story – though they also make clear his unreconciled distance. One of the reasons that the lack of reconciliation in the parable between the two brothers feels so very painful is that Luke seems to have intended us to ‘read’ the story bearing in mind a number of Old Testament tales of brothers, most of all the story of Jacob and Esau. By contrast with the parable of Luke, Jacob and Esau are eventually reconciled: indeed the words which speak of their encounter, ‘Esau kissed him and they wept’ (Genesis 33.4) are curiously similar to the description of the reconciliation of the father and the son in Luke. Is it not possible then that when we say the words, ‘Father… you met us in your Son and brought us home’, we could also identify Jesus with the elder son? And if so he has in this prayer taken a leap beyond the pain, hostility, envy and separation of the parable and has chosen to stand at his Father’s side, welcoming us, his younger prodigal siblings, back home to his Father’s house where there are so many dwelling places that he has even helped to prepare for us. (John 14.2) 

This week’s blog focuses on the three Common Worship lectionary readings for Lent 3: Isaiah 55.1-9; I Corinthians 10.1-13; Luke 13.19

Clare Amos, Director of Lay Discipleship, Diocese in Europe

clare.amos@europe.anglican.org

What we are offered this week as our lectionary Gospel, Luke 13.1-9 feels quite problematic. My initial thought was to focus on this week’s Old Testament reading, Isaiah 55.1-9, which has long been a favourite passage of mine. But I resisted the temptation (well it is Lent!) and have determined to do my best with the Gospel, though as you will see I do draw in the Epistle and Old Testament reading later on.

After all, the key issue with which the passage is dealing is the problem of apparently unmerited human suffering – or it might be more accurate to say comparatively unmerited human suffering. And that is a topic that over the last two years that has been on the agenda of many people: first due to the pandemic and now in a different form because of the war in Ukraine.  Its actually a topic that has been around at least as long as Christianity and in fact much earlier. It is wrestled with in the pages of the Old Testament (par excellence in Job) and it was certainly explored in the religious and philosophical traditions of other Mediterranean peoples. One of the books that I have most appreciated reading in the last year or so (‘enjoy’ would not be quite the right word) engages with several aspects of this topic. The book is called Honest Sadness: Lament in a Pandemic Age by John Holdsworth and published by Sacristy Press.  John Holdsworth is an Old Testament scholar and teacher who was also Archdeacon in Cyprus 2010-19. The book ‘marries’ his biblical scholarship, his theological reflections on the suffering caused by the pandemic, and his experience of working with people in several parts of the Middle East. It also encompasses the deep sadness he had to experience during much of this period as his wife Sue suffered from and eventually died of Lewy body dementia. The book is considered, thoughtful and moving.

If we look at the Gospel passage we discover that two different kinds of human suffering are being referred to. The first, the killing by Pilate, of a number of Galileans (presumably in Jerusalem). That suffering is caused directly by the evil actions of human beings. The second example refers to a form of natural calamity, the fall of a tower in the area of Siloam (in Jerusalem). There may have been an element of shoddy workmanship that caused the collapse, but it is also possible that it was caused by something like a minor earthquake (frequent in the region). In terms of how most people think about the problem of suffering/evil – I suspect that the first kind (evil human action) is in some ways  easier to ‘accept’ than the second.

But in relation to both these kinds of suffering Jesus’ comments, as presented by Luke in these verses, feel harsh. Many of us associate the Jesus we meet with in the Gospel of Luke with ‘compassion’ (which is a word Luke uses more than the other Gospel writers). But initially at least there doesn’t seem to be much compassion in evidence in Jesus’ remarks to his disciples (or the crowd). Jesus seems to suggest that all are guilty – and have deservedly been punished. The only question around seems to be whether others will repent in time to avoid a similar fate. Such a viewpoint echoes certain strands of Old Testament spirituality which considers suffering as a punishment for sin, although this idea is profoundly challenged by other strands such as are found in the Book of Job.

And yet… that is not quite the end of the story. Because Jesus then goes on to tell the parable of the fig tree. As Luke shares it with us, it is the tale of a barren tree being offered one last chance to prove itself by bearing fruit – that last chance being offered due to the plea of the gardener (Luke 13.8). It is of course intriguing that when Mary encounters Jesus in the garden (John 20.11-18) she assumes that Jesus is the gardener; a mistake which contains within it a deep truth.

The harsh logic of being cut down due to ‘unfruitfulness’ is thus overturned – or at least deferred.

I will return to the Gospel passage in a moment but to turn briefly to the Epistle (1 Corinthians 10.1-13) and the Old Testament reading (Isaiah 55.1-9). I find it interesting to compare and contrast the two passages. Paul’s letter to the Corinthians presents the ‘traditional’ view that the death of many in the Exodus wilderness was due to sin. The passage draws on language associated with Exodus and Sinai. Which means that I think it is reasonable to see it linked in some way to the Sinai covenant tradition – as set out for example in Exodus 19-20. Now I realise I am oversimplifying here, but the basic premise of the Sinai covenant tradition is that it is a ‘conditional’ covenant: so there is a correlation made between the obligation on the people to keep the covenant ‘laws’ and the ongoing continuation of this covenant. And the implication of the Exile to Babylon might then well be that those essential laws have been so thoroughly infringed that God has drawn that covenant to an end.

However…  the Sinai covenant  is not the only covenant tradition in the Old Testament. There are also covenants made by God both with Abraham and David. And both these covenants seem to be ‘unconditional’. In other words God makes promises that he will keep – no matter what the response and behaviour of the people will be. Both these covenants become increasingly important for people at the time of the exile – due to the ‘failure’ of the Sinai covenant. And here in Isaiah 55.1-9, which I, like many others, believe to be a part of the Book of Isaiah composed during the Exile in Babylon, we have an affirmation of God’s enduring love for the people, linked to God’s covenant with David:

‘I will make with you an everlasting covenant,
My steadfast sure love for David’ (Isaiah 55.3).

In other words God’s love ultimately triumphs over the logic of the Sinai covenant which seemed to suggest God should disown the people.

What is more, the ‘original’ Davidic covenant was primarily with the king and the royal family. They of course had effectively come to an end due to the Exile. So the writer of Isaiah 55 creatively ‘extends’ the Davidic covenant to incorporate the whole people of God, who are now therefore seen as ‘royal people’ with the responsibilities of royalty towards others. (Remember Elizabeth II’s letter of last month, signed ‘Your servant Elizabeth’?).

The lectionary extract from Isaiah 55 concludes with the affirmation by God that, ‘my ways [are] higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts’ (Isaiah 55.9).

I would want therefore to suggest that this is hinting that God ultimately refuses to be bound by any narrow logic that correlates ‘sin’ and ‘disaster’ and ‘punishment’. Love will ultimately ‘find a way’.  And that we need to read this insight from the Book of Isaiah back into our interpretation of this passage in Luke. It is of course echoed in the wonderful hymn by  FW Faber, ‘There’s a wideness in God’s mercy’:

“For the love of God is broader
Than the measures of the mind
And the heart of the Eternal
Is most wonderfully kind.”

Perhaps ‘life’ will also find a way? One of the intriguing things about Luke 13 is that all three New Testament occurrences of the number 18 occur in this chapter – the first one referring to the number of people killed when the tower of Siloam fell upon them, and the latter two referring to the number of years the bent woman healed by Jesus had lived with her debilitating condition (Luke 13.11, 16).

I owe to Revd Ian Paul whose regular and helpful blog you can read at Psephizo.com part of the following insight. Ian is very interested in how and why numbers are used in the New Testament. Certainly I accept his view that in the Book of Revelation they form a sort of code.

In the first and second centuries AD when the early Christians wrote the name of Jesus they often did so by using the first two letters of his name in Greek viz IOTA and ETA and there are early manuscripts of Luke 13 written in just such a way.  Now in Greek letters also have a numerical value. And the numerical value of Iota in New Testament Greek is 10 and that of Eta is 8. Put them together and we come up with 18.  So these references to 18 in Luke 13 might be intended first as a hint that it is Jesus himself who overcomes the long period of the woman’s suffering, and also by linking our earlier passage of judgement (Luke 13.1-5) with the later story of healing (Luke 13.10-17) help to remind us that healing rather than punishment is Jesus’ ultimate goal.

I don’t know, and of course it can’t be proved, but it is an intriguing thought. As is the other one I had. Throughout much of Jewish history the number 18 has also been important. This is because Hebrew, like Greek, also assigns numerical value to letters. And the numerical value of the Hebrew word CHAI (two letters in Hebrew) which means ‘life’ is actually 18! A lot of young Jewish women wear a Chai symbol round their necks (see below).  So, is it just possible that in repeating the number 18 three times in this chapter Luke is suggesting to us that Jesus is Life and that Life will find a way?