Women Speaking Justice

A sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church, 

October 13th 2024

1 Samuel 1.9-11, 19-20; 2.1-10

Sometimes, when calling for social justice,
            the most effective voice is the most vulnerable voice.
 
Martin Luther King may have been the great orator,
            but it took Rosa Parks to strategically sit in the wrong seat
before she, and the Alabama bus boycott she triggered,
            became national symbols for change in the civil rights movement.
 
Similarly, we might ask why it is,
            that the most effective international voice in recent years
            in the fight against fossil fuels is Greta Thunburg,
                        who came to prominence as young schoolgirl in Sweden,
                        and who is incredibly still just 21 years old.
 
Similarly, one of the strongest voices calling for gender equality in education in Pakistan,
            has been Malala Yousafzai,
who was shot in the head by the Taliban as a teenager
            and recovered to win the Nobel Peace Prize at the age of 17.
 
Similarly, if we head back in time a century,
            the right for everyone to vote in elections in the UK
was won by the steadfast witness and courage of the suffragettes,
            including Emmeline Pankhurst and Emily Wilding Davison.
 
And the modern feminist movement found its origins
            in the writings of Simone de Beauvoir.
 
And I could go on, for the entirety of this sermon,
            naming people like Claudia Jones,
                        the Trinidad and Tobago-born journalist and activist
                                    deported from the USA for becoming a Black feminist leader
                                    in the American Communist Party.
 
And then of course there is Mary the mother of Jesus,
            whose song of justice in Luke’s gospel, often known as the Magnificat,
            heralded the birth of Jesus.
 
And all these women, the named and the unnamed,
            who have opened their mouths
            and sung or spoken the songs and poems of justice,
are the spiritual descendants of Hannah,
            who we meet in our Bible reading for this morning.
 
And Hannah is truly a remarkable woman,
            not least because we actually know her name.
 
You may have heard of the Bechdel Test,
            which is a simple measure to evaluate the representation of women
            in films, books, and other forms of media.
 
To pass the test, a work must meet three criteria:
1.     It features at least two named women.
2.     These women talk to each other.
3.     They discuss something other than a man.
 
Wel, it won’t surprise you to know that the Bible consistently fails the test!
 
Most of the women in the Old Testament are unnamed,
            known only as the ‘wife of’ or ‘daughter of’ a named man.
 
Additionally, it is equally rare in the Old Testament
            for a woman to be heard speaking.
 
This is where our reading for today is so unusual,
            as Hannah is both named, and speaks,
            which makes her a rarity within the biblical narrative.
 
But even more unusual is that fact that this woman,
            whose name we know and whose words we hear,
            is, in social terms, a nobody.
 
She’s not married to someone significant,
            and she’s not done anything to establish her reputation.
 
She’s just an ordinary married woman with no children,
            which in the world of the Old Testament
            was about as insignificant as you could get.
 
These days, we are used to women having some control over reproduction,
            from effective contraception to IVF treatment.
 
But there are still plenty of women in our world
            who long for children but can’t have them,
            and who hear the desires of their own hearts in Hannah’s prayer for a child.
 
And although the focus of our sermon this morning is not on issues of childlessness,
            we do well to recognise that a story where a woman prays for a child
                        and then immediately gets one
            is a difficult story for some women to hear.
 
Just as we need to remember that when we bring children to church for dedication,
            there will be those present who find such services profoundly painful.
 
So let’s return for a moment to the social world the Old Testament,
            where barrenness was often regarded as a curse from God;
and parents who got to old age without children,
            were not just at risk economically, with no-one to look after them,
            but they were also outcast socially,
                        stigmatised as having not been blessed by God.
 
Within the ancient Israelite context in which this story was written,
            motherhood was considered an essential part of a woman’s identity,
and being without children
            carried significant social and emotional consequences.
 
A woman’s worth and well-being were thus closely tied to her ability to bear children,
            and it was commonly believed that infertility was the woman’s burden,
            often overlooking other causes.
 
And it was believed that God controlled fertility,
            granting or withholding it according to the divine will.
 
Culturally therefore, in the Ancient Near East,
            the pressure to have children was overwhelming,
and Hannah’s request for a male child
            would have echoed the desire of most women.
 
Female children, at that time, were a liability that cost you money;
            whereas male children could work and bring money into the family.
If you could only have one child, you wanted a boy,
            so that was what you prayed for first.
 
Even down to our world today,
            there are still some cultures that prefer sons to daughters,
            and female infanticide is one of the tragedies of human history.
 
When we were in China recently,
            our local guide told us that he was born during the one-child policy,
            and that he was a third child, with two older sisters.
 
The one child law said that if you had a male child, you couldn’t have any more,
            but if you had a female child, to avoid the risks of infanticide,
            you could try for a second child to see if it was a boy.
 
But if you had two girls, you had to stop there.
 
However, our guide’s parents tried for a third,
            and had the son they wanted.
But his mother had to go from the city to the country to give birth in secret,
            and then brought him back a couple of years later,
            telling everyone that he was her nephew who they were caring for.
 
And so, in an ancient culture with similar desires for a male child,
            this makes what Hannah says next to the Lord so remarkable:
She says that if she is granted a male child,
            she will dedicate that child to God.
 
This child won’t be the answer to her security in old age,
            because he will have been dedicated as a Nazirite,
            offered in lifelong service to God alone.
 
And here we get our first glimpse
            that the significance of Hannah’s story
            is bigger than her personal concerns or desires.
 
She starts with her personal traumatic experience of childlessness,
            but then moves beyond this
                        to a recognition that how God responds to her,
                                    in her time of powerlessness,
                        is in fact a profound revelation of who God is;
            and that this in turn places a call on her
                        to respond to that revelation of God’s nature.
 
In other words, if God is the kind of God
            who looks with favour on a powerless, childless woman,
then God is also a God who looks with favour on all those
            who live with poverty, injustice, and oppression.
 
But Hannah also realises
            that God’s response to those afflicted
                        is not through a simplistic answering of prayer,
                        or the granting of heartfelt desires.
 
The blessings that God gives to the world
            are not to be taken individually
            nor horded personally;
they are for the common good,
            because God is working for the good of all people.
 
And so Hannah prays for a son,
            but as she does so
            she promises that son back to God.
 
Her own decisions about Samuel
            reflect her understanding of how God works in human affairs.
 
For Hannah, God is not some localised, family-centric deity;
            God is not some household-god to whom you bring your personal concerns;
God’s blessings are not for the fortunate favoured few;
            Rather, God blesses the world,
            and does so by remembering the vulnerable and the oppressed.
 
So then Hannah prays this remarkable prayer,
            and in doing so, she herself becomes a prophet of God,
            proclaiming God’s nature into being in the world.
 
Extrapolating from her own experience,
            Hannah realises that God is not on the side of the strong and the powerful,
                        but is rather on the side of the weak and the powerless.
 
            She realises that God’s blessings are not found in fine food or abundant living,
                        but in the feeding of the hungry and the care of the dispossessed.
 
            She realises that many children are not, in fact a sign of God’s favour,
                        and that life is a gift given for the blessing of many.
 
            She realises that God is not a local, tribal, or regional deity,
                        who pours goodness upon those who worship faithfully;
            but is rather the God of all people near and far,
                        and moreover a God who longs to raise up the poor and lift up the needy.
 
As Hannah puts it,
            ‘For the pillars of the earth are the LORD's,
            and on them God has set the world.’
 
Her son, of course, will be the great prophet Samuel,
            who anoints the first two kings of Israel, Saul and David.
 
But her greatest legacy was not her son,
            it was the vision of God that she articulated.
 
Hannah’s action, in defiance of religious authority,
            to make her prayer in the sanctuary
            and subsequently to dedicate Samuel to Nazirite service,
sets a powerful tone for the books of Samuel
            insofar as Samuel her son grows into a key figure in the Jewish story.
 
It will be Samuel who transitions Israel
            from the violent chaos of the period of the Judges
            to the relative stability (but still with flaws) of the monarchy under Saul and David.
 
And indeed Hannah and Samuel
            present a stark contrast as a parent/child pair
to the subsequent story of Eli and his faithless sons
            which follows in the next chapter.
 
Hannah’s prayer has often been considered a theological key
            for interpreting the books of Samuel
insofar as it introduces the themes of God bringing down the mighty (i.e. Saul)
            and raising up the lowly (i.e. David),
though the ways in which these events unfold
            are presented as complex, fraught, and full of human decisions,
            deeply flawed as they often are;
the bringing down the mighty and the raising up of those who are downtrodden
            is never a straightforward story.
 
But the theme, later echoed in the song of Mary (Luke 1:46–55),
            that God will bring down the powerful and raise up the powerless
            is not limited to the books of Samuel.
 
Rather, it can be traced throughout the whole Bible,
            including the stories of the life of Jesus and those who follow him.
 
As in Samuel, throughout the Bible God works to do this
            not by fiat, but through the messy, flawed, halting lives of human beings.
 
And so Hannah’s song echoes down the millennia,
            to the song of Mary,
who similarly proclaimed the overthrow of the dominant social order
            when she sang with joy at the imminent birth of her son Jesus.
 
Within the Christian tradition, the vision of Hannah’s song
            finds its fulfilment in the revelation of God
                        that comes into being through Mary;
            another insignificant woman
                        who dared to respond with faith.
 
And it continues to find its fulfilment in our world
            as women speak out from the truth of their experience
            to challenge oppression and highlight injustice.
 
From the courage of those
            who have told their stories as part of the #metoo movement,
to the women who have blessed our Baptist family
            through their gifts of ministry, leadership, and preaching,
            despite those voices that have tried to deny their right to do this.
 
The insights of those who have been disempowered
            by society, patriarchy, and misogyny,
can still speak truth to power
            just as Hannah’s voice three millennia ago
            revealed the bias of God towards the poor and the vulnerable.
 
This is not, however, to fetishize the voices of the abused,
            or to excuse their treatment,
as if we somehow need those who have been oppressed
            in order to hear God speak.
 
Rather, it is a recognition that when human failings
            create structural oppression,
whether on the grounds of gender,
            ethnicity, sexuality, or social status;
God is always at work with and within
            those who live with disempowerment,
and God’s nature is always
            to bring justice to those facing injustice.
 
So can we hear the gospel of Hannah?
            Can we rejoice that God raises up the poor,
                        and empowers the weak?
            And can we, with her, learn to dedicate to God
                        the deepest desires of our own hearts,
            as we catch a glimpse of God
                        as one who is above all, in all, and through all.
 
‘For the pillars of the earth are the LORD's,
            and on them God has set the world.’
 

The Golden Calf

A sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church,

October 6th 2024

Exodus 32.1-14

 

‘The people saw that Moses delayed to come down from the mountain’…
            so our reading for this morning begins,
and this raises a question for us, as it did for the Israelites in the wilderness,
            of how to respond when the way we are used to encountering God
            is no longer available to us.
 
For the Israelites,
            Moses was their spiritual rock, their leader, their saviour.
It was Moses who had brought them up from the land of Egypt,
                        Moses who had defeated Pharaoh,
            Moses who had led them through the wilderness,
                        Moses who struck water from the rock at Horeb
                        so the people didn’t die of thirst;
and now he was gone from them.
 
He’d gone up the mountain to meet with God,
            not come back down again,
and the people down in the valley
            didn’t know what to do next.
 
The one who had been their priest and their prophet,
            the one who had represented God to them and them to God,
            was no longer with them.
 
So what are they to do?
 
When I learned this story in Sunday School,
            I was told that the people manufactured an idol at this point,
                        and that the golden calf was possibly an image of Baal,
                        the Ancient Near Eastern fertility God.
However, re-reading it now, I’m not so sure.
 
They definitely make a golden calf,
            and worship it, offering sacrifices to it;
but when Aaron presents the calf to the Israelites,
            he introduces it not as Baal, or some other god,
            but as the one who brought them up out of the land of Egypt (v.4);
                        interestingly, something they had previously ascribed to Moses (v.1).
 
The problem here, I think,
            isn’t so much that they go worshipping the false gods of other nations,
            but that they make a false image of their own God.
 
The sin of Israel here isn’t a departure from the worship of Yahweh,
            it’s the manufacturing of a false representation of the Lord.
 
And this is a far more insidious sin,
            and it is one that creeps easily upon us all.
 
That’s not to say that we’re immune from the sin of idolatry:
            humans have a remarkable capacity
                        to construct new gods after our own image
            and to then devote sacrifice and worship to them.
 
            From the sacrifices of money we make to the gods of free market consumerism,
                        to the worship we give to those images of our identity
                        that exist in our social media streams;
 
            from the sacrifices of time we offer to the gods of entertainment
                        to the worshipful pursuit of sex and pleasure;
 
            in so many ways we can construct other gods
                        and worship them with all our heart, mind, soul, and strength.
 
However, alluring though such idolatrous distractions may be,
            they are also fairly easy to identify.
 
Far harder to pin down
            are those places where we don’t so much
                        make other gods for ourselves,
            as we do construct false images of the God we know and love.
 
And we are particularly prone to such acts
            when we, like the people of Israel in the wilderness,
            find ourselves cut adrift from our certainties.
 
We are living through a time of societal change,
            one which existed before the pandemic,
            but which was certainly accelerated by it.
 
The things we used to find immovable and immutable
            are now fluid and transient.
 
From the personal certainties of gender identity and sexuality,
            to the monolithic institutions of society,
things are not as they once were,
            and people are having to find a new way
            through an unknown wilderness.
 
And the question here for us, perhaps,
            is how we can identify those times when our equivalent of Moses
            has gone up the mountain and not come back down again…
 
What are the things, the people, that have consistently in our experience
            made the invisible God seem real for us.
 
It might a friend, a mentor, maybe a minister,
            who has now left our lives.
 
It might be a style of worship that barely exists any more,
            perhaps a packed congregation singing the songs hymns of our childhood.
 
It might be a form of prayer that used to seem so meaningful,
            but which has run dry in recent years.
 
What are you missing? What do you long for?
            What is your Moses that has gone from you?
 
And, here’s the difficult question,
            what have you replaced it with?
 
Well, I’ll leave that one for us each to ponder,
            and we’ll head back to the Bible for a minute.
 
This story of the Israelites in the wilderness
            is part of the Jewish pre-history mythology.
 
It’s one of those stories that evolved and was passed down
            from generation to generation
until it got written down in the sixth century
            by the Jews in exile in Babylon.
 
And this means that in order to read it well,
            we need to have an eye on those who wrote it.
 
When we know why they shaped it the way they did,
            and if we can who its intended first readers were,
we will ourselves understand it better.
 
So, this text about Moses going up the mountain and not coming back,
            needs to be heard in the context of the Babylonian exile.
 
And for the exiles, their answer to the question
            of what it was that had gone from them,
            would have been the Temple in Jerusalem.
 
In 587 BC the Babylonians despoiled the temple,
            they desecrated the Holy of Holies,
and, despite what Indiana Jones fans may believe,
            they destroyed the ark of the covenant containing the tablets of stone
            with the ten commandments inscribed on them.
 
Everything that had given the Jews of this period stability in their religious life
            had gone from them,
and in its place they were in Babylon,
            surrounded by images of the Babylonian gods,
            which they knew to be false,
but nonetheless wondering what their God looked like for them now,
            when everything they thought they knew about God had gone…
 
And here we can find the answer
            to one of the more puzzling aspects of our reading this morning.
 
Did you notice that although there is only one golden calf,
            the people refer to it in the plural?
 
Listen to verse 4 again:
 
[Aaron] took the gold from them, formed it in a mould,
            and cast an image of a calf;
and they said, "These are your gods, O Israel,
            who brought you up out of the land of Egypt!"
 
What’s going on here?
 
The answer can be found in the book of 1 Kings,
            which tells the story of the fall of the Northern Kingdom of Israel
            to Assyrian invaders in 722BC,
                        about 130 years before the Babylonians sacked Jerusalem.
 
At that time, Israel had divided into two kingdoms,
            a Northern kingdom ruled by Jeroboam
            and a Southern kingdom based in Jerusalem,
                        ruled by Rehoboam of the house of David.
 
Jeroboam’s problem was that Rehoboam had possession of the temple,
            and so people from the Northern Kingdom kept making a pilgrimage south
            to offer sacrifices in the temple in Jerusalem.
 
His worry was that eventually, the Northern kingdom would reject him as king,
            and turn its allegiance to Rehoboam of Jerusalem
            because he had control of the temple, the centre of religious worship.
 
So now listen to this from 1 Kings 12.26-30
 
Then Jeroboam said to himself,
            "Now the kingdom may well revert to the house of David.
 ²⁷ If this people continues to go up to offer sacrifices
            in the house of the LORD at Jerusalem,
the heart of this people will turn again to their master,
            King Rehoboam of Judah;
they will kill me and return to King Rehoboam of Judah."
 
 ²⁸ So the king took counsel, and made two calves of gold.
He said to the people,
            "You have gone up to Jerusalem long enough.
            Here are your gods, O Israel, who brought you up out of the land of Egypt."
 ²⁹ He set one in Bethel, and the other he put in Dan.
 ³⁰ And this thing became a sin,
            for the people went to worship before the one at Bethel
            and before the other as far as Dan.
 
Did you spot it?
            The story of Moses, Aaron and the golden calf,
                        written in exile in Babylon,
            is directly quoting from the book of 1 Kings,
                        where it describes the sin that brought down the Northern kingdom
                        over a century earlier!
 
Jeroboam’s two golden calves
            were proclaimed as ‘the gods who brought Israel up out of the land of Egypt’
as a direct challenge to the temple in Jerusalem.
 
Scholars tell us that what’s probably going on here
            is that the calves were intended as earthly pedestals
                        for the heavenly Yahweh to stand on,
            functioning in a manner similar to the ark of the Covenant in the temple,
                        as a place of earthly worship of the invisible God.
 
They aren’t idolatrous Baal gods,
            but they certainly are false representations of the true God,
brought into being as Jeroboam tries to break
            the Jerusalem temple’s monopoly on Yahweh worship.
 
And a century or more later, in exile in Babylon,
            the Jerusalemites reflected on this story
            to help them understand their own experience of losing their temple,
and they used it to frame their re-telling
            of the story of Moses, Aaron, and the people in the wilderness.
 
The experience of Israel’s wilderness wanderings
            becomes a key metaphor for understanding the Babylonian exile,
and the story of the golden calf
            functions within that as a warning of the temptation to make false images of God,
            and as a call to faithfulness even when God seems impossibly distant.
 
And so how do we hear this,
            in our own times of exile?
 
As the world changes around us,
            and we find ourselves cast off from the moorings that used to hold us;
as people pass from us,
            and we have to find new paths in the wilderness of the world;
I wonder where we will tur for sustenance and stability?
 
And I wonder how we hear the story of Moses, Aaron, and golden calf?
 
What temptations have we faced
            to construct false images of the true God?
What have we tried to put in place
            of that which has been taken from us?
 
Again, I’m not offering answers here,
            just asking questions.
 
But I do have some ‘wonderings’ that might spark our thinking…
 
I wonder if sometimes we make golden calves from our memories,
            worshipping that which used to be,
            and devoting ourselves to the task of bringing it back into being.
 
I also wonder if we might ponder the experience of the early Christians
            in the time after Jesus was taken from them.
 
For them, their prophet and priest had gone from their sight,
            they no longer had direct access to the one
                        who had represented God to them, and them to God,
            and they too had to work out how to relate to God
                        without a person or an image as an intermediary.
 
God may have been fully present and revealed in Jesus,
            but once Jesus was no longer there, what were they to do?
 
And the answer, of course, was that they had to discover
            that God was with them in a new way,
not in the worship of the rebuilt temple,
            nor in the person of Jesus,
                        nor even in the remembrance of Jesus’ words and commands,
but by the Holy Spirit.
 
God is known to us not in our memories,
            not in our place of worship,
                        not even in our holy texts,
but by the Holy Spirit,
            at work in our hearts,
            drawing us to new acts of faithful worship of the true God;
and challenging all our attempts and temptations
            to make false representations of the true God.

The Knowledge of Good and Evil

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

8^th September 2024

 

Genesis 1.27-31; 2.4b-7, 15-17; 3.1-8 

There is a rule for preachers with children
            that you shouldn’t begin every sermon
            with an illustration about what your child did this week.
 
Well, Bloomsbury, you’ve been spared that over the years…
 
But Liz and I do have a couple of God-children,
            as well as some nephews,
and today I’m going to tell a story from our God-daughter’s childhood.
 
I hope she’ll forgive me,
            but given that she’s currently doing a year of volunteering in Colombia,
            I think it’s unlikely she’ll actually ever find out!
 
But anyway, here goes with the story.
 
Over the years,
            our wonderful God-daughter has demonstrated the ability
                        to be something of a theologian,
            not to mention a fairly sophisticated ethicist.
 
At a very young stage she decided to join her father in his vegetarianism,
            eschewing the occasional chicken-burger and bacon sandwich
                        which keep her mother off that particular wagon.
 
But this love for animals and respect for all living creatures
            took something of a turn for the worryingly extreme
            not long after we began our stint as her God-parents.
 
What happened was that she contracted conjunctivitis
            - never a pleasant illness at the best of times,
and a trip to the doctor resulted in a prescription for antibiotics and some eye-drops.
 
Well, the antibiotic tablets were duly if reluctantly consumed,
            but her parents faced enormous difficulty getting the eye-drops in.
 
It became clear that this was more than the normal dislike
            for having things put in one's eye, that we all share,
and eventually her mum exclaimed in exasperation:
            "It's almost as if you don't want the eye drops to go in!!!"
 
Well, she went silent at this point...
            And, it turned out, this was exactly the problem.
She didn't want the eye-drops in her eye.
 
When asked why not, she replied that it wasn't fair...
            Fair on who?
Fair on the bacteria causing the conjunctivitis, that's who!
 
The bacteria, she said, have as much right to life as any other living creature,
            and it’s not right of us to take action which would kill them.
 
So, there followed an explanation about the role of the human immune system,
            and the fact that the bacteria were going to get it in the long run anyway.
 
But, she said – that’s fine, no problem, that’s nature.
            And this is where it started to get interesting…
 
She would happily watch David Attenborough’s nature documentaries,
            with lions killing and devouring Bambi-like gazelles,
and that’s fine, because it’s nature.
 
But the idea of a human taking a wilful action to kill an animal – any animal –
            from cows and chickens to, it seems, bacteria,
posed, for her, a fundamental ethical problem.
 
Death isn’t the problem. Killing isn’t the problem.
            This is no child-like attachment to the cute and the cuddly.
 
Rather, I think our God-daughter
                        was trying to get to grips with something important,
            something which we might call
                        the fundamental nature of human fallenness.
 
Why was it that, in her childish ethical world,
            it was OK for a lion to kill and devour a gazelle,
            but not for a human to kill and cook a chicken?
 
Why was it OK for the human immune system to destroy pain-causing bacteria,
            but not for a human to put antibiotic cream in her eye to hasten the process?
 
Well, in response to her reluctance, her mother told her, with great clarity,
            that what she needed to do was to ask Simon and Liz!
 
Talk about a pastor never being off duty!
 
It seems that the role of God-parent
            construed as ethical and theological consultant
            is far from straightforward!
 
Well, what answer would you have given, I wonder?
            How would you have explained to a small child
                        that while Eden-inspired vegetarianism (1:28-29) might be an acceptable choice,
                        refusing antibiotics simply isn’t an option?
 
I think that what we’re coming down to here,
            is something profound about the fallenness of creation.
 
Let’s think for a moment about David Attenborough…
            I’m sure you know his style of wildlife documentary.
 
The viewer is taken on an emotional journey upwards through the food chain,
            from the small and cuddly to the large and predatory.
 
We begin with the fluffy bunny, innocently nibbling the grass in the field.
            But then along comes the fox,
                        silently and swiftly stalking up behind our little furry friend.
 
Suddenly Flopsy realises she’s in danger, and tries to make bolt for the burrow,
            but evil fox is far too fast, and the bobbing tail seems more like a target than ever
                        as the fox gets his jaws firmly round the bunny’s neck.
 
But then our focus shifts, as we follow Mr Fox stalking off with the prey in his mouth,
            and we realise that he is taking it back to feed the young cubs in his den.
The camera magically tracks him and we see his little cubs,
            who would certainly die without their meal,
            and we start to feel that maybe the rabbit didn’t die in vain.
 
So, the fox-cubs grow in strength,
            and in time they venture outside of the den to frolic in the woods…
but then, on the horizon, we spot Wily Coyote, waiting to pounce,
            and so the cycle of death continues.
 
And what is interesting to me in this presentation of nature
            is that we are all the time being invited
                        to pass moral and emotive judgements on the natural world.
The rabbit is cute but the fox is evil,
            the fox-cubs are innocent but the coyote is wicked.
 
We find ourselves naming evil and good in the created order.
 
And here’s the question…
 
Just as Schrödinger’s cat is only known as alive or dead when the box is opened,
            might it not also be the case that the natural world
                        only takes on characteristics of evil or good
                        when we observe and name it as such?
 
A fox killing a bunny isn’t an act of violence until we name it as such.
            Watership Down only works because we have the capacity
                        to endue the created world with the characteristics of good and evil
                                    that ultimately exist only within ourselves.
 
A natural disaster is only a tragedy when humans name it as one
            – without our presence on the earth,
                        events such as earthquakes, tsunamis, and hurricanes
                        are simply natural phenomena which result in the death of some animals.
They only acquire moral significance because we invest them with such.
 
It is our capacity to name and comprehend good and evil within ourselves
            that results in our understanding and naming
            of the natural world as good and evil also.
 
Without our intervention, nature is just nature.
            Good and evil in nature are human constructs.
 
And so, the fallenness of humanity results in the fallenness of creation.
 
We who consume the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of Good and Evil
            have acquired the capacity to become like God,
and so we both create and destroy the goodness of creation
            through our very understanding of it.
 
Just as in the Genesis creation story
            God gave humanity the ability to name every living creature on the earth,
so also, after eating the fruit of the tree,
            humanity acquired the ability to name creation as good and evil.
 
And so we see creation inexorably falling along with its keeper.
 
The innocence of God’s creation is named as evil,
            and that which was created good is re-interpreted as tragedy.
The goodness of creation is undone,
            as evil enters the world through the human thirst for knowledge.
 
It was Francis Bacon who asserted that ‘Knowledge is Power’,
            and in saying this he struck the heart of the Genesis fall narrative.
Of course, what Bacon said so succinctly,
            the Wisdom Literature of the Jews had already hinted at:
Proverbs (24:5) warns that, ^“wise warriors are mightier than strong ones,
            and those who have knowledge [are mightier] than those who have strength”
 
This human search for knowledge gives us so much power.
            Power for good, but also power for evil.
            Power to kill, but also power to give life.
No longer are illness and death simply a part of the cycle of life,
                        a part of the goodness of creation
            – they are instead understood as enemies to be fought.
 
The death of a friend of mine to meningitis at the age of 21
            can only be understood by me as a tragedy – as something wrong in the world.
And of course, had his illness been diagnosed sooner,
            and had antibiotics been administered earlier,
            his survival would have been a cause for rejoicing
                        – an unambiguously good thing.
 
And yet when an animal dies unwatched in the forest to an unknown virus,
            this is simply nature taking its course – it is neither wrong nor a tragedy.
 
The difference between the two lies in our capacity
            to understand and name good and evil.
As we name it, so it becomes.
 
This is what distinguishes us from the rest of the animals in Eden
            – we are the only created being with the capacity to eat the fruit of the tree.
This is what makes us human.
 
And having taken the knowledge,
            having acquired the power,
we also, of course, assume the responsibility.
 
Knowledge, you see, brings its own consequences.
 
It was only after eating the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil
            that man and woman gained the capacity to comprehend shame.
Up until that point, they walked naked in the garden – innocence personified.
 
They weren’t shamed in their nakedness
            – because without the knowledge of good and evil,
                        their nakedness wasn’t shameful.
After all, when did you last see an animal try to cover itself in shame?
 
Just as the goodness of creation was named as evil by humanity
            – so also the state of human innocence is ended
                        with the consumption of the fruit of the tree.
 
Knowledge begets not just power but guilt.
 
And as we take God’s good creation and name it evil,
            there is much to be shameful of.
 
We have placed ourselves at war with God’s good creation
            and in the fighting of this battle,
                        we damage the created order irreparably
 
Instead of living in harmony with nature
                        – part of the God-given cycle of life and death –
            we rather find ourselves toiling to survive
                        fighting disease, afraid of death
                        determined to overcome creation at all costs
                        determined to exercise dominion in our own interests.
 
The state of humanity in our present is experienced,
            as a time of innocence lost.
This is what the Genesis narrative is seeking to explore.
 
We may occasionally catch glimpses of innocence within ourselves,
            but our overriding experience is of shame, and loss,
                        and of far, far too much knowledge to ever go back.
The flaming sword behind us makes sure of that.
 
And so we find ways to cope.
            We make clothes to cover our shame,
                        we construct ways of containing our knowledge.
Household codes, the Ten Commandments, the Levitical law,
                        habeas corpus[1]
            All attempts to put clothes on ethical nakedness.
 
And this unlocked human thirst for knowledge is so inexorable,
            and the power and the guilt that it unlocks are so pervasive,
            that we have to find ways to contain our lust for knowledge.
 
We have to find ways of not always seeking an answer to the question of
            “What will happen if I push this boundary?”
We have to find or impose limits on human inquisitiveness.
            We have to find ways of recognising that with the knowledge comes power,
                        and with power comes responsibility.
 
Jesus recognised this power and responsibility
            when he twice said to Peter and the disciples,
“whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven,
            and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven” (Matt 16:19; 18:18).
 
And he faced his own temptation to misuse great power for selfish purposes
            when he confronted Satan in the wilderness.
 
Sometimes it really does seem that we have become like gods
            with the power to name good and evil.
 
And the solution suggested by Jesus to this tendency to power
            lies in giving back to God
            the authority that is truly his alone.
 
It lies in taking a step back from idolatry,
            and giving God his due.
 
As Jesus said to Satan in the wilderness:
            'Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.'
And as he said to the scribes and the Pharisees:
            Love your neighbour as yourself,
            Love the Lord your God with all your heart and mind and soul and strength.
 
Worship, you see, isn’t about making God feel good about himself
            – it is about undoing the fall,
                        it is about recreating a new humanity
                                    where once again God is in his rightful place.
            It is about restoring order to creation.
 
There is no going back to Eden of course
            – as Genesis puts it, the flaming sword behind us bars the way.
But there is a journey forwards into new creation,
            and it is the role of the church to lead humanity in that journey.
 
We are those entrusted with the task of binding and loosing in a Godly way.
            We are those entrusted with pointing to love of neighbour and love of God
                        as the clothing for human ethical nakedness.
            We are those with the message of God’s intervention in the person of Jesus,
                        who died to redeem death, and rose to restore creation.
            We are those who live the assurance
                        of a renewed heaven and a restored earth.
            We are those who, with John of Patmos,
                        hear the voice from the throne in heaven saying:
 
Rev 21:3-4
See, the home of God is among mortals.
He will dwell with them;
they will be his peoples,
and God himself will be with them;
he will wipe every tear from their eyes.
Death will be no more;
mourning and crying and pain will be no more,
for the first things have passed away.’
 
So, where does all this get us with the problem
            posed to us all those years ago
            by our young God-daughter?
 
What should we say to our friends by way of advice
            as their child refused antibiotics on principle?
 
Sadly, in due time, each of us must grow from the childish innocence,
                        which so closely echoes the innocence of Eden,
            into a more adult, fallen, responsible, expression of humanity.
 
And once we get there, there can be no going back;
            the innocence of childhood is remembered as a golden age
            with a flaming sword between there and now
 
One of the great disappointments of growing up, it seems to me,
            is the realisation that Eden is behind us,
            the realisation that innocence doesn’t last.
 
One of the tragedies of maturing
            is the recognition that all is not right with the world
            and that we ourselves have played our part in that tragedy
 
The growth into guilt and shame, into toil and responsibility
            is part of the human condition
We each of us eat the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil
            we each of us find ourselves naming God’s creation as evil
            we each of us find ourselves at war with nature
            we are each of us complicit in creation’s fall
It comes to us all, in the end.
 
Part of me wondered whether, given time,
            she’d be popping antibiotics
            without so much as a second thought
 
After all, it’s inevitable that all of us mature in time,
            departing from a child-like understanding of the nature of the fall
            and of the relationship between humanity and the created order.
 
And so, with some sadness,
            we simply ended up saying to our friends about our God-daughter,
            ‘Don’t worry – it’s just a phase - she’ll grow out of it’

---

[1] The literal meaning of habeas corpus is "You shall have the body"—that is, the judge must have the person charged with a crime brought into the courtroom to hear what he's been charged with.

The Church’s Voice in Migration

A Sermon for Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church

1 September 2024

Isaiah 1:17, 3:15
Micah 6:8
James 2:14-17
Matthew 25:35-40

The rioting seen on the streets of British towns and cities last month
            is deeply interwoven with the issue of people migration.
 
In the wake of these harrowing scenes
            that we have witnessed across our nation this summer,
a stark reality has been laid bare:
            we are seeing the corrosive impact on people’s lives
            of fear, division, and misinformation.
 
The recent riots were fuelled by a toxic blend of prejudice and falsehood,
            and have exposed deep-rooted wounds within our society.
 
But these are not isolated incidents
            they are the culmination of years of complex factors,
including economic inequality, social unrest,
            and a strained immigration system.
 
And it’s within this context
            that I want us to take some time this morning
to examine the plight of migrants,
            those who have become scapegoats for our societal ills.
 
I spoke about the way society scapegoats minorities a couple of weeks ago,
            and offered some reflections with regard to the criminal justice system
            and the prison population,
and this sermon builds on those insights.
 
I am particularly grateful to Solomon
            who has encouraged me to tackle this subject,
and for the input he has had into shaping these thoughts.
 
Solomon has written his own reflection
            on the role of the church in relation to immigration
            and I encourage you to read it.
There will be a link to it on the church website
            along with the script for today’s sermon.

https://www.bloomsbury.org.uk/why-the-church-could-play-a-part-in-the-migration-debate/
 
The issue of migration presents us with a complex tapestry,
            one which is woven through
            with threads of economics, politics, and human suffering.
 
It is, as we often see, sometimes at tragic cost,
            a topic that can ignite passionate, and often divisive, debate.
 
Yet, amidst all the noise and contention,
            there is a clear, unwavering moral imperative
that calls us, as followers of Jesus, to action.
 
This morning, I want to suggest
            that the Church has a vital, even indispensable role
            to play in this conversation about migration.
 
In short, I believe that our faith compels us
            to create sanctuaries for the marginalized,
            and to offer a voice for the voiceless.
 
This room in which we meet for worship is called ‘The Sanctuary’,
            and this is a word which implies holiness, a place that is ‘sanctified’,
            but also a place of refuge, of safety, of support.
 
Our church Mission Statement speaks of this, saying:
 
Our mission is to discern God’s loving and inclusive will:
            we nurture faith and build community,
            we confront injustice, create sanctuary, and deepen relationships. [1]
 
The biblical mandate to welcome the stranger,
            and to care for the oppressed,
is a foundational principle not just of our church,
            but also of our Christian life both personally and collectively.
 
And this call to create sanctuary echoes through the ages,
            bringing a challenge that remains as relevant today as it ever was.
 
Therefore, because of this,
            the Church of Jesus Christ must be prepared to speak out for migrants
            calling for justice for the oppressed, and offering welcome for the excluded.
 
We must stand in solidarity with those
            who are forced to flee their homes
due to conflict, persecution, or economic desperation.
 
And we must advocate for policies that uphold human dignity
            and protect the rights of refugees and asylum seekers.
 
The Plight of Migrants
One of the key texts for defining human dignity
            within the teaching of Jesus
is his description of the ‘least of these’
            in the parable of the sheep and goats in Matthew 25:35-40.
 
Here, Jesus identifies himself with those he describes as ‘the least’.
 
It’s not a straightforward parable to interpret,
            as it isn’t entirely clear who Jesus is referring to as ‘the least’.
 
But the broad point is clear
            which is that whoever they are,
                        wherever the ‘least’ are in our world,
            there Jesus is to be found in their midst.
 
Jesus says, “For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat,
            I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink,
                        I was a stranger and you invited me in,
            I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me,
                        I was in prison and you visited me.”  
 
I think this passage offers us a profound lens
            through which to view the plight of migrants.
 
These people often embody the very qualities Jesus describes here:
            they are hungry, thirsty, strangers,
                        naked, sick, and imprisoned
            —not necessarily in literal terms, but certainly in spirit.
 
They are the hungry who have fled famine and economic ruin,
            the thirsty who yearn for safety and security,
the strangers in a foreign land,
            the naked lacking basic necessities,
the sick without adequate healthcare and denied recourse to public funds,
            and those imprisoned by circumstances beyond their control.
 
And we know that their stories are heartbreaking.
            They are the parents forced to make the impossible choice
                        between starving at home,
                        or risking perilous journeys for their children's future.
 
They are the children who have witnessed unspeakable horrors,
            their innocence shattered.
 
They are the young people who dream of education and opportunity,
            only to find their paths blocked by war and poverty.
 
Migration is not a choice;
            for many it is a desperate act of survival.
 
To understand the courage, the hope, and the fear
            that drive these individuals,
we must look beyond the headlines and the statistics.
 
We must learn to see the human faces behind the numbers,
            to recognize the shared humanity
that binds us to these brothers and sisters,
            whatever their country of origin.
 
Because wherever the least and the weakest and most vulnerable are,
            there is Jesus in their midst.
 
The human cost of migration is immeasurable.
            It is the loss of homes, families, and communities.
It is the trauma of displacement, the uncertainty of the future.
            It is the erosion of dignity and hope.
 
Yet, amidst this suffering,
            there is also a profound opportunity for compassion and solidarity,
as those of us who follow the command and example of Jesus,
            turn towards, rather than away from those displaced,
finding ways of creating and offering sanctuary,
            challenging the unjust systems that perpetuate suffering,
            and seeing the spark of the divine in each human face.
 
Western Responsibility
 
The prophet Isaiah, with typical prophetic fire,
            condemned those who “crush the poor and grind the faces of the needy.”
            (Isaiah 1:17, 3:15)
 
His words echo to us across the millennia
            as a damning indictment of injustice and oppression.
 
As we grapple, as individuals, as a community of faith, and as a society,
            with these complex issues of migration,
it is essential that we examine our own complicity
            in creating the conditions that force people from their homes.
 
For centuries, Western nations have played a dominant role
            in shaping the global order.
 
Colonialism, with its legacy of exploitation and division,
            has left enduring scars.
 
Economic policies, often driven by short-term interests,
            have contributed to the widening gap between rich and poor nations.
 
These historical and ongoing actions
            have created a world marked by inequality, instability, and conflict
– the very factors that compel people to seek refuge elsewhere.
 
It is therefore imperative that we in the West
            engage in a process of honest self-reflection.
 
We must acknowledge the ways in which our collective past and present actions
            have contributed to the suffering of others.
 
This is not to absolve migrants, or anyone else,
            of responsibility for their own choices in the present,
but it is to recognize the systemic factors that have limited their options,
            and our society’s role in creating and perpetuating
            systemic injustice at a global scale.
 
Only through a deep-seated commitment to justice and equity
            can we begin to dismantle the structures that perpetuate migration crises.
 
And this is what our Christian faith,
            rooted in the prophetic tradition of the Jewish people
            calls us to do.
 
This tradition calls us to a radical shift
            in our approach to international relations.
 
It is time to prioritize the well-being of people over profit.
 
It is time to invest in sustainable development,
            fair trade, and conflict prevention.
 
It is our calling to support policies that strengthen fragile states
            and empower marginalized communities,
and to critique the actions of aggressors
            who perpetuate the legacy of colonialism
            on vulnerable populations.
 
By doing so, and only by doing so,
            can we can begin to meaningfully address the root causes of migration
            and to create a more just and equitable world for all.
 
The Church’s Moral Call
 
The prophet Micah, continuing the tradition of Isaiah
            and adding his own piercing clarity,
outlined God’s essential requirements for God’s people:
            he said they are “to act justly, and to love mercy,
            and to walk humbly with their God.” (Micah 6:8).
 
This simple yet profound statement
            encapsulates the very heart of our shared faith.
It is a call to a life of righteousness, compassion, and humility.
 
As the Body of Christ, the Church is called to embody these values
            in every aspect of its life and mission.
 
Our unwavering commitment to love, peace, and justice
            should compel us to speak out against the injustices that drive migration.
 
Friends, we cannot remain silent
            in the face of suffering and displacement.
 
Our faith demands that we stand in solidarity
            with those who are marginalized and oppressed.
 
History offers us both cautionary tales and inspiring examples.
 
The dark chapters of colonialism and exploitation
            are a stark reminder of the consequences
            of unchecked power and indifference.
 
Yet, amidst the shadows, there are also beacons of hope.
 
South Africa’s transition from apartheid
            is a testament to the power of forgiveness,
            reconciliation, and the pursuit of justice.
 
The courage and resilience of its people, guided by faith,
            paved the way for a new era of hope.
 
The theology of Desmond Tutu,
            with his emphasis on God as liberator, the importance of human dignity,
            the power of forgiveness and reconciliation,
            and the call to action to challenge injustice
continues to offer a Christian pathway
            to hopeful engagement with oppressive powers.
 
Similar stories of courage and compassion
            can be found in countless other places around the world.
And these examples inspire us to believe that change is possible,
            that a more just and equitable world is within our reach.
 
So what then, should we do?
 
Taking Action
 
The Apostle James writes,
            "What good is it, my brothers and sisters,
                        if someone claims to have faith but has no deeds?
                        Can such faith save them?
            Suppose a brother or sister is without clothes and daily bread.
                        If one of you says to them, 'Go in peace; keep warm and well fed,'
                        but does nothing about their physical needs, what good is it?"
            (James 2:14-17).
 
Faith without action is like a body without a soul.
            It is an empty, lifeless thing.
 
Our belief in a loving and just God
            must be accompanied by tangible acts of compassion and service.
 
And so the Church is called to be a beacon of hope
            for those who are marginalized and oppressed.
 
This means advocating for just immigration policies
            that uphold human dignity
            and protect the rights of refugees and asylum seekers.
 
It involves supporting organizations
            that provide essential aid and support to migrants,
            helping them to rebuild their lives.
 
And it requires fostering understanding and compassion within our communities,
            challenging prejudice and promoting a culture of welcome.
 
Each of us has a role to play in welcoming the stranger.
            And many of us have been involved in such actions for many years.
 
The West End Welcome project, a spin-off from London Citizens,
            is a joint project between ourselves here at Bloomsbury,
            and our friends nearby at the American Church and the Westminster Quakers.
 
In 2020 through the UN community Sponsorship Scheme
            we brought over two sisters, originally from Syria,
            who had been in a refugee camp in Iraq.
 
Many of us here today were part of supporting this,
            and I was with them just last week.
The latest news is that they have recently passed their Life in the UK test
            as part of their journey to becoming British Citizens.
 
I could tell you other stories from our recent life together as a congregation,
            of how we have meaningfully supported people
            who are trying to make a new life for themselves in our country,
and I am so pleased that this is part of our story as a congregation.
 
Whether it is through volunteering our time,
            donating to charitable causes,
or simply extending a warm welcome to those who are new to our community,
            our actions can make a difference.
 
So let us be a people who not only profess faith
            but also live it out in tangible ways.
 
A World Out of Balance
As we have seen, the biblical narrative
            is punctuated by stories of God's concern for the poor and oppressed.
 
Yet, today, we live in a world
            characterized by a staggering disparity of wealth and power.
 
A handful of individuals possess resources beyond imagination,
            while millions struggle to meet basic needs.
This is not merely a statistical anomaly; it is a moral crisis!
 
How can we reconcile the opulent lifestyles of a few
            with the abject poverty of many?
 
How can we justify a world where conflict and displacement
            are often rooted in the unequal distribution of resources?
 
These are questions that demand our urgent attention.
 
And as Christians, we are called to be agents of change.
            We cannot remain silent in the face of such injustices.
 
Our faith compels us to challenge the status quo
            and to work towards a more equitable world.
 
It is time to dismantle the systems
            that perpetuate poverty and inequality.
 
It is time to invest in policies
            that prevent conflict and promote sustainable development.
 
It is time to create a world
            where every human being has the opportunity to flourish.
 
And our calling is to be a Church that speaks truth to power,
            that advocates for the marginalized,
and that works tirelessly to build a more just and compassionate world.
 
Conclusion
So in conclusion, the Church has a unique and indispensable role
            to play in addressing the global migration crisis.
 
Our faith compels us to be a sanctuary for the marginalized,
            and a voice for the voiceless.
We simply cannot remain silent
            in the face of suffering and injustice.
 
So let us commit to continuing to educate ourselves
            about the complex issues surrounding migration.
 
Let us forcefully advocate for policies that uphold human dignity
            and protect the rights of refugees and asylum seekers.
 
And let us open our hearts and homes and communities
            to those who seek refuge among us.
 
As we strive to build a more just and compassionate world,
            let us hold tight to the words of the prophet Micah:
who calls us "to act justly, and to love mercy,
            and to walk humbly with our God."
 
Through our partnership with Citizens UK,
            we are part of a powerful alliance
that is taking decisive action to create a welcoming country
            for those seeking a new life here,
and also speaking out with courage
            to bring about change at a national level.
 
They say, ‘We want to make sure that everyone in our country can live with dignity.’
 
And they go on, ‘We believe that refugees, migrants and asylum seekers
            are everyday people who deserve to flourish
            and live fulfilling lives in their homes and communities.
But millions of people in the UK are suffering
            at the hands of unjust immigration policies.
There is a hostile environment which ruins lives
            and prevents people from integrating
            and contributing to their communities in the way they want to.
This makes people feel hopeless and helpless, but they're not.
            Together, we can build a safer and more just country for everyone.’
 
As we leave this sanctuary today,
            let us carry with us the words of our partners at Citizens UK.
 
Their commitment to a more just and welcoming society inspires us all.
            Let us be a congregation that embodies their spirit,
                        that reaches out with compassion,
            and that works tirelessly to create a world
                        where every person is valued and respected.
 
Together, we can build a future where the words "refugee" and "migrant"
            are synonymous with hope, not fear.
 
Let us be that change,
            in the name of our saviour Jesus Christ.
 
 
Let us pray:
A moment of silent prayer
Gracious God, we pray for peace and justice in our world.
            Open our hearts to the suffering of those forced to flee their homes.
Grant us the courage to speak out against injustice
            and to welcome the stranger among us.
May your love and mercy guide us
            as we work together to build a more just and compassionate world.
In Jesus’ name, we pray. Amen.
 

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[1] https://www.bloomsbury.org.uk/about-us/our-mission-vision-and-values/